Of Archives and Avoidance: The Senate’s Burial of Accountability
The Senate may have spoken—but what it said was not justice. Not clarity. Not courage. It spoke in the language of evasion, dressed in the ceremonial robes of legality. With nineteen votes in favor, four in dissent, and one abstaining, the upper chamber voted to **archive** the articles of impeachment against Vice President Sara Duterte—a word that should haunt the nation more than it reassures.
Not “dismiss.” Not “decide.” Just… archive. A filing-away. A burial in paperwork. A shuffling of responsibility into a cabinet, far from the people who demanded answers.
And yet, who could blame the people for suddenly becoming legalistic, for parsing “rule of law” with the sharpness of a courtroom clerk? For years, they were told to respect the process, to wait for evidence, to put their faith in constitutional mechanisms. So they did. They filed. They endorsed. They stood behind due process.
But when the time came for the system to answer back, the Senate did not say, “We will try the case.” It said, “We will wait. We will obey. We will archive.”
It’s hard not to feel the coldness of that word. “Archive”—as if the gravity of betrayal of public trust, the constitutional violations alleged, were mere administrative debris to be shelved and retrieved only if convenient. The Supreme Court ruling may have prompted it, but it was not binding. The case is still under motion for reconsideration. The Court itself hasn’t closed the book. So why did the Senate slam it shut?
Perhaps because the senators have become too accustomed to **power without introspection**. They know how to stay in power. They’ve mastered the art of appearing responsible without being held responsible. But they have long since stopped asking, as Senator Avelino once did, “What are we in power for?”
And indeed, one sees in their statements—both from those who archived and those who condemned—the twisted theater of a ruling class divided not between right and wrong, but good crooks and bad crooks, each defending their positions in the language of principles, while keeping one eye on the next election.
Senate President Francis Escudero said, “Let history record that we chose the Constitution.” But history may instead record that they chose comfort.** That in the name of legality, they ducked legality’s very burden.
The Vice President called the complaint a “scrap of paper.” And now, it has been treated as such. Never mind the more than 200 lawmakers in the House who endorsed the charges. Never mind that the complaint was rooted not in rumor but in sworn documents, verified claims, and the most basic constitutional question: Was public power exercised before it was conferred by public mandate?
That’s not politics. That’s democracy’s most sacred rule. And yet, some senators would have us believe it’s all “too political.” Others say, “Let’s focus on service.” They hide behind timidity and slogans of civility, forgetting that to be a legislator is to be a judge, a jury, and a steward of the Republic. The job is not just to make laws—it is to guard the very soul of the law.
And the people know this. That is why they talk. Why they protest. Why they ask legal questions. Chide them for their tone if you must—but never forget: these are the same people who pay your salaries, who put you in that chamber, who gave you your mandate.
They are not mobs. They are the sovereign.
So what now? The articles are archived. Not dismissed. Not debated. Just frozen. A legal purgatory, as if justice could be negotiated by committee. As if accountability must wait for calendar dates and court clarifications.
This isn’t just a precedent. It’s a warning shot to every citizen:
You may file your complaint. You may follow the rules.
But when the accused holds power, the rules will be used to wait you out.
In the end, this was not just about Sara Duterte. It was about what the Senate believes its role to be. And judging from their actions, too many of them have forgotten that the Senate is not a shelter for ambition, but a court of last resort for truth. They are not simply lawmakers—they are guardians of the Republic.
If they will not stand trial when the moment demands it, if they will not even open the floor for deliberation, then what are they for?
Because power without scrutiny is impunity. And legality without accountability is just a mask for rot.
The people, as always, are watching. And they will remember—not just the names of the accused, but the names of those who chose silence over scrutiny, comfort over country.
They archived the complaint.
But they may have just filed away their own honor.