When environmental activists Jhed Tamano and Jonila Castro were presented at a September press conference after going missing two weeks earlier, they were introduced by a military officer as communist rebels who had escaped and surrendered to authorities after realizing the error of their ways.
When environmental activists Jhed Tamano and Jonila Castro were presented at a September press conference after going missing two weeks earlier, they were introduced by a military officer as communist rebels who had escaped and surrendered to authorities after realizing the error of their ways.
The military clearly expected them to go along with the story. But the activists stunned onlookers by saying they had actually been abducted by the military, and then forced to falsely surrender, in retaliation for their work helping fishing communities affected by development around Manila Bay. With their story out in the open and the military facing online ridicule, they were released hours later.
Dyan Gumanao, an activist and development worker, was surprised by their bravery but not by their story. She and her partner, fellow activist Armand Dayoha, were abducted in January from a busy port in Cebu. In a video that quickly went viral, the two were seen being forced into a SUV by black-clad masked men as several onlookers helplessly watched.
Gumanao and Dayoha, who were freed thanks to public activism, say they believe state forces were behind their abduction. But they’re no closer to finding justice.
At least 16 activists and community organizers have been abducted since President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. took office in June 2022, according to the rights group Karapatan. Most of these cases have received limited domestic and international attention, especially in comparison with the deadly drug war and frequent killings of political critics under Marcos’s predecessor, President Rodrigo Duterte.
“In some ways, it’s even worse [now],” Gumanao said. “We’re being vilified.”
Enforced disappearances have been endemic in the Philippines since the military rule of Marcos’s father, Ferdinand Marcos Sr., during which more than 900 people were abducted. Many were activists and organizers targeted by the military or police for opposing the dictatorship. Since then, the military has publicly vilified political opponents by labeling them without evidence as “communist rebels,” a practice known as “red-tagging” that often serves as a prelude to abduction, arrest, or murder.
Unlike Duterte, who was largely unconcerned with how Western leaders viewed him, Marcos Jr. has taken pains to restore the image of his family in the eyes of global observers.
In his first year in power, Marcos reversed Duterte’s policy of courting closer ties with China in favor of bolstering his country’s longtime military alliance with the United States, opening four bases this year for use by U.S. troops in anticipation of potential conflicts in the South China Sea and Taiwan Strait.
Domestically, however, the Philippine military and police continue to be implicated in forced abductions and unsolved killings in rural areas. An anti-terrorism law passed under Duterte makes it easier to target activists and political opponents. In August, the military accused the nonprofit organization Cernet, where Gumanao has worked, of funding the New People’s Army, an armed communist group. Cernet and its lawyers deny the allegations.
“We keep hearing that the human rights situation under Marcos is improving,” Dayoha said. “But there’s no significant improvement.
“Instead of a war on drugs, the Marcos administration is engaged in a war against critics.”
Gumanao and Dayoha are far from alone. Tamano and Castro told me last month that their abductors had threatened them, accused them of being communist rebels, and forced them to surrender after days of interrogation and psychological torture.
Mirroring Tamano and Castro’s account, Gumanao and Dayoha said they were blindfolded, threatened, and asked if they were terrorists. They believe they were brought to neighboring Negros by boat, where they were interrogated for three days before being returned to Cebu.
They believe they were only released because the video of their abduction had received so much attention. But instead of helping them to get answers, government agencies have only antagonized them. Lorraine Badoy, a former spokesperson for the government’s controversial anti-communist task force, twice accused the couple of being communist rebels who had faked their abduction. And a regional labor official told Gumanao that “it was hard to believe we were really abducted because, somehow, we were still alive.”
When the couple sought help with their case from the country’s National Bureau of Investigation, Gumanao said, one official “scolded us and shouted at us,” accusing them of “painting [a negative] image of the Philippine government” by giving interviews to media and the U.N. Human Rights Council.
Marcos has been eager to restore the country’s image after the Duterte years, both to placate a global community horrified by the former president’s horrid rights record and, some believe, to give Duterte’s loudest critics a larger stage as the Marcos and Duterte families jockey for power atop the country’s dynastic political system.
Marcos has taken a softer tone than Duterte when speaking about high-profile human rights cases; journalist Maria Ressa and Sen. Leila de Lima have been acquitted of some of the multiple charges they each face, and Marcos vowed an investigation after broadcaster Juan Jumalon was shot dead while livestreaming in the southern Philippines on Nov. 5.
But most activists still operate in a climate of fear. Red-tagging by state authorities remains commonplace, and forced abductions are occurring at a faster rate under Marcos than they did under Duterte, according to Karapatan.
“There has been less attention directed toward the rule of law and justice in the Philippines,” said Dino de Leon, the attorney representing Tamano and Castro.
While drug war killings have slowed since the early years of the Duterte presidency, they have not stopped—and only two people have been convicted in what the International Criminal Court estimates as between 5,000 and 30,000 extrajudicial killings.
“If they feel like they’re powerful enough and can get away with it, then they will do it again,” said de Leon, who also represents the still-jailed de Lima.
Tamano and Castro are now facing perjury charges filed by the military. They previously said they had expected retaliation after saying they had been forced to surrender, embarrassing the military and anti-communist task force officials who had called the press conference.
De Leon said his clients only spoke under oath when they surrendered to the military under duress. “They were not exercising their free will, so there is no perjury,” he said. “Otherwise, everyone can be held accountable for perjury through the barrel of a gun.”
After their press conference, Tamano and Castro filed for a protection order from the country’s Supreme Court, which usually acts on such filings within 24 to 72 hours. More than one month later, there has been no response.
Like many other victims of forced abduction, it’s hard for them not to feel the cards are stacked against them. The day after Tamano and Castro said the military had abducted them, Justice Secretary Jesus Crispin Remulla accused them of following a “new playbook” of the communist movement by changing their story.
De Leon said he is worried that government agencies, including the justice system, are being used by the military and the anti-communist task force “to sanitize their actions,” which was visible not only during the bloody killings of the Duterte administration but also in the impunity that remains under Marcos.
“That’s a testament to how weak our justice system is,” he said. “We will continue to work within the justice system because it’s the only justice system that we have.”
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