Cagay-anons, Wake Up:
In 1999, Cagayan de Oro witnessed one of the most powerful grassroots environmental protests in Philippine history. At the forefront was Task Force Macajalar, an environmental coalition formed by dedicated citizens advocating for peace, justice, and ecological sustainability. In a dramatic act of civil disobedience, thousands of ordinary people—farmers, students, workers, nuns, priests, professionals, Lumad leaders, and concerned citizens—lay down on the streets fronting Manresa Farm in Upper Carmen. Night after night, we formed a human barricade to stop the relentless flow of 10-wheeler logging trucks—around 50 of them—rumbling through the city between midnight and dawn. These trucks, escorted by heavily armed guards wielding AK-47s, were transporting freshly cut logs from the upland forests of Cagayan de Oro, Bukidnon, and Lanao provinces.
We knew the risk. But we also knew we had no choice. We were prepared, even willing, to offer our lives if necessary to prevent the continued denudation of our dipterocarp forests—the lungs of Mindanao, the sacred cradle of Indigenous communities, and the very heart of our ecological balance. What compelled us to act with such urgency and conviction was not only the visible destruction but also the utter failure of our institutions to uphold the law.
The law is clear: under the Revised Forestry Code of the Philippines and various environmental regulations, logging is strictly prohibited in areas above 1,000 meters in elevation and in slopes with a gradient of over 50%. These provisions exist for good reason. Logging in such areas accelerates soil erosion, triggers massive landslides, poisons rivers, and endangers communities downstream with catastrophic flooding and displacement. Yet despite these legal safeguards, logging operations in these prohibited areas flourished—with impunity. Six powerful logging companies, well-connected and politically protected, continued their operations unchecked. Their activities were not only illegal; they were also immoral. The destruction they wrought was systematic, large-scale, and irreversible. The same corporations that denuded our forests were run by individuals who held positions of power—mayors, governors, even members of Congress. They had captured both economic and political power, turning public office into a shield for private plunder.
This grotesque alliance between political elites and corporate interests made law enforcement a mockery. The police and the military, who should have protected the environment and the people, stood down. Worse, some of them stood guard for the loggers. For the poor, the landless, and the Lumad, who relied on the forests for water, food, medicine, and spiritual sustenance, this was not only an ecological crime—it was a betrayal of justice. Our barricade was an act of collective defiance. It was also an act of love—love for the land, for the future generations, and for the truth. We believed, and still believe, that the forests are not commodities to be sold or sacrificed for short-term profit. They are living systems, ancient and sacred, that sustain all life.
Today, more than two decades later, the memory of that struggle remains vivid. The question we ask now is: have we learned? Are we still allowing corruption and impunity to destroy what remains of our forests? Are we finally ready to stand again—not just to protect the last trees, but to reclaim our dignity as a people, our future as a nation? Let that barricade in the 90’s remind us: change does not begin with power. It begins with conscience. And when conscience is awakened, no weapon—no AK-47, no corrupt lawmaker, no greedy tycoon—can silence a people united in truth and justice.
The destruction of our forests is no longer hidden in the shadows—it is taking place brazenly, even in areas that are supposed to be protected. In the heart of the Mt. Kalatungan and Mt. Kitanglad mountain ranges—sacred lands to many Indigenous communities—illegal loggers have set up fully operating sawmills. These are not makeshift operations. They are massive, well-organized, and heavily guarded, as if protected by their own private armies. Armed men, many of them with high-powered weapons, patrol the area, creating an atmosphere of fear and impunity. This is not just lawlessness—it is war against nature.
The situation is so grave that even our own air force helicopters dare not fly too low over the area. I know this not as hearsay, but from personal experience. During one reconnaissance flight meant to assess the deforestation and human activity in the region, I was aboard a military helicopter. The pilot refused to go near certain zones, explaining that there were credible threats of being shot down. Imagine that: in our own homeland, state aircraft cannot pass over what should be protected forests because armed syndicates have claimed them as their own.
This painful reality is a testimony to how deeply embedded and emboldened these illegal operations have become. It also reveals the frightening power that criminal elements now wield—not only over natural resources but over communities, institutions, and even the government’s capacity to act. These mountains are not just rich in biodiversity—they are also ancestral domains, spiritual sanctuaries, and vital watersheds. Yet they are being desecrated in broad daylight, under the watch of those who are supposed to protect them. Unless the rule of law is asserted with courage and moral clarity, we will lose more than trees. We will lose our heritage, our dignity, and the future of generations who will no longer know what it means to live in harmony with the Earth.
It became painfully clear to us that unless we acted with urgency, the destruction of our forest ecosystem would lead Cagayan de Oro straight into environmental catastrophe. The denudation of our uplands was not just a local issue—it was a matter of life and death for the people living downstream. Our forests, once lush and sacred, had been stripped away by relentless logging operations. These uplands serve as the natural buffer that regulates rainfall, prevents flooding, and sustains life. Without them, our city was left completely exposed.
During one of the human barricades we organized against illegal logging, I was joined by my high school classmate and dear friend, Dr. Rabindranath Polito—an internationally respected physicist and environmental expert. When I took him to the uplands and showed him the vast areas left barren by years of logging, he was visibly alarmed. He told me something that I would never forget: “One inch of rainfall in this denuded area will result in a one-meter-high flood once it reaches the urban center of Cagayan de Oro. Ten inches of rain would mean ten meters of water submerging the city.” This stark warning deeply resonated with me. He was not just speaking as a scientist; he was speaking as a friend who shared my concern for our people and the land we loved.
Taking his advice to heart, I continued with our environmental advocacy with even greater determination. I shared his scientific forecast publicly, warning the public through media that if we did not stop the massive deforestation, our city would face unimaginable flooding. I thought people would understand the urgency. But instead of taking it seriously, the media ridiculed me. The next day, I was on the front page of the local newspaper, branded as “a crazy environmentalist and prophet of doom.” We were mocked, dismissed, and even threatened. The logging industry was that powerful, backed by armed escorts and political influence. Truth had no place in a system ruled by profit.
Despite the ridicule, we pressed on. With Task Force Macajalar—a grassroots environmental coalition for peace, justice, and sustainability—we organized human barricades for more than a decade, from 1990 to 2000. We physically blocked the roads to prevent the passage of logging trucks, some of which were escorted by heavily armed guards. Thousands of us lay on the streets in peaceful protest. We believed that this form of people power was the only way to halt the further destruction of our forests.
Still, government response was slow, often complicit. But then a turning point came. In the year 2000, President Joseph Estrada visited Cagayan de Oro. During a dialogue with our group, I presented him with documents, photographs, and reports—solid proof that the logging operations were illegal and devastating. To our astonishment, the President took action on the spot. He immediately called then-DENR Secretary Antonio Cerilles and ordered a halt to the logging activities. That moment gave us a brief but important victory, showing what citizen action and evidence-based advocacy could achieve. But our warnings remained largely unheeded by the broader public. The logging continued in different forms, and our call for forest regeneration and sustainable land use was drowned out by the greed of a few. Then in 2011, tragedy struck. Typhoon Sendong unleashed massive flooding upon Cagayan de Oro. Thousands died, most of them the urban poor living in danger zones near rivers and waterways. These were the very people we had tried to protect. The wealthy loggers, on the other hand, were safe in their high-ground mansions, far from the reach of floodwaters.
That tragedy was not an act of nature—it was the result of decades of environmental abuse, institutional neglect, and public silence. If only more people had joined us in the barricades. If only the land had been healed in time. If only the voices of science, reason, and conscience had been taken seriously. Today, our fight continues—not just to prevent another disaster, but to inspire a new generation of environmental defenders who will no longer be silenced, who will listen to both the cries of the Earth and the wisdom of science, and who will act with the courage that this crisis demands.
The Battle is Not Over, Illegal Mining is Destroying Our Mountains.
While the people’s struggle against illegal logging has achieved significant gains, we now face a far more destructive force—one that is delivering the final death blow to our ecological integrity and environmental security: illegal mining. What is happening today in the uplands of Cagayan de Oro is nothing short of an ecological catastrophe. Our mountains, once the cradle of biodiversity and watershed sanctuaries, are being blown up by explosives in the relentless extraction of minerals.
Cagayan de Oro is rich in top-grade mineral deposits, and that has become both a blessing and a curse. Instead of being protected and utilized responsibly for the benefit of the many, these resources have attracted the greed of a few. Illegal mining operations continue unchecked, openly conducted with the support—or at least the silence—of those in positions of power. What is most alarming is the use of imported, high-end heavy equipment such as backhoes and drilling machines worth hundreds of millions of pesos. These are not makeshift, fly-by-night operations—they are highly organized and well-financed, clearly indicating powerful backers.
In 2016, as then Chairman of the Cooperative Development Authority and founder of “SULOG: One Sendong is Enough,” I also chaired Task Force Kinaiyahan, a coalition created to safeguard our environment and uphold ecological justice. We took bold action in implementing the Writ of Kalikasan issued by the Court of Appeals in 2013—a legal remedy designed to protect the constitutional right to a healthy environment. During one of our operations in Barangay Tumpagon, we apprehended three Chinese nationals operating an illegal mining camp. The site was not only equipped with high-powered firearms and hand grenades but also operated with shocking impunity. These foreigners were found to be in the country merely on tourist visas—a blatant violation of immigration and environmental laws.
They were detained, as they should have been, and justice appeared to be within reach. But to our dismay, they were released after just one week in detention. Adding insult to injury, a local barangay official—an elected Kagawad—had the audacity to escort them back to China, raising serious questions about the integrity of our justice system and the depth of political complicity. What followed was even more chilling and tragic. Just a month after the arrest operation, our esteemed environmental ally, Fausto Orasan, better known as Datu Sandigan—the respected Chieftain of the Higaonon tribe in Cagayan de Oro—was brutally murdered. His only “crime” was his unrelenting commitment to protect sacred ancestral lands and his courageous exposure of environmental crimes being perpetrated even by barangay officials. His murder sent a chilling message: that speaking truth to power and defending nature can cost you your life.
To this day, justice remains elusive. The case has gone cold. No one has been held accountable. It is painfully evident that what governs this country is not the rule of law but the rule of money. Environmental defenders are sacrificed while the destroyers of nature continue their plunder, emboldened by impunity and political protection. This is not just an environmental issue—it is a moral crisis. We are losing not only forests, rivers, and biodiversity; we are losing our humanity, our values, and the sacred balance that sustains life. If we do not act now, if we do not hold both the powerful and the complicit accountable, then we are condemning future generations to a desolate and dying earth.
Let this be a call to conscience. Let this be a call to action. We cannot allow the legacy of Datu Sandigan to be forgotten. His blood cries out for justice—not just for himself, but for the mountains, rivers, and forests he died protecting. Over the years, I have written several articles documenting the painful truths about the destruction of our environment in Cagayan de Oro. These were not mere opinions or hearsay—they were backed by facts, testimonies, and photographs. I have witnessed firsthand, and narrated in detail, the continued environmental degradation brought about by large-scale illegal activities, particularly illegal mining. These accounts have been supported with concrete evidence: photographs showing denuded forests, scarred mountains, polluted rivers, and the daily operations of heavy equipment blasting through our uplands.
Most recently, a new report from the City Environment and Natural Resources Office (CENRO) has surfaced, containing fresh photographs of continuing illegal mining activities in Barangay Tumpagon and its neighboring areas. These are not isolated incidents but part of a deeply entrenched system of environmental exploitation enabled by powerful interests and, tragically, by the apathy of many. The photos show the same pattern: mountains being torn apart by massive backhoes, forests replaced by barren landscapes, and communities left vulnerable to landslides, flooding, and the loss of biodiversity.
The question we must now confront is this: Shall we, the people of Cagayan de Oro—Cagay-anons—remain forever buried in our silence and indifference? Will we continue to look away while our mountains are blown up, our rivers poisoned, and our children’s future destroyed? Are we content to be mere bystanders while a few profit from the irreversible destruction of our natural heritage? This is not just an environmental issue—it is a moral crisis. The devastation affects our food security, water sources, health, and resilience against climate-related disasters. We have already witnessed tragedies like Typhoon Sendong, whose deadly impact was made worse by environmental degradation. Have we learned nothing? Must we wait for another disaster before we take a stand?
The time has come to rise above our apathy. Even the smallest voice raised in truth and conviction can spark a movement. Let us not be remembered as the generation that stood by while our land was destroyed. Let us instead be the generation that said “Enough,” and acted with courage and unity to defend our home. In the wake of devastating environmental disasters such as Typhoon Sendong, which claimed the lives of over three thousand and in Iligan, people in Cagayan de Oro and left untold damage to communities and ecosystems, we are once again reminded of the deep interconnectedness between human survival and the natural world. And yet, despite the painful lessons of the past, illegal mining continues to ravage the upland areas of our beloved city—stripping our mountains bare, polluting our rivers, and weakening our ecological defenses. If we do not act now with firm resolve, we may once again witness a Sendong-like catastrophe that will cost thousands more lives.
These illegal mining activities are not merely violations of the law; they are a brutal assault against the integrity of nature and the dignity of life itself. Massive machinery—backhoes, bulldozers, and earth movers—claw through our mountains daily, reducing once-thriving forests to wastelands. And behind this destruction lies a painful reality: the complicity of those in power who turn a blind eye, or worse, benefit from this exploitation. What is most appalling is that these operations continue despite repeated calls for their dismantlement, even in the face of documented evidence and official reports from environmental offices.
The time has come for us, the people of Cagayan de Oro, to raise our collective voice. Shall we remain forever buried in apathy? Shall we allow ourselves to be silenced by fear, or worse, by indifference? Let us now take a moral stand—not only to stop illegal mining but to reclaim our identity as stewards of creation. This is not just about laws and policies. This is about restoring our relationship with nature—seeing it once more as sacred, not as a commodity to be exploited for short-term profit. Renowned author and religious historian Karen Armstrong once said; “In the past, people knew that the natural world was sacred… We desacralized the world when we separated reason from faith and put profit above reverence. The environment is crying out for us to remember the divine in all things.”
Indeed, this desacralization—this detachment from reverence—has created a void where greed now reigns. As forests are flattened and rivers choked with silt and poison, we must ask: what have we lost in our unrelenting pursuit of material wealth? We have lost the sense of awe, the humility before creation, and the spiritual grounding that once guided Indigenous communities and traditional societies in their harmonious relationship with the Earth. This must change. A new consciousness is urgently needed—one that debunks the idol of materialism and embraces a deeper spirituality that honors the land, the rivers, the forests, and all living beings. This consciousness calls us to see the Earth not as a warehouse of resources but as a living, breathing sanctuary entrusted to our care. Let us be clear: the struggle against illegal mining is not merely an environmental concern. It is a moral and spiritual imperative. To allow the destruction of our mountains is to allow the destruction of our future. To remain silent is to be complicit. To act, however, is to reclaim our humanity and to align ourselves with the sacred rhythms of life.
We must now demand from our leaders the full enforcement of environmental laws. Confiscate the heavy equipment used in these illegal operations. Bring to justice those who profit from the death of our ecosystems. And above all, empower our communities—especially our Indigenous brothers and sisters—who have long protected these lands with wisdom, courage, and reverence. Let us not wait for another typhoon to remind us of what we have already lost. Let us act now, with courage and clarity, to protect what remains—and to begin the healing of our land, our people, and our shared spirit. Let this be our collective voice, rising above fear and indifference: “The Earth is sacred. Life is sacred. And we will not allow this destruction to continue.”
