MANILA, Philippines—Long in coming and highly anticipated, Edjop delivered in ways both profound and emotionally resonant, standing as a necessary and urgent film for our times. The life of its titular hero, Edgar “Edjop” Jopson, testifies to the greatness that Filipinos can achieve when they commit their lives to serving the poor.  

On cinematography

Visually, the film achieves artistic peaks in the scenes depicting the athletic exploits of Joyette. Jodi Sta. Maria, who played Edjop’s eldest daughter, is shown powerfully swimming in the open seas, or determinedly running across a bare but stunning landscape of snow.  

However, it is precisely here that some narrative weaknesses begin to unfold. While the camera work is polished, there are not enough specific markers regarding the places depicted and the people who fell within the ambit of Edjop’s life, sacrifices, and heroism. There are only places like “Manila”, “Mindanao”, “Norway.” 

Instead of anchoring the audience in real, identifiable spaces, the film relies on generic shots and fleeting mentions of names. Without tangible markers and signs, audiences unfamiliar with who Edjop was and what his life entailed struggle to connect the historical realities depicted in the film to the actual realities here and now. The visual and historical landscapes are strangely placeless, with the narrative treating geography as a backdrop rather than an active character in the class struggle. It is uncertain if this is all deliberate. If yes, the reasons are unclear given that the film is biographical. 

On  aesthetics and misleading historical depictions

While the cinematography, set design and the costume design were clearly thought through, they were not executed well enough to make the historical era more recognizable and to younger audiences unfamiliar with the visual and cultural markers of the period. There is much to appreciate about the visual quality of  these elements as they were utilized in the film,  but they failed  to ground the narrative geographically, turning the specific terrain of Edjop’s fieldwork into a guessing game where it is impossible to determine where the rice fields he worked alongside farmers were located, where he worked as a union organizer and what he accomplished in Mindanao where he really wanted to serve his  revolutionary duties. There was no mention of where the Jopson supermarket was located or where the La Tondeña strike took place.  

Then there’s the depiction of the rallies. The political demonstrations were shown looking like current-day mobilizations, but there were inaccuracies regarding activist conduct. Activists in the film were shown marching while wielding rocks, doing nothing but yelling, screaming and raising their fists—a portrayal that fundamentally misunderstands the reality of collective street actions or does them a disservice. 

(To be sure, the rock-throwing is not standard behavior. Protestors do not carry rocks as they march the streets because they do not seek violence. The mad scramble for rocks and throwing them at state forces or goons happens strictly and exclusively as an act of self-defense when protesters are attacked. Also, this happens mostly in picket line areas where workers and their supporters have to protect and defend themselves when security guards or other armed forces sent by companies attack strikes.)

Another misstep in the film’s visual and historical narrative occurs in a scene depicting the former priest Luis Jalandoni—one of the founders of the National Democratic Front and the Christians for National Liberation—running across a cornfield alongside Edjop while being chased by armed men. This is a severe historical inaccuracy.  Jalandoni, when he was still an active priest, was a veteran organizer and steadfast supporter of the sugar farm workers of Negros Occidental. The actual historical episodes of extreme danger he faced, including running for his life while being shot, involved private goons and warlord militias hired by sugar barons—and the fields through which they ran were vast, dense sugarcane fields, not cornfields.  

But the bigger error and, let it be said, insult, concerns the depiction of Jalandoni. In the film, he is portrayed as an overweight man who talks roughly and downs lambanog like your neighborhood lasenggo. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Jalandoni, who hailed from Bacolod, graduated with Latin honors and was a former collegiate basketball star from De La Salle University in Manila. He had an athletic figure, always dressed well, and spoke softly like the typical Ilonggo. He worked alongside Edjop in the La Tondeña strike, and always spoke highly of Edjop with affection. Had Jalandoni really been like how he was portrayed in the film, there would have been no issue. But Jalandoni – who died earlier this year – is still very much alive in the memory of so many because up to the end of his life he was a spokesperson for the revolutionary movement’s peace negotiation efforts and international work. They know Jalandoni was quite unlike how he was represented in the film. 

When it comes to characterization, the film struggles with depth due to its pacing and treatment of peripheral figures. Throughout the movie, real people are mentioned in passing, yet their importance or notoriety is not given the emphasis they deserve. Key comrades, historical figures and adversaries flit across the screen as mere names rather than fully realized forces that challenged or shaped Edjop’s worldview. While the central portrayal of Edjop captures his earnestness, intelligence and quiet but determined courage, the supporting cast often feels underwritten. 

The film was based on real events, and while there is no certainty that the producers intended the movie to be more than just a straightforward narration of the life of one of the more well-known among thousands of national democratic cadres who fought the Marcos dictatorship, at least laying down more specific markers would have immensely added to the texture and quality of the narrative, contributing to its value as a film that depicts the dark years of martial law and the role of the democratic mass movement in fighting the dictatorship. 

The portrayals of Edjop’s comrades—representations of  leaders of the Communist Party of the Philippines and the New People’s Army—are puzzling and disconcerting. A man of Edjop’s intelligence and capacity for compassion surely would not have wanted to be a member of either the CPP or the NPA if the leaders were all like the men in the film. 

These supposed representatives of the CPP and/or the NPA were sinister-looking, arrogant and practically stupid, reducing the revolution against the dictatorship as mostly military in nature. One specific character—one theory is that it was the former head of the CPP branch or office in the NCR, Filemon Lagman—who portrayed Edjop’s “political officer” or “commanding officer” when he first became a cadre of the CPP was particularly repelling: boorish, physically unattractive and on the whole a strong contrast to Edjop’s gentle handsomeness and intelligence.

Some say the man who confronted Edjop was the founder of the CPP and the first chairperson of the older organization, the Kabataan Makabayan (KM), Jose Ma. Sison. Again, the portrayal was negative.

Choosing to unsympathetically depict representatives—or representations of representatives—of the revolutionary organizations that Edjop pledged his life to appeared to be deliberate: perhaps a way to show that Edjop was so much better than the people he called comrades? If so, it is another misstep because it begs the question: why did Edjop remain steadfastly loyal and committed up to the very end to these revolutionary groups if all their leaders were quite unlike him, possessing none of the values he surely considered important?

In broad strokes, Edjop was vague when it came to establishing a timeline of Edgar Jopson’s martyrdom—his transition from the moderates of the National Union of Students of the Philippines (NUSP) to the ranks of the national democratic underground, his work among workers and peasants, and his eventual death. The film’s historical accuracy is undermined by its generalized presentation. By stripping away concrete geographical markers, specific dates following martial law and the dense political debates of the era, the film risks sanitizing history into a generalized myth.

True historical accuracy in revolutionary biographies requires revealing the specific names, concrete policies and the raw political economy of oppression—elements that are unfortunately muted in favor of a streamlined but somewhat muddled narrative.

Narrative focus and misplaced subplots

While the film bears the title Edjop, a surprisingly large chunk of its running time is devoted to the life of Joyette, the middle child and first daughter. Unfortunately, this creative choice introduces significant narrative clutter, and the possibly intended way of bridging past and present was not realized. 

Extended sequences follow Joyette’s personal life, including a failed relationship featuring scenes that feel entirely unnecessary to a political biography—specifically, an unneeded sex scene and a sequence where her former boyfriend borders on becoming physically violent. Rather than illuminating Edgar Jopson’s legacy, these cinematic tangents dilute the historical and political urgency of the film, leaving viewers wondering why precious screen time was diverted away from Edjop’s actual revolutionary work and underground organizing.

Even the closing scenes were devoted to Joyette and her current circumstances. No mention of what has become of the revolution Edjop lived for, or of the social circumstances that make Edjop and his activism still very relevant. The film could have ended on that note given that it was meant to a tribute  to the man. The film already made it   that Edjop believed in fighting for the poor was a duty that everyone must undertake; it’s unfortunate that this was not reiterated in the ending, because this would have driven home the message that Edjop’s decisions in life—as hard and difficult as they were—were worth it. That more than ever, defending the welfare of farmers and workers—like he did with his comrades—is urgent because the country remains more or less the same as when it was under martial law.

It is understandable that Joyette was intended to serve as the narrative lens or framing device for the film, but she ultimately proves to be ineffective in this role. Throughout much of the story, she is depicted as largely indifferent to her father’s revolutionary history. This comes into sharp focus when she interacts with her siblings.

While Joyette comes off as clueless, flippant, or dismissive, her siblings demonstrate a profound, lived connection to their father’s legacy: Noy carries the heavy, trauma-filled memory of being abducted by state forces alongside Edjop and witnessing his father being brutally tortured. Risa, who was just a baby when Edjop was martyred and therefore has no direct personal memory of him, is deeply invested in preserving his legacy as a towering figure of the Filipino people’s struggle against the dictatorship. In a brilliant touch, Risa even makes a cameo in the film as a worker at La Tondeña during preparations for their historic strike, defying Marcos’s draconian bans against protests and collective action.

In stark contrast, Joyette spends most of the film focused inward—seeking herself through sports.   

The domestic reduction of a revolutionary life

When Joyette finally comes to accept her father and honor his memory toward the end of the film, she processes his life as an exclusively personal and familial revelation. She cannot see beyond the domestic sphere, compressing the vast, historic meaning of Edjop’s life and work simply into a “love of family.”

While family love was undeniably real and deeply felt—Edjop deeply loved his parents, his sisters, his wife Joy, and his children whom he barely saw—reducing his life to domestic sentimentality fundamentally misrepresents a revolutionary. Edjop’s love for his family was fierce and genuine, but inevitably it had to come second to his overarching commitment to the cause of freedom, the defense of the oppressed and the collective struggle for social justice. By framing his martyrdom through Joyette’s narrow, depoliticized lens, the film domesticates a revolutionary, stripping his sacrifice of its wider systemic and historical meaning. 

A faultless cast: Elijah Canlas and Kakie Pangilinan

On the acting front, Elijah Canlas as Edjop and Kakie Pangilinan (as Edjop’s wife, Joy) deliver brilliant performances. Canlas’s portrayal is grounded, deeply sincere and emotionally resonant. While he handles the harrowing scenes of interrogation and brutal torture with gravity beyond his years and previous acting experience, his acting skills truly shine in the quiet, intimate moments with Joy, his sisters, and his parents.

These scenes represent one of the film’s greatest strengths, illustrating a revolutionary’s personal relationships and the vital, grounding role of family support in the life of any activist.  Among the most moving moments is the scene where  Edjop apologizes to his father for “not being the son he should have been,” prompting a heartbreaking, prophetic joke from his father that he would outlive his only son. The father later declares his profound pride in Edjop, expressing gratitude that the latter did not listen to him when he originally tried to dissuade him from continuing his activism.

Another affecting scene  is the somewhat desperate and wordless embrace between Edjop and Joy when they are finally reunited after Edjop’s escape from his military escort. Pangilinan is exceptionally effective here, conveying immense emotional weight through her silence and tears—encapsulating the raw worry and unspeakable fear that every activist’s family carries: the terror that a loved one might not return alive the next time they walk out the door.

These domestic and marital scenes strike a deeply resonant chord among activists in the audience. They serve as a powerful reminder that we still live in dangerous times where fighting injustice means facing grave threats at the hands of state forces—abduction, torture, death and enforced disappearance. The film highlights that activists are bound not only by rigorous ideological ties, but also by deep, human love. At the same time, it underscores that the strongest revolutionary bonds are always built on the foundation of shared political histories and collective experiences.

On the whole, there is zero room to criticize the cast and their performances: Edjop’s sisters, and parents; the actors who portrayed people Edjop interacted and worked with; even the actors portraying the film’s antagonists—such as the notorious military general Aguinaldo and the head of the Metrocom team who relentlessly hunted Edjop up until that fateful day in Skyline—played their despicable roles with chilling effectiveness.

In the meantime, praises  heaped upon Jodi Sta. Maria are entirely justified. While calling her one of the best actors of her generation is accurate, it is perhaps even truer to say she is already among the finest actors across any generation in the history of Philippine cinema.

Finally, one of the most notable achievements of the film’s screenplay is its handling of political discourse. Too often, radical political cinema falls into the trap of “tibakspeak”—the stilted, dogmatic jargon that can sometimes sound off-putting or “cringe,” even to seasoned activists when translated to the screen. Edjop gracefully avoids this failing.

The dialogue throughout the film is real, organic and grounded. Even when Edjop delivers lines that could easily be considered as traditional movement rhetoric—speeches centering on the absolute necessity of mass organizing, ideological grounding, and empowering the poor to take their destiny into their own hands—they never sound like hollow slogans delivered mechanically. Because Canlas delivers them with profound emotional and intellectual conviction, these moments feel entirely sincere, capturing the authentic cadence of a young leader whose revolutionary practice was guided by his own innate goodness.

Ultimately, Edjop serves as an introduction to an important figure of the Philippine struggle for genuine freedom and social justice, but it leaves viewers yearning for a bolder, sharper cinematic commitment to the concrete historical truths he died defending. Edgar Jopson, the national democrat, will continue to represent the best of the Revolution he embraced and serve. #

Retrenched workers reported to Davao City councilor Pamela Librado in a consultation on Sept. 16 that NCCC allegedly failed to release the three remaining tranches of their separation pay. They only received an initial payment on July 24 and the last tranche should have been released on Sept. 15. 

The workers were retrenched effective June 8 following a notice issued in May 2026. 

NCCC announced the closure of several branches in 2026 to streamline operations amid changing market conditions.

NCCC Mall VP, formerly Victoria Plaza, also closed Dec. 31, 2025, after 32 years of operation. The company acquired the property in 2019, but Robinsons Land announced its acquisition for redevelopment in April 2026.

Anna Liza Tigol, a former NCCC inventory clerk who worked for the company seven years, said about 300 workers were retrenched from different branches. 

“We were expecting payments every 15th and 30th. It was supposed to start on July 15 and July 30, but they only paid us once, on July 24,” Tigol said in Cebuano.

The workers did not receive the payments scheduled in August and September. They have repeatedly sought updates from the company’s human resources office, but to no avail. 

“What we really wanted to hear was a statement from the employer, from Sir Lafayette Lim and Ma’am Ivy Michelle Lim,” Tigol said, referring to NCCC executives.

The workers followed up with the company on Aug. 19, but they did not get a definite schedule for remaining payments.

Tigol said fellow retrenched workers could have understood difficulties the company faced, but management should have communicated directly with them about the situation.

“At least P5,000 every week until the balance is paid would’ve been okay, just so we have a way to sustain our family needs,” Tigol said.

Quitclaims, unpaid contributions

The workers questioned the quitclaims they were asked to sign when they received the initial payment.

Tigol said her quitclaim indicated a total amount of P51,688, but she initially received only P15,000. She said fellow workers were told they needed to sign the quitclaim before receiving the initial payment.

Some workers signed, while others refused, she said. 

“I told my colleagues not to sign the quitclaim because the total amount due them was specified there. If we only received a portion, then that is the amount we should sign for,” she said.

Mark Cabel, who worked for NCCC nine years, gave a similar account. 

“Why are we being asked to sign the quitclaim before receiving the full separation benefits,” he asked. 

Cabel’s separation benefit was calculated at about P61,015 under the company’s 50-percent computation. He estimated he would receive the full amount of about P124,000.

Cabel initially signed the quitclaim after being informed his check would not be released without his signature. Later, he tore up the document sensing the arrangement was off. 

Retrenched workers also questioned their mandatory contributions to the Social Security System (SSS), Pag-IBIG, and PhilHealth, saying their May and June contributions were not reflected on their records. 

Tigol said it has been causing them difficulties accessing loans and other benefits. 

In a Facebook statement, NCCC remained open to dialogue with the retrenched workers. 

“We assure our affected employees that NCCC is committed to fulfilling its obligations. The company continues to work through the established process for the release of payments,” the statement read.

The company did not specifically address the workers’ allegations regarding quitclaims or government contributions in its statement.

City Council to take up workers’ concerns

Librado said her office would formally elevate the issue to the City Council after a committee hearing between the NCCC and the concerned parties is held.

“Since we have the Workers’ Protection and Development Ordinance and partner agencies involved, we might be able to discuss the situation through an interagency meeting involving the executive branch and other local government agencies such as CSWD, DSWD, and PESO,” Librado told the retrenched workers in Cebuano.

Lawyer Darwin Tenaja, who assisted the workers during the consultation, said the workers’ concerns could serve as a basis for the City Council to examine measures that could further protect workers affected by retrenchment.

“The purpose of this is to ensure that, in the future, this kind of situation won’t happen again,” Tenaja said, adding that the City Council could work on measures to protect workers affected by similar situations.

Meanwhile, Bagong Alyansang Makabayan-Southern Mindanao Region (BAYAN-SMR) spokesperson Rauf Sissay said the workers’ concerns point to broader questions about employee wage and benefits management.

“NCCC must ensure that their employees, both former and current, are well taken care of. They must be provided with adequate benefits. The workers should not be shortchanged,” Sissay said in Cebuano.

He said workers have the right to seek assistance from the City Council, but government intervention should also address workers’ longer-term security challenges.

He called on the Department of Labor and Employment (DOLE) to intervene and ensure that the workers’ claims and benefits are properly addressed.

“Comply with the requirements for your workers. They should not be left hanging.” 

The affected workers are now waiting for the City Council’s next steps, including the proposed committee hearing. (davaotoday.com)

That thought stayed with me after speaking recently before Filipino and Vietnamese lawyers, legal academics and law students at a conference jointly convened by the National Union of Peoples’ Lawyers (NUPL), the International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL) and the Vietnam Lawyers’ Association. 

We lawyers tend to see the South China Sea through maritime zones, sovereignty claims, UNCLOS provisions, arbitral awards and geopolitics. 

Governments see national interest and security. Military strategists see sea lanes and strategic positions. 

But for the fisherman, it is simpler.  The sea is his workplace. It is where he finds food and income. It is an inherited way of life. 

So perhaps we should begin there. 

What happens to people who depend on the sea when competing maritime claims, environmental destruction and coercion converge? 

A fisherman driven from his traditional fishing ground loses his livelihood. Another may reach it only to find the reef destroyed and the fish gone. 

Different causes. Same consequence. A family loses food and income. 

That is why the maritime dispute cannot be reduced to who gets to draw the line. The law must also ask who gets to live from the sea. 

UNCLOS is our starting point. Often called the constitution of the oceans, it is not merely about dividing maritime space. It also imposes obligations concerning conservation, sustainable use and protection of the marine environment. 

There is a simple reason:  Fish don’t read maps. 

Neither do currents, larvae or pollution. Ecological damage does not stop at a line on a chart. 

For the Philippines and Vietnam, this makes cooperation both possible and necessary. Our countries may have different positions on particular maritime features and claims, but we can still cooperate on fisheries, marine science, environmental protection, search and rescue, and incident prevention—without prejudice to sovereignty or sovereign rights. 

The 2016 South China Sea Arbitration offers an important lesson. 

The Tribunal did not decide sovereignty over land territory or delimit a maritime boundary. Those limits matter. But it recognized Scarborough Shoal as a traditional fishing ground for fishermen of several nationalities, including Filipinos, Chinese and Vietnamese. 

Traditional fishing is therefore more than commerce. It represents a community’s longstanding relationship with the sea. 

The Award also found China responsible for breaches of UNCLOS obligations concerning protection of the marine environment, including endangered species and fragile ecosystems affected by destructive harvesting. 

For environmental lawyers, the implication is clear: The reef can become evidence. 

Declining catches can be measured. Traditional fishing patterns reconstructed. Satellite images can establish physical changes. Vessel tracking can show movements. Underwater surveys, photographs and videos can corroborate testimony. 

Science is not an accessory to environmental litigation. It is evidence. 

The Philippines already has substantial legal tools. The Constitution recognizes the right to a balanced and healthful ecology and requires protection of the nation’s marine wealth. The Fisheries Code, as amended, provides a framework for conservation, management and enforcement, including against illegal, unreported and unregulated fishing. 

Vietnam likewise has its 2017 Law on Fisheries and 2020 Law on Environmental Protection, including provisions on resource restoration and community participation. 

Different legal systems, but considerable common ground: conservation, sustainable use, environmental protection, fisheries management and community interests. 

As in several other concerns, the bigger problem is not always the absence of law. It is the distance between rights on paper and protection on water. 

A fisherman may have a recognized livelihood interest and still be powerless before a larger foreign vessel. 

A government can file a diplomatic protest.  But a diplomatic protest does not repair a damaged boat, heal an injured fisherman or replace lost income. 

For the fishermen, legal classifications can also seem painfully academic. 

A water cannon hurts regardless of the vessel carrying it. A confiscated net is still a confiscated livelihood. A blocked fishing ground still means an empty boat. 

The law must therefore examine conduct and consequences, not merely the label attached to the vessel. 

The vulnerability is shared. 

In September 2024, Vietnamese fishermen near the Paracel Islands were reportedly assaulted by Chinese law-enforcement personnel. Ten fishermen were reportedly involved; all were injured, three reportedly suffering broken limbs. Their equipment was reportedly damaged or seized, and about four tons of fish were reportedly taken. 

Vietnam protested. The Philippines also condemned the reported assault. 

In December 2025, Filipino fishermen near Escoda or Sabina Shoal reportedly faced water cannons and dangerous maneuvers by Chinese Coast Guard and maritime militia vessels. About 20 fishing boats were reportedly involved; three fishermen were reportedly injured, two vessels damaged and anchor lines cut. 

The incidents should not be treated as legally identical. Each must be independently established and assessed. But the human reality is difficult to miss. 

The Vietnamese fisherman near the Paracels and the Filipino fisherman in the West Philippine Sea may face different legal circumstances. Yet both can become civilians caught between competing assertions of maritime power. 

This is where Philippine-Vietnamese cooperation can become meaningful. 

The two countries have established mechanisms for maritime incident prevention and management and coast guard cooperation, including a hotline. Their coast guards have conducted joint exercises, including search-and-rescue activities. 

In June 2026, the two governments reaffirmed cooperation and agreed to explore further collaboration in marine scientific research and environmental protection. 

Good. But cooperation must reach the fishing boat. 

A coast guard hotline is useful. But fishermen also need a lawyer’s telephone number. 

When a boat is damaged, someone must know how to document it. When a fisherman is injured or detained, someone must know what remedies are available. When a reef is destroyed, someone must know how to preserve the evidence. 

Filipino and Vietnamese lawyers can build networks for rapid legal assistance, incident documentation, evidence preservation, legal monitoring and, where appropriate, strategic litigation. Depending on the facts, lawyers may have to consider fisheries proceedings, criminal or civil actions, international mechanisms, diplomatic channels or public-interest litigation. 

The point is not to litigate everything. It is to find the legal avenue that can actually deliver a remedy. 

Because the fisherman does not need a beautifully written pleading that ends with no protection. He needs his boat repaired, his injury addressed, his livelihood protected—and his fishing ground preserved. 

This should also change how we teach maritime law. Law students can memorize UNCLOS provisions and study cases and doctrines. They should.  But the sea is not a textbook. 

It has currents, reefs, weather, fishing gear, engines, navigation and communities waiting on shore. A future maritime lawyer should know what UNCLOS Article 192 says. 

But that lawyer should also understand what a destroyed coral reef means to a fishing family. 

There is a difference between knowing the law and knowing what the law is for. 

The South China Sea will remain contested. Sovereignty will remain important. The maps will remain. But the sea is more than a boundary. 

It is a living ecosystem. A workplace. A source of food. A community’s inheritance. 

The Philippines and Vietnam do not have to settle every sovereignty question before protecting fishermen. We do not need identical legal systems before sharing scientific information or assisting vulnerable coastal communities. 

We can cooperate where cooperation is possible. Start with fisheries science. 

Environmental monitoring. Search and rescue. Evidence preservation. Incident prevention. Community legal assistance. 

The larger political questions can wait. The fisherman cannot. 

Somewhere along the Philippine coast, before sunrise, a fisherman will push his boat into the water.  Somewhere along the Vietnamese coast, another will do the same. 

Neither will be thinking about maritime doctrines. 

They will be thinking about the weather, the fuel, the nets, the catch—and the family waiting for them to return. 

That is where the law must arrive. 

Not merely on the map. Not merely in the diplomatic note. Not merely in the courtroom. 

At the fishing boat. Because there is little comfort in winning a legal argument over the sea if the fisherman can no longer safely sail it. 

And what is the point of defending the boundary if the sea within it is dying? 

The law of the sea should ultimately be measured not only by where the line is drawn, but by whether the fisherman can cross that water safely—and whether, when his children take his place, there will still be a living sea beneath their boat. (davaotoday.com)

DAVAO CITY, Philippines—Today, Sept. 20, the medical doctors will have the wreath-laying before the monument of Dr. Jose Rizal. We will once again honor a man who studied medicine not merely to heal eyes, but to examine the sickness of an entire nation.

Let us admit it: Rizal has been written about endlessly as “national hero.” But within our own profession there is a more precise description of him—he was the first diagnostician of colonial Philippines. 

In the Noli and the Fili, he did not merely caricature the friars; he catalogued the symptoms: corruption, slavery in the name of religion, the prostitution of the intellect. He even supplied the terminology himself—“social cancer.” In clinical language, Rizal took a history, reviewed the outward systems, and proposed a treatment: reform, education, the correction of institutions. The present day physicians also advocate these in the spirit of accountability and justice.

But every physician knows the limitation of a diagnosis: it may be correct, and the patient may still refuse to believe it.

This is where Andres Bonifacio enters.

What our ceremonies often miss is this: before Rizal was ever shot at Bagumbayan, the pathology report had already been written—in the patient’s own language. 

In 1896, in the single issue of the newspaper Kalayaan, Bonifacio—writing under the pen name Agapito Bagumbayan—published the essay “Ang Dapat Mabatid ng mga Tagalog” (What the Tagalogs Should Know). Here the difference between the two healers of the nation becomes clear. If Rizal revealed the disease through characters like Padre Damaso, Bonifacio itemized it, one entry at a time. Three hundred years, he wrote, the Tagalogs had “supported and sustained the race of Legazpi,” and the repayment was treachery, false belief, and dishonor. Reason, he argued, would now show the Tagalogs the “separate, self-reliant road” they must take. 

Read it carefully: he named the disease, enumerated the symptoms, and identified the source. The God of the friars, he said, was not the true God who accepts no offering of human sweat and tears. In plain terms, Bonifacio concluded that the “social cancer” Rizal had described was not a fever brought by the times, but an infection deliberately spread by a system that profited from it.

And here Bagumbayan enters the story.

It would be inaccurate to say that Rizal’s execution “awakened” the nation in a simple sense. The Revolution had already broken out in August 1896, four months before the execution. The treatment had begun before the autopsy. But the shooting of Rizal on December 30, 1896 supplied the final piece of evidence. 

As Britannica puts it, Rizal’s public execution “so enraged and united Filipinos as to make permanent retention of power by Spain clearly impossible.”  In our own idiom: many Filipinos then, like many patients today, hesitate until the biopsy result is in. The firing squad at Bagumbayan was the biopsy. It revealed the tumor as malignant and unresponsive to palliative reform.

There is one more detail almost never mentioned on occasions like this, and for us physicians it is the most moving of all. After the execution, Bonifacio translated Rizal’s final poem—Mi último adiós—into Tagalog, giving it the title Pahimakas. Consider what this means. On one side, a physician trained in Europe, a graduate of Madrid and Heidelberg, with degrees and medals. On the other, a clerk from Tondo with no formal medical education. Yet in that moment the two charts merged: the clerk read the physician’s final orders and transcribed them into the patient’s own tongue. There is no clearer image of professional solidarity in our nation’s histor—and it is precisely the spirit of Medicine Week.

One caveat belongs in an honest account, as it would in an honest chart: some scholars, notably Glenn May, have questioned the provenance of both “Ang Dapat Mabatid” and “Pag-ibig sa Tinubuang Lupa,” arguing the texts “do not deserve the respect that historians have given them” over the years. But Dr. Pio Valenzuela—a man inside the Movement, the very man who proposed the name Kalayaan—attributed both works to Bonifacio, and as one scholar notes, “there is no obvious reason why he should pretend it was Bonifacio if it was not.”  The lesson for us is this: even Bonifacio’s texts, like Rizal’s retraction, are contested ground. But as in medicine, what is asked of us is to weigh the evidence before us—not to assume the outcome we wish to be true.

And so, as we lay our flowers at the foot of the monument, let us put to ourselves the question that Rizal and Bonifacio together bequeath to every generation of physicians:

If colonial Philippines was the patient then—who is the patient before us now?

Perhaps it is time someone wrote our own generation’s “What Filipinos Should Know” about health. Let us name the symptoms plainly: the maldistribution of physicians and nurses toward the cities, the contractualization of our health workers, the crushing out-of-pocket costs borne by the Filipino patient, the barangay health stations without medicines. We can no longer behave like the friars who pretended there was no sickness while profiting from the sick.

Rizal made the diagnosis. Bonifacio itemized the chart and wrote it in the patient’s language. The question before all of us now, my colleagues in the Metropolitan Davao Medical Society, is this:

What will you sign on this generation’s chart? (davaotoday.com)

Hands Off Mindanao Youth Activist Network and its affiliated organizations decried the continuing attacks on activists, repression of student rights, declining public investment in education, and lack of accountability in governance under President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. 

Fifty-four years later, the atrocities sown during the dark years of martial law persist, carried out with different tactics but with the same disregard for basic human rights. 

Mawing Pangadas, convener of Hands Off Youth Activists Network, said attacks against young activists in Davao continue through intimidation, harassment, and red-tagging.

Pangadas cited the incident when the Philippine National Police (PNP) in Cateel, Davao Oriental, posted an advisory on its official Facebook page on May 27, identifying students and activists in the Davao Region as “Active Wanted Persons.” 

The post was later deleted, but student leaders and progressive groups called for accountability over the baseless labeling. (https://davaotoday.com/headline/up-student-leaders-activists-slam-wanted-persons-post/) 

“This can’t be fixed with a mere apology, they need to be held accountable for what they did to these youth,” Pangadas said in Cebuano.

Pangadas, also a victim of “trumped-up charges” under Marcos Jr., accused the administration of using the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC) to target young activists.

He said funds for NTF-ELCAC should instead be directed toward communities in need.

“Instead of listening to the youth and addressing their grievances, Marcos Jr. resorted to intimidating them. It seems Marcos Jr. is afraid of young people who are fighting for their cause,” he said.

In July 2022, Davao City police arrested Pangadas and his brother Ismael, after they attended a State of the Nation Address (SONA) protest in Freedom Park. 

The brothers were apprehended while waiting for a jeepney after the protest, with police allegedly not presenting a warrant. (https://davaotoday.com/human-rights/after-sona-protest-vs-bbm-davao-police-arrests-ip-brothers-sans-warrant/) 

In May 2023, a Tagum Regional Trial Court acquitted the Pangadas brothers and three teachers of human trafficking charges, ruling that the prosecution’s evidence was insufficient to establish their guilt beyond reasonable doubt. (https://davaotoday.com/human-rights/court-acquits-lumad-brothers-3-teachers-from-human-trafficking-charges/) 

Campus press repression, education funding

For Elijah Velasco of the National Union of Students of the Philippines-Davao (NUSP-Davao), the problems confronting students go beyond funding. It includes restrictions on their rights to organize and protest.

“Protesting is an independent expression of dissent. It’s an exercise of student advocacy without interference from school administrations,” Velasco said in Cebuano. 

He also raised concerns over restrictions on student organizations in some schools, barriers to student-council elections and the lack of adequate mental-health services.

Velasco cited the situation at Davao del Norte State College, where he said nearly 10,000 students are served by only three guidance counselors. 

He added that student publications continue to face pressure, citing allegations of red-tagging against Ateneo de Davao University’s Atenews and the removal of the executive board of the University of Mindanao’s Primum following a political statement on EDSA.

“Just a reminder that being a journalist is not apolitical, it is not neutral. Silencing journalists are wrong, that is a form of repression,” Velasco added. 

Cobbie Canda of Kabataan Party-list Southern Mindanao (KPL-SMR), questioned Marcos Jr.’s announcement in his 5th SONA that education is its administration’s top priority.

“If education is truly his number one priority, why are there budget cuts in the education sector?” Canda questioned.

Drought, militarization 

The concerns extended beyond schools and into Indigenous communities and environmental issues.

Kat Dalon of Sabokahan Unity of Lumad Women said communities affected by severe heat and drought needed government assistance and subsidies, but instead faced increased militarization.

She alleged that military units are deployed in Indigenous communities, pressuring residents to surrender or seek clearance from authorities.

Dalon also raised the killing of Nenita Buscada in Malaybalay City, Bukidnon on June 15, which described as deliberate rather than collateral.

The Philippine Army acknowledged that soldiers from the 88th Infantry Battalion mistakenly shot Buscada, who was killed while gathering wood in Sitio Mahayag, Barangay St. Peter. Her husband was wounded in the incident. The battalion commander apologized to Buscada’s family. 

“There is no reason for us not to continue. There is no reason to surrender., there is no reason to clear our names, because fighting is not a crime. Especially when we are repressed, especially when we are killed, especially when our rights are violated,” Dalon said in Cebuano.

Panalipdan Youth Davao representative Juliana Garcia also linked environmental concerns to government policy, particularly the expansion of the critical minerals industry.

Garcia criticized Executive Order No. 122 and raised concerns over the entry of foreign mining companies and the environmental and community impacts of large-scale mining.

“The Philippines is indeed rich, but the Filipino people continue to suffer because of corporations that even our government supports,” Garcia said in Tagalog. 

She also linked the effects of extreme heat and climate change to government spending, saying funds should instead be directed toward climate adaptation and relief for affected communities.

Critical minerals and U.S. military presence

Meanwhile, League of Filipino Students-Davao (LFS-Davao) chairperson Heroine Fernandez criticized the Marcos Jr. administration’s push for the Philippines’ critical minerals industry under the Pax Silica initiative.

Fernandez acknowledged the administration’s argument that the initiative could generate jobs but questioned whether the economic benefits would outweigh its potential effects on communities and the environment.

“It is true that many jobs will open because of Pax Silica. But the question is, does the creation of these numerous jobs outweigh the impact it will have on us here in the Philippines?” Fernandez asked. 

She also linked critical minerals to the global competition between the U.S. and China and the use of advanced technologies, including artificial intelligence and semiconductors, in military and surveillance applications.

The plans for a defense fuel support facility would deepen U.S. military involvement in the Philippines. 

Link history, present realities

For Anakbayan Southern Mindanao Region representative Fauzhea Guiani, the commemoration is an opportunity to connect the history of Martial Law with present-day questions over government spending and public services.

Guiani questioned the government’s huge budget for confidential and intelligence funds while communities struggle with housing, wages, Transportation costs and rising prices of basic commodities. 

“If it is possible to fund confidential and intelligence activities with such a large amount, why can’t our powerful leaders fund the public services that the Filipino people ought to benefit and enjoy?” Guiani said in Cebuano. 

The youth groups said commemorating martial law should not only involve remembering abuses committed during the Marcos Sr. dictatorship but also defending democratic rights and holding government officials accountable for alleged abuses and failures under successive administrations. (davaotoday.com)