The Quiet Before the Hunt
The morning fog hung low over Pampanga, softening the shapes of the rice paddies but not the tension in the air. Rafael de la Cruz sat astride his horse at the edge of a field, eyes scanning the horizon where faint plumes of smoke rose like black fingers. He held a leather-bound journal in one hand, the other resting lightly on the reins.
January 15, 1950
I write this with hands that tremble—not from the cold, but from the weight of what I have been tasked to do. The government sends us to "restore order," yet order smells of gunpowder and death. The people we are meant to protect—the common people, the families and farmers—look at us as predators, not guardians. And perhaps we have become both.
Rafael glanced at the young soldiers under his command. Their eyes were wide with unease, their rifles awkwardly slung. These were boys who had joined the army believing in the Republic, not knowing the battlefield could be moral as much as physical.
"Kapitan," whispered Sergeant Manuel, leaning close, "they say the Huks moved through this sector last night. Three barrios raided, two warehouses burned."
Rafael nodded slowly, closing the journal. "Then we ride, but quietly. No ambush unless we must. We will not add our hands to this river of blood unless it is unavoidable."
The men mounted silently, the clop of hooves muffled by the damp soil. The fields seemed almost to whisper beneath them, tall rice stalks bending in the fog, hiding secrets of both hunter and hunted.
Scene II: The Village of Ashes
Hours later, Rafael's unit arrived at a village on the outskirts of Mababanaba. Smoke curled from a hut; the scent of burnt straw and scorched earth choked the air. Villagers huddled in corners, eyes wide with terror.
Rafael dismounted, approaching an elder crouched by a broken well.
"Good afternoon, Apo," he said gently. "What happened here?"
The old man shook his head, his voice brittle. "The soldiers came first, then… then the Huks. They both took what they wanted. Some say the land belongs to the people; others say the law is the law. And we are caught between them."
Rafael's chest tightened. He scribbled in his journal, letting his thoughts flow as if the ink could cleanse his conscience.
These fields have witnessed betrayal twice: once by foreign occupiers, and now by those meant to protect us. The Huks claim justice. The Republic claims duty. And in the middle stand innocents, whose only crime is hunger.
A sharp cry broke him from his writing. A young boy, not more than twelve, ran from the remnants of a hut, clutching a charred sack. Soldiers pursued, shouting. Rafael's heart lurched.
"Stop!" he yelled, dismounting. He pushed himself between the boy and a soldier. "He is a child! He carries nothing but what he needs to survive!"
The soldier hesitated, lowering his rifle. Rafael turned to the boy. "Run home, hijo. Quickly." The boy did, stumbling into the mist.
Manuel placed a hand on Rafael's shoulder. "Do you think the orders matter anymore, Kapitan? Or have they drowned in smoke and blood?"
Rafael shook his head slowly. "Orders are written, but morality is remembered. And these memories will haunt us if we forget what is human in the middle of war."
Scene III: A Private Journal
That night, Rafael returned to his tent. He lit a lantern and opened his leather-bound journal.
January 17, 1950
I am torn between duty and conscience. Yesterday, we saved a boy from the crossfire, and yet I know that tomorrow, others will die. The government sends more troops, more rifles, more proclamations of law and order. But what law is this that punishes the hungry while rewarding the corrupt?
He paused, dipping his pen in ink.
I write these words not for recognition, but so that one day, perhaps, someone will understand. If justice cannot reach the fields today, let it be remembered that some witnessed, those who spoke, and those who sought remedies beyond the barrel of a gun.
Rafael's thoughts drifted to Manila, to President Quirino's office, where speeches promised growth and stability. Did those words ever reach the mud-caked feet of peasants, or did they vanish into the lacquered halls of bureaucracy?
The Republic is fragile because it protects the powerful and leaves the powerless to fight their own battles. If I live to see reforms, perhaps laws can shield those too weak to defend themselves. Until then, the blood will fall, and I will count it in silence.
Debate in the Barracks
The next morning, Rafael convened his officers in the barracks, tension thick in the room.
"Reports of burning, looting, and ambushes keep coming," Rafael said. "We must act, but I refuse to treat every common person as an enemy."
Lieutenant Cruz slammed his fist on the table. "Kapitan, are you mad? These are rebels! They strike at soldiers and merchants alike. How can we justify restraint?"
Rafael met his gaze steadily. "I justify humanity. Each farmer is not a soldier, each child not a weapon. If we destroy them for the sins of a few, what do we become?"
Skepticism rippled through the room. Manuel spoke softly. "It is not the law that protects the innocent, but the conscience of men like you, Kapitan. But be careful—sympathy is often seen as treason."
Rafael leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Perhaps it is treason to turn our backs on morality, Lieutenant. And if so, I am guilty."
He returned to his journal later that day, recording the debate:
The officers question restraint, the men await orders, and the people suffer. If only a law existed to defend those who have no voice, no arms, no power. Perhaps, one day, it will.
Scene V: The Skirmish at Sitio Mabini
Weeks later, intelligence reported a small Huk squad near Sitio Mabini. Rafael led his men through the sugarcane fields, each stalk towering above them, hiding shadows and possible gunfire.
They arrived at dawn. Smoke rose from a hut, and villagers scattered, leaving behind bundles of rice and tools. Rafael gestured to hold.
From behind the hut, a young woman emerged, hands raised. "Kapitan Rafael," she said. "We mean no harm. We take only what we must to survive."
Rafael lowered his rifle. "Then let this be the end of it. No one will be harmed today."
Manuel muttered under his breath, "You're risking your career for kindness."
Rafael smiled faintly, looking across the fields. "And yet, Manuel, what is the Republic worth if it cannot protect its own people without destroying them?"
He wrote again that evening:
Blood in the fields does not yield justice, only sorrow. Yet in these moments, small acts of mercy become revolutions of the heart. Perhaps, when laws come, they will formalize the conscience that soldiers and citizens alike must hold.
Foreshadowing the Future
As the chapter closed, Rafael knew the battles were far from over. The Huks would fight. The government would strike. Innocents would suffer. And yet, in his journal, he recorded not just the events, but the lessons:
When justice is absent, rebellion becomes inevitable. When mercy is forgotten, hatred blooms. I do not know if the Republic will listen, but someday, I hope my words, my witness, and my conscience will guide the laws to protect those who cannot defend themselves. Until then, the fields will drink the blood of ideals, and I will bear witness.
He closed the journal and stared at the horizon, where smoke and sunlight mingled. The war was far from over. And Rafael, a soldier and a witness, carried both oath and conscience into the uncertain dawn.
Decades later, long after Rafael had grown old and the rebellion had faded into history, the journal lay hidden in the corner of a dimly lit office at the Department of Justice. The room was undergoing renovations—walls painted, floors polished, and old cabinets repaired. Amid the dust and the smell of fresh varnish, a maintenance worker discovered a bundle of leather-bound notebooks, tied with fraying string.
Curious, he dusted off the cover and flipped the pages. The words, inked decades earlier, spoke of courage, conscience, and the agony of a young soldier torn between duty and humanity.
The Republic is fragile because it protects the powerful and leaves the powerless to fight their own battles…
Officials who came across the journal were struck by the foresight and moral clarity of its author. Some dismissed it as an old soldier's musings; others saw in it a roadmap to reforms yet unrealized. But the seed was planted. Its presence would inspire debates, guide future legislation, and remind generations that justice was not a privilege of the strong but a right of the weak.
Rafael's witness, his painstaking record of blood and conscience, had survived. Though he had written it in secret, hoping only to understand, the journal found its way into the hands of those who might act. And in that uncertain future, the whispers of hope mingled with the shadows of history, waiting for a law to formalize what morality had always demanded.