Selective Justice and the Memory of War

In the aftermath of the recent Negros encounter, familiar calls quickly resurfaced: independent investigations, accountability, justice for the slain. These demands are valid. In any armed conflict, the State carries the burden of proving that lethal force was lawful, necessary, and proportional. No serious society should abandon that standard.

But memory becomes dangerous when it turns selective.

Former rebels remember another incident that never received the same national outrage, the same urgent statements, or the same moral theater now dominating social media timelines.

On August 5, 2016, three soldiers were killed in an ambush in Monkayo, Davao de Oro involving two NPA units under Guerrilla Front 20 and the 8th Pulang Bagani Company. During the retrieval of the bodies, military personnel and individuals present at the scene reported that one of the fallen soldiers had already been subjected to post-incident mutilation despite being dead. Other recovered remains reportedly bore bladed-wound injuries consistent with slashing.

Where were the loud demands for accountability then?

Where were the urgent calls from militant organizations, solidarity networks, and self-appointed defenders of human rights demanding a transparent and independent investigation? Where were the statements insisting that even combatants retain human dignity after death?

Inside the movement, many former rebels already know the uncomfortable answer.

There was no public judicial process. No transparent inquiry. No independent body. The matter was reportedly handled internally by the Party committee itself. The sanction imposed was organizational in nature — a mere six-month suspension. Beyond that, nothing resembling an actual judicial penalty existed.

And yet today, the same revolutionary machinery that historically settled grave abuses through opaque “internal processes” now speaks the language of due process and human rights with absolute moral certainty.

This is not an argument against investigations in Negros. Investigations must proceed wherever credible questions exist. Accountability cannot depend on ideology. But accountability also loses moral weight when it becomes selectively activated only when politically useful.

One of the hardest realizations for many former rebels after leaving the underground movement is understanding how moral language itself can become tactical. Terms like “justice,” “human rights,” and “people’s welfare” are not always used consistently. Sometimes they are deployed asymmetrically — amplified when the State is accused, softened when the movement itself is implicated.

That contradiction matters.

Because many of us came from inside a structure where punishments, executions, and disciplinary actions were often insulated from the very standards now being demanded publicly from government forces. There were no independent courts in the mountains. No impartial observers. No press freedom inside armed units. Decisions were frequently absorbed into Party discipline and organizational preservation.

The issue therefore is not whether the State should be scrutinized. It absolutely should be. The issue is whether the standards being demanded are universal or merely partisan.

War distorts memory. Over time, societies begin mourning only the dead that fit their preferred narratives. One side remembers only State abuses. The other remembers only NPA atrocities. Both become trapped inside incomplete histories.

But peace-building requires confronting the entire record, including the uncomfortable parts.

Justice cannot survive as a weapon used only against enemies while silence protects allies. The moment accountability becomes selective, it stops being justice and becomes propaganda wearing legal language.