Scene 1 :
The rice fields shimmered under the afternoon sun, the stalks swaying as if restless under the heat. Farmers bent low, their feet sunk in mud, their backs bent like bows strung too long. Rafael stood at the edge of the field, the sweat dripping down his brow, though not from labor. He had come with soldiers, young men in khaki uniforms, rifles slung across their shoulders. They were here not to till the land but to watch it—watch the men and women who tilled it, and perhaps watch them turn into rebels.
Rafael was not new to the countryside. He had walked these same fields as a boy with his father, Isabelo, who taught him that the land never lied: when well cared for, it bore life; when abused, it bore hunger and revolt. Now, that lesson pressed heavily upon him. The land had grown restless.
"Kapitan," a young lieutenant said, breaking his thoughts. "The mayor insists we patrol farther into the barrio. He says the Hukbalahap are moving again."
Rafael nodded, but his heart was uneasy. The Huks—once heroes who fought the Japanese—were now hunted by the very Republic they helped liberate. They had not disappeared after the war. Their ranks, swollen with peasants, veterans, and disillusioned men, were fueled by promises that land would be theirs, that justice would finally come. But justice, like rain in a drought, never arrived.
They mounted their jeeps, engines roaring through the silence of the paddies. Children stopped playing and stared. Women at Wells pulled their children closer. The presence of government soldiers no longer promised protection—it meant suspicion, sometimes reprisal.
At the edge of a cluster of nipa huts, Rafael dismounted. An old man sat in the shade of a mango tree, his hands calloused, his eyes sunken with years of harvests.
"Good afternoon, Tatang," Rafael greeted respectfully.
The old man squinted. "Good afternoon, Kapitan. What brings soldiers here again? The harvest is still thin; there is little to steal." His voice was tired, but there was a sharpness in it.
"We are not here to take," Rafael said softly. "We are here to make sure no more blood is spilled. I only want peace."
The old man spat to the side. "Peace? Tell that to the landlords in Manila who fatten while we starve. Tell that to the mayor who sends collectors even when the soil is dry. Peace is a word for the full, not for the hungry."
Rafael's soldiers shifted uncomfortably, but he raised his hand for silence. He could not deny the truth in the man's words.
That night, as they camped in a clearing, Rafael sat apart, staring at the stars. His men chuckled over shared cigarettes, but he felt the weight of the earth pressing into his chest. He remembered his father's stories of betrayal after the Philippine-American war, how men who had fought for freedom were branded outlaws. Now history repeated itself.
"Are we guardians, or are we gaolers?" Rafael whispered to himself.
A voice came from behind him. "You're overthinking again, Kapitan."
It was Manuel, a sergeant who had fought beside him in Luzon during the last days of the Japanese occupation. His face bore scars, but his eyes held the loyalty of an old friend.
"I can't help it, Manuel," Rafael admitted. "These peasants… they are not enemies. Yet the government wants us to treat them as if they are."
Manuel lit another cigarette, its glow briefly illuminating his hardened face. "Maybe they are both. Friends yesterday, enemies today. That is war. People change."
"No," Rafael said firmly. "Hunger doesn't change. Injustice doesn't change. Only the faces in power change."
Manuel exhaled smoke into the night. "Careful, Kapitan. Talk like that, and the government will call you Huk yourself."
Rafael chuckled bitterly. "Perhaps in another life, I would have been."
The words haunted him long after the fire died.
Two days later, intelligence reached their unit: a Huk squad was gathering supplies in a nearby barrio. Rafael led his men cautiously, his boots crunching over dry earth. They expected gunfire, ambush, and blood. Instead, they found a humble meeting in a farmer's hut. Men and women sat on woven mats, passing sacks of rice, dried fish, and handwritten notes.
At the center stood a young woman, her eyes fierce, her voice calm yet unyielding.
"Brothers, sisters, we fought the Japanese together. We bled for freedom. And yet what do we have? Debt. Hunger. Broken promises. They call us bandits, but who steals more—the peasant who takes a sack of rice to live, or the landlord who takes a whole harvest and leaves us with nothing?"
The crowd murmured their assent.
Rafael remained in the shadows, unseen. He should have given the signal, should have ordered his men to move in. Yet he hesitated. The woman's words struck deep.
Then a farmer spoke. "But if we fight the soldiers, will not more widows weep? Is there no other way?"
The woman's jaw tightened. "The government listens only to force. Without arms, we are invisible. Without struggle, we are already dead."
Rafael could not remain hidden. He stepped into the clearing, his rifle lowered, his hands open. The crowd gasped, some reaching for bolos, others for pistols. The woman's eyes narrowed.
"Kapitan Rafael," she said, recognizing him. "So the hunter finally comes."
"I am not here to hunt," Rafael replied. "I am here to understand."
Laughter rippled among the farmers, bitter and mocking. "Understand? Then look around you, soldier. This is hunger. This is despair. What more do you need to understand?"
Rafael met the woman's gaze. "And yet, if you fight us, more of you will die. The government will crush you."
"Perhaps," she answered fiercely. "But at least we die standing, not kneeling."
Silence hung heavy. Rafael's men watched nervously, fingers twitching near their triggers. The farmers held their breath, waiting for violence. But Rafael raised his hand.
"No arrests today," he declared. "We leave them be for now."
The soldiers stared in shock. Manuel hissed under his breath, "Are you mad, Kapitan? We'll be branded sympathizers!"
"Then let them brand me," Rafael said. "I will not spill blood for land that should have been theirs to begin with."
The farmers' eyes widened. Some lowered their weapons. The woman, however, only studied him, suspicion battling with curiosity.
"You are not like the others," she murmured.
"I am not your enemy," Rafael replied. "But neither am I free to stand with you. My oath binds me."
"Then you are chained," she said coldly. "And chains cannot till fields or break tyrants."
Her words cut deeper than any blade.
Scene 2
Weeks passed, and skirmishes spread like brushfire across Luzon. News of ambushes and reprisals filled the newspapers, each side painting the other as monsters. In Manila, politicians thundered about law and order. In the countryside, peasants whispered of liberation. Rafael walked a tightrope between orders and conscience.
One evening, he found himself alone in a chapel in Pampanga. The flickering candles cast long shadows across the cracked altar. He knelt, his hands clasped, though no words came easily.
"Lord," he finally whispered, "what is justice in a world where the hungry are criminals and the corrupt are kings? My father believed in freedom. I swore to protect the Republic. But is this the Republic he dreamed of? Or is this just another master wearing a new mask?"
His voice broke. "If I cannot tell right from wrong anymore, then guide me. If my hands must carry blood, let it not be innocent blood."
The silence of the chapel was heavy, yet oddly comforting.
When Rafael rose, he knew nothing had been answered. But he felt less alone.
In the months that followed, Rafael's unit fought battles they did not want. Ambushes in sugarcane fields, raids on mountain camps, sudden gunfire erupting from bamboo groves. Each skirmish left behind not only corpses but questions. Were they rebels? Were they farmers caught in crossfire? Every face blurred between victim and foe.
One day, after a brutal clash, Rafael stood over the body of a boy no older than sixteen, a bolo still clutched in his lifeless hand. Rafael's chest tightened. He could not look away.
Manuel came beside him. "He chose his side," the sergeant said flatly.
"Did he?" Rafael whispered. "Or was it chosen for him?"
Manuel said nothing.
As the rebellion dragged on, Rafael became a man divided: a soldier bound to duty, a human bound to conscience. He admired the peasants' courage, yet feared their methods. He despised the government's corruption, yet knew chaos would destroy the Republic entirely.
In his heart, he longed for another path—one where justice was not bought by bullets. But the land seemed deaf to longing. The land wanted blood.
And so Rafael walked on, carrying both oath and burden, knowing that no matter which side won, the soil would drink deeply, and the people would still hunger.