THE GOOD ADOLF
Former Supreme Court Justice Adolfo S. Azcuna, who recently went into “second retirement” to cap one of the longest careers in the Philippine judiciary, can certainly dispense wisdom beyond the courtroom—and with equal authority.
“The Department of Justice motto says: Peace is the handiwork of justice. And so the secret to a long [and peaceful] marriage is to have the last words—‘Yes, dear,’” says Azcuna, who at 82 may still be saving his best one-liners for an autobiography currently in the works.
In May, the man who was in his early 30s when he earned a place among the framers of the 1973 Constitution stepped down as chancellor, fittingly, of the Philippine Judicial Academy (Philja), a training school established by the Supreme Court for aspirants to judiciary positions. Philja formally conferred on him the title of chancellor emeritus on July 22.
“I will miss the people and the work [there], but it’s high time I moved on. I learned from my days in Malacañang that there is always a ‘shelf life’ to everything,” he tells the Inquirer.
And what a shelf life it has been so far.
After serving in the body that drafted the 1973 Charter under the Marcos regime, Azcuna was handpicked, this time by President Cory Aquino, to help write a new one—the 1987 Constitution.
‘Amparo’ legacy
He could have bookended his government service right there and then, but he was called for other rebuilding tasks under Aquino, who appointed him presidential legal counsel, then press secretary and later, Palace spokesperson.
But colleagues would agree that it was in the judiciary where he would devote his keenest efforts to guarding the democratic space and upholding human rights, mainly when he served as Supreme Court associate justice from 2002 to 2009.
For former Justice Secretary Emmanuel Caparas, Azcuna’s most significant contribution to Philippine jurisprudence must be the writ of amparo. “It’s a legacy for all, in fact—the culmination of a lifetime of dedication to the law and civil society. The result of keen foresight and passion,” Caparas says.
The concept, however, predates Azcuna’s Supreme Court stint. In 1991, he was selected to be the political law examiner for the bar exams, where he posed the question: “What is the writ of amparo and what, if any, is the basis for it in the Philippine Constitution?”
Only a small number of examinees were able to answer correctly; the concept was, after all, practically invisible even in the Constitution.
Legal protection
Derived from the Spanish word for refuge or shelter, amparo may be considered a cousin of the writ of habeas corpus. One seeks it from the court as a measure of legal protection against existing or potential harm—a recourse borne out of a sociopolitical climate where extrajudicial killings (EJKs) and enforced disappearances largely go unchecked. It is not an action to determine the guilt of a respondent, but it secures the petitioner a calming distance or barrier from the alleged threat that the court has been made aware of.
Azcuna actually introduced the idea in the constitutional convention that would produce the 1973 Charter, but even he had a hard time explaining what was then considered an esoteric legal construct.
He therefore had to wait until the 1987 Constitution to “insert” amparo.
But it still took 20 years for the high court to use that power—and, not surprisingly, it called upon Azcuna to dust it off, so to speak, and apply it to an EJK case in 2007.
With an ‘O’
“The implementation has not been completely satisfactory, in the sense that the nature of the remedy was difficult to understand,” he now concedes. “Lots of the petitions are denied because they’re asking for damages, for instance. It’s not to recover damages. More information is needed on what this remedy is for.”
Still, if wielded properly, the writ could be an effective tool in the fight for human rights, he stresses.
It has been an ironic calling for someone named after one of the most reviled men in history.
“I was born on Feb. 16, 1939, and named after a then rising politician in Germany—before he invaded Poland,” he says. “Fortunately, [my parents] added an ‘O.’”
But despite this uneasy association with the Nazi leader, not once did he consider tweaking his birth records.
Still, the global conflagration started by the fascist dictator from the other side of the globe reached his childhood village in Zamboanga del Norte, where his family had to be constantly on the move to stay safe during World War II. That his father was serving as acting provincial governor at the time offered little protection: the patriarch was briefly placed under arrest by the Japanese and little Adolfo and the rest of the household had to be “evacuated on horses to the mountains.” There they found refuge; the quiet pierced at times by the screaming war planes.
As peace and normalcy returned, Azcuna’s mother, a schoolteacher, thought he would make a good priest.
After finishing law at Ateneo de Manila University, he sought admission into the seminary to fulfill her wishes. The Jesuits, however, found him more suited for a life outside the Church.
“My mother was devastated but my father [a lawyer] was overjoyed. He says, ‘now someone can follow using all these law books,’” Azcuna says.
He placed fourth in the 1962 bar exams, out of the batch of examinees that produced other legal luminaries like Haydee Yorac, Joaquin Bernas and Reynato Puno (the last becoming Chief Justice).
‘Humble and low-key’
After retiring from the Supreme Court, Azcuna accepted the Philja chancellorship in 2009. The work there rarely made headlines, but as Caparas says of the academy’s esteemed head: “Humble and low-key as he may be, there is much that younger generations can learn from a person as knowledgeable and experienced as he is.”
“A modern-day hero living in our midst,’’ Caparas adds.
In honoring him on Thursday, Philja and the Supreme Court expressed their “profound appreciation and gratitude [for] his outstanding leadership and significant achievements.”
Special attention
These days, the grandfather of four spends most of his time updating his Facebook page, posting his travel photos, (including cloud formations that catch his fancy), doing crosswords, dabbling in yoga and generally keeping up with his “apo.”
Special attention is given to “tracking my wife’s gardening.” Maria Asuncion, or Mariasun, his life partner of 53 years, is a former dean of the School of Arts and Sciences at St. Scholastica University.
For Bea, their second child, “he still has so much [energy] in him, so much yet to do, whether it’s still about helping the country or learning new skills.”
And of late, “he is looking to take up new languages,” she says.
The better, it seems, to come up with more creative “last words” to keep the peace in the house—or uphold justice in the land.