Last 2 April marked the 22nd anniversary of the enactment of the Alternative Dispute Resolution Act of 2004 (Republic Act 9285), a milestone worth more than commemorating, but revisiting as well.

When we think of ADR, we imagine a controlled, efficient setting: a table, a mediator, and the parties seeking resolution in a room. Only, many Filipinos never make it into that room. Not because they have no disputes, but because the system remains out of reach to them.

A farmer traveling hours for one session, a single mother forced to forgo a day’s wage, a worker intimidated by legal jargon, these are not exceptional cases. They are the norm. If ADR is an “alternative,” then who is it for?

Access is not just about entry; it is about participation. Real inclusion means being able to speak, understand, and be heard. This becomes urgent in disputes involving marginalized sectors, where power imbalances already shape outcomes long before mediation begins.

ADR has the potential to level the field. It can soften the rigidity of formal courts and create space for voices that would otherwise be sidelined. But that promise is not automatic. Inclusion must be purposefully designed into the system.

The barriers are often invisible but they are there. Language can exclude as effectively as distance, or lack of money for fare. And when processes rely on technical terms, participation becomes superficial and consent, questionable.

Trust is even harder to build. For communities long alienated from institutions, skepticism is experience-based. An orderly process means little if people do not believe it is meant for them. These are not technical flaws; they are human gaps, which require realistic solutions.

Expanding access, then, is not optional but foundational. Legal awareness must move beyond courtrooms and into communities. Programs that translate the law into everyday language, such as community lectures and grassroots education initiatives, are not mere side efforts, but are central to the achievement of justice.

Strengthening the Katarungang Pambarangay system is also critical. For many Filipinos, justice begins and ends not in formal venues but within their barangays. When these local mechanisms are trusted, and responsive, the justice system is not only closer, but more credible.

Reimagining ADR also means letting go of a one-size-fits-all model. Community-based and indigenous dispute resolution systems are not peripheral; they are integral. Inclusion must be practical: accessible venues for persons with disabilities, and mobile mediation for remote areas.

And just as important, processes must be trauma-informed, especially in cases involving women, children, and vulnerable sectors. A system that resolves disputes but deepens harm cannot deliver justice.

ADR is not merely a process, but an experience of justice. If people leave unheard, then resolution is hollow. But if they walk away with their dignity intact, even imperfect outcomes become important.

After more than two decades of ADR, the challenge is clear: go beyond the table. Meet people where they are. Build systems that do not just resolve disputes efficiently, but reach out to those who have long been excluded.

The true measure of ADR is not how well it works for those inside the room, but how many more it brings in.