The Senate floor trembled under the weight of sharp words and heavier suspicions. It began with a single question — one that pierced through layers of bureaucracy and political caution:

“What happened to the government’s firm stand that we will not assist the ICC in any way, in any form?”

The tension was palpable. A senator’s voice echoed in the chamber, recalling the bold declaration once made by the Republic’s top officials. That pronouncement, strong and absolute, had seemed unshakeable: the Philippines would have nothing to do with the International Criminal Court (ICC).

And yet, only months later, the former president — once shielded by those very words — had been transported abroad, now languishing in detention under the authority of the ICC.

“What changed?” the senator pressed on, his tone sharpening. “What factors necessitated a change of mind—from not assisting the ICC in any manner, to surrendering a former president to its custody?”

Across the room, the Department of Justice’s representatives shifted uncomfortably. One official, his voice measured yet uncertain, replied:

“Your Honor, I am not familiar with the particular circumstances that led to that decision.”

The reply was met with silence — and then, a cutting retort.

“Not familiar? Then who is? Who can explain why this government turned its back on its own word?”

The official hesitated before deflecting: “Your Honor, it may be the former secretary — now the Ombudsman — who is privy to that.”

The senators were not satisfied. The room buzzed with murmurs as another senator, visibly frustrated, leaned forward.

“What happens now,” he demanded, “to the principle of continuity in government policy? People will begin to suspect that national decisions can be reversed on mere whims or political convenience — without sound legal basis!”

The exchange laid bare a deep fissure within the Philippine justice system — one that stretched between the letter of the law and the pulse of politics.

The conversation soon turned to Republic Act 9851, the Philippine law defining crimes against international humanitarian law, genocide, and other crimes against humanity.

A senator opened a thick copy of the statute, reading aloud:

“Under Section 17 of RA 9851, the State shall exercise jurisdiction over persons — military or civilian — suspected or accused of crimes under this Act, regardless of where the crime was committed…”

He looked up, his voice rising:

“So if this law already gives us jurisdiction, why hand over a Filipino citizen to the ICC? Are our own courts and prosecutors not competent enough?”

At this, Chief State Counsel Dennis Chan of the DOJ took the microphone. Calm but cautious, he began to explain:

“Your Honor, Section 17 does provide for national jurisdiction. However, the second paragraph also mentions that in the interest of justice, Philippine authorities may dispense with investigation or prosecution if another court — or an international tribunal — is already doing so.”

He continued, his voice echoing through the hall:

“In such cases, the authorities may surrender or extradite the accused to the appropriate international court or another state, pursuant to applicable extradition laws or treaties.”

“That,” he concluded carefully, “was the justification relied upon by the former Secretary of Justice in the decision leading to the transfer of the former president.”

The senators pounced.

“You mean to say you based the surrender on that clause?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Chan confirmed.

“But the law clearly says pursuant to applicable extradition laws and treaties!” thundered Senator Marcoleta. “We have withdrawn from the Rome Statute. There is no longer an applicable treaty. So how can this be valid?”

The official tried to clarify, but his words only deepened the confusion.

“Your Honor, the department interpreted the section as providing two distinct actions — surrender or extradition. The action taken was surrender, not extradition. Therefore, no treaty was necessary.”

The senator’s eyes narrowed. “A surrender without legal basis is not surrender — it’s submission.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Cameras clicked. Journalists scribbled furiously. The clash between legislative scrutiny and executive justification had reached its peak.

“Then tell me,” the senator pressed on, “if 9851 is our own law, and if it already allows our national courts to prosecute, why didn’t we simply do it here? Why surrender our sovereignty?”

For a moment, the hall fell silent. The DOJ representatives exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Chan spoke again, his tone subdued:

“Your Honor, with all apologies, I cannot answer that question. The matter is now pending before the Supreme Court.”

“Convenient,” a senator muttered under his breath.

Another voice broke the silence — sharp, almost theatrical:

“The law is clear! You cannot hide behind interpretation when sovereignty is at stake. The former Secretary’s justification was flawed — dangerously flawed.”

But the DOJ stood by its limited defense. “Your Honor, that issue is already before the Supreme Court.”

Senator Marcoleta leaned back, his frustration visible. “You didn’t even complete the statement,” he said, “pursuant to the applicable extradition laws and treaties. That’s the heart of it. That’s what makes it legal — and that’s what’s missing.”

By the end of the hearing, the air in the Senate session hall was thick with distrust. Questions lingered — about legality, about loyalty, and about the fragile boundary between justice and politics.

Had the Philippines betrayed its own judicial system? Or had it chosen a higher path, one aligned with international justice?

One thing was certain: the sudden shift from “We will not assist the ICC in any way” to handing over a former president to its custody was no simple bureaucratic turn.

It was a political earthquake — and its aftershocks were only beginning.