EDITORIAL | Traitors

The word “traitor” comes from the Latin traditor—“one who delivers” or “hands over.” To betray, in its earliest form, meant to hand something over. Perhaps power, or perhaps trust.

In the vocabulary of the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), however, “traitor” has become a blunt propaganda weapon. It is wielded reflexively against all, but especially former rebels, who walk away from the "national democratic revolution." It is hurled at grassroots leaders and community builders who choose peace over protracted war. It is meant not just to insult, but to punish. As all former rebels know all too well, being called 'traitor' also earns you a mark for inclusion on the NPA's kill list.

But herein lies the truth: former rebels are being called traitors not because we abandoned the people’s cause, but because we stopped obeying the CPP. What we “handed over” was not allegiance to the masses, but the power the Party once had over our lives. And for that, they mark us with the word "traitor" like a scarlet letter, in a desperate attempt to erase our agency, delegitimize our choices, and scare others from following the same path.

But it does not seem to be working.

More and more former rebels, supporters, and even former sympathizers are coming to the same conclusion that armed struggle is not the only path, and maybe, it never was. That’s why the so-called Agusan 8 (or more aptly, Jaguar 8) has now dwindled to Jaguar 6. And that is why the CPP and its legal democratic spawns are frothing at the mouth. Reality is catching up.

As Buklod Kapayapaan puts it, “To dismiss our efforts as betrayal is to deny our agency and humanity.” We did not turn our backs on the people; we turned our backs on an organization that demanded blind loyalty even as it continues to lose its grip on the world around it.

Former rebels have not betrayed the masses. On the contrary, we are being welcomed by them. The very communities we once organized are now embracing our return, our reconciliation, and our transformation. 

So what kind of movement punishes transformation? What kind of revolution deems marriages of former rebels, livelihood programs, fun runs, and other peacebuilding efforts as acts of betrayal? Only one stuck in the past. One that rejects any form of peace it cannot control. One that clings to a world where the only acceptable expression of commitment is submission to the Party line.

And if there is any real betrayal in this story, it is not ours.

The betrayal is grooming another generation of young Filipinos to die for a war that continues to devour its own. The betrayal is milking the grief of mothers and fathers for propaganda and "crowdfunding," while dismissing those who no longer want to bury their sons and daughters. The betrayal is calling the amnesty program a sham–-a program not just for former communists, but for former Moro rebels too–-thus insulting the courage and dignity of all returnees, across histories and identities.

The real betrayal is claiming to speak for indigenous people while profiting from their suffering, doing so from the safety of cities, even as they are rejected by the very communities they raise funds for abroad. 

What the CPP cannot accept is that its former comrades have outgrown its narrow definitions of loyalty, courage, or service. They say we have handed over our cause. In truth, we handed over our fear. We dared to imagine a life beyond the gun and we reached across the divide to help others do the same.

We are not traitors. We are witnesses. And we are being demonized by the CPP for choosing to become builders of peace.

If choosing to live a life no longer dictated by fear and ideological coercion makes us traitors, then perhaps we are guilty—along with all the other families, communities, and people who have finally turned their backs on the CPP-NPA-NDFP.