There was something revealing — almost symbolic — about the spectacle that unfolded around Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa this week.

The “strongman” tripped his way to the Senate plenary hall and lied before the public that he got slightly wounded in his hands for reportedly wrestling with authorities.

God truly exists, and what does the Bible teach us about people who constantly lie themselves out of trouble?

For years, dela Rosa cultivated the image of the untouchable enforcer: the hard-talking former police general who became the public face of Rodrigo Duterte’s bloody war on drugs and one of the most aggressive defenders of the Duterte political machine. He projected such bravado that many Filipinos came to see him not merely as a senator but as an embodiment of the culture of impunity that defined the Duterte years.

But political myths often collapse not in grand historical moments, but in small, deeply human scenes.

As operatives moved to serve a warrant, dela Rosa rushed toward the Senate plenary hall amid confusion and visible panic. CCTV footage appeared to contradict later claims that authorities had physically blocked him from carrying out his legislative duties. The imagery that lingered afterward was not one of defiance, strength, or revolutionary courage.

It was the image of a political order suddenly confronting its own vulnerability.

That moment matters not because of the embarrassment of one senator, but because it reflects a broader truth that many in the Philippine political establishment still hesitate to acknowledge openly:

The Duterte era is entering its period of decline.

For nearly a decade, the Duterte movement convinced supporters and rivals alike that it represented an unstoppable political force — one capable of permanently reshaping the nation through fearlessness, populist anger, and brute political will. Rodrigo Duterte’s rise from Davao City mayor to the presidency was framed as proof that the old rules no longer applied.

His allies internalized that mythology.

They believed the Duterte name guaranteed protection.

They believed public intimidation could substitute for institutional legitimacy.

They believed popularity could indefinitely shield power from accountability.

Now that mythology is beginning to fracture.

The impeachment proceedings against Vice President Sara Duterte, the growing legal scrutiny of former administration figures, and the increasingly defensive posture of Duterte-aligned senators all point to the same political reality: this is no longer a coalition governing by confidence.

It is a coalition governed by fear.

Even more revealing is what has not happened.

There has been no overwhelming nationwide mobilization to defend the Duterte camp. No mass uprising capable of intimidating institutions into retreat. No tidal wave of public outrage over investigations, impeachment proceedings, or legal scrutiny.

The silence itself has become politically significant.

Many senators and local officials still appear trapped in the psychological shadow of Duterte’s peak popularity, imagining that the country remains frozen in the political conditions of 2016. But the Philippines of 2026 is not the Philippines that first embraced Duterte’s promise of ruthless transformation.

The national mood has changed.

Many Filipinos now remember the Duterte years not as a heroic revolt against dysfunction, but as a period marked by bloodshed, vulgarity, democratic erosion, institutional intimidation, and the normalization of cruelty in public life.

The drug war that once generated fear-based political loyalty increasingly generates moral exhaustion.

The rhetoric that once sounded anti-establishment now comes across as repetitive and defensive.

And the aura of invincibility surrounding the Duterte brand is slowly dissolving under the weight of political overreach, legal scrutiny, and public fatigue.

This is why scenes involving former Duterte officials no longer inspire awe among broad sectors of the public.

They evoke something else entirely:
Relief.
Relief that institutions are beginning — however imperfectly and unevenly — to recover their independence.
Relief that the culture of untouchability may finally be weakening.
Relief that democratic accountability, long deferred, may still be possible.

The Duterte camp’s recent embrace of religious language has added another layer of political irony.

Political figures who once mocked religious sensibilities, normalized profanity in public discourse, or treated violence as spectacle now invoke divine providence and ask the nation for prayers as legal and political pressures intensify.

In any democracy, every individual has the right to faith, repentance, and spiritual reflection. But citizens also have the right to ask whether these invocations reflect genuine humility or political theater designed to recover moral legitimacy.

Scripture repeatedly warns societies about the corrupting effects of unrestrained power.
“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil,” declares Isaiah 5:20.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Christ warns the public to “beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves” (Matthew 7:15).

And Proverbs reminds believers that “lying lips are an abomination to the Lord” (Proverbs 12:22).

These passages are not partisan weapons.

They are warnings about what happens when societies normalize deception, brutality, and moral inversion in the pursuit of power.

The Philippine Senate now faces one of the defining institutional tests of the post-Duterte era.

Its constitutional role is not to function as a sanctuary for political allies facing scrutiny. Nor is it to delay accountability processes out of fear of political backlash.

Its responsibility is to preserve public trust in constitutional government.

If impeachment proceedings are indefinitely obstructed for reasons of factional loyalty or political convenience, history will not remember such actions as statesmanship.

It will remember them as an institutional surrender.

Civil society, religious institutions, universities, the press, and ordinary citizens therefore face an equally important obligation: to resist efforts to weaponize democratic institutions for personal or dynastic survival.

The larger political trajectory is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

The Duterte movement is no longer expanding.

It is contracting.

This does not mean the dynasty will disappear overnight. Political machines rarely collapse instantly. Residual networks of patronage, regional loyalties, online disinformation ecosystems, and populist nostalgia will continue to shape Philippine politics for years.
But the direction of momentum now appears unmistakable.

The coalition that once promised permanent dominance increasingly looks fragmented, defensive, and consumed by legal and constitutional crises.

The implications extend far beyond one family.

The Philippines is confronting a deeper national question: whether democratic institutions can recover after years in which fear, spectacle, and personality-driven rule overwhelmed constitutional restraint.

History suggests that no political machine — however intimidating — remains dominant forever.

The Marcos dictatorship eventually fell.

Joseph Estrada’s populist coalition fractured.

Other once-powerful dynasties declined under the weight of scandal, excess, or public exhaustion.

The Duterte movement may now be entering that same historical chapter.

But democratic recovery is not automatic.

If the country merely replaces one cult of personality with another, then the cycle of impunity will continue.

If, however, this moment becomes an opportunity to strengthen institutions, restore democratic norms, rebuild civic trust, and reaffirm that no public official is above the law, then the turbulence of recent years may yet produce something historically meaningful.

Vice President Sara Duterte recently remarked that current events are “written by God.” Filipinos of different beliefs will interpret that statement differently. Some will see providence. Others will see democratic institutions slowly correcting themselves after years of paralysis.

Either way, the lesson is ultimately the same: No political force is permanent.
Not even one that once convinced the nation it could never fall.

And I expect the major personalities in this Duterte elite clique to lie and slander themselves all the way to their proverbial political slaughter. People get wind of a lie and grow tired. All the more so for those who lie–it is most tiring for them. That shows you that truth will eventually catch up with those who lie and project an image of Godliness when all they are are evil and corrupted men and women who dedicated themselves to serve Mammon.