Imagine a world where the lines between truth and deception on the internet blur so much that it’s hard to tell what’s real anymore. This is the challenge a new bill in the Philippines, House Bill No. 9645, is trying to tackle. Originally spearheaded by Majority Leader Sandro Marcos, it began in 2025 as an attempt to define and punish what everyone commonly calls “fake news.” But as these things often go, what started as a simple idea has evolved into something much more complex and, for many, quite concerning. The bill has transformed significantly, moving away from the emotionally charged term “fake news” to the more academic and precise “disinformation.” This change, along with many others, aims to make the law tougher on deliberate lies while trying to protect our fundamental right to free speech. Yet, despite these efforts, a lot of people are still worried that this powerful new law could be used as a political weapon, stifling dissent and controlling the narrative rather than genuinely fighting deception.
The core of this revamped bill focuses on targeting disinformation that causes “verifiable public harm” or poses a “serious threat to national security.” It’s not just about sharing false information; it’s about doing so intentionally and with harmful consequences. The bill explicitly bans insidious practices like operating “troll farms,” where armies of fake accounts spread misleading content, and penalizes the dissemination of “materially manipulated content” – think deepfakes and AI-generated media – especially if it’s designed to cause harm without proper disclosure. It also clamps down on collaborating with foreign governments for covert influence campaigns and impersonating official entities to spread lies. Crucially, the bill distinguishes between innocent sharing and malicious intent, stating that simply liking or forwarding content without knowing it’s false won’t land you in trouble. Furthermore, it places significant responsibility on digital platforms – social media giants and messaging services – requiring them to have a physical presence in the Philippines, report sponsored content, and even submit annual transparency reports. For the really big players, those with a massive user base, there are even stricter rules, including independent audits and dedicated compliance officers. The proposed penalties are hefty: fines up to P2 million and jail time for up to 12 years, making it a serious offense.
However, even with these careful definitions and distinctions, many people, like multimedia editor Nikko Balbedina, view the bill as problematic. Balbedina, who was even part of the working group that drafted the changes, agrees that government intervention is needed to combat online lies and coordinated disinformation. He applauds the requirement for large digital platforms to register in the Philippines, acknowledging the need for them to be accountable. Yet, his primary concern, a sentiment echoed by many, is the immense power this bill could grant the government. He articulates a common worry among media scholars: “The phrase ‘fake news’ is a misnomer. News is verified, vetted information from multiple sources. If you say it’s fake, it’s no longer news.” Balbedina fears that a law with such punitive measures could easily be “weaponized” because, as he puts it, “We don’t want the government to have a monopoly on the truth.” This isn’t just an abstract concern; it stems from a deeply ingrained fear that any powerful tool, no matter how well-intentioned, can be twisted and used against ordinary citizens, especially in a political climate where trust in institutions can be fragile.
These fears are not unfounded; they reflect the concerns raised by progressive lawmakers during the parliamentary debates. While the bill’s defender, House public information committee chairperson Lordan Suan, emphasizes that punishment requires a “convergence of three independent elements” – actual knowledge of falsity, specific intent to cause harm, and a demonstrable link to public harm or national security threat – critics remain unconvinced. Left-leaning legislators worry about who gets to define “national security” and “public harm.” They point to real-world examples, like the “red-tagging” of activists and ordinary citizens by state forces, where dissent is often labeled as terrorism or the propagation of “fake news.” Representative Antonio Tinio vividly illustrates this, noting that if agencies like the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict label critics as purveyors of fake news, this bill could empower the state to criminalize legitimate protest. Representative Renee Co further warns that such broad definitions could dangerously criminalize actions like protesting a corrupt official, essentially silencing public outcry. Even though the bill explicitly exempts those who simply share content without malicious intent, the worry remains that individuals accused under this law would face costly and harassing legal battles just to prove their innocence, creating a “chilling effect” on free expression.
Adding to these anxieties is the significant role given to the Department of Information and Communications Technology (DICT). The DICT would be responsible for accrediting groups that resolve disputes over platform decisions and even “vetted researchers” who can access platform data. Lawmakers like Co and Tinio question the criteria for vetting these researchers and how fairness and impartiality will be guaranteed, especially given concerns about political motivations within executive agencies. “Some people are saying that agencies under the executive branch are now acting in a politically motivated manner,” Tinio notes, adding that he believes the DICT’s powers are “excessive.” While defending the bill, Representative Antonino Roman III argued that content verification would be handled by independent fact-checkers, not vetted researchers, attempting to allay some of these fears. Yet, for many, the concern isn’t just about who does the fact-checking but about the potential for influence and biased outcomes when a powerful government agency holds the reins of online information control.
Despite these serious concerns, the bill’s authors have tried to build in safeguards. They explicitly list types of speech that the bill cannot police, including political opinions, criticism of officials, satire, investigative journalism, whistleblowing, advocacy, commentary, academic discourse, and artistic expressions. It also clearly states it won’t penalize “inadvertent errors made in good faith and subsequently corrected,” or “expressions clearly identified as humor or creative content,” nor will it target “legitimate political organizing or online advocacy.” Roman acknowledges the bill isn’t perfect but insists it’s a “serious effort to address disinformation,” aiming for a balance between liberty and responsibility. However, the fundamental tension remains: while these safeguards are designed to protect, critics fear that in practice, a government prone to abusing power could easily circumvent them. As Suan argues, “The premise that government cannot be trusted to implement its own laws is a premise that swallows every statute ever passed.” But for those who have experienced state-led repression, the fear isn’t just about abstract governance; it’s about the very real implications for their safety and freedom, leading to a strong argument for favoring education over punitive measures, as suggested by Balbedina, and for regulation to be handled by an independent body rather than a potentially politicized executive agency. This rush to pass the bill before the President’s State of the Nation Address only further fuels suspicions about its ultimate purpose and potential for misuse.