S1E68 – The true essence of the “Rule of Law”

Where is Miss Carla Adaawan?” I picked out a particular student because I knew she is from Tabuk City, which is in Kalinga province. This province was particularly significant during martial law because of the Chico River Dam controversy.

“I’m present sir!” the spritely girl stood up.

“Miss Carla, last April 24, your city marked the death anniversary of your folk hero, Macli-ing Dulag—” she cut me short.

“No, sir, we did not,” she said, hanging her head low as though she was embarrassed to say what she just said.

“No? I didn’t know that—and I’m surprised, because here in Baguio we exhibited his bullet-riddled door in Malcolm Square to remember the night he was murdered,” I said.

“We heard about it, sir, and the grateful people of Kalinga salute the noble people of Baguio for doing that. To think that Baguio is 450 kilometers away from that infamous crime scene—”

“Barrio Basao, Tinglayan municipality,” Jack Makataruz interjected, without being called.

“That’s right, classmate,” Miss Carla acknowledged, “and if that Chico Dam project had pushed through, it would have submerged eleven more villages further upstream. You wouldn’t know it from the lack of official acknowledgment of these historical facts.”

“That is really sad,” I consoled, “you know, there’s a library, an art gallery and a scholarship program in memory of him here in Baguio, and I know of at least three plays that are written by Baguio playwrights about the life of Macli-ing Dulag. Are you telling me there’s nothing like that in Tabuk City, Miss Carla?”

“None that I know of, sir. No monument, no street, no public building, signboard or marker named after Macli-ing Dulag in Tabuk, which is ironical considering he is our version of Andres Bonifacio,” the girl from Tabuk lamented.

“That’s why we’re so amazed that you here in Baguio would commemorate our hero better than we did in his own home province,” Miss Carla said, her voice cracking a little bit.

“If it’s any consolation, young lady, that is a biblical phenomenon,” I said, “there’s no monument or marker honoring Jesus Christ in Nazareth either, and that’s His ancestral town.”

Miss Deema butted in, “Prof is right, just like Jesus said ‘a prophet is without honor in his hometown.’ In fact, don’t even be too impressed with us here in Baguio. Our first Filipino mayor is Sergio Bay-an, and we have no monument to his honor, either.”

I steered the class back to the lecture. “Anyway, the reason I asked the question, Miss Carla, is to jump off our discussion tonight about the ‘rule of law.’ Does anybody have any idea what that lovely phrase ‘rule of law’ means?”

“Let me try, sir,” Miss Deema stood up again, “rule of law is the prevalence of justice, by actions that are responsive to logic, reason and fair play.”

The thing with this particular law student, Miss Deema, is whenever she recites I often don’t know how to evaluate her answer. She can string words together to come up with something that sounds like a quotation from a textbook, one I most likely did not prescribe for the class. So I just wing it.

“That’s fine, Miss Deema, but how does the law figure in all that? Mustn’t there always be a law behind our actions for us to be able to say we are following the ‘rule of law’?”

It was Miss Carla who spoke, “Sometimes, I feel it’s the opposite, sir. The Chico Dam Project is the perfect example. It showed the people of Tinglayan the most hideous face of the law, sir, where the military was used to enforce a project rejected by the people. And yet they kept saying the project is in line with a very important national program. We were accused of defying the ‘rule of law’ for opposing the threatened displacement of Igorot villages by that hydroelectric dam.”

“What national program was that, Miss Carla?” I asked.

“The national electrification program, sir,” Miss Carla answered, “the Chico Dam project was funded by the World Bank and the lead agencies were the National Power Corporation and the National Electrification Administration.”

At the mere mention of NEA, the whole class groaned, “Oh, no–NEA na naman!”

Jack Makataruz stood up, “Why is it that everytime NEA is mentioned, there is always injustice and militarization involved! In Kalinga, soldiers were used to terrorize the Tinglayan villagers. Here in Baguio, NEA used the PNP to terrorize BENECO. NEA is always associated with blatant abuse of power, sir!”

“Well, that is not really a balanced statement, Jack,” I said, “I happen to observe that everytime NEA is involved, the ‘rule of law’ is always invoked, too. You do agree that we need the rule of law if we are to remain a civil society, don’t we?”

“Of course, sir,” Jack conceded, “but the rule of law is not a matter of defining it, it’s a matter of observing it.”

“Actually, I’m fine with Miss Deema’s definition,” I said, “but paper law is far different from law as experienced on the ground. That’s why I called Miss Carla here, who is from Kalinga. She has experienced that difference. Miss Carla, tell us more about the people of Kalinga’s experience with the rule of law.”

“Actually, we have our own law which is even older than this republic, sir, we call it ‘pagta ti budong’ or system of peace pacts. It unifies our different tribes based on common interests, including common defense of our homeland. During the Chico Dam controversy, it underpinned our common opposition against that NAPOCOR-NEA project.”

“Riiiight… so, of course, the government recognized your indigenous budong and respected the ‘rule of law’ the way the tribal people have understood it for centuries, being the embodiment of their hopes and aspirations as a people, am I correct?”

“No, sir, you are wrong,” Miss Carla retorted, “President Marcos back then brushed aside the indigenous law. He made his own law and imposed Manila’s development concept on all Kalingans, whether we liked it or not.”

“What law would that be, Miss Addaawan?” I asked curiously.

“It was Presidential Decree 848, sir, imposed by Marcos in 1975, designed to suppress opposition to the Chico Dam project by taking over the leadership of all those communities fighting the dam.”

“What was that law all about, tell your classmates,” I encouraged the girl.

“It isolated the four municipalities of Lubuagan, Tanudan, Tinglayan and Pasil and formed it into the Kalinga Special Development Region or KSDR, sir, on the pretext that these were economically-depressed municipalities, they were placed directly under the Office of the President.”

“In other words, class, these were ‘ailing’ municipalities, so the national government exercised some form of ‘step-in’ rights to take over the administrative operations of their LGU’s,” I supplemented.

The class went into their usual long, “Ooooohhh…!”

“That sounds familiar, sir, it’s the same thing NEA is saying about BENECO—that it’s an ailing cooperative and that they want to exercise ‘step-in’ rights and take over its operations,” Miss Deema said.

“Didn’t the Kalinga people find that a little odd?” I said, “You’d think the President might be interested in directly managing places like Makati, Quezon City or Taguig. But why was Marcos so interested in meddling in Tinglayan? Are there any big industries in Tanudan or Lubuagan or Pasil, Miss Carla?”

“None, sir, and President Marcos never even once set foot in Kalinga,” the Tabuk girl said.

“Really?” I exclaimed, “so how did Marcos get directly involved in running the operations of the KSDR?”

“Sir, one day somebody just showed up in Kalinga with an appointment as Special Administrator. He told everybody he had the full support of Marcos, and it wasn’t hard to believe.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, because he was supposed to be this civilian administrator, sir, but he could move battalions of soldiers around like a general, he could even order them to hamlet a village, restrict people going in and out of those villages,” Carla said.

Miss Deema couldn’t hold herself back, “Is she describing the NEA of today, sir?? Because that’s exactly the situation NEA created in BENECO!”

“How exactly do you mean by ‘exactly’ Miss Deema?”

“Somebody—some incompetent technically-challenged woman—suddenly just showed up here in Baguio with an appointment as general manager, also making everybody aware she is backed by President Duterte. Even if we assumed, for argument’s sake, that she is general manager of BENECO, that doesn’t even make her a government official. And yet she can move contingents of PNP police officers around, she can even give instructions for them to physically drag people out of a building. And she can hamlet an entire state university campus and restrict people going in or out of the Benguet State University! Those university officials were scared shitless of her!” Deema said, her eyebrows knitted together so close it looked like they actually crossed each other.

“Language, Miss Deema!” I cautioned, “but–my, my, that IS frighteningly close to a Chico Dam experience,” I said, “I wonder if there is any law backing all of that—”

“In Kalinga the government kept saying there was, sir,” Carla spoke again, “it is section 5 of PD 848, may I read two paragraphs of it sir?”

“Go ahead, Miss Carla.”

“The Region shall have the following duties and functions: (a) To develop and undertake such action projects as may be necessary to achieve the purposes and objectives of this Decree; (b) To call upon and enlist the assistance of any department, bureau, office, agency or instrumentality of the government as it may require in the performance of its functions—”

“Wait, stop right there!” I said, “what Miss Carla just read, class, is a classic example of a self-propagating rule. You have two provisions–the first one says ‘you can perform these functions if they are necessary’ and then the second one says ‘whenever you are performing a duty, that performance is a necessary function.”

“So, let me ask you, what is the limit of your authority under a law like that?” I threw the question at the class.

“The sky, sir” Miss Laarnee Iwasan, the girl working at the electric company, said.

“That’s correct, Miss Laarnee,” I said, “that’s just like saying ‘Rule No. 1: I am always right’ and ‘Rule No. 2: in case I’m wrong, refer to Rule No. 1.”

“I think you lectured on that already, sir,” Deema said, recalling what I taught the class about the limits of the power of delegation through legislation, “no law can be so broad that all discretion is left to the implementor, making him even more powerful than the legislature. It just so happens that during martial law, President Marcos WAS the legislature.”

“As a matter of fact, he was also the court in many criminal cases,” I supplemented, “thankfully under the 1987 Constitution, only a judge can issue a warrant of arrest, or search warrant. But during martial law, President Marcos issued countless so-called ‘dog warrants.”

“Dog warrants, sir??” the class chorused.

“We called them ‘dog warrants’ because of its acronym ASSO—for Arrest, Search and Seizure Order. The point is if you define the rule of law as merely ‘adherence to law’ what happens if the law itself is oppressive?”

“It becomes the LAW OF THE RULER, sir.” Deema sighed, “that’s why I am not lamenting rhat Marcos is gone!”

“Ain’t no way his imbecile son is getting back either!” Miss Kata added.

“Then I have bad news for you,” I said, “only his cadaver is gone. In the heart of our disgustingly frustrating legal culture, Marcos is still very much alive. Do you know what was Ferdinand Marcos’ favorite thing to do when he was the one-man Philippine government?”

“Raiding the public coffers, sir?” Deema said sarcastically.

“Next to THAT, Miss Deema,” I said, as the whole class broke out in guffaws. “No–he loved creating new government offices whose titles ended in the word ‘AUTHORITY’ You can count them if you want: National Grains Authority, which later became National Food Authority, Philippine Tourism Authority, National Economic Development Authority, National Cottage Industry Development Authority, Philippine Coconut Authority–the list is looooong, class.”

“But the peculiar thing about these ‘authorities’ class, is the way they are structured. Marcos made each agency a carbon copy mini-dictatorship, just like the Office of the President. And in each office, he always installed a ‘mini-ME’ of his choice–and they all acted like miniature Marcoses who reported directly to him.”

“I thought all of that was corrected after rhe EDSA People Power revolution, when Cory Aquino became president, sir??” Miss Kata exclaimed.

“Well, she must have overlooked many of these PD’s. In fact, we in the legal community are not even sure if we have DISCOVERED all of them, because a lot of them were not even published.”

“Then how do you discover these secret PD’s sir?” Miss Laarnee wanted to know.

“The usual way is to just WAIT. Sooner or later somebody will come forward, acting entitled, reminding you of that signature Marcosian arrogance, and claiming authority under this PD or that, or even this implementing rule or resolution nobody has heard of before. Then we all have to scramble to verify the claim.”

“What about the miniature Marcos? What does he or she do in the meantime, sir?” Jack asked.

“Usually, he or she insists on his or her authority and he or she shouts ‘RULE OF LAW!!!!’ to high heavens, like he or she is a victim in some way,” i answered.

Miss Carla stood up, “Well, today, sir we never heard from the KSDR again, like it doesn’t even exist anymore. NAPOCOR and NEA just used it as a battering ram against us Kalingans while the Chico Dam project was ongoing. But when the World Bank pulled out, the money went dry. And we never heard from NAPOCOR or NEA again.”

“Yes, that’s NEA’s modus operandi!” Deema butted in, “when there’s no more money, they’re gone!”

“Unfortunately, the money did not run out before they could kill the leader of the opposition to that dam project,” I intoned.

“But at least, our villages were saved, sir. So justice won in the end–against the rule of law,” Miss Carla said.

“There you go, THAT is what you need to understand about the ‘rule of law,” I summarized, “it’s not about legal oneupmanship, or a battle of who can exploit the law more for his own advantage. It’s about achieving the aims of justice even if it means defying the law when it betrays justice. And to be willing to pay whatever price the fight for justice demands.”

My class fell silent, so I waited a few moments before delivering the final point of the evening’s lecture.

“In the simplest terms–after paying the tuition fee for all of you with his own life, this was the lesson imparted to us by who, Miss Carla?”

“Macli-ing Dulag, sir,” Miss Carla Adaawan, the girl from Tabuk City, Kalinga said. Then she sat down, buried her face in her hands and started sobbing.

“Go now and fight for the true essence of the ‘rule of law’ Alpha Section…class dismissed.”***

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