Shooting Children: A Crime Tolerated in Mindanao?

Murder and mayhem, just like bombings, have become common in certain parts of Mindanao. This travel article provides a lucid description of the places he visited and narrates the stories of residents he talked to.

By ULRICH ROTTHOFF
Stiftung fuer Kinder, Germany
Contributed to Bulatlat.com

“Welcome to the battleground,“ the man said, smiling winningly as we entered the room. It was not clear whether he was being sarcastic or ironic, for many things had happened since we visited this part of Mindanao a year ago.

Every now and then conflicts, new and old, erupt and then escalate into wars. People get displaced and killed—by the rebels, by the military and, increasingly these days, by plain criminals and warlords taking advantage of the power vacuum resulting from these conflicts. The Philippine government, always aware of who holds power at any given moment, simply tries to please the winning side. Now it is campaign time again. Strategic hamlets are on the rise and life is getting harder. Was it sarcasm that we were being greeted with then?

On its website, the German Office of Foreign Affairs warns against travel to Mindanao.  It singles out the area west of Cagayan de Oro/Davao City as especially dangerous. Should travel be unavoidable, Foreign Affairs recommends going only to cities with airport connections, with the maximum duration of stay not to exceed 24 hours. Land travel is to be avoided altogether.

The German Office has taken this position because of the “Wallert Kidnapping” which involved Germans. It has also noted other incidents in Mindanao that involved other foreign nationals. Agreeing with this assessment, a number of German foundations and agencies formerly active in humanitarian aid have withdrawn both their personnel and material support. German archbishop Werner Thissen, for his part, laments that international humanitarian agencies have succumbed to the needs of counter-terrorism.

Ignoring the danger

We clearly ignored the advice of the Foreign Affairs Office and traveled by land, but we certainly did not go looking for trouble. Each detail of our trip was carefully planned and not a step was made without the approval of friends who had intimate knowledge of the places we visited. 

We could all sense the uncertainty permeating the air, and the people’s fears and anxieties. In this place, folks who are allies today could be killing each other tomorrow. The sound of a bomb or two exploding is not unusual. Here, landgrabbers disguise themselves as Lost Commands, kidnappers-for-ransom get mistaken for political or religious activists. It is hard to tell a member of the military from a criminal as they often, indeed, switch places.

So here we are, foreigners in this highly volatile environment, foreigners who can come in and move out, whereas our friend, the man who has welcomed us, stays put.  He explained that his duty is to work for peace and human rights. The military, politicians, Christian and Muslim clergy listen to him.

Of course, he knows everything that has occurred in various parts of Mindanao, like the killing of those little boys, six and ten years old.  Does he perceive himself in a sort of Schindler’s trap?  How can he advocate peace under these conditions? How can he help de-escalate the conflict without alienating any of the contending parties, or blaming the structures of the state? Could he, without meaning to, be merely supporting repressive state structures? What a dilemma he’s caught in, a dilemma we would not want ourselves put into!

Soldier kills innocent girl for no reason

A year earlier, we had been at this site of war. It was close to Dec. 10, International Human Rights Day. The farmers knew this day well, as these are people who are very conscious of their rights. Poor as they are, they are very generous and hospitable, serving us coffee, soft drinks, and crackers. We sat down in the shed with Hamid, a respected man in his neighborhood.  Soon other people in the community joined us, and our circle became larger.

A few of them pointed to a cluster of trees nearby. They told us calmly and quietly, without visible grief or pain, that this was where a teenaged girl was shot to death by a soldier just a few months before. The girl was doing the laundry. No, she was not hit by a stray bullet, she was not considered “collateral damage.” There was not even any fighting going on at that moment. The guy just went and killed this innocent girl. 

We boarded a jeep and rode to the countryside along narrow paths, passing fields planted with rice, sugarcane, and pineapples. We went through neighborhoods with Christmas decorations and others without. The latter were Muslim communities, and they had just celebrated the end of Ramadan a few days before. Christians and Muslims live in close vicinity. As neighbors they know each other, their children attend the same schools. They have common problems, among them survival and violence. The banners of an inter-faith initiative demanding peace and justice for Mindanao were visible everywhere.

After a while our jeep headed toward a coconut grove where we could see some houses. At this time of day, villagers retreat from the scorching heat of the sun in the ricefields and settle to work, instead, under the shade of trees. As our jeep approached, a sleeping dog that was in our way got startled and started barking at us. Then it headed, its tail between its legs, toward two old men squatting, a posture characteristic of the countryside. I observed these men squat as they talked. It’s something of a balancing feat. Both feet are flat on the ground, butt raised slightly, just two inches from the surface. I figured that these two peasant men must have developed strong, agile toes from having to seek a foothold in rice paddies and from climbing coconut trees in their younger years.  One of them was sharpening a bolo by rubbing it against a wet stone, occasionally stopping to feel the blade’s edge with his thumb. The other talked continuously. Now and then the man with the bolo would lift his eyebrows to show that he was listening. Suddenly, his companion picked up a stone and threw it at the dog who whined, caught by surprise. This was obviously not the poor dog’s day.

Nearby, where the grove ended and the paddies began, we saw children playing with kites made out of plastic bags. A group of women were washing clothes at a pump.  Lunchtime was approaching and we could smell the aromatic scent of freshly boiled rice, garlic and dried fish. The latter, when deep fried in steaming hot oil, releases this crackling sound so typical of Philippine cooking. These inviting sounds and smells whet our appetites, those of us to whom they have become familiar.

Hamid and our other companions led us a few hundred meters further inside that grove.  Along the walk a man in his forties was standing by. He was in working attire – t-shirt, knee-long shorts and rubber shoes.  He had a bolo with him, too. It rested in a wooden sheath tied around his waist with a rope.  Even drawing this tool requires experience because the blade, forming a straight line at the dull side, starts out slender where joined to the handle, forms a belly curve after about halfway its length, and ends in a sharply-pointed tip.  The inexperienced user is likely to close his hand around the sheath when pulling the bolo, not realizing that the sheath may have an open split that allows the belly portion of the blade to pass easily. These bolos are very useful tools for the kitchen as well as for the farm or forest. With them you can cut meat and vegetables, break open coconuts or carve steps into the trunk of a coconut tree. You can also cut firewood with a bolo.

Men in this part of the country are known not to hesitate in drawing their bolos in self-defense, or to defend their family members. This poor man with the bolo simply did not have the chance to pull it out when his two sons, six and ten years old, were killed.  We did not know who he was but he sensed why we had come. He remained where he was and did not join our group as we were led by Hamid directly to one of the elder villagers. 

We learned that the killing of these little boys was reported to the police and that a team had come to investigate.  The team collected shells, presumably to get hold of evidence from a crime scene. But now all the evidence is gone. The police, the coroner, the state attorney - none of them followed up the case. This is Mindanao, after all.

Two brothers killed while asleep

This is the story as we got it. One night, these people smuggled their way into that grove. They were neighbors, Christians, members of a paramilitary group.  They carried M14 and M16 rifles. They positioned themselves under the house which rests on posts. The floor and wall are constructed of thin wood. Had these men been drinking?  Was it a fight over a chicken?  Was this a revenge for the twin towers?  One explanation is as sick as the other, but either of them is just as plausible. 

As was her practice every night, the mother placed a mat on the wooden floor for the children to rest. The house is small, just one room.  Living, dining, sleeping – all takes place there.  The boys lay down on the floor to sleep as they always did.  Had they been aware of the lurking danger?  What did they hear before falling asleep?  Did they hear the sound of approaching men as the witnesses did?  Yes, there had been witnesses. These were those keeping watch over the farm cattle because of the problem of cattle stealing in the area.

But armed only with bolos, what could these witnesses do facing the three armed men?  Nothing. These goons, according to witnesses, are members of the Citizens Armed Forces Geographical Unit (CAFGU) and of Civil Volunteers Organization – both notorious counter-insurgency paramilitary structures.

Hell broke loose that night. In the shooting that followed, wooden portions of the house were ripped apart, and bullets penetrated the metal roof. The sounds from the shooting were terrifying. The three men knew what they were doing.  Murder was what they came for, and murder was what they committed.  They emptied their magazines. They reloaded. They emptied their magazines again. They peppered the house with bullets. The two little boys’ blood spilled over their sleeping mat, dripping through the floor to the dirt under the house. It was deep in the night, and the people in the house were not expecting the strafing. They had been roused out of their sleep. 

One can only guess that they must have been in a daze trying to figure out what was going on. Then, after the paramilitary men left the crime scene, one shudders to imagine how the family must have felt. Did they scream with hysterics or did they merely tremble silently in sheer shock?

Rags and memories

The still-grieving father led us to his sons’ grave.  They were buried near the houses in the grove. There, we saw the children’s clothes which the family put on the grave.  This is a local custom.  A wooden stick driven through the clothes into the soil keeps the wind and the downpour of tropical rains from blowing them away. The father pulled out the stick and displayed his son’s t-shirts and shorts on the grave. It was as though he wanted to say rags and memories are all that is left of his two children.

Indeed, nothing can bring these boys back to life. It is very unfortunate that the Philippine authorities cannot even conduct a proper investigation. Bulatlat.com

(The author, a board member of the Stiftung fuer Kinder in Germany, is indebted to Delia Aguilar for initially editing the article.)

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