Nelson Dino
“The newest action film set on a war-torn island run by separatists and filled with edge-of-your-seat twists.” The opening lines caught my attention as I read the description of a Hollywood action thriller released in January this year. This movie tells the fictional story of passengers of a plane that crashed in Jolo, which they describe as “an island in the Pacific filled with terrorists and blood-lusting rebels.”
“From being survivors to a hostage they become,” writes the description about the survivor’s experience on the island.
Again Jolo is unfairly thrust into the world scene as a dangerous image, characterizing its people as blood-lusting murderers. As a Joloano like me now living in America, I find myself being on the defensive end every time insensitive representations like this come up in conversations, having to explain to everyone the truth buried deep in this island.
It has now been forty-nine years. I was still a young girl on February 7, 1974, when that terrible thing forced my family and me to flee my town. But painful memories don’t fade away so quickly, especially when, every once in a while, I see film and media representations like this that remind me of how misinformed people are about what happened.
I hid my poignancy by quickly picking up the white mug on the center table facing me. Nothing seemed to quell my frustration about the word “rebels,” which they used several times in the movie’s description. I sipped what remained of my coffee. As I leaned back on my couch, I was flown back to memories of the massive blaze that ripped through the large town of Jolo in February 1974. This event set a path from my childhood in Jolo to how I am today.
With hurting eyes, I peered through the window of our house. I felt my knees weaken as smoke flowed endlessly upward, forming massive clouds. Fire filled the sky with a dark-orange glow that illuminated the streets, turning my happy moment into one of uncertainty. The full-length gown I was preparing fell from my hand to the baluy (a locally woven mat), gifted to me by my granny when I was seven. I was about to wear-test the gown for my graduation the following day, February 7.
Even as a young girl, I was already being groomed to become a medical doctor. I was believed to be among the best students near KM2, where our house stood, between Jolo’s and Indanan’s local boundaries. But my hopes of graduating from one of the most prominent elementary schools in town were dissipating into thin air. I felt my heart burst, watching houses in my neighborhood thoroughly engulfed by flames.
Shaking and still thinking about what to do next, I sat on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror on the cabinet. My mind was blank like the white paper used for our school exam, waiting to be filled with answers to questions from our teachers.
The house was quiet. I thought about my brother and my father. They must now be asleep, I presumed. I stood up to open the cabinet’s door, and as I did so, the room’s entrance swung wide open. I was startled. It was my father.
Nisa, pack your things.
Where’s Levi?
Wake him up. Go!
While packing my things, my father grabbed my hand. My brother came in rubbing his eyes lazily, appearing to have just woken up and unaware of what was happening. I looked at the old, wooden-framed clock on the wall behind me. Its hand was ticking like an aging grandpa but still sharp enough to show us the time. Seven o’clock and seven minutes in the evening.
While rushing to follow my father downstairs, I fell from the ladder on the second floor of our house. My father quickly went back and pulled my hand. I didn’t mind the sharp pain in the leg I endured from that falling. I only thought of joining my father and brother.
Before stepping out of the gate, my father looked outside, eyes darting from left to right, right to left. He was trying to see if it was safe to go out. He suggested remaining inside the house for a while until it was safer. He assured us we would go to the Jolo Pier as soon as possible.
A clock needle was ticking. I could hear it from my watch inside my bag. It was time. My father, brother, and I rushed to Jambatan, the local term for the Jolo Pier. We were walking fast along the streets of Alat. I was overwhelmed seeing hundreds of people on the road in disarray, going in the same direction we were going, all fleeing in panic. It felt like I had entered a twilight zone.
The cries of the babies and screams of older people were not different from the sounds of mortars and guns being fired somewhere. They all penetrated my young ears at once, hitting my heart and soul. I noticed abandoned belongings–bags, suitcases, laundry, animals, and others–filling the pier. I suspected the owners may have left them there when they boarded the navy boats. Perhaps they had no choice but to leave them. Life or baggage. That’s obviously an easy choice.
As we fell in line, my father tightly held my hand. My brother was beside him on his left. The gun barrel from a distressed soldier nearly poked my left eye when he moved his gun while talking to my father. The sight of soldiers in full gear evoked millions of worries in my heart. I was thinking of my studies, my future, and my life. Like others, I felt nervous. More people were coming to the pier, waiting to board the naval when it arrived.
My mother’s round, gentle face flashed in my memory. She left Jolo for Manila one week before for something urgent, even though the news of the possible outbreak of war had been heard. I knew she wouldn’t have left if she had a choice. I wished she was here. My fears tripled when I saw a man in white cloth being interrogated by the same soldier who first talked to my father; even more afraid when the soldier asked the man to produce his cedula, which the man didn’t have. Later, I understood he was suspected of being a member of a group fighting the government troops.
I felt relieved when he was eventually allowed to join the passengers waiting to board the naval. But minutes prior, I could sense his fear and unease as he answered the soldier’s incessant questions. Luckily, for some reason, he convinced the soldier that he was just a civilian caught in the fighting between the two sides. In this battle between an elephant and an ant, the lives of those caught in between don’t really matter. Still, it felt good to see the man safe, even if we didn’t know him.
“Sumunod kayo!” shouted a soldier to a group of people on my left. His harsh voice jolted back my fear. This was the same soldier who interrogated my father for the second time. Fearing him, people became quiet. But a few seconds later, a loud boom erupted in the cerise night sky, followed by the rattle of automatic gunfire from a short distance away. Everyone was screaming again. My heart was beating rapidly. Any moment soon, I could collapse.
I saw my father talking to another soldier, requesting us to be accommodated. But the soldier declined and told him the naval boat was full and would soon start departing. This means we would have to wait for another trip. I felt myself sinking. I became more worried even as the soldier said, “Those who remain must wait for another naval to arrive. It’s not long. The other naval is on its way now.”
I heard my stomach growling with my last meal. I began to feel nauseous, remembering the sight of blood spattered on the cemented road and people visibly wounded as we were walking earlier.
The day before, military personnel came to our house to question my father. They were looking for a man who allegedly led a group in abducting a nurse to marry her to someone outside the gate of the general hospital. My father stood near our house’s entrance, answering the man with just, “Di po namin kilala, Sir.” The man left, but not without leaving a trace of worry in my heart.
On our way to the pier, my father’s target place for fleeing from the virtual killing, a loud blast suddenly went off not far from where we walked. I ducked. My father dragged us into taking cover under an old truck beside the road. He covered my brother and me with his body, embracing us tightly to keep us from crying. But my brother screamed so loud, his voice almost as loud as the raging bullets. My father masked my brother’s mouth with his hand to lessen the sound of his voice. We realized he was hit in the back, possibly by a rock. My father massaged him to reduce the pain. I sat beside them quietly, still frightened after the blast. Seeing soldiers marching alongside a combat tank was too much for my young heart.
While coming out from below the truck, my brother saw a used cloth diaper and kicked it lightly with his leg, opening its contents wide. The pungent smell of feces, mixed with the acrid scent of spent gunpowder, spread through the air. I immediately covered my nose. As flames enveloped every building my eyes could see, I saw people sauntering like ghosts. Some were physically injured. Some were simply lost.
Before we left home, the water and power supplies were already cut. But we had kept some water for drinking. For light, we used candles. Our neighbor, who had dug a foxhole, wanted us to hide with them, but my father refused. He wanted us to go directly to the pier. There was also an offer for us to go to the general hospital to take shelter there. Still, my father refused as he wanted to find a way to bring us to Zamboanga City so we could be together with our mother in Manila.
Coming out of the house was obviously suicidal. We had to pass by the Alat area, which was dangerous as it was infected by elements that none of us could ever identify–if they were from the military’s or the revolutionaries’ side. Some of them could be looters who are also dangerous. But we had no choice.
A few days before this, during dinner, my father told us that a small group fighting the government, calling themselves revolutionaries, was in town. One of them was, in fact, his relative. My father said his co-teacher saw them quietly paddling a small canoe beneath a warren of wooden stilt houses in Tulay. My father thought they did that to avoid military checkpoints. They came from different places in Indanan, Maimbung, Parang, and other islands. They were seen passing the stilt-house villages in Tinda Laud from Takut-Takut too.
The men hid inside their relatives’ homes. They met quietly with more relatives, which included some policemen assigned to the town. They were believed to be planning to enter Jolo’s center at dawn – to take back the part of the downtown held by the military, my father added, in a clear voice that hinted at worry and concern. When he mentioned that ammunition and firearms were discovered at the Doctor’s Hospital in Bus-Bus Lambayung, I told him this was news I had already heard at school. I only wanted to quiet him, actually.
I was excited about delivering my valedictory address, which I had carefully prepared with my brother. I ate slowly and thought about my graduation the next day. I thought about my friends and how we used to play together after school. We used to gather in their houses during social occasions. These thoughts occupied my mind more than my father’s talks about the impending attack we should be preparing for.
My father once told me about a shooting incident near the local movie theatre. This was the talk of the town months earlier. He warned us that if war eventually broke out, we may have no choice but to flee. To do so, we may need to pass by Perlas Theatre, a stone away from the pier.
Perlas Theatre was infamous for being in an area where violent crimes in Jolo usually happened. My father used to tell us that this place was dangerous. Don’t go near it, he said, to which I agree. I liked going to Plaza Marina, an open park, like Plaza Tulay, where other kids and I used to gather to play. Despite its beauty, locals saw this place as a reminder of the Spanish occupation of the town. It was built in front of a mosque together with other infrastructure. Here government leaders used to commemorate their heroes, the people who led the brutal conquer of Jolo centuries ago. Locals didn’t like these celebrations, as these heroes were actually colonizers.
When I saw the fire blazing the town after seven-seven, it was about five and seven minutes in the dawn. I didn’t even hear the bang, a call to prayer recited loudly in the mosques like I used to. The blazing town was far away from our house, but it looked much closer with the fire. Still wearing my white gown, I continued reading the valedictory piece I had prepared. It was already checked by my teacher, who I fondly called Ms. Lam, a beauty with brains like us all.
Even though we were close to her, as she was our English teacher, my friend and I used to talk about her lover, whom she frequently met at our school’s canteen. I used to pass their table, where I would drool over the chocolates given to her by her lover. But my friend was more curious about the guy, as he seemed handsome. He had been dating Ms. Lam since they were in fifth grade. I realized he was a soldier because he came visiting two weeks before graduation with his uniform on.
We nearly reached the bridge in Alat. From our left was a small path to the Tulay area. Instead of taking this route, my father had us go straight, passing through the largest mosque in town. From there, I could see the Tong Jin school building. Near this school, there was a checkpoint controlled by anti-government forces. The streets were chaotic and filled with people running for their lives, as the minaret of the mosques was a witness.
My father planned to have us pass through Takut-Takut or Tinda Laud (which literally means sea shops). Later this place became known as the Chinese Pier because of the presence of these shops. The group’s leader stationed near the school let us pass peacefully and told my father, “Lamud na kaw mari bang kaw saggawun sin sundalu,” trying to convince him that if a military personnel came to arrest him, he better join them, which my father replied to, with “mastal aku,” as he was teaching in a secondary school in the town with my mother.
I saw uniformed men along the road. About thirty to forty wore camouflage uniforms, and most had rifles or machine guns. When I turned my head to the left, one man’s eyes were immediately trained on me. I pulled my eyes nervously away from him. He approached my father. “Ama, patingin ng cedula nyo?” At his back was a radio, its antenna pulled up, producing husky sounds. That was the first time my father released my hand from his grasp since we left from hiding under the truck. He had to pull his cedula from the pocket of his small pouch. But first, he put us quietly behind him. I stood straight while holding my father’s right thigh. My brother was on his left, worried, silent, and still lullabied by the sounds of mortars I could hear from the distance.
Yari, Sir.
Salamat. Wag kayong sumama sa mga elemento na galit sa gobyerno.
Wayi, Sir. Sibilyan kami.
I stopped staring at the soldier after he allowed us to go unharmed. I became just like a sack of rice to my father. He quickly grabbed my hand, held it tight, and walked again. I could still hear my brother’s cries as he continued walking. I wondered why. When I saw his left foot, I realized one of his slippers was gone; it was probably lost along the way as we walked too fast. There was no time to go back and find it. I had to comfort him. My father didn’t mind my brother’s cries anymore. He just continued to walk fast, almost hauling us. I could not feel anything from my hand, only numbness.
My father thought of going through Tinda Laud on our way to the pier, passing by the market and theatre near the dock. Near the mosque, I saw a bike in the heart of the Plaza Tulay. Beside him, a guy was lying dead. I thought he was shot in the stomach. My eyes also spotted a helicopter hovering at a distance. After a few minutes, I heard continuous rapid gunfire. I thought to myself–the helicopter must have been shot down.
On the way to Tinda Laud through Takut-Takut, along the path to the right-hand side of the road, I noticed someone on the ground lying dead, her long, black hair spreading out like carpet on the ground. She looked familiar. It was my mother’s friend, her pale face covered in blood. She was a teacher too, from the school where I was going. I wanted to shout, but no words were coming out. My father held my hand and told me not to mind anything and to continue walking. My brother was quiet. He was scared, I know, but I wasn’t sure if he understood what was happening. It seemed unfair for someone so young to see all that. Why was he even being dragged like that from the house? He was only five years old.
We continued forward. To our left was a gruesome sight that almost made me faint-a pack of dogs eating what looked like the body parts of a dead person. Almost instinctively, my father covered my brother’s eyes. But not far away were more and more bloodied dead people on the ground. Some of them looked bloated. There was no escaping this macabre sight.
At the Tinda Laud bridge, the fighting was heavy. Many group members against the government were stationed at Takut-Takut and Tulay. While the government troops stationed at Tinda Laud prevented the group from crossing and going to the pier areas. Hearing this, I remember a couple of corpses I saw on the streets earlier, burned and still hugging each other. I thought they were a couple, perhaps siblings.
Finally, we arrived at the house of Pah Ilam, my father’s cousin. I didn’t know that Pah Ilam was the community leader until my father told me that he was when we were in his bangka (a small, outrigger boat). Pah Ilam discouraged my father from going directly to the pier. He suggested that we take shelter at Bangas Island across the dock, about a few minutes and kilometers away by motorboat. He said he’d help us, as he was also transporting other people to the island.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. I had yet to eat after last night. Pah Ilam’s bangka had lots of punctures on its walls, albeit smaller than the size of the holes in fishing nets, and still manageable by plugging something into them. Pah Ilam was busy covering them as seawater was fast pouring in. There were four of us in the boat. With Pah Ilam and my father paddling, we went to sea. I thought the island was just close. But with the kind of bangka we had, reaching the island took almost forever. Our journey there could become another long story for me to tell one time.
The cold splashes of seawater, added by the appearance of a military boat, jolted me back from daydreaming. A soldier, perhaps their leader by how he acted, asked my father where we were going. After he was convinced that we were not their “enemy,” he ordered his men to tug our boat to the island. Other people were seeking refuge there, too, he said to my father. “As long as we’re there, we’d be safe,” my father assured us along the way, our boat tugging behind that of the military.
I joined my father in climbing to the highest part of the island when we arrived, still feeling chased. I could see the worries on his face. I knew he didn’t want to stay longer on the island. He wanted us to be hauled to the pier.
One of the soldiers came near me; he handed me biscuits as if already knowing how starved I was. He perhaps overheard me telling my father that I was hungry. He also shared some water from a blue container. Many people stayed near the beach. Some were at a small cottage. I still could see the fighting intensifying from the main island because the sounds of bombs reached my ears. My father comforted me when I cried and told him I was supposed to give my valedictory speech in school today.
He convinced me that I was still the valedictorian. And when the situation improved, he would return me to Jolo after staying for some time in Manila. For now, he said, we need to be safe with our mother in Manila. She was supposed to come from Manila today, but all flights were canceled. When we arrived in Manila, I would tell her how beautiful my gown was.
Before flying for Manila, her plan was to come home in the early morning of my graduation and witness me deliver by valedictory address, as I had shown her the program bearing the date February 7, 1974. My name as valedictorian, Nisa Mulban Jamari, was inscribed at the top.
War was not even part of my awareness at that very young age. If it happened today, I would know that the purpose of going to the pier was to take the chance of going to Zamboanga for safety, then Manila to see my mother. That port before the war was where the night market was. It was where everyone knew each other’s faces, in the vicinity of the town we called Walled City. I used to go there with my family.
My father didn’t want to stay on the island that day. At about four o’clock, he requested the military to send us to the pier. I never separated from him and my brother. Wherever he went, he tugged us along, afraid to lose eyes on us even for a minute. With us were parents with babies. There were also older people barely able to walk, already weakening after days on the island with very little food.
The military agreed to send us to the pier, with the condition that we should wait for the naval boat like others, as everyone could not accommodate us directly. My father agreed. He knew anything could happen to us there, but at least we tried. I could not go against my father’s decision as he was very concerned about us.
After my last bite of the biscuit the soldier gave me, my father pulled my brother and me to the beach, where a military boat was docked, ready to send us. I thought it was only three of us to be hauled to the pier. There was one other family who also requested to be sent with us. I bid goodbye to the soldier who gave me the biscuit. He was staying behind to help guard others.
On the boat, my father hugged my brother and me, his hands warmly embracing us. Along the way, my stomach was growling, joining the engines with their loud, ever-present rumbling. Biscuits were not enough to satisfy my hunger. Hopefully, after arriving at the pier, we would be given proper meals, including rice and fried chicken. I remembered how I bit the chicken thigh my mother used to cook for the family. She even cooked one for us before she left for Manila that morning of January 31. She kissed my forehead before I left for school.
She would have been in Jolo during graduation. But her promise to be with me on my happiest day could no longer be fulfilled. As I vividly remembered her last words before I left for school that day, I tried to hold back tears on the verge of falling down while my face was being hit by seawater from the waves. Her last words were: “I’ll be back, Anak. Tumtuma malasa kami kaniyu. Abutan ku pa in adlaw sin graduation mu. Kadungugan ku pa in bissara mu ha taas stage,” reminding me that she and my father loved us so much.
I had no time to grab many things at home before we left to flee from the expected haunts of war. My dream of becoming a doctor was in my valedictory address. I wanted to share my vision in life with my fellow graduates. But all these were quickly replaced by anguish and fear, seeing dead people everywhere, houses burning, and military helicopters falling from the sky.
Before our boat arrived at the pier, I thought of what I should be doing in Manila. My mind searched the clouds, looking at a hazy future. I questioned myself about what else I could do as I was also just a child. I knew nothing. I was just supposed to graduate from elementary. My father promised that he would let me finish high school in Manila. But then I was worried too. Could I enroll without graduating from elementary? Would my school confer my diploma even without a ceremony? I hope so, I thought.
As if hearing my mind, father squeezed my hand. He said he would find a way to enroll me in high school. He told me not to worry about my studies. My imagination brought me again to Manila. It was described to me as a beautiful place. I was told that people there helped each other regardless of their religions. Hope enveloped my being, allowing me to see a better picture of the future ahead.
We were allowed to queue after we arrived at the pier. We were guided to the nearest building turned evacuation center, a few minutes from where we docked. There were thousands of people there, all cramped like sardines. We had to stay for a few more days. We had nowhere to go. Waiting for the naval that would ferry us to Zamboanga, to my mind, was agonizing. My father could not contact my mother as the telephone center we used to call her was closed on the day of the siege.
A word from my father, “attack”, kept coming again and again in my mind, as if from a broken record. Many months ago, he told us that a group against the government had been planning to attack the town after many civilians were detained by the military and never heard from again. They may have been killed for being suspected members of the group known to people as Mawis or Aktibis. This group was fighting for their homeland’s independence from neo-colonialism, triggered by the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor island in 1968. Led by political-scientist-professor Nur Misuari, who rose to prominence from a university in Manila, this group had many youths participating, hoping to receive their rewards in Jannah, to reach their glory, whether victory or graveyard.
On the road, while fleeing, I thought a blast hit my father. I was so scared. But he was divinely protected by the Quran he kept in a small pouch inside his bag. My father calmly said, “When Allah wills me to die, I will be resolved. But for now, I will keep you all safe. And we all shall reach Manila to be with your mother.”
My father was the first to disembark from the motorboat. When it was my turn, one of the soldiers came to help me. But my father was already there to help me down. My brother was next. After a while, we joined passengers lining up for registration to be ferried to Zamboanga. I could now see the naval boat from where I was standing. I was hopeful. Suddenly, my father’s close cousin appeared, asking my father for a favor. I knew him. We in the family all knew he was part of Mawis. Now he came disguising himself as a civilian. He was with a girl about my brother’s age, her hair tied at the back. He talked with my father for a while before leaving. And so, at the pier, our tiny group of three became four, queuing with hundreds more, all of us wanting to save ourselves from the monsters of war.
Since almost everyone in Jolo is a relative and knows one another, the girl could be our relative too, although none of us has seen her before. My uncle was only saving her, and we would bring her to Zamboanga to be reunited with her parents–just like us trying to reunite with our mother.
While queuing, I overheard a lady saying they were supposed to go to Bongao on the way to Sabah, but they were left behind by the boat. This was the only boat that could take them to Bongao. Her bag was lost along the way while fleeing from their house in Asturias. Her money and jewelry were all in that bag. That’s why she resorted to going to the pier to join the naval going to Zamboanga. From there, she would find a way to go to Sabah, as her brother was already there since before the siege, around the time martial law was declared.
Seven days after February seven, I was able to gasp the good air from the navy boat departing from Jolo to Zamboanga City. I looked straight at the peak of Bud Tumantangis from the naval ship, comparing it to the family photo I inserted into my notebook pages. As it slowly disappeared from my sight, I couldn’t help but cry. I knew I would be back. Jolo is still where I imagine I’d live as an adult. I resolved to go back to see a home healing from this terrible nightmare. I resolved to one day be of help to others in my town so that in times of crisis like this, I cannot be indifferent to the sufferings of others.
As I bit the last piece of cookie I picked up from the platter marked with the number seven on its center, I remember my father telling me as a child that wounded pride cannot be remedied with war because, in wars, no one wins; every soul loses. I felt relieved, freed from memories of the savagery of war in February seven nineteen seven four. I looked at my passport and ticket in front of me. It’s time to go home.
