On November 29, 2018, the National Irrigation Administration (NIA) issued an order of continuation to Daewoo Engineering and Construction Co., Ltd. (Daewoo), a Korean contractor tasked with undertaking the massive project of resuming operations on the Jalaur Mega Dam. After a halt in construction for over three decades, at long last, the dam—more formally known as the Jalaur River Multi-Purpose Project Stage II (JRMP II)—takes the stage. At its core, it requires two things: complete privatization of at least the Jalaur River, and a significant amount of land spanning multiple towns and communities surrounding said river.
The Philippines is no stranger to issues of national disjuncture. Lands and peoples separated by forest, mountain, and sea had—for the larger part of our history, been forced to grow completely independent of one another. This was further radicalized by the forced segregation and cultural duress implemented by the many colonizers that have come to our country in the past.
The distressing and recurrent trend of violence against indigenous minorities was most recently displayed in the TUMANDUK 9 massacre, a horrifying military operation targeting and red-tagging the leaders of the TUMANDUK, an alliance of indigenous peoples from Capiz and Iloilo, on December 30, 2020. Such is the result of a historical accumulation of distrust, corruption and discrimination that stems from as far back as our first colonizers.
Still, there is a form of resistance in a simple life with simple joys: The Suludnon, the Panay-Bukidnon, and the Panayanon Sulud, or most recently known as the Tumandok tribe, are one of the groups of indigenous Visayan peoples native to the Capiz-Lambunao mountainous area of Panay.
Though usually associated as a single group, they are divided into smaller groups based on location. Those who live by the Panay and Jalaur Rivers, locally called Pan-ayanon and Jalawudnon, respectively, boast rive as their main produce, cultivated by traditional slash-and-burn farming. The Akeanon, thriving on the upper reaches of the Aklan river, raise coconut and abaca. As a community by the waters, the Tumandok rely on their respective rivers and forests for daily fishing, hunting, and foraging.
Though the work is hard, the payoff is appreciated, and the fruits of their labor is always cause for giving thanks to their ancestral lands and community.
A False Progression
The Regalian Doctrine, which dates back to the Spanish colonial period, declared all Philippine lands to be within the dominion of the Spanish Crown.
“The Spanish government distributed the lands through royal grants and concessions, leaving native inhabitants effectively dispossessed of their land,” said Atty. Raymond Baguilat, a senior partner at the UP Law Center Institute of Human Rights.
This law of the land carried over to the time of the American occupation, with the maintenance of the Torrens System. This made use of a certificate of ownership issued by the Register of Deeds, which, put simply, places the acts of land transfer, ownership, and protection within the near complete discretion of the operating government body. Application requires heavy scrutiny using standards of civil regulations, putting native residents and otherwise rightful inheritors of ancestral lands at a massive disadvantage. This system effectively commodified the land already taken from the native inhabitants, and further fractured them into commercially and privately owned parcels.
The first attempt at progressive policy reform towards indigenous rights began only in 1987, with the enactment of the Indigenous Peoples Right Act (IPRA), as well as the formation of the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP), which was expected to oversee the implementation of IPRA.
“Indigenous peoples are among the most, if not the most, vulnerable members of our society. This can be derived from the lack of strong relations between the indigenous group of peoples and the government,” Baguilat said.
He added that the country is, in fact, ahead of its Southeast Asian neighbors in terms of policymaking, but what has lately been at issue is the role the NCIP—supposedly the foremost representation of indigenous rights in the country—actually plays in resolving mainly land-related issues.
Eloisa Mesina, secretary-general of Katribu Youth, expounded on the negligence of the NCIP in its duties to uphold constitutionally protected indigenous rights. Last month, she, along with the rest of Katribu Youth, protested in front of the NCIP office in memory of the TUMANDUK massacre that occurred precisely a month before. NCIP Chairman Allen Capuyan and his staff merely distributed their magazine merchandise to the protesters instead of engaging with their demands or offering explanations.
The antagonism of government agencies is even more clearly shown in the aftermath of these events. The League of CARAGA Indigenous Peoples Mandatory Representatives (LCIPMR) followed up with the release of a persona non grata resolution for Bai Femia that prevents her from entering numerous ancestral domains of the CARAGA region. This came after Capuyan had allegedly attempted to reach out to the protesters, to no avail.
“Hindi nga sa nagsalita eh. Naglapag lang siya (referring to Capuyan) doon ng magazines,” Mesina said, dismissing the resolution as baseless.
Continuous misrepresentation and misuse of power allow foreign corporations to encroach upon the ancestral lands of the indigenous peoples, leaving communities like the Tumandok in the losing fight against the construction of the Jalaur Mega Dam.
“[In the past,] the AFP was tasked under the time of then President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo to officially guard these [extractive] industries,” Baguilat said.
Tagged for Death
This historical distrust of the military and similar state forces makes it very difficult for people like the TUMANDUK to reach out for help. This is compounded by the heavy involvement of the NCIP in the National Task Force in the Elimination of Local Communist Threats (NTF-ELCAC), which pulls apart the cultural rift between indigenous communities and the broader public even wider.
Baguilat compared the red-tagging of members of indigenous groups to more mainstream instances of political and celebrity red-tagging. “You have indigenous peoples who would want to enforce the law, but they do not have access to lawyers,” he said. “What, then, is the option left for someone like them? Paano kung ako o ikaw lang ang nilagay dun? Di naman natin kayang kumuha ng suporta sa mas maraming tao para sabihin na hindi yan NPA o ‘di yan terorista.”
When there is a failure on the part of the NCIP, Baguilat conjectured, it becomes the duty of civil society, or even the academe, to draw a proper course of action based on true and proven facts of the matter.
Upon the entrance of the military in the Panay ancestral lands, many of the TUMANDUK had given up and obliged to the demand of their LGUs, signing as NPA surrenderees and relocating. Some of the families of the victims of the TUMANDUK 9 did the same. But Analyn Giganto, wife of one of the victims, Roy Giganto, decided to push through seeking justice for the killing of her husband, given the massive support, even from the NCR, for strengthening their calls.
“Malaki yung epekto ng pagtatanggol ng mga isyu. Malaki rin yung epekto ng pag-aabot ng tulong sa mga komunidad. They feel like they’re not alone [in their fight],” Mesina said.
It is from failing to respect the humanity of marginal communities that violence begins to take root. To inspire genuine compassion, there is much to be learned about the life that the TUMANDUK lead, knowing for whom they wake up each day, what they work so hard on, and what they fight for. The answers to these questions reveal both the pride and anguish of a people forced in such gruesome circumstances.
Only by knowing the struggle of the TUMANDUK can the country and all its people come together to fight a common foe and, in so doing, give meaning to those who have lived and died protecting their values and ideals. ●
This article was first published on February 22, 2021.
