When the International Criminal Court convenes in November to try former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte for alleged crimes against humanity, it will not merely be a legal proceeding. It will be a geopolitical stage play, with the United Kingdom cast as a leading advocate for a global justice system that is now facing its most severe test. The streets of The Hague will be quiet, but the reverberations will be felt from Manila to London, where the government has positioned itself as a staunch defender of international law, even as critics question its selective application.
For the ordinary citizen, the Duterte trial is a distant affair, a matter of diplomats and lawyers in powdered wigs. Yet it touches upon something deeply resonant: the idea that no leader is above the law. This is the principle the UK has championed since the Nuremberg trials, and it is the principle that will be scrutinised as Duterte's defence team argues that the court has no jurisdiction, that the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute in 2019. If the ICC presses ahead, it will be a triumph for human rights activists and victims of the so-called war on drugs. If it falters, it will be a blow to the institution itself.
But here is the human cost, the unseen drama. In the Philippines, hundreds of thousands of families still mourn loved ones killed in extrajudicial executions. For them, the trial is a chance for acknowledgment, a crack in the wall of impunity. Meanwhile, in London, the Foreign Office must balance its moral rhetoric with realpolitik. The UK is a founding member of the ICC, but it also has economic ties with the Philippines and a desire to maintain influence in Southeast Asia. Will the government's backing of the trial translate into concrete action, or will it be hollow words?
There is also a cultural shift at play. For decades, the global north has lectured the global south on human rights. But now, a former colony is holding a powerful man to account, and the UK must navigate its own colonial legacy. The trial may force a reckoning with how justice is dispensed: is it truly universal, or is it a tool of Western foreign policy?
On the streets of London, few will notice. The news cycle is crowded with Brexit, the cost of living, and the latest political scandal. But among the chattering classes, in the think tanks and university seminars, the Duterte trial is a talking point. It raises uncomfortable questions about sovereignty and intervention. When a state withdraws from the ICC, can the court still act? Should it?
This is not a dry legal argument. It is about what kind of world we want to live in. The UK, with its soft power and diplomatic heft, is uniquely placed to shape the outcome. If the trial proceeds smoothly, it will strengthen the global justice system. If it collapses into political wrangling, it will embolden autocrats everywhere. The autumn of 2025 may well be remembered as a turning point, for better or worse. And as always, it is the everyday people the ones who lost loved ones, the ones who believe in a fairer world who will feel the consequences most acutely.
