In the Silence of the Senate, Avelino Speaks Still

In the Silence of the Senate, Avelino Speaks Still

José Avelino
(1890-1986)

When the Senate, by a margin too comfortable to ignore, moved to archive the impeachment case against Vice President Sara Duterte, they did not just mothball a piece of paper. They mothballed the people’s unease. They mothballed the demand for clarity. And they mothballed the one duty that a legislative chamber must never relinquish: the duty to test power, even if the power belongs to one of their own.

The press release language was neat. Due process. Jurisdiction. Ripeness of the case. These were the words they fed to the microphones.

But the people—those who have watched the fever of politics break into cold calculation—heard something else entirely: a retreat dressed in robes of decorum.

It is in moments like this that one remembers José Avelino.

Avelino, the Senate President who, in 1949, detonated the polite hypocrisies of his peers with a sentence that has survived longer than many of their careers: “What are we in power for? We are not hypocrites. Why should we pretend to be saints when in reality we are not? We are not angels. When we die, we will all go to hell. It is better to be in hell—because in that place, there are no investigations, no secretary of justice, no secretary of the interior to go after us.”

To polite society, it was a confession. To the cynics, a wink. But to those who understood the inner machinery of power, it was something rarer: the truth stripped of the perfume of self-righteousness. The words were scandalous in their candor, but they were also, in their own way, a provocation to honesty—an invitation to confront the gap between political sainthood and political reality.

In another hour of moral weight, he warned with biting irony: “We are not angels. When we die, we will all go to hell. It is better to be in hell—because in that place, there are no investigations, no secretary of justice, no secretary of the interior to go after us.”

Had Avelino lived to see this week, in this time when solons chose to archive the decision rather than wait for the courts, or even pursue as they've sworn to uphold accountability and transparency under the rule of law, he might have said something sharper: “Let there be a trial—otherwise we’re all but hypocrites who admit, ‘let’s go to hell and pretend it’s heaven.’”

But Avelino is gone, and with him the rare courage to be honest about what power is and what it is for. In another hour of moral weight, he once asked:

“Señor Presidente, ¿no es la verdad que sin hacerlos vigorosamente es traicionar y negar esencialmente nuestros deberes como sirvientes públicos? ¿Para qué está el nuestro mandato del pueblo?”

Why are we in power, if not to pursue the truth with vigor—especially when that truth is uncomfortable, especially when it implicates the powerful?

That is the marrow of representative government. And yet, this week, the Senate dodged the bone.

They did not defeat the charges; they merely declared them “unripe” and filed them away in the vault of procedural limbo. Archived, they called it.

One cannot fault the public for now speaking the tongue of clerks and lawyers. Moral clarity has grown scarce in high places. When morality fails, people cling to process—because process, at least, can be demanded in writing.

And let readers be clear: it is not sedition to ask for accountability. It is not destabilization to seek transparency. It is not political persecution to question the second-highest official in the land. It is democracy doing what it is meant to do—if only those entrusted with its tools remember how to use them.

The senators claim fidelity to the Constitution. But constitutions are not glass cases for display. They are living pacts, signed not in the ink of ceremony but in the daily transaction of trust between ruler and ruled. And this week, that trust took on water.

What is the Senate for, if not to sit in judgment—not just of law, but of conduct; not just of budget, but of principle? If it now serves only to protect the comfortable and shield the politically sacred, then it has ceased to be a Senate. It is a sanctuary.

And sanctuaries, history tells the people, are where the guilty wait for the storm to pass.

So let the record show: when the moment called for fortitude, most chose convenience.

When the nation needed clarity, it was offered delay.

When the people sought justice, they were told to wait for ripeness.

But truth does not spoil with time. It ferments. It sharpens. It returns with a smell that cannot be hidden.

And somewhere in the backbenches of memory, José Avelino still speaks—not to excuse the crookery of power, but to remind the people, the so-called "constituents", the "subjects of the law", of its naked shape. 

The Senate Archives the Case — But Cannot Bury the Question

The Senate Archives the Case — But Cannot Bury the Question

When the Senate, by a vote of 19 in favour, opted to archive the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte, it did not just make a legislative decision—it chose to speak to history, albeit with a muffled voice. They called it procedure, but the public heard silence. They spoke of finality, but the people smelled fear.

And in that silence, the ghost of José Avelino stirred again.

Avelino, Senate President in the fragile years of the First Republic, once faced his peers and said with frankness that shocked polite society: “What are we in power for? We are not hypocrites. Why should we pretend to be saints when in reality we are not? When Jesus Christ died on the cross, he made a distinction between good crooks and bad crooks. We can be good crooks.”

Many had laughed bitterly then. Few had the courage to agree. But nearly eighty years later, his words feel less like a scandal, and more like a mirror.

For what else can one say about a Senate that shelves—rather than settles—a challenge of national consequence? That refuses to even try the case, citing procedural uncertainties, and buries the issue behind the comforting word “archive”?

There was no ruling. No testimony. No public hearing. There was only a motion to keep things quiet.

Some senators said it was “not yet time”—that politics should wait for the court’s final word. Others appealed to “the institutions”, as if the institution they served was not precisely the one duty-bound to uphold accountability. They forgot that the Senate, as co-equal to the Supreme Court, is not a waiting room, but a chamber of judgment.

The same late Avelino, in rare candor, once rose and spoke—not with pretense, but with conscience—in the language of his generation: “Señor Presidente, ¿no es la verdad que sin hacerlos vigorosamente es traicionar y negar esencialmente nuestros deberes como sirvientes públicos? ¿Para qué está el nuestro mandato del pueblo?”

And from his words tore through the veil of parliamentary ritual, piercing the heart of the matter: What is the mandate of public office, if not the solemn duty to pursue truth with unwavering vigor?

Why, indeed, are they in power?

For sure as solons, especially those concerned would have understood this moment well, that the measure of public service is not in the comfort of one’s office, but in the courage to confront storms—even those that come from within. But the Senate did not confront this storm. It went around it. And in doing so, it has only confirmed what many citizens already suspect: that the old adage “once you're in public office, you're eaten by the system” is no longer cynical, but self-evident.

That citizens now speak in legalese is not mockery—it is necessity. That they demand accountability, even from the second highest office of the land, is not sedition—it is the exercise of democracy.

One cannot chide the people for asking questions when it is they who fund this republic with their taxes, their labor, their votes. And if the answer the Senate gives them is a shrug disguised as procedure, then do not be surprised when distrust grows deeper.

The Constitution is not a curtain to hide behind. It is a lamp to illuminate. It was meant to protect institutions by allowing them to correct themselves. But here, it was used as a veil to avoid confrontation.

They say they archived the case for the rule of law.

But what the people saw was an act done in the service of the rule of silence.

Let no one be mistaken: to archive is not to resolve. To delay is not to absolve. And to bury is not to forget.

If Avelino’s words still echo, it is because the dilemma of power remains unresolved in our time. Shall it be wielded for the comfort of the few—or for the mandate of the many?

The Senate chose the former. But history watches still.

And so do the people. 

Of Archives and Avoidance: The Senate’s Burial of Accountability

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.  

Enough for the Culprit to Evade: Burying the Complaint in the Name of the Law

Enough for the Culprit to Evade:

Burying the Complaint in the Name of the Law

On the night of August 6, 2025, under the dim glow of the Senate’s grandeur and the watchful eye of a nation, nineteen senators made a decision that may haunt Philippine democracy for years to come. With a vote to archive—not dismiss—the articles of impeachment against Vice President Sara Duterte, the Senate cloaked political evasion in the robes of legalism, a move both surgically calculated and morally evasive.

They called it respect for the Supreme Court. They framed it as fidelity to the Constitution. But what it truly was—at its cold, naked core—was an institutional surrender dressed up as jurisprudence.

The Supreme Court had earlier ruled that the impeachment complaint, endorsed by more than 200 members of the House of Representatives and grounded on serious allegations of betrayal of public trust and culpable violations of the Constitution, was barred by the Constitution’s one-year rule and infringed on Duterte’s right to due process. But the decision was not final—a Motion for Reconsideration had already been filed. The Court itself acknowledged the gravity of the House’s arguments by requiring the respondents, including Duterte, to reply.

Despite this pending judicial process, the Senate moved swiftly—not to seek the truth, not to uphold its constitutional duty as the sole impeachment court, but to pre-emptively entomb the complaint.

Let everyone be clear: archiving is not neutrality. It is action. It is, as Speaker Martin Romualdez warned, “in effect, to bury the Articles of Impeachment.” And buried they now are—tucked away in the archives, conveniently dormant, sealed with the collective signatures of senators who either did not want, or could not afford, to confront the political ramifications of proceeding with a full trial.

This was not respect. This was capitulation. Senate President Francis Escudero hailed this decision as a victory for the rule of law. “Let history record that in this moment, we chose the Constitution,” he proclaimed. But history may remember something else: a moment when political expediency wore the mask of legalism, when a chamber empowered to deliver justice opted instead to store it in a drawer.

But history may record something more damning: that in this moment, a Senate that once rose against dictatorship bowed to executive proximity and judicial ambiguity. That instead of fulfilling its sacred duty to act as the people’s court in times of constitutional crisis, the Senate became a chamber of clerks, deferring not to principle, but to political weather.

Let us remember that this complaint was not a whisper from the margins—it was a thunderous act by a constitutional body. Over 200 lawmakers stood behind the impeachment of the Vice President. That is not a political prank. That is the House of Representatives speaking in institutional unison, raising a red flag before the people and the Republic. What followed was an orchestrated attempt to downplay, discredit, and, ultimately, disable that act.

The August Twenty-One Movement said it best:

“In choosing to abandon their constitutional duty… the Senate has allowed the Supreme Court to interfere in a process that should belong to Congress alone… That is not how checks and balances work. That is how accountability dies.”

And die it did—not with a bang, but with a bureaucratic shrug.

The Senate could have chosen courage. It could have waited for finality from the Supreme Court. It could have asserted its constitutional primacy in impeachment proceedings. But instead, it deferred—abdicating not just responsibility, but relevance.

This moment exposed something graver than a legal misstep. It revealed the rotting underside of political self-preservation, where legal arguments are reverse-engineered to justify the avoidance of scrutiny. It is no coincidence that those who voted to archive the case include Vice President Duterte’s allies, her longtime defenders, and future election hopefuls. Their votes were not blind. They were calibrated.

Even more alarming is the rhetorical gymnastics used to dismiss legitimate scrutiny. Some senators dared to brand the House’s impeachment as “politically motivated”—as if that automatically invalidates the facts. As if politics, the lifeblood of democracy, is incompatible with constitutional duty. As if allegations of public fund misuse during a period when Duterte held no legal mandate are mere theater.

This is gaslighting on a national scale.

Rep. Benny Abante put it bluntly: “Impeachment is not a political circus. It is a constitutional mechanism designed to hold high officials accountable.”

And yet the circus went on—just not in the halls of the Senate, but in the selective outrage of those defending the decision to archive.

Even the illusion of mutual respect between the two chambers is fraying. Rep. Jude Acidre’s rebuke was pointed: “You can’t defend one branch of government by attacking another… Just because the Senate dropped the case doesn’t mean the issue disappears. Deflection is not accountability.”

Indeed, the public knows better. They see the threads of power being stitched quietly behind velvet curtains. They see how the powerful find escape hatches while ordinary citizens face the crushing weight of the law for far less. They see how public institutions, tasked with defending truth, often serve as shields for the politically untouchable.

And in that moment of clarity, they ask: If not now, then when? If not this case, then what kind of case will ever be worthy?

The Senate may argue that archiving keeps options open. Former Senate President Miguel Zubiri said, “That will never stop us from being able to pull out the document from the archives.” But that’s not reassurance. That’s a bureaucratic form of ghosting—"We’ll call you when we’re ready." And if the SC upholds its earlier ruling? Then the case never stood a chance.

This decision sets a dangerous precedent. It tells every future high-ranking official: if you’re powerful enough, the law will blink first. It encourages evasion, not introspection. It rewards silence, not accountability.

But this story is not yet over.

The House has vowed to continue the fight. A new impeachment complaint may be filed after the one-year bar lapses. The public’s verdict, too, is still being written—not only in courtrooms, but in the streets, in social media, and, soon enough, at the ballot box.

Let no one forget what happened here. Let no one confuse legalism with justice. Let no one pretend that this was a normal day in a healthy democracy.

Because on that day, the Senate did not just archive a document.

It archived the chance for the truth to speak.

And in doing so, it allowed the culprit to evade—not because the system failed, but because the guardians of the system chose not to act.

Let history judge them not by their words, but by what they buried. 

“Of Steam, Bass, and Dance: The Rise of Coffee Rave Culture”

“Of Steam, Bass, and Dance: 

The Rise of Coffee Rave Culture”

Coffee had always been their fuel—a bitter companion for late-night drafts, a reason to step out of the cramped apartment where distraction lurked in every corner. Poetry readings, open mics, underground gigs—that was the pulse they chased. Music and caffeine, always running side by side, but never on the same stage. A café was too tame, a bar too drowned in liquor. Where was the space for something different? 

Until now. 

Enter Coffee Rave. No posters plastered on city walls, no slick promos selling lifestyle aesthetics. Just fragments on social media—clips of strobe beams slicing through steam, sweaty hands gripping neon-lit cups, beats dropping hard enough to rattle loose tiles. It wasn’t a coffee shop. It wasn’t just a "club". It's something in between, and it looked like a place that didn’t ask for permission.

The Scene 

When they finally walked into one, it wasn’t the predictable party night most Manila regulars were used to. There were no velvet ropes, no mixologists sculpting cocktails for Instagram stories, no overpriced beer drowning the sound. What hit first was the air—thick with bass and roasted beans, sweat and steam. 

Most end to order Iced Latte or Matcha just to have a caffeine-laces day or night whilst listening to tunes whether Afrobeat, House, Technohouse, anything that’s “mix and matched” to compliment nonstop laughs and good vibes during that weekend.

Espresso machines sat near DJ booths usually went, baristas moving like turntablists, pulling shots timed to the snare. Milk frothers hissed in sync with synths, steam rising like stage fog. The crowd—half ravers, half café junkies—danced with one hand in the air, the other holding cups that never stayed full for long. 

And when the music broke for a breath, it wasn’t silence that filled the space. A poet jumped onstage and spat lines like a manifesto, words bleeding into feedback and reverb before the next drop slammed back in. 

Why It Hits Different? 

Some people still laugh it off. A "coffee rave", as others say? A gimmick? A novelty? It's easy to dismiss what you don't understand. For too long, the formula for a good night out has been a tired one: loud music, alcohol-fueled decisions, and the inevitable hangover that follows. But what if there was another way? A way to find that same pulsating energy, that same sense of community, and that same euphoric release, but with a different kind of fuel?

That's the promise of the caffeine rave, and it's far from a passing fad. This movement is a rebellion against the status quo, a testament to the idea that you don't need to dull your senses to have a good time. Instead, it's about sharpening them. Imagine a dance floor thrumming with the energy of a thousand espressos, bodies moving in sync to the pounding rhythms of EDM, industrial, or synthwave, their minds alight not with the haze of alcohol, but with the crisp, clean focus of caffeine.

This isn't about forced sobriety or a lack of fun. It's about a different kind of high. The ritual of coffee—the rich aroma, the bitter taste, the steady surge of energy—becomes the foundation of the night. It's an experience that’s both primal and cerebral. The deep, bass-heavy beats of the music fuse with the sharp jolt of an Americano, creating a synergy that keeps you on your feet for hours. Matcha provides a more sustained, meditative energy, perfect for those who want to lose themselves in the rhythm without losing their balance. Cocoa, with its mood-boosting properties, adds a layer of warm, fuzzy contentment to the mix.

For some, this is a sanctuary. For the artists, the insomniacs, the writers, and the musicians, a coffee rave is a place where creativity isn't stifled but amplified. It's a space where ideas flow as freely as the caffeine, where conversations are lucid and connections are genuine. It's a place to escape the everyday without escaping yourself. It's a city that never sleeps finally learning how to stay awake on its own terms.

So, “what do you think? Are you ready to trade your beer bucket or cocktail glass for a cold brew and iced latte?”.

A Collision of Cultures 

For centuries, coffee has been tied to creativity. Arabs brewed it while plucking the oud. Europeans drank it while debating ideas that would tear empires apart. Writers have sworn by it, painters relied on it, musicians played to it. So why not coffee and rave? And since that happened in Singapore, why not in Manila’s own scene—loud, unapologetic, caffeinated to the bone? 

Scrolling through Instagram, those overseas coffee parties looked cool, sure. Polished. Trendy. 

But this one? This one feels like it clawed its way out of the Manila asphalt, caffeinated veins pumping, ready to prove that art doesn’t have to be polite. Music, coffee, chaos—it’s the right kind of mess. 

What It Means 

For anyone who’s ever carried a glass or a mug into a rehearsal, a jam session, or a midnight writing sprint, this space feels like home. It’s not just about the drinks or the drops. It’s about a community of people who don’t need alcohol to have a good time, who want something raw, alive, and awake. 

It’s a rebellion against autopilot nightlife. Against rituals that numb rather than spark. Coffee Rave isn’t trying to replace anything—it’s just demanding its own corner of the night. 

The Last Sip 

And that’s why it works. It’s sweat and steam, poetry and distortion, caffeine and chaos swirling in one stubborn, imperfect, alive experience. 

If one wants want quiet, find a café. If one wants a blackout oblivion, there’s no shortage of bars. 

But if one wants to stay up, stay wired, and dance without losing yourself—Coffee Rave in the café is the movement one didn’t know have been waiting for. 

A Delay dressed in the language of Law?

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. 

Judiciary vs. Accountability: Justice at Risk in Supreme Court Power Play

Judiciary vs. Accountability:

Justice at Risk in Supreme Court Power Play 

In the wake of the Supreme Court’s recent ruling declaring the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte unconstitutional, legal circles and political observers are sounding the alarm. At the heart of the firestorm is a growing unease that the country’s highest court may be crossing from interpretation into intervention — and in doing so, jeopardizing the delicate balance of power that anchors Philippine democracy. 

The Philippine Constitution Association (Philconsa), a respected legal think tank chaired by former Chief Justice Reynato Puno, released a sharply worded statement over the weekend questioning not only the ruling itself but the sweeping new procedural rules the Court imposed on Congress. According to Philconsa, the Supreme Court has effectively rewritten the Constitution, granting itself powers that could cripple the House of Representatives’ exclusive authority to initiate impeachment proceedings. 

In their view, the Court did more than interpret the law — it acted as a political player. 

“The new rules give the Court the power to determine the sufficiency of evidence and the reasonableness of time given to lawmakers,” Philconsa warned. “It tilts the balance of power in its favor.” 

Puno, widely respected in both judicial and academic circles, further cautioned that such judicial activism could become dangerous, especially if a sitting justice were to become the subject of a future impeachment case. “It runs counter to the idea that justices should serve as umpires, not as pitchers or batters,” he added. 

The Court’s July 25 ruling threw out the complaint against Duterte on the grounds that it violated the “one-year bar rule,” but legal experts quickly noted the broader implications. Alongside its decision, the SC introduced seven new conditions the House must meet before another complaint can even be considered — including provisions requiring sufficient supporting evidence and a “reasonable time” for members to decide on endorsement. 

Critics argue these new standards could give future impeached officials grounds to seek judicial intervention before a case even reaches the Senate for trial. 

Senator Francis “Kiko” Pangilinan, a former chair of the Senate Committee on Justice and Human Rights, has also stepped into the debate. On Monday, Pangilinan urged the Court to issue a status quo ante order and conduct oral arguments to allow all branches — the Senate, House, and Supreme Court — to take pause and avoid what he described as a “constitutional war of attrition.” 

“This kind of conflict will only deepen the public’s distrust in democratic institutions,” Pangilinan said, warning of the lasting damage such a standoff could inflict. He cited former Chief Justice Artemio Panganiban’s proposal to halt and review the matter through public hearings as a way to deescalate the growing institutional tension. 

Philconsa, meanwhile, is sounding the constitutional alarm. The group insists the Court’s intervention not only violates the political question doctrine — which shields legislative processes like impeachment from judicial review — but also undermines Article XI, Section 8 of the Constitution, which gives Congress the sole authority to craft its rules on impeachment. 

In imposing its own rules, Philconsa argues, the Court is erasing that distinction. 

“The judiciary is not supposed to overwhelm the other branches,” said Puno. “This is the very safeguard that prevents the judicialization of politics by unelected officials.” 

Even more contentious is the Court’s new requirement that due process be granted to the respondent at the House level — a point Philconsa refutes. According to the group, the respondent’s right to due process is fulfilled during the Senate trial, not at the initiation phase in the House. The new rules, they argue, effectively weaponize procedure to make impeachment all but impossible. 

In Puno’s words: “The rules written by the Court for the House will render nugatory its exclusive power to initiate impeachment. We beg the Court to revisit their constitutionality.” 

At the core of the debate lies a question as old as constitutional government itself: when a court invokes the rule of law, is it upholding justice — or building walls to shield power? 

To many observers, the Supreme Court’s ruling is a turning point. If it stands unchallenged, they warn, it could cement a dangerous precedent: a judiciary no longer content to referee the game, but now playing on the field, rewriting the rules as it goes. 

In a political climate already rife with distrust, the risk of one branch overriding the others is not theoretical — it is existential. 

Philconsa’s closing statement cuts to the heart of the matter: “The Court must avoid the political thicket, where there are too many unknowns and unknowables… and thus avoid the tyranny of intangibles.” 

It is a warning that echoes with clarity in this precarious moment in the nation’s history. In the effort to define who holds the power to hold others accountable, the question remains: 

Is this about justice — or just power? Whether one supports or opposes Vice President Duterte is beside the point. What matters now is the precedent being set. If one branch can interfere with the constitutional duties of another, unchecked, then the very foundation of our democracy weakens.

And if those who dare speak out — from senators to former chief justices — are casually dismissed as political actors or legal idealists, then everyone concerned have entered a dangerous territory, where accountability is not debated, but denied, if not dismissed as academic.

At a time when the country needs institutions to serve as bulwarks of truth and justice, not instruments of procedural obstruction, one must ask:

Do these calls for “rule of law” and “judicial review” seek to uphold justice — or to protect those in power from it?

Because the line between the two has never felt thinner.