Some People Need Killing

On a sweltering Manila night in July 2016, police officers knocked on the door of a cramped shanty in Tondo, one of the city's most notorious slums. Within hours, another body would join the growing pile of corpses that had begun appearing on Philippine streets with alarming regularity. This scene, repeated thousands of times across the archipelago, marked the beginning of one of the most systematic campaigns of state-sponsored killing in modern democratic history.

The transformation of the Philippines from a beacon of People Power revolution to an authoritarian killing field offers profound insights into how democracies die from within. Through the lens of President Rodrigo Duterte's war on drugs, we witness the mechanics of democratic collapse, the psychology of mass complicity, and the devastating human cost when societies choose violence over justice. This chronicle reveals not just the anatomy of authoritarianism, but the fragility of institutions we often take for granted and the speed with which civilized societies can descend into barbarism when fear overwhelms reason.

The Philippines that elected Rodrigo Duterte in May 2016 bore little resemblance to the nation that had inspired the world thirty years earlier with its peaceful People Power Revolution. Where millions had once linked arms to face down tanks with flowers and prayers, a new generation had grown weary of democratic promises that delivered only gridlock, corruption, and persistent poverty. The yellow revolution that toppled Ferdinand Marcos had become, in many minds, a symbol of elite manipulation rather than genuine liberation.

Duterte's appeal lay not in his political sophistication but in his brutal simplicity. As mayor of Davao City for over two decades, he had cultivated an image as "The Punisher," a leader who brought order through fear and extrajudicial killing. His alleged connection to the Davao Death Squad, responsible for hundreds of murders, became not a liability but a selling point to voters exhausted by crime and lawlessness. When he promised to kill drug dealers and throw their bodies into Manila Bay, supporters heard not the ravings of a madman but the decisive action they craved.

The 2016 campaign revealed the profound disconnect between democratic institutions and popular expectations. Duterte's crude language, rape jokes, and open threats of murder were dismissed as mere bravado by supporters who believed they were voting for effective governance, not literal genocide. His rallies resembled religious revivals more than political gatherings, with crowds cheering as he promised to personally execute criminals. The man who boasted of killing with his own hands was now entrusted with the full power of the state.

Duterte's victory with 39 percent of the vote in a multi-candidate field demonstrated that a significant plurality of Filipinos were willing to trade constitutional governance for strongman rule. The election represented more than a change of administration; it was a referendum on democracy itself. Within hours of his inauguration, the first bodies would appear on Manila's streets, marking the beginning of a campaign that would claim thousands of lives and transform a nation's relationship with violence, justice, and human dignity.

Within hours of Duterte's inauguration on June 30, 2016, the Philippine National Police launched Project Double Barrel, a two-pronged assault on the country's alleged drug problem. The operation's centerpiece was "Tokhang," a portmanteau of Visayan words meaning "knock and plead." In theory, police would visit suspected drug users' homes, invite voluntary surrender, and offer rehabilitation. In practice, Tokhang became a death sentence delivered door-to-door across the archipelago.

The speed and scale of the killing was breathtaking. Within six weeks, 899 people were dead, their bodies found floating in canals, dumped along roadsides, or sprawled in their homes with cardboard signs proclaiming their crimes. Police developed specialized vocabulary to describe this carnage: victims were "neutralized" rather than killed, deaths classified as "homicides under investigation" rather than executions, and every killing justified by claims that suspects had "fought back" or "nanlaban."

The genius of Operation Tokhang lay not in its efficiency at reducing drug use, which remained largely unchanged, but in its ability to transform state-sponsored murder into public service. Each body became a billboard advertising government commitment to law and order, while cardboard signs served as both warning and invitation for citizens to participate in the violence. The lists of "drug personalities" guiding these operations were compiled through grotesque parodies of democratic participation, with neighborhoods voting to identify their most undesirable residents.

The mathematical impossibility of police claims became apparent quickly. Officers reported kill rates approaching 100 percent in drug operations, with suspects invariably dying while police emerged unscathed. These encounters followed predictable scripts: suspects would allegedly "sense the presence of lawmen," draw weapons, and force officers to return fire. The repetitive language of police reports revealed the industrial nature of the killing, as if death itself had been bureaucratized and reduced to paperwork. The war on drugs had become a war on the poor, dressed in the language of public safety and moral renewal.

As the drug war evolved, it revealed sophisticated infrastructure of violence that Duterte had spent decades constructing. Police operations were supplemented by vigilante groups like the Confederate Sentinels Group, operating with official blessing and coordination. These civilian militias provided the regime with plausible deniability while extending killing capacity far beyond what formal law enforcement could accomplish alone.

The relationship between police and vigilantes illustrated the war's fundamental corruption of state institutions. Officers provided target lists to civilian killers, coordinated operations to avoid interference, and cleaned crime scenes after executions. This symbiotic relationship created multiple layers of violence while making accountability nearly impossible. When pressed by international critics, officials could blame vigilante excesses while maintaining the fiction that police operations remained within legal bounds.

The presumption of regularity became the drug war's most insidious legal doctrine. This principle, normally assuming police act lawfully unless proven otherwise, became an impenetrable shield protecting killer cops from prosecution. No matter how suspicious the circumstances or contradictory the evidence, courts consistently accepted police claims of self-defense. The system had transformed murder into heroism, execution into good police work.

The psychological toll on communities was immense. Families lived in constant fear, never knowing when a knock might herald death. Children grew up understanding their parents could be killed with impunity, while neighbors learned to look away from obvious executions. Social fabric frayed as trust eroded and survival required complicity with state violence. The war had created new categories of citizenship based on relationship to violence: "good citizens" who supported killings and "bad citizens" whose existence threatened social order. This binary worldview eliminated space for dissent, creating a society where criticism of government could be interpreted as sympathy for criminals.

The final phase of Duterte's presidency witnessed increasing international pressure as the drug war's devastation became undeniable. The International Criminal Court's decision to investigate crimes against humanity marked a turning point, forcing the regime to confront possibilities of genuine accountability. However, Duterte's response was characteristically defiant, withdrawing the Philippines from the ICC and doubling down on violent rhetoric.

The COVID-19 pandemic provided both cover and catalyst for the drug war's evolution. Lockdown measures gave security forces expanded powers while limiting media access and civil society oversight. Yet the same period witnessed moments of clarity that pierced through years of propaganda and normalization. The viral video of Police Sergeant Jonel Nuezca executing Sonya and Frank Anthony Gregorio in broad daylight shocked even hardened supporters, demonstrating that some acts of violence remained beyond public tolerance.

The regime's response to international criticism revealed the drug war's ultimate contradiction. While claiming to defend Philippine sovereignty against foreign interference, Duterte had systematically destroyed the democratic institutions and rule of law that give sovereignty meaning. His attacks on media, civil society, and judiciary left the country more vulnerable to external pressure, not less, as international bodies filled the accountability vacuum left by captured domestic institutions.

As Duterte's term ended, the drug war's true legacy became apparent. Beyond thousands of documented deaths lay a transformed political culture where violence had been normalized, institutions weaponized, and democratic norms systematically dismantled. The election of Ferdinand Marcos Jr. as Duterte's successor, with Duterte's daughter as vice president, suggested the authoritarian project would continue under new management. The machinery of murder had become self-perpetuating, creating conditions that made democratic restoration increasingly difficult while ensuring the drug war's impact would extend far beyond any single administration.

The Duterte drug war represents more than failed policy; it constitutes comprehensive assault on democratic governance foundations. The campaign's true target was never drugs themselves, which remained readily available throughout Duterte's presidency, but rather the principle that state power must be constrained by law and accountability. By normalizing extrajudicial killing and celebrating impunity, the regime fundamentally altered the relationship between citizens and state, transforming government from protector into predator.

The central contradiction driving this transformation was the collision between democratic institutions designed to protect individual rights and popular demand for immediate, violent solutions to complex social problems. Duterte's genius lay in recognizing that many Filipinos would abandon constitutional governance in exchange for promises of personal safety, even if that safety came at their neighbors' expense. The lessons extend far beyond Southeast Asia, offering warnings for democracies worldwide facing similar pressures from populist authoritarianism. Democratic institutions are only as strong as popular commitment to democratic values, and that commitment can erode rapidly when people feel abandoned by traditional elites. The normalization of violence in one sphere inevitably spreads to others, creating cascades of democratic breakdown that become increasingly difficult to reverse.