I arrived in Toboso expecting to join an International Fact-Finding and Solidarity Mission (IFSM). I did not expect the land itself to feel like a testimony.
Negros is beautiful in a way that almost feels cruel. The hills stretch endlessly in green. The air feels lighter than in the city. Trees sway quietly in farmlands worked by generations of peasants whose lives depend entirely on the land beneath their feet.
And yet this same land has become known for massacres, militarization, landlessness, and death.
That contradiction stayed with me throughout the mission from 13 to 15 May 2026. How can a place so abundant produce so much suffering? How can communities surrounded by fertile land remain hungry, displaced, and terrified?
Perhaps this is why Negros is called the microcosm of the Philippines itself.
As part of the 117-member IFSM organized primarily by Manindigan Negros and Karapatan, alongside human rights and people’s organizations, we went to the sitios in Toboso where the so-called “encounters” involving the Toboso 19 reportedly happened.
Even before reaching the area, the atmosphere already felt heavy.
The communities did not welcome us with silence, but with courage.
Residents spoke to delegates despite knowing the risks that come with telling their stories. During the mission, community members shared reports that soldiers had allegedly gone house to house before our arrival, warning people not to divulge information. Even while delegates conducted documentation and interviews, there were reports of surveillance, of motorcycle passing repeatedly to take videos, and of military presence lingering around communities already traumatized by violence.
And yet people still chose to speak.
That bravery stayed with me long after the mission ended. Because after we, the delegates, left Toboso, the residents remained. They are the ones who still have to live with the militarization in their communities. They are the ones who may continue facing harassment, intimidation, or suspicion simply for talking to us, for guiding us to the sites, or for sharing what they witnessed.
If someone unfamiliar with the situation were dropped into Toboso without context, they might simply describe it as “quiet.”
But it did not feel peaceful.
It felt tense.
Walking through the reported encounter sites, I kept thinking: something about this narrative does not add up.
I am not a forensic expert nor a SOCO investigator. But even ordinary observation raises difficult questions.
The timeline presented by the military contains glaring inconsistencies. The alleged firefight reportedly lasted for hours across multiple areas. Families were not immediately allowed to properly see the bodies of their loved ones while these were being handled in funeral homes. Residents spoke of prolonged military control over the communities and encounter sites, raising serious concerns about possible tampering of evidence and crime scene.
Even weeks later, pieces of evidence and shell casings reportedly remained in the area.
The more we listened, the harder it became to simply accept the military’s official story at face value.
Among the 19 killed, 10 were claimed by the New People’s Army as their cadres. But residents interviewed by the mission identified several of the victims as civilians and organizers who lived among peasant communities and helped farmers assert their rights amid active land disputes. Community members said they never saw them carrying firearms.
One detail particularly disturbed me: reports that some of the bodies bore indications inconsistent with the military’s narration of armed encounters. Questions surrounding the positioning of bodies, gunshot wounds, and the handling of remains continue to deepen doubts about what truly happened in Toboso.
And perhaps that is precisely why independent investigation matters.
Because when the alleged perpetrators are also the first responders, custodians of evidence, and controllers of the crime scene, truth itself becomes endangered.
Since the mission concluded, I could not help but laugh at how some suspected military-linked and NTF-ELCAC-affiliated social media pages immediately moved to undermine the fact-finding mission and those who participated in it. Instead of seriously addressing the glaring holes and inconsistencies raised by the mission, they seemed far more invested in defending the military’s narrative at all costs. Honestly, I almost pity them. Whether they are being paid to justify these actions or are themselves trapped in a system where speaking otherwise comes with consequences, their desperation to protect such a questionable narrative says more than they probably intend.
What struck me most, however, was not only the violence. It was the humanity of the people despite it.
The communities we visited are poor. One can immediately see how difficult life is in these areas. Yet the people welcomed delegates warmly. They shared food. They guided us through rough terrain. They continued speaking about land, dignity, and justice despite fear hanging visibly over their communities.
I kept wondering what these hills would say if they could speak.
How many times have they witnessed peasants displaced from the land they till? How many times have they heard gunfire echo across communities already crushed by poverty? How many massacres have these mountains silently carried?
Negros has long been called massacre capital of the Philippines. From Escalante to Sagay to Himamaylan to now Toboso, the pattern becomes impossible to ignore. Time and again, peasants asserting their rights to land become targets of violence, harassment, or vilification.
But Toboso is not just a Negros story.
What I saw there reflects the conditions experienced by many Filipinos across the country: communities militarized in the name of “peace and order,” farmers remaining landless despite generations of labor, Indigenous Peoples displaced from ancestral lands, workers branded as enemies for organizing, and ordinary civilians forced to live under fear while being told that all of this is necessary for “national security.”
In Toboso, I saw how poverty and militarization feed into each other. The land is rich, yet the people remain poor. Farmers continue struggling for land while large landlords and corporate interests retain control over vast areas. Communities asking for basic rights are met not with genuine social reform, but with armed force, surveillance, and suspicion.
And that is why Negros feels like a microcosm of the Philippines.
The violence in Toboso cannot be separated from the broader realities of a semi-feudal and semi-colonial society where landlessness, foreign domination, bureaucrat capitalism, and elite rule continue shaping everyday life. One cannot speak honestly about armed conflict without asking why generations of Filipinos continue to experience the same exploitation, displacement, and repression.
As Bishop Gerry Alminaza said during the mission’s press conference, peace is not merely the absence of war.
Peace built on fear, militarization, and silenced communities is not genuine peace.
The people of Toboso are asking for justice. But beyond justice for the Toboso 19, there is also a deeper call to confront the conditions that made such violence possible in the first place.
The least we can do is listen carefully enough not to look away.