By: Zabrina Hong, Jia Erikah Fajardo
Cartoon by: Jeremy Calvin Enriquez | The LANCE
A journalist was killed, and a student leader lost their life—deaths that cast a harsh light on the risks faced by those who pursue truth and justice.
On April 19, a deadly clash between communist rebels and government forces erupted in Toboso, Negros Occidental, leaving 19 people dead in what the military described as an encounter with alleged members of the New People’s Army (NPA).
In a statement, the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) said the operation conducted by the 79th Infantry “Masaligan” Battalion under the 303rd Infantry Brigade of the 3rd Infantry Division was launched based on “verified reports” from civilians. The encounter reportedly began at around 3:58 a.m. in Sitio Sinigmawan, Barangay Salamanca, Toboso, Negros Occidental.
Among those killed was RJ Nichole Ledesma—a poet, human rights advocate, and community journalist. As a correspondent and regional coordinator for Altermidya in the Negros Island Region, Ledesma devoted his work to documenting stories that brought attention to the lived realities of vulnerable communities across Negros.
According to an Altermidya statement, Ledesma was in the area for community immersion and reporting on the impacts of renewable energy projects, including solar farm expansion and windmill developments, on farmer communities. Human Rights Advocates Negros (HRAN) said he was not at the initial clash site in Sitio Sinigmawan but was later killed in Sitio Plariding during a separate military pursuit operation.
Another individual named in the reports is Alyssa Alano, a student leader from the University of the Philippines Diliman who served as a councilor in the UP Diliman University Student Council (USC), where she was part of the Education and Research Committee.
While the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) identified those killed as alleged members of the New People’s Army (NPA), the UP Diliman USC presented a different account, saying Alano was killed when troops allegedly opened fire on a community in the area, prompting residents to flee. The council also described her as an “innocent civilian” who worked closely with farmers to better understand their conditions.
“Salute to AFP!”, “Ginusto nila ’yan”, “Bakit sa bundok nagre-research?”, “Walang utang na loob. Pina-aral ng gobyerno, nag-NPA pa.” And now a new label for those killed in encounters: “corned beef.”
These are not just online comments. They are quick verdicts—mocking, dehumanizing, and often spoken without proof, verification, or even basic curiosity. Lives are reduced to punchlines. Deaths are flattened into assumptions.
Worse, they reveal a widening gap in understanding: who journalists are, who activists are, and who armed combatants are. These roles are not interchangeable, yet they are routinely blurred in public discourse. In that blur, nuance disappears—and so does empathy.
It is difficult to ignore what this says about the state of education and critical thinking in the country. When labels are easier than questions, and assumptions louder than facts, we risk forgetting a basic civic duty: to think before we speak, and to recognize humanity before we judge.
We have seen the consequences of this before. In October 2020, then-Armed Forces of the Philippines Southern Luzon Command chief Lt. Gen. Antonio Parlade Jr. publicly warned actress Liza Soberano over her ties with Gabriela Women’s Party, claiming she could end up like those killed in clashes with groups he associated with the communist insurgency. While carefully worded, the message was unmistakable: association alone can invite suspicion, suspicion enough to justify threat.
When red-tagging comes from figures in power, it does more than misinform—it legitimizes fear. And when that language seeps into everyday discourse, it normalizes the idea that labeling replaces due process.
This is why the continued push for a clear anti–red-tagging law matters. A proposed measure in Congress seeks to define and penalize red-tagging as a practice of labeling individuals or groups as terrorists or insurgents without evidence or due process. Its urgency lies in what is currently missing: accountability for reckless accusations that can endanger lives. Without clear legal consequences, red-tagging remains easy to weaponize—especially against activists, organizers, and even ordinary citizens.
At the same time, concerns remain about the existing Anti-Terrorism Act of 2020, whose broad definitions of “terrorist acts” and expanded powers of surveillance and designation have been criticized for creating a space where dissent can be misread as extremism. Even with safeguards on paper, its vagueness leaves room for misuse, especially in a climate already prone to labeling and suspicion.
In a country where accusation often arrives faster than evidence, what protection remains for those who speak, investigate, organize, or simply ask questions?
In the wake of former President Duterte’s War on Drugs and the extrajudicial killings it permitted, human rights have become a point of contention in the country. This includes who is deserving of dignity and due process, it seems.
Kalinaw News, described as “an online news platform on the pursuit for peace in the Philippines,” operates as the social media arm of the Philippine Army. It is where they publish updates on their operations, their achievements, and, at times, their casualties during “encounters.”
Alano and Ledesma were among those featured in one such post. Rendered in black and white, their faces blurred but their bodies propped with weapons on full display, their full names were plainly stated in the caption. Their identities were further defined by their affiliations that, for some, were enough to justify the violent circumstances of their deaths.
In the comments, Kalinaw casually listed their social media pages before ending with, “Spread the peace.”
The call seemed directed at netizens who had already picked a side and knew how to respond, leaving love or laugh reactions on a post that made death and tragedy a spectacle—into an invitation to participate, to provoke, and to reinforce a narrative where certain people are deemed as less worthy of dignity, or at the very least, the presumption of innocence before being proven guilty.
Is this “spreading the peace?”
An online onslaught of differing perspectives and accounts followed. There are those that are poignant recollections of their time with Alano and Ledesma, written in fondness, in disbelief, in anger, or in grief.
Others, however, turned to concluding that their demise is the result of the paths they have chosen, as if violence is inevitable and acceptable for those choosing to be in far-flung communities. The rest persecuted the slain, reducing them to labels and stereotypes, while Alano, in particular, was further dehumanized through misogynistic remarks.
With Kalinaw News as one of the AFP’s most visible avenues for communication and “spreading the peace,” then what kind of peace is being cultivated? One that invites ridicule in the face of death and tolerates the erosion of our empathy? Or is their call mere lip service?
“Peace” has become a recurring word in the past few days, repeated in captions, comment sections, and official statements. Yet peace does not feel present in what has unfolded.
Perhaps, it is because peace was not what was truly incited during and in the aftermath of the “encounter” that left 19 casualties in Negros, nor when Alano and Ledesma’s names were publicized, their affiliations listed, and their identities reduced in the telling of their end.
Perhaps, it is because peace cannot be born from the brutality that they were met with.
It is in solidarity with the youth, advocates, and human rights groups that the April 19 Negros killings must be denounced.
We demand independent and impartial investigation that is free from political influence and ensures transparency at every stage. We demand accountability for how these incidents were committed and how they are presented to the public, in order to confront the persistent spread of impunity and prevent the normalization of red-tagging and state-sanctioned violence. For anything less is a betrayal of justice and a signal that violence can continue without consequence.
To remain silent is to be complicit in enabling acts of cruelty meant to silence and threaten. To speak is to insist that even post mortem, their lives and works continue to hold meaning—enduring and persevering.
Echoing the calls of their loved ones: hustisya para kina Alyssa, RJ, at sa kanilang mga kasama!