THIS ARTICLE WAS first written in August 2017, at the height of the drug war. Today, as former President Rodrigo Duterte sits detained and faces trial before the International Criminal Court, it is worth remembering—not out of vengeance, but out of clarity—the torment inflicted upon the Filipino people and what was done to the Philippine National Police in the process.
On August 15, 2017, in one sweeping operation, 32 drug suspects were killed by Philippine National Police officers in Bulacan. That day earned the grim distinction of having the highest number of deaths in a single day in the drug war. Dubbed “one time-big time” by the Bulacan Provincial Police, it was praised by President Duterte as an efficient implementation of his order. In jest, he said he wanted more “32 deaths a day” like this. And like clockwork, the police obliged: 26 more deaths in Manila, 17 in Cavite, 4 in Caloocan, and 2 in Marikina in the days that followed.
“What stands before us now is not merely a legal reckoning in an international courtroom. It is a moral reckoning at home. Will we rebuild policing as a profession grounded in law, or will we again be seduced by the applause that follows the gunshot? That choice, unlike the bullets fired in 2017, is still ours.”
NUMBERS. BODY COUNTS. TROPHIES.
The police had become the personal killers of the President. They willingly embraced the role of executioners. The killings were no longer the aberrations of rogue officers; they had become systematic and systemic. It was no longer individual misconduct—it was institutional engagement. It marked the death of policing as a profession in the Philippines.
And this is what makes the tragedy unbearable. Because before the fall, there was ascent.
When the Philippine Public Safety College took control of the Philippine National Police Academy and the Philippine National Training Institute in 1991, the goal was clear: professionalize the police. The PNPA would mold future commissioned officers through a rigorous four-year program. The PNTI would train non-commissioned officers, requiring a bachelor’s degree prior to admission. Cadets were instructed in rule of law, due process, constitutional rights. They were mentored in rules of engagement, calibrated use of force, preservation of forensic evidence, lawful investigation techniques.
Continuing ladderized education programs were introduced to upgrade managerial competence and embed merit in the promotion system. Modern policing concepts gained traction: community policing, CompStat, problem-oriented policing, smart policing, human-rights–based approaches, gender sensitivity, child-friendly procedures, environmental policing. Slowly, painstakingly, young officers began to think differently. They would question illegal orders. They would resist corruption. They would aspire to professionalism.
These reforms were born from a dark history. During Martial Law, the police operated with impunity—brutalizing dissenters, serving as henchmen of dictators and local political warlords. The culture of impunity was deeply ingrained. Post-EDSA reforms struggled against it. Political elites—untouched by genuine transformation—continued to treat the police as private armies. Morale remained low. Corruption festered. Human rights abuses by erring officers tainted the entire institution.
Yet despite the gargantuan problems, reform was inching forward. It was imperfect. It was fragile. But it was moving in the right direction.
THEN CAME DUTERTE
As I have argued in my previous writings on noble-cause corruption and the institutional decay of policing, the drug war did not simply target suspects; it targeted the very architecture of professional policing. Duterte correctly understood that the police were weak under the stranglehold of local politicians. But instead of liberating them through structural reform—shielding them from patronage, strengthening meritocracy, insulating them from political interference—he offered something else: a license to kill.
He correctly understood that corruption plagued the force. Yet instead of cleansing it through accountability, he weaponized it. He used the same corrupt officers, employing the same corrupt practices, to eliminate his perceived problem: drug users.
The long-suffering police officer suddenly found meaning—not in service, not in justice—but in sanctioned violence. Morale soared, but it was the morale of a mob given state power. They could now kill a mayor who had once humiliated them. They could eliminate suspects without paperwork, without prosecutors, without courts. And they could rely on a President who promised immunity.
This was not reform. This was regression dressed as revolution.
Instructors at the PPSC, PNPA, and PNTI could only watch in despair. This was not what they taught. They had lectured about calibrated force; the streets demanded corpses. They had emphasized preservation of evidence; operations were conducted in darkness, with the familiar script of “nanlaban.” They had spoken of due process; due process was mocked as weakness.
The top brass of the PNP faced a choice: comply or be transferred to Siberia—figuratively speaking. Raise doubts and risk being labeled a protector of drug lords. Professional officers were cornered: join the slaughter or leave the service. Many chose silence. Some chose participation. A few chose resignation.
AND THE PUBLIC CHEERED
The Filipino people, frustrated by decades of slow courts, porous prosecution, and visible street-level crime, believed this was the rebirth of policing. They saw action. They saw decisiveness. They saw criminals falling. In my earlier essays on prolonged pretrial detention and systemic inefficiencies, I have acknowledged the people’s frustration with a justice system that moves at glacial speed. But frustration cannot justify perversion.
When the police abandon procedure, they abandon legitimacy. When they abandon legitimacy, they abandon profession. They become an armed group in uniform.
This is the gravest cost of the drug war: not only the thousands of lives lost, but the corrosion of institutional soul. A profession built on legality was recast as a machinery of fear. The delicate post-Marcos effort to move from force to service, from patronage to professionalism, from impunity to accountability—was reversed in a matter of months.
Now Duterte faces trial in The Hague. History has a way of circling back. But trials alone cannot resurrect professionalism. The deeper question remains: can Philippine policing be reclaimed?
Professionalism is not restored by speeches. It requires structural insulation from political interference. It requires merit-based promotions. It requires a promotion system shielded from batchmate cliques and political patronage—issues I have repeatedly raised. It requires retraining grounded in human rights, procedural justice, and evidence-based policing. It requires courage from within the ranks to say no to unlawful orders.
Above all, it requires the Filipino people to understand that quick justice is often no justice at all.
The death of policing as a profession did not happen in a vacuum. It was cheered. It was rationalized. It was framed as necessary.
But killing as policy is not policing. It is abdication.
The tragedy of August 15, 2017, was not merely that 32 lives were lost in Bulacan. It was that, in that moment, the state publicly celebrated death as efficiency. And once death becomes performance, the profession is already dead.
What stands before us now is not merely a legal reckoning in an international courtroom. It is a moral reckoning at home.
Will we rebuild policing as a profession grounded in law, or will we again be seduced by the applause that follows the gunshot?
That choice, unlike the bullets fired in 2017, is still ours.