By Renee Karunungan-Edwards
I vividly remember the morning I received my first death and rape threats from Duterte supporters back in 2016. It was a weekend. The day before, I had written a Facebook post criticizing Rodrigo Duterte while waiting for my laundry at the neighbourhood laundromat. The next morning, as I made my usual green tea and oatmeal, I opened Facebook—and the floodgates of hell opened with it.
Thousands of messages flooded my inbox, most of whom were Duterte supporters, attacking me in various ways. They ranged from petty insults, calling me fat, ugly, and stupid, to chilling threats against my life and my family. My heart raced as I opened each message, unsure what I needed to do next and if I would take the threats seriously. I knew many were emboldened by the anonymity of the Internet, hiding behind their screens and believing themselves untouchable. But the truth is, they weren’t. Actions have consequences.
At the time, I lived alone in the Philippines. Alarmed, I informed my colleagues and reported the threats to the police who initially said they could do nothing. So, as a precaution – just in case the threats came to reality – I posted the threats publicly. That decision led Filipino human rights groups and lawyers to reach out, helping me file charges against 22 individuals under the country’s Cybercrime Law and the Omnibus Election Code.
That was nine years ago. Since then, subpoenas have been sent, hearings scheduled, and the case drags on. In those years, I moved to the UK, pursued a PhD, and turned my experience into research on incivility, intolerance, and hate speech on Facebook during the Duterte regime.
Online hate speech is alive and well in the UK too as shown by the racist riots that took place across the country in the summer of 2024. However, justice was swift – within weeks, offenders were charged and convicted for stirring up hatred on social media, with one sentenced to 38 months.
Social media has become a battlefield for political discourse, a war zone of morality and ideology where only those with the thickest skin can survive. Nowhere is this more evident than on Facebook, the primary platform for political warfare in the Philippines. My research found that pro-Duterte influencers dominated this space, using posts laced with incitements to violence, hate speech, and extreme intolerance. Here, threats to kill are as casually tossed around as memes and stickers.
Facebook is a place where civility, once the foundation of respectful political discourse, has become scarce. By civility, I do not mean the absence of anger or strong language, but rather the presence of respect: a willingness to engage in disagreement without resorting to dehumanisation. On Facebook, that principle has all but vanished.
Now, with Duterte’s arrest by the ICC, his supporters are back, spewing hatred not just at those who welcome his detention, but even at families of drug war victims. What lessons have we learned? Apparently none.
Once shocking, hate speech – or attacks and threats against individuals and groups — has become mundane. Death threats are now just another comment on a thread. This is the legacy of Duterte’s rhetoric, where glorifying violence was standard practice, extrajudicial killings were normalised and public discourse followed suit. My research confirmed that among pro-Duterte influencers, posts containing hate speech had the highest average engagement. The more violent the message, the more viral it became.
It is disturbing that this comes from a country deeply rooted in religious traditions. How does a supposedly devout nation support a leader who openly admitted to murder? Perhaps the answer lies in a culture steeped in patriarchy, machismo, and blind obedience. In a system that rewards silence and punishes dissent, the strongman thrives — while those who challenge him are seen as threats, not just to power, but to tradition itself.
Is it still possible to engage in political discourse online without being attacked? Occasionally, I’ve encountered Duterte supporters who debate respectfully. But when emotions run high, civility crumbles. However, incivility starts to happen when things heat up and emotions get high. And it’s not unusual. Emotions play a huge role in political discourse. We cannot detach our politics from our values — it is personal.
Yet incivility, as I explored in my research, is not always bad. It can be productive, even necessary, in democratic spaces. Disruption can highlight inequality and injustice. But intolerance and hate are different. When disagreement turns into dehumanisation, democracy begins to erode. Intolerance silences, isolates, and excludes. Hate incites real-world harm. These are not just online issues; they have real-life consequences.
Where do we go from here? Clearly, threatening lives cannot become casual, throwaway remarks. I doubt these people would walk up to someone in the street and say the things they say online. But the Internet’s anonymity strips away accountability, making it both powerful and dangerous.
There are lessons to be learned — and initiatives, including my own research, that aim to tackle online hate speech. But Facebook has failed miserably at moderating this space. Their interventions, when they do come, are too little, too late.
Beyond policy changes, what we genuinely need is cultural change. We need to recognise that participating in democracy comes with responsibility. That dissent is not a crime. That anger can be valid, but it must not turn into hate.
To those who continue to weaponise social media for political gain: What you post has power. And that power can either heal—or destroy.
In the end, the fight is not just for the truth. It is for our humanity. If we cannot engage politically without tearing each other apart, then we are not just losing arguments — we are losing democracy itself.
About the author
Dr. Renee Karunungan has a PhD in Political Communication from Loughborough University. She currently works as a communications specialist for charities and think tanks across the UK and EU.
