" INDEPENDENCE FOR WHOM?"

Every year on June 12, the Philippine flag is raised high in celebration of independence. Streets are adorned with patriotic colors, trivia posts from different social media platforms resurface and speeches glorify the heroes who fought for the country’s liberation from centuries of colonial rule. But amid all the nationalistic pride, a crucial question is often ignored: independence for whom? For millions of indigenous peoples across the archipelago—from the Aetas of Luzon to the Lumads of Mindanao—freedom remains a complicated, often incomplete promise.

The term Lumad, while often associated with Mindanao’s 18 non-Muslim indigenous groups, symbolizes a broader narrative shared by many indigenous communities across the Philippines. From the mountainous terrains of Northern Luzon to the rainforests of Southern Mindanao, these groups have resisted external control for centuries—long before the Spanish, Americans, and Japanese even set foot on the islands.  In Luzon, the Aetas of Mt. Pinatubo, known for their deep spiritual and cultural connection to the land, have long endured displacement. After the catastrophic 1991 eruption of Mt. Pinatubo, thousands of Aeta families were forced into poorly designed resettlement sites that ignored their traditional way of life. These areas lacked access to livelihood and potable water. Worse still, many of their former lands were reclassified as military zones or turned over for commercial and tourism purposes when they tried to come back. Ancestral forests became military training grounds and sacred spaces became eco-parks. In 2021, Aeta families in Capas, Tarlac were evicted from their land to give way to a military reservation for the New Clark City project. They were told they had no legal claim, even though they had lived there long before maps and titles existed.

Meanwhile, in Mindanao, the Lumads continue to face militarization, red-tagging, and displacement. Under the guise of “counter-insurgency,” entire communities have been labeled as communist sympathizers, despite their main demand being the right to live peacefully on their land. Since 2017, over 700 indigenous schools have been shut down, accused of radicalizing youth often without credible evidence.

In 2020, the Save Our Schools Network reported that thousands of Lumad children were deprived of education as a result of these closures. Teachers and tribal leaders were harassed or arrested. In some cases, military forces occupied school grounds and community centers. In Bukidnon, the Talaandig people continue to protest the entry of logging companies that strip forests bare without consent. In Surigao del Sur, the Manobo have been repeatedly driven from their communities by armed groups allegedly linked to powerful f igures.

WHAT DID NOT END IN 1898

Though the Philippines formally gained independence in 1898, colonial structures never truly disappeared—they simply changed hands. What replaced Spanish and American rule was a system dominated by national elites, powerful landlords, and economic interests who saw indigenous lands as resources to be extracted rather than homes to be protected.

In the decades following independence, indigenous peoples like the Aetas and the Lumads faced militarization, discrimination, and displacement. During the Martial Law period, ancestral lands became zones of military operations and “development” projects. The Chico River Dam project in the Cordilleras and logging concessions in Mindanao led to protests, assassinations, and the militarization of entire communities. Mining applications continue to cover vast tracts of ancestral domains. In the CARAGA region alone, over 60 percent of mining tenements overlap with Lumad territories. These ventures promise jobs and revenue but often leave behind contaminated rivers and barren forests.

While the mainstream narrative celebrates June 12 as a triumph of liberty, the lived experiences of indigenous peoples paint a more complex perspective. The Aetas, Lumads, Igorots, Mangyans, and other groups have not always been woven into our national idea of freedom. They are sometimes admired as “nature’s guardians,” yet rarely heard in broader conversations about sovereignty, justice, and progress.

Despite centuries of displacement, indigenous peoples have never stopped resisting. They teach the next generation about forests and rivers, rituals and songs. They farm lands their ancestors walked on. They speak languages older than the country’s national anthem. In Zambales, Aeta communities are reviving their traditional healing practices and rituals. In the Cordilleras, youth are learning how to weave, chant, and defend rivers threatened by dam projects. In Mindanao, displaced Lumad students continue to learn in makeshift schools under trees and in sanctuaries, refusing to let education be taken from them.

A BROADER VIEW

The Philippine government has taken steps toward addressing historical injustices through laws like the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act of 1997, which recognizes ancestral domains and the rights of indigenous communities to self-determination. While implementation has faced challenges such as delays in issuing Certificates of Ancestral Domain Titles, there have also been inspiring success stories. In several provinces like Ifugao, Bukidnon, and Lanao Del Norte, local governments have partnered with indigenous leaders to map ancestral lands, preserve sacred spaces, and integrate indigenous knowledge into education and tourism efforts. The National Commission on Indigenous Peoples and local government units continue to work hand-in-hand with IP communities to promote sustainable development that respects both heritage and progress. These collaborative efforts, though still evolving, are signs of a growing awareness of the need for inclusive governance. By bringing indigenous peoples’ voices into decision-making, we pave the way for the creation of policies that reflect the diversity of our people and the richness of our cultural landscape. The common narrative of a unified post-colonial Philippines often overlooks the rich diversity of experience among many. It rarely reflects the struggles and the deep historical issues that our indigenous peoples continue to face. From the Lumad communities protecting their land, to Aeta elders watching bulldozers destroy a sacred grove, to Kalinga youth defending their river from a hydroelectric dam—they are all part of a story that doesn’t make it to the textbooks. Why are their stories not celebrated alongside that of Jose Rizal or Andres Bonifacio? Why is the defense of ancestral land not treated with the same reverence as the Battle of Tirad Pass? As we honor the legacies of our heroes, let us also acknowledge the silent strength of those who continue to protect our forests, rivers, and ancestral lands. By embracing the stories of the Lumads, Aetas, Igorots, Mangyans, and other indigenous peoples, we can begin to shape a more inclusive narrative of our nation’s history—one that honors not only those who fought in wars, but also those who have tirelessly protected the land that carries the memory and and culture of our ancestors. By recognizing them, we can be sure that the freedom we celebrate is for all Filipinos.