PHILIPPINES: ‘Responding to Disinformation Can’t Mean Giving the Government a Mandate to Police Truth’
CIVICUS discusses the implications of the Philippines’ proposed anti-disinformation bill with Josalee Deinla, Secretary-General of the National Union of Peoples’ Lawyers, a civil society organisation that defends civil liberties in the Philippines.
The Philippines’ House of Representatives has approved the Digital Media Anti-False Information Act, which would criminalise the deliberate creation and spread of false information deemed to cause public harm or threaten national security. Its supporters describe it as a tool against disinformation and foreign interference, but civil society warns that vague definitions leave it open to being used to silence dissent. The bill now awaits Senate approval.
What’s the Digital Media Anti-False Information Act about, and why is it contested?
The proposed Digital Media Anti-False Information Act combines two regulatory approaches. The first targets the infrastructure of disinformation, including political advertising, recommender systems and the commercial systems that amplify and monetise content. Regulation of this infrastructure makes sense. Platforms decide what gets ranked and amplified, and their revenue depends on the engagement that attention-generating content produces.
The second approach is punitive, targeting individual speakers and operators. The law would make it unlawful to knowingly and wilfully publish, disseminate, finance, direct or materially assist in spreading false information with knowledge of its falsity or reckless disregard for the truth and with intent to cause verifiable public harm or a serious threat to national security. The penalty is set at six to 12 years in prison and a fine of up to PHP 2 million (approx. US$32,500).
The main problem is that the bill places its harshest burden at the end of the disinformation chain and its lightest at the point where disinformation is amplified and made profitable. Platforms face only administrative penalties and written warnings, while individual speakers face imprisonment and heavy fines.
If platform regulation, disclosure, correction, labelling and de-amplification can protect the public interest, the state must explain why individual speakers should face up to 12 years in prison. The law’s criminal provisions are hard to justify as necessary. Criminal law should be the last resort against expression, not the first.
The bill also relies on broad, overlapping definitions. ‘Disinformation’ requires knowledge of falsity or reckless disregard for the truth, plus intent to cause serious public harm. ‘False information’ is broader still, encompassing any demonstrably false statement presented as fact, regardless of materiality or context. Because prohibited acts draw on both definitions, the accused is left guessing which applies to which charge.
The consequences could be worse still. Three other Senate bills are pending before the Committee on Public Information and Mass Media, including one that would authorise the Department of Justice’s Office of Cybercrime to issue access-blocking, rectification, takedown and preventive takedown orders. It targets content causing harm to individuals, public order or national interests, a far broader test than the requirement that harm be material and concrete.
Why is the bill being pushed now?
There’s a genuine disinformation problem in the Philippines. Elections now depend heavily on digital campaigning, particularly on social media, and coordinated influence operations, historical revisionism, paid influencers and troll networks have all become part of routine political competition. Concerns over foreign interference have added a national-security dimension to the debate.
But the political context is inseparable from the legislation. The bill’s authorship is revealing. It was promoted by Representative Ferdinand Alexander ‘Sandro’ Marcos III, a son of President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. Ironically, the same political dynasty now demanding tighter legal controls on disinformation used social media’s commercial architecture to return to power in 2022.
The state is not a neutral outsider arriving to repair a corrupted information environment. Political elites participate in that environment, using the same advertising systems, amplification mechanisms, consultants, influencers and platforms they now propose to regulate. A government that actively competes in the information marketplace should not also acquire broad and insufficiently constrained authority to referee the truth of that marketplace.
The imbalance is visible even within the bill. Section 16 requires government agencies to maintain open-data portals and correct erroneous or misleading public statements within a reasonable timeframe after discovery, but it creates no enforcement mechanism and no penalty for non-compliance. Section 9, by contrast, exposes individual speakers who violate the law to six to 12 years’ imprisonment. The bill treats disinformation by the state as a matter of administrative housekeeping, while disinformation by individual speakers can become a serious felony.
The timing therefore reflects two developments: a real deterioration of the information environment and a political effort to acquire greater control over the consequences of that deterioration.
What risks do its provisions pose for civil society?
Alongside prosecution and what comes with it – arrest, detention, legal costs, disrupted work and stigma – the law, if enacted, will change behaviour long before any court decides guilt. For civil society organisations, human rights defenders, journalists and researchers, the cost lies in the interval between accusation and acquittal. No conviction is needed for the law to produce silence.
The bill’s safeguards don’t answer the central problem. Most operate only as defences or rules of construction after investigation has already begun. They may ultimately prevail, but the chilling effect operates in the process that precedes that determination.
Section 4(d) also raises a serious problem. It applies to a person who acts ‘on behalf of, in coordination with, or under the substantial direction or control of’ a foreign state, foreign intelligence service, foreign military force or foreign-funded covert influence operation. This is dangerously broad. Philippine civil society groups, human rights defenders, independent media, lawyers and universities routinely communicate with foreign embassies, foreign universities, international donors, international organisations and United Nations (UN) treaty bodies and special procedures mandate holders. All these relationships are part of everyday international advocacy.
The problem becomes more acute if this bill is read alongside separate foreign interference and malign foreign influence legislation now pending in Congress, which would create a Counter Foreign Interference Council and penalise foreign interference. The impacts could be cumulative. An organisation may first be accused of disseminating false information, then characterised as coordinating with foreign interests, then subjected to scrutiny of its funding and institutional relationships. Together, these measures could allow the state to scrutinise what civil society says, who it works with, who supports it and how its information reaches the public.
This is why any law allowing the government to determine whether political information is false, harmful to public order, malicious or threatening to national security demands exceptional caution. Responding to disinformation can’t mean giving the government a mandate to police truth.
How is civil society responding, and what support does it need?
Civil society opposition has been substantial, but it must be sustained. On 25 July, around 50 academics, civil society representatives, journalists and technologists gathered at the University of the Philippines College of Media and Communication, while at least a dozen organisations issued a joint call urging Congress to reject the bill. Opposition to the bill can easily be caricatured as opposition to regulating disinformation, but this is a false choice.
Civil society acknowledges the harm of disinformation but contests where the law places responsibility for it. Disinformation in the Philippines rarely stems from individual users making bad choices online. Much of it is organised, financed and professionally produced. Political operatives retain consultants who assemble networks of paid influencers and account operators. Coordinated pages manufacture the appearance of organic public sentiment, while platforms supply the distribution systems through which these narratives gain scale. The individual user is often the last link in a much longer chain, and the law should follow that chain upward.
Civil society proposes that allocation of responsibility should begin with the political principal who commissions the operation, the financier who pays for it, the strategist who designs it, the network that carries it out and the platform that amplifies and profits from it. Users should not become the preferred target of enforcement simply because they are the easiest to find.
Civil society needs support at several levels. It needs lawyers who can intervene while the Senate text is still being shaped and, if necessary, mount constitutional challenges later. It also needs technical expertise capable of interrogating platform claims about advertising tools, algorithms, content moderation and recommendation systems, and resources to protect human rights defenders, journalists and researchers, who may face complaints, digital attacks, investigations, surveillance and red-tagging – being vilified as a communist – once the law is in force.
International support matters too. Philippine organisations that receive foreign grants, work with international media and research institutions or engage UN mechanisms should not have to defend those relationships as though they were inherently suspect. Cross-border cooperation and funding are routine features of academic research, election monitoring, human rights work and journalism, and should not be collapsed into the language of foreign interference.
CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.
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