A PIECE FOR PEACE | ‘Silang Anak Niyo Rin at Kasama’

ASUNCION, Davao del Norte—A few Sundays ago, a text message interrupted what was supposed to be my eight-hour sleep. My head ached from the brutal sleepless nights for a work that more and more didn’t seem to me to amount to anything. I had been restless for months, drained by routines that no longer felt meaningful.

I struggled to reach for my phone, which was placed on the opposite side of the bed. I hesitated before reading the message. But I did anyway.

The text message read: “Are you free next week? Naay Restorative Justice Program i-conduct ang 60IB, please come so that we can meet. I will be there. See you, I guess?”

I didn’t reply. I knew someone from the organizers of the event, and I knew how to get there.

MONDAY CAME. It was a struggle to escape the usual scene along Davao’s major thoroughfares—the smoke belching, the irritating car horns, the long queues of vehicles snaking through traffic. It was, indeed, a manic Monday.

Past 10 a.m., I arrived at the Armed Forces of the Philippines’ 60th Infantry Battalion headquarters and was escorted by a soldier to the covered court. On the stage hung a tarpaulin backdrop, about fifteen feet from the floor, bearing the event’s title: RESTORATIVE JUSTICE PROGRAM.

I met old friends and familiar acquaintances from the various communities I had worked with during my stint as a development worker in the provinces of Davao de Oro, Davao del Norte, and Agusan del Sur. A short exchange of pleasantries set the tone of my day. 

Surrounded by a crowd steeped in a decades-long armed conflict, I suddenly heard a familiar refrain pulled from memory—a blast from the past, a tune I once loved: “... silang anak niyo rin at kasama…” It was the soundtrack to a turning point in my life, the moment I chose a life away from the struggle of the very people I was now with.   

I sat in the middle, close enough to mingle with a mixed crowd of former rebels, families of fallen soldiers, and a number of tribal leaders who had been invited to take part in the series of intimate dialogues.

When the program was about to start, a cold but gentle hand rested on my shoulder. I turned, and there was Vincent—a soldier and an old friend. Years ago, we had a misunderstanding and never really connected since. I accused him of being part of an institution that used violence to stifle legitimate dissent. But seeing him there that morning, I sensed something had changed.

Vincent was one of the invited participants in the Restorative Justice Program, an activity organized by the 60IB, in partnership with the organization of former rebels called Kalinaw Southeastern Mindanao Region and the Office of the Presidential Adviser on Peace, Reconciliation, and Unity-Mindanao. The program sought to bring together former rebels, families of fallen soldiers, tribal leaders, and civilians from once conflict-torn communities in order to see the full picture of the harm caused by atrocities, to acknowledge it, and to forgive in the name of healing and reconciliation.

“Come with me,” Vincent said, as though no resentment and years had come between us. He led me to a small nook and introduced me to Ka Lando, a 45-year-old former rebel commander from Davao de Oro who, according to Vincent, had killed two of his troopers during a pursuit operation. “He personally killed them?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief in my tone. “Well… no… erm… not personally,” he stuttered. “It was his NPA unit that was responsible…”

And in his eyes, I saw a shift. His gaze had softened, unlike the hard look he’d give me every time I told him there was more to the story of people who take up arms against the government.

“Actually…” Vincent began, and then he unspooled Ka Lando’s entire history. He told it in fragmented leaps across three decades, starting with Ka Lando’s time as an organized peasant youth and following him through nearly 30 years as an armed rebel.

While Vincent spoke, I kept stealing glances at Ka Lando, scarcely believing the travails the man had endured. It was clear from Vincent's retelling that he knew Ka Lando’s family had paid a heavy price in the war: two sons killed in military operations, and a son-in-law—a civilian, though an NPA supporter—executed right in front of his wife and child. Guilt and grief, it seemed to me, swung both ways. I saw it in Vincent’s eyes, too. 

.

THE DIALOGUE BEGAN, facilitated by students and faculty of the Holy Cross of Davao College’s Institute of Peace and Communication Studies. The most powerful moment came when Vincent and Ka Lando faced each other. It was painful for Vincent to revisit the memory of his fallen comrades, just as it was unbearable for Ka Lando to recount the night he lost his comrades and, later, his own family to the same violence.

As Ka Lando spoke, his voice cracked with guilt and grief. He struggled to steady his words, but pain became the only language he could manage. Across from him, Vincent sat in silence, his head bowed. He didn’t interrupt. He already understood that remorse was being offered in a way no words could contain.

There was a dead air. Things left unsaid, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Then Vincent stood and approached Ka Lando, extending his hand. Ka Lando, hands trembling, took it. His grip was firm, and he wept.

“Pasaylua ko sa among nahimo,” Ka Lando whispered. Vincent nodded quietly, the dignity of a soldier who didn’t quiet know—yet—how to respond. The two parted in peace, having at last laid to rest the ghosts that bound them both to guilt.

I left the covered court as a silent observer. I didn’t approach Vincent, choosing instead to give him space to process what had just happened. He had carried that weight in silence for years.

Later that afternoon, I saw him again—sitting quietly near his tent, gazing at the now-empty court where the dialogue had taken place. I sat beside him for a while. We didn’t speak much. But I knew then that something had changed, not just in him, but in me.

THAT DAY, watching Vincent and Ka Lando meet halfway between grief and forgiveness, I remembered why I once chose this path—why I became a development worker. For the first time in a long while, I felt again that quiet sense of purpose that comes only when one witnesses peace being made, not through words or treaties, but through the courage to see each other as human again.

A Piece for Peace by Maria Pariscova examines the forces that divide and the choices that reconcile. Through grounded analysis and clear conviction, this column argues that peace is not a pause in conflict but a policy, a practice, and a public duty.