The Victims

On December 20th, 2020, at 5 pm, a Boga (homemade air cannon) built from PVC piping, goes off in Paniqui. 25-year-old Frank Anthony Gregorio, also known as “Anton”, built the device to celebrate the New Year with his family. His mother, 52-year-old Sonia Gregorio, acted as a model for Anton’s loving and caring qualities, as well as for the rest of his siblings, and even her husband. She was an outgoing woman, graduated from college, and became a school teacher at Philippine Normal University. Her beloved husband, Florentino Gregorio, “Liked that she was smart, that she was tough, and that she never complained when things didn’t go her way”. Marrying him in 1991, she carried those qualities onto becoming a strong mother, raising 7 children. 

As a motherly figure, she brought life to the family and the household, one of her ways was through growing and nurturing plants. In Evangelista’s interview with Florentino, he recalled all of the times that she would tell him “Pa, bring me home some plants”. It was a simple yet heartfelt request, as to fulfill it would make her happy, which then would make her husband even happier. Every time he took the long trip to bring her back anything she wanted, she would tell him “Very Good”, in which he would then ask if there was a prize, which was usually a kiss. This love and care between Sonia and Florentino is reflected throughout the household, connecting the family. On December 20th, a Boga would ignite the biggest tragedy the family has ever faced.

Their neighbor and an off-duty cop, angered by the explosion, barged out of his house to confront Anton. His name is Jonel Nuezca. A combination of an ongoing feud by the Nuezcas/Gregorions and Anton’s drunken state erupted into a verbal fight between Jonel and Anton. Anton, upset by the cop’s sudden barge onto their property, finally exclaimed, “You wouldn’t be so brave if you didn’t have a gun”. In response, Jonel then began to snatch at Anton, grabbing him and attempting to drag him out of the house. Sonia, being a protective mother, stepped in between the man and her son. The cop continued to try and drag Anton off the property, but Sonia held tight. When Anton’s older sister stepped in as well, she was shoved to the side, his fist being jammed into the side of her neck. The man’s twelve-year-old daughter stepped in too, pulling at the girl’s hair to get her off her father. What started as a verbal argument erupted into a locked fight between the five people. The fight ends with the cop's final words. “Son of a bitch, you want me to end you now?” A shot echoes throughout the neighborhood, the shouting going silent. Sonia collapses to the ground, a gun held over her by Jonel. Two more shots are fired, and Anton collapses. Sonia twitches and another shot is fired. What began as a day of celebration for a loving family, ended in two shots to the heads of a mother and her son by an off-duty cop.

That day, Sonia and Anton Gregorio died protecting each other from the unchecked force of a president’s war against his own people. An unchecked police force that used any act of defiance as an excuse to kill and murder. Even if it meant killing an innocent mother and her son celebrating new years. Their love and compassion still flows through their family however, showing that while their lives were taken tragically, their spirit continues to live on. This spirit produces a hope in not just their family, but their community as a whole, to continue to provide care and support for one another (Evangelista, 2023)

Djastin Lopez was born on New Year's Eve 1991, he grew up in the close-knit community of Tondo, Manila. He was one of nine children in a family that lived shoulder to shoulder in a small home near the railroad tracks. Despite the cramped conditions, the Lopez family shared everything from their single toilet to their prepaid electricity account, from their daily meals to their work scraping tin. At age four, Djastin was diagnosed with epilepsy after his mother carried him through Manila floods to reach a hospital during his first seizure. His condition earned him the nickname "Tirek" from his siblings, referring to how his eyes would roll back during seizures. His mother Normy became an expert at managing his episodes: keeping him cool, giving him space, placing a wrapped spoon between his teeth, and fanning him until the spasms passed. Despite dropping out of school in third grade due to his condition, Djastin learned at home and could often be found reading passages from the family's pocket-sized Bible. By age 21, he was a father of two and was known for his way with children, often seen dandling his nieces on his lap. Though his smiles were rare, his laugh was memorable.

Djastin Lopez’s family

On May 18, 2017, 25-year-old Djastin was resting at home after experiencing seizures the previous day. After receiving multiple mysterious calls and texts from unknown numbers, he left the house wearing a yellow Nike t-shirt, telling his mother he was going out for a snack. Near the railroad tracks, just five minutes from his home, Djastin encountered police officers. According to witnesses, including his uncle Nestor Lopez, Djastin raised his arms and pleaded, "Please don't shoot." Despite his surrender, he was shot multiple times. As he experienced seizures from his wounds, instead of receiving medical attention, witnesses reported that officers continued to shoot, slap, and kick him.

The loss of Djastin devastated his family, particularly his mother Normy, who said of him, "He was the sick one. He needed me the most." His grandfather Cornelio, an 80-year-old former boxer who still worked daily bending aluminum sheets, attempted to prevent authorities from taking his grandson's body, only to be threatened at gunpoint. Initially, even basic information about Djastin's death was difficult for the family to obtain -

Police reports misspelled his name and provided conflicting accounts of the incident. His mother, Normy filed a murder complaint with the Office of the Ombudsman and became an activist with Rise Up for Human Rights, speaking at protests and sharing her son's story through poetry. The case of Djastin Lopez became one of the most prominent examples of alleged extrajudicial killings during this period, receiving coverage in major news outlets and leading to the first reported resolution from the Philippine Office of the Ombudsman against a police officer involved in such operations.

Djastin Lopez was more than the circumstances of his death. He was a son, a father, a brother, and a member of a tight-knit community. Despite his health challenges, he contributed to his family's tin-working business and was known for his gentle way with children. His story reminds us of the importance of human dignity, justice, and the impact one life can have on a community.

"Had Djastin gotten sick and died, it wouldn't have hurt so much," his grandfather Cornelio said. The manner of his grandson's death - violent and unexpected - left wounds that would never fully heal. (Evangelista, 2023; Paalam, n.d.

Heart de Chavez, born Alvin Ronald De Chavez, chose the name Heart, marking the beginning of her journey to live authentically. Heart grew her hair long and took hormone pills to align her physical appearance with who she knew herself to be. She made a modest living washing towels at a beauty parlor and working as a housemaid, sharing a home with her mother Elena, and sister Arriane.

In 2016, as President Duterte took office, Heart began selling small amounts of drugs to supplement her income. Her mother Elena worried constantly, having heard the president's threats against drug suspects. Heart dismissed these concerns, believing her small-scale dealings of around ten dollars wouldn't attract attention. Despite her confidence, she was placed on a watchlist with over 100 other suspects. Eventually, she surrendered to Navotas City authorities and attended a mandatory three-day rehabilitation seminar.

The days leading to her death began with a frightening encounter. Police from the Pritil Police Community Precinct arrested her and demanded ₱50,000 for her release. Her desperate mother Elena could only raise ₱7,000 by pawning her husband's pension. Though this partial payment secured Heart's freedom, it would only buy her three more days of life.

January 10, 2017, brought the violence Elena had feared. Seven masked men burst into their homes, their intentions clear from the moment they entered. One grabbed Heart by her hair, slamming her head against the table while another dragged her out by her thin black sweater. Her final words – "Ma, help me" – would haunt her mother forever. Witnesses along the street heard Heart's screams as she was kicked into a shanty, still begging for help. Three gunshots shattered the night in quick succession, followed by a fourth shot that ensured silence. When Elena and Arriane found her, Heart had a bullet in her cheek.

The official response revealed a system determined to avoid accountability. Police reports reduced Heart's violent death to a sterile phrase: "Dead male body found in a house." Navotas City Police denied any responsibility, suggesting it was merely drug-related violence. The Chief of Police claimed the case would "remain unsolved" due to the perpetrators being masked, insisting "We don't go into homes and kill people."

For Elena de Chavez, pursuing justice became a desperate struggle against a system designed to deny it. She had to identify officers involved in the earlier extortion while facing intimidation and threats. Beyond mourning her child, she carried the trauma of the extortion and the burden of Heart's final moments, continuing to seek answers despite the obstacles placed in her path.

Heart's death highlighted not only the vulnerability of transgender individuals during this period but also the broader impact of police operations on families. Her story raised fundamental questions about accountability and justice, revealing the complex and often hostile relationship between law enforcement and communities. More than a statistic, she was a person who dared to live her truth, who had dreams, who was loved, and whose loss created ripples of grief that continue to spread through her family and community.

In choosing her name and living as her authentic self, Heart de Chavez demonstrated remarkable courage. Her tragic death reminds us that behind every case number and police report was a human being whose life mattered, whose dreams deserved to flourish, and whose family continues to seek the justice she was denied. Carried the burden of her final moments with Heart.

"Heart de Chavez chose her name and lived her truth. Her story reminds us that behind every statistic was a person who had dreams, who was loved, and whose loss created ripples of grief through their family and community." (Evangelista, 2023)

Kian Loyd delos Santos was a typical eleventh-grade student, concerned with his studies and upcoming exams. On that fateful night, police conducted what they claimed was a standard anti-drug operation. Their official report painted a familiar picture: they alleged Kian fired first, forcing them to retaliate in self-defense. It was a narrative that had been used countless times before.

On August 16, 2017, in a dark alley near his home in Caloocan City, 17-year-old Kian delos Santos became more than another statistic in the Philippines' "war on drugs." His death would prove to be a turning point that forced a nation to confront the reality of its violent campaign against drugs.

The official police narrative painted one picture: a dangerous suspect killed in a spontaneous shootout, another case of "nanlaban" – fighting back – that justified the use of deadly force. They filed it as a standard operation, one of many during that period. But technology and witnesses would tell a different story.

CCTV footage captured what really happened that night. The grainy video showed police

officers dragging the teenager past a basketball court, a stark contradiction to their claims of a shootout. Witnesses came forward with even more disturbing details. They described how officers handed Kian a gun, ordered him to run, and then shot him at least twice in the head. His final words would haunt the nation's conscience: "Don't." "Please stop." "I have an exam tomorrow.”

The simple humanity of those last words – a student worried about missing his exam – resonated deeply with the public. Here was no hardened criminal, but a young person whose concerns were those of any ordinary student. The innocence of his final statement stood in stark contrast to the violence that ended his life.

Kian's death became a watershed moment in Philippine society. The CCTV footage provided what so many other cases lacked – irrefutable evidence that contradicted official accounts. His status as a student made it impossible to dismiss him as just another casualty. Parents saw their own children in him. Students recognized themselves. Teachers thought of their pupils. The public could no longer look away.

The impact rippled through society. Those who had supported the violent operations began to question their beliefs. His death sparked widespread outrage and became a rallying point for those seeking justice and accountability. The simple phrase "I have an exam tomorrow" became a powerful symbol of innocent lives lost, a reminder that behind every statistic was a human being with hopes, dreams, and a future that would never be realized.

Kian's legacy lives on not just in public memory, but in concrete changes. His case demonstrated the crucial importance of video evidence in establishing truth. It showed how official narratives could be effectively challenged when evidence was preserved. Most importantly, it sparked vital conversations about police accountability and the true human cost of violence.

Today, Kian delos Santos is remembered not just for how he died, but for who he was – a 17-year-old student with academic aspirations, a son whose death sparked a national conversation, and ultimately, a symbol of innocent lives lost to violence. His story continues to remind us of the importance of seeking truth and justice, and of the devastating impact when young lives are cut short before they have the chance to fulfill their promise.

The exam Kian never took became more than just a missed test – it became a powerful reminder of all the futures that violence steals, all the potential left unrealized, and all the dreams that die when we fail to protect our youth. His story stands as a testament to the importance of speaking truth to power and the need to protect innocent lives from violence. (Evangelista, 2023)

Arturo Lascanas was the Police Chief Master Sergeant in Davao. In addition to that, he had helped create the Davao death squads and would become their field boss. Mayor Duterte would give personal instructions on who to kill and the death squad would follow suit. Arturo was so loyal to the cause that when two alleged drug dealers, Cecilio Lascanas and Fernando Lascanas, were included in Duterte’s kill orders, Arturo followed through with them. “I made a decision when I cleared the Buhangin police to arrest my brother. I told them to kill him if he resisted arrest.” Lascanas stated in a testimony during the hearing of the Senate Committee on Public Order. In 2011, Cecilio Lascanas was killed after involvement with illegal drugs. Three years later, Arturo’s youngest brother, Fernando Lascanas was killed due to his involvement with illegal drugs. (Evangelista, 2023; Gonzales, 2017)

Renato dela Rosa Jr. a.k.a Toyo was a suspected drug pusher. He was killed after allegedly opening fire and being cornered by police; he was subsequently shot and killed. Police claim that Toyo was a drug dealer, but this claim has to be taken with a grain of salt as we have seen many cases where the police have done terrible things and covered it up due to their authority and resources. Toyo came from Quezon City and was subject to the brutal killing by the police. (Evangelista, 2023)

On New Year's of 2017, a 16-year-old boy got him and his family to go to Luneta Park to watch the fireworks. His name was Charlie Saladaga. It was an exciting night, the whole family watching the singing, bright lights, and embracing the joy of the new year. It seemed as though it could be a new start, especially for Charlie, as he had a problem with getting into trouble in the past. In December 2016, he and two of his friends broke into a home in their village, stealing computers and anything else they could grab. Due to this kind of trouble, he would get into, he was not very popular in the village, and tragically, it would lead to the gruesome events that took place a year later. Excited for the new year of 2017, however, he was hopeful, as the one thing he did have there was his family. That night, he had fallen asleep on the parade grounds, his family shaking him awake, all of them laughing afterward. 

The next morning, he awoke to slip out of the house, letting his mom know that he was going to come back after one computer game. By noon, he never came back. His mother, Cristina, sent his little sister, Exmila to bring him back. Finding him, he said he was still playing. By dusk, he still never returned. Exmila, going out to bring him back again, found him surrounded by men this time. Quickly, they dragged him away, out of her sight. Knowing most of them, she recognized they were CSG Chapter 2 members, one of them being Commander Manning. The men dismissed her, telling her to go home. Telling her mother nothing, Cristina began to look for her son.

She filed a report, hunted for him at government welfare desks, and even went to Manning himself as she had heard he was last seen with her son. Desperate, she even sent her eldest, Christopher, to the funeral parlors, where he still did not receive any news. Shortly after, rumors had spread of a body. A dead teenage boy in a sack. Hearing this, Cristina went to the homicide desk, seeing a picture of a boy with the same shorts Charlie wore. His father found their beloved son in the morgue, a bullet hole in his face. 

Like many victims of the drug war, he was not even a drug user, rather a child shaped by his environment and community into committing criminal acts. Instead of giving him the help he needed, that same community then turned on him, seeing him as just another punk to dispose of. As he was not on the vigilante’s kill list in the first place, they were paid off to murder him. A 16-year-old boy, paid to be killed by his own community member. His death serves as a symbol for the youngest victims of the drug war, not being killed due to the use of drugs, but murdered for their actions that were influenced by the same community that shunned them. (Evangelista, 2023)

Constantin de Juan ("Pa" to his children) made a fateful decision born of love - to return home to his family despite the dangers that awaited him. Having been separated from his children, the pull of fatherly love proved stronger than the warnings of concerned neighbors. What began as a father's loving visit ended in tragedy. Police officers burst into the family home, five officers entered with drawn weapons. They forced Constantino to kneel on an armchair. He showed his ID and pleaded for arrest rather than violence. He showed his ID and pleaded for arrest rather than violence. His fourteen-year-old daughter Christine tried to protect him and was thrown against a wall by an officer. Constantino was shot at close range, through the back of the head and chest.

The loss of Constantino devastated his family, particularly his daughter Christine because she was present during his father’s murder. The trauma caused her to stop speaking for an extended period. When she finally spoke again, her first word was "sorry" - apologizing to her family because she couldn't hold onto her father tightly enough to save him. His younger children were left to process the trauma, with one finding the bullet in their sofa the next day. A bullet hole in the sofa Constantino was sitting on when he was killed, which the De Juan family still uses.

Constantino de Juan’s photo

Constantino de Juan's story illustrates the profound human cost of violence on families. His final acts - cooking for his children ( he was preparing a spaghetti dinner on his daughter’s birthday when he was killed), singing to them, and sharing simple moments like a cup of coffee - speak to his character as a father who put his love for his family above his safety. His death left behind a pregnant wife, multiple children (including Christine), an unborn child who would never meet their father, and a family struggling to understand why their loving father was taken from them.

His story serves as a testament to the enduring bonds between parent and child, and the

devastating ripple effects of violence on families and communities. The details of his last night with his children - cooking spaghetti, singing songs, and expressing his love - paint a picture of a father whose final thoughts and actions were focused on showing love to his family.

"Please, arrest me instead. I have so many children," Constantino de Juan's final plea speaks to his primary concern even in his last moments: the welfare of his children. (Evangelista, 2023; Delano, 2017)

Marcelo Daa, Jr. was born in 1985 at the edge of Payatas, Quezon City, down a long hill from the highway and through a patch of woods. His mother had planted a tamarind tree to mark his birth, never imagining it would later mark the place where her son would draw his last breath. The house sat in a remote clearing, surrounded by a 60-foot ravine, part of a small community where homes were pieced together from tarps and plywood, their tin roofs weighed down by rocks and washbasins. By age 31, Marcelo had built a life there, working as a truck driver's assistant to support his partner and three children. He lived just feet away from where his mother had given birth to him, the tamarind tree growing alongside his own family's story. Their isolated community was tight-knit, sharing hardships and celebrations, though this remoteness would later prove fateful.

On August 21, 2016, the afternoon began peacefully. Marcelo was playing pool with friends under a shed in his front yard, while inside the house, women watched television and children chased each other through the grass. His neighbors Jessie Cule, Anthony Comendo, and Rhaffy Gabo were there, along with childhood friend Efren Morillo. None could have known that their ordinary Sunday gathering would end in tragedy.

At around 3 PM, seven people appeared at their gate - five men and two women, none wearing police uniforms. What followed was a sequence of horror that would haunt the family forever. The men were bound with handcuffs and electric wire. The house was ransacked, with the intruders even taking a hearing aid from one of the family members. When Marcelo's 69-year-old father rushed up from his banana grove to investigate, Marcelo spoke words that would echo in his father's memory: "I'll take care of this. This is my fault. Go.”

According to witness accounts, Marcelo's final moments unfolded in a makeshift tarpaulin shanty, where Police Staff Sergeant Allan Formilleza made him sit on a wooden chair. Despite being handcuffed, despite pleading for his life and speaking of his three children who needed him, Marcelo was shot multiple times. His body was later found propped against the very tamarind tree his mother had planted when he was born - a cruel symmetry that would forever change the tree's meaning for the family. Blood streamed from his mouth, a bullet hole marked his left eyebrow, and his right leg was crossed over his left.

The impact on his family was devastating. His three children, ages 14, 12, and 4, were inside the house when their father was killed. The 12-year-old stopped attending school, traumatized by what happened. Nanay Belen would hear her grandchildren crying with their mother at night: "Papa, you've left us forever." His widow kept his unwashed clothes, embracing them while she slept, unable to accept his absence. The family faced not only grief but continued harassment - the police returned in October seeking money, and threats became a regular part of their lives.

​

Adding to their pain was the betrayal that led to Marcelo's death. One of the women who guided the killers to their home was someone Marcelo had considered a friend. As his mother Belen would later say, shaking with rage, there was no other way these officers would have found their isolated home. She had fed these neighbors when they were hungry, only to have them repay her kindness by bringing death to her door.

Marcelo Daa's death, along with those of his friends that day, became part of a larger story of violence and loss. Their deaths raised serious questions about police operations and the value of human life. The tamarind tree where he was found, planted by his mother at his birth, stands as a living memorial to his life and death. The story of Marcelo Daa reminds us that behind every statistic is a human being - a son, a father, a partner, and a community member whose loss creates ripples of grief that continue long after the headlines fade. (Evangelista, 2023; Paalam, n/d.)

The Alia Family: In July of 2001, police came to Clarita Alia’s house to arrest Richard Alia who was accused of rape and was affiliated with the local gang. However, the police came without a warrant so Clarita refused to hand over her son to the police. “You will regret what you did to me. I will kill your children one by one,” the officer told her before spitting at her and leaving. Her children were her four sons, Richard, Christopher, Bobby, and Fernando. On July 17th, Richard would step outside for a drink where he would be stabbed to death at the age of 18. Three months later, Christopher Alia would also be stabbed to death at the age of 17 at the public market. In 2002, Bobby Alia was accused of stealing a cell phone. He was arrested but was released when he claimed that the cops tortured him. At the age of 14, he would be killed after a butcher knife was plunged into him from behind. Clarita had sent her son Fernando outside of the city for schooling. Despite hiding for five years, once he came back to Davao in 2007, the death squad found him. He would be arrested for sniffing glue but was released eventually. He was stabbed on a bridge and was rushed to the hospital. The doctors attempted to revive him but he was pronounced dead hours later. Six years after the initial incident, all of her children were killed, one by one. (Evangelista, 2023; Chen, 2016; Ripley, 2017; Santos, 2018)

Dennis Ragub a.k.a Buwaya was a suspected drug pusher in Metro, Manila who was killed in a police buy-bust operation. Before his death, he was subject to a vote among his peers in which they exposed him as a drug dealer and a danger to the rest of the community. He was given the nickname “buwaya” which translates to crocodile due to his rough and dangerous nature by the police. In this vote among the community, buwaya came up first in the ballot resulting in an undercover operation where police came and purchased drugs from him in order to prove his guilt. His partner Valerie on the other hand filed lawsuits against the government in order to prove that his killing was unjust and unnecessary. In her lawsuit, she states the events that happened the night of buwayas death where their home was stormed in the middle of the night and Buwaya was killed while unarmed and unprotected while they took Valerie downstairs and planted drugs and weapons around her in order to frame and extort her and their families. Buwaya’s death plays a large role in the view that the outside world has on the Philippines during the time of the war on drugs. The unfair and unjust killing that is perceived through the view of Valerie and the story the police give strongly contradict each other and give context to the crooked tendencies of the police. His death further proved the lawlessness of the police as there are first-hand claims stating the planting of evidence and the extortion of his family members resulting in further proof of the loss of innocent life and the injustices of the police during this time of conflict. (Evangelista, 2023; Pacia & Atienza, 2016

Sitoy was a short, cocky meth addict who liked to hang two grenades on a string around his neck. He was a dangerous careless man who sold drugs and when he didn’t have them he stole drugs from other dealers. Sitoy’s death in my opinion is one of the most brutal ones described. Simon described his death as he was surrounded and shot multiple times. He was shot in the butt ensuring he couldn’t run, shot in the arm, shot in the chest, and shot 3 times in the head. During this time Simon says that during the murder Sitoy was attempting to pull the pin on one of his grenades and after his death, they called the authorities who then called a bomb squad while the killers just went home. This goes to show the crookedness that the system had as someone who was allegedly selling drugs, was killed while the authorities just let the killers walk away. The police in the aftermath attempted to justify their actions by trying to prove how dangerous Sitoy was. (Evangelista, 2023).