By Salome Lapiten
The land knows no master. Yet it recognizes a farmer’s calloused hands, worn with the same cracks that run through the barren land. It knows their blood that seeps through those fissures and breathes the same rugged breath as the farmers, enduring so that both may continue to live.
In the highlands of Cebu City, Sitio Cantipla in Tabunan-Taptap, the slopes bear witness to years of patience to survive. Farmers wait for their crops, for rain, and for recognition. Their skin, darkened by soil and sun, reflects a life rooted in endurance.
The farmers of Cantipla have lived on the land passed down by their ancestors, cultivating the land and a community whose roots run deep. Despite their history and labor, however, their existence continues to be disregarded over disputes of land titles and legal documents—a struggle that came to a head in the year 2000.
On November 15th of that year, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) signed a Memorandum of Agreement (MOA) with the Kantipla Ecosystems Enhancement and Protection Foundation (KEEP), an organization led by retired police general Tiburcio Fusilero. The agreement granted KEEP the authority to “rehabilitate” and manage 504 hectares of forestland in Tabunan-Taptap for 25 years.
However, what was sought to be an environmental effort to protect the forest would soon disturb the very people who had long lived in harmony with it.
“Ang mag-uuma, imbis nga apil sa development, napanglapasan na hinuon sa tawhanong katungod,” said Gomer Alcantara of Kilusang Magbubukid ng Pilipinas (KMP) Cebu and a Cantipla farmer whose family has lived there since the 1960s.
(The farmers, instead of taking part in development, have been violated of their human rights.)
In 2005, reports of human rights violations began to surface.
“Naay panghitabong mga pangulata, pag file og kasong agraryo nga mangita ra sila og lusot kontra namo para mapalagpot ang mga mag-uuma diring dapita,” Alcantara recalled.
(There were incidents of beatings and the filing of agrarian cases where they would just look for loopholes against us to drive the farmers away from the area.)
According to Alcantara, the accusations against him range from land grazing, trespassing, illegal cutting, logging, and arson. The most common charge was trespassing. Police beat farmers caught tilling or passing through their fields before filing cases. Alcantara questioned how they could trespass on land that was rightfully theirs.
Though all charges were dismissed for lack of evidence, the community saw them as deliberate attempts to intimidate and drive farmers out. Despite weak accusations from the police, Alcantara was even imprisoned for a fabricated arson case.
Fear-mongering and terror tactics eventually took its toll on the community. Some farmers left Cantipla for work in the city. But for those who had nothing left to lose but their life chained to the land, they stood together and fought for their right to remain.
This collective resolve led to the formation of the Tabunan-Taptap-Cantipla Farmers Association (TTCFA) in 2008, a union forged by struggle and unity for defense against displacement.
On August 29, 2009, alleged goons of Fusilero opened fire on the union during their monthly meeting with the Central Visayas Farmers Development Center (FARDEC). The TTCFA reported that three of Fusilero’s armed men fired shots that nearly hit farmers Marcelino Soronio and Timoteo Alcantara, and vandalized the home of Fideliza Lepiten, where the meeting was held.
The attack reportedly stemmed from Fusilero’s claim that farmers assaulted his caretakers with bolos. The farmers denied this, not knowing where his caretakers were staying.
In 2018, barbed fences enclosed the land, driving farmers from their homes. Even their toilets fell within restricted zones. Inside the fence stood new buildings worth millions—with some even worth billions—yet no one was questioned.
None knew who truly owned the new structures, but a report from Centennial Force Foundation Inc. later revealed that the land was leased by the DENR to Fusilero. Though the contract prohibited him from distributing it, several police generals—including Senator Bato Dela Rosa—and businessmen like Peter Lim allegedly acquired rights over the area.
Meanwhile, farmers who built small concrete homes were fined or ordered to self-demolish.
Today, the barbed wires surrounding the mountains stand colder than the morning mist. They cut through the slopes like an open wound, one that has deepened through years of struggle, marked by the farmers’ pain and persistence. Each coil bears witness to the slow violence they have endured, a reminder that the land still bleeds with them, that the land still breathes with them. And so, for as long as they remain, the earth will endure to continue to live with them.
“Padayon lang gihapon ta,” Alcantara ponders.
(We still continue.)
The farmers of Cantipla stand firm on the soil that has long known their footsteps, refusing to yield to fences, fear, or force. They are working to file a petition against the renewal of the MOA, affirming their stance to stay.
“Wa na man tay mahimo kundi magpagahi nalang sa ilang sungog-sungog kay sistema man jud ang ugat sa atong kalisdanan,” he added.
(There’s nothing we can do anymore except resisting their taunts, because the system really is the root of our troubles.)
Cantipla tillers know their struggle is against a system that steps on the hands that sow. It is a fight of reclaiming their land but also of justice, where greed has taken root.
From Cantipla to other farming communities in the Philippine countryside, the call is one and the same: genuine agrarian reform. Filipino farmers continue to assert that it should be the traces left by their hands, sweat, and blood that prove who the land truly belongs to.
