Can Compassion Ever Become Legislation?

She spoke of honesty. She posted about her anxiety. And she spoke up about politics—alone. When Emman Atienza ended her life at 19, a nation grieved. Conversations erupted online. It promised action. It named a bill after her: the Emman Atienza Bill, designed to punish cyberbullying and online abuse. But here’s the sobering truth: no law can legislate compassion, and no statute can fix a system that keeps letting people break.

Filed as Senate Bill 1474, the proposed “Anti-Online Hate and Harassment Act” seeks to expand protections under the Cybercrime Prevention Act of 2012 and the Anti-Bullying Act of 2013. It aims to penalize cyberlibel, hate speech, doxxing, and harassment, with fines of ₱50,000 to ₱200,000 and up to six years’ imprisonment. It’s timely, well-intentioned, and anchored in good faith. But the problem has never been the lack of laws. It’s how poorly we enforce them. It’s not enough to pass a statute if the wheels of justice don’t turn.

If platforms are mandated to remove harmful content within 24 hours of verified complaints or court orders—an explicit requirement of the proposed bill—what happens when they don't? If victims are promised psychosocial support through the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) or the Department of Health (DOH), but the infrastructure and funding are absent, what good is the promise? 

According to the World Health Organization and DOH's 2021 report, the Philippines allocates only ₱2.7 billion annually for mental health services, a number that barely sustains the needs of more than 110 million citizens. In Manila, private therapy sessions cost between ₱2,000 and ₱5,000 per visit; even public hospitals charge ₱400 to ₱1,000 per consultation, as cited by PhilSTAR Life. For many students and workers, that's the difference between a check-up and dinner. A law that promises justice online but fails to make care accessible offline only deepens inequality. Society often forgets that mental health must be a rights issue, not a charity case.

We already have statutes. We already ground our regime in principle. What we lack are working institutions. We lack a justice system that protects the powerless as firmly as it shields the powerful. And when the powerful are left to define what “hate” means, danger follows. The Emman Atienza Bill uses broad terms like “harmful content,” “hate speech,” and “harassment.” Without precise definitions, these can be twisted to silence criticism rather than protect victims. We’ve seen this before. Cyberlibel has been weaponized against journalists like Maria Ressa. What assurance do ordinary citizens have that this won’t happen again?  Will platforms err on the safe side and remove legitimate dissent to avoid liability? When laws are vague, enforcement often becomes selective.

A genuinely thoughtful law would define, delineate, and guard spaces for critique—not just the safety of the bullied, but the right of the critic. In a democracy where leaders often lash back at voices of dissent, we must ask: who watches the watchers?

To legislate kindness is a noble impulse, but kindness without structure is performative. If this bill stops at punishing bullies while leaving our mental health system in crisis, it will miss the heart of the issue. The real problem isn’t just online cruelty—it’s the absence of care offline. It’s the lack of accessible, affordable, and sustained mental health support that could have saved Emman and many others like her. What we truly need is a law that sits alongside a ministry stepping up: affordable mental health care, community outreach, school-based early intervention programs, counselor availability outside of Manila, and the normalization of asking for help.

Let's be blunt: The Philippines’ record on enforcement is uneven. Cyberlibel cases linger; powerful people still shape narratives with impunity. When a new law is introduced, without the accompanying institutional integrity, it risks becoming a shield for the powerful, not a tool for the vulnerable. This bill could end up protecting those in authority from criticism under the guise of “online hate” control, especially if definitions remain vague.

We’ve seen it before—and we can’t afford to see it again.

We don’t need another elegant law that looks good on paper but fails in practice. We need accountability that works where it matters most—in schools, in homes, and in the online spaces where youths, especially students, spend most of their days. A cracked foundation cannot carry new weight. If we are to turn grief into governance, then reform must be concrete. 

This law should move beyond punishment and toward protection that lasts. It must guarantee free and accessible mental health care in all state universities and colleges, fund community-based counseling programs outside Metro Manila, and ensure regular mental health screenings in schools. It should lay down precise definitions of hate speech and online harassment to prevent political misuse, supported by independent oversight bodies that can check abuses of power. And because prevention begins in culture, not courtrooms, it should mandate digital literacy and empathy education across all levels of schooling. Only then can we say that legislation has finally learned to listen. Otherwise, we are simply rerouting anger into a headline.

Because a bill that truly honors Emman’s memory must not only guard against cruelty online but also build the social structures that make compassion possible offline.

There is hope in everyone’s cry for change—but hope must be built on rigor, not resonance. Emman’s voice stopped too soon. Let this bill not stop at the ink—but continue into systems that heal, protect, and listen. Because justice is not a hashtag. Service is not sentimental. Law is not light without legitimacy. And kindness, no matter how sacred, cannot thrive in a space where nobody is watching. 

Article: Ariane Claire Galpao

Cartoon: Kaiser Caya