THERE ARE places where the public expects certainty. A courthouse is one of them. It is where disputes are settled, rights are defended, and justice is dispensed in the name of the law. Yet in Iloilo, the very building that houses this solemn function — the Chief Justice Ramon Q. Avanceña Hall of Justice (Iloilo Hall of Justice) — is a troubling reminder of uncertainty.
Following the magnitude 4.8 earthquake on March 2, engineers reported that no new cracks had appeared in the decades-old structure. For now, the remaining courts inside the building continue to operate. On paper, that sounds reassuring. But how long can a building already marked by structural concerns be expected to endure?
The Iloilo Hall of Justice has lived with this problem for years. As far back as 2012, after a magnitude 5.7 earthquake, cracks in the structure raised serious concerns about its integrity. Judges, lawyers, and court personnel at the time already called for the construction of a new facility. Instead, the building was retrofitted. And a little over a decade later, it is again showing vulnerabilities of an aging structure in a country prone to earthquakes.
The situation has already forced the judiciary to scatter its operations. Several Regional Trial Courts now hold office at the New Castle Hotel, while others have moved to a nearby annex building. The Public Attorney’s Office and the Provincial Prosecutor’s Office have also relocated to the old provincial capitol. These adjustments may keep the wheels of justice turning, but they also reflect an uncomfortable truth: the system has been forced to improvise because its own house is no longer entirely trusted.
Justice should not have to function in fragments.
Every day, judges preside over hearings, lawyers argue cases, court employees process documents, and ordinary citizens step into the halls seeking resolution to life-changing disputes. These people deserve more than assurances that “no new cracks” have appeared. They deserve a workplace and a public institution that meets modern safety standards and can withstand the realities of this country’s seismic risks.
Complacency is the real danger. In this country, tragic lessons have repeatedly shown that infrastructure problems are often ignored until disaster strikes. Only after collapse, injury, or loss of life do urgent solutions suddenly emerge. That pattern must not be allowed to repeat itself in a building that represents the rule of law.
The safety of those who work in and rely on the Iloilo Hall of Justice should never be treated as a secondary concern. If the structure can truly be made safe through comprehensive retrofitting, then that work must be done with urgency and transparency. If experts determine that a new facility is the wiser path, then plans for a new Hall of Justice must move beyond discussion and into action.
Justice cannot thrive in uncertainty.
For now, the courts in Iloilo continue to operate. Cases are heard. Decisions are rendered. The system carries on as it always has. But every tremor that passes through the region reminds everyone of the same uneasy truth: the Iloilo Hall of Justice is standing on borrowed time.
And the safety of those inside it should never depend on luck.
