The bungkalan case in Sara, Iloilo

By Samantha Faye Herbolario and Tiffany Xu

In the Philippines, food, livelihood, and life is not separable with land itself. A family-owned hacienda in Sara, Iloilo has left generations of farmers without their own fields to till since the 1990s, despite government’s promises of distributing Certificate of Land Ownership Awards (CLOAs). As the weary peasantry exhaust all legal and bureaucratic efforts within the bounds of the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP), the bungkalan campaign — launched last 2017 at the Sanson Estate by more than 200 land advocates, describes their tale of resistance. 

Land, the indispensable mulch of farmers

Peasant communities historically make up almost 75 percent of the Filipino population, of whom were birthed at the green, lush lands of the nation. To them, communal land is like the fertile mulch that nourishes families, preserves agrarian heritage, and defends against foreign interests. Since capitalism views land as cashable property, massive landlessness and the backward development of agriculture has long plagued Philippine society. 

The theft of land and labor power from the peasants came as early as the invasion of Spanish colonizers in their attempt to “civilize the people” circa 1565. With the cross and sword as seed of systemic dominance, enconmenderos and hacienderos extorted high tax and usury from the Filipinos. They were lulled into swallowing a status quo where peasants will always be shackled by the feudal lord that holds capital. And even the so-called independence from one or several ruling colonizers did not prevent the Philippines from growing weeds of poverty in its land.

From this widespread, historically-rooted exploitative nature of feudalism, farmers have also long practiced bungkalan, or the collective cultivation of idle and disputed lands. Faced with widespread hunger, they till these lands for survival and sustenance. From Tarlac, to Negros, and to Iloilo, bungkalan has taken root as a symbol of positioned struggle. 

In Negros, sugarcane workers, suffering from famine during the Tiempo Muerto, began occupying idle haciendas to grow rice and vegetables for their families. The same spirit lives on in Hacienda Luisita, where farmworkers organized under Alyansa ng Magbubukid sa Asyenda (AMBALA) and Unyon ng mga Manggagawa sa Agrikultura (UMA), collectively cultivate more than 2,000 hectares in defiance of bogus land reform programs. Likewise, in Sara, Iloilo, about 200 displaced farmers reclaimed 27 hectares of the unused, but uphill terrain to plant bananas, sweet potato, and cassava to wade off  daily hunger. Across the country, bungkalan endures as a living assertion that the land belongs to those who till it. This collective practice stands as the peasants’ organized act of defiance against a system that denies them their right to the indispensable land they have worked for generations. 

Bungkalan in Sanson Estate, farmers’ last resort

Sara is among the top agricultural municipalities in Iloilo. Within it is a 427.31-hectare hacienda owned by Alfredo Sanson, spanning six barangays including Labigan and Bagaygay as main Bungkalan sites. The Sanson lord was initially perceived as benevolent from year 1991 onwards when he not only allowed farmworkers to stay rent-free inside their estate, but when they also put up a voluntary offer to sell (VOS) 336.84 hectares worth of land under the agrarian reform program. However, while actual tenants in the estate were encouraged to register as agrarian reform beneficiaries at the Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR), many of those that were interviewed attested that certificates of land ownership (CLOAs) were never officially awarded to them. When the 10-year CARP failed and was carried over to CARP Extension with Reforms (CARPER), DAR issued a ‘writ of installation’ in 2012 (two years before its deadline) to prevent further delays in the installation of approximately 300 CLOA holders. Despite mass demonstrations and petitions of more than a hundred tenants, who claimed that these bogus awardees were migrants and landowners, the issue on just land distribution remained unsolved. Until such time in 2017, Sanson’s false goodwill eventually backfired — the residents were at the time, now enraged from being neglected and evicted, which effectively planted the seeds for a bungkalan campaign to take root. 

According to Jerlyn Diane, leader of the Anakpawis-Sara Chapter, original tenants of Sanson Estate have not received any portion of the land despite following the prescribed steps to be included in the agrarian reform beneficiaries list as endorsed by Sanson himself. Diane says that the only counterevidence DAR showed were CLOAs of supposed owners, as proof that farmers must gain their permission to cultivate the land. “They did not show us any documents, just CLOAs. They said we did not identify ourselves [as beneficiaries]. But our names were already there. Even our produce were taken away,” she lamented in Hiligaynon. 

Similarly, Leticia Pacete, one of the victims of displacement, was surprised to know that she is on the verge of losing her home as it was owned by a CLOA holder, going as far as considering the payment of rent just to stay. And while peasant organizations like Paghugpong sang Mangunguma sa Panay Kag Guimaras (PAMANGGAS) offered assistance to file cancellation of dubious CLOAs, the slow pace of case proceedings was not able to fill the hungry stomachs of the communities that tilled idle lands as last resort. 

The bungkalan campaign was a manifestation of the fruits of communal farming and collective resistance. In the uphill areas of Labigan and Bagaygay, bananas, sweet potatoes, and cassava were the primary produce of the community due to its relative ease in planting and harvest. Covering 27 hectares and 17 villages, the 100 families  sustained were able to see the light of day from the newfound source of crops.

There, tenants systemically organized themselves to each contribute in the bungkalan initiative. Some would  be responsible for first clearing vines, shrubs, and stones to prepare the soil for easier plowing. Horizontal layers were formed from top to bottom, marked by sticks and with each line representing a specific crop. And the elderly, unable to withstand the daytime heat and rigorous labor, helped by cooking meals. 

“We came together. They would call us, or they would go to our house and told ‘Let’s plant, let’s till the land’ that’s why I joined them,” shared Norma Ba-at. The usual self-supporting peasants, united by similar interests, proved how organized campaigns help alleviate their problems. In addition, proposals on how to divide the land should it be redistributed were already on the table, including future plans on contour planting by MASIPAG to sustain the rocky area with little to no water access.  

Under CARP, distributable land excludes those with 18 degree slopes as it is not viable for agricultural activities. Amid the geographical difficulties, participants of the bungkalan campaign who chose to cultivate idle land was evidence of their remaining belief in law implementation and higher administration. Instead of opting to trespass CLOA-certified lands in order to assert more pressure, the community chose to work within the parameters of the  system and conduct bungkalan as a meta-legal campaign, not just to uphold their biological right in having access to food, but also in their social civil right to own cultivable land. 

Shirlet de Ocampo contends, “If we don’t resort the bungkalan, the land could hhave been occupied by other people. It would be a waste not to utilize the land, especiallyy since we are already here inside the hacienda.” 

Yet in a system where cultivated lands are shared and benefits are collectively reaped, the reactionary state once again fails the people through further repression. Parallel unions are typically created in areas where farmer organizations are consolidated to restrict their activities and prevent them from pushing for essential, structural changes. Members of Anakpawis–Sara for instance faced redtagging, with the police invading their homes for interrogation. 

Francisco Sanson, one of the sons and inheritors of their estate, also had other bigger plans of expanding its empire domain. This Sanson descendant complained of trespassing, consequently filing blotters and a Temporary Restraining Order (TRO) against the farmers. And what was once teeming with food, life, and a hopeful future remained as another piece of unusable, weed-filled land.  

As the years went by, the change of leadership in DAR has not prevented it from implementing its sham policies. Tenants of Sanson Estate continue to be passed around from one office to another, being given false promises and different explanations on how to go about the land conflict without any tangible and beneficial support up to this day. And no matter what form of agrarian reform the landlord-backed state officials conceive, be it CARP or CARPER, greed will push feudal hacienderos to seize both idle and occupied land for their class interests. It is in this exact setup that makes the disillusioned, dissatisfied, and ever angry peasants realize that they have no one to lean on except themselves — that actual power and change, may rest in the hands of the most oppressed class. 

Beyond legislative reforms and agrarian campaigns

Through collective action and organized struggle, the peasant sector, especially those leading bungkalan campaigns, has torn away the mask of “development” and exposed the rotten core of landlordism in the Philippines. For decades, farmers have been denied their right to land, forced to starve while haciendas and idle estates remained in the hands of the elite few. 

Bungkalan emerged from hunger, from the farmers’ refusal to die quietly under the weight of feudal exploitation. When the state turns its back on the poor, the people take matters into their own hands. And so the farmers till the land, plant their own crops, and build life where the system offered only despair. They face intimidation, harassment, and arrests from landlords and state forces — but repression only breeds resistance. For every field they are driven from, more farmers rise to reclaim what is rightfully theirs: the land that sustains the nation.

So-called agrarian reform programs have promised change but delivered deception. Landowners have evaded redistribution through land conversions, legal manipulations, and their deep ties to political power. The result is a countryside still chained to feudal rule, where a few families control vast estates while millions of farmers remain landless. In contrast, Japan’s postwar land reform successfully broke the dominance of its landlords, paving the way for local industries to grow and strengthen its national economy. The Philippines, however, remains stuck in a vicious cycle, where landlords hoard idle lands, the countryside remains backward, and the nation continues to depend on foreign imports. Genuine agrarian reform is inseparable from national industrialization. It is only when farmers have land to till and industries are built to process and utilize agricultural production that true development can sprout. The system could create capital through local production and fair taxation, yet the ruling elite choose idleness over progress. Their “laziness” is not ignorance; it is deliberate parasitism, designed to maintain their control and keep the working class in servitude.

It is in this context that bungkalan becomes more than resistance; it is a living alternative and a glimpse of a people-led system. It embodies what genuine agrarian reform truly means: land for those who till, not for those who profit. Each occupied field stands as a direct challenge to bogus land reform laws like the CARP and to every department that protects landlord interests. In bungkalan communities, farmers collectively cultivate the soil, feed their families, and prove that food security and self-sufficiency can only be achieved through people’s control of land and production. These are not mere protests; they are seeds of a future where no farmer goes hungry, where no child dies from poverty. The peasants’ organized labor shows that true power lies not in the halls of Congress but in the hands of those who work the earth.

In this ongoing fight, the bungkalan movement carries forward the torch of agrarian revolution – a movement that envisions not reform but social transformation, not token redistribution but total emancipation. The farmers’ struggle is not theirs alone; it is the struggle of every Filipino whose life depends on land. To stand with the peasants is to stand against feudalism, imperialism, and all forms of exploitation. The bungkalan fields are battlefields of hope — where the marginalized rise up, reclaim what was stolen, and plant saplings of liberation. The message is clear: no force can suppress a people united for land and life. Until every farmer owns the land they till, until the chains of feudal rule are shattered, the cry will echo across the countryside – lupa para sa magsasaka!

*Authors’ note: The main reference used in the writing of this article comes from the undergraduate thesis of Sasi, J. (2018).

The authors are students of the Division of Biological Sciences, College of Arts and Sciences, University of the Philippines Visayas, Iloilo, Miagao and Institute of Marine Fisheries and Oceanology, College of Fisheries and Ocean Sciences, University of the Philippines Visayas, Iloilo, Miagao

 Save as PDF