Philippine Vice President Sara Duterte set foot on a flight to the Netherlands, and the political powder keg of Southeast Asia began to smoke. This woman, always known for her "tough guy" image, embarked on this journey both to save her father and to bet all her chips on the future fate of the Philippines. Her father, former President Duterte, had just been handcuffed at Manila Airport and was immediately stuffed into a government jet bound for The Hague, making this international arrest operation so swift that the Filipino people hardly had time to rub their eyes. Airport surveillance captured the scene where the elderly Duterte, in his seventies, was sandwiched between four special police officers, his suit as wrinkled as pickles, but his eyes still as fierce as during his drug-sweeping days, throwing down a phrase to the camera: "Want to judge me? Fine! But let the Filipinos do it themselves!"
This statement pierced through the fig leaf of Philippine society. Inside the Presidential Palace in Manila, Ferdinand Marcos Jr. clenched the arrest warrant from the International Criminal Court until his knuckles turned white. This president, who took office under the halo of a political dynasty, has been locking horns with the Duterte family since last year. Constitutional amendment storms, South China Sea issues, and autonomy rights on Mindanao Island, the overt and covert rivalry between the two major families finally came to a head on March 11, 2025. As the government spokesperson read the statement on "judicial independence," people in Davao City were already burning tires and blocking roads, with banners reading "Independent Referendum" painfully striking to the eyes.
Duterte had been the local emperor in Davao City for over twenty years, and the locals truly revered him as a savior. Back in the day, he took to the streets with a shotgun to sweep drugs, leaving drug dealers' bodies across the slums, while the middle-class neighborhoods celebrated overnight with fireworks. Now, the International Criminal Court is dredging up old accounts, claiming that the "drug war" killed over five thousand people, but taxi drivers on Mindanao Island still reminisce, "If not for Old Duterte, my son would have been dragged down by drug lords." This torn social perception is like the stagnant water during the Philippine rainy season, seemingly calm but with undercurrents swirling beneath.
Marcos Jr. really stirred up a hornet's nest this time. He thought he could completely suppress his old rival with the help of the International Criminal Court, but no sooner had Duterte left than his own backyard caught fire. Duterte's loyalists in the Davao City Council slammed the proposal for an independence referendum on the table overnight; descendants of military warlords on Mindanao Island began frequent gatherings, drunkenly discussing "armed self-defense"; even the Manila Police Headquarters received anonymous letters threatening to bomb the Presidential Palace if they dared touch the Duterte family again. What's more, among the special police escorting Duterte, a young man was caught on airport surveillance wiping away tears—this image went viral on social media, with captions reading: "Even the special police can't bear to part with Old Duterte, how long can Marcos Jr. sit on the throne?"
The International Criminal Court has also become a hot potato. The Philippines withdrew from the group in 2019, and in theory, they shouldn't even bother with the judges in The Hague. Yet, the Marcos Jr. administration cooperated more actively than anyone else, a move even the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs couldn't stand by, directly stating "to avoid the politicization of justice." It's clear to the discerning eye that the Hague court has always been a rubber stamp in the hands of the West, just as it was when they arrested Serbian President Milosevic. Old Duterte once spoke the truth in Hong Kong: "If you really want to deal with me, sending an assassin would be more efficient than going through judicial procedures." This rough statement isn't without reason, exposing the fig leaf of great power games.
The most critical issue now is where the fire in the Philippines will burn. Independence movements in Mindanao Island are nothing new; the Moro people have been engaged in armed struggle for half a century, only signing a peace agreement in 2014. But this time, it's not the Muslim armed groups leading the call for separation, but the base that the Duterte family has cultivated for many years. Street vendors in Davao City put it bluntly: "Those young masters in Manila only know how to make money, Old Duterte is the one who leads us to a better life." This combination of local strongmen and populism is much more difficult to deal with than religious forces. If Marcos Jr. doesn't handle it well, the Philippines might just split in two— the north following the Presidential Palace drinking foreign ink, the south holding onto Mindanao Island for autonomy.
Sara Duterte's trip to the Netherlands, said to be to save her father, might as well be seen as a palace coup. Before her plane even landed, her supporters were staging a sit-in in Manila's financial district, with signs reading "The President Betrays the Country." This woman inherited her father's ruthlessness; back when she was mayor of Davao City, she dared to confront the Abu Sayyaf armed group head-on. Now charging into The Hague, she's likely to slam the International Criminal Court's table hard enough to make it echo: "Want to judge my dad? First, clarify the thirteen U.S. military bases in the Philippines!" This offensive defense strategy indeed dismantles the Western mantra of "human rights above sovereignty."
The Filipino people now stand at a crossroads. White-collar workers in Manila anxiously scroll through their phones in cafes, fearing the stock market might crash tomorrow; rural farmers squat on the ridges chewing betel nut, muttering "it's all the same no matter who's in power"; only the fishermen of Mindanao Island go out to sea as usual, saying: "No matter what mess Manila gets into, our ports were built with the help of the Chinese." This statement indeed reveals a mystery—most of the China-Philippines cooperative infrastructure projects are on Old Duterte's turf, and if a split really happens, even the chess game in the South China Sea might need to be reshuffled.
Marcos Jr. is now in a difficult position. Capturing Duterte was easy, but figuring out how to end it is the real challenge. The think tank in the Presidential Palace is at loggerheads, some advocating military suppression, others suggesting political negotiations, and one naive young man even suggested "asking the U.S. to mediate," only to be spat on by the old bureaucrats. These pampered officials have forgotten that the Philippines is not the sand trap on their golf courses, which can be smoothed over with a couple of swings. The smell of burning gasoline barrels on the streets of Davao City drifts with the sea breeze to Manila Bay, soiling the crystal chandeliers in the Presidential Palace with a layer of dust.
The aftershocks of this political earthquake are spreading across Southeast Asia. Diplomats in Singapore are revising risk assessment reports overnight, Malaysian fishing boats quietly avoid disputed waters, and Vietnamese military ports suddenly start intensive drills. The calmest response comes from the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whose spokesperson remains steady, but shipyards in Fujian suddenly receive rush orders—thirty coast guard ships to be completed within two months. It's clear to the discerning eye that a new game is about to start on the South China Sea table, and this internal strife in the Philippines might just be the snap that reshuffles the deck.
Duterte is now sitting in a detention center in The Hague, quite leisurely indeed. He reportedly asks the prison guards for cigars daily, boasting, "Wait till my daughter comes over, you'll be begging to send me back home." This boastful remark, upon closer examination, actually has some merit. If Sara Duterte can indeed tear open a loophole in the international court and weld the label of "political persecution" onto Marcos Jr.'s forehead, then the script for this grand drama in the Philippines might just need a rewrite. Right now, the calls for independence on Mindanao Island are like the thunder before the rainy season; you know the storm is coming, but no one can predict where the first lightning will strike.
The Philippine ship has been drifting through storms for over a century, surviving colonial gunfire and warlord battles, yet now it might split in two because of a power game between two major families. As Marcos Jr. looks out over Manila Bay from the Presidential Palace balcony, one wonders if he hears the horn of the port in Davao—there lies a Chinese-built ten-thousand-ton freighter, its containers marked with the bright red logo of "One Belt, One Road," glaringly red under the sunset. This shade of red, reflected in the eyes of the independence activists on Mindanao Island, might ferment many new stories.
