If you walked through the streets of Manila back in 2016, the air felt different. It was heavy. It was electric. Rodrigo Duterte had just stepped into the Malacañang Palace, promising a "bloody" purge of the country's drug problem. He didn't stutter. He told the public that if they knew any addicts, they should go ahead and kill them themselves, because getting their parents to do it would be too painful.
That was the start.
The Philippines war on drugs isn't just a political policy. It’s a period of history that reshaped the soul of a nation, left thousands of families in mourning, and put the country under a microscope by the International Criminal Court (ICC). People often think of it as a simple "cops vs. dealers" scenario. It wasn't. It was much messier than that.
Beyond the Headlines: The Reality of Oplan Tokhang
Most people recognize the term Tokhang. It’s a Cebuano word—a portmanteau of toktok (knock) and hangyo (plead). On paper, it sounded almost polite. Police would visit the homes of suspected drug users and "plead" with them to stop.
But the reality on the ground?
It was terrifying.
Basically, the police had these lists. "Drug watchlists." Nobody really knew how you got on one. Maybe a neighbor didn't like you. Maybe you used some crystal meth—locally known as shabu—years ago and your name was still floating around in some barangay (village) ledger. When the police knocked, you weren't just being asked to quit. You were being marked.
According to official government figures from the "Real Numbers PH" campaign, the death toll sits somewhere around 6,200. Human rights organizations, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, laugh at that number. They suggest the real figure, including "deaths under investigation" by vigilantes, could be as high as 27,000 to 30,000.
That is a staggering gap.
The violence wasn't evenly distributed, either. It hit the slums. If you were a wealthy socialite snorting coke in a Makati high-rise, you were fine. If you were a pedicab driver in Tondo or a construction worker in Caloocan, you were a target. The war was, in many ways, a war on the poor.
The Nanlaban Narrative
You’ll see this word everywhere in Philippine police reports: Nanlaban. It means "fought back."
The script was almost always the same. A buy-bust operation goes south. The suspect supposedly pulls a rusty .38 caliber revolver. The police "return fire" in self-defense. Case closed.
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But then stories started leaking. In 2017, the killing of Kian delos Santos, a 17-year-old student, changed the national mood. CCTV footage emerged showing police dragging a helpless Kian into a dark alley. He wasn't fighting back. He was begging for his life, saying he had a test the next day. He was found with a gun in his left hand, even though his family testified he was right-handed.
That broke the spell for a lot of people. It proved that the "nanlaban" excuse was often a cover for cold-blooded executions.
Why the Philippines War on Drugs Gained So Much Support
You might be wondering: why did people vote for this?
Context is everything. Before 2016, many Filipinos felt the justice system was broken. They felt like criminals ran the streets while the "Yellow" elite ignored the common man. Duterte didn't sound like a politician; he sounded like a frustrated father. He used the language of the streets. He promised a shortcut to safety.
Honestly, it worked.
Even at the height of the killings, Duterte’s approval ratings remained sky-high. People were willing to trade "due process"—which they saw as a slow, bureaucratic luxury—for immediate "results." They saw the drug users as the primary reason for theft, rape, and lack of discipline.
It was a classic populist move.
- Identify a common enemy (shabu users).
- Dehumanize them (Duterte famously said addicts aren't "human").
- Present yourself as the only one brave enough to do the dirty work.
The Role of Shabu
To understand the intensity of the Philippines war on drugs, you have to understand the drug itself. Shabu is poor man’s cocaine. It’s cheap. It’s a stimulant. For a laborer working 18-hour shifts, it’s a tool for survival. For a mother trying to skip meals so her kids can eat, it’s an appetite suppressant.
The drug wasn't just a recreational choice; it was a symptom of deep-seated poverty. When the government started killing the users without fixing the poverty, they were essentially pruning the leaves of a weed while leaving the roots untouched.
The ICC and the Question of Sovereignty
Fast forward to today, and the ghost of the drug war is still haunting the halls of power. The International Criminal Court (ICC) has been trying to investigate these killings as "crimes against humanity."
Duterte’s response? He pulled the Philippines out of the ICC in 2019.
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He basically said, "You have no jurisdiction over us." The current administration under Ferdinand "Bongbong" Marcos Jr. has been walking a tightrope. He claims the drug war is now more focused on "rehabilitation," yet he’s hesitant to let ICC investigators in. It's a massive diplomatic headache.
The legal debate centers on whether the Philippine justice system is "willing and able" to prosecute its own. Critics say it isn't. They point out that out of thousands of deaths, only a handful of policemen have actually been convicted.
The conviction of the officers who killed Kian delos Santos was a rare win. Most other families are still waiting. They’re scared. Many have been harassed into dropping their cases.
The Evolving Tactics of the Marcos Administration
Marcos has tried to distance himself from the overt brutality of the Duterte era. The "blood and guts" rhetoric is gone. You’ll hear more about "holistic approaches" and "community-based rehab."
Is it actually different?
Sorta. Sorta not.
Groups like Dahas, a research project by the University of the Philippines, still track drug-related killings. They’ve noted that while the frequency has dipped compared to the 2016 peak, people are still dying in police operations. The machinery of the Philippines war on drugs didn't just vanish; it just became less noisy.
The Mental Health Crisis Nobody Talks About
We talk about the dead. We rarely talk about the survivors.
Imagine being a ten-year-old and watching masked men burst into your plywood shack and shoot your father in the head. Thousands of children in the Philippines are now "drug war orphans." They have PTSD. They’ve dropped out of school. They live with the stigma that their father was a "junkie" who deserved to die.
The social fabric in these poor communities is frayed.
There’s also the trauma for the police. Not every cop wanted to be an executioner. There have been reports of officers suffering from deep psychological distress, pressured by "quota" systems to produce arrests and "neutralizations."
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It’s a cycle of violence that doesn't just end when the bullets stop flying.
What Most People Get Wrong
One huge misconception is that the war was about stopping the "Big Fish."
If you look at the stats, very few high-level drug lords—the ones bringing in shipping containers of chemicals from abroad—were ever caught or killed. Most of the people dead in the gutters were the "small fry." Street-level pushers. Users. People who were easily replaceable.
The "cartels" basically just adjusted their prices for the increased risk.
Another mistake? Thinking it was just a Manila problem. It spread to Bulacan, Cebu, and Davao. It became a template for local mayors to show they were "tough on crime." If you wanted to look like a hero in the eyes of the palace, you needed a body count.
Actionable Insights: Moving Forward
If you’re following the situation in the Philippines, or if you’re a policy observer, here is what needs to happen to move past this dark chapter.
1. Demand Transparency in Government Data The "Real Numbers PH" needs to be cross-referenced with independent audits. Without an accurate death toll, there can be no true accountability.
2. Support Local Human Rights Defenders Groups like Free Legal Assistance Group (FLAG) and Karapatan are on the front lines. They provide legal aid to families who are too terrified to speak up. Supporting these grassroots organizations is more effective than shouting from the sidelines.
3. Shift to a Public Health Model Addiction is a health issue, not a criminal one. The Philippines needs more than just a few "rehab centers" that look like jails. It needs community-based support, harm reduction, and economic opportunities that make shabu less appealing as a survival tool.
4. Watch the ICC Proceedings The next few years are critical. Whether or not the ICC is allowed to conduct a full-scale investigation will determine if "impunity" remains the status quo in Philippine politics.
5. Acknowledge the Nuance Don't fall for the binary. It’s possible to want safe streets and also believe that the state shouldn't be allowed to kill its citizens without a trial. Most Filipinos want safety; they were just sold a very violent version of it.
The Philippines war on drugs is a cautionary tale about what happens when a society gets so frustrated with slow progress that it welcomes a "strongman" with a gun. It’s a story of grief, power, and the long, slow walk toward justice. The world is watching to see if the Philippines will finally hold its leaders accountable or if it will simply wait for the next "strongman" to come along.
The families of the victims aren't going anywhere. They remember every knock on the door. And as long as they remember, the story isn't over.