Jovito Palparan is, arguably, an enigmatic presence; the shadow he casts is long, where he chooses to leave it, and his reputation, larger than life, if we were to believe the many victims who have named him “The Butcher”.
A chilling silence falls across the room, packed to the brim, the first time he comes to the Bulacan Regional Trial Court on a Monday. Escorted by burly men in black and bullet-proof vests and clad in a dark jacket, he momentarily blends into the horde. When he takes his seat, and the men stand back, he becomes instantly recognizable – his face plastered on many a poster, his profile memorized by the victims who sit in the wobbly pews, his military posture familiar to his minions perched on the opposite ledge across the room.
Palparan gained notoriety for the rash of human rights violation in areas where he was assigned as a military commander. He earned his monicker by waddling into the countryside and ruthlessly weeding out the communists, real and imagined. Like a butcher desensitized, he shrugged off all the gore and violence as all in a day's work. And worse - most times he managed to find the gall to claim himself justified, all in the name of this democracy.
How he turned up on 18 August 2014, in the heart of the metro living on top of a corner bakery, was absurdly and mockingly brilliant. It’s almost excruciating to run down the all the missed opportunities shared by the neighborhood tambay, the regular customer, the busybodies and snoops – not least by the NPA, who branded him dead man walking in invoking revolutionary justice.
It was too early morning when the news broke on twitter that day. I was serenely browsing when my eye zoomed in on his name, Palparan, and the word arrest in the same sentence. For me there was a discombobulated mix of emotions – rage, surprise, fear, anxiety, grief and, dare I say, hope? Hope that somehow he could tell us where to find Karen and Sherlyn, and though glazed with trepidation, what really happened to them.
The public interest in the kidnapping case was petering out by that time, with the defense of two other accused wrapped up. All the legalities had become too boring, as the lawyers of the two soldiers pigheadedly grasped at straws to cover the weakness of their case. One and half years to present evidence – and they present only two witnesses, the accused themselves. I would have found it all funny, especially the well-timed diarrhea, if it hadn’t turned out all frustrating.
Here comes Palparan and his duo of lawyers, no less stubborn and much more relentless in echoing old arguments. They’re marching back to the higher courts with the same pleadings they filed in 2012, hoping this time around, it wouldn’t be junked. All together the motto of the defense is “maybe this time”, as they call for endless motions for reconsideration that has as much chance as the moon turning purple. It’s this endless twaddle that drains energies and bides away the time, but at least, the public eye is back again, and the calls for justice – from both sides – are finding space in the national agenda.
The news is chockfull of articles about how afraid Palparan is nowadays. It’s surreal, looking back to the times he strutted like a peacock in the countryside, during the preliminary investigation at the DOJ and even in Congress. I can understand if he’s lonelier at the army jail, if he’s struggling about his health, if he needs a little more consideration security wise. But most times, he paints himself the victim when he's anything but – and he’s got supporters.
Despite Palparan’s spotty record, the military hierarchy was quick to praise him after his arrest and a new group, the “Free Jovito Palparan Movement,” joins the demonstrations in Bulacan. Unbaffled and unruffled, we in the other camp deftly pick up where their logic goes awry and the frenzy kicks in. Why call him a good soldier, when the charges against say that he went out of line? Why house him, when they failed to find him in the first place? Why free him, when it’s the law he so stoically implemented that orders him in jail? Why free him now, when he’s barely warmed his tarima (bed) after three years on the lam?
It’s been strange lately to hear Palparan cry foul when the going gets tough. For someone who’s gone to the media with straightforward statements that yes, he evaded the law, and good for you NBI, you outsmarted me, it’s interesting to see him intensely fight off civilian detention. Then again, he is that one who shunned the lawful and official in favor of his own crude bartolinas (solitary cells) and crueler methods of arrest and detention. I will forever remember how he menacingly gestures to his lawyer, who is bumbling over his request to the Court on choices of detention facilities. He almost jumps from his chair and tries to grab his lawyer, who is suggesting he be detained in Camp Crame. There is a swift consultation and I can imagine him whispering angrily: the communists are there.
This case is a circus, it’s long, arduous and tough. But losing hope is not an option in times like this. I know Karen would have solidly trudged on, with a smile on her face. Stories about the two girls are reverent in portraying them doers, action women, with their hearts in the right place. So now I stand in court for Karen, a friend and comrade who stepped up for me at a time when I failed to do so. Because I know if we could trade places, she will do the same.
I want Palparan to squirm every time he hears the bellows of Karen’s friends out in the rally outside. Every time he realizes that there are many more of us from the new millennium generation who are committed personally and professionally, waiting in the awnings. And when he looks me in the eye again, when he hears the click of my heels on the floors of the Bulacan courthouse, I want him disquieted and thinking. That Karen is here, and ready to make him pay.
A chilling silence falls across the room, packed to the brim, the first time he comes to the Bulacan Regional Trial Court on a Monday. Escorted by burly men in black and bullet-proof vests and clad in a dark jacket, he momentarily blends into the horde. When he takes his seat, and the men stand back, he becomes instantly recognizable – his face plastered on many a poster, his profile memorized by the victims who sit in the wobbly pews, his military posture familiar to his minions perched on the opposite ledge across the room.
Palparan gained notoriety for the rash of human rights violation in areas where he was assigned as a military commander. He earned his monicker by waddling into the countryside and ruthlessly weeding out the communists, real and imagined. Like a butcher desensitized, he shrugged off all the gore and violence as all in a day's work. And worse - most times he managed to find the gall to claim himself justified, all in the name of this democracy.
How he turned up on 18 August 2014, in the heart of the metro living on top of a corner bakery, was absurdly and mockingly brilliant. It’s almost excruciating to run down the all the missed opportunities shared by the neighborhood tambay, the regular customer, the busybodies and snoops – not least by the NPA, who branded him dead man walking in invoking revolutionary justice.
It was too early morning when the news broke on twitter that day. I was serenely browsing when my eye zoomed in on his name, Palparan, and the word arrest in the same sentence. For me there was a discombobulated mix of emotions – rage, surprise, fear, anxiety, grief and, dare I say, hope? Hope that somehow he could tell us where to find Karen and Sherlyn, and though glazed with trepidation, what really happened to them.
The public interest in the kidnapping case was petering out by that time, with the defense of two other accused wrapped up. All the legalities had become too boring, as the lawyers of the two soldiers pigheadedly grasped at straws to cover the weakness of their case. One and half years to present evidence – and they present only two witnesses, the accused themselves. I would have found it all funny, especially the well-timed diarrhea, if it hadn’t turned out all frustrating.
Here comes Palparan and his duo of lawyers, no less stubborn and much more relentless in echoing old arguments. They’re marching back to the higher courts with the same pleadings they filed in 2012, hoping this time around, it wouldn’t be junked. All together the motto of the defense is “maybe this time”, as they call for endless motions for reconsideration that has as much chance as the moon turning purple. It’s this endless twaddle that drains energies and bides away the time, but at least, the public eye is back again, and the calls for justice – from both sides – are finding space in the national agenda.
The news is chockfull of articles about how afraid Palparan is nowadays. It’s surreal, looking back to the times he strutted like a peacock in the countryside, during the preliminary investigation at the DOJ and even in Congress. I can understand if he’s lonelier at the army jail, if he’s struggling about his health, if he needs a little more consideration security wise. But most times, he paints himself the victim when he's anything but – and he’s got supporters.
Despite Palparan’s spotty record, the military hierarchy was quick to praise him after his arrest and a new group, the “Free Jovito Palparan Movement,” joins the demonstrations in Bulacan. Unbaffled and unruffled, we in the other camp deftly pick up where their logic goes awry and the frenzy kicks in. Why call him a good soldier, when the charges against say that he went out of line? Why house him, when they failed to find him in the first place? Why free him, when it’s the law he so stoically implemented that orders him in jail? Why free him now, when he’s barely warmed his tarima (bed) after three years on the lam?
It’s been strange lately to hear Palparan cry foul when the going gets tough. For someone who’s gone to the media with straightforward statements that yes, he evaded the law, and good for you NBI, you outsmarted me, it’s interesting to see him intensely fight off civilian detention. Then again, he is that one who shunned the lawful and official in favor of his own crude bartolinas (solitary cells) and crueler methods of arrest and detention. I will forever remember how he menacingly gestures to his lawyer, who is bumbling over his request to the Court on choices of detention facilities. He almost jumps from his chair and tries to grab his lawyer, who is suggesting he be detained in Camp Crame. There is a swift consultation and I can imagine him whispering angrily: the communists are there.
This case is a circus, it’s long, arduous and tough. But losing hope is not an option in times like this. I know Karen would have solidly trudged on, with a smile on her face. Stories about the two girls are reverent in portraying them doers, action women, with their hearts in the right place. So now I stand in court for Karen, a friend and comrade who stepped up for me at a time when I failed to do so. Because I know if we could trade places, she will do the same.
I want Palparan to squirm every time he hears the bellows of Karen’s friends out in the rally outside. Every time he realizes that there are many more of us from the new millennium generation who are committed personally and professionally, waiting in the awnings. And when he looks me in the eye again, when he hears the click of my heels on the floors of the Bulacan courthouse, I want him disquieted and thinking. That Karen is here, and ready to make him pay.