Desolated By Andrew A. Estacio
Swiftly riding along the highway of Victoria, Laguna, we enjoyed passing by the green horizon and the tranquil, bright sky above. Our jeepney ran in haste; the ride was cool and windy. Farms in Victoria expanded in hectares and the panorama it created was really calming. We, the Perspective staff, were headed to Batangas for a community immersion. At the back of the driver’s seat were a sack of rice, box of canned goods and some vegetables and perishables for our meals. Some members felt the mood for siesta and eventually leaned their heads to the shoulder next to them. They must have been tired of writing their articles and attending life-long journalistic lessons beforehand. While me, contemplating on what life had been to me as a staff member, my endeavors, and now, another integration with the community. Basic Masses Integration (BMI) was what they call this immersion activity. I recalled my first BMI was at a farm in San Benito, Victoria. There, we met Ka Yoli, representative of Masang Anakpawis. Looking at her countenance, she seemed like my grandmother, who used to work and cultivate our small farm, seemingly tired with wrinkles and a bit of scratches on her face, yet truly persevering. Ka Yoli told us her story. While listening to her, I was looking at the faces of my batch mates, expressing mixed emotions of surprise, awe and pity. She recalled, “dati na rin akong kinulong ng mga pulis noong ako’y nagra-rally.” Ka Yoli stood and even dramatized how she attempted to escape from the cell, “sinira ko ‘yung bintana, ‘tas nagkasugat-sugat ako. Buti nalusot ako nun, sabay takbo palabas. Tamo, kaya laki pa ng peklat ko ngayon sa braso.” Farmers in Victoria were victims of injustice. We did visit homes of the farmers and it was but tormenting to hear their sentiments. They were actually experiencing similar tribulations—no electricity, no education, lack of food and other resources, insufficient benefits and wages, and denying them of their lands they undyingly worked for. And it was a turning point of my life to set my feet into their shoes, truly difficult and sympathetic. We had to soil ourselves, walk through the mud, and plant in bare hands. Amidst the farm, the sky above was getting dark, the atmosphere suddenly blowing off strong winds. Though lucky for us, we didn’t do it under the heat of the sun.
Despite the coming drizzle, we continued to get our backs working and to bow to the ground, dip our hands deep into the mud and plant an area. But looking wide at the hectares, needless to say, the farmers had to double sweat and labor. Mang Ernesto, a farmer and a senior citizen, lamented in our interview, “Mga buwaya lang naman ‘yang gobyerno na ‘yan! ‘Di man lang kami matulungang mga magsasaka.” Our jeepney slowed down, passing through a shortcut alley straight to the municipal hall of San Juan, Batangas. Some woke up, raised their heads and got to prepare their cameras and notepads. Jil Caro, the Editor-in-Chief, busied herself, as usual, to call for the point person and make negotiations. Before we went down, I motioned first for a quick group picture. Part of the travel was to have ourselves documented as well. Setting aside our bonding, it was my first time to go inside and engage in a kampuhan. It was usual to progressive groups to put up a camping site in the vicinity of a government establishment. This was where they stay for months to serve as temporary headquarters for assembly, for organizing campaigns and mobilizations, and keeping track of government officials, either to negotiate with them for peace talks or lambast them with propaganda. The blue-covered camp was built next to the fence of the municipal hall. Inside were clothes, hanging on the bamboo-made scaffoldings. Baggage and some personal belongings filled the corners. There were placards and streamers leaning against the fence, which was walled with campaign tarpaulins, being read by passersby outside. Fifteen of us entered the camp. We sat on a papag and listened to Jona Capili. Her look reminded me of Gabriela Silang, indeed a virile morena. Then, she made a brief selfintroduction. She was a member of Samahan ng Magbubukid ng Batangas (SAMBAT) and a resident of Sitio Balacbacan. Bringing up her Sitio, which where we were headed to, she discussed its current adversity--one of the poorest rural areas in Batangas. Now, the whole place was demolished. An unfortunately wrecked community. She relayed us that people were still traumatized of the demolition. They did want visitors to come so as to alleviate their distress at least. Jona recalled how her home was ruthlessly shattered. Her husband and children had nowhere to go but to settle in living beside the highway with the other victims. Now, she was staying in the camp together with the activists, calling for justice.
After the short orientation, Jona went with us in our travel to the main destination. Along the way, the sky was already turning red. The sun set had begun. It was marvelous to see yet another panorama transform into a beautifully golden afternoon. Abe Tabing, our double-role news writer and photojournalist, was fond of capturing the pre-evening view, sunset transpiring above the grassland with a silhouette backdrop of Mount Makiling. The experience of traveling the countryside was refreshing and full of natural splendor. Laughter and elated screams bombarded the jeepney; Manong driver didn’t mind at all. Unforgettable it was when went through a roller-coaster ride, crossing an elevated hump that was so stiff, after reaching the highest altitude, we went extremely booming down the road. That would explain our extreme excitement to meet the people of Balacbacan. Yet upon reaching the place, the ambiance turned upside down. Squatter houses were along the highway side; barb wires fenced demolished sites; settlers were deprived of their homes; armed men were left and right, eyeing on us. We were prompted to act professional during the whole immersion. Being journalists, we had to be observant and sympathetic of the dreadful situation; we had to take away our comfort and sacrifice our security. It was about becoming the victim in order to get the genuine capture of story. Written on a post, these statements somehow welcomed us with an inconvenient truth: “CAMPOS DAYUHAN SALOT SA MAMAMAYAN NG SITIO BALACBACAN” “BINTONG MANALO TUTA NI CAMPOS” “CAPT MARIO KASALUTSALUTAN” Apparently, the message wanted to yell names of enemies who caused the destruction. This was what Jona was telling us. Frederico Campos III would always be the subject of stories. He was the landlord who mercilessly ordered the demolition of homes of hundreds of Balacbacan residents. The demolition, in fact, was part of project CALABARZON, under the Batangas Tourism Development, which was a scheme for rich tycoons to privatize lands.
Campos claimed he was the owner of Sitio Balacbacan area, yet he had no documents to prove that he owned the land. People disgusted how Campos and his allies fabricated and legitimized fake entitlements to own Balacbacan and exploit it for tycoons and investors; when in fact, residents lived there for almost a hundred years, and that they had documents that would support their right for residency. However, Campos was even befriended by the local government, fooled and blinded with the illusion of tourism and foreign investment. Night had already reached us. Highway 50:50, the temporary place of the demolition victims, had been lightened up by lamps and few electric lights. Those who lost their homes became squatters of the highway. What they did was to improvise their houses, patched with plywood and some remnants from their demolished shelter. Children were at the middle of the road, playfully roaming and running around with the dogs. Some were looking at our arrival. People seemed normal and busy in doing their activities for the night. Then, Jona ushered us to their chapel where people usually meet to discuss their issues. The chapel was not the one of grandiose sanctuary. It was only a small lot tented with old tarpaulins and galvanized roofs. Statues of Christ, Virgin Mary, Sagrada Familia and Santo Niǚo rested in front. There, people welcomed us and children prepared us our seats. Their smiles and hospitality were unexpected despite having downtrodden situations. Kids would sit on our laps and tell us who they were and what they wanted to be in the future. Funnily, they also wanted to take picture with us; Abe captured all the warm welcoming. The elders sit at the corner, watching their children approach us. What was overwhelming was when they went in front of the altar to sing us with a nursery rhyme they originally composed. Pictures would tell how candid our smiles were; their heartwarming vibes truly touched us. Afterwards, a woman at her 40’s, looking like an ardent protester, introduced herself. Elsie Lucero, Vice-President of Haligi ng Batangueǚong Anak ng Dagat (HABAGAT), opened us the extreme suffering of being demolition victims. She said that a relocation site was actually provided for the families by the side of Landlord Campos. However, there were no electricity lines and water supply in the said site. Residents were also refrained from planting trees and crops. Guards were deployed to check the people entering the site and visitors were prohibited to enter the area. Worse, they had
to follow curfew until 6PM, which limited the residents from fishing, their primary source of income. Ordeal was doubled for their freedom and livelihood were being compromised. Elsie emphasized that their maximum demand was to give their land back because it was their right. Rona Franca, UPLB University Student Council (USC) councilor was also there to relay us the issues in Batangas. Underside tourism and illusions of development, we realized that poverty growth and cases of human rights violation had risen in Batangas. For the sake of tourism, the local government actually implemented mechanisms on selling lands for big foreign investors, exactly the case of Balacbacan. It did not undergo due process nor proper negotiations. Grievances of people were never heard. Illegality persisted. They were deliberately shunned, betrayed, and their Sitio was malevolently scrapped from the map. Discussions were enlivening and provocative for that was when we realized how oppression really did happen. A man shed tears when he narrated us the actual demolition. Armed men in uniforms came to bulldoze the houses. Yet the dwellers opposed and rallied towards them. Some even held bolos, attempting to fight like it was a battlefield. Yet the military held more powerful arms and weapons to shatter the whole place. Soldiers ambushed the houses and disrupted unaware inhabitants; some were cruelly pulling dwellers out of their homes. Walls were being bludgeoned; sounds of crushing bricks and objects were horrifying and distressing. In just minutes, the military pulverized all houses, built through decades of sweat and labor. The rights to reside and to live in peace had also been pulverized. That day entailed tremendous outrage and grief. “Tinutukan ng baril ang anak kong panganay dahil kinukuhanan niya ng video ang nangyayaring demolisyon. Kawawa naman ang mga bata, takot na takot,� Emiliana Andaya lamented, a victim of the demolition.
Shame on Campos! Shame on the government!—were all we wanted to scream. To slap them with kasalut-salutan on posts was not enough for the people of
Balacbacan. We felt the fire blazing in us; we were enraged by the devil mind of the landlord and the shameful abandonment of the government. Nonetheless, night was getting late. We had enough roller-coaster emotions for the evening. Conversations and sharing engulfed us with so many realizations. During supper, Ginataang Sayote and fried Sinarapan served on a freshly cut banana leaf had filled our bellies. Eating in bare hands had never been fun except this one with the staff. There were many candid pictures of our eating session. Apparently, members were so naïve when not using spoon and fork. We actually had our simple dinner in the home of Jona’s relatives. Then, to be able to return to the chapel, we still had to cross a dark, labyrinthine shortcut instead of going straight through the road. Armed men were out there, vigilante of people who would appear at the highway at late night. EIC Jil and Princess Bulaclac, our Managing Editor, assembled us for a short assessment and planning for the next day. As expected, we had to burn the midnight oil again as that was normal for a student journalist. But anyway, the highlight was we would be enjoying the beach at six in the morning before doing the media coverage. Then after, as traditional, boys and girls needed to be separated when sleeping. I slept with my faction in a nipa hut ten meters away from the chapel. It was neither cold nor hot, but a throng of mosquitos were having their fiesta meal on us. Slap here, slap there, slap everywhere. That would explain why I had a bit of insomnia at that night. *** The saltwater was as warm as the welcoming sun. I loved how the shore had water rushing through my feet, as if it was yearning to pull me down to the ocean. I was thinking surreal at the shore. Having been awoken from a quick, shallow sleep, dreaming might have to extend itself in reality. But indeed, I loved the welcoming view of the sea. The whole landscape, it was all empty and blue. Jil suddenly interrupted my contemplation when she annoyingly yelled at me, asking me over to join her with her water escapade. Some members sat and meditated on the sand while the sun rise was coming.
After an hour of enjoying the water Elysium, we went back to the community and began doing the coverage. It was saddening to see again shattered walls and debris left and right. Demolished areas were fortressed; along with the barbwires were signage “Private Property, No Trespassing”. Military men in blue armor and riffles guarded the area. As we were taking pictures of the devastated houses, Abe attempted to capture an armed man at the distant. However, the officer made a threatening look. He pointed us his finger and yelled at us. At an instant, Abe turned down the camera; we immediately showed our Press IDs for media identification. A searing coldness of fear ran through my veins. But thank God! He let us pass the road, and he didn’t point us his riffle. The feeling was at the verge of death. We really condemned this awful militarization treatment for it would really threat a lot of people. Least thing we did was to become extremely careful in documenting the areas. There was a very poignant photo I captured, showing three boys, aged six to seven, standing beside a mound of crushed cements. One could see the misery expressed by their eyes while looking at the wreckages. They had their slingshots, one was necklaced; the other, dangling on the other’s hand. How awful to see them play amidst a background of ruins. At early age, they had to be denied of genuine happiness. They were supposed to be thriving in their homes. Yet their homes, their future, devastated. The staff continued to document the situation of the people. We came across some men fixing a faucet that was smashed by the military. We interviewed them and their sentiments were full of contempt against the extreme demolition, totally wrecking even their water source. There was only one faucet left working and they hoped that Campos would not bother doing another demolition. Noon was getting extremely hot. We went into the squatter houses and asked the dwellers for their welfare. Some were preparing for lunch; some were doing their siesta. Staff went into their respective area assignments for coverage. I was with Jil, Princess, and Abe. Some children followed us and were amazed on how we set up the camera and tripod. Then we took pictures with them. They were very jolly--chuckling and laughing
at their funny faces. I loved their smiles; it was a temporary relief of distress. Indeed, every ordeal would not bar genuine happiness. We heightened the bliss when we conducted a recreational program for the children in the afternoon. There were more than thirty who joined. Children were shouting and were thrilled of getting the prices. Chairs even tumbled during Trip to Jerusalem. They surged for their seats. The ground was rumbling as well during the “Group Yourselves” play. We, the staff, were just laughing and trying to discipline their perkiness. In the end, the children went in front to also present their program. They lined up and started singing us their song of grievance: “Bahay namin, laging ginigiba Presyo pataas, Sahod pababa… Meron ding karahasan, Kulang sa Edukasyon Kawawa naman, kawawa naman kaming mga bata Karapatan ng mamamayan, ipaglaban! Walang aalis sa Balacbacan!” That was a different perspective of a children’s song. Children had become militant because of injustices and oppression. The people were in the height of fighting for their right. We were so much astounded by their spirit of collectivism and fire to assert for the truth and what was right. The whole immersion was a view changer. During the final assessment, I shared the staff my realizations: immersion was a portal of discernment to things we thought ill-mindedly. We thought informal settlers were pasaway and must be kicked out from territory. We thought demolitions did equate economic development. Well, to set feet onto their ground would speak reality—demolitions equated human rights violation, injustice, sham development, and exploitation of resources for the benefit of a few.
After the day, we rode again the jeepney. Those last moments of goodbyes would never be forgotten. The greatest challenge now was to tell the world their stories, to put the side to them. To show them their perspectives would be an utmost justice, eventually catalyzing awareness and mobilizations. With the stand of the Balacbacan victims, may this story be the catalyst to end demolitions and ultimately, bring forth justice.
It was view changing. Mainstream media would always portray that residents of a demolition area are pasaway and must be kicked out of their places. They were portrayed with violence because of their resistance to stop the demolition. They were antagonized; demolition team was part of what’s legal. But the truth here is the other way around.