Just two days before the country was set to raise its flags in celebration of 127 years of independence, the Philippine Senate’s move to stall the impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte betrayed everything June 12 is supposed to stand for.

On that day in 1898, then-General Emilio Aguinaldo stood on the balcony of his ancestral home in Kawit, Cavite, and declared Philippine independence after more than 300 years of Spanish colonial rule. The declaration, written and read by Ambrosio Rianzares Bautista, was signed by 98 others — including, ironically, an American officer — marking the birth of a sovereign Filipino nation.


But that sovereignty was short-lived. By the end of the same year, the Treaty of Paris handed the Philippines from Spain to the United States. Aguinaldo, whose legacy remains deeply contested due to his role in the execution of Andres Bonifacio and later collaboration with American forces, would be captured in 1901. The First Philippine Republic dissolved under foreign occupation and internal betrayal.

More than a century later, that declaration has been reduced to ritual. The parades, speeches, and social media tributes hide an uncomfortable truth: what we celebrate on June 12 is no longer freedom—only the memory of it.

And on June 10, 2025, that memory was once again betrayed.

That was the day the Philippine Senate, sitting as an impeachment court, chose not to serve the people, but to protect power. In a move cloaked in legalese but reeking of political maneuvering, the Senate voted 18–5 to remand the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte back to the House of Representatives—effectively stalling what could have been a historic reckoning. Citing procedural technicalities, the Senate fortified the age-old fortress of impunity.

It was a move that was not just cowardly—it was, by the account of constitutionalist and former Ateneo School of Government dean Tony La Viña, downright illegal. 

“While illegal and unconstitutional, the act of the Senate yesterday has political value and is tantamount to a vindication of Sara Duterte. It is a license to steal from the public, a permit to act with impunity,” he said.

Atty. Christian Monsod—one of the framers of the 1987 Constitution—put it even more bluntly:
“Nakakalimutan po yata nila kung sino ang boss nila dito. Ang boss nila dito, mga tao. Anong klaseng senador 'yan? What is he? What are his values? Is he really our senator, or is he the senator of Sara Duterte?"

(It seems they've forgotten who their real boss is. Their boss is the people. What kind of senator is that? What is he? What does he stand for? Is he really our senator, or is he Sara Duterte's senator?)

And what does it say about a democracy when such a question must even be asked? A republic cannot survive when its supposed check on power becomes its most reliable shield. June 12 was supposed to mean something—sovereignty and dignity. What we got instead was a Senate too timid to stand for any of it.

It is not the first time in our history that power wore the mask of law to protect its own. During the Marcos dictatorship for instance, Martial Law through Proclamation No. 1081 allowed the suspension of the Constitution, closure of media, and mass arrests of critics. Decades later, the Anti-Terrorism Act revives that legacy, using vague language to justify arrests and stifle dissent. Philippine law has too often served not the people, but those in power.

But it is particularly damning that this act unfolded just two days before Independence Day. In 1898, Filipinos sought to unshackle themselves from the grip of foreign dominion. In 2025, the nation remains ensnared — this time, by a ruling class that clings to power by maneuver.

The allegations against Duterte are not trifles: corruption, abuse of authority, and overt threats against political opponents. These are impeachable offenses grave enough to bar her from holding future office, and serious enough to deserve a fair and transparent trial.That the Senate could turn its back on accountability—on the people—is a sign of how far we have strayed from the ideals upon which this republic was founded. 

When the Senate chose to remand the case back to the House, it did not merely stall justice — it spat on the legacy of Bonifacio, whose blood soaked the soil for the right to self-governance, and of Apolinario Mabini, who, despite paralysis and poverty, built the intellectual backbone of the first Philippine Republic.

We were promised a republic. What we have is an oligarchy in patriotic clothing.
Independence was never gifted to us by the Treaty of Paris—it was clawed from centuries of silence and subjugation. Yet from American occupation to Japanese wartime brutality, from the puppet Commonwealth to the belated July 4, 1946 handover, we’ve been fed the lie that freedom can be granted, postponed, or redefined by those in power. Today, that lie lives on—when legislators defy the Constitution and sabotage the rule of law in broad daylight.

If June 12 is meant to commemorate the birth of a nation, what do we make of a Senate that refuses to uphold the Constitution? What do we call elected officials who treat the law not as a duty, but a convenience? What kind of independence survives this kind of betrayal?
The impeachment court’s inaction is a symptom of a deeper sickness: that sovereignty is no longer safeguarded by the people’s will but brokered in closed-door negotiations between dynasties. It sends a message that the law can be stalled or ignored, so long as the accused bears the right last name.

And this case is just a crack in a much wider collapse. While the Senate hides behind procedures to shield the powerful, over two million Filipinos remain jobless and not a single peso has been added to the minimum wage. For the ninth straight year, the Philippines ranks among the worst countries in the world for workers.

In protecting the few, the state has abandoned the many. We are not a nation at war, but we are bleeding from wounds our leaders refuse to treat.

So as the country raises its flags this Independence Day, let it also raise its questions: how much longer must we wait for an independence that is not ceremonial but lived? When will we break free from cowards in power who fear truth more than tyranny?
True independence is not found in an anthem or a holiday. It is forged through courage, protected by justice, and practiced through accountability. Until the Philippines confronts its own failure to uphold these, the promise of 1898 independence will remain suspended in history.

This Independence Day, may the silence of the Senate be answered by the noise of a people who remember what our ancestors died for. We must demand accountability, organize in our communities, and hold the line against impunity. Because if our ancestors died fighting for a republic that serves the many, then the least we can do is rise for the future they imagined. Let this government be reminded: it answers not to dynasties, not to impunity—but to us.