Weighing Duterte’s Legacy Against the Feather of Truth
In ancient Egyptian mythology, the dead faced judgment in the Hall of Two Truths. Anubis, the jackal-headed god, placed their heart on one side of a scale, with the feather of Maat—the symbol of truth, justice, and balance—on the other. If the heart was heavy with wrongdoing, the soul was condemned. If it was light, the deceased could pass into eternal peace.
Now, as Rodrigo Duterte’s presidency fades into history, his legacy faces a similar reckoning. While in power, he was shielded by the loyalty of his followers, who saw in him a leader who defied norms and spoke their language. To them, his blunt speech was human nature, his violence was justice, and his brand of localism was superior to abstract nationalism. But history is not weighed by sentiment—it is measured against the realities left behind. The question now is: when Duterte’s heart is placed upon the scale, will it measure up to the feather of truth?
The Illusion of Gutter Speech as Truth
Duterte’s crude rhetoric was seen by his supporters as a virtue rather than a flaw. His cursing, his vulgar jokes, his boasts of violence—these were not merely tolerated but celebrated as signs of authenticity. In a world where political correctness was seen as hypocrisy, Duterte’s raw speech was treated as honesty.
But was Duterte’s speech truly the language of truth, or was it an indulgence in spectacle? A leader’s words are not just expressions of personality; they shape discourse and normalize behavior. Duterte’s casual remarks about rape, his jokes about killing, his repeated attacks on the press and democratic institutions—these were not simply “blunt talk.” They reinforced a culture where cruelty was excused, where power operated without restraint, and where accountability was dismissed as weakness.
If truth is to be weighed, then it must be asked: did Duterte’s speech reveal reality, or did it obscure it? Did his bluntness empower the people, or merely embolden cruelty?
Justice or the Justification of Power?
One of Duterte’s most defining legacies is the war on drugs—a brutal campaign that left thousands dead, many without trial. To his defenders, this was justice: the strong hand of the state restoring order where institutions had failed.
But justice, in its truest sense, is not just about punishment. It is about fairness, due process, and the dignity of human life. The feather of Maat did not merely represent retribution—it symbolized balance and wisdom in the use of power. Duterte’s war, for all its supposed victories, disproportionately targeted the poor. The killings were carried out with impunity, while the powerful—those who could have been held accountable for the drug trade—remained largely untouched. Those who pulled the trigger did so with the assurance that the law would protect them, while the victims had no such shield.
If justice is to be weighed, then it must be asked: did Duterte’s rule bring order, or did it legitimize lawlessness? Did it uplift the nation, or did it merely enforce submission through fear?
The Barrio Man Who Couldn’t Leave the Barrio
Duterte was always a localist, a leader whose worldview was shaped by his years in Davao. His supporters saw this as his strength—that he was a leader from the provinces, unshackled from the elites of Manila. They mistook his localist model for a national vision, believing that his way of governance—however forceful, however indifferent to human rights—was the best for the country.
But despite being rallied by localists, Duterte forgot one crucial fact: he was not just a mayor anymore. He was the leader of a nation—one with diverse perspectives, aspirations, and struggles. The right was the thought that a barrio man can be a king, but a king cannot remove himself from his barrio. And Duterte was one example of that. His governance remained fixated on the same strongman, patronage-based politics of Davao, failing to grasp that a nation requires broader leadership.
His approach to power, based on localist loyalty rather than national unity, often came at the expense of people’s rights and welfare. His whims—whether in foreign policy, law enforcement, or economic decisions—were imposed without regard for the larger democratic framework that a nation requires. The feather of Maat represents not just order, but reciprocity—a recognition that leadership must serve all, not just those who align with its worldview.
If leadership is to be weighed, then it must be asked: did Duterte govern as a national leader, or did he remain a provincial warlord on a national stage? Did his rule strengthen the country, or did it narrow its vision to one man’s model of control?
The Apotheosis of Duterte: Fame vs. Legacy vs. Truth
For many of his followers, Duterte’s legacy is not measured by policy, governance, or historical impact—it is measured by fame. To them, legacy is about undergoing an apotheosis, a transformation from man to legend. It is not about the reality of his governance, but about the image they choose to preserve.
But history is not built on image alone. Reality becomes the weighing scale between his view and the facts that shaped the lives of Filipinos. The feather of truth does not measure a leader by the fervor of their supporters, nor by the spectacle of their rule. It measures them by what they have left behind.
If legacy is to be weighed, then it must be asked: is Duterte’s place in history built on truth, or on the illusions of those who seek to immortalize him? Will he be remembered as a leader who strengthened the country, or as one whose governance was weighed down by its failures?
Weighing the Heart Against Reality
Duterte’s legacy is not a simple one. He was, without a doubt, a leader who commanded loyalty, shaped discourse, and imposed his will with force. But loyalty is not truth, discourse is not justice, and power is not righteousness. The realities left behind—thousands dead, democratic institutions weakened, a nation divided between nostalgia and reckoning—are the true weights on the scale.
For those who once admired him, even critically, the challenge is to separate admiration from accountability. It is easy to remember the spectacle—the bravado, the humor, the strongman appeal. It is harder to confront what that spectacle cost.
The weighing of the heart is not about condemning Duterte outright, nor is it about absolving him. It is about measuring his words against their consequences, his actions against their results. And in that final judgment, history—like Maat—does not listen to excuses. It simply watches as the scales tip.