I
The dry season stretched longer than expected. Fields cracked under the sun, fissures opening in the once-rich earth. Farmers walked the paddies barefoot, their shadows thin against the golden light, their eyes hollow from months of meals reduced to watery porridge.
Rafael returned to Nueva Ecija at the urging of old friends. The jeepney that brought him rattled along dusty roads, passing villages where children sat idly, ribs showing beneath skin. Dogs lay too weak to bark. The air itself smelled of ash, though no fire burned — it was the smell of fields left barren, of lives stretched too thin.
At the barangay hall, farmers gathered, hats in hand, their clothes patched and frayed. They looked to Rafael not as a soldier, not as a government man, but as someone who had once listened.
"Tatang," Rafael greeted one elder farmer, bowing slightly. "How is the harvest this year?"
The old man's lips trembled. "Harvest? There is nothing to harvest. We planted, but the rains came late. The traders still came on time. They took what little we had. Now we borrow, and when the next season comes, our debts will drown us."
The hall fell silent, the weight of his words settling like dust.
II
Later, Rafael sat outside a hut made of nipa and bamboo. A mother prepared rice porridge, stirring a pot that barely steamed. Three children sat cross-legged, bowls in their hands, waiting.
The eldest child, a boy of ten, asked softly, "Nanay, will there be fish today?"
The mother shook her head. "Fish is for Sundays, hijo. Today we share what we have."
The boy lowered his gaze. The younger ones still smiled, unaware of what hunger meant beyond the growling of their stomachs.
Rafael could not eat when offered a small bowl. He pushed it back gently. "Keep it for the children."
The mother frowned. "But you traveled far."
"I have eaten enough in my life," Rafael said, his throat tight. "Let them eat."
III
At night, the farmers met in whispers by kerosene lamps. Rafael joined them, seated on a bamboo bench. They spoke not with anger, but with exhaustion.
"We waited for Macapagal's land reform," one farmer muttered. "But where is it? The landlords sit in Manila, drinking imported wine, while we beg for rice."
Another farmer added, "We fought in the war. We fought the Japanese. But no government has fought for us. Why must every president forget us when they reach Malacañang?"
The murmurs grew louder, like the hum of cicadas in the dark. Rafael scribbled in his journal: Promises starve faster than men. And starving men do not stay silent forever.
IV
Back in Manila, Rafael attended a congressional hearing on rural development. The chamber echoed with polished words and smooth gestures.
A congressman declared, "The countryside must be patient. Reform takes time. The government is committed to improving agriculture."
Rafael clenched his jaw. He had just seen children faint from hunger in Nueva Ecija. Patience, he thought bitterly, had already starved generations.
When his turn came to speak as an invited observer, Rafael rose. His voice cut through the chamber, firm but heavy.
"Gentlemen, you debate figures on paper while the people debate survival with empty stomachs. You measure patience in years. They measure it in grains of rice. If you do not act, the people will find their own answers."
A ripple of discomfort spread across the chamber. Some applauded. Others glared. But Rafael sat down knowing his words would likely fade into the archives, like so many speeches before his.
V
In Pampanga, hunger began to show its teeth. Farmers who once endured in silence now gathered in protest. Women banged empty pots in front of municipal halls. Priests read sermons denouncing injustice. Children carried placards with the words: Land for those who till it.
Rafael walked among them, unseen at first, blending into the crowd. The chants rose:
"Bigas, hindi bala!"
"Lupa para sa magsasaka!"
Rice, not bullets. Land for the farmers.
The police arrived, shields and truncheons ready. The crowd wavered but did not disperse. Rafael's heart pounded as tension thickened. One swing of a baton, one spark, and blood would flow.
But an old woman stepped forward, carrying nothing but a rosary. She knelt in front of the policemen and prayed aloud for food, for rain, for mercy. The silence that followed was heavier than the chants. Even the police lowered their shields.
Rafael would never forget that sight: hunger kneeling with dignity before power.
VI
Hunger seeped into politics like a poison. In the newspapers, headlines shouted about rice shortages. Editorials accused the government of incompetence. Opposition parties warned of chaos if reforms failed.
Rafael visited Malacañang at the invitation of an old ally, a mid-level official.
"Rafael," the man said in hushed tones, "the countryside is boiling. If the president doesn't act, someone else will seize the anger of the masses. And when that happens, blood will follow."
Rafael leaned forward. "Then why not act now? Why not push for true reform?"
The official sighed. "Because the landlords in Congress will not allow it. Every law passes through their hands. And their hands are chained to their estates."
Rafael's pen hovered over his journal. If laws cannot free the hungry, then hunger will write its own law.
VII
One evening, Rafael returned to Nueva Ecija once more. He found Mang Pedro outside his hut, staring at the horizon. The old farmer's face was drawn, his body frailer than Rafael remembered.
"Kapitan," Mang Pedro said, "I buried my grandson last week. Fever. We had no money for medicine."
Rafael's chest clenched. "I'm sorry, Tatang."
The old man shook his head. "Sorry cannot feed the living. My boy died not from fever, but from poverty. And poverty is a sickness older than any of us."
He looked at Rafael with weary eyes. "How long must we endure, Kapitan? When will the soil we bled for finally give us bread?"
Rafael had no answer. Only the silence of the land spoke back, stretching endlessly under the moonlight.
VIII
By the end of Macapagal's presidency, hunger was no longer a whisper but a cry. It echoed in the markets, in the fields, in the barrios where children went to bed with empty stomachs.
Rafael closed his journal one night, his handwriting jagged from anger. He wrote: A nation that cannot feed its farmers is a nation already defeated. Hunger is not only in the stomach — it is in the spirit. And a hungry spirit will not kneel forever.
The next morning, a rumor spread in Manila: a senator named Marcos was positioning himself as the savior of the countryside. He promised strength, discipline, and order. People began to listen.
Rafael folded his journal and tucked it away. He did not know who would one day read it. But he knew this truth — hunger was the seed of storms, and storms were gathering.
IX
In San Miguel, a small barrio between Pampanga and Tarlac, Rafael sat in a bamboo hut surrounded by teachers. Their blackboards had been painted over with lessons from the Department of Education, but no chalk dust clung to their hands that week.
"We cannot teach hungry children," one young maestro said. "They fall asleep on their desks. Some faint during flag ceremonies. What use is history if their stomachs ache louder than my lectures?"
Another teacher, older and grayer, added bitterly, "I teach them about heroes who fought for freedom. They listen, but then they go home and eat only salt with rice. Tell me, Kapitan, what kind of freedom is that?"
Rafael answered quietly, "It is freedom in name, but not in life. And a freedom that starves its children is fragile."
X
In another visit, Rafael joined a priest who traveled barrio to barrio with a cart carrying sacks of rice donated by parishioners. The priest's homily was short and cutting:
"God gave us land, but men gave us landlords. God gave us grain, but men gave us debt. Yet we must endure. We must remember that hunger is not only of the stomach, but of justice."
The villagers bowed their heads, but Rafael noticed how their eyes carried no light. Faith, though still alive, was bruised.
That night, Rafael asked the priest, "Do you believe the government will fix this?"
The priest shook his head. "The government feeds itself first. The poor must learn to plant not only rice but courage. That is the only harvest that will last."
XI
In his journal, Rafael wrote about the sound of empty pots. He described how women beat them like drums during protests, the hollow clang echoing through the night like a war chant.
He wrote: The sound of an empty pot is louder than a cannon when enough hands strike it. One day, the city will hear it too. And when that day comes, no soldier, no president, no law will silence it.
XII
Months later, in the halls of Manila, Rafael overheard whispers among young congressmen.
"They say hunger will break Macapagal."
"They say Marcos is waiting. He has a plan. He knows how to use discipline."
"They say the countryside will decide the next election, not the city."
Rafael walked past them, his face unreadable. Inside, he felt the cold certainty of their words. Hunger had become political currency. And men who promised order would soon trade it for power.
XIII
On his final night in Nueva Ecija, Rafael stood alone by the paddies. The moon cast pale silver across the cracked earth. He bent down, scooped a handful of dust, and let it fall between his fingers.
"Hunger is not just in the belly," he whispered to the night. "It seeps into the land, into the soul. A hungry land gives birth to angry children. And angry children… grow into rebels."
The wind carried his words away, but the truth remained, rooted in the soil like seeds waiting for rain.