Locked up and voted in by Mary Long

It’s a scene that would make even Franz Kafka sigh, Rodrigo Duterte, the former president of the Philippines and a man currently incarcerated by the International Criminal Court in The Hague for alleged crimes against humanity, just won another election. That’s right, while waiting to face charges over his bloody “war on drugs,” Duterte has been elected mayor of his beloved hometown, Davao City, in a landslide. He didn't just win; he buried the competition six feet under, metaphorically speaking. One hopes only metaphorically.

Now, say what you will about Duterte (and many have, from tyrant to savior, from butcher to bastion), but his political resurrection while imprisoned is less a story about the man himself, and more an unfiltered X-ray of the fractured Philippine body politic. The real story isn't the ex-strongman running from a jail cell; it's the voters running back into his arms.

Only in a democracy with a short institutional memory and a tolerance for trauma does a man accused of unleashing death squads, encouraging extrajudicial killings, and publicly boasting of shooting people… become re-electable. And not just electable, irresistible. Duterte didn’t sneak through a crack in the ballot. He surfed a crimson wave.

And why not? He’s playing his greatest hits: "law and order," "strong leadership," "drugs are evil," and the ever-reliable “I did it for the people.” For many in Davao, these are not stains on his record, they are badges of honor. The very things that earned him a cage in The Hague earned him a chair back in Davao.

In short: the man who made a mockery of human rights is now a living monument to political immunity.

But don’t let Davao fool you into thinking this is a local quirk, a fringe affection like deep-fried balut. What we’re seeing is the slow, painful decomposition of civic accountability. If impunity had a flag, it would fly over Davao today.

This isn’t just about Duterte. This is about a political culture that romanticizes authoritarianism, confuses fear with respect, and sees justice as a nuisance best buried under a halo of nostalgia.

The Philippines isn't alone in this malaise. History is full of leaders who broke laws only to be embraced later by the very people they harmed or those conveniently unaffected. But few places swing so wildly between democracy and despotism with such karaoke-level enthusiasm.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the sheer absurdity of this situation. A man is behind bars in Europe facing accusations of mass murder and simultaneously sworn in (albeit symbolically) as mayor back home, with proud fist bumps and campaign posters still clinging to coconut trees.

It’s not just irony. It’s Irony Olympics. And the Philippines just stuck a perfect 10 landing.

Some argue this is democracy in action, the will of the people, expressed through the ballot box. But when the will of the people endorses a man facing charges for crimes against humanity, democracy begins to look more like theater. And in this play, the chorus cheers while the villain takes another bow.

That’s the uncomfortable question. Duterte’s electoral win says little new about him, he remains as brazen, divisive, and resilient as ever. But it says everything about the electorate. About how trauma becomes tradition. About how leadership by fear can linger long after the fear fades. And about how in a country where justice limps, charisma in handcuffs still wins votes.

We can laugh at the absurdity and we must, because wit is the last refuge of the sane but let’s not pretend this is harmless. Every vote for Duterte, even from a jail cell, chips away at the idea that justice matters. That leadership should come with consequences. That memory is worth more than myth.

Duterte, the caged candidate, is a symbol. Not just of political endurance, but of a system so used to betrayal it now hugs its betrayers like prodigal sons.

Duterte may yet face trial. He may never walk the streets of Davao freely again. But does it matter? In a world where narrative is king, he’s already rewritten his own. Not as a fugitive, but as a martyr. Not as a criminal, but as a comeback kid. All from a cell with better plumbing than most of Davao. And the people? They cheer.

In the end, perhaps Duterte’s greatest legacy is not his war on drugs, but his demonstration of how weak the walls of justice can be when built on the shifting sands of nostalgia, fear, and a very selective memory.

Or maybe we’ve misunderstood the whole thing. Maybe Duterte’s running for mayor was just another punchline in a dark comedy that refuses to end.