In a country where speaking out can get you labeled as a terrorist, who is truly being protected by the Anti-Terror Law?


On July 3, 2020, then-President Rodrigo Roa Duterte signed Republic Act No. 11479 into law. Marketed as a shield against violent extremism, the Anti-Terror Law instead became a weapon of state repression—its broad definitions and vague penal sections have ensnared activists, student groups, and Indigenous communities.

The effects are evident after five years.
In July 2024, multiple disaster relief organizations in the Philippines found their bank accounts frozen. These NGOs, several of which offer essential support to communities impacted by typhoons and armed conflict, were unexpectedly charged with connections to communist rebels, with no judicial proceedings, and no proof provided.

A mere statement from an official authority, authorized by the Anti-Terror Law, sufficed to label them as enemies of the state. This is not an individual occurrence—it represents the most recent instance in a five-year trend of increasing repression under the law's existence.

Once thriving catalysts for civic involvement, youth organizations today function under a veil of fear. Student councils and campus publications report being red-tagged—labeled as communist fronts for engaging in protest actions or holding forums on social issues.

The Anti-Terror Law's chilling impact goes further than just youth groups and activists. Reporters covering demonstrations, civic organizations pushing for changes, and regular individuals expressing opposition online have stated they have encountered monitoring, intimidation, or digital assaults. This climate of fear represents a type of repression that stifles civic participation, weakens press freedom, and leads to the shrinking of democratic spaces in the Philippines. 

The Philippines is one of the most dangerous countries in Southeast Asia—and Asia overall—for young human rights defenders, according to a 2023 assessment by Global Witness and Amnesty International, which documented deadly violence, enforced disappearances, persistent red-tagging, and state-sponsored online harassment. 

Beneath the headlines lies a deeper truth: many of those targeted are poor, indigenous, or rural youth, communities with little access to legal protection or media visibility. Organizations advocating for land rights, ancestral domains, or education are often reframed as threats, simply because they challenge systems of inequality. In this way, the Anti-Terror Law does not just target individuals—it targets the act of empowerment itself.

Meanwhile, Lumad schools—community-run institutions built by and for Indigenous peoples in Mindanao have become casualties in the state’s counterinsurgency campaign. Since 2016, more than 200 of these schools have been shut down or forcibly evacuated. Their educators and administrators, such as those in the Talaingod 18 case, have faced trumped-up charges of terrorism or rebellion. 

These schools were not combat zones; they were classrooms where children learned basic literacy, history, and indigenous culture. Their closure has displaced thousands of students and silenced a form of education rooted in self-determination.

At the core of these red-tagging efforts, which confuse criticism with subversion, is the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC), which was granted expanded power under the Anti-Terror Law. Its campaigns have normalized red-tagging, blurred the lines between criticism and terrorism, and built an environment where dissent is treated as a threat to national security. In doing so, the state is not only deploying repressive state apparatuses like the police and the military—it is also activating ideological ones: propaganda, false narratives, and fear-mongering that condition the public to equate activism with terrorism.

The issue lies not just in the law’s existence, but in its design. Under Section 29, the Anti-Terrorism Act grants authorities the power to detain individuals for up to 24 days—14 days initially, with a 10-day extension—without a warrant or formal charges. The Anti-Terrorism Council, an executive body made up of Cabinet officials, is empowered by Section 25 to label people or organizations terrorists based only on probable cause and without the need for judicial review. Section 4 of the law's definition of terrorism covers actions that only aim to pose "a serious risk to public safety,” a vague and subjective standard that has been repeatedly used to justify arrests, surveillance, and intimidation of critics.

Proponents of the law contend that stronger legal powers are necessary for national security, but this ignores a basic democratic principle: the right to dissent. This right is not a threat—it is a safeguard. Dissent is what allows people to call out corruption, demand accountability, and build a better future. Civic spaces aren’t threats; they are pressure valves for change. When a nation begins to fear its own citizens’ voices, that is not strength—that is suppression.

The Anti-Terrorism Act's broad provisions have led to concerning consequences. Rather than addressing genuine threats, the law has been used to dismantle indigenous education, silence communities, and disparage youth-led initiatives. To effectively counter terrorism, stronger institutions, transparent governance, and a legal system that distinguishes between advocacy and violence are essential.

As the Anti-Terror Law marks its fifth anniversary, legislators should immediately review its provisions. Reforms must guarantee due process, judicial oversight, and clear boundaries on what qualifies as terrorism. Schools, student organizations, and civil society groups should all be free to function without worrying about being branded as state opponents.

Security is essential—but only if it serves the people, not suppresses them.