Oppressed Yet Unbroken
Oppression wears many faces and strikes in countless ways, but few are as insidious as what happened to a tribal community forced to live with cattle—not by choice, but by coercion. This is the story of Panalsalan, Maramag, Bukidnon. It began on Christmas Day, 1969, when a wealthy Congressman from the Visayas came to the area—then still called a barrio. He arrived with smiles and so-called “gifts”: twenty pesos per family. In the 1960s, that was no small amount—equivalent to roughly P2,000 today. The gesture seemed kind, even generous.
But it was a lie.
A month later, the same powerful man returned—this time not with smiles, but with armed cowboys. He ordered the entire barangay to be enclosed in six-foot-high barbed wire. His justification? That the Christmas “gifts” were payment for the land. In an instant, the community’s home was transformed into a private ranch.
As a young student leader and editor of the school paper at a nearby state university, I witnessed this injustice firsthand. I wrote an article titled “A Barrio in a Cage.” It was not a metaphor. The barangay—with its chapel, elementary school, barangay hall, and hundreds of homes—was literally fenced in, caged like a concentration camp.
Life with cows became the new normal—if “normal” could ever describe such indignity. The cattle roamed freely, even inside classrooms, defiling the chapel and trampling the community’s cornfields and crops. For the Manobo people, this wasn’t just an inconvenience. It was a direct assault on their way of life, a brutal violation of their basic human rights—to food, dignity, and livelihood.
Worse, when they tried to defend what little remained—shooing away cows to protect their crops—they were branded as criminals. Nineteen Manobos were arrested and jailed in Maramag, charged with “malicious mischief” for simply trying to feed their families. This is what oppression looks like—not just barbed wire or lost land, but the quiet, relentless erasure of dignity.
So desperate was a father that he mixed poison into his family’s food—and when they all lay lifeless, he drank the rest himself.
As I walked around the barangay, I saw a house reduced to ashes. I was told a man had set it on fire—his own home—just to end it all. That was five decades ago. Yet the haunting image of a heavily fenced barangay, imprisoning some 500 Manobo families—victims of ruthless oppression and gross human rights violations—remains etched in the deepest corners of my mind.
At just 16 years old, as a young editor, I chose to speak out. I stood my ground and exposed the truth. For that, I was threatened by armed cowboys, branded a leftist, and thrown into jail. That was the extent of power wielded by the congressman involved. The red-tagging had no legal basis—it was plain harassment. And so, I was eventually released.
Today, as a journalist, I continue to raise my voice for the plight of our Indigenous Peoples—especially here in Mindanao, where they remain among the most oppressed, yet the least heard. I have come to realize that what happened in Panalsalan, Maramag, Bukidnon was just the tip of the iceberg. In Barobo, Valencia, Bukidnon, a 150-hectare ancestral farmland—legally won in court by the Indigenous community, aided by my two lawyer siblings—was violently land-grabbed by a wealthy and influential family.
Their private armed group, the Tagbagani, led by Col. Alexander Noble, installed a machine gun atop a hill, fenced off the area, and barred the rightful owners—the farmers—from entering. This, despite the strong stance of the Department of Agrarian Reform under then-PARO Amora, who affirmed that the tribe had been issued a Certificate of Land Ownership Award (CLOA). In 1997, we launched a Walk for a Cause to Manila, demanding that the rule of law be upheld. We brought our plea to Camp Crame, insisting that the Armed Forces of the Philippines support and protect the farmer-beneficiaries from armed displacement, as mandated by law.
With unwavering resolve to uphold the rule of law, we returned to Bukidnon and, through the spirit of People Power, entered the farmlands—fearlessly confronting the armed men of the Security Force. We dared them to shoot, standing firm not with weapons, but with courage—led by my late brother, Atty. Manuel “Maning” Ravanera, and the late PARO Amora. It was an act of extraordinary bravery, a defining moment of resistance that moved no less than then-President Fidel Ramos to order the rightful entry of the tribal farmers. This rare and remarkable victory is immortalized on YouTube in the documentary, Chronicle of Land Redeemed.
To our valiant brother, the late Atty. Manuel Ravanera—who offered his legal expertise freely and tirelessly in defense of Indigenous Peoples, always driven by love and the spirit of service—we offer our deepest salute and warmest embrace. But the struggle continues.
What remains most painful is what transpired in San Vicente, Sumilao, Bukidnon in 2016, when 5,000 hectares of the ancestral domain of the Manolo Tribe, under Bae Merlita Mayantao, were fenced off and converted into a ranch by the powerful Ramcar Corporation. When the tribe mounted a peaceful protest one early morning, they were met not with dialogue, but with bullets. The Tagbagani Security Force opened fire, killing three—including Bae Merlita’s own son—and wounding three others. To this day, not a single arrest has been made. Justice remains elusive when the oppressors are rich and powerful.
Shall we walk once more for a cause? As the sacred lands of Mindanao—ancestral domains of Indigenous Peoples—are rapidly converted for profit, leaving our Lumad communities hungry and impoverished, how much longer can we bear this unconscionable betrayal of justice? Shall we simply accept that the wealth of a few oligarchs and foreign corporations, in collusion with those in power, must come at the cost of displacing millions of Indigenous Peoples?
This is not just a travesty. It is a profound social injustice—one that flies in the face of the very Constitution that proclaims, “The State shall promote social justice in all phases of national development.” Yet this, too, risks becoming another hollow declaration—like the constitutional ban on political dynasties, ignored since 1987.
How much longer shall we allow these empty words to mask the suffering of our people?
What is deeply painful—and must become the urgent focus of our advocacy in a civilized and Christian society—is this: every time our indigenous leaders and defenders stand up to resist injustice, they are silenced with violence. They are killed.
Since 2016, over 100 Chieftains and Lady Chieftains have fallen victim to extra-judicial killings (EJKs). Many of them were passionate environmental defenders, protectors of God’s creation, and tireless advocates for social justice. These are not isolated tragedies; they are symptoms of a broken system. It is time to expose these horrifying injustices, and to stand united in the fight for what is right, what is true, and what is just.
We must ask ourselves: Are we Filipinos for oppression, or for liberation?
If we unite as one collective force for justice and freedom, we will prevail. El Pueblo Unido, Jamás Será Vencido—The People United Can Never Be Defeated. There are two kinds of people in the world today: The first are those who dedicate their talents and lives to serve the poor and the oppressed, to protect our vanishing environment, and to live with compassion for people, planet, prosperity, and peace. These are people of values. They live by the words of the Gospel: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet lose his soul?”
But in a society that glorifies greed and worships profit, such people are mocked, isolated, harassed, jailed—or even killed. This, in itself, is res ipsa loquitur—the thing speaks for itself. The second kind are those who use their gifts to chase wealth, fame, and power. They serve the rich and powerful, live for personal gain, seek instant success, and are often rewarded with admiration and political influence. They are praised for living in luxury, surrounded by material excess, while the poor and the planet suffer. Their vision is driven not by values, but by ego—the very ego Jesus warns us to renounce: “Deny thyself.”
We are called to a different path—a path of love, justice, humility, and service. We must deny the ego and embrace the mission. The time is now to rise, speak truth, and act with courage. In these challenging times, we Filipinos must reflect deeply on the words of King Solomon in Ecclesiastes: “Wealth, fame, and power are meaningless—utterly meaningless.” This was the conviction of a king who once had everything the world could offer.
What truly matters is how we embody love, compassion, and unity with all of God’s creation—especially in our service to the least among us. When we reject worldly illusions and embrace the sublime, we awaken to a higher consciousness—one that reveals what truly endures.
When we, as a people, live in solidarity with all life—especially with the poor, the oppressed, and our Indigenous Peoples—then the hour of liberation draws near. Oppression must give way to justice. Let us love one another, especially those who are marginalized and abused—for they are not trash, but human beings created in the image of God.
Yes, in defending the poor and the oppressed, and in protecting God’s vanishing creation, we may face danger. Some of our brave environmental defenders have even paid with their lives. But we do not fear. If that day ever comes—though we pray it does not—we believe we shall fall into the loving embrace of the Divine, the great Ocean of Consciousness that is all there is.
