07/11/2025
Let us learn from the wisdom of the highlanders.
I look at the images from Cebu—the mud swallowing homes, the faces twisted in a grief I cannot fully comprehend—and my own heart aches in a familiar way. It is the ache of fear. It is the ache of seeing a nightmare that feels both distant and terrifyingly close.
Here in Benguet, our mountains are not just land. They are our ancestors. They are the keepers of our stories, the source of the water that quenches our children’s thirst, the shoulders that hold up our sky. When I climb the trail to our family’s uma (farm), I don't just see trees; I see my grandfather’s wisdom in the gnarled pine roots. I hear my grandmother’s prayers in the whisper of the wind through the needles.
When I saw the news from Cebu, I didn’t just see a flooded city. I saw a warning.
I saw what happens when the mountains are silenced.
They tell us that the flood in Cebu was caused by “ghost projects”—billions of pesos that vanished, leaving behind concrete ghosts that could not hold back the water. But long before the ghosts of concrete, there were the ghosts of the forests. The trees that were cut down and never regrew. The rivers that were choked with soil from the mines. The land that was sold and paved over, its spirit suffocated under cement.
And now, they bring the same blueprint here.
When the big mining companies show their maps and talk of “progress,” I do not see prosperity. I see the future gullies that will scar our slopes. I taste the metallic poison that will seep into our rivers, the same rivers where we draw water for our coffee and where our children still play. I see the sacred grounds where we pray, shaken by dynamite until they crumble.
They call it “development.” We, the Igorots, call it the beginning of our end.
They tell us it will bring jobs. But what good is a salary if the mountain that feeds your soul is gone? What good is a paycheck if the water from your tap is no longer safe to drink? What is the price of the land where your forefathers are buried?
The pain of Cebu is a deep, open wound. We cannot look away. We must let their sorrow settle in our bones and become our strength. Their 111 lost lives must be the fire that fuels our vigilance.
We are not against progress. But our progress is measured by the health of our forests, the cleanliness of our rivers, and the continuity of our culture. It is a progress that sings with the rhythm of the tayaw (community dance), not the deafening blast of a mine.
So, to my fellow Igorots, to my people of Benguet: let us stand together.
Let us be the roots that the loggers cannot cut. Let us be the rocks that the miners cannot break. Let us be the chorus of voices that the politicians cannot ignore.
Let us honor the tears of Cebu by ensuring our own children never have to shed them. Let us protect this sacred land with the same fierce love our ancestors did. For if we allow our mountains to be stolen and sold, we are not just losing soil and trees.
We are digging graves for our own future.
