In a quiet Manila neighborhood, nestled between crumbling tenements and bustling street vendors, lived a man named Ramon. He had once been a police officer, patrolling these streets during Rodrigo Duterte’s infamous war on drugs. In those days, Ramon believed in justice — swift, uncompromising, and absolute. Justice was virtue, and evil was sin. That belief had once made him a hero.
But after years of Duterte’s bloody campaign, Ramon had seen too much. The lines between justice and evil had blurred. His orders were simple: “Eliminate the problem.” Yet the “problem” often turned out to be scared teenagers cornered in alleys, desperate mothers caught with a few sachets of shabu, or even innocent bystanders mistaken for drug dealers. Each time he pulled the trigger, Ramon told himself he was enforcing justice.
The day Duterte was arrested, the news crackled over an old radio in Ramon’s living room. The broadcaster’s voice was sharp with triumph — “Finally! The Punisher brought to justice!” The world cheered, but Ramon felt nothing. He knew that the man now on a plane to The Hague had once been a symbol of strength to people like him — men desperate to believe they were fixing a broken country.
That night, Ramon visited a small chapel down the street. He lit a candle — not for Duterte, but for the faces that haunted him. Faces of the young boy who had clutched a rosary in his pocket, the woman who had begged for one more chance, the old man who died in a case of mistaken identity. Ramon had believed in justice, yet his actions had felt far from virtuous.
As he knelt in prayer, an old woman approached him. She recognized him — not as a killer, but as the officer who once arrested her grandson. That boy had survived, but his life had been shattered.
“You did what you thought was right,” she said softly. “But right and wrong — they’re never so simple, are they?”
Ramon shook his head. “I thought justice was always good,” he whispered. “But I see now… justice can be cruel. And sometimes even evil men believe they’re doing good.”
The old woman smiled faintly. “If justice has sin, and evil has virtue… maybe that’s where mercy begins.”
Ramon felt tears prick his eyes. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a monster or a hero — just a man trying to carry his regrets. The war on drugs had painted the world in black and white, but now Ramon saw it for what it was — endless shades of gray.
The next day, Ramon visited a family he’d wronged years ago. He didn’t expect forgiveness, only a chance to say, I’m sorry. Because sometimes, the only way to overcome despair is to stop pretending you were ever righteous to begin with.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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