The one Southeast Asian country where leaving your husband is nearly impossible

Until yesterday, if you asked me what I thought of the Philippines, I’d have told you about the beaches.

I’d have smiled at the memory of Filipino friends I’ve met over the years—some in Thailand, many in Singapore, and more than ten incredible people on the team at Brown Brothers Media. I’d have praised the work ethic, the kindness, the warmth. I always had this instinctive positive feeling toward the Philippines. One of those places where life seems full of color and heart. Where people have the kind of joy that doesn’t depend on wealth.

So when I sat down to watch a video about the country, I didn’t expect to feel like I’d been punched in the chest.

Here’s the video:

It’s a documentary by Al Jazeera’s 101 East series. And it completely floored me. I’m still trying to make sense of what I watched—and why I didn’t know this already.

Because the truth is: in the Philippines, divorce is still illegal.

Not hard. Not expensive. Not taboo. Illegal.

Let that sink in.

The last country on Earth (except the Vatican)

The Philippines is the only country in the world—apart from the Vatican—where divorce is not allowed. If you’re Catholic (as most Filipinos are) and you marry, you’re in it for life, whether it’s bliss or brutality. There’s no legal mechanism for exiting a marriage, no matter how toxic or abusive it becomes.

Yes, there’s annulment. But it’s a long, complicated, expensive process, often dragging on for six years or more. The grounds are narrow (psychological incapacity, fraud, lack of consent) and extremely hard to prove. Even if you have money, it’s grueling. If you’re poor or struggling—which many in the Philippines are—it’s nearly impossible.

So what happens?

People separate. Women flee violent husbands. But they’re still legally married. They can’t remarry. They can’t sign legal documents independently. They are, as one woman in the documentary puts it, “dead while living.”

Another said: “We are not criminals. Why can’t we get a second chance?”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that sentence.

The church is not in the background—it’s at the front of the fight

What shocked me even more was the role of the Catholic Church.

It’s not just quietly disapproving of divorce—it’s actively and forcefully blocking it. Priests lobby senators. They guilt-trip women from the pulpit, saying things like “Those who divorce will never enter heaven.” Women who leave their abusive husbands and try to start over with a new partner are told they’re “living in sin.”

It’s the bloody 21st century, and yet here’s a country where religion has fused so completely with the legal system that millions of women have no autonomy over their lives. Their safety, their freedom, their basic dignity—subject to religious doctrine.

And let’s be clear: the church in the Philippines is powerful. It’s not some ceremonial body. It has political teeth. It’s still shaping laws—and keeping outdated ones firmly in place.

I have to ask: at what cost?

It’s not just policy—it’s personal

The documentary features women whose stories are hard to hear. One was forced to marry a man at 18 after becoming pregnant. He abused her for years—beating her, pulling a knife, trying to kill her and their children. She fled, collapsed, survived. She later tried to drown herself. Then tried to hang herself. And still—twelve years later—she’s not legally free.

Another woman wanted to buy a house. But because her marriage was still legally intact, she needed her estranged husband’s signature. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade.

These are real women. Not statistics. Mothers. Survivors. People doing their best to rebuild their lives—while carrying the burden of a system that refuses to acknowledge they even have the right to do so.

I kept wondering how many women live in that kind of silent torment. We’ll never know the real number. Because shame silences people. Especially in cultures where faith is everything and the church’s word is final.

I never expected this from a place I associated with joy

And that’s what hit me the hardest. My associations with the Philippines have always been good. The people I work with from there are amazing. They’re kind. Fierce. Creative. Loyal. I’ve met Filipinas in Singapore who left their families to work abroad and send money home. I’ve seen the strength. The love. The quiet resilience.

And now I can’t stop thinking about what some of them may have been carrying behind the smiles. What they couldn’t say. What they might still not feel safe saying.

I feel stupid, honestly. That I didn’t know this. That it wasn’t on my radar. That something so big, so brutal, so urgent—was happening in a place I thought I understood. This is the humility I’m sitting with now.

“Till death do us part” shouldn’t mean “till it kills you”

Let’s call it what it is.

Refusing people the right to end a marriage is violence.

Especially when abuse is involved. Especially when it’s women, disproportionately, who are being hurt. Especially when it’s a law written not to protect families, but to uphold outdated interpretations of faith and control.

You can be pro-marriage. You can believe in commitment. You can cherish tradition. But if your belief system requires women to stay with violent men, it’s not a belief system worth preserving.

And yet that’s exactly what’s happening.

When you make divorce illegal, you don’t prevent people from falling out of love or from harming each other. You just prevent them from getting out.

You trap them.

A flicker of hope?

In 2024, the House of Representatives in the Philippines finally approved a divorce bill. It was a historic moment. But the Senate still hasn’t passed it. And the church is lobbying hard to kill it.

Some senators are listening. Some are not. Meanwhile, women wait. In limbo. In danger. In silence.

President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. has expressed support for divorce—but with caveats. He says it shouldn’t be “easy.” But what’s “easy” about fleeing a man who wants to kill you? What’s “easy” about six years of court cases and a million pesos in legal fees?

The truth is, it’s already far harder than it should be. What they’re asking for isn’t ease. It’s basic human dignity.

What now?

As someone watching this from the outside, I keep wondering: what’s my role here?

I’m not Filipino. I don’t vote in the Philippines. But I live in the region. I work with Filipinos every day. I benefit from their energy, their brilliance, their dedication. And now I see a wound running through their society—and I can’t look away.

Do we talk about this more? Share it? Support the activists? Pressure international institutions? Refuse to accept silence?

I don’t have a neat answer. I don’t think there is one.

But I do know this: we can’t afford not to care.

Because once you’ve seen the truth—once you’ve heard the voices—it stays with you.

And maybe, in a world where so many stories go untold, witnessing is the first step.

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