Pearl

The Philippines is known for one of the world’s longest Christmas seasons, stretching from September to January—a time that celebrates humility and fosters togetherness. It also solemnly observes Holy Week as a period of repentance and reflection before the Lord. In a nation deeply rooted in Catholic tradition, reverence for the dead should come naturally. And yet, why is Alyssa Alano, a 22-year-old student leader—one of the 19 individuals killed in Toboso, Negros Occidental—met not with grief but with laughter?

On April 22, 2026, my Facebook feed was filled with headlines about Alano’s death. In nearly every post, the “haha” reaction outnumbered the others. When someone dies, people usually offer condolences. This time, something shifted. The Philippine Army claimed the deceased were members of the New People’s Army (NPA)—armed combatants. Families and colleagues, however, insist otherwise: they were civilians—students, researchers, and journalists.

The Philippines has long been unkind to civilians who speak alongside the oppressed, often red-tagging them. Activists are quickly labeled as NPA, while trolls call them “salot sa lipunan” (menace to society). Reports following the 2023 killing of Lumad teacher Chad Booc already described the country as one of the most dangerous in Asia for environmental defenders. This context makes it less surprising—but still disturbing—that people now mock the 19 victims of Toboso as “corned beef,” a dehumanizing term used to ridicule activists and even to describe the dead. Bodies that once fought for human rights. Bodies that served communities.

In a country that prides itself on religiosity, many have shown more empathy for a man responsible for 20,322 deaths through extrajudicial killings, while reducing slain activists to processed, disposable food. Their humanity is stripped away and reduced to a grotesque metaphor. Today, praising perpetrators while mocking those who stood with the people has become disturbingly normal. Supporters of former President Rodrigo Duterte wept at his arrest for crimes against humanity, yet many laugh at the deaths of activists who served the masses.

Those who turn these deaths into “corned beef” memes believe activists deserve to die simply for stepping outside their comfort zones and engaging with marginalized communities.

Whenever an activist dies, I ask whether the Philippines is even worth dying—or suffering—for. But I have shifted my perspective: What can I do to be worthy of their sacrifice? Their deaths should not be reduced to mockery but should compel us to continue the fight. Activism is not why people are being killed—the problem is a system that normalizes violence. They did not die because their cause was wrong.

Many hesitate to identify as activists because of the stigma that equates activism with terrorism. Yet they leave the comfort of their homes and schools to immerse themselves in communities—seeking reform in places like Negros, New Bataan, and Mindanao, often dismissed as “dangerous.” Simply being there invites suspicion: “Bakit ka nagre-research sa bundok, sa bukid, sa gubat (Why are you researching in the mountains, in the fields, in the forest)?” People forget that these are the very places where marginalized communities live—communities in urgent need of services and often silenced by those in power.

As someone born and raised in Negros Occidental, with great-grandparents who were hacienderos (estate owners), I have long understood the region’s realities—where land struggles and insurgency intersect. Conducting research there is not wrong; it is necessary. It is part of defending land shaped by generations of poverty and violence. Being an activist or community leader—despite the risks—is not immoral. The real issue is a system that criminalizes people like Alano, who devoted their lives to the people. Even Jesus—the figure they now invoke—stood with the poor, the oppressed, and the marginalized.