For Elma Awingan-Tuazon, land is inseparable from identity. “Ang lupang iyan ay doon ka na nabuhay, doon mo na pinanday kung ano ang pagkatao mo, doon mo na pinanday kung ano ang identidad mo, ‘yung kultura mo,” she explains.
(That land is where you have lived; it is where you have forged your character, your identity, and your culture.)
Awingan-Tuazon, convenor of the Kalinga-based environmental alliance SUMKADD, emphasizes that beneath these lands lies the “green gold” corporations seek to exploit for the so-called “green transition”—a phenomenon The LaSallian delved into in its previous issue. Yet, “green grabbing” carves these lands into mining concessions, stripping resources while leaving the earth far less green than promised.
This time, we follow the women on the front lines—those who refuse to let their heritage be buried beneath extractive industries, even as they face unique and targeted risks for standing their ground.
Under the shadows of the mines
For the women of such coveted lands, the arrival of mining projects signals a transformation extending far beyond the physical landscape. While mineral extraction strips away and destroys essential resources, a more insidious erosion occurs within the social and political fabric of their communities.
For instance, mining operations do more than displace soil; they also deepen gender inequality. As water is diverted for industrial extraction or contaminated by it, the local water supply dwindles. These disruptions ripple through every aspect of life. With the feminization of care work, women shoulder the bulk of unpaid, water-consumptive tasks. Consequently, they disproportionately absorb the daily strain of water scarcity.
The social rupture deepens with foreign mining concessionaires often bringing in a predominantly male, non-local workforce, affecting close-knit indigenous communities. These areas often see an increase in boarding houses and videoke establishments catering to transient workers, creating environments where the harassment of residents becomes commonplace. Cheryl Polutan, programs coordinator for Purple Action for Indigenous Women’s Rights (LILAK), describes situations where young girls passing by these establishments are cat-called, harassed, and even chased by mine workers.
Despite bearing the brunt of these changes, women are frequently excluded from formal consent decision-making. Community consultations are required under the Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC) process, which recognizes the rights of Indigenous peoples to decide on projects that affect their lands. However, women remain underrepresented in these consultations because some leadership structures prioritize male participation, limiting women’s influence over decisions affecting their lands and lives.
Reclaiming the story, reclaiming the land
Though societal norms often seek to exclude them from formal decision-making, these particular women choose to become a formidable vanguard—transforming their marginalization into momentum for resistance.
At LILAK, existing community strengths are mobilized to repair divisions sown by mining interests. Their resistance begins with the reclamation of knowledge. Through information-sharing, they expose corporate “bribes”—scholarships, livelihood aid, and development projects—as calculated schemes to win community support. These offers aim to fill long-standing gaps in government services, repackaging basic state responsibilities as acts of generosity to secure community consent.
This intellectual decolonization is grounded in lived experience and cross-community solidarity. As Awingan-Tuazon notes, initiatives like educational tours allow Indigenous folk to witness and understand the visceral scars of extraction elsewhere, providing the evidence necessary to reunite neighbors divided by empty promises.
To ensure these realities are not diluted by external interests, LILAK prioritizes the training of community Indigenous journalists. By documenting their own struggles, these women ensure the narrative remains rooted in truth rather than corporate PR. As Polutan emphasizes: “Part ng capacity building strategy ng LILAK ay sila nga mismo ang nagsusulat… Kasi mahalaga sa amin ‘yung ownership nila sa kwento nila eh. We don’t want to be extractive as well.”
(Part of the capacity building strategy of LILAK is that they themselves write … Because their ownership of their stories is really important to us. We don’t want to be extractive as well.)
Speaking truth to power carries a steep cost. These women face gendered retaliation, from harassment and sexual violence to the persistent threat of red-tagging in a patriarchal system. In the face of intimidation, however, these women’s resistance endures, anchored by their ancestral mandate to protect their lands. Polutan affirms that “It really revolves around the aspirations and the dreams of the indigenous women. […] we will continue to be there as long as these Indigenous women [do] not achieve these dreams and their aspirations.”
Her future without fear
The dreams of these women are as simple as they are profound. “Gusto lang nila na makakain, makapag-aral, at mabuhay nang maayos na hindi sila natatakot na may papasok na mga military man ‘yan [o] guards man ‘yan ng mga korporasyon,” Polutan explains.
(They want to be able to eat, study, and live properly without fear of intrusion, whether it be from the military or guards of those corporations.)
Until these aspirations are realized, organizations like LILAK and SUMKADD will continue their work against these destructive practices—working hand in hand with Indigenous women to educate communities on the harms of extractive projects, amplify Indigenous voices, and defend the land they call home.
“Land is life,” Awingan-Tuazon reminds us. But when that life is being stripped away in the supposed name of renewable energy and sustainability, Polutan questions its true purpose: “Papayag ba tayo d’on?”
(Will we allow this?)
