AT the outset, I stand by a position that should not be controversial in a constitutional democracy. The State, through the military, bears the burden of proving that those killed in Toboso, Negros Occidental, were indeed armed combatants. When the State exercises its most coercive power of the taking of life, it must justify that act with clear, credible and verifiable evidence. This is not a political preference. It is a constitutional imperative. The presumption must always run against the State, because constitutions exist precisely to limit state power.
We have seen this script before. Bodies on the ground. A familiar explanation: “nanlaban.” The dead are posthumously transformed into combatants through official narratives that arrive faster than independent verification. In the past, this language rationalized killings in the war on drugs. Today, it resurfaces in counterinsurgency. The template is the same. The effect is the same. Doubt is preempted. Accountability is deferred.
This is why the burden of proof cannot be diluted. It is not enough for the military to claim that those killed were armed. It must show it. It must open its evidence to scrutiny. It must allow independent investigation. And it must do so without reflexively hiding behind operational secrecy. Otherwise, we are not dealing with legitimate engagement. We are dealing with unchecked violence clothed in institutional authority.
But this is only half the story. The other half is far less comfortable, especially for those who occupy the moral high ground of activism and academic engagement.
Accountability does not rest on the State alone. There is also a duty of care on the part of institutions and individuals engaged in educational activities such as research and field immersions, particularly in areas known to be conflict-affected. To say this is not to blame the victims. It is to recognize that risk is real, and that responsibility does not disappear simply because one believes in a just cause. Good intentions do not neutralize dangerous environments, nor do they suspend the realities of armed conflict.
There is a tendency, especially in some activist circles, to romanticize immersion in “the field.” It is framed as a badge of authenticity, a rite of passage. Students and young researchers are encouraged to “experience the struggle,” often in communities situated in zones of active conflict. What is less discussed are the protocols, safeguards and ethical obligations that should accompany such engagements.
Research ethics is not a bureaucratic hurdle. It is a substantive commitment to minimize harm. As a member of the UP Los Baños Research Ethics Board, I emphasize that ethical clearance is not limited to protecting respondents and participants. It equally requires assessing and mitigating risks faced by researchers themselves. Fieldwork unfolds within real political and security conditions. To ignore this is not bravery. It is negligence. Universities that approve or allow fieldwork without robust risk assessment are not neutral facilitators. They are active participants in the exposure of their students to harm.
Proper identification is one of the most basic safety protocols. Declaring oneself clearly as a student, researcher or journalist is not a guarantee of safety, but it is a minimal layer of protection. This is why humanitarian workers and media practitioners wear visible identifiers in conflict zones. It signals noncombatant status and reduces the risk of misidentification.
Yet there are cases where such identification is absent, inconsistent or deliberately downplayed. Sometimes this is justified in the name of immersion, or out of fear that formal identification may restrict access. But when you remove these markers, you also remove a layer of protection. You increase the risk not only for yourself, but for those around you. In volatile settings, ambiguity is not romantic but dangerous.
Due diligence also requires coordination. Seeking clearance or, at the very least, providing prior information to relevant actors on both sides of a conflict can reduce the likelihood of unintended encounters. This does not mean seeking permission to think or to research. It means acknowledging that one is entering a space where multiple armed actors operate, each with their own perceptions of threat.
This is where romanticization becomes dangerous. The narrative of fearless immersion assumes that intention is enough, that being a student, researcher or activist confers protection. It does not. Armed encounters do not pause for moral clarity. They are shaped by intelligence reports, operational pressures, and, at times, by mistakes.
To point this out is not to absolve the military. It is to refuse a false binary. One can demand full accountability from the State while also insisting on responsibility from institutions that send, or allow, their students and researchers into high-risk environments without adequate preparation and safeguards.
Public discourse often collapses into camps. On one side are those who uncritically accept the military’s narrative, dismissing all casualties as legitimate targets. On the other are those who reflexively reject any possibility that those killed could have been involved in armed struggle, framing all incidents as clear-cut cases of state violence. Both positions simplify a complex reality and undermine genuine accountability. Both also weaponize certainty to avoid the harder work of evidence, context and institutional reflection.
What is needed instead is discipline. Demand evidence from the State. Insist on independent verification. Protect the presumption against state violence. At the same time, interrogate the practices of institutions and movements operating in conflict areas. Ask whether they are doing enough to protect those they send into the field, and whether their narratives encourage risk without fully accounting for consequences.
The deaths in Toboso demand justice. That begins with holding the State to its burden of proof. But justice also requires introspection. Academic, media and activist institutions must confront their responsibilities, not in the language of blame but of accountability. Silence in the face of preventable risk is also a form of complicity.
The demand for justice and the demand for responsibility are not mutually exclusive. They are inseparable. If we are serious about protecting life, then we must be willing to hold all actors to the standards they claim to uphold.
Anything less is not justice. It is propaganda narrative to score points.
The author is professor at UP Los Baños and vice chairman of the board of state-run PTVNI.
