From Where The Light Does Not Grow Fonder
(Elgene E. Monter sharing her experiences under the Duterte administration with Dapitan Post. Photo by Julius Villavieja)
YOU NEVER forget the light. Neither do you forget the long road that led you to the piece of land that now meant more than the trees that surround it, and the chain link fence where they hanged the tarpaulins they bring with them on their march. It was shelter at best, if not home. It was community, how humble it may be. It was any solid structure with the least semblance of safety and unity, one they need not shed blood for.
But the Lumads did not mind at all. Their clothes were hanging everywhere on thin lines of rope and wire to dry it under the sun. Tents were set up for shade, for registration of those who wanted to commune and be one with them, for a little museum that tells of their precious life back in Mindanao, for a room of prayer, for a place of dancing, singing and sharing rich culture. It was unmissable, most especially the slogans they painted on thin sheets of fabric that, in a denominator, only said one thing: Value our lives. Life seemed so frail after all at the cold end of the rifle. Yet, there had never been a greater attempt for a sense of home than that which was held up so feebly when the winds were strong.
Their quarters were built on plywood carpentered against trees without any true division. There was barely lumber standing as walls where they hanged photographs of their land their people—children especially, inside Lumad schools being taught by the teachers how to write, how to count, how to read history and literature, and how to cultivate their land, the plain that the rich and powerful are so belligerent on taking. They were pictures of charming and retiring homes, ones they willingly left for a principal endeavor. But most importantly, they were reminders for when they were feeling weakness and doubt, of what they were marching and fighting in a foreign land for.
There was very little reassurance in their quaint harbor in the city. The unfamiliarity is almost pressing and unwelcoming, but one worth struggling for. It has been for quite some time, a burning of the last drop of daylight, and then a resumption of their labor to the ones in greater need of their representation. However the soil in the city had already tightly clung to their feet, it might never feel as comforting as the warm earth beneath their own ground. But then again, the Lumads did not mind. Not in the greater scheme of things. The reason for their presence in the city, far away from their land, their protest, their struggles, and their meaning, was larger than the trifle of it all. While there was very little of the things that are not difficult to miss, they carried with them all the time something they were abundant of despite the bludgeoning circumstance they were facing: hope.
One will be welcomed by song and the strumming of guitar when he enters the perimeter; volunteers and locals preparing for the night’s display of cultural performances. But more noticeably, she will be welcomed by faces she has never in her life seen before, smiling in welcome, and despite having yet to do anything, smiling already in deep gratitude. Presence has become a treasure. They know that she has come, if anything, to listen. And for the Lumads, that was already of immeasurable importance.
The colors, however, that one will be seeing all around the area, from their tents to their slogans, will serve almost a façade—a wall of their true intention. They will not seem to the common person a guise of greater purpose. The vibrancy of it all betrays the eyes of the visitor of the lonely history and present the Lumads experience every day. One would be so fascinated of course by the richness of culture that has temporarily inhabit the city, but the story of truest pain lies distant from the colors.
It is in the posters written in white and black paint begging to stop the militarization in Mindanao, the murder of their people teachers, leaders, and children, the thievery of their ancestral land, and the impunity of the tyrants. It is perhaps in the very presence of a minority group in the urban setting, which has not many to offer to these people who have lived their whole lives in contentment and modesty of their own territory.
If one has the time, one must surely meet and sit down with Daisy. She is a Lumad student who came from Mindanao to share her story about how grueling it is for her to live in constant fear and intimidation of the military. How, at an innocent age, she does not only know, but also stand as a witness of the bloody injustice toward her people.
One might mistake her story, however it was, during her youth, supposed to be a time to create a memorable childhood: A memory of jack stones and marbles rolling on the street, making its way to the closest goal; the callow on her feet, a remembrance of exhaustion and freedom during the joyful moments of Mataya-taya and Langit-lupa. It was a championing of oneself whoever leapt over the highest garter, or whoever took down the lata with their dusty, worn out slippers.
But instead, Daisy might tell you about the ungodly hours of September 1. Inside the safety of her kulambo, just a few minutes past 3 in the morning, she was woken up by the shouting and the clamor of the soldiers outside their dorms and houses, forcing them to go to the center of their town. She rushed to follow the footsteps of the other clueless Lumad. When a crowd was built, the paramilitary mercilessly took the life of their leader in front of them. Blood was spilt dishonorably, but what could they do? They had firearms. His child couldn’t fight back if he wanted to. All he could do was weep in endless sorrow.
“Si Onel Campos po, pinatay siya sa harapan ng mga tao. Mismong yung anak niya nakakakita sa kanya,” Daisy said. And she might also tell you about the horrifying deaths of Datu Juvello Sinzo in a basketball court and the Alternative Learning Center for Agricultural and Livelihood (ALCADEV) Executive Director, Emeritu Samarca, who was tortured and whose neck was slashed in the guest room on the second floor of their school. There was nobody inside but him and his killers because he was not allowed by the paramilitary to leave and join his people.
“Pagkatapos nung mga pangyayaring yon, agad kaming nag evacuate at saka dun kami sa oval (evacuation center); mahirap talaga ang buhay namin. Ang hirap talaga dun. Kulang sa ano, kulang yung tubig, mahirap ang tulugan, higaan. Ang tanging panawagan lang naman namin ay itigil na yung militarisasyon sa kabundukan kasi hindi namin gustong palagi na lang kaming umaalis sa aming mga tahanan,” she uttered in profound grief, barely keeping the words from shattering while they escaped.
The sun wouldn’t have set even after someone finds Daisy already dignified: what one would have gathered from them will leave her in thoughtful introspection about what proximity they live in anguish and cruelty.
Perhaps one might also meet Elgene, Jenson, Ariel, Jemart, Jomarie, delegates also, likely sitting under the same quarters with Daisy. They too, have their narration about how their education is atrociously affected by the presence of the military. They, too, share the same anger and pain for the death of their leaders. They, too, want to fight against the injustice that the powerful has brought upon them.
Elgene, 15, a student at ALCADEV, shared that their land is their life. It is where their schools are, it is where their food is, it is where their people are.
“Kapag wala ng lupa, wala nang kami,” she said.
Her experiences spoke for her in illumination. Continuously, she attested to the damage that the government has done and is still doing; how there have been Lumad schools that closed due to the threats from the President. However, she said that they were not merely threats at all, that at present, there have been Lumad schools that were already destroyed by airstrikes.
"Mas lalo kaming nagalit sa gobyerno, dahil bakit niya bobombahin ang Lumad schools na wala namang ginawang masama kundi magturo at magserbisyo sa mga kabataaang lumad,” Elgene said.
The death of their teachers and their leaders will not be the reason for their uproar to stop. To her, it was only an encounter that would fuel their campaign against the killing of their people, and the eradication of their land.
Elgene, together with thousands more oppressed by this administration, rallies with the Lumad to continue what their leaders have started. Their march was beyond dissuasion and without forfeit, unwavering, that despite the enemy being up at arms, breaking them apart and annihilating their schools and villages, it was a beckoning to remain steadfast; to unite against the dying of the light. -- with reports from Theresa Tañas
