Author: admin

Sheilfa B. Alojamiento

The year was 1989 maybe. I was in this office, one of those city-based social development institutions supporting what we then called the PDOS—the poor, the deprived, the oppressed, and struggling. There was a commotion, a shuffle. Muslim nationalists—the ones we libeled separatists—had early on absconded. We would know later that they set up their own programs to help their own poor. I was myself decamping. There was a marching order to consolidate and expand forces and there I was, a foot dragger. Sowing doubts within; doing the enemy’s job for them.

Do you know Nids?

The speaker was someone I knew from way back when I was still a student. We were standing in the middle of the receiving hall of a two-story unit in a four-door apartment. She came with the Marawi gang chauffeured by the liaison guy whose family owned the vehicle that took everyone there. Then suddenly, people were going to the kitchen behind the movable dividing wall or to the small room on one side of the main door.

Did you know that Nids died? she again asked.

I shook my head. There were arrests and executions all the time. Too many to keep track of or to have time to grieve over. That someone I might have known from way back was now on the list should not make for a terrible case.  Then I saw our office head flee the hall, running to the bedroom upstairs, her face very soft and tender. I looked around me, aware all of a sudden that we were alone in the living room.

Where’s everyone?

A little before that I was in a smaller office in the same city. Around me were younger people, Muslim boys. They were diffident, quieter than the usual crowd our office feted. One or two were slinging tubaos, their smiles pale. They moved around as one would if he were inside a chapel. I was sitting on a long rattan bench beside another young woman, a comrade, and a Muslim. On the table in front of us were roasted cassava, fried fish, seaweed salad, soft drinks. The office cheerleader, the one who would leave in a little while for the burial of his politician-father, was entertaining our guests.

Have your fill! This is guerilla’s fare!

A nudge on one’s side. A smile to cover what was up. Is it true, my fellow sitter, a Muslim cadre who shared our quarters, mumbled, her voice low enough not to be heard beyond an ear. Is it true that a whole squad got wiped out because of panggi and malong?

Ha?

The story went—the one that got to her—that this team of foot soldiers was on its way to a meeting to forge a UG-level military alliance when, while spending the night in an outpost, they were raided by enemy forces. It would have been a breakthrough of breakthroughs, coming together to plan joint actions.

None escaped on account of panggi and malong.

Ha?

Board and bed, she quietly explained, the luminescence not leaving her face. Happened in Lanao Norte, accordingly. They stuffed themselves a little too much and overslept too. When the enemies fired, none was quick enough to jump out of the window or rise up from bed. Some fell with their feet caught inside their malongs.

For a long time that story never left me.

I never heard of such an incident., at least not as you narrated the case to me, Nene would say to me more than three decades later.

We were in her house. One of the more than a dozen of kittens had wetted the floor and she was wiping it dry. When she had washed the mop and had it slung over the fence to dry, she returned to the living room, to the litter of books and paper she was sorting.

Nene was my Political Science 101 instructor in Marawi. On campus, movement people called on her—for advice, for help—. It was the time when so many students were going over to the anti-Marcos struggle. A score I knew dropped out to go underground and were in the Mindanao United Front work.

I just asked what made her decide to leave. She was throwing monographs and students’ papers she did not want to be filling her cabinets. I was gathering stories I was forever writing and rewriting. I pressed the red button of the mini tape recorder I was lugging all the time.

You mean the UG?

Yes, the underground.

I no longer believe in the things I used to believe in.

I fell silent. It was a terrible thing to say coming from someone like her. And a terrible thing to hear for someone who always looked up to UG people.

You no longer believe in…

Her eyes were on the dusty notebooks. Fingers browsing through yellowing pages, the face clenched around the jaw.

No.

You no longer believe that…

No.

But….

Socialist states are not and cannot be morally superior to capitalist states. For as long as there is class differentiation, there will always be the poor, and there will always be exploitation. That’s why… she took a breath, glanced at the door, then to me.

Didn’t I tell you this before?

I did not reply. Just stared on, anger rising up in my chest.

Her lips pursed, dull eyes casting about among the litter at her knees.

That’s why Marxism is for the withering away of the state. Marx’s ideal is communism, a classless and stateless society, which, being ideal, shall never be.

There are strange moments of illumination that do not feel like illumination. Like being there before the fall, of a pillar or a monument. Like being the tail of the beast that bites itself, or, being in the eye of a storm.

I leaned back in my seat and shut my eyes. For an endless time, the tape ran on dead air. Then I opened my eyes again and reached for the pause button. She was still sifting papers, picking, throwing, casting about low. In another moment the fallen pillar was on the same eye level with the beast and the storm, looking back, mirroring one’s brokenness.

Did you know that so many were executed then?

How could I not know? I was the office’s human rights documenter, wasn’t I. Always on a fact-finding mission, always afield, always in conferences. Could she be talking about the other cases? The undocumented ones?

After that chauffeured group disappeared in our living room, none returned. One is now in Canada, another in West Virginia. The rest here and there in obscure corners of the country, revolution and class war now a faraway country sometimes recalled with a touch of nostalgia.

It took me decades before I finally got over my PTSD, the liaison guy who brought the girls out would confess at GC.

Nids died in 1987, a news dispatch would belatedly confirm to me. According to this archived item, four community organizers affiliated with the National Democratic Front, the political wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines and the New People’s Army, were killed in Tangkal, Lanao Norte, on July 24 of that year. Implicated were members of the Tunda Force, a group of capitulationists formerly under the Moro National Liberation Front. In a statement, the Muslim rebel commander overseeing the territory admitted being put in a shameful situation: his NDF guests had been slaughtered while a regional peace pact between revolutionary forces was in effect. Lost were one carbine, one M16, one .45 calibre pistol, one .38 calibre revolver, three Garands, and one radio handset. The M16 was what was used in the execution. This last detail was not in this dispatch.

In the eighties, Nene said, she was in the United Front Committee. She would come to school finding her name scrawled on the blackboard at the College of Arts and Sciences Building convicting her as a certified member of the Communist Party of the Philippines. Most everyone she knew would be received in her house at the Fisheries Village. One morning after hosting the previous night’s meeting when everyone but a couple were gone, an ex-soldier started stoning her house. That was not the first time that he did that. She rose and took the gun the sleeping man left lying on the ironing board and went out; fired shots at the water hole where their kitchen drain stopped. Then she went back in, dismantled the gun, left it where she picked it. She went out again, in her housedress and slippers, to confront the military man. A neighbor accosted her, grinning.

Patapsingi lang! Tiila lang! Don’t hit the bullseye! A graze in one leg will do!

But the man had fled. When she returned to the house, her guest, the NDF and UF bos, a co-signatory to the regional peace talks, was up on his feet, the reassembled gun in his hand.

I thought we were raided, he said to her. I told myself, Whatever happens, I should have my gun.

Then she got a scolding. What if the bullets ricocheted? What if a neighbor or one of the kids got hit? What if you got hit? What?! You went out to attack and left your gun?? What idiocy is that?!

Only the Muslim rebel commander and co-signatory to the peace talks was awestruck. Her little adventure put a stop to the harassment. The rest of the house laughed off the whole episode. But there were other executions everywhere. One of the Maranao guests that usually came to her house with the Marawi chaps would be found lying dead in bed, his two hands holding his severed head.

The comrades said he was a partisan.

A partisan?

A gunman. A hitman. They also warned me not to trust him.

The comrades paid him to kill fellow…?

No.

He was in the UF?

He was UG. He would come to the house with the rest.

Who killed him?

I don’t know. They wouldn’t say.

Where was he killed?

In Marawi. I cannot recall now if it was in his own rented place or in the house of this Tausug man where he sometimes slept.

She looked away as she said this, at a mid-point distance around the house’s vicinity, her arms crossed in a self-embrace.

Then she turned her face back to me.

But many, so many were executed at the time. Her voice was soft, low.

I did not speak for a long moment. Her daughter came out of their bedroom and walked by, impervious to the ongoing conversation. The girl turned on the faucet and washed her hands, then went out of the kitchen door.

I did not know about that case, I said. But I knew about this raid a comrade had told me about.

Then I related to her the panggi and malong incident my fellow sitter whispered to me ages ago.

The kitchen door opened again, the daughter came in, a bundle of washed clothes slung in one arm. She went inside without a word or a nod.

A massacre?

The word they used was a wipe-out. It was a whole squad.

Neither did she know about it, said she, though her voice did not betray surprise.

Then she added: Or if I did, the way it was told to me was not like how you recounted it to me just now.

And then she asked, Do you know Nids?

Nids, she explained, was a Business Administration student who went underground. She was also in the UF work, Mindanao-wide level. She was executed in an MNLF area.

It was after Cory took to the presidency when I read about the regional peace talks being broached. Negotiations in the national level bogged down after farmers were massacred in Mendiola, but in Lanao, local initiatives were in progress, with the Franciscan Brothers in Baloi and Bishop Capalla himself of the Diocese of Iligan brokering the peace. I remember reading a news item that had the CPP chair criticizing what regional bosses were doing—early signs of inner schisms I then chose to ignore—. Soon after that, I would find the picture of the MNLF-Ranao, the NDF-Northwestern Mindanao, and the NPA-Lanao bosses in the inside page of a national daily. In the same picture was a little woman corralled by an armchair, described as the NDF negotiator’s back-up service. Not exactly in those words.

While the news report quoted everyone who repeated themselves, it looked like the fourth member of the panel never benefitted from an interview. She sat in a corner with her side to the camera, her head slightly bowed, pen poised above a notepad at her right hand. In the national level peace negotiations sortie that ended just before the regional talks officially started, stories about the achievements of the underground women’s organization affiliated with the NDF made waves. Reading the news item about a seemingly indefensible local peace pact, I remember feeling a pang, a kind of hunger for words from a woman who went around with a short arm slung in her waist. I found none.

According to Nene, Nids was killed for insisting to accompany a group in an MNLF territory. She had been dissuaded from going but she did not listen. The picture of her death painted before Nene was one of a disgraceful sort: as though she was running when shot from the back: left arm raised, head turned to her right, the other arm bent in an angle by her side. The all-boys squad was there for their first baptism of fire: to consolidate and expand forces in Muslim areas.

At the time Nene was replaying the NDF bos’ lampoon of his dead comrade-deputy secretary, I had no idea that the fourth panelist in the failed regional peace talks and the Business Administration student who went underground and was killed was one and the same person. I also did not know that when she died, she did not die alone: the guys she accompanied went with her to her grave. All I could see then was Nene’s anger. She refused to know more, refused to listen further, she said, not only because she did not like hearing about comrades meted with ugly violent deaths, but most of all, she hated the story teller, hated the manner he was telling it.

How could he laugh like he derived satisfaction over a comrade’s death?! I said, what kind of a man is this I am receiving in my house!? This is no revolutionary!

I would also know, several interviews later, that the bodies were never brought home, never brought out of the place where they were felled. It was a border mountain between Tangkal and Magsaysay then accessible only by foot, and the slaying made the area no man’s land. The request to the masa to please bury the bodies had to therefore go through a long involved channel: from one kasama to another, then to an ally and then another, until finally a motley group of young boys armed with spades and shovels had to be let in to perform the unpleasant task.

What would a set of menials tasked to lift smelling bodies into an open grave feel? I never ceased to wonder. And what could Muslim gravediggers who otherwise denounce communists have seen? Wasted youth? Dead kaffir bodies beginning to stink? One small, sorry-looking girl whose last feat was to carry a gun around her hip which she was not able to fire? If the slain team’s gravediggers were Maranao boys who only had hatred for accursed communists and had no fellow feeling for peasants’ sons like them, surely, they would not trouble themselves with such a revolting job? On the other hand, if they were Muslims, and they were, what they did—burying dead bodies of strangers and jihadists of a kind—would have been the next thing to a prayer or a pilgrimage to Mecca.

The 1987 news dispatch did not give details besides the fact that four NDF organizers were killed by the Tunda Force. On the other hand, the Lanao Red Army At-Large, when first lit on during an unscheduled interview, did not deny a wipe-out of an entire squad.

Hurot gyud, all seven of them.

He moreover did not mention any Tunda Force.

Ang tag-iya lang gud sa balay. Just the house owner.

The slaying occurred in the place where the team slept and boarded for several days. According to him, it was an SYP—Sandatahang Yunit Propaganda—the armed propaganda unit of the Red Army tasked to expand base. They were all Christians, young boys just out of school. The mountain part was known to have been always under the control of MNLF commanders with a history of friendship and alliance work with Maoists and NDF personages since the seventies. Pockets of communities in surrounding villages were considered mass bases.

They had been well-briefed, this NPA commander now on leave explained. There was no lack for reminders on top of comradely reminders. To be constantly on the move and be incessantly on the guard; to not spend two consecutive nights in one place and especially not in one house; to never gather in one room with no lookout watching the periphery; to always have a night watch; and finally, to stay close to the man of the house and his wife and children. Except that, in this particular case, the house owner had no wife and no children, which might have been noted but was not, or, if it had been noted, the note might have been overruled, annulled. On this particular day or night, the man of the house did not join them for the meal. No one could recall however and none of those I interviewed could tell if it was breakfast lunch or supper; only that when the boys went out to the kitchen table, they left their arms in their bedroom—just there, leaning against the wall.

He must have temporarily lost his mind, didn’t care what was right or wrong all he saw was an opportunity, the NPA commander now on leave broached. The erstwhile fighter also did not reveal that there was a girl in the team: a 22- year-old who dropped out of college to go underground. And he did not say that of the seven, someone did not leave her gun lying around. No details from him either whether the house owner went in through the door or through the bedroom window, or if he found an excuse to get inside the room passing by the door; just that the next moment, he was raining bullets on them all.

A security lapse, a serious one. Thus went the summation that closed the case.

They were young, and trusting, he added, in a more forgiving tone. They must have underestimated him because he was alone.

No political motive imputed either. Say, that it was a military ploy, fire for fire, after losing an Army official in an ambush or after a rank demotion and such jingo talk. In certain cultures, he expounded, nothing is more irresistible than high-caliber rifles just there, within reach and for the taking.

That squad that got wiped out in Tangkal, who were they?

Across me sat this former staff of the Mindanao Committee. She was a sometime-comrade and sometime-friend from way back when we were both very young. Now she was in another trustworthy post in a government office and still wore that it’s-quiet-as-it’s-kept air about her. I was rather uneasy. Would she talk about her past? Would she lend me her lights? For I knew the woman. She would not calumny a comrade no matter what his faults might be. Not for the sake of a sentimental journey, and not for the sake of local history.

No, it was not an all-boys team. Jen was there. Jenny!

Jenny?

Nids! Leonida Gentica. An MSUan! A BA major!

Nids was not supposed to be part of that team, she went on. But there was this task to do consciousness-raising among the masa in the area. Since there was already an existing regional agreement between the MNLF Command, the NDF, and the NPA, they were confident they could go around unescorted by Moro cadres. The boys were young recruits. YS—youth and students—and peasants’ sons.

Mga Bisaya!

It appeared that either the team trusted a little too much, or, they could not find any Moro accompanier and figured the Maranao man they had befriended could help them around. For three days he fed them, offered them his house. On the fourth day, they were slaughtered. No one knew, she said, how many days or nights had lapsed before anyone went in to bury the bodies. After the incident, the military must have put the area under reconnaissance so that none of the comrades could get in.

It was a case of palihog palihog palihog. Palihog diri palihog didto. Pasa pasa pasa. Hangtod nga nalubong ra gyud sila sa masa. A long relay of please please please. Request here request there, relay relay relay. Until finally, the putative masa had all of them properly buried.

No other information had been given as to how many bullets were spent, whether there was a hole in the back of her head, a wound on her side or in the heart. Only that where she fell, there were bullet shells from her pistol.

Which meant her pistol had been fired by whom?

She postulated that Nids did not die right on from the seized rifle the house owner fired. It was her own pistol that was used to finish her. But she could not remember if there were survivors. Although she was there during the assessment meeting that post-mortemed the case, the survivors’ whereabouts were never fully taken into account. It would seem that no one in that meeting was counting on anyone’s return just in case there were any survivors because it was there that the decision to abandon the territory was made.

In 1987 there was this group of Maranao boys who visited our office. Could they be from the place where Nids was buried?

I don’t know.

Could they be the ones you requested to bury our dead?

Maybe.

I did not ask again if the whole squad got wiped out. Or rather I did, and suspected an edit that more than fitted with what had been officially reported in that 1987 news dispatch. Like the Lanao Red Army At-Large, she, too, did not assign a highly political or ideological motive for the slaying of the man’s guests.

He was really tempted. Those were high-powered guns!

For I could not help demanding: If there were survivors, how could they have run from that crazy man discharging a round of ammo? Could anyone have ducked, rolled, tumbled, crossed mountain trails unhurt to reach friendly territory? An M-16? Burst-fire mode?

Yes! An Automatic! Kaya madali sila natultol ng kaaway! That was why the military immediately located them.

And cordoned the area? That was why it took days before contacts could get to the place? So, soldiers only left when the bodies began to smell?

Maybe not. What I know is, they had been buried properly by the masa.

Why didn’t I think of it? If military men went in first, then it must be military men who first described Nids’ disgraceful state when found. The NDF bos was with the Bishop all the time and the Bishop was friends with bigwigs in the military the whole time. The Bishop even borrowed choppers at one time to bring journalists and human rights workers to mountain areas to locate and exhume missing bodies. Didn’t bishops have brothers in the underground movement? Didn’t NDF bosses have relatives in the military? For all I know someone might have promised his uncle in the military a case of beer in the event that the revolution won, all in the name of United Front work. For all I care such a wager might have made the Bishop laugh.

I said to this former Mindanao Committee staff that perhaps if that NDF team did not move beyond the confines of the house they were holed in, it was because they could not. It was not safe to do so, as their host might have counseled them.

She did not argue.

A more serious proposition would be, if it shamed the MNLF commander that he was not able to protect his NDF friends poaching in MNLF territory, it must have been a bigger shame for the underground NDF operatives and their Red Army not to have been able to protect themselves from an unarmed Maranao. A wipe-out? Their own weapons used against them? The description of the NDF bos of how Nids looked when found dead—head turned, left arm up, right arm bent by her side—indicates that she was the lone cadre who did not put away her gun when she joined her comrades to eat. The fire coming from behind her, she must have turned around, her left hand empty, not holding a plate—or it would not be raised like that—the other hand reaching for her pistol on her waist.

Maybe Nids was actually holding the pistol and was about to fire it when she was felled? Or she might have fired and missed, that was why the assailant came at her? He might have actually removed the gun from her side and shot her there and then, the second time, maybe the third and fourth time. And that was what the famously misogynistic comrade-bos was laughing over? The sight of her with her short, attempting to pull up a return fire before an Automatic discharging a storm?

Ever circumspect, she only said, maybe.

Which got me railing some more. For if the early version of the story was true, that is, that the boys were still wearing their malongs when fired upon, what does it say of us, what does it say of those boys? That they took off their foot soldiers’ pants in favor of malongs, a way to feel at home, go native? That they were a bunch of loitersacks staying in bed all hours while their masa walked around the house cutting wood, making fire, finding food, cooking, setting the table? Was Nids the only one in the team who wore her pants and helped around the house? Did the rest go there for a cultural number, a peace forum, and did not bother to sling their Garands, the carbine, the .38 caliber revolver, the radio set, the M16? Didn’t they know they were in Moro territory where possession of a gun, a weapon, is status, prestige, power, manhood, bride price, everything? Weren’t they the finest set of idiots, indeed, fit for slaughter how unrevolutionary.

But if it had not been Nids, could it have been someone else? My History teacher in Marawi now a social anthropologist and postmodern epistemologist would inform me that he was the bos’ first choice for a deputy secretary during that mess of a peace talks. Had he accepted the invitation to be in the negotiating panel, he might have died instead of Nids, said he. It was he, though, who had to go to the Office of the Registrar, breaching confidentiality protocols, to ask for Nids’ home address so that the news of her death would be delivered to her parents. Another of his former students took the long road across mountains to bring the letter to the mother. Words of praise and assurance, this courier would later recount to me. That their daughter died for a good cause and that her body had been interred properly. The mother also asked to please send home Nids’ things, so that the family will have something to remember her by. He did not know, said he, if the comrades were able to accede to such a most modest request: he was no longer there to know.

By the time I arrived at this elaborate summation, Nene was herself already dead. She finally succumbed to an illness that damaged her hearing and eyesight, a rather apt end, I would say, to what she no longer wanted to hear or read about some more. When last interviewed, she refused to say another word. I no longer have any involvement with the movement, she said.

I hold no authority now to represent the UG story.

Where I myself now stand, I am confronted with this mountain, this highland. I sometimes find myself counting my dead: mistakes on top of repeated mistakes, mounds over mounds of unknown graves. I try to reinvent the lives that I have known, the times we had, a way to honor and to praise what I and the comrades had struggled for and done together when we were still the best that we could be and did not know it. And I remind myself: Nid’s life was not and need not be wasted.

I realize, too, as I write this sentence, in this paragraph, on this page, that it was not as though I did not live. That I have a past, definitive; long and sheltering, goading me on far into this perilous present, so that the future perfect I might never have to create or imagine with what little time I have in my hands, may be more tangible, more appreciable.

 

 

 

Hanin A. Ayaown

I hated my uncle. The brother of my mother. He was already an adult, yet he did not have a job. I could understand if he failed to get a job after countless job applications. However, that was not the case. Instead, he made my mother his source of funds. He would always go to our house to ask for money. The problem was he had a family. He would always ask for a considerable amount of money. We even had to spend less just to be able to give him the money he demanded. Even the bonuses that Mother would receive were given to him. Sometimes, Mother even had to borrow money from others just to meet our needs. 

 Mother gave him money because he was a well-known thug. A well-known thug in our family and the neighborhood. He would beat any person that caused him dissatisfaction. One time, he beat a motorcycle driver when the driver refused to give him a ride. Not only that, anything or anyone that dissatisfied him would taste his gun. He would always use his gun to scare people and make them bend to his will and demands. His dreadful acts were well-known to our family and in the neighborhood. That is why we couldn’t do anything about him. Our family was scared of him.

One time, when my mother could no longer bear his demands, she refused to give him money. He got angry and made a mess in our house. He grabbed the flower vase and threw it on the floor. Mother screamed.

“I will make a mess in this house of yours if you will not give me the money,” he said.

Mother was so scared and gave him the money. His dreadful acts did not only stop there. He would always take our things that would catch his interest. Our furniture, bags, shoes, and anything that would fascinate him. 

 “Your bag is nice. My daughter would surely love it. Give it to me,” he said.  

An incident made them stay in our house for weeks. The problem was his wife and daughter were extremely irresponsible. They did not clean the mess they created. Dirty plates, table, and sink would always welcome me and Mother. They would even use our personal things without permission. My uncle’s wife would always bring her friends to our house. We cleaned after them.

One time I was on my way home from school. As I was getting near, I heard laughter coming from our house. I opened the gate and saw numerous shoes in our doorway. I entered the house, and I saw my uncle’s wife laughing with other women in the living room. However, what shocked me the most was the jewelry box placed on the table. The jewelry box was my mother’s. My uncle’s wife was happily and proudly showing off the jewelry. I was shocked. I could not say anything. I just let her be. I would just let Mother handle the situation.

My mother arrived and she saw the situation in the living room. She waited for the visitors to go home before she confronted my uncle’s wife.

“Sarah, you know I do not mind that you bring your friends to my house. However, would you mind being sensible enough to not touch my things without my permission?” Mother said.

“What? Am I not allowed to do anything? Am I not allowed to bring my friends because this is not my house? Are you telling me I should not do anything because this is not my house? Why? Are you angry because we are staying in your house?” She said. Her voice was filled with bitterness.

“Do not worry, we will leave,” she said again.

I was in my room and my mother was in the kitchen when my uncle arrived. His wife told him what happened. He got so angry. He shot the flower vase on the living room table. My mother screamed and I hurriedly went to the kitchen. I saw my uncle pointing his gun towards Mother.

“You want to make us leave? You dare to scold my wife?” He said while pointing the gun towards my mother. My mother could only raise her hands.

 “Put your gun down! We can talk without your gun!” My mother said while trembling.

 “Talk? You think you are superior than me just because you have money?” He asked.

 “Leave this house or else I will shoot you in the head,” he shouted.

 “Alright. We will leave. Just put your gun down!” Mother pleaded.

 “Just leave this house this instant,” he said angrily.

I was so angry. Just how shameless this man can be. How dare he do this to my mother who gave him everything. How dare he threaten us to make us leave our own house. I could feel the rage surging in me as I witnessed the situation.

Mother hurriedly grabbed my hand. As we were about to leave, I saw him put the gun down on the table as he turned back. I do not know what took me over because I immediately took the gun. I could not think of anything. I just wanted to get rid of the man who is causing so much pain in our lives. As I could no longer endure the anger, I pulled the trigger and shot him.

The sound of a gunshot reverberated in the whole house. My mother ran to me. She was terrified.

“What are you doing?” She asked. Her voice was filled with terror. 

“Leave!” I angrily said to my uncle who looked at me. Shocked was written on his face.

“Put the gun down!” My mother said.

 “This little child! Do you think I would be afraid of you because you are holding a gun?” He asked me mockingly.

“You should be afraid of me because I will shoot you in the head if you don’t leave our house,” I said.

“Then, shoot me in the head,” he said smugly.

“Put the gun down!” Mother said.

I was about to pull the trigger again. However, my cousin arrived. They came to check what was going on in our house after hearing the gunshot. Mother told them what happened. Although my uncle was known for his brutality, he could not do anything to my cousins because most of them were police officers. Out of respect for my uncle, they let him be.

 Mother was afraid my uncle would make a mess in our house again. So she decided that we would move into another neighborhood. One day, we heard the news that my uncle died after being beaten senseless by thugs. I don’t know if it was a good thing or bad. Honestly, I don’t know what I should feel. However, the new reality that we didn’t have to live in fear was a welcome development in our lives.

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.