A YOUNG man from a poor district of Manila volunteered with a local anti-crime group and was working towards his second degree. The student—call him Joshua—lived with his sister and her husband. After she had a child their small house was cramped, so he was staying with a friend. One night in July, the police raided the friend’s house. They claim that Joshua, his friend and another man were armed and started a gunfight.

Witnesses—three young women also staying at the house, whom police escorted out—say that Joshua and the other guest were sleeping, and the tenant (who allegedly belonged to a gang of petty thieves) had surrendered. He was pleading with the police to leave Joshua and the other friend alone; they had done nothing wrong. The witnesses also claim the police trained their guns on any neighbours trying to see what was happening and then kicked Joshua awake. He immediately surrendered. Shots rang out. All three young men were killed.

When a local NGO asked for CCTV footage that would have shown the raid, they were told the cameras had malfunctioned. The chairman of the barangay, or neighbourhood, said he knew nothing about the raid and was on holiday that night.

Such is life in the Philippines under President Rodrigo Duterte. During his 22 years as mayor of the southern city of Davao, human-rights groups linked him with vigilante squads who killed suspected criminals there. He treated the accusations with pride. As a presidential candidate, he vowed to stamp out crime within six months of taking office, even if it meant he had to slaughter 100,000 suspected criminals. On the day he took office, he told police officers that if they killed 1,000 people while doing their duty, he would protect them. Many assumed his tough talk was campaign bluster. They were wrong.

Extrajudicial killings—of environmental activists, journalists, ordinary citizens who challenge politically powerful clans and others—have long been a fact of life in the Philippines. Under Mr Duterte, people suspected of involvement in the drug trade have now come under fire. Between May 10th, the day after Mr Duterte won the presidency, and August 5th, ABS-CBN, a Philippine broadcaster, estimates that 943 drug suspects have been killed, most of them by the police, some by “unknown assailants”. Many were suspected of being drug dealers, but users have also been targeted: according to the Inquirer, a newspaper keeping a “kill list” of the casualties in the drug war (with about 600 names), one woman was found dead with a sign around her neck saying that she was “a drug addict, pickpocket and pest to society”.

Because suspects never face trial, the evidence against them remains largely unknown. According to one human-rights worker, police present barangay officials with a list of drug suspects. The officials then send the suspects a notice identifying them as such and ordering them to turn themselves in at the barangay office. There they receive a warning: reform or else you will be arrested or killed. Once they promise to change they are given waivers—sometimes in English, which few poor Filipinos can read—and are released. Activists say at least 125,000 people have voluntarily surrendered so far (others put the number much higher). But Mr Duterte estimates that 3m-4m Filipinos are drug addicts. According to Nicanor Silanga, a policeman in Payatas, a poor, sprawling barangay in Quezon City, the police “expect all of them to surrender”. America, the UN and the Catholic church have expressed concern over the extrajudicial killings, but Mr Duterte’s standing among ordinary Filipinos remains high. A human-rights worker calls him “our most popular president since Cory Aquino” (the worker requested anonymity, citing increased security concerns since Mr Duterte took office). Theresa Padaluga, an investigator in Commonwealth, the biggest barangay in Manila, says that around 20 drug suspects have been killed there since Mr Duterte took over. She proudly notes that her jails now house no drug users—only drinkers and those accused of domestic violence. Geraldine, a mother holding her toddler’s hand outside the Commonwealth barangay office, says that Mr Duterte’s policies work because they target “pests”. Even if they get another chance, “they’ll just go back to using drugs,” she says. Amelia, who runs a stall on a quiet Commonwealth street, says: “We like Duterte. Since he took over it’s become quieter here because people are afraid.”

Cruel of law