A Delay dressed in the language of Law?
In the aftermath of the Senate’s 19–5 vote to archive the impeachment case against Vice President Sara Duterte, the term “rule of law” has been tossed around like a shield—invoked by those eager to justify what, in effect, may be the quietest burial of accountability in recent memory.
The decision, prompted by a Supreme Court ruling that halted the trial, has sparked applause from Duterte allies and criticism from opposition lawmakers, civil society advocates, and constitutional scholars. At the heart of the controversy lies a fundamental question: Did the Senate stand for judicial order—or fold under political pressure?
Framed as a procedural necessity, the move to archive—rather than dismiss—the Articles of Impeachment offers a political escape hatch. Senator Alan Peter Cayetano tried to explain it plainly: archiving means the case is “dead” but not buried, should the Supreme Court reverse course. It was a legalistic compromise that seemed, at least on paper, to preserve the Senate’s neutrality.
But for many observers, it wasn’t neutrality. It was abdication.
Senator Rodante Marcoleta initially pushed for the outright dismissal of the case, but shifted his motion to archiving—a tactical maneuver that gave his colleagues a path to dodge direct confrontation. Still, he couldn’t resist ridiculing the House’s complaint, comparing it to “undercooked rice” that the Senate need not “eat.”
His words, though cloaked in metaphor, reveal a dangerous undertone: that the Senate can claim to respect the Constitution while simultaneously dodging its duties under it. Impeachment is not a meal to be tasted, but a mechanism to be tried.
Supporters of the decision—including Senators Jinggoy Estrada, Sherwin Gatchalian, Loren Legarda, and Senate President Francis Escudero—defended the move as a principled stand for the supremacy of the Supreme Court’s ruling. They painted the vote as a triumph of order over chaos, law over partisanship.
Escudero, in particular, launched a scathing rebuke of the House of Representatives, accusing Speaker Martin Romualdez and his allies of manipulating the process to pursue political vendettas. “The Senate is not your playground,” Escudero said. “We are not an accomplice in any grand scheme.”
But critics argue that by hiding behind the technicality of archiving, the Senate has effectively killed the possibility of ever holding Duterte accountable for the P612.5 million in confidential funds flagged in the complaint—at least while this administration remains in power.
Minority senators and opposition voices weren’t convinced.
Senator Kiko Pangilinan, who voted no, was emphatic that deferring action until the High Court issued a final ruling would have demonstrated real respect for judicial authority—not this rushed, symbolic shelving. “Waiting for the final decision would have been the prudent, lawful, and respectful step,” he argued.
Senator Bam Aquino went further, warning that archiving eroded the Senate’s constitutional independence. “The Senate is a co-equal branch of government,” Aquino said. “It has the sole power to try and decide impeachment cases. Today, we surrendered that power.”
Even Senator Panfilo Lacson, who abstained, emphasized that the Supreme Court’s decision was not yet final, given the pending motion for reconsideration. For him, prematurely shelving the complaint undercut due process.
From the House, the Makabayan bloc—led by ACT Teachers Rep. Antonio Tinio and Kabataan Rep. Renee Co—condemned the archiving as an “optics game.” In their words, "If they claim to have no jurisdiction, how can they archive it?" For them, this was nothing more than political theatre—a calculated move to avoid the optics of junking the case outright, while achieving the same result.
Akbayan’s Chel Diokno echoed their frustration. He warned that archiving the case was another “nail in the coffin of accountability.” And in a sharp rejoinder to Marcoleta’s culinary analogy, former Senator Leila de Lima dismissed the idea that the complaint was “undercooked.” “It was not undercooked,” she said. “And our demand for truth and justice is not half-baked.”
The deeper concern is what this moment signals for the country’s democratic architecture. In the 1980s, the Senate stood as a vital check against creeping authoritarianism. It was the arena where truth was pursued, and power was held accountable. The impeachment trial of Joseph Estrada in 2000, which some senators referenced, was chaotic, flawed—but it happened. The process mattered.
Today, that same chamber has chosen a different path—one of caution, procedure, and retreat.
Proponents of the decision say the Senate is merely respecting the High Court. But opponents see a pattern. As more powerful figures are shielded from scrutiny through legal technicalities, the message becomes clear: if you’re high enough, the law bends. Not breaks, but bends—until it is no longer recognizable.
The Senate had the power to assert its independence. To act with prudence and principle. To say: "We will wait. We will uphold process. And we will never fear a trial." But instead, it blinked.
It chose the quiet of the archives over the storm of responsibility.
What remains is a procedural fig leaf, hiding a very public truth: that the pursuit of accountability in the Philippines is still a fragile endeavor. And that in the halls of power, silence is often mistaken for order.
The archiving of the Sara Duterte impeachment case may be constitutional. It may even be technically correct. But whether it serves justice—that’s a question history will ask again and again.
And when it does, let no one say the Senate chose accountability. Because archiving is not justice. Archiving is delay, dressed in the language of law.
The 1980s had a scenario for that kind of politics: making excuses. The more things change, the more they stay the same.