Ten years have passed since the Kidapawan Massacre, yet the sound that lingers is not just that of gunfire—it is the echo of a nation’s failure to feed its people before silencing them. April 1, 2016 should have been an ordinary day in a country accustomed to hardship, but it became a defining moment of state violence against some of the most vulnerable Filipinos: farmers whose only crime was to demand rice in the face of hunger.
The story did not begin on that day. It began months earlier, when the El Niño scorched Mindanao’s farmlands, leaving over 300,000 hectares barren and wiping out billions worth of crops. It began when promises were made—15,000 sacks of rice, relief for communities pushed to the brink—and then quietly forgotten as political attention shifted toward the 2016 elections. Hunger, however, does not wait for campaign seasons to end. Hunger does not negotiate. And so, thousands of farmers from across North Cotabato gathered, first in protest, then in desperation, and finally in defiance.
For three days, they blocked the Davao–Cotabato Road, not as an act of rebellion, but as a last resort to be seen and heard. They were dismissed, labeled, and reduced to statistics. Yet behind every number was a family that had not eaten, a child that could not be fed, a farmer who could no longer plant. When negotiations failed on April 1, the state responded not with compassion, but with force. Water cannons were unleashed, tensions escalated, and then came the gunfire. Lives were lost. Over a hundred were injured. Dozens—including the elderly—were arrested. A protest born out of hunger was crushed with bullets.
What makes the tragedy more damning is not only the violence itself, but the impunity that followed. A decade later, no one has been held accountable. Not a single official has been convicted for the deaths, the injuries, or the trauma inflicted that day. The findings of the Commission on Human Rights were clear: the use of firearms was unjustified, and protocols on peaceful dispersal were violated. Yet justice, like the promised rice, never came.
The Kidapawan Massacre forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about governance, accountability, and whose lives are valued in times of crisis. It reveals a system where the poor must beg for survival, and when they do, are met with suspicion, hostility, and ultimately violence. It exposes how quickly the state can mobilize force, yet how slowly it delivers aid. It reminds us that in moments of national emergency, the line between neglect and brutality can blur with devastating consequences.
And yet, amid the violence, there was also solidarity. The phrase “Bigas, hindi bala” (Rice, not bullets) became more than a slogan—it became a collective cry that resonated across the country and beyond. Donations poured in. Ordinary citizens responded where institutions failed. But charity, no matter how generous, is not a substitute for justice.
Ten years later, the question remains as urgent as ever: why were farmers asking for food met with bullets instead of relief? Until that question is answered—not just in words, but through accountability—the wounds of Kidapawan will not heal. Commemorations like this are not merely about remembering the dead; they are about challenging the living to ensure that such a tragedy is never repeated.
Because when a government cannot feed its farmers, but can fire upon them, it reveals not just a failure of policy—but a failure of humanity.