THERE IS something profoundly unsettling when those tasked to uphold the law must do so in buildings that could collapse on them. This is not metaphor. This is the reality confronting prosecutors and judges in Iloilo.
Reports of structural vulnerabilities at the Iloilo Hall of Justice, particularly its exposure to earthquake risks as reported by this paper, should have triggered alarm bells long ago. Instead, what we see today is a system that has allowed danger to quietly embed itself into the very institutions meant to deliver justice. Add to this the cramped offices, inadequate facilities, and overstretched personnel, and the picture becomes even more troubling: justice in Iloilo is being delivered under threat.
How can we expect prosecutors to prepare airtight cases when they are working in overcrowded spaces, juggling mountains of files, and constantly mindful of the physical risks around them? How can judges deliberate with clarity and independence when their workplace itself is a hazard zone?
Justice is supposed to be blind — but it should not be blind to danger.
The Constitution guarantees the right to due process, the swift administration of justice, and the protection of those who serve the public. Yet here we are, forcing our justice workers to operate in conditions that would not pass basic safety standards in the private sector. Would any corporation allow its employees to work in a building flagged for structural risks? Would any responsible institution ignore warnings about earthquake vulnerability?
Why, then, should the justice system be any different?
This is not merely an infrastructure issue. This is a governance failure. For years, the focus has been on increasing manpower, decongesting case dockets, and rolling out reform programs. These are necessary steps — but they are incomplete. A prosecutor cannot outwork a crumbling building. A judge cannot deliver justice efficiently in a space that compromises both safety and dignity.
The Department of Justice’s plan to establish a centralized prosecution hub in Iloilo is a step in the right direction. But this should not be treated as a favor to prosecutors. It is an obligation. It is the bare minimum.
More importantly, the spotlight must now turn to the judiciary. If prosecutors are getting a new hub, what about the courts? What about the judges, the court personnel, the clerks, and the litigants who walk into these buildings every day, trusting that they are entering a place of order — not a structure at risk?
The Iloilo Hall of Justice must be assessed, upgraded, or replaced—urgently. Not tomorrow. Not after another study. Now. The consequences of inaction are unthinkable. Imagine a courtroom disrupted not by legal arguments, but by structural failure. Imagine lives lost not in the pursuit of justice, but in the very halls where justice is supposed to be served. That is a tragedy.
We often speak of justice in abstract terms — fairness, equality, accountability. But justice is also physical. It exists in courtrooms, in offices, in the spaces where laws are interpreted and enforced. When these spaces are unsafe, justice itself becomes fragile.
The men and women of the prosecution service and the judiciary are not asking for luxury. They are asking for safety. For dignity. For the basic assurance that they can do their jobs without risking their lives. That is not too much to ask. If anything, it is too little for what they represent. When those who uphold the law are placed in harm’s way, the entire system is weakened.
Unsafe courts do not just endanger people. They endanger justice itself.
