By ANA FELISA LORENZO & FRANK LLOYD TIONGSON

Revelations

Floyd, 5:20 p.m., November 16—The news was a straight right to the pit of my stomach. Twelve strikers in Hacienda Luisita were recorded killed in a brutal massacre by the military and police. It came through a text message, in the confines of my NatSci 2 class. Around 200 were reportedly injured, while scores were missing. Two children, meanwhile, were also killed, suffocated by tear gas. 

In fits of suppressed rage, I almost felt the rain of bullets that showered death blows to the 12 strikers. I knew those feelings of trepidation only too well. Imagining the brutality was like reliving how burning tears drawn by the tear gas felt once again. I was there only a week ago, with the workers of the hacienda, at the site of their struggle. 

11:30 p.m.—The evening news showed grim footage of the dispersal. The mainstream media’s accounts suggest that the violence could have either been initiated by the military or the strikers, as if culpability was limited only to both. To the mainstream, it was a riot or a violent confrontation, never mind that the violent dispersal, in itself, was already a clear violation of the hacienda workers’ civil rights. It was as if the hacienda management and the Department of Labor and Employment that ordered the military to “maintain peace and order” must be left off the hook. 

The mainstream media, however, were only there when the death toll or injuries could already be tallied. The frenzy over the brutal dispersal overshadowed the strikers’ issue, which actually spelled the same injustice. 

Arrival 

Floyd, 5:30 p.m., November 6—While traversing the long road to the main gate of the hacienda, the vast field of sugarcanes started to exhibit a strong, indefinable scent. It was like the stench of fermented vinegar, close to the basi or rice wine’s intoxicating smell. 

Upon reaching the main gate of the hacienda, Divine, a colleague who had arrived the day before, gave us a brief situationer. The strike was a breakthrough. For the first time, both unions in the Hacienda Luisita, Inc. (HLI) simultaneously launched strikes and completely paralyzed the operations. The strikers belonged mostly to the United Luisita Workers’ Union (ULWU), composed of around 5,000 farm workers in the vast fields of the hacienda, while the rest were members of the Central Azucarera de Tarlac Labor Union (CATLU), composed of around 500 workers in the hacienda’s sugar refinery. 

One striking reason for their discontent: the P9.50 net salary. From P194, workers’ salaries are reduced to such a puny amount because of the management’s deductions, including the ten-kilo sugar “subsidy.” Deductibles ranging from a college scholarship—while scarcely any of the workers’ children were able to go to college—and hospitalization benefits—where only one day in the hospital is covered—compounded the workers’ dire state. In addition, HLI has also cut their working days or mandays from five days to once per week since the mid-1990s due to the increased mechanization in the fields—meaning, they will have to make do with the P9.50 take-home pay for the whole week. 

At first count, one could have tallied throngs of workers staging the strike. Some of the people were family members of the hacienda workers—cousins, spouses, in-laws. Apparently, such a miserable situation has turned the workers’ issue into a family affair since hunger cannot be confined to the workers’ plight alone. Seasonal workers, who were hired by HLI from Negros Oriental, meanwhile, feel the brunt of inhumane arrangements with HLI. 

Within barely 15 minutes of our arrival, looming shadows a distance away behind the gate that were once stationary began to stir. Divine warned us that a dispersal order had already been issued by the management. In 15 minutes, she said, the water cannon could be fired, and tear gas diffused to disperse the strikers. She further cautioned us to prepare any wet piece of cloth to minimize the effects of the tear gas. 

Minutes later, the police complied to the dispersal order from the management. It was as if a wall of shadow descended upon the crowd who started to mass up towards the gate. The figures ceased in their march, while a bustling fire truck, drawing water from a nearby stream, started to blast cold water into the mass of workers. 

The weak spray that sprouted from the fire truck failed to move the bulk of the strikers, who stood firm. Seconds later, the police advanced nearer and fired flares into the night sky, drawing the crowd’s jeers and taunts, as if challenging the police, telling them it would take more than that to disperse their ranks. Within several heartbeats, the tear gas started to infiltrate the cold night air. 

In my confused haste, I took out from my bag a fresh T-shirt, which I dipped in a nearby water drum, instead of the large handkerchief already tucked in my pocket. The wet T-shirt spared me from the full onslaught of the gas. Still, it felt like tears were being forced from my eyes while my face began to burn. Around me, people were retreating. The sound of people throwing up stood out in the cacophony of cries and rage. Eyes half-shut, I tried to stay away from the smoke and waited until the burning sensation vanished. 

Stock and Bull Stories 

Floyd, 9:00 p.m., November 6—An hour elapsed before the workers reclaimed their position in front of the gates and called on those who had retreated to fortify their ranks. After the dispersal, which the workers believed to have been outright harassment, the unions resumed their program amid the huddle of workers. The speakers were as determined as ever, even after being harassed, to air their discontent. Sacks, inscribed with the strikers’ slogans, lined up the picket. Most of them condemned the stock distribution option (SDO) scheme of the HLI management. The workers, meanwhile, periodically chanted in chorus, “Cojuangco, berdugo!” reverberating in the open field. 

In mixed Kapampangan, Tagalog, and Ilocano, Rene “Ka Boyet” Galang, the president of ULWU, repeatedly pointed out that the SDO was a scheme applied to avoid the direct distribution of land. In 1985, the Manila Regional Trial Court ordered the HLI management to distribute the 6,400-hectare hacienda to its workers. However, when former president Corazon Cojuangco-Aquino assumed office in 1986, she evaded the decision by presenting her Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP), which, in Hacienda Luisita, gave way to the SDO scheme. Instead of getting parcels of land, around 5,000 workers merely held 33 percent of HLI’s stocks under the management’s terms. It was ironic, therefore, to see thousands of their workers in such hardship, knowing that they were, on paper, HLI’s part owners. 

The workers’ program lasted until midnight. Many of the strikers decided to sleep on the rough asphalt covered only with burlap sacks and, if available, thick cardboard boxes. Bonfires fueled by rubber tires provided warmth against the cold night, suffusing the air with a slight nauseating smell. The dancing flames of the bonfires, a few feet away from where I reclined, cradled my almost limp body while the workers’ songs of resistance lulled me to sleep. 

Night of Disquiet

Isa, 12:00 a.m., November 7—I slept fitfully, stretched out on a burlap sack just beyond the main gate of the hacienda. By day, the sack served a far nobler purpose—it was painted with bold red, raging letters: “Ibasura ang SDO!” Just past midnight, a colleague prodding my feet woke me. Behind the gate, a fire truck was moving toward the picket line. I slid my feet into my shoes and waited, ready to dunk my jacket once more into the nearest water drum should tear gas canisters be hurled over the gate. 

It was a false alarm. I went back to sleep, only to wake up again four hours later, with the threat of yet another dispersal. The mounting flames of cook fires chased away the lingering faces of the night. The second day of the strike had begun. 

We ate a simple meal of rice, tuyo, and tomatoes, crouched before a piece of cardboard spread on the ground. All the workers kept urging us to eat more, though most of them struggled daily just to feed their families. They survive on whatever vegetables they manage to plant in their meager yards. Others are helped by relatives with a little money to spare, or the families that have a son or daughter working abroad. As two men from Brgy. Asturias, located inside the hacienda, told me, while shaking their heads sadly, there were also some who had been forced to steal in order to have something to eat. 

The early morning rays revealed that a battalion of police officers had stealthily gathered just outside the picket line. They were armed with plastic shields and truncheons. Most of the strikers went to head them off, while a few remained to secure the gates. Sure enough, the water cannon was let loose again, dousing the men braced against the gate. On the other side, the tension was more palpable. After a few minutes, the police’s volley of wooden sticks began to strike unprotected heads, faces, and chest. A faint smell of tear gas began to tinge the air but drew only a few coughs. Eventually, the police left. The workers stood their ground. 

Day of Rage

Isa, 8:00 a.m., November 7—I spent the rest of the day in discussion with the workers, beneath the menacing shadow of military helicopters whose front ends of the fuselage were paired painted with garish teeth. They circled so close to us that they skimmed the tops of the trees surrounding the picket line. Yet their buzzing did not cow the workers. 

Aside from their paltry weekly wages, the two unions had initiated the strike to protest the retrenchment of more than 300 ULWU members. The negotiations for new collective bargaining agreements (CBAs) between the management and both unions were just underway when 327 workers, including the ULWU president, vice-president, and eight other officers, were sacked due to the claim that the company was losing money. By laying off the workers, the HLI executives could now declare the strike illegal, since its leaders were no longer part of its workforce. But, oddly enough, the corporation was able to loan P700 million to various companies owned by the Cojuangcos, even before the strike began. 

Later on, word came that Ricardo “Ka Carding” Ramos, the CATLU president, was inside the gates of the hacienda, negotiating with the management during the ongoing strike. Even in its initial stages, talks had already reached a deadlock, with HLI refusing to grant the workers the wage increase and retirement benefits, such as the two-month gratuity pay that they were owed. Laborers like Tatay Enteng, who had worked for a pittance at the plantation, retired without even a small sum to ease the end of a lifetime of hard labor. Tatay’s wages were not even enough to send any of his four children to college. After he retired, he and his wife lived a hand-to-mouth life, supported by the latter’s earnings at a nearby factory outside the hacienda. 

This factory, along with the numerous industrial buildings that lined the road to the plantation, served as grim portents of the area’s impending industrialization. Large tracts of land would soon be converted into factories for even more multinational corporations. Needless to say, this would result in massive layoffs of farm workers. Once they had lost their claim on the land, the planned construction of the Subic-Clark expressway, which would cut through a wide swath of the hacienda, could begin. 

All this added up to a massive injustice, which was taking a place deep inside the sprawling plantation tucked away in the heart of Tarlac. And the only witnesses were a handful of concerned students and members of mass organizations. The white van carrying a reporter and a camera crew from ABS-CBN arrived only in the late afternoon. As soon as they had interviewed a few workers and shot footage of their repeated calls for increased wages, benefits, and fair land redistribution, the crew left even before the night began to fall. 

With the deepening of dusk over the hacienda, the prospects of a successful negotiation likewise dimmed. Ka Carding emerged empty-handed. Yet the voices of dissent continued well into the night. I stretched out once more on a burlap sack amid the swell of strikers. Once again, I fell asleep beneath a sky teeming with stars, all of us listening to the soothing strains of protest songs. “Kahit na may bagyo, kahit na may unos, kahit may libo-libong kaaway. Kahit na magapi at isa ang matira sa ating dakilang hanay, tayong manggagawa at magsasaka … muling babangon, ipagtatagumpay ang bawat laban.” 

Departure 

Isa, 5:00 a.m., November 8—Floyd and I woke well before the first fingers of dawn began to stretch across the sky. After a hasty breakfast, we boarded a van to take us back to Tarlac City. Military checkpoints were already set up on the road to the plantation. I left the hacienda with a thousand images burning in my mind. The workers who remained behind would continue to contend with water cannons, tear gas, and truncheons, until their demands were fulfilled. 

We boarded a bus to Manila on that cold, clear morning, unaware that, within a week, the bloodbath would begin. ●

Published in print in the Collegian’s November 22, 2004 issue, with the headline “Blood Sugar: The Bitter Harvest of Hacienda Luisita.”