China’s Defense of Duterte against ICC Exposes Its Own Hypocrisy
—And Its True View of Him
China has issued a statement warning against the “politicization” and “double standards” of the International Criminal Court (ICC) following the arrest of former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte. But in doing so, Beijing unwittingly exposes its own contradictions. How can a state that upholds Mao Zedong’s words—“to rebel is justified”—now rush to defend a man whose rule was built on suppressing rebellion through brute force?
For years, Duterte waged his so-called war on drugs under the shadow of extrajudicial killings, summary executions, and state violence masked as law enforcement. His infamous “Tokhang” and “Double Barrel” operations were nothing short of a militarized assault on the Filipino people—disproportionately targeting the poor while leaving the political and economic elite untouched. Now that the ICC is moving to hold Duterte accountable, Beijing dares to call this justice system “politicized.” Yet, what was Duterte’s campaign of bloodshed if not an exercise in political power?
Even the crudest reading of history reveals that violence, when wielded by the state, is always political. It was Duterte himself who justified his campaign in the name of governance, peace, and order—classic pretexts for state terror. His open flirtation-yet gutter-level interpretation with the idea that “political power grows from the barrel of the gun” was not just rhetoric; it was operationalized into policy. But unlike those who wielded such power to overthrow oppression, Duterte used it to enforce the will of the powerful upon the powerless. If rebellion against oppression is justified, then what is left for those Duterte oppressed?
And yet, China, which claims to oppose imperialist intervention and upholds sovereignty, now intervenes in the name of a leader who openly aligned himself with foreign powers—whether through his subservience to Beijing’s interests in the West Philippine Sea or his military cooperation with the United States when it suited him. Duterte played all sides, selling sovereignty to the highest bidder while crushing any internal dissent. Beijing’s defense of him reveals not a commitment to justice, but a desperate attempt to shield its own model of repression from international scrutiny.
But here lies the greater lesson: If it was true that Duterte sought asylum from China and was turned down, then that moment exposes an undeniable truth—one that Duterte himself failed to grasp. The Middle Kingdom perspective is clear: You are only good for as long as you are useful. And if you are not of the Middle Kingdom, you are disposable.
Duterte, who once declared his “love” for China, who once boasted that he would set aside Philippine territorial claims in the South China Sea in favor of Beijing, who once denounced the United States while pivoting towards Chinese patronage—now finds himself cast aside. Beijing, ever pragmatic, has no loyalty to fallen figures. It used Duterte while he was in power, while he could weaken Philippine institutions, while he could provide cover for Chinese expansionism. But now, with no power left to offer, he is of no further use.
To call the ICC’s actions “politicized” is to ignore the plain truth: Duterte’s crimes were inherently political. His rule was marked by a deliberate war against the marginalized, a consolidation of power through fear, and an outright defiance of international law. His arrest is not a question of politics versus justice—it is a case of justice finally catching up to politics.
The world saw the brutality of Duterte’s war. The scenes of the crime, the graves, the orphaned children, the silenced critics—these were not the fabrications of some foreign conspiracy but the grim reality of his regime. That Beijing now rushes to defend him under the guise of opposing “politicization” only reveals the true nature of its concerns. It is not about justice. It is about power.
If China truly stood by its revolutionary past, it would recognize Duterte for what he is: a reactionary whose rule was an affront to the very principles of justice, self-determination, and people’s struggle. Instead, Beijing’s reaction to his arrest reveals only its fear—that one day, the forces of accountability and justice might also turn their gaze upon it.
For years, Duterte waged his so-called war on drugs under the shadow of extrajudicial killings, summary executions, and state violence masked as law enforcement. His infamous “Tokhang” and “Double Barrel” operations were nothing short of a militarized assault on the Filipino people—disproportionately targeting the poor while leaving the political and economic elite untouched. Now that the ICC is moving to hold Duterte accountable, Beijing dares to call this justice system “politicized.” Yet, what was Duterte’s campaign of bloodshed if not an exercise in political power?
Even the crudest reading of history reveals that violence, when wielded by the state, is always political. It was Duterte himself who justified his campaign in the name of governance, peace, and order—classic pretexts for state terror. His open flirtation-yet gutter-level interpretation with the idea that “political power grows from the barrel of the gun” was not just rhetoric; it was operationalized into policy. But unlike those who wielded such power to overthrow oppression, Duterte used it to enforce the will of the powerful upon the powerless. If rebellion against oppression is justified, then what is left for those Duterte oppressed?
And yet, China, which claims to oppose imperialist intervention and upholds sovereignty, now intervenes in the name of a leader who openly aligned himself with foreign powers—whether through his subservience to Beijing’s interests in the West Philippine Sea or his military cooperation with the United States when it suited him. Duterte played all sides, selling sovereignty to the highest bidder while crushing any internal dissent. Beijing’s defense of him reveals not a commitment to justice, but a desperate attempt to shield its own model of repression from international scrutiny.
But here lies the greater lesson: If it was true that Duterte sought asylum from China and was turned down, then that moment exposes an undeniable truth—one that Duterte himself failed to grasp. The Middle Kingdom perspective is clear: You are only good for as long as you are useful. And if you are not of the Middle Kingdom, you are disposable.
Duterte, who once declared his “love” for China, who once boasted that he would set aside Philippine territorial claims in the South China Sea in favor of Beijing, who once denounced the United States while pivoting towards Chinese patronage—now finds himself cast aside. Beijing, ever pragmatic, has no loyalty to fallen figures. It used Duterte while he was in power, while he could weaken Philippine institutions, while he could provide cover for Chinese expansionism. But now, with no power left to offer, he is of no further use.
To call the ICC’s actions “politicized” is to ignore the plain truth: Duterte’s crimes were inherently political. His rule was marked by a deliberate war against the marginalized, a consolidation of power through fear, and an outright defiance of international law. His arrest is not a question of politics versus justice—it is a case of justice finally catching up to politics.
The world saw the brutality of Duterte’s war. The scenes of the crime, the graves, the orphaned children, the silenced critics—these were not the fabrications of some foreign conspiracy but the grim reality of his regime. That Beijing now rushes to defend him under the guise of opposing “politicization” only reveals the true nature of its concerns. It is not about justice. It is about power.
If China truly stood by its revolutionary past, it would recognize Duterte for what he is: a reactionary whose rule was an affront to the very principles of justice, self-determination, and people’s struggle. Instead, Beijing’s reaction to his arrest reveals only its fear—that one day, the forces of accountability and justice might also turn their gaze upon it.