In a move that has sent shivers down the spine of every gin-soaked dictator with a penchant for extrajudicial overreach, the International Criminal Court has confirmed that Rodrigo Duterte's trial will commence in November. The Philippines' former strongman, whose war on drugs made the Spanish Inquisition look like a quaint village fete, will finally face the music in The Hague. And who's leading the chorus? Why, none other than His Majesty's Government, trotting out the tired old trope of 'international law' like a pub bore waving a copy of the Magna Carta.
Let us pause, dear reader, to savour the irony. Britain, that storied archipelago of genteel hypocrisy, tutting at a foreign potentate for his 'excesses'. This from a nation whose colonial escapades would make a Borg cube blush. But never mind the pot calling the kettle black: the UK has thrown its weight behind the ICC, presumably in the hope that this might distract from their own ongoing farce at the Home Office.
Duterte, for his part, is reportedly 'unconcerned'. Sources close to the former president describe him as 'as serene as a crocodile sunning itself on a pile of skulls'. He has dismissed the proceedings as a 'foreign plot' and vowed to defend his legacy. What legacy, you ask? The legacy of a man who once compared himself to Hitler and promised to kill three million drug users. A legacy of body bags and vigilante justice, polished to a gleam by nationalist rhetoric.
But let us not be churlish. The trial, if it happens, will be a spectacle of Kafkaesque proportions. Imagine the scene: a courtroom in The Hague, sterile as a hospital ward, where lawyers in powdered wigs will argue over the minutiae of international jurisprudence while the ghost of every murdered street vendor weeps in the gallery. The prosecution will present evidence of extrajudicial executions, phantom warrants, and police death squads operating with impunity. The defence will counter with sovereign immunity, selective prosecution, and the time-honoured defence of 'he was only doing what the people wanted'.
And what of the British angle? The UK's support for the ICC is as predictable as rain at a cricket match. They will pat themselves on the back for defending the 'rules-based international order', conveniently forgetting that they withdrew from the European Court of Human Rights faster than a politician fleeing a scandal. But consistency has never been the hallmark of British foreign policy. One day they are bombing Libya, the next they are lecturing the Philippines on the sanctity of human life. It is enough to make a cynic choke on his G&T.
Yet, for all my sneering, I must confess a sliver of hope. The ICC, for all its flaws, represents a fragile bulwark against the impunity of the powerful. If Duterte can be held to account, perhaps there is a chance for justice in this benighted world. Perhaps the families of the dead will see a measure of closure. Perhaps the arc of history does bend towards something resembling decency.
But let us not get carried away. This is the ICC we are talking about, an institution that moves with the speed of a glacier on tranquilizers. The trial may yet be delayed, adjourned, or mysteriously cancelled due to a 'lack of evidence' or a 'procedural irregularity'. And Duterte, ever the showman, will no doubt use the platform to grandstand, turning the courtroom into a circus of self-pity and bluster.
In the meantime, I shall be raising a glass to the chaps in The Hague. Here is to November, when the world will watch, and wonder, and perhaps, just perhaps, learn something about the cost of authoritarian excess. Or we will all get bored and change the channel. Either way, the gin is flowing.
