It was in honoring that anguished plea that Holocaust survivors set up exhibits and scholarly archives accessible to the public. Not long after, historical sites in certain parts of Europe—in Poland, the Czech Republic, and Germany—were restored and preserved so that visitors could glimpse the sites of the tragedy for themselves.

Museums were built in many cities—initially in Jerusalem and in Paris—offering a vast collection of archival resources that now serve as permanent reminders of Nazi atrocities. Films and educational curricula are continuously being made to document and teach the Holocaust to future generations.

“We have done nothing like these after the Edsa People Power Revolution in 1986. In fact, we let the dictator’s family members and allies slowly regain political primacy in the Philippines,” lamented Fr. Robert Reyes, who celebrated a Mass prior to the special screening of the film “11,103” at Cine Pop in Quezon City last March 26. 

Reyes continued: “The younger generations are oblivious of what really happened during martial law. How can we blame them when schools and teachers lack the necessary materials and training to properly teach what really happened during those years? These days, there are even influencers spreading on social media that martial law did not even happen! Soon, those who were tortured or raped, or whose kin were murdered or just disappeared without a trace during those brutal 14 years, will no longer be with us. How will their stories be told when they are gone?” 

For the activist priest, “11,103” is a good start. The documentary produced by Kara Magsanoc-Alikpala and Storytellers Inc., and written and directed by Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurung, was first shown last year, as the country marked the 50^th year of Ferdinand Marcos Sr.’s imposition of martial law in September 1972. The Marcos dictatorship was toppled on Feb. 25, 1986.  

The title of the film refers to the individual claims that were recognized by the Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board (HRVCB) after an assessment, explained Carmelo Victor Crisanto, executive director of the Human Rights Violation Victims Memorial Commission

The HRVCB was formed by the government in 2013 to “‘receive, evaluate, process, and investigate’ reparation claims made by victims of human rights abuses during martial law. It ceased its work in 2018,” said Crisanto.

The HRVVMC is an attached agency of the Commission on Human Rights mandated to establish, restore, preserve and conserve a memorial museum, library, archive and compendium in honor of the victims of rights violations as had been determined by the board.

‘Resibo’

This film is significant because it is, in today’s lingo, a “resibo” (receipt). The producers talked to the survivors, with a number of them sharing for the first time their harrowing experiences under martial law. The survivors are among those compensated through a fund made up of money seized by the Philippine government from the Marcoses’ Swiss bank accounts, worth P10 billion, said Elena Cortez, who organized the film showing.

It is rare for countries to recover money from deposed leaders’ Swiss bank accounts. But in a landmark judgment in 1997, the Swiss Federal Supreme Court ruled that “there was little doubt about the criminal provenance of the secret Marcos accounts and securities hidden in Swiss banks,” and ordered that these be returned to the Philippine government.

The 86-minute documentary begins with the HRVVMC’s plan to build the Freedom Memorial Museum where the painful memories, not just of the 11,103 but also of over 75,000 victims, will be preserved and presented.

“People need to know what happened, especially to families and places most of us never heard of until this documentary,” said Crisanto. “Lamentably, not even 1% of those who were given reparations came from Muslim Mindanao, when we now know that thousands of them actually suffered during martial law.” 

While many Filipinos have watched other films or read reports on martial law, nothing quite prepares the audience for the docu’s account of Mariam and Madaki Kanda, survivors of the Palimbang Massacre that occurred in 1974 in the coastal barangays of Malisbong in Palimbang, Sultan Kudarat.

After Navy ships bombarded the coastal barangays the whole night and until the early morning, those who fled were forced to return. Mariam, then just 14 years old, was with other girls and women who were herded into and held in one of the Navy ships that shelled Palimbang.

She was not violated, but she witnessed how other young girls were gang-raped and then thrown into the sea. Per the records of the Moro Women’s Center, 3,000 women and children aged 9 to 60 were detained separately from 1,500 male Muslims aged 11 to 70 who were forced inside a mosque where they were systematically killed.

“Every day in the mosque, the soldiers would get up to 10 persons. Later, we would hear shots and those who were taken outside never came back,” recalls Madaki, who could speak Ilocano. He said it was probably what saved his life when he was being marched by soldiers along with others to their death.

Brutalities

Also featured in “11,103” are stories of unspeakable brutalities, such as the 1984 account of Purificacion Viernes of Barangay Carmen in Jimenez, Misamis Occidental. 

“My husband, a mere copra farmer, and our two youngest children were killed while they were asleep when our nipa hut was strafed by paramilitary troops in the dead of night. My bullet-riddled leg somehow saved my then 13-year-old daughter, Cecilia, during the assault. One even checked us with his flashlight to see if we were all dead,” says Viernes, who now walks with crutches. She and Cecilia returned for the first time in 40 years to the hollowed-out ruins of their home during the filming of “11,103.”

There’s also Hilda Narciso, a Church worker in 1983 who was then visiting a pastor’s home in Davao City and was forcibly taken by the military. Her account:  “I was handcuffed and my head covered. A lot of hands were all over my body. They also put their penises one at a time in my mouth, fingered my vagina, and all that for several hours every day. I kept asking them, ‘Do you have daughters, mothers, or wives? What if you did this to them, how would you feel?’” 

Narciso considers herself lucky to come out alive from her ordeal. She founded the Women’s Crisis Center in Manila, to help other survivors of rape and violent dehumanization to find their way forward, as she is doing.

The physician Aurora Parong, who put up a clinic in Nueva Vizcaya, was taken by the military in 1982 after being accused of tending to members of the New People’s Army. She was detained for one and a half years. Her lawyer-brother was not as fortunate. He was abducted by the military in plain view from a restaurant near the family home in Nueva Vizcaya, and his mangled body was later found dumped on the highway.

Being a Society of the Divine Word priest did not protect Edicio dela Torre from the beatings he received when he was imprisoned twice on charges of conspiracy and proposal to commit rebellion. His own healing has come through art: It was he who rendered the animated pen-and-ink wash portraits and sketches of reenactments interspersed throughout the film.

Indeed, “11,103” makes viewers confront what happened, and makes them realize that it happened not so long ago. The film is divided into chapters named after the victims, juxtaposed with film clips of Ferdinand Marcos Jr. on the campaign trail until his eventual oath-taking as the 17th president of the Philippines in May 2022. 

For the HRVVMC tasked with the heavy burden of building a martial law museum under the administration of the dictator’s son and namesake, this means crossing the proverbial bridge when the commission gets there. “If I’m not supported by Mr. Marcos and Congress in the end, and I’m only able to build an unfinished memorial, then let that be the memorial,” Crisanto said.

It is some consolation, according to Crisanto, that all the 75,749 claim cases have been digitized, with copies sent to two universities in the Philippines and one in the United States for safekeeping. 

Just 14%

The 11,103 eligible claimants make up just 14% of the total number of applicants. 

“Most were rejected because many of the victims were unlettered peasants from the hinterlands who could not present documentary evidence of decades-old atrocities or corroborative witness accounts,” Crisanto said, adding:

“There were no witnesses other than those who committed the crime: the military, police, or government-sanctioned armed vigilantes. There is a much greater number of individuals who didn’t bother or attempt to claim, for personal reasons.” 

The 11,103 were able to receive claims ranging from P176,779 to P1,767,790, depending on the points a particular case earned. The amount of monetary compensation works on a point system depending on the violation, as provided by the law: maximum of 10 points if a victim of enforced disappearance and killing; 6 to 9 points if a victim of torture; 3 to 5 points if a victim of arbitrary detention; and 1 to 2 points if a victim of other forms of violations.

The film had its Philippine premiere in time for the 50th commemoration of the declaration of martial law on Sept. 21, 2022. While being screened at the Bantayog ng mga Bayani in Quezon City, it was also shown in New York City when President Marcos was speaking at the United Nations General Assembly.

Subsequent screenings were held in the cities of Manila, Bacolod, Cebu, Iloilo, Cagayan de Oro and Dumaguete. “We need more to see this film so we continue to coordinate with schools and other groups,” the organizers said. (For screening requests of “11,103,” log on to [email protected]\, facebook.com/ActiveVistaPH or twitter.com/ActiveVistaPH.)

In an interview in 2022, Magsanoc-Alikpala—whose mother, the late journalist Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc, was known as “the keeper of the Edsa flame”—said: “The price of democracy is eternal vigilance. Let’s not dishonor those who suffered and fought the dictatorship and paved the way for our hard-earned freedom in 1986. We have to fight for their truths. What kind of a nation will we be if we are founded on lies?”

The post Film continues to help Filipinos remember the sins of martial law appeared first on CoverStory.

I went back to the remote Barangay Villa Espina in Lopez, Quezon, one Tuesday morning.

At 6:30 a.m. after insufficient sleep the night before, I jumped into a decrepit jeepney—only one unit plies the route twice daily if the weather is fine—bound for the barangay (village). It was sunny, unlike the first time I embarked on this adventure in the boondocks, although there were still patches of mud from the previous day’s rain.

I returned to Villa Espina to seek the written consent of Jeffrey Jugueta of the Aeta community, the subject of a video clip I included in a documentary that I and my BVV8 Media Productions produced. The first time I took a shot of Jeffrey on my cell phone camera, I had verbal permission from him. A few days after the shoot, writer Gem Suguitan and I had an orientation with the National Commission for Indigenous Peoples through Vincent Garcia, a nurse at NCIP Region IV-A; we learned that oral approval wasn’t enough. 

Arriving at the village, I immediately looked for Mark John Parro, who teaches at Villa Espina Elementary School and conducts the Alternative Learning System for indigenous peoples, to make inquiries.

I learned that Jeffrey was in the hinterlands of the barangay, making copra (or dried portions of coconut meat). The place is called Tidyong and far from the central part of the mostly populated village.

I boldly said I could go there myself and look for Jeffrey, but the Parro brothers discouraged me, saying the houses in Tidyong were few and far apart. But Mark quickly assigned two Aeta women, Remelyn Oloya and Dalia Jugueta Carpo, Jeffrey’s sister, to help me locate him and seek his signature. 

4 crossings

It was past 8 am when we set out on foot. Dalia was forthright in informing me that we would cross streams and rivers four times and climb hills: “Tatawid po tayo ng ilog, mga apat na beses po. Tapos, aahon tayo sa mga bundok.” 

It was still the opening of the forested way to Tidyong. We left behind bushes, banana trees, a number of huts made wholly of nipa and some with concrete, iron sheets, etc.

All three of us wore slippers. I was in shorts, with a bag hanging from my shoulder. Dalia was in jogging pants colored red and yellow—a gift to her, she said, so much better than if she had bought them herself, because otherwise, she would use the money to buy food.   

First, it was a small, narrow stream that we crossed. Then we hit the trails again.

Now there was this wide river waiting to be negotiated. The current was wild in some parts, placid in others. 

Remelyn assured me that it wasn’t perilous to walk into the water, and she led me to an apparently shallow part. Still, the stones and rocks underfoot, of all shapes and sizes, were slippery. I feared that if I lost my balance, I could easily fall and get carried away by the current, if not break a limb or two.

At first I refused Remelyn’s offered hand, but later, in the other two crossings, I relented and hung on to her left hand.

Dalia was also confident about crossing the river, although she said she hadn’t been to this side of the village in years.

Ravine and Richard

Sometime in our journey, we had to walk along a ravine so muddy that I was afraid I’d slip and plunge into the river below.

Lucky, I thought, was this farmer we met who was crossing the river on horseback on his way home. He stopped for a while to give his horse a bath, chatting easily with the girls. They called him “kuya” (elder brother). 

Richard was friendly and jesting, at one point asking them if he could pass for a movie star: “Puwede na ba akong artista?” 

Dalia chuckled, telling Richard in effect not to be funny. 

We crossed another stream, this time with crystalline water. Dalia got me a stick to use as a cane.

I was already soaked in sweat when we climbed up the hills.

We went down a valley and again trekked up a hill, and still no Jeffrey Jugueta was in sight. The stillness of the idyll was broken intermittently by birds chirping. 

Finally, Dalia could hear little sounds of laughter from children. She shouted out in the Aeta language (the distinct and unique Katabagan spoken in Lopez, Quezon) to announce our presence.

Related: Are Mayon, Taal and Kanlaon volcanos connected?

Women’s hour

From where Remelyn and I stood, I could see the “lukaran” (a large, makeshift, roofed oven/dryer, from the word “lukad,”which means copra). Around it, Aeta children were playing.

Jeffrey came down the valley in a little while, pulling in his horse with coconut shells on its back and saddled with two large bamboo baskets filled with the same. 

It was women’s hour in the boondocks, with some Aeta men out somewhere on the hills, pulling down coconuts. At the lukaran, the women were doing serious work, chopping the coconuts in halves, husking the mature ones, etc.

After some pleasantries, Jeffrey signed the consent document with ease and openheartedness. I was relieved of a social and professional obligation. 

We prepared to leave Tidyong. On the way back, the loquacious Dalia, 35, who is married to an “unat” (literally “straight-haired” and non-Aeta) with whom she has a daughter, told an interesting story:

ABS-CBN, with Edu Manzano, Pinky Webb and Donita Rose, visited the area years ago, bringing relief goods and donations. She was offered a scholarship, she said, a part of which involved visiting Korea to learn the Korean language.

Education was to be her course, and she was ready to embark on it. “Handa na talaga ako,” said the high school graduate.

But when Dalia told her mother that she would be leaving, and would even get the chance to visit Korea, the older woman refused permission, saying she would be missed. 

Thus did Dalia decide to give up her dream: “Mami-miss daw niya ako. Hindi na rin ako tumuloy.” 

Happy and content

At the moment, Dalia is happy with her country and filial life. Remelyn is content as well with her daily survival in the community.

When we got done climbing hills, crossing wild rivers, and negotiating the thick forest, we finally arrived back at the central part of Barangay Villa Espina. It was already the lunch hour. 

I was hungry. The Parro household offered me sautéed bitter melon with beaten egg and newly cooked white rice, which I devoured like a pig.

The post Into the forest, across streams and rivers, and up and down hills appeared first on CoverStory.

But a tight production schedule and a looming deadline for submission led my crew and me to shift subject to the distinct and unique Tagalog that is locally spoken, and a story about three young girls entangled in an enchanted kingdom.

The project didn’t come easy. As producer of the documentary, I strained to make ends meet because the money was hardly enough to get even a low-budget indie done.

But I was filled with idealism and enthusiasm to embark on yet another challenging journey to create audiovisuals. I felt the same way in 2010 when I produced a documentary on the Dumagat of Infanta, General Nakar and Real, all in Quezon, and their struggle against landgrabbers. 

Early experiences

My work, “Dumagat,” subtitled “Dumagats, Aborigines of the Philippines and Nomads of Southeast Asia,” was a finalist in the 2nd Pandayang Lino Brocka Political Film and New Media Festival in 2010. It won a consolation prize at the 1st Festival of Photos, Documentary Films and Reportage on Asean Countries and People contest in Hanoi, Vietnam.

One of the judges in the contest would in time become my mentor, the Korean Cho Pock-ray, a film professor at the Beijing Film Academy, arts liaison in Taiwan, programmer at the Gwangju International Film Festival in Korea, among other professional commitments. He was amazed that I was able to pull it off on such a tight budget. 

“I will write in my blog that you were able to make a film on that scarce production cost,” Cho said.

The next documentaries I produced, wrote and directed dealt with faith healing, a megalomaniac Christ impersonator, and the making of Quezon City (with Filipino-British Jowee Morel as director), among other topics, in the Philippines.

My TV broadcast background (“TV Patrol” and “Action 9” as field reporter, writer, voice-over and segment producer) allowed me to learn the ropes and subsequently pursue a practical and austere style of filmmaking.

Tight schedule

The deadline for the 2022 KKIFF was Aug. 31, but we went out to the field only on Aug. 26. Earlier, I had to secure a permit from the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples, but it turned out that the document would require a long period of processing. I decided to just pursue the indigenous language of Lopez as subject.

Quezon is relatively far from Manila, and a bus ride would have been inconvenient for the creative crew—regional representative for museums of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts Gem Suguitan as camerawoman, visual artist Bon Labora as editor, and myself as writer. I tried to find a car rental for a meager sum under a sponsorship that would later be acknowledged in the finished film’s credits. 

The only one that bit the offer—they were all booked—was Channel 31 online producer and talent manager Mathoy Samonte (aka Direk Toymats), through the intercession of media man Nel Talavera. Toymats suggested bringing his four all-girl talents with us to the set, and we could use for free (but not the gas) the Suzuki Multicab light truck owned by the family of two of the 10-year-old wannabes.

The concession was to squeeze the talents into the docu, even in cameo roles. I agreed. What else would I do with the kids and two grownups? To top it all, because the girls were all minors, their moms had to tag along, which I couldn’t refuse. (I thought of another project instantly—a short film for the girls which Bon has conceptualized, but our priority was the documentary.)

I wanted to capture the early tiangge (flea market) scene in Lopez, so Mathoy, along with Gem and Bon—in Mathoy’s LPG-powered taxi—agreed to leave Manila at 2 a.m. But they actually left an hour past to get to General Trias, Cavite, to collect the Multicab and the girls with their mothers in tow. 

We hit the South Luzon Expressway at 5:30 a.m. 

We reached the tail-end of market day (every Friday) on a rainy morning. In between drizzle and sunshine, we were able to shoot materials for the docu later in the day.

It was more challenging the day after: a mix of production work on Tagalog-Lopez and the short film. Though it was cloudy with the threat of sudden rain, we traveled to Barangay Villa Espina on rough roads. The poor Multicab battled the muddy route, with Mathoy—already triple-tasking as manager, director and cameraman—driving in a manner reminiscent of his days steering a delivery truck on bumpy and perilous highways.

Going to Villa Espina, the Multicab passengers included showbiz newbies Gwen Vedasto, Aki Cortez, Princess Conlee and Lotes Tesado; Joy Sabandal, Elvie Cortez and Lyn Vedasto, teasingly addressed as “scientific moms” instead of stage mothers; and Bon, Gem and myself. We had to get off with open umbrellas when we came to soft soils, slippery curves and descending roads. 

Aeta land

It was still showering intermittently when we reached Villa Espina. I went to the forest to call on the chieftain of the Aeta community and get his consent for our documentary, but he was not around. After talking to one of the tribal members, I rejoined our group with muddied feet and soiled shorts. Several Aeta women were wandering on the bridge.

The sun was up and Bon was shooting his narrative in the river and valleys while farmers were walking around with long bolos tucked into their tattered pants. Beside the river was Segunda Matteo, a natural park where we stayed in a cottage without walls.

Going down the hill late in the afternoon, the Multicab’s tires were buried in mud. It had begun to rain again. The light van almost fell into a ravine. Still, Bon found a balete (fig) tree for one of the sets of his film. 

Despite the rain and the dark night, we proceeded to faraway Pitogo in Quezon, and ended our trek on seeing the tree atop a tall cemented irrigation dike where it has silently grown for years.

We altered the shoot as the tree must be planted on the ground. Bon said he would look for an alternative when we got back to Manila. 

Overall, despite the difficulty of shooting in the wild, we succeeded in getting materials for both documentary and short feature film.

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