MINDANAO’S ETHNIC minorities have long been victims of state violence. In 1968, a massacre of 23 Muslims sparked the creation of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF). Conflict between groups like the MNLF and the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) would escalate under the late dictator Marcos’ Martial Law, costing thousands of lives. Nearly five decades later, President Duterte has ordered airstrikes, encouraged the harassment of dissenters, and ultimately declared Martial Law across Mindanao in 2017 to restore peace in the region.
As military-inflicted human rights violations have soared in their communities, Moro and Lumad activists tell the unheard struggles of indigenous peoples under both Marcos’ and Duterte’s Martial Law. Their experiences as both citizens and civic leaders will narrate how the AFP’s abuse has ruined lives then and now, as well as measure the prospect of achieving justice for its victims.
Scars never forgotten
At age 64, Abina Ramboa vividly recalls her days as a Moro high school graduate in Kiamba, Sarangani at the time of the Martial Law declaration in 1972.
“‘Pag pumupunta [ang mga sundalo] sa bahay…kunwari mangungumusta, iba yung pakay nila lalo ‘pag nakakakita sila ng babae. So tinatago kami ng parents namin at the age of 15 (When soldiers would visit homes pretending to do rounds, they had ulterior motives, especially if they saw girls. So my parents hid us at the age of 15).” Ramboa expounds that the threat of assault was so terrifying that her sisters hid in the mountains among the Lumads.
By 1976, Ramboa was working in General Santos City, where her family would reunite in 1979 after a massacre targeting her tribe led to her uncle’s death and her community’s displacement. As her mother and siblings evacuated by sea, they would witness the massacre of 10 teenagers by members of the AFP’s 57th Infantry Battalion and escape an airstrike before reaching safety. Ramboa described how her mother lamented at the sight of soldiers: “‘Maraming, marami,’ sabi…ng nanay ko, ‘Akala ko wala na akong makikitang military…[pero] andito rin pala sila!’ (‘There were so many,’ said my mother, ‘I thought I would no longer see the military, but they’re here too!’)”
Some of Ramboa’s siblings could not board the packed evacuation boat and fled to the town of Maitum, where relatives helped them reach General Santos. They hiked for weeks in the mountains to avoid soldiers by the roads. “Talagang papatayin yung mga bata…lalo na matunugan nilang Moro (The kids really would have been killed, especially if they were found to be Moro), ” Ramboa said, adding that her siblings had to rely on passers-by for food and clothing along their journey.
Under the 1972 Martial Law, General Santos City was beset with extrajudicial killings, then known as salvaging. As young activists at the time, Ramboa and one of her sisters formed a group of widows in the area to accompany residents if they were taken by soldiers for questioning. “Pag may pinick-up…20, 30, [na babae]…sasamahan nang saan sila dadalhin. (When someone is picked up, about 20 or 30 women would join them to where they are taken).”
However, while the women had once saved many from salvaging, Ramboa remarks that doing so today has grown difficult: “Ang pinakamadalas na kasi… wala nang tanong tanong pa… ‘pag nagustuhan [kang] patayin [ng military]…madali nalang ang pumatay (Usually, there are no more questions asked. If the military wants to kill you, it will be quick).”
Prisoners in their own land
Although Marcos’ Martial Law ended in 1986, military-perpetrated violence in parts of Mindanao persists to date. Suara Bangsamoro spokesperson Amirah Ali Lidasan recounts how massacres, sexual assault, mass displacement, and looting of ancestral homes are only some of many typical abuses.
As a Moro leader, she says her community was initially optimistic about President Duterte’s administration, believing his hunger to correct injustice in Mindanao would make him their champion. Lidasan even notes how Duterte had close ties with Moro groups and leaders in Davao. However, their hope was lost when airstrikes wrecked towns in Lanao del Sur, Sulu, and Maguindanao. “[Sa] pag-declare [ni Duterte] ng Martial Law sa Mindanao…nagbukas ng isip ang mga tao…that this is a very punitive president, at ang pinupunish niya is…the community (When Durterte declared Martial Law in Mindanao, people realised that this is a very punitive president, and he punishes the community),” Lidasan says.
Lumad communities of Southern Mindanao have also had their share of experiences under men with guns and violence. Rose Hayahay, a 21-year-old Lumad Bakwit teacher of Salugpungan, formed the Save Our Schools Network together with other Lumad school teachers as a movement against the forced closure of 176 Lumad schools during the 2017 Martial Law. Although the mandate was lifted in 2019, Hayahay shares that human rights violations such as forced incarceration, aerial bombings, and physical assault in their villages continue today—one of these incidents being an indiscriminate firing which led to the murder of a teacher in a school during class hours. While hundreds of such cases have been documented, many violations are left unreported by datus who struggle with seeking help.
These are just a few of the many cases that the indigenous people are subjected to under the AFP, anywhere in the country. “Hindi ito isolated case sa Mindanao…kapag dumidepensa ka sa lupa, karapatan, at hustisya… talagang babansagan kang terorista (This is not only an isolated case in Mindanao. When you defend your land, rights, and justice, you will be tagged as a terrorist),” Hayahay points out.
The hope for healing
Decades after the declaration of Martial Law in 1972, efforts to compensate the era’s survivors remain futile. Currently, the government’s Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board has only approved 14% of the 75,749 filed claims due to a lack of “substantial evidence.” Ramboa stresses the difficulty of filing legal papers and proof of victimhood under Marcos’ regime, given the power asymmetry between civilians and the police. “Marami ring na-deny na totoong biktima (Numerous actual victims were denied),” she points out.
Today, Mindanaoan ethnic communities remain vulnerable to the unceasing presence and exploitation by the military. Deprived of retributive and rehabilitative remedy from disparity and abuse, the pursuit of justice for Mindanaoan Martial Law victims has been left to civic efforts such as Ramboa’s, Lidasan’s, and Hayahay’s. Their collective persistence to defend their brethren-victims’ dignities to hold due entities liable is what keeps the trajectory of communal healing alive.
For Hayahay, the feeling of fear is inevitable, but she believes in using this as motivation to continue lobbying for justice on behalf of the indigenous people. “Kasi dapat hindi ito yung situation at kalagayan na nararapat para sa mga katutubo na gusto lang ay makapag-aral, makapagbasa, at makapagsulat (This is not what the lumads—whose only wish is to study, read, and write—deserve),” she emphasizes.
More than demanding justice for military abuse survivors, Lidasan remarks that her work especially aims to forge a conscious and involved society. They ask that the Filipino youth “extend [their] solidarity,” pay attention, and involve themselves in the realities of their Mindanaoan countrymen.
