Lumads Can't Take It No More:
My Reflections on GMA's Total War Policy
By Maricel Paz Hilario, Kaiba News and Features

FEAR FOR the lumads I have briefly lived with, as well as concern for my friends who are working in partnerships with them to achieve peace and social justice in Mindanao, gripped me when President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo announced that she would declare an all-out war policy with the communists and "all kinds of terrorists."

This is because these wars are usually staged and fought in the ancestral domain of indigenous peoples. My God, this could be another nightmare for the five Higaonon communities in Misamis Oriental whose ancestral domain proofs I helped prepare in 2001. I wonder, how could they possibly take this on top of the memories of war that continue to haunt them? I remember vividly their anecdote that when a brownout interrupted the meeting de avance of the People Power Coalition in one of the barangays during the national elections, one woman collapsed and another peed in her pants while shouting "Hapa mo! Buto na! Buto na!" (Drop! Gunshots to follow! Gunshots to follow!).

Memories of War
Memories of war apparently continue to haunt this place. This particular area was a no-man's land in the 1980s. For almost six years, the Higaonon and the Visayan migrants continually fled their homes and evacuated to nearby towns and provinces. Most of their houses and all of their fruit-bearing coffee trees were burned. When they came back in 1987, they practically had nothing to go back to, except their lands, which had nearly turned into cogonal areas.

In 2001, almost 14 years after they came back, the Higaonon continued to suffer the consequences of that war. Hinabol weaving nearly faded into memory because according to the women, all their looms were burned.

When I asked about the Pang-ibabasuk, their traditional farming system, it sounded like a boring recitation of gods referred to, cycles, methods, rituals, and work arrangements. They no longer practice it. One of the datus cited many reasons for it but explained, "Ang pinakabug-at gyud nga rason sa amo, ngano ni nawala, tungod sa gyera."

Instead of working on their own lands, most of them now depend on wage labor from planting tomatoes for the more well-off Visayan migrants and financiers. I could never forget one particular community where I initiated the preparation of a seasonal calendar to initiate our focus group discussion on their economic life. While the other four communities each had two manila papers filled with drawings of all sorts of crops, game, and other non-timber forest products, this community drew nothing except planting, weeding and harvesting tomatoes. When the FGD participants showed me their drawing, I asked, "Is that finished already? Where is your camote and gabi? Even if they are not income generating, maybe you should place them in your calendar. It could provide your assisting organizations a more detailed overview of your economic life." Then, one woman answered, "We no longer plant camote here." I probed, "Why did you stop planting your most dependable traditional crop? Why did you stop practicing your traditional farming system completely?" After a long silence, one of the men, staring blankly at the drawing, flatly answered, "we could not plant camote because we could not go back to our uma (farm). We are afraid to be suspected as NPAs. Because of this, we are forced to work on our neighbors' farms." My body felt numb, as I asked, "so where do you get your food between these months?" The man's wife answered: "Dagan mi sa tindahan nga pwedeng magpabale (We run to the nearest store who allows credit)." I mentally castigated myself as I was listened to this story. I should have felt that the war was not yet over right from the start they showed me their calendar. How could I be so insensitive? The night before, the children of my host family in the other barangay shared with me how terrified and cold they felt every time they crawled and hid themselves into the foxhole to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Laughing, they compared themselves to sardines. They also told me how horrifying it was to dig into mass graves when they reworked on their farms after they came back.

My research guide and interpreter shared with me that he was a survivor of a massacre that killed his mother and his uncle. The massacre was reportedly done by the military. Ironically, the uncle whom they suspected to be an NPA was a visiting government soldier assigned in another province. During the gunfire, my guide wailed because he thought he was hit by their cooking pot. He said he cried over their lost supper. He only realized it later that what hit him was part of his mother's skull.

After the Communists
After declaring war with the communists, would war against the Muslim separatist movements be declared next?

When then President Joseph Estrada declared an all out war with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front in 2000, the latter attacked a Manobo village in Cotabato. Conceivably, the attack was aimed to look for and expand their territory.

I was in the area two days after the incident happened with an anthropologist and an officer from the National Commission for Indigenous Peoples. We were invited by some leaders of indigenous peoples' organization to help them document a ritual that would signify their reclamation of a portion of their sacred grounds and affirmation of their commitment for "balik kultura" or cultural regeneration. We were also going to do some a preliminary survey on the situation of indigenous children and youth.

As soon as I stepped out of the bus at my drop-off point, I saw a number of barangay officials in serious discussion. After I introduced myself and informed them about the purpose of my visit, I was told that the area was on red alert because the MILF attacked the area. I wanted to go back home to Bukidnon then, but there were no more trips that day. I had to wait for the next day to leave.

That night, the leaders of the community agreed to pursue the ritual if the MILF would not launch another attack. While they were discussing, our host noticed that I kept packing and unpacking my things inside a smaller backpack which I planned to bring with me in case something happens. After they have finished, I smiled and asked him, do you think I missed anything important? He candidly asked me if I have never been in an armed conflict situation before. In a faltering voice, I answered no. My host said I would be okay if I would just keep my presence of mind. He told me that every hour, by the hour, there would be one to three reconnaissance gunshots. If I do not hear a volley of shots, I should go to sleep. If I did, I should never stand up, and start crawling. He emphasized that this could save my life. I should follow the children, they know what to do, they know where to go.

That night, I never slept a wink. Clutching my wooden rosary, I wondered how my mother would survive if I was brought home in a casket. Well, I thought, that would be a lot easier to deal with than looking for me in shallow graves. Truth to tell, I never prayed so hard in my life than that night. I did not want to give my mother that kind of agony. She did not want me to take that trip; we were not on speaking terms when I left.

By midnight, I wanted to pee, but did not have the courage to go to the comfort room outside. I decided to wait in the morning; I would rather hide in the foxhole stinking of urine. What if the gunfire started when I was inside the CR? I could not imagine dropping there: I would definitely smell worse than urine. What if a gun barrel stared at me while I was still peeing? Could I tell the gun man, "Can you please let me finish? I would only take a few seconds of your time." I really do not want to die with my pants down. It would be a very undignified position to die and a guaranteed tabloid material. Even cold dead, I think I would still be able to feel the humiliation of having photographers and reporters feast at my vulnerably naked state.

I survived the night and the ritual went well. I did not miss any important detail on video, not even when I had to run briefly to the CR to pee. When my host learned about my CR dilemma and my reservation to wake him up, he scolded me, laughing, "Next time you need to, just lift your mat and do it right then and there, the floor is made of bamboo slats. You cannot die from kidney stones, it's not a socially relevant way to die for an aspiring anthropologist working on indigenous peoples' issues." I thanked him profusely because he made me realize it did not make sense to run the survey that our funding agency insisted us to do. I felt it would be very stupid asking children and youth at this time, "what type of CR do you have and where is it located?"

Late in the afternoon, my companion and I went to the public elementary school, which was used as an evacuation area. I brought the videocam with me. Thinking that I was a news reporter from ABS-CBN, the children took turns making funny faces while most of the women gave their best imitation of a Miss Universe wave in front of the camera. When my companion started to ask questions about what happened, everybody in the group shared their stories animatedly: where the bullets hit, how they ran, what they were able to bring with them, where they hid, how they fitted themselves in the foxhole and so on and so forth.

They all talked at the same time. One woman managed to get our attention by pounding her spoon into a tin plate exclaiming: "Ma'am! Ma'am! Ma'am! Paki-ingon kay Presidente Erap Ma'am! Padad-i mi ug bugas! Maski nabuslot na ni sa bala sa armalite among plato ma'am, payts ra gihapon ni kung adunay kan-on nga sulod ma'am! ("Ma'am, please tell Presidente Erap to send us rice, because even if our tin plates have bullet holes on it, they would still look good if they have rice on them!")"

God, I thought, how could they act toward what they have been through as if it was just like another comedy-drama show on TV? I asked them if it would be okay if they talked one by one so that their stories could be better understood and everybody would have a chance to be videotaped.

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