The real issue behind the CJ debate
COMMENT | Yesterday, former Federal Court judge Suriyadi Halim Omar added his voice to the growing list of elite defenders of Chief Justice Tengku Maimun Tuan Mat following her speech in Malta.
His words were kind, his tone reassuring, and his praise for her integrity sincere.
But with due respect, we must ask: when did this debate become about character, rather than the Constitution?
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The Star
2 hours ago
- The Star
The rise and fall of Joseph Estrada: From people's champion to disgraced Philippine president
MANILA: Joseph Ejercito Estrada's journey to the presidency began with fanfare, but it would end in ignominy, toppled not by a coup but by the very institutions he once promised to uphold. He was swept into office in 1998 as the people's champion, a former movie star whose promise of 'Erap para sa Mahirap' lit up the hopes of millions who had long been shut out of power. But in less than three years, the same man would stand trial for betrayal. The presidency that began in triumph unraveled in a storm of scandal: damning exposés, a bombshell whistleblower, and a seven-minute congressional move that shattered his mandate. Yet it was the Senate's refusal to open one sealed envelope — the so-called 'second envelope'— that lit the spark. What followed was fury: a walkout, a nation erupting in protest, and a second EDSA uprising that would end his rule not with a verdict in court, but with a people's judgment in the streets. The making of a president, and the beginning of his undoing On June 30, 1998, in the historic Barasoain Church in Malolos, Bulacan, a beloved film actor took his oath of office as the 13th president of the Republic of the Philippines. As mandated by the Constitution, the ceremony was held at exactly at noon, but the symbolism of the venue made it more than a formality. It was the first time in the post-war era that a Philippine president was inaugurated outside Manila, and the choice of Barasoain, a cradle of the First Philippine Republic, was a calculated tribute to nationalist pride and populist appeal. The formal inaugural rites, however, unfolded shortly after at the Quirino Grandstand in Manila, where tens of thousands gathered under the sweltering sun to witness Joseph 'Erap' Ejercito Estrada deliver his first address as president. For his supporters, it was the moment their 'Erap para sa Mahirap' had arrived. Estrada, who had risen from the mayoralty of San Juan to the Senate, then to the vice presidency under Fidel V. Ramos, had just won the presidency by a landslide, securing over 10.7 million votes—the largest margin in a presidential race at the time. His opponent, Speaker Jose de Venecia Jr, stood little chance against Erap's massive popularity, forged by his decades-long film career playing roles that endeared him to the masses: the underdog, the tough-but-kind brawler, the voice of the poor. His nickname, 'Erap,' was more than a moniker; it was a brand. It came from the Filipino word 'pare' (meaning buddy), spelled backward. The name, given to him by fellow actor Fernando Poe Jr, stuck, and eventually became synonymous with the image of a down-to-earth everyman who could talk, drink, and laugh like one of the boys. It was this image that Estrada carried into the presidency. Estrada's campaign vehicle, fittingly branded JEEP—Justice, Economy, Environment, and Peace — carried not just a slogan but a promise of inclusive leadership. He would bring the presidency closer to the people. That, at least, was the vision. In his inaugural speech, he sounded the alarm on corruption and favouritism, vowing not to tolerate abuse under his watch: 'I'm warning them. No friends, no godfathers, no relatives, or children will be allowed to take advantage. And as early as now, I'm telling you, you're just wasting your time. Don't test me." He ended with a rousing call to collective effort and Filipino solidarity: 'Let us remember, my beloved countrymen: no one will help Filipinos but fellow Filipinos." For the millions who celebrated his ascent, it was a moment filled with pride, hope, and vindication. Their 'Erap' had triumphed. Not the elite's candidate, but one of their own. But history would not grant him the six years he was elected to serve. In less than three years, the same populist presidency that started with fanfare would unravel under the weight of corruption allegations, mass resignations, and a dramatic impeachment trial watched live by a nation on edge. But before the collapse came the cracks. Behind Malacanang's gates, stories of midnight drinking sessions, poker nights with cronies, and a revolving door of political favor-seekers began to seep into public consciousness. Estrada's critics—once scattered voices—grew louder, alleging that the president was treating the highest office of the land like a backroom bar in one of his old movies. And then came the reports. First in whispers. Then in headlines. Then, in numbers: property titles, unexplained wealth, and shell corporations, published by investigative journalists who traced the shadows of power back to the palace itself. The honeymoon was over. When the cracks began to show At first, the stories were whispered, shared in passing by aides, and repeated with unease by insiders. Meetings were missed. Memos went unread. Decisions, they said, were made not in the Palace boardroom but over dinner, drinks, and dice. By 2000, the image of Joseph Estrada as the people's president—the tough, lovable rogue from the movies—was beginning to fray. His administration, once buoyed by an overwhelming electoral mandate, started showing signs of fatigue, disorder, and excess. The charm was still there, but so were the consequences. Then came the first blow. In July that year, on the very day Estrada was set to deliver his second State of the Nation Address, the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism (PCIJ) released a damning expose. Titled 'The state of the President's finances: Can Estrada explain his wealth?', the report detailed how Estrada, his wife, and several of his acknowledged partners were tied to 66 companies, many of which were not declared in his official asset statements. These businesses, several formed during his years in public office, had a combined authorised capital of P893 million—a far cry from the P35.8 million net worth and P2.3 million annual income Estrada reported in 1999. The report raised difficult questions. How had a sitting president built such vast interests in real estate, entertainment, and food ventures? Why were high-value properties, like a P40-million mansion in Wack-Wack linked to his partners, registered under a known presidential crony—appearing in land records but missing from his official asset disclosures? Malacanang stayed silent. The lawyers promised answers that never came. Outside, the public began to talk louder. Five months later, the curtain lifted further. In December, The Washington Post published a vivid portrait of life inside Malacanang—one that read more like a script from one of Estrada's old movies. There, in the president's private salon, after the day's official duties had ended, the 'midnight cabinet' would begin. Political allies, businessmen, and old drinking buddies gathered well into the early morning. They played mah-jong with stakes reaching US$500,000, roughly P22.5 million at the time, and drank $1,000 bottles of Chateau Petrus. Between rounds, they spoke of promotions, contracts, and policies. What was said at night often became law by morning. 'It was out of control,' one former official recalled. 'He'd make the deals, and we'd be left to clean up.' Estrada, meanwhile, kept performing for the crowd. He still visited the provinces. He still ate with his hands before flashing cameras. He still handed out bills from his wallet to the poor. And for millions of Filipinos, especially in the countryside, it still worked. They saw in him not a president under siege, but a leader being hunted by the rich and powerful. 'They see genuineness and openness in him,' then-Finance Secretary Jose Pardo said in a 2000 interview. 'There's a cult of personality. He can do no wrong in their eyes.' Estrada leaned into the narrative. 'This is not just a battle between the rich and Erap,' he told supporters. 'This is a war between the rich and the poor, the poor whom I want to serve.' But by then, the spectacle had begun to turn. The cheers were quieter. The headlines are louder. The mood is heavier. What started as rumblings inside the Palace had grown into a full-blown national crisis—one being watched by an anxious public, uncertain but alert. And just beyond the spotlight, someone from within Estrada's own circle, someone he had once called a friend, was preparing to speak. The tipping point: Chavit's bombshell, a nation on edge By October 2000, the rumours swirling around the Palace had already reached a fever pitch. For months, the public had heard whispers of lavish lifestyles, late-night gambling sessions, and hidden wealth. Then, in one stunning move, Ilocos Sur Governor Luis 'Chavit' Singson stepped out of the shadows and dropped the hammer. At a nationally televised press conference on October 4, Singson, once a trusted friend of the President, accused Estrada of personally pocketing P400 million in jueteng protection money, funneled over nearly two years. The jueteng, an illegal numbers game deeply embedded in Philippine culture, had long been a source of under-the-table earnings for local operators and officials. But never before had a sitting president been named at the top of the chain. 'I personally handed to President Estrada P10 million every month,' Singson said in a written statement. The payments, he claimed, were made regularly between November 1998 and August 2000—right in the heart of Estrada's presidency. Then came the second punch. Singson said Estrada had also demanded a cut from his province's tobacco excise tax funds legally allocated to tobacco-producing regions under Republic Act No. 7171. The law was supposed to help farmers through infrastructure and livelihood programs. But Singson alleged that P130 million of Ilocos Sur's share had been diverted after Estrada made it a precondition for the release of the funds. 'I agreed to both, the role of collecting jueteng money and the precondition to the release of the funds, because I was desperate to make good our campaign promise to our people,' he said, adding that he initially trusted Estrada's vow to uplift the countryside. The revelations sent political shockwaves across the country. In the days that followed, the moral and political pressure intensified. Reports noted that Manila Archbishop Cardinal Jaime Sin, the most respected Catholic leader in the country, called for Estrada to step down 'for the good of the country,' confirming the gravity of the crisis. Sin went further, emphasising that Estrada had 'lost the moral ascendancy to govern.' The Diocese's announcement marked the first time since Estrada took office in 1998 that the Cardinal had publicly demanded his resignation. Estrada protested, saying he was being judged before due process had begun—an argument that resonated with some, but by then, much of the public had already made up its mind. On Oct 11, the opposition formally acted. House Minority Leader Sonny Belmonte filed the Articles of Impeachment, stating: 'It is my duty to inform the nation that we, in representation of the minority and the Filipino people, all the Filipino people, are set and hereby file a complaint for impeachment against the President of the Philippines.' Backing their charges with Singson's sworn testimony, 115 lawmakers signed on, well above the constitutional one-third threshold needed to move the case directly to the Senate. Despite nearly 28 months in office and mounting accusations, Estrada rejected the charges and cast himself as a misunderstood underdog—a lone warrior fighting against powerful enemies. 'This is just like the movies,' he reportedly said. 'In the movies, especially my movies, the good guy always gets beaten up and defeated, but he does not give up. He fights to the end and eventually wins.' Seven minutes that shattered the presidency On Nov 13, 2000, the House of Representatives convened for what looked like a routine session, but inside, the air hummed with tension. Speaker Manny Villar, who had distanced himself from Estrada's ruling coalition just days earlier, took a decisive step that would change the course of Philippine history. Awash in partisan murmurs and heated glances, he rose and announced that the impeachment complaint had already secured the 115 endorsements needed—enough to surpass the one-third requirement. Without calling for debate or a floor vote, he read the order instructing the Secretary General to immediately transmit the complaint to the Senate. The charges were sweeping: bribery, graft and corruption, betrayal of public trust, and culpable violation of the Constitution. Though the House had been abuzz with scandal for weeks, few expected the motion's formal transmission to move this quickly, let alone without warning. That declaration was swift, a mere seven minutes from opening prayer to gavel strike, but it cracked the very foundation of Estrada's presidency. News reports from that day describe an explosive reaction: the chamber erupted into chaos as pro-Estrada lawmakers banged tables, shouted accusations of foul play, and called the move 'railroading'. According to a report by The Taipei Times, allies of the President howled that the usual procedures, such as roll call and quorum checks, had been skipped. But Villar, impassive, struck the gavel and ended the session before objections could take hold. In the gallery above, the response was explosive. Civil society groups and ordinary citizens who had packed the session hall rose to their feet, chanting 'Erap resign!' and singing Bayan Ko. On the floor, opposition lawmakers embraced one another. Many rushed to Villar, visibly emotional, grateful that the constitutional process had not only held but prevailed. Estrada's allies later questioned the legality of the move. Yet the Constitution left little room for interpretation: once an impeachment complaint garners at least one-third of House signatures, it is deemed automatically transmitted. No floor vote, no further debate required. And so, history was made. Joseph Ejercito Estrada became the first sitting president of the Philippines to be impeached. In a region more accustomed to coups and uprisings than rule-of-law transitions, the Philippines sent a different message: democracy, however fragile, was working. And the entire country was watching—on live television, in jeepney radios, through office whispers and market murmurs. It wasn't just law; it was theater, revolution, reckoning—all unfolding in real time. The impeachment trial begins On Dec 7, 2000, history unfolded inside the Senate of the Philippines. For the first time since the country's return to democracy in 1986, a sitting president stood trial under the full force of the Constitution. Chief Justice Hilario G. Davide Jr presided over the proceedings. In front of him, 21 senators raised their right hands and took an oath as judges. The charges were serious: bribery, graft and corruption, betrayal of public trust, and culpable violation of the Constitution. Estrada would be removed from office if 15 senators, two-thirds of the full Senate, voted to convict. Each day began with prayer and oath, but there was little calm in the chamber. TV cameras rolled continuously, and every legal maneuver was broadcast into homes and public markets across the country. For millions of Filipinos, it was not just politics—it was personal. Witnesses testified, documents were examined, and tensions mounted. Then, just before Christmas, the prosecution dropped a bombshell. 'I was just a foot away from President Estrada when he signed the name 'Jose Velarde,'' testified Clarissa Ocampo, senior vice president of Equitable PCI Bank. She said she personally brought the documents to Malacañang on Feb 4, 1999, and watched in disbelief as Estrada affixed the alias to a P500 million investment agreement. Her testimony directly linked Estrada to a bank account long suspected of being used to conceal undeclared wealth. It was a turning point in the trial, raising the stakes and setting the stage for the controversy that would erupt with the so-called second envelope. The envelope that broke the presidency The nation was on edge. The trial had gripped the public imagination, with every hearing dissected on street corners, in classrooms, and newsrooms. As the proceedings dragged into January 2001, anticipation was no longer simmering—it was crackling. All eyes were now on the Senate, waiting for the next move in a drama that had ceased to be just political and had become deeply personal to millions of Filipinos. The Senate chamber was tense, but still. On January 16, 2001, all 21 senators sat poised like jurors. Civil society leaders, media, and concerned citizens packed the gallery, the air taut with expectation. Davide presided from the rostrum. Before him lay the now-infamous second envelope—sealed, unexamined, but politically radioactive. It was said to contain bank documents linking President Joseph Estrada to the alias Jose Velarde — a name that had surfaced repeatedly in testimony alleging money laundering and hidden wealth. Prosecutors from the House of Representatives had fought to unseal the envelope, arguing it held bank records proving Estrada amassed $63.5 million in undeclared income from bribes and kickbacks since taking office in 1998. To the prosecution and much of the public, this envelope wasn't just another document. It was the linchpin. Without it, the most damning financial trail would remain sealed—and justice, they feared, denied. When it came time to vote on whether to open the envelope, Senate President Aquilino 'Nene' Pimentel Jr was the first to break the silence after casting his vote: 'I vote to open the second envelope. I vote to do so because that is the only way to determine whether or not the contents… are relevant or material to the case. Because of this development, Mr Chief Justice, I realise that the no's have it and therefore I resign my presidency of the Senate as soon as my successor is elected.' He resigned even before the formal tally, sending shockwaves through the chamber. 'Para sa mga kabataan na susunod sa atin,' Pimentel would later tell reporters: 'For the youth who will follow us.' Then came the count. Eleven senators voted not to open the envelope: Tessie Aquino-Oreta Nikki Coseteng Miriam Defensor Santiago Juan Ponce Enrile Gringo Honasan Robert Jaworski Blas Ople John Henry Osmeña Ramon Revilla Sr. Tito Sotto Francisco Tatad Only 10 voted to open it, one short of the simple majority needed. The reaction inside the Senate was immediate and emotional. According to a Washington Post report, anti-Estrada senators were seen weeping, while chants of 'Conscience! Conscience!' erupted from the public gallery. The vote, many believed, all but signaled Estrada's acquittal. In protest, the House prosecution panel walked out—a rare and dramatic act in Philippine political history. They left the Senate chambers in silence, condemning what they saw as the stonewalling of truth. Only after the walkout did Senator Franklin Drilon approach the Senate President. He embraced Pimentel firmly. Behind him followed Belmonte, Rep. Joker Arroyo, and other key prosecutors. Later, in a separate press briefing, Pimentel said: 'I think the people who are supporting President Estrada have caused damage that cannot be repaired to this institution that I love as a senator, and therefore, I cannot continue leading such a damaged institution.' 'I do this so that our people, especially the younger ones coming after us, will have some hope that there are still public officials who are willing to stand by what is right and good, what is moral and just, for the good of all,' he added. Senator Loren Legarda, who had voted to open the envelope, was seen wiping away tears. Across the chamber, others clapped, not in celebration, but in quiet recognition of conscience. In contrast, Oreta was caught on live television laughing, dancing, and taunting the crowd in the Senate gallery after being jeered alongside fellow pro-Estrada senators. The moment went viral. For many watching, it felt like mockery. The trial breaks, the people rise That same night, the House prosecution panel made a stunning announcement. In a hastily called press conference, they declared their collective resignation from the impeachment trial. They would no longer appear before the Senate. They would no longer present witnesses. 'In other words,' one panel member said, 'the impeachment trial will proceed without prosecutors, both public and private.' It was more than just a legal withdrawal—it was a moral protest. A clear signal that the panel no longer believed the process could yield justice. Arroyo minced no words. He called the Senate's vote 'a shameless vote of acquittal,' accusing the 11 senators who blocked the opening of the envelope of being 'in the pocket of the president.' Belmonte called the decision 'devastating,' a blow to transparency and accountability. Meanwhile, Estrada, through a statement read on his behalf, struck a more tempered tone: 'Just like in any important trial… you win some, you lose some.' He urged Filipinos to 'pray for unity and guidance' and appealed for sobriety in the face of growing unrest. To many observers, the vote was widely seen as a reprieve for Estrada. The second envelope, though never opened, became a potent symbol to critics of how political allegiances could override the pursuit of truth and accountability. Over the course of 23 days—from Dec 7, 2000 to Jan 16, 2001—the Senate trial of President Estrada played out like a national reckoning in real time. Inside the Senate, frustration gave way to grief. Outside, anger turned into movement. That same night, Filipinos began converging at the EDSA Shrine. Students, religious groups, professionals, and ordinary citizens joined hands in protest, reigniting the spirit of People Power. What began in despair was now a determined push to remove a president many no longer believed had the moral right to govern. The second envelope was never opened during the Senate trial. But its contents, unseen and unread, shook the nation. It brought down the gavels in the Senate and raised fists in the streets. - Philippine Daily Inquirer/ANN (Next: From EDSA Dos to Estrada's ouster—and the political resurrection that followed.)
The Star
7 hours ago
- The Star
Anwar granted temporary stay in civil lawsuit
PUTRAJAYA: The Court of Appeal has allowed an application by Prime Minister Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim to temporarily stay the hearing of a civil lawsuit filed by his former research assistant Muhammed Yusoff Rawther over allegations of sexual assault. In a unanimous decision, a three-judge panel chaired by Justice Supang Lian said the appellate court was empowered under Section 44 of the Courts of Judicature Act 1964 to make an ad interim order to preserve the integrity of the appellant's stay application pending the disposal of his appeal against the High Court's decision. The High Court had dismissed Anwar's application to refer eight legal questions to the Federal Court. 'Accordingly, we hereby make an ad interim order to stay all proceedings, including the full trial at the High Court,' Justice Supang said in an online proceeding here yesterday. The hearing of the main lawsuit by Muhammed Yusoff was initially fixed to begin next Monday. Other judges on the bench were Justices Faizah Jamaludin and Ahmad Fairuz Zainol Abidin. Earlier, the panel heard from Anwar's counsel, Alan Wong, that if the full trial proceeds, the effects would be 'irreversible'. 'The constitutional issues raised (in the application) would have been overtaken by events,' he said. Wong submitted that as the appellant was a sitting prime minister, he would be required to divert his attention and resources from the government's business to attend to the trial, causing disruption to his government function. 'To assist the court in appreciating the scale of this disruption, I have instructions to tender a copy of the Prime Minister's schedule during the trial period,' he said, requesting that the document be received under seal. Lawyer Muhammad Rafique Rashid Ali, who represented Muhammed Yusoff, however, objected on the grounds that any introduction of material should have been done in an affidavit form. Muhammad Rafique also submitted that the trial dates, which should begin on June 16, were fixed a year ago on June 6, 2024, and this meant the appellant had 'very well known' he was due in court. 'The trial is supposed to commence next week. He (Anwar) had more than enough time to prepare for this trial, knowing fully well that everyone has to submit to the court system.' Muhammad Rafique also submitted that the court should consider whether the appeal has any chance or prospect of success. 'Simply put, the appeal is doomed to fail. 'There are no special circumstances (to warrant the stay),' he said, adding that the trial must proceed. On the application to insert the Prime Minister's schedule, the panel said it took judicial notice of the matter. 'We take judicial notice that the Prime Minister is busy and has a full schedule on any day. Therefore, there is no necessity to tender the schedule as proposed,' Justice Supang said. On June 4, High Court judge Justice Roz Mawar dismissed Anwar's application on the grounds that the eight questions failed to meet the threshold for referral under the Federal Constitution and the Courts of Judicature Act. The questions include whether a sitting prime minister enjoys limited immunity from lawsuits involving allegations of personal conduct that occurred before his appointment under Articles 39, 40 and 43 of the Federal Constitution. Anwar's application was in relation to a lawsuit filed by Muhammed Yusoff on July 14, 2021, claiming he was sexually assaulted in 2018. Anwar, in his defence, contended that the plaintiff had lied under oath to authorities regarding the alleged sexual assault. Anwar then filed a counterclaim on Sept 28, 2021, alleging that Muhammed Yusoff had fabricated it to tarnish his political career and prevent him from becoming prime minister. The hearing for a full stay application has been fixed for July 21.
The Star
11 hours ago
- The Star
Bolsonaro denies orchestrating Brazil coup in Supreme Court testimony
Former Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro attends Brazil's Supreme Court trial over an alleged coup attempt, in Brasilia, Brazil June 9, 2025. REUTERS/Diego Herculano BRASILIA (Reuters) -Former Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro denied that he led an attempt to overthrow the government after losing the 2022 election during his trial before the country's Supreme Court on Tuesday, but acknowledged taking part in meetings aimed at reversing the outcome. Bolsonaro said he and senior aides discussed alternatives to accepting the electoral results, including the possibility of deploying military forces and suspending some civil liberties, but he said those proposals were soon dropped. "The feeling was that there was nothing else we could do. We had to swallow the election results," the ex-president said. "I never acted against the Constitution," Bolsonaro added, holding a copy of the country's 1988 charter that re-established democracy after two decades of military rule. In March, the Supreme Court agreed to hear the case against Bolsonaroand sevenother people, including several military officers, who were charged with plotting a coup to stop Luiz Inacio Lula da Silvafrom taking office in January 2023. The charges stem from a two-year police investigation into the election-denying movement that culminated in riots by Bolsonaro supporters in the capital in early 2023, a week after Lula took office. Bolsonaro, who was the sixth defendant to testify in the case, spent several minutes of his two hours of testimony defending his administration's achievements and his criticism of the country's electoral system. Dozens of witnesses were previously heard by the court, an indication that the case is moving swiftly and could be concluded by the end of the year, avoiding overlap with campaigning for the 2026 presidential election. Bolsonaro has insisted he will run in that campaign, despite an electoral court decision barring him from seeking public office until 2030. On Monday, Bolsonaro attended the trial to watch testimony from Mauro Cid, his former aide turned whistleblower, and then shook his hand. Cid told the court that the former president reviewed a draft decree that was central to the coup plot and made changes, while keeping a section that ordered the arrest of Supreme Court Justice Alexandre de Moraes, who is now overseeing the case against Bolsonaro and his allies. On Tuesday, the former president said he only briefly saw the draft decree and never edited it. He also apologized for making unfounded corruption allegations about Supreme Court justices. "Forgive me," he told Moraes. A final ruling on Bolsonaro's case is expected by October. (Reporting by Ricardo BritoWriting by Manuela Andreoni; Editing by Brad Haynes and Bill Berkrot)
