There is something deeply unsettling about seeing indigenous families being told they must leave lands their ancestors occupied long before there was a Philippine Air Force, long before there was a Republic of the Philippines, and long before a Spanish flag was ever planted in Central Luzon. Yet that is precisely the uncomfortable reality behind the ongoing tensions in Capas, Tarlac.
The question raised by the protesters is deceptively simple: Sino ba talaga ang nauna rito? The answer is neither complicated nor controversial. Hindi ang Air Force. Hindi ang mga Kastila. Hindi rin ang gobyerno.
The historical record overwhelmingly points to the Ayta as among the earliest inhabitants of the Capas-Pinatubo area. Even historical accounts of Capas acknowledge that the area was originally inhabited by Aeta communities before the arrival of migrants and colonizers. So let us dispense with the fiction that the Ayta are mere “occupants” of these lands.
They are not settlers. They are not intruders. They are not trespassers. They are the original people of the land. The irony is painful. The descendants of those who arrived first are now being asked to prove they belong. Meanwhile, institutions that arrived centuries later are treated as unquestioned owners.
How did we get here?
Perhaps because modern societies have become obsessed with documents and have forgotten history. A military reservation can be created through a proclamation. A bombing range can be delineated on a map. A boundary can be drawn by government surveyors. But none of those acts can erase thousands of years of human presence. A presidential signature may create a reservation. It cannot create ancestry. Yes, the government has a legitimate argument.
Crow Valley and adjacent military facilities have long been designated for defense purposes. Camp O’Donnell emerged as a military installation during the American period, while the Crow Valley range eventually became one of the country’s most important training grounds for aerial bombing and live-fire exercises. The area was formally reserved for military use under government proclamations and defense policies.
National security is important. No responsible citizen would deny that. The Armed Forces of the Philippines needs training grounds. The country needs credible defense capability. Military readiness is not a luxury.
But here is a question that deserves equal attention: Can national security exist without justice? Because security is not only about protecting territory. Security is also about protecting people. And if the nation’s first peoples feel threatened, displaced, marginalized, or unheard, then we must ask ourselves whether we are truly securing the nation at all.
For decades, indigenous communities across the country have heard the same language. “Development.” “Relocation.” “National interest.” “Public necessity.” Beautiful words. Powerful words. Convenient words. Yet somehow, these words almost always seem to require sacrifice from the same people. The poor. The marginalized. The indigenous. The Ayta.
It is rarely the powerful who are asked to move. It is rarely the influential who are told their homes stand in the way of progress. History has a habit of demanding adjustment from those who already have the least.
Consider what has happened recently around Mount Pinatubo. Indigenous communities raised concerns about ancestral domain rights, equitable tourism benefits, and the need for genuine respect for Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC). These concerns became serious enough to trigger protests and national attention. Even the NCIP publicly acknowledged the importance of addressing indigenous rights and ancestral domain issues.
This tells us something important. The issue in Capas is not an isolated incident. It is part of a larger story. A story about who gets to define ownership. A story about whose history matters. A story about whether ancestral memory carries any weight against bureaucratic power.
The sad truth is that many Filipinos celebrate indigenous cultures only when they are convenient. We feature them in tourism brochures. We showcase them during cultural festivals. We praise them as guardians of nature. Then, when land disputes emerge, we suddenly demand that they produce documents for territories they have inhabited since time immemorial. What a remarkable contradiction.
We honor them symbolically. But challenge them substantively. We celebrate their heritage but question their rights. We applaud their resilience but ignore the reasons they must be resilient in the first place.
Kaya ang tunay na tanong ay hindi kung legal ba ang military reservation. The real question is whether our legal system can recognize a truth older than the law itself.
Because before there were proclamations, there were communities. Before there were maps, there were memories. Before there was Crow Valley, there was the Ayta homeland. And before there was an Air Force flying above these lands, there were indigenous families walking upon them.
So, when someone asks, “Sino ang nauna rito?” The answer is clear. The Ayta were here before the Spaniards. The Ayta were here before the Americans. The Ayta were here before Camp O’Donnell. The Ayta were here before the Air Force.
The more uncomfortable question is this: If they were truly here first, why are they the ones constantly being asked to leave? That question should haunt not only the people of Capas.
It should haunt the entire nation.
