Philippine youth continue to join Maoist rebels

Описание: (28 Nov 2016) In the late-night hours and amid the chirp of crickets, Katryn welcomed a huddle of Filipino journalists in cheerful spirits like she was home. "Coffee?" she asked with a comforting smile.
Comrade Katryn is her nom de guerre, however, and for her, home is a rebel encampment concealed in the rain-soaked wilderness of the Philippines' Sierra Madre Mountains.
The 24-year-old walked away from her family two years ago to join one of the world's longest-raging Marxist rebellions.
Mostly in their 20s and 30s, a few dozen New People's Army guerrillas lugged M16 rifles and grenade launchers on a plateau where red hammer-and-sickle flags adorned a makeshift hall.
Most wore mud-stained boots while cooking over wood fires or guarding the peripheries of the encampment, just three kilometres (1.8 miles) from the nearest army camp.
They're part of a new generation of Maoist fighters who reflect the resilience and constraints of an insurgency that has dragged on for nearly half-a-century through six Philippine presidencies while Cold War-era communist insurgencies across much of the world have faded into memory.
They are driven by some of the same things as their predecessors, including crushing poverty, despair, government misrule and the abysmal inequality that has long plagued Philippine society.
"The New People's Army has no other recruiter but the state itself," a young rebel, Comrade May, told The Associated Press.
She joined the rebellion two years ago after her fiance died of kidney failure because his family was too poor to afford the expensive dialysis treatment.
A lowly paid factory worker, May couldn't do anything.
Government hospitals overwhelmed by swarms of indigent patients failed to give him immediate care.
"His family gave up and reserved the remaining money for his coffin," said May, who now serves as a rebel medic for fellow guerrillas and destitute villagers beyond the government's reach.
Katryn came from a middle-class family that could afford a car, a house and education.
She wanted to become a journalist, but got profoundly disaffected by a government and laws she said could not protect the working class, including her father, who lost his job as an engineer for joining a trade union.
She said she went underground as a left-wing activist and bid goodbye to her father, her mother, who was a former teacher, and a life of modest comforts.
"It was difficult. I cried," she said.
Now adjusted to rebel life, Katryn said she'll stay for good.
She agreed to face news cameras with just a dash of red and blue paint - the colours of the revolution - to camouflage her identity.
The rebellion's longevity is best personified by Jaime Padilla, or Comrade Diego, who was introduced as the new rebel commander and spokesman in a region that has seen the ebb and flow of the insurgency.
Now 69, he took up arms when then-dictator Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law in 1972, largely to quell the spreading communist insurrection that began four years earlier.
Donning a newly designed ceremonial khaki uniform topped by a Mao cap, the folksy rebel leader with a ready smile gave an upbeat assessment of the rebellion.
The military, however, says it has largely beaten back the guerrillas in most of the provinces south of Manila where Padilla's rebel forces have had a presence.
Battle setbacks, surrenders and infighting have weakened the rebel group, which is blacklisted as a terrorist organisation by the United States.
The insurgent group "remains as a threat to national security due to its stance of not abandoning the armed struggle," the report said.


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