The Reckoning

Foreword
The Reckoning is the final story in a trilogy about resistance, memory, and the moral cost of
change. Set in the shadow of a post-dictatorship Philippines, it follows the lives of those who
once stood for justice—and now must decide what, if anything, they still believe in.

Though rooted in a specific time and place, the questions it raises are universal:

What happens when a movement loses its soul in the name of ideology?

When violence is staged for sympathy?

When those who once fought for the poor begin to use them?

This is not a story about ideology or rhetoric. It is a story about soul, and the danger of
becoming what you once stood against. It critiques not only the regime, but also the
revolutionary figures who mirror them with a cleaner face. It challenges the idea that any cause
—no matter how righteous—can excuse the exploitation of the innocent.

In a time when activists around the world wrestle with the ethics of disruption, and some trade
conscience for spectacle, The Reckoning offers a quiet reminder:

Victory means nothing if it costs us the very thing we were fighting for.

Part I – Smoke After the Fire

Three years had passed since the dictator fled. Since the highway filled with bodies and
prayers. Since a million hands reached toward the sky at EDSA, singing of Laban and a return
to justice.

But in the provinces, the song had gone quiet.

In the sugar towns, trucks still groaned under the weight of cane. The roads cracked in the
same places. The men in power had changed names—but not appetites.

They called it transition. Reform. Restoration.

But for many, it still felt like waiting.

Waiting for land that still hadn’t been returned.

For justice that remained buried.

Felix Ramirez no longer spoke at rallies. No longer wrote columns. His name still circulated in
the mouths of editors, ministers, and former allies, but he answered few calls.

He had turned his back on the stage.

Now, his mornings were spent in the fields, his boots thick with clay. His afternoons passed in
the co-op office tucked behind the chapel, helping tenants read loan papers, draft affidavits,
understand the quiet violence hidden in contract clauses.

His eyes had deepened. His hands were rough again.

But the fire had not gone out.

Not yet.

In the drawer beside his bed were three things:

A letter with a seal from the Department of Agrarian Reform, unopened.

A newspaper clipping from the day the dictator fled, faded to ash-grey.

And Rosa’s name, handwritten on a small, folded card.

He had made promises—to her, to Teresa, to the salvaged boy whose name no one
remembered but whose face never quite left him.

And promises, he believed, were not things to be stored.

They were meant to be honoured.

Part II – A Fire Rekindled

In the hills above Cadiz, the rains came late.

The soil cracked beneath what little crop remained. Even the river, once a reliable trickle, ran
shallow and bitter now. But still, the children came. They swept their classroom floor before the
sun rose, shared pieces of boiled cassava during break, and studied whatever the weather
allowed.

They were older now, some of them. Time moved through them like the wind—subtle, but
shaping.

One girl rolled her sleeves high and wiped her hands on her skirt, dirt beneath her nails from
digging out kamote.
One boy sat with his arms crossed, the silence around him no longer shy, but something he’d
grown into—like the callouses on his palms.

Pedro, once able to recite the Bill of Rights from memory, now kept to the edges, where the
trees grew thicker. He hadn’t smiled in months.

Juan noticed. But he did not press. He had learned not to chase the quiet.

He still taught them—algebra, essays, values.

But some days, all he could offer was a question:

Who are we, even when no one’s watching?

He still taught nonviolence. Still believed that integrity was resistance. That not becoming the
thing you opposed was the only way the world might one day heal. But lately, he had seen the
flicker in their eyes—something harder than hope, something that looked like preparation.

Then came the notice.

Folded. Smudged with rain. Carried by a neighbour with trembling hands.

The letter said the land—Juan’s neighbour’s land—had been reclassified. A new development
project was clearing brush on the far side of the valley. Bulldozers would come before the
planting season.

The papers claimed the property was state-owned. That a re-survey had been conducted. That
clearance had been granted.

At the bottom, in bold type:

Reviewed and Approved by: Atty. Iñigo Serrano.

Juan stared at the name until the words blurred. Then he folded the letter in half and set it
beneath the lesson book.

___________________________

Down in the lowlands, Felix had received the same document.

His name had been listed on the advisory board—added, not requested.

He hadn’t signed anything.

He called Teresa.

“They’re using my name again,” he said.

She didn’t ask who they were. She already knew.

“You can contest it,” she said.

Teresa’s voice, after all these years, still knew when to cut through noise.

“Then don’t be tired.”

That week, two men came to Juan’s school. Neither in uniform, but both carried the quiet
confidence of those who no longer asked permission.

One was a stranger. The other was not.

Pedro.

He had vanished from class weeks ago—no goodbye, no explanation. All he’d left behind was a
folded note, hidden beneath his desk. A list of names. People he said should not be forgotten.

Now, Pedro stood thinner. Sharper. His posture held less question. A pistol sat beneath his
jacket—not drawn, but present.

The stranger spoke first.

“The people trust you, sir. Your support will help.”

“We’re taking back what they stole,” Pedro added. “The land. The future. You said we had a
right to it.”

Juan met his gaze. “I said we had a duty to build it. Not burn it down.”

Pedro didn’t blink.

“We tried it your way. People are still hungry.”

They handed Juan a map—routes, supply lines, drop-off points.

“We need your school just for a few nights,” the stranger said. “To shelter a unit. No civilians will
be touched. Then we go.”

Juan studied the map.

“I won’t let the land be taken by either side.”

Pedro’s voice dropped.

“Then we’ll go through you. We don’t want to. But we will.”

They left before the kettle boiled.

They left before he could forgive them.

A rally was being planned in the lowlands—to protest the new wave of land conversions. The
broadcast called it a movement. A show of strength. There would be banners. There would be
speeches.

Juan called it a forum—calm, lawful, public.

But the kind of public that made soldiers check their rifles.

The blueprint hadn’t changed. But the weather had.

The next morning, Felix received a second letter. This one bore no seal—just a name.

Juan Alvaro.

Listed on a document leaked by a councillor, alongside organizers tagged as “instigators.”

If anything went wrong, the report said, blame would fall on them.

If violence broke out, it would be regrettable.

But justified.

Felix didn’t eat breakfast. He packed a bag and walked the length of the field, boots damp with
dew. The wind had turned—carrying with it the scent of dried cane, and something older.

He would go.

Not for the panel.

Not for the press.

But because he had once promised to stand at the front when it mattered.

And this time, it mattered.

Part III – Collision

The forum was held in a government hall that still bore the cracks of old power.
Paint peeled along the arches. The seal above the podium was barely updated—just the same
emblem, lacquered anew. Outside, jeepneys honked through narrowed roads. Inside, the air
was too still.

Felix arrived early, though he hadn’t meant to.

He took a seat offstage, where he could watch the crowd gather: farmers in freshly ironed
barongs, NGO staff with clipboards, a few soldiers leaning against the wall, bored but watchful.

There was no music. No chanting. Just the low murmur of people waiting to be heard.

Then he saw the name card:

Atty. Iñigo Serrano – Strategic Advisor, National Development Partnership.

There it was. Polished. Untouched. Waiting.

Felix’s hands stayed folded, but a familiar tightness returned—something behind the ribs,
unfinished, unresolved.

Juan arrived not long after.

He did not dress for the event. His boots were dusty. His collar slightly askew.

But people moved to make space for him anyway.

He carried no folder, no speech—just presence, the kind earned over years of showing up when
it mattered.

He spotted Felix. They nodded—brief, unsentimental.

But when Juan saw Serrano shaking hands at the front, something shifted. The face was the
same. The barong crisper. The voice still measured.

But it was him. The man whose words had cost lives. Still smiling. Still unashamed.

When Serrano took the microphone, he did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“The country has made strides,” he began, “but we must not be held hostage by the past. Land
reform must look forward—not back.”

Polite applause followed. Light. Practiced.

Felix stood.

The room settled.

“I agree,” he said. “We must look forward. But let’s not pretend the ground we’re walking on is
clean.”

He looked at Serrano.
Nothing accusatory in his tone. Just weight.

“I remember Escalante. I remember who stood in front. And who didn’t.”

There was a stillness now, like the room had leaned in.

Serrano responded with ease.

“It was a complicated time. We all did what we believed was necessary.”

“Necessary,” Felix echoed. “Is that what we call it now?”

Serrano smiled thinly.

“Unity is what the country needs. Not division. Not some imaginary grievance.”

Felix’s voice didn’t rise. It settled deeper.

“Then tell the farmers who are losing their land again that unity will feed them. That paper land
reform will keep their children in school.”

He paused.

“I’m not interested in unity built on forgetting. And I won’t stand with anyone who hides behind
blood and calls it ideology.”

No applause. Just quiet.

Juan stood, too.

His voice was quieter still.

“This is our home. Not your project.”

They didn’t look at each other, but they stood together—neither defiant nor theatrical.

Just steady.

Outside, after the forum had emptied, and the sky was softening into grey. Somewhere inland,
the cane rustled as the wind passed low and steady.

Juan turned toward Felix.

“I won’t let the land be taken by either side.”

Felix nodded once. “Then we stand.”

And without ceremony, they began the walk back into the valley.

Not to escalate.

Not to retreat.
But simply to be where they were needed.

Part IV – The Reckoning

The sun rose heavily over Patag, where the cane fields stretched wide between the mountains
and the coast.

The morning of the rally broke not with sirens, but with a hush. Even the dogs in the barangay
were subdued. Smoke from breakfast fires curled slowly through the trees. Somewhere in the
distance, a radio crackled through static.

Volunteers arrived early.

Some carried placards.

Others, water jugs and pan de sal.

Many came with nothing but their bodies, ready to stand and be counted.

There were students, church workers, and farmers.

A few journalists stood near the periphery, notebooks tucked under their arms, cameras slung
like questions.

Felix came on foot.

No security. No microphone.

Just him, a satchel, and a folder of land claims no one had ever honoured.

Juan came from the high road.

The path from his school was steep, but his pace was even. A student walked beside him. Not
Pedro. Another—smaller, uncertain. She kept close.

At the centre of the field, a banner fluttered between two trees:

TANGLAWAN ANG KATOTOHANAN

Let the truth shine.

The soldiers were already there.

Their rifles were unslung but pointed low.

They leaned against the trucks that bore no markings, sunglasses hiding their eyes.

Their boots marked the perimeter like punctuation.

No fanfare. Just the quiet fact of their presence.

The speeches began.

Not fiery. Not grand. Just true.

Felix spoke first. His voice was worn, not weak.

“This land belongs to the farmers who live on it. No decree can unmake that. No general can
erase it.

If a government does not serve the people, it forfeits the right to be obeyed.”

Juan spoke after him.

“We do not come here with weapons. We come with memory. And we stay not to fight, but to be
seen.

If they fire—let it be at me.”

A few clapped. Others bowed their heads.

Teresa stood near the back, scribbling notes, recording names, photographing the crowd for
legal record.

Her briefcase carried no slogans—only affidavits, sworn statements, maps marked with claims.

The slow armour of the law.

Then—noise.

Motorcycles, first.

Six of them.

Men on bikes, faces hidden behind scarves. No insignias, no salutes—just the sure-footed
menace of those who’d long made war in the highlands.

One of them fired into the air.

The crowd broke.

Some screamed. Others ran.

Soldiers tensed. A few raised their rifles.

Felix shouted, “NO!”—his voice lost in the noise.

One shot.
A young man fell.

Another shot.

Juan moved.

Then Felix—already running towards a boy—threw himself forward, arms outstretched.

The third shot found him instead.

He staggered.

Dropped.

Not with drama. Just… down.

Juan reached him seconds later, falling to his knees beside them both.

“You stood in front,” he whispered. “You kept your promise.”

The motorcycles vanished.

The soldiers did not fire again.

No one moved to help.

No one moved to stop it.

The rally was over.

But the reckoning had just begun.

Part V – The Living Remember

They buried Felix under a narra tree, not far from the edge of the field he used to walk each
morning.

No marble. No speeches.

Just a simple wooden marker, hand-carved by a neighbour, and a quiet gathering of those who
had known him—not as a hero, but as a man who showed up.

The boy he’d shielded came.

So did the farmer whose land he’d once defended in court.

A vendor from the parish market brought rice wrapped in banana leaves.
Teresa stood beside them all, her hand resting briefly on the wood.

She did not cry at the funeral.

Not then.

But that night, long after the others had gone and the children were asleep, she sat alone on the
bamboo bench outside their home, a mug of now-cold salabat cradled in her hands.

She didn’t sip it. Just held it, the steam long gone.

She had not touched Felix’s desk.

His files still lay open.

His satchel leaned against the leg of a chair.

When she finally rose, she stepped inside and reached for the folder he had carried that day—
property papers, unfiled notes, a piece of sugarcane someone had handed him.

And, tucked between the pages, a photograph.

Not of Rosa.

Not of any known face.

Just a boy, facedown in a field.

Bound.

Silent.

She rested her palm over it and closed her eyes.

“You always said justice took time,” she whispered. “But this just feels like they’re waiting for our
grief to go quiet.”

The tears came then—not loud, but slow, the kind that rise from somewhere deep and long
held.

And in the quiet that followed, she let them fall.

Teresa sat at their kitchen table, the windows open to the sound of cicadas and wind.

She wrote a new affidavit with Felix’s name added to a different kind of ledger now.

A martyr without ceremony.

In the mountains, Juan stood before his students.

Some stood ready to fight.

Juan raised one hand, and they fell silent.

“You do not honour him by becoming what he stood against.”

He let the silence settle.

“You honour him by planting your feet.

By building.

By refusing to disappear.”

One afternoon, while tidying the old shelves, Juan opened the drawer Pedro used to sit beside.

It stuck. Then slid.

Inside:

A dull pencil.

A smooth stone.

And a folded page, soft from age.

On it - a child’s drawing of a mountain, a house and a traced hand reaching back.

No name.

No caption.

Just careful lines traced over and over—drawn by someone who needed to believe it was real.

Juan stood a long while, the paper trembling slightly in his hand.

Then he walked to the edge of the land, where the fence met the breeze.

And pinned it there.

Not as a warning.

Not as a shrine.

But as a promise.

—————————
In class, a new girl raised her hand.

She couldn’t have been more than twelve.

“Sir… do you think people like us can still make it?”

Juan looked at her.

She had Rosa’s sharpness.

Pedro’s wariness.

And something of Felix in the way she didn’t look away.

He turned toward the window.

The cane shimmered in the wind—like a voice not yet finished speaking.

“We won’t know,” he said.

“Not until we choose who we’re willing to be.

Even when no one’s watching.”

That evening, after the desks were empty, Juan walked once more to the fence.

The drawing still fluttered.

Faded.

But holding.

He stood there a while.

Then turned—quietly, firmly—and walked back up the hill.

Author’s Note
This story is fiction. The events, the dialogue, the characters—you won’t find them in textbooks.

But the choices are real.

The conversation between Juan and Atty. Serrano was inspired by real accounts from the days
leading up to the Escalante Massacre in 1985, when some within the resistance believed that
provocation—even at the cost of lives—was the only way to wake the world. Others refused.
They walked away, unwilling to become what they were trying to overthrow.

The word salvage was used during the dictatorship as a euphemism for extrajudicial killing. The
bodies of activists, farmers, and students were often left in fields or riverbanks, hands bound,
mouths gagged, names unspoken.
Slogans from that era promised discipline, order, and a new society. They were printed on
banners, broadcast on radios, and spoken into microphones—while families searched for the
missing and buried the silenced.

Language can be weaponised, made beautiful to cover something brutal. And history has
echoes.

Slogans can return—and sound appealing—if we forget what they once justified.

The names in this story are fictional. The warning is not.