They call him Digong, and he called death by its first name. Rodrigo Roa Duterte’s political career was shaped by this brutal familiarity — with violence, with fear, with power. For some, he was the only Philippine president who had the guts to do what others merely talked about. For others, he was the man who broke the country’s moral compass.

As mayor of Davao City for over two decades (1988-1998, 2001-2010, 2013-2016), Duterte earned praise for transforming what was once a crime-ridden city into what locals proudly dubbed one of the safest in the country.

But peace came at a cost. Human rights groups documented hundreds of extrajudicial killings linked to the so-called Davao Death Squad. In response, Duterte alternated between denial, deflection, and admission. At one point, he joked — with the caveat that his jokes were often half-meant — that the bodies buried in Davao fertilized the soil.

While he reluctantly ran for president in 2016, it was with a clear promise: he would bring his Davao formula to the entire nation. And he did. As the 16th president of the Philippines from 2016 to 2022, Duterte launched a nationwide war on drugs that resulted in over 6,000 reported deaths, according to government data. Human rights organizations placed the figure much higher. His critics called it a bloodbath; he called it necessary. “I don’t give a f#ck about human rights,” he said more than once.

But Duterte also defied elite expectations. His administration passed the Universal Access to Quality Tertiary Education Act, making tuition free for students in state universities and local colleges. When his economic managers balked at where to find the budget, Duterte snapped: “You sons of whores, just find the money.” That wasn’t rhetoric — it became a law. Millions of students now attend public universities without paying tuition.

That mix of populist bluntness and unfiltered authority extended back to his youth. At San Beda Law School, Duterte once shot a fellow student for insulting him repeatedly. The shot missed, the bullet embedding itself in the floorboard. No charges were filed; it was written off as youthful rage — or just Digong being Digong.

Commanding, unflinching

And when Covid-19 arrived, Duterte was the president the Philippines needed — decisive, commanding, and unflinching at a time when confusion could have turned deadly. Say what you will about his nightly briefings or his enforcement style, but under a weaker president — someone like Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III, who couldn’t even get a grip on the airport “tanim bala” extortion racket — a full-blown public health and logistical collapse might have followed.

Duterte locked the country down early, mobilized the police and the military for aid delivery, secured vaccines aggressively, and kept the public mostly in line, for better or worse.

But rage, unpunished, has a way of growing.

In March 2025, the consequences finally arrived. Duterte was arrested not in Davao, but at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport upon arrival from Hong Kong. He was intercepted by police acting on an International Criminal Court (ICC) warrant charging him with crimes against humanity — specifically, the killings carried out during his time as Davao mayor and as president. Though the Philippines formally withdrew from the ICC in 2019, the court based at The Hague maintained it had jurisdiction over acts committed while the country was still a signatory.

And yet, even as he faced prosecution abroad, Duterte staged a political comeback at home. In the May 2025 midterm elections, while under detention in the Netherlands, he was elected mayor of Davao City once again. It was a stunning return — proof that for many of his constituents, his past actions were not only forgivable, but admirable.

His arrest ignited a political firestorm. Vice President Sara Duterte, his daughter, publicly condemned the Marcos administration for allowing her father’s detention. The Bongbong-Sara alliance — a formidable force in the 2022 elections — had clearly broken down. With impeachment charges filed against her earlier this year and her father in international custody, Sara flew to The Hague to support him, accusing the current administration of betrayal and political persecution. President Marcos Jr., for his part, defended the arrest as lawful and compliant with international obligations.

It wasn’t just the ICC entanglements that defined Duterte’s foreign posture. His pivot to China was one of the most polarizing aspects of his presidency. He downplayed confrontations in the West Philippine Sea, including the 2019 Reed Bank incident, where a Chinese vessel rammed a Filipino fishing boat and left its crew adrift.

Rather than lodge a formal diplomatic protest, Duterte called it “a little maritime incident.” He repeatedly said he could not go to war with China over “just water.” Critics saw this as weakness, if not surrender. Duterte insisted he was being a pragmatist — not picking an unwinnable battle that would just get millions of Filipinos killed.

Then there was his war with the Church. Duterte, a product of Catholic schools and once mentored by Jesuit priests at Ateneo de Davao, lashed out at the clergy with fury and familiarity. He accused bishops of corruption, mocked Catholic teachings, and once called God “stupid” in a public speech. The irony wasn’t lost on those who knew he had once seriously considered becoming a priest.

But it wasn’t just ideology; it was personal. In 2018, Duterte revealed he had been molested as a teenager by Fr. Mark Falvey, a Jesuit priest later accused of abusing dozens of boys in the US. Duterte said he and other boys were touched inappropriately during confession. Falvey was long dead, but the betrayal left a permanent scar. “They taught me justice,” he said. “Then they looked away.”

Folksy

Still, despite his sharp tongue and open disdain for critics, Duterte left office with sky-high approval ratings. His folksy image — motorcycle-riding, foul-mouthed, unscripted — struck a deep chord with ordinary Filipinos who saw in him someone who didn’t pretend to be virtuous, just effective.

So, saint or sinner?

A saint to the parent whose child now studies tuition-free. A sinner to the widow who never saw her husband again after a police raid. A man who brought order to his city, and chaos to the institutions meant to keep leaders in check. A father who stood by his daughter in crisis, and a president who once said he’d rather die than apologize.

Duterte never asked to be admired; he demanded obedience. He rarely sought forgiveness, only results. Now, for the first time, he’s facing a court he cannot ignore — even as he retakes, by proxy through his son, Vice Mayor-elect Sebastian “Baste” Duterte, the very city where it all began.

How history judges Rodrigo Roa Duterte won’t be settled by his enemies or his loyalists. It will be settled in silence, perhaps years from now — not with slogans and not with shouting, but in remembering everything and forgetting nothing.