Human Rights Coffee Shop (Silingan Coffee Philippines)

- I can't really call Silingan
just a job.

I consider it my mission.

I love its advocacy,
I love what I do,

and I'm happy here, so I stay.

- It was only when I came
to Silingan

that I found the courage
to share my story.

It helps people realize
that not everything they hear

is true—no one has the right
to take the life

of someone we love.

"Silingan" comes
from the Bisaya word

meaning "neighbor."

The reason behind the name
is that during the height

of the war on drugs,
we lost our neighbors.

- No one dared to approach,
not even our neighbors,

because they were afraid
the police might return

at any moment.

Here at Silingan Coffee,
we want to bring back

the traditional sense
of community—

where you can have coffee,
share stories,

and talk about
your experiences.

- Brother Jun is our founder.

He is a Redemptorist brother
who initially focused

on disaster relief,
which led to the establishment

of a coffee shop in Baclaran.

When the pandemic hit,
many people sought his help,

so he decided to set up
another coffee shop—

just like before—
giving us the opportunity

to have jobs.

- At Silingan Coffee,
you are given a chance

to work regardless
of your background

or social status.

Everyone here comes
from EJK (extrajudicial killing) families.

We even joke about it
when someone applies:

"What are the requirements
to work at Silingan?"

I’d say, "Has your husband
been killed yet?"—

that’s just how we joke around.

We officially opened
on October 28, 2021.

For almost six months,
we barely made any profit.

Our highest daily sales back then
were only PHP 500.

But when The New York Times
interviewed us,

it made a huge difference.

People became aware
that there was a coffee shop

in Cubao focused on EJK victims.

Some were curious to see
if we were real or not.

After we were featured,
we were so busy

we couldn’t even sit down.

But I’d rather be exhausted
from work than be idle.

At our branch,
customers always look

for Horchata—a Mexican
rice blend cinnamon drink.

Another favorite is matcha,
especially among students.

Matcha is usually known
for its bitterness,

but customers say,
"Wow, this matcha is great!

It doesn’t taste like grass!"

"Ate, I’d like to order
another matcha, please."

Some of our first regulars
were UP students

who used to study here.

They’ve since graduated,
but they still visit

when they have time.

By God’s grace,
we’ve also been given

the opportunity to set up
a stall at De La Salle

using a mobile van.

Grace leads the team there.

- Our first mobile coffee van
is called the "Justice Van."

The second one,
located in Lipa, Batangas,

is the "Accountability Van."

Our latest one is
the "Courageous Hope Van,"

which moves around for pop-ups,
events, and rallies.

We also have a location
at Ateneo’s Gonzaga Hall

at the upper level.

Our tagline at Silingan Coffee is

"Coffee, Stories, Human Rights."

You’re not just drinking coffee
or buying coffee—

we also have a story,
and we are also fighting

for our rights.

- The mission of Silingan is,
first and foremost,

to provide opportunities
for victims of the war on drugs.

Secondly, to continue sharing
their stories.

The 30,000+ victims
are not just numbers—

they are people with stories,
and we are among them.

- "Resbak" means "respond
and break the silence

against the killings."

It’s a collective
of cultural workers, artists,

writers, and everyone
in the art space,

actually helping drug war survivors.

We work with Brother Jun
who is actually the brains

behind Silingan.

So we found a way
to actually look for a space

for them here in Cubao Expo.

So we share the space with them
and help them sustain

the business—the coffee shop.

The space here is called
"Stall 9."

Downstairs is Silingan Café.

The second floor is
an open space for everyone

to actually have
their own activities

that will eventually support Silingan
and the mothers.

We encourage people to come together
and share their stories

to actually help—also process—
the stories of the mothers,

the widows of the drug war.

- My campaign against drugs
will not stop

until the last pusher
and the last drug lord are...

(mimics a sound like a throat being slit)

- There are five of us siblings—
I’m the third.

My younger brother, the fourth,
was the victim.

His name was Christian Tayactac,
but we called him Ian.

What happened to my brother—
we had no relation to drugs.

I’m not saying that just
because something happens,

it’s automatically related
to drugs, no.

The night it happened,
I wasn’t home—I was at work.

Around 8:00 or 9:00 p.m.,
my older sister called me.

"Laga"—that’s what
they call me at home.

"Laga, it’s Ian. He was shot."

At first, I thought he had just
been grazed or hit.

That was the only thing
on my mind then,

and I put the phone down.

But my blood felt like it rushed
to my head

when my sister told me
what happened.

It seemed like my brother
wasn’t even the actual target.

There was someone else
who was the real target,

someone with the same build
as him, exactly the same.

But when he heard them
call out a name, he said,

"Sir, that’s not me!
That’s not me!"

Maybe they were insisting
on a name,

saying that he was that person,
and my brother

kept insisting it wasn’t him.

But still, they finished him off.

I kept seeing it on TV—
one after another,

"This person was shot,
that person fought back."

I never saw anything else on TV.

That was all I saw in 2016.

I used to be judgmental.

I thought everything I saw
on social media was true.

But when it happened
to my family, I realized—

not everyone killed
or imprisoned is guilty.

It’s so easy for them to take a life.

They don’t even think
about how many children

will be orphaned.

Poor people have no power,

no voice.

Only when someone helps
do they get to speak up.

But the rich? Even when all
the evidence is laid out,

they walk free.

Meanwhile, the poor?
One small offense,

and they’re jailed immediately—
without due process.

They say there’s due process,
but where is it?

- My father, Marcelo Garganta,

and my brother, Joseph Garganta.

We lived in Navotas City
and ran a 24-hour vulcanizing shop.

Our shop was on the roadside,
open around the clock.

So, more than thirty people
entered our house.

They were all wearing masks,
with only their eyes visible.

They looked like thieves—
they stole from us,

took our belongings,
and rummaged through everything

in our home.

They seemed to be looking
for something and said

they only wanted to talk
to my father.

They asked for his name,
saying, "Marcelo Garganta?"

Things like that.

My father was sleeping at the time,
wearing only his briefs,

as he usually does.

They told him to put on shorts.

As soon as he did—
maybe after one, two,

or three seconds—
they started shooting him

multiple times.

They didn’t stop
until he fell to the ground.

We thought it was over,
but when we saw

what had happened,
we tried to pull my father,

hoping to take him
to the hospital,

thinking he might still survive.

My mother tried to pull him,
but they grabbed her

by the hair. They said,
"If you don’t leave,

we will kill you too."

My mother got scared
and started running. We all ran.

We were the ones who got scared.

I have two siblings—
one is a minor

and a criminology student,
and the other,

who is with me now,
is also a minor.

He was also put into a vehicle.

The two minors were separated
into a vehicle.

Then, my other brother, Joseph,
who was 27 and not a minor,

was placed in another vehicle.

A civilian came and asked
for my brother's name.

He said, "Who is Joseph here?
Who is the son of..."

Out of fear, my brother responded,

"I am." So he went with them.

They put him on a motorcycle.

There was one driver,
and my brother was placed

in the middle.

Another man was with them—
there were three of them in total.

The next day,
I went to the funeral home.

My mother was in complete shock—
she couldn’t even speak.

I was the one who handled everything.

At 24 years old,
I had to take care of everything

at the funeral home.

On top of that,
I had to negotiate

because it was so expensive—
it reached PHP 50,000,

and we didn’t have
that kind of money.

I told them,
"Ma’am, can I come back?

I’ll pawn my father’s tricycle first
so I can claim his body.

I’ll come back
because I still have to look

for my missing brother."

Then, as if by coincidence,
someone suddenly told me,

"A dead body has been found,
wrapped in packing tape."

I said, "I won’t wait for that—
it’s not my brother."

But as I was about to leave,
an ambulance arrived,

and they were taking out a body.

Just seeing the feet,
I started crying.

I studied cosmetology,
and I used to clean

my brother’s nails—
I knew those feet were his.

I cried uncontrollably.

I said, "That’s my brother."

They told me, "Are you sure?
Open it and check."

I said, "No, that’s my brother."

I kept crying, calling out,
"Kuya! Kuya!"

They really tortured him.

He was a big man—
he worked out and had no vices.

Maybe it was just five months,

then they jailed my mother
because we kept making noise,

especially my criminology
student brother.

He kept saying,
"I know the law!

I know what you did was wrong!"

When they jailed my mother,
it even became more quiet.

Then, about five months later,
they came back to our house.

This time, they shot Jeff—
my partner.

We didn’t take him to the hospital
because there were

too many police officers there.

He had to operate on himself.

I never thought something
like this would happen to us.

I thought these things
only happened on TV.

We kept hiding.
We hid and hid and hid.

Imagine—you're grieving, and yet,
you're the one who has

to run and hide.

During that time,
no matter what you did,

if someone in your family
was targeted,

everyone was affected.

If you spoke up,
they would target you even more.

That’s why they jailed me—
they didn’t want me to talk.

They kept telling me
to just confess and be released.

But no.

If you confess,
you’ll be freed immediately,

but it means you’re admitting guilt.

I said no—I won’t admit
to something I didn’t do.

As long as I kept attending hearings
for five years,

it was a burden to them too.

They had to attend.

If they didn’t,
the case would be dismissed.

So, month after month,
we kept seeing each other in court.

Last October, I won—
I was acquitted.

- There are so many coffee shops.

Of course,
at the end of the day,

you want a good cup of coffee.

But if you can,
I think because you're used

to your privilege,
you can actually reach out

and go here to actually listen
to the stories.

These kinds of things happening
in our country,

I think many people need
to know about them.

And if there's more people visible,
out in the open,

talking about it,

giving their support,
more people will come out

and not be afraid to help
and join the fight

of those victimized
by the drug war.

- When I was here at Silingan,
it was only here

that I gathered the courage
to share my story.

What happened to my brother
was in 2016.

I was still working in Baclaran,
but of course,

it wasn't related to my job,
it wasn’t related

to the war on drugs,
so I didn’t feel like sharing.

But now, since there
are many of us here, you know,

you feel at ease sharing
your story.

- That’s why here at Silingan,
I also found a new family.

We came together,
and I listened to everyone’s stories.

Before, I was only listening
to myself,

only hearing my own story,
and I thought,

"Why did this happen to me?
We’re so unfortunate."

It was always just me,
thinking about myself.

But when I heard
everyone’s stories,

I realized that, in some way,
I was still lucky.

The pain I felt,
the hardship I experienced—

I didn’t cling to them
to weaken me;

I held on to them
to become my strength.

- If you are just fighting
for human rights,

it is not a crime.

Because we all have human rights.

Bottom line also,
it's all about respect—

respecting their space,
respecting their lives,

respecting their loved ones.

And of course,
at the end of the day, it's just,

you know, everyone's the same.

So we just need respect.

If we don’t understand,
you know, because we're privileged

and inside our bubble,
it's really all about respect.

- I hope we can also reach others—
victims like us

who haven't received
even a single form of help.

- I don’t just come here for work
because I also want

to reach out to mothers like me.

I want to be the one helping
those like me.