[COMMENTARY] “I Did It for My Country”: The Double-Edged Sword of Nationalist Justification

This commentary examines the phrase “I did it for my country” through history, psychology, and ethics. Sparked by Veronica Duterte’s defense of her father, former president Rodrigo Duterte—now detained and facing charges at the ICC—it shows how the same justification has been used by patriots who built nations and tyrants who destroyed them.

Scrolling through the news this morning, I saw a short piece from Philstar. Duterte, now detained and facing charges of crimes against humanity before the ICC in The Hague, said he had no regrets about what he did as president. His youngest daughter, Veronica, defended him with: “He did what he could for this country.”

That’s the kind of line that makes you stop—not because it’s profound, but because of where it leads. History is full of men who said the same thing. Some meant it and gave up everything for freedom. Others used it to excuse violence and keep power. The phrase sounds patriotic, but it’s never neutral. It can point toward sacrifice, or it can hide brutality.

The Moral Foundation and Its Corruption

At the heart of “I did it for my country” is something that doesn’t start out ugly.

It comes from pride in belonging, from the feeling that serving others is worth the cost. Soldiers, teachers, nurses, public servants—they know what it means to give time, energy, and even their lives without expecting recognition. That’s the side of patriotism people celebrate: love of country that doesn’t need to step on anyone else to exist.

But that foundation is fragile.

It turns sour the moment pride shifts into superiority. What begins as devotion can harden into nationalism—the belief that one nation is better, purer, or destined to dominate. Studies even show the difference in the mind: patriotism links to well-being and cooperation, while nationalism is tied to less empathy and more hostility. One builds bridges, the other builds walls.

This is where the corruption happens.

The same words that once described sacrifice start to become a shield for cruelty. “For the country” turns into a blank check, a way of excusing anything as long as it’s dressed in patriotic colors. And history shows that once leaders learn how powerful that excuse can be, they rarely let it go.

The Psychology of Moral Disengagement

When leaders say “for the country,” it isn’t just a slogan—it’s a psychological trick. It taps into what researchers call national narcissism, the belief that a nation is exceptional but constantly unappreciated. From that mindset, everything looks like a threat, and every threat seems to justify a harsher response.

It also leans on consequentialist reasoning—the idea that what matters is the outcome, not the act itself. Under this logic, the killing of thousands can be excused if the promise is a safer, stronger nation. It’s what ethicists describe as noble cause corruption: doing terrible things under the belief that the end result will make it worth it.

And it doesn’t stop with the leader. Once that defense takes hold, entire groups can get pulled in. Loyalty to the cause starts to outweigh loyalty to the law. Step by step, small compromises pile up until brutality feels normal. Add in dehumanization—painting a group as animals, criminals, or parasites—and violence stops feeling like a crime. It starts feeling like duty.

Historical Patterns and Modern Manifestations

The story repeats itself more often than we’d like to admit. A leader tells the people there’s an existential threat—something so dangerous that ordinary rules no longer apply. Rights get suspended, lives get taken, and institutions bend, all under the banner of survival.

We’ve seen it across eras. Hitler framed the Jewish people as enemies of Germany’s future. Putin speaks of restoring Russian greatness to justify invading Ukraine. Trump promised to “make America great again,” painting outsiders and opponents as obstacles to a lost glory. The pattern is consistent: stoke fear, invoke patriotism, demand sacrifice, and in the process, demand obedience.

In the Philippines, Duterte followed the same script. His war on drugs was sold as a fight to save the nation from becoming a narco-state. In practice, it meant thousands of killings carried out without trial. Human rights groups estimate anywhere from 12,000 to 30,000 civilians were killed. The International Criminal Court later concluded it wasn’t random violence—it was a systematic campaign against anyone labeled an enemy. And still, the defense remains the same: it was all “for the country.”

The Moral Relativism Trap

The phrase “for my country” becomes even more dangerous when it hides behind moral relativism—the idea that morality depends on culture or circumstance. On the surface, it sounds tolerant: every society has its own standards, and outsiders shouldn’t judge. But taken too far, it turns into a shield for abuse.

Leaders know how to use this. They argue their nation faces “unique challenges” outsiders can’t understand. They say Western concepts of human rights don’t apply in their context, or that their culture justifies harsher methods. Once accepted, this logic blocks universal standards and makes even the worst acts seem untouchable.

Philosophers call it the tolerance paradox: if everything must be tolerated in the name of cultural difference, then nothing can be condemned—not torture, not genocide, not systematic killings. “For the country” becomes a license to commit crimes while daring the world to object.

The Mental State Factor: When Good Intentions Enable Evil

Not everyone who says “for my country” begins with cruelty in mind. Sometimes the slide into abuse comes from people who truly believe they’re serving a greater good. This is the danger of noble cause corruption—when a sense of duty makes wrongdoing feel justified.

It usually starts small. A minor bending of the rules, a shortcut taken “for the greater good.” Once that line is crossed, the next violation feels easier. Over time, what was once unthinkable becomes routine. Police officers planting evidence, for example, tell themselves it ensures justice. Leaders allowing violence tell themselves it keeps the nation safe.

Group loyalty deepens the problem. When protecting the team or the institution becomes more important than protecting the truth, entire systems end up complicit. Add in rhetoric that strips the humanity from targets—branding them criminals, parasites, or animals—and brutality no longer feels like a betrayal. It feels like service.

The Contextual Ethics Problem

Politics is messy because the standards for judging leaders aren’t the same as judging individuals. In personal life, morality often comes down to intentions—was the act done with good or bad motives? But in politics, the test is broader: did the action truly serve the common good?

This is where the “dirty hands” problem comes in. A leader might believe they’re doing the right thing, yet the choices they make can still cause immense harm. History shows moments where democracies allowed temporary compromises—emergency powers, restrictions, even wartime violence—because survival seemed to demand it. But what begins as an exception easily becomes the rule if no limits are set.

That’s the trap of “for my country.” It blurs the line between genuine necessity and convenient excuse. Without context and consequence guiding the judgment, leaders can present every abuse as unavoidable, every violation as duty. And once that happens, there’s little room left for accountability.

The Democratic Accountability Solution

The only way to test the phrase “for my country” is to run it through the safeguards of democracy. Extraordinary measures may sometimes be needed, but they cannot exist without boundaries.

There are four markers that separate service from abuse:

  • Legitimacy: actions must be authorized through constitutional processes, not personal decree.

  • Time limits: emergency powers should have clear expiration dates, not become permanent habits.

  • Proportionality: the response must fit the size of the threat, not exaggerate it to justify repression.

  • Transparency: oversight bodies and free institutions must be able to question, investigate, and hold leaders to account.

Duterte’s drug war collapsed on all four points. It had no legal basis, no sunset clause, no proportionate balance between crime and punishment, and almost no transparency. Instead of protecting the country, it hollowed out the institutions meant to safeguard it.

The Global Implications

The Duterte case isn’t just about the Philippines. His arrest under an ICC warrant signals something larger: that even heads of state cannot hide behind patriotic language to escape accountability. For the first time, the shield of “I did it for my country” is being tested in an international courtroom.

This matters in a world where authoritarian nationalism is gaining ground. From Modi in India, to Orbán in Hungary, to Trump in the United States, and Putin in Russia—the same appeal to national survival and pride is being used to justify actions that weaken democracy. The lesson is clear: unchecked power packaged as patriotism is not just a local problem. It threatens global stability.

By drawing a line, the ICC reinforces that sovereignty doesn’t mean impunity. No country, no leader, is above international law. And if the defense of “for my country” can’t stand in The Hague, it forces the world to confront the difference between genuine patriotism and self-serving nationalism.

The Core Difference: Patriots vs. Tyrants

History draws a clear line between leaders who truly served their nations and those who only claimed to. Both used the same words, but their actions told different stories.

The patriots—Mandela, Gandhi, Washington, Lincoln, Churchill, King, Roosevelt—sacrificed personal comfort, respected institutions, and fought to expand human dignity. Their countries were stronger when they left than when they began.

The tyrants—Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Saddam Hussein, and yes, Duterte—consolidated power, dismantled safeguards, and justified violence in the name of national survival. They left their nations in ruins or trauma.

The phrase “I did it for my country” doesn’t reveal which side a leader falls on. The test is always in the outcome: Did it protect rights or destroy them? Did it widen freedom or shrink it? Did it serve the people, or only the ruler?

Conclusion: Reclaiming the Phrase

“I did it for my country” is one of the most powerful defenses a leader can use, but also one of the most dangerous. It has carried men and women through prison cells, hunger strikes, and death threats. It has also been used to excuse genocide, mass killings, and decades of fear. The words themselves are neutral. It’s what stands behind them that matters.

True service to a country is measured by sacrifice without cruelty, by respect for institutions, and by choices that expand human dignity instead of shrinking it. Mandela, Gandhi, King, Washington—each showed that it’s possible to fight for a nation without betraying its people.

When the phrase becomes a cover for abuse, it stops being patriotism. It becomes betrayal dressed up in national colors. Duterte’s defense, offered through his daughter, is the latest reminder of how easy it is to twist noble language into a shield for ignoble acts.

The challenge for us is simple but urgent: never accept the words at face value. Always ask what they left behind—freedom or fear, justice or blood. Only then can the phrase “I did it for my country” belong again to those who gave everything to serve, not to those who used it to destroy.

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