As hearings continue before the International Criminal Court (ICC) on the charges of crimes against humanity against former President Rodrigo Duterte, one thing has become painfully clear. Strip away the political noise, the grandstanding, the talk of foreign interference and supposed vendettas, and what remains is something far simpler.

His own words.

The prosecution has laid out its case. The defense counsel has pushed back, arguing that this is all part of some geopolitical plot, that ideally Duterte should have been tried before Philippine courts, and that Philippine sovereignty is at stake. The victims’ counsel has spoken for the families who have spent years in fearful silence, waiting for acknowledgment and hoping for justice.

But beyond all of this, a stark fact hovers over the proceedings. Duterte repeatedly and publicly claimed ownership of the killings that defined his so-called war on drugs. He did not whisper these statements. He did not utter them in private. He declared them on campaign stages, in press conferences and in televised speeches.

He encouraged the police to kill. He promised protection for those who did. He justified the bloodshed as necessary, even virtuous. He spoke of the rising body count with chilling casualness.

At this point, even many of his supporters no longer deny that thousands were killed. The numbers may be debated. The circumstances may be disputed. But the fact that the killings happened is no longer seriously questioned.

Which leaves the contradiction at the heart of his defense.

On one hand, his most ardent backers praise him for having the courage to “clean up” the streets. They celebrate what they call decisive action. On the other hand, they insist that he never sanctioned unlawful killings, that he was misunderstood, that his rhetoric should not be taken literally.

Even his highly paid counsel appears to be caught in this bind. They portray him as a man of his word, a leader who meant what he said, while simultaneously arguing that his repeated references to killing were mere hyperbole.

So which is it? Was he the strongman who followed through, or the misunderstood rhetorician whose words were never meant as instruction? Because you cannot have it both ways.

The initial arguments and evidence before the ICC paint a horrifying picture. Thousands of people were killed as part of what the prosecutors describe as a deliberate and systematic campaign. Not rogue officers acting in isolation. Not random violence. But a strategy that was encouraged and legitimized from the very top.

That this reckoning is taking place in The Hague rather than in Manila is itself telling. For years, efforts to investigate or prosecute were stalled, blocked, or ridiculed. Now, finally, before an international tribunal, the whole horrifying story is being told to the world.

And perhaps the saddest part is not even the venue. It is the reaction. So many Filipinos remain willing to dismiss the proceedings outright, to wave away the testimonies of grieving families, to frame the entire case as persecution rather than an attempt to seek accountability. Personal loyalty, for some, has apparently eclipsed the demand for justice, or even the call to a common humanity.

Victims’ counsel Joel Butuyan put it starkly. He said Duterte spread a “virus of impunity” that “converted millions of peace-loving citizens into bloodthirsty disciples.” That may sound harsh. But listening to the arguments, watching the footage of old speeches replayed in a courtroom, it is difficult to deny the corrosive effect of years of normalized violence under Duterte.

Whatever the ultimate verdict, the trial is already doing one thing. It is forcing us to confront a truth that many would prefer to forget.

Beyond the legal outcome, though, lies a deeper task. To undo that virus of impunity. To relearn that human life is not expendable. To remember that strength should not be measured by body count.

And that may be the harder trial we must ultimately face.