Whose Paradise?

The word “waste” is meant for things we no longer find useful. An empty bottle. A torn plastic bag. Leftover food. Things we throw away without looking back. It was never meant to describe a river that once gave life. A forest that sheltered generations. Or a community that had called the land home long before roads, boundaries, and government offices ever existed.

Yet in Sitio Tibag, Subic, Zambales, it became difficult to tell where the garbage ended and where neglect began.

Truck after truck arrived carrying what others had discarded. But buried beneath those piles of waste was something far greater than refuse. It was a people's livelihood. Their environment. Their dignity. Their ancestral home.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy was never that garbage found its way into the forest.

It was that an Indigenous community could be treated as though it was invisible.

That painful reality came into national attention through Kara David's I-Witness documentary Ibinasurang Paraiso, which revealed how a temporary dumpsite established by the local government within the Aeta’s ancestral domain left years of environmental damage, displacement, and unanswered questions.

According to the documentary, the Aeta community initially welcomed the construction of an access road in 2019. They believed it would finally make the long journey between their homes and the market easier. Instead, garbage trucks began arriving. Waste — including hospital waste during the COVID-19 pandemic — was dumped near their community.

Residents recalled being assured that protective liners would be installed, each layer of garbage would be covered with soil, and containment structures would prevent contamination. Those promises, however, never matched reality. Over time, the once-lush surroundings became overwhelmed with waste. The air grew heavy with foul odors, flies multiplied, and the brook that had long provided clean water for the community began showing signs of contamination. Several Aeta families were eventually forced to relocate their homes and small farms just to escape the worsening conditions.

For the Aeta’s, this was never simply an environmental issue.

It was the loss of a home that had sustained generations.

One statement from the documentary is perhaps the hardest to ignore. Subic Municipal Engineer Marian Del Castillo explained that the area had been chosen because it appeared isolated and officials believed no community lived there. Likewise, Municipal Environment and Natural Resources Office officer-in-charge Mary Grace Molina said that the project would not have pushed through if they had  known an Indigenous community resided there.

But the documentary also presented documents showing that the dumpsite stood within the Aeta’s ancestral domain, an area protected under Republic Act No. 8371, or the Indigenous Peoples' Rights Act (IPRA).

This is where the story stops being about garbage. It becomes about recognition. 

How does a government fail to see a community that has lived on the same land for generations? How does an ancestral domain become mistaken for an empty lot?

The Aetas are not recent settlers. They are among the country's earliest inhabitants. Their relationship with the land did not begin when the road was built, nor when the dumpsite was established. Their presence predates both, and their rights over their ancestral domain are protected by law.

Yet the explanation offered by officials that they believed no one lived there reveals a deeper problem. Communities are not invisible because they cannot be seen. 

They become invisible because no one even bothered to look.

Perhaps that is the most painful form of discrimination. Not open hostility, but quiet negle. Not being driven away at first, but being overlooked until your home becomes convenient for someone else's problem.

Moreover, the timeline itself raises troubling questions about accountability. Documents obtained by I-Witness showed that the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) discovered the dumpsite in January 2022 and found that it violated Republic Act No. 9003, or the Ecological Solid Waste Management Act, which prohibits open dumpsites. The agency ordered the Subic local government to close and rehabilitate the site.

Yet according to the documentary, operations continued until October 2025 only stopping after members of the Aeta community formally raised their complaints.

Former Aeta chieftain Virgilio Delos Santos also shared that the community had already raised concerns as early as 2019. He claimed they were later approached by local officials and eventually accepted a monthly payment of ₱10,000, believing the project would continue whether they objected or not. While the local government denied entering such an agreement, it has since acknowledged responsibility for what happened and said it is preparing reparations for the affected community.

Acknowledging responsibility is necessary.

But accountability loses much of its meaning when it arrives only after years of damage have already been done.

Nevertheless, some may argue that local governments face genuine challenges in managing increasing volumes of waste. Landfills are expensive, suitable locations are limited, and rehabilitation requires resources many municipalities simply do not have. Subic officials themselves estimated that restoring the site would cost around ₱78 million, prompting requests for funding assistance from the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH). They also explained that excavating the buried waste is no longer feasible, leaving containment measures, covering the dumpsite with soil and installing vents as the most practical option.

These realities deserve consideration.

However, financial limitations should never justify environmental injustice.

Managing waste is undoubtedly a challenge.

But solving one community's garbage problem should never require sacrificing another community's home.

If the law itself recognized the area as an ancestral domain and DENR had already ordered its closure years earlier, then the issue extends beyond limited resources. It becomes a question of urgency, enforcement, and political will.

Perhaps Sitio Tibag reflects a pattern far bigger than one municipality. Time and again, Indigenous communities become visible only when their lands are needed for mining, infrastructure, tourism, or waste disposal. Their voices are heard after decisions have already been made. Their rights are acknowledged after irreversible damage has occurred. Their stories reach the national conversation only when journalists bring cameras to places that should never have been ignored in the first place.

That should never be the standard.

Moving forward, accountability cannot end with reparations or rehabilitation plans. The affected ancestral domain should be restored to the greatest extent science and environmental experts allow. Government agencies must strictly enforce Republic Act No. 9003 and ensure that violations are addressed immediately, not years later. Just as importantly, every project involving ancestral domains must genuinely uphold the principle of Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC) under the Indigenous Peoples' Rights Act. Indigenous communities should never learn about developments affecting their land only after bulldozers or garbage trucks have already arrived.

The Aetas of Sitio Tibag did not ask for special treatment.

They asked for clean water. They asked for a healthy environment. They asked to remain in the home that had always been theirs.

Because paradise was never empty.

It was filled with forests that sustained life, streams that carried generations, and a people whose roots ran deeper than any road carved through the mountains.

In the end, what was buried was never just garbage.

It was trust. It was dignity. It was the rights of a community that should have been seen long before a documentary reminded the nation that they existed.

And perhaps that is the heaviest thing we have thrown away — not our waste, but our willingness to see the people who have been there all along.

Paradise was never empty. It belonged to a people who protected its forests, drank from its streams, and called it home long before it appeared on government plans. 

The question was never whether the land had value. It was whether those living on it were valued just as much.

So before another forest becomes another project, another dumping ground, or another headline, perhaps we should ask the question we failed to ask in Sitio Tibag: Whose paradise is it?