Introduction
Summary of the book Some People Need Killing by Patricia Evangelista. Before moving forward, let’s briefly explore the core idea of the book. Imagine a place where darkness creeps quietly into crowded alleys and hidden corners, where fear rides on every whisper of suspicion. This is not a distant legend—it is the backdrop of a brutal campaign waged in the Philippines not so long ago. In those tense years, a president rose to power promising to eradicate drug criminals by any means necessary. Instead of careful justice or fair trials, the streets witnessed countless killings, and families were left holding the weight of unimaginable grief. This story is more than just a recounting of brutal events; it is an exploration of how words, promises, and deceptions paved the way for systematic violence. As you turn these pages, you will find no easy conclusions, only unsettling questions: How can leaders turn ordinary citizens into targets? Why do so many accept bloodshed as a solution? And can truth ever conquer such carefully crafted cruelty?
Chapter 1: The Terrifying Unveiling of a Ruthless Presidential Pledge That Changed a Nation.
In mid-2016, a new leader rose to power in the Philippines, and with him came a shockingly blunt promise that would alter the country’s destiny. This leader, Rodrigo Duterte, stood before cheering crowds and delivered words that rattled both his supporters and his critics. He did not speak of complex economic solutions or subtle policy reforms. Instead, he presented a sweeping claim: the nation’s poverty, crime, and despair were rooted in a single, poisonous source—the widespread problem of illegal drugs. According to Duterte, these drugs were turning neighbors into enemies and friends into ferocious predators. Beneath the surface of his speeches, there lurked a grim promise: to cleanse the nation of its supposed drug-fueled madness. Ordinary citizens, frustrated and fearful, found comfort in his tough talk. Many had grown tired of political elites who seemed disconnected from their struggles. This new president promised not just action, but merciless, brutal action.
Rather than calmly suggesting measured steps, Duterte painted addicts and petty dealers as incurable monsters who preyed on the weak. He declared that these individuals were no longer human—heartless criminals who, under the influence of meth or other narcotics, would rob, rape, and murder without a second thought. In doing so, he stoked panic and outrage, fueling the idea that drastic measures were necessary. He openly encouraged citizens to kill drug users in their own communities, telling them that removing these monsters would be doing everyone a favor. To some ears, such words were beyond belief, the kind of talk that belonged in an underworld, not from a president’s lips. But for others, these threats offered something they had long desired: a fearless leader who would step in and restore order, no matter the cost. It was an unsettling promise that tapped into a deep well of frustration.
What made Duterte’s pledge even more disturbing was the way he presented it as both completely logical and morally correct. He belittled those who questioned the brutal approach, ridiculing human rights advocates as privileged outsiders who could not grasp the realities of life in poor, crime-ridden neighborhoods. For decades, traditional politicians had promised safer communities, yet the poorest citizens often felt abandoned by these empty words. Now, Duterte broke all polite rules and spoke bluntly about solving the drug crisis through raw violence. His supporters believed he was a different kind of leader—someone willing to roll up his sleeves and do the dirty work that so-called respectable leaders had avoided for years. In their eyes, he symbolized a chance for revenge against a system that had overlooked their pain and left them suffering in fear, poverty, and uncertainty.
As the final votes were tallied, Duterte soared into the presidency, buoyed by public anger and disillusionment. His unorthodox style, peppered with insults and profanity, was seen by some as refreshing honesty. He promised to personally solve the drug problem and even joked that funeral parlors would thrive during his term because of the rising number of dead drug suspects. This was no idle threat—once Duterte settled into office, the grim reality of his war on drugs swiftly took shape. Reports of extrajudicial killings, where suspected users or dealers were executed without trial, began to flow from poor urban neighborhoods. Many of those killed were barely surviving on meager earnings, struggling to feed their families. Yet in the eyes of the new administration, they were disposable. Thus began a bloody period in the Philippines, where the line between justice and raw violence all but vanished.
Chapter 2: Hidden Stories, Distorted Numbers, and the Sinister Fabrication of a National Enemy.
To justify such sweeping violence, Duterte’s administration relied heavily on alarming statistics. He spoke of millions of so-called drug-crazed Filipinos roaming the streets like an unstoppable army of fiends. He claimed their crimes stretched from theft and robbery all the way to sexual violence and murder. Yet even as he insisted on these terrifying numbers, international organizations and researchers struggled to find data that matched his claims. In reality, the Philippines’ drug problem, while serious, was not an out-of-control epidemic with millions of bloodthirsty addicts. Instead, official numbers showed drug use was at or below global averages. Most people who used drugs were occasional marijuana smokers, not unhinged meth addicts. By twisting the facts, Duterte built a story that made it easier for citizens to accept violence. After all, if these people were truly monstrous predators, who would dare argue against their elimination?
Duterte’s narrative also drew strength from a tragic, unverified tale he often shared. He claimed that as mayor of Davao City, he had once encountered a brutal crime committed by a drug addict—an act of horrific cruelty involving a child. According to Duterte’s account, this depraved criminal admitted enjoying unspeakable acts, suggesting addicts were worse than animals. Although the truth behind this story was never confirmed, the mere suggestion that drug users were capable of unimaginable evil served to stoke public fear. His supporters never seemed to question the authenticity of these claims. Many reasoned that even if the story lacked concrete proof, it felt emotionally true to them. It confirmed what Duterte had been telling the country all along: drug addiction was a plague that needed immediate and violent removal. Numbers, stories, and rumors swirled together, painting a picture more frightening than the reality.
International bodies and human rights groups attempted to present a more measured view. They cited studies showing that the number of drug users was nowhere near what Duterte insisted. Rather than millions of uncontrollable addicts, the Philippines had a smaller, more manageable population of drug users, often driven to substance use by poverty, lack of opportunities, and personal hardships. Yet these voices of reason were overshadowed by Duterte’s booming rhetoric. He repeated his exaggerated claims so often that some people began to accept them as facts. After all, if a president said it on national television, wasn’t it true? Many citizens, worn down by crime and corruption, found it easier to trust a strongman’s word than to dig through dry reports and global benchmarks. Duterte’s invented crisis was simpler, clearer, and more emotionally gripping than any cautious statistical analysis.
The result of these manipulations was that ordinary people increasingly viewed anyone touched by drugs as a legitimate target for lethal force. By labeling them as drugistas, Duterte turned a complex social issue into a neat category of enemies. This deadly label became a tool, a stamp placed on anyone who dared inhabit the lower rungs of society, anyone who struggled with addiction or whose neighbor whispered false accusations. Soon, frightened citizens did not question the killings. The logic seemed straightforward: If the president said these people were dangerous, then their deaths meant safer streets. But underneath it all lay the grim truth—these numbers and stories were not just exaggerations, they were tools used to justify a campaign of blood. With each claim, Duterte’s government chipped away at compassion, eroded empathy, and set the stage for a cold-blooded approach to human lives.
Chapter 3: A Deadly Knock at the Door and the Whispered Names on Secret Lists.
At the heart of Duterte’s war on drugs was a sinister tactic known as Tokhang, a combination of words meaning knock and plead. Supposedly, this approach aimed to give suspected drug users and small-time dealers a chance to surrender peacefully. Police would come knocking on doors, supposedly to encourage guilty parties to confess their wrongdoing and seek help. But in reality, these knocks often arrived at the dead of night and signaled something far more terrifying. Families huddled inside their cramped homes, terrified that the next sound after the knock would be gunfire. Instead of rehabilitation or support, many suspects found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun. It was not just police officers involved in these nighttime raids. Masked men with unknown affiliations also participated, leaving bullet-riddled bodies in dark alleys, half-hidden by sheets of plastic, and marked by crude cardboard signs.
For many families, the first time they heard their loved ones were on a list was when the police showed up at their door. These so-called watch lists, supposedly compiled from tips and intelligence, were filled with questionable information. A neighbor’s grudge or a desperate informant’s lie could place an innocent name next to the word drug pusher. In a country where courts moved slowly and lawyers were expensive, being placed on one of these secret lists felt like a death sentence. Those whose names appeared often found no opportunity to defend themselves. Police reports followed a predictable script: officers knocked, the suspect fired at them, officers returned fire, and the suspect ended up dead. Over and over, the same pattern emerged, leaving bodies behind and unanswered questions lingering in the heavy night air.
What made these tactics especially chilling was how easily they targeted the poor. Wealthy neighborhoods tended to remain untouched by these brutal sweeps. Instead, the police and vigilantes focused on cramped urban slums, where families lived in flimsy shelters and struggled to earn enough to eat. The official explanation was that the drug trade thrived in these neglected corners, but many saw it as a convenient way to wage a lethal campaign where few could afford lawyers or media attention. Victims were often young men who scraped by as laborers or vendors. Some might have smoked marijuana once in a while; others might have known a pusher down the street. But few were dangerous criminals controlling vast drug empires. Instead, they were ordinary Filipinos caught in a web of fear and suspicion.
As the body count rose, those who dared question these brutal raids faced intimidation and scorn from the highest levels of government. Officials echoed the president’s stance, insisting that the dead were criminals who had resisted arrest. They shrugged off the improbability that so many suspects would reach for guns the moment police arrived. Journalists who tried to investigate found themselves threatened, harassed, or accused of sympathizing with criminals. Meanwhile, communities were left scarred and confused, unsure where to turn. Trust in the police—traditionally shaky—eroded further. Families wept over coffins they could barely afford, and young children woke up to news that their fathers or older brothers had been liquidated. This was the reality behind the supposed pleas of Tokhang. It was not gentle persuasion, but a quiet march of death that slipped through locked doors and claimed lives without mercy.
Chapter 4: One Man’s Escape from Death’s Grip and the Shocking Evidence of Murder.
In a sea of victims who never got the chance to speak, one survivor’s story stands out like a faint candle in a suffocating darkness. His name was Efren, a young man with modest ambitions and a life defined by tough luck and sparse opportunities. He was not a wealthy tycoon, nor a powerful gang leader. He was, at worst, a small-time vendor who occasionally smoked pot. Yet on a hot day in August 2016, fate placed Efren in the path of police officers hungry for a so-called victory against drugs. He was visiting a friend who owed him a bit of money, spending a few hours playing pool and passing the time when the authorities burst through the gates. Without warning, Efren and other men were tied up, cursed at, and branded as drug pushers. No one was interested in hearing their side of the story.
As Efren kneeled in the dirt, he pleaded with the officers. He insisted he was not a dealer, that he had never sold meth, that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But his words fell on deaf ears. An officer aimed a gun at his chest and fired. The bullet tore through Efren’s body, and he collapsed in pain and terror. Moments later, he heard more shots and the screams of dying men. Then silence. In that silence, Efren played dead. Blood soaked into the ground as he tried to stay motionless, his mind racing with prayers and desperate calculations. Eventually, the killers left, confident that everyone in that courtyard was dead. Efren forced himself to stand, clutching his wound, and stumbled into the surrounding brush. He wandered for hours, fighting to remain conscious and searching for a hospital that might save him.
When Efren finally reached medical help, the nightmare did not end. The police were there, too, and instead of caring for a wounded witness, they handcuffed him to the hospital bed. He was charged with assault, as if he had fired at the officers. Doctors took hours before removing the bullet, and by the time Efren recovered enough to speak, the police had filed an official report. According to them, Efren and his companions were fearsome dealers who opened fire on the officers, forcing the lawmen to shoot in self-defense. This version of events was a perfect echo of countless other official statements. But this time, the police had not accounted for a living witness. Efren was a survivor who could challenge their story, and forensic evidence would eventually back him up. The men who died that day were shot execution-style while kneeling, their wrists tied behind their backs.
It took years for Efren’s ordeal to wind through the legal system. He faced more than just physical pain; he confronted a system that seemed built to bury the truth. Powerful forces wanted to maintain the illusion that every killing was justified. Witnesses were scared silent, and victims rarely had the resources to fight back. Yet Efren’s testimony and the undeniable proof of how the victims were killed exposed a chilling reality: police officers were not battling armed foes in fair gunfights. Instead, they were butchering unarmed men as if their lives meant nothing. It was not until 2023—after many battles in court, after endless delays and intimidating tactics—that Efren was acquitted and his truth recognized. His story cracked open the official narrative, offering a glimpse at the cruel machinery churning beneath the surface of the so-called war on drugs.
Chapter 5: Unmasking the Ruthless Machine That Turned Police into Brutal Executioners.
Efren’s survival and testimony suggested that police killings were not isolated incidents carried out by a few rogue officers. Instead, they revealed a system designed to enable and even encourage extrajudicial executions. The Philippine National Police, an institution meant to protect citizens, appeared to have become an instrument of terror. In impoverished neighborhoods, families whispered rumors that some officers were rewarded for every suspected drug user they took down. The process seemed almost mechanical: create a list of targets, conduct a late-night raid, issue a prewritten report claiming self-defense, and move on. Over time, these tactics produced a mountain of bodies and a grim silence on the streets. Fear replaced trust, and many Filipinos lost any hope that law enforcement would safeguard their rights. In this environment, truth and justice were luxuries most could not afford.
But how did this monstrous apparatus emerge so quickly and operate so smoothly? Observers pointed to a combination of Duterte’s relentless encouragement and a longstanding culture of impunity. During previous administrations, corruption within the police force had often gone unpunished. Now, with the president openly endorsing violence, some officers felt emboldened to cross every moral and legal line. The lack of thorough investigations into suspicious deaths confirmed their sense of immunity. When communities asked why poor suspects died so frequently in police encounters, they received only silence or scorn. Slowly, the line between lawful policing and outright murder blurred, leaving behind only the hollow claim that criminals were getting what they deserved.
The machinery of violence reached beyond official police forces. There were masked assassins who patrolled alleys at night, unaccountable and unknown. Some were rumored to be hired killers receiving official funds. Others might have been private enforcers acting with a wink and a nod from those in power. These secretive figures made it even harder to place blame or demand accountability. Who were they? Who paid them? Without clear answers, the population remained trapped in a cycle of fear and mistrust. Even those who avoided drugs entirely felt the weight of uncertainty. What if a false tip or a personal grudge placed their names on a secret list? In this climate, the justice system suffered, overshadowed by the steady drumbeat of gunfire.
Journalists and human rights defenders struggled to untangle the truth. Some risked their lives to document these killings, interviewing shell-shocked relatives and gathering bits of evidence left behind at crime scenes. International organizations condemned the bloodshed and called for investigations, but these voices faced open hostility from the Duterte administration. Officials accused them of meddling in domestic affairs and defended their tactics as necessary for public safety. Yet, as the death toll climbed into the thousands, it became clear that the violence had not solved the drug problem. Instead, it had multiplied suffering and left a terrifying precedent. If authorities could kill so many citizens with so little proof and face no consequences, what did it mean for the future of the nation’s democracy? This question lingered as more bloodstains appeared on quiet, darkened streets.
Chapter 6: Shattering the Illusion of a Cleansed Society through a Brutal Scandal’s Exposure.
For several months, the war on drugs continued largely unchecked. Philippine authorities spoke proudly of their accomplishments, and Duterte dismissed critics as weak or misguided. But eventually, a scandal erupted that even the president could not ignore. The case began when a group of police officers staged a fake drug bust to kidnap a foreign businessman named Jee Ick-Joo. After forcing his family to pay an enormous ransom, they killed him anyway. To cover their tracks, the officers destroyed his body and tried to erase all evidence. This gruesome episode involved not just a simple murder, but a betrayal of the very duties those officers had sworn to uphold. It was no longer possible to pretend that all the victims of Duterte’s campaign were hardened criminals. Now, a prominent case revealed that some officers were targeting innocents, driven by greed and guided by cruelty.
The news shattered any lingering illusion that the police were engaged in a righteous battle against evil. Now, the idea that all these killings were justified acts of heroism collapsed under the weight of this scandal. International headlines spread the horrifying details, and the victim’s family demanded answers. Diplomats, politicians, and citizens alike reacted with outrage. The Philippine Senate convened hearings, putting pressure on the police and the administration to explain how things had gone so far. Duterte, faced with undeniable evidence of police corruption and brutality, found himself cornered. He could not easily dismiss this case as another drug-related shootout. It showed that officers could operate with reckless impunity, harming anyone they chose, even those not involved in drugs. Suddenly, the world saw the cracks in Duterte’s grand narrative.
Under intense scrutiny, Duterte announced a pause in the war on drugs, claiming that the police would undergo an internal cleansing. This brief suspension was a rare acknowledgment that the system he had unleashed might be fatally flawed. For a moment, the killings slowed, and activists seized the opportunity to demand accountability. They asked for transparent investigations, prosecutions of rogue officers, and a shift away from lethal tactics. Some hoped this would be the turning point—a moment when the government realized that murder was not a legitimate public policy tool. Yet the silence was temporary, and the dark logic behind the killings was deeply rooted. As soon as the spotlight dimmed, the violence began again. But now, the war took a subtler shape, with more killings carried out by shadowy groups operating beyond official chains of command.
The scandal had forced the government to recalibrate, but it did not end the bloodshed. Instead, it introduced a new phase of denial and deflection. With the police’s reputation in tatters, the administration relied more on silent partners—mysterious vigilantes whose identities were impossible to confirm. Some observers believed this shift aimed to distance the government from the mounting death toll. If masked killers, rather than uniformed officers, pulled the triggers, it might be easier to shrug off accusations of state-sponsored murder. But these efforts only deepened suspicion. Citizens who had once believed Duterte’s claims about cleansing society began to wonder if they had been fooled. The killings continued, bodies kept turning up, and justice remained elusive. A scandal had exposed the rotting heart of the campaign, but the damage was done, and no magical reform swept through the ranks of those who carried guns and lists of names.
Chapter 7: The Silence of the Streets, the Struggle for Justice, and Ongoing Investigations.
By the end of Duterte’s presidency in 2022, the campaign had claimed countless lives—tens of thousands, according to some estimates. The official number wavered, but human rights groups insisted the true tally was far higher than what the government admitted. The promised solution to crime and poverty had never materialized. Instead, the poorest neighborhoods became even more fearful. Many widows and orphaned children continued to live in the same cramped communities, now haunted by the memory of loved ones taken in the night. They carried heavy burdens of grief and anger, knowing that those responsible might never see the inside of a courtroom. The silence that blanketed certain streets was not a sign of peace, but of terror. People lowered their voices, kept their doors locked, and learned not to trust strangers who asked too many questions.
Internationally, the outcry grew louder. Foreign governments, human rights advocates, and investigative journalists demanded to know how a modern nation could allow so many extrajudicial killings. The International Criminal Court (ICC) took interest, launching a preliminary examination to determine if crimes against humanity had been committed. This external pressure created a new uncertainty. If the Philippines cooperated, there might be some hope of accountability. But if it resisted, the issue might become a long and bitter struggle. Meanwhile, families of the victims, survivors like Efren, and activists continued their quiet but determined fight. They collected documents, testimonies, and photographs that painted a mosaic of suffering, hoping one day to present the truth before a court that would listen. Even if justice seemed distant, the very act of recording these stories kept alive the possibility of accountability.
Without the structure of a nationwide killing campaign openly championed by the president, the violence did not vanish entirely, but it faded into the background. The initial shock and public spectacle diminished. Instead of hearing bold declarations of a cleansing mission, people saw scattered reports of shootings that might or might not be linked to drugs. It became harder to draw a clear line between state-directed terror and ordinary criminal acts. Yet the legacy of fear lingered. Those who had once believed the propaganda felt disillusioned. Those who had lost family members wondered if they would ever know peace. The war on drugs had not solved the nation’s problems; it had only added fresh layers of trauma and distrust. With Duterte no longer in office, some dared to hope that a different path might be possible—a path guided by justice, empathy, and reason.
Now, as investigators from outside the country review evidence and attempt to piece together what happened, a new chapter in this story may be written. If indictments come, if trials occur, perhaps the world will see those who orchestrated these killings held accountable. Perhaps the victims’ names will finally be honored. The path to such an outcome is uncertain and fraught with resistance. The Philippine government, protective of its sovereignty, may refuse cooperation. Public opinion may remain divided, with some still convinced that monsters needed killing. Yet the seeds of doubt have been planted. The truth about these brutal years has emerged through survivors like Efren, through journalists who risked their safety to uncover hidden stories, and through international observers who refuse to look away. There is no easy resolution, only the hope that shining a light on the past can guide the country toward a more humane future.
All about the Book
Dive into Patricia Evangelista’s provocative narrative in ‘Some People Need Killing, ‘ exploring the shadows of human morality and justice in a gripping, thought-provoking read that challenges societal norms and awakens critical consciousness.
Patricia Evangelista is a renowned journalist and author, acclaimed for her powerful storytelling and deep exploration of social issues, enriching readers’ understanding of the complexities within the Philippine socio-political landscape.
Journalists, Social Workers, Criminal Justice Professionals, Human Rights Advocates, Psychologists
Reading about social justice, Engaging in critical discussions, Writing, Activism, Researching human psychology
Human Rights Violations, Crime and Punishment, Socio-economic Inequality, State Violence
In a world where injustice prevails, silence is complicity; to speak is to challenge the darkness.
Miriam Defensor Santiago, Aga Muhlach, Lualhati Bautista
National Book Award for Non-Fiction, Gawad Urian for Best Book, Philippine Free Press Award
1. What drives individuals to contemplate taking a life? #2. How do societal norms influence our understanding of justice? #3. What role does empathy play in facing violence? #4. How can trauma affect a person’s moral compass? #5. What factors shape our perceptions of good and evil? #6. How does personal experience inform our biases? #7. What are the consequences of a vengeful mindset? #8. How can storytelling foster deeper human connections? #9. What lessons can be learned from confronting brutality? #10. How do we navigate complex moral dilemmas in life? #11. What is the impact of systemic violence on communities? #12. How can understanding past traumas promote healing? #13. What responsibilities do we have towards vulnerable individuals? #14. How does fear influence decisions in dangerous situations? #15. What are the implications of labeling someone a monster? #16. How can we cultivate compassion amidst suffering? #17. What role does forgiveness play in emotional recovery? #18. How do we challenge our preconceptions about crime? #19. What insights can we gain from marginalized voices? #20. How can awareness of societal issues inspire action?
Some People Need Killing book, Patricia Evangelista author, Best crime books, Filipino literature, Thriller novels, Social commentary books, Literary fiction, Contemporary novels, Must-read books, Books about justice, Emotional storytelling, Books that challenge morality
https://www.amazon.com/Some-People-Need-Killing/dp/XXXXXX
https://audiofire.in/wp-content/uploads/covers/3871.png
https://www.youtube.com/@audiobooksfire
audiofireapplink