Abubakar

The Manila Times

1999

The pumpboat was chugging peacefully up the Moro Gulf when the Huey gunship swooped in low and from behind. The pilot kept his chopper steady on our left side, some thirty feet over the water, while his crew gave us the once over. We tried to act nonchalant while the helicopter gunner leaned far over the side of the chopper, his hands gripping his .30 caliber M60 machine gun, his eyes searching our boat.

Not to worry, I told myself, we’re not carrying any contraband. Then it hit me – WE were the contraband.

We were breaking a military blockade of the main MILF camp of Abubakar Assidique, in the mountains of Maguindanao. The military had blocked off all the main roads leading to the rebel camp, particularly the Narciso Ramos Highway. No supplies or reinforcements could get in. No media either.

So I called up Sylvia Calderon, my old friend from my days as the deskman of the defunct Sarimanok News Network. In those days, Sylvia was ABS-CBN’s one man team in Central Mindanao, and while she had an incredible grasp of the politics and culture in the region, she sometimes needed a little help in the editorial and production side. I had helped her along several times, especially in dealing with the almighty, omniscient gods [AKA producers] in Manila.

So when I revisited Mindanao in 1999 for the Manila Times, she was the first person I called up.

Oh, did I mention I had left TV to return to print? We’ll go back to that later.

So there I was with Sylvia, chugging slowly up the Gulf in a pumpboat provided by the Moro Islamic Liberation Front while a helicopter gunner stood out on the chopper’s skids and held his machine gun with his finger on the trigger. I tried to keep my head down, thinking that I would look unusual and suspicious in this part of Mindanao. In trying to look nonchalant, we must have looked all the more suspicious. A noisy helicopter was flying over our heads, and the door gunner was peering into our boat. Yet, we tried to look unperturbed, as if we were yachting in Boracay.

After what seemed like forever, the thwack of the chopper’s rotor blades changed as the pilot increased pitch and leaned on his cyclic. The chopper nosed down and sped forward. Then it banked to the left and flew off in search of other boats to inspect.

I breathed out a sigh of relief as the distinct sound of the Huey receded. Sylvia said it was a good thing I was now working for print. If I was with a full TV crew, the gunner could have easily mistaken our tripod for an RPG, and blown us out of the water. After a few years working for TV, I honestly felt naked – at least you can point a videocamera at an offending helicopter and hope it goes away. All I had was a cheap still camera and a notebook and pen. Unless you’re James Bond, there’s not much a ballpen can do by way of self-defense.

Half an hour later, we landed in a pier in Malabang, Lanao del Sur. A locally assembled "hummer" clone, said to be the personal vehicle of MILF vice chairman Al Haj Murad, was waiting to bring us up a rough road into the MILF’s main camp. Sylvia’s contacts had paid off again.

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It was 1999, and the military and the MILF had again crossed swords in Central Mindanao. It was one of those many skirmishes that would be the run-up to the all-out war against the MILF a year later.

But this February appeared different. The two sides have been posturing for so long that a major clash seemed inevitable.

I arrived alone in Cotabato, with a Times presscard in my pocket, a cheap still camera in my backpack. I was back in print, having been invited by my former colleague Malou Mangahas to join as chief of reporters. It was my second time with the Times, but I felt like I was in very good company. Malou was Editor in Chief, and the editors were all familiar faces from the Malacanang brat pack and our earlier days in print: Chit, Booma, Manny, and Glenda.

I had just paid a visit to the ABS-CBN bureau in Cotabato, when word filtered down that suspected MILF rebels had taken several hostages in Midsayap, North Cotabato. Naturally, I hitched a ride with the TV guys.

Midsayap was in a state of panic when we arrived. Even the carabaos seemed in a hurry, pulling carts laden with belongings. The rebels had reportedly seized a schoolhouse in the outskirts of Midsayap, and everyone seemed in a rush to get as far away from the area as possible.

After a drive down a lonely stretch of highway, we came upon a crowd of civilians and soldiers. The civilians were distraught, some of them being relatives or parents of the hostages.

The soldiers and militiamen milled about, unsure of what to do. The schoolhouse containing the rebels and hostages were several hundred meters down the road.

After several cursory interviews, I was desperate to get closer to where things were really developing. A line of soldiers started walking down the road, and I slipped away and followed behind. At this point, I knew that I had no idea what I was doing.

A few meters down, a shot rang out, and we dropped to our knees. I looked back and noticed that the local ABS-CBN cameraman had followed me. The soldiers disappeared into the bush. I was uncertain what to do next, when I noticed the Simbas.

In the early nineties, the Philippine government entered into a $41 million dollar contract with the British company GKN for a new family of armored personnel carriers for the Armed Forces of the Philippines. The result was the Simba, a 4-wheeled APC designed by the British but assembled in the old American Subic Naval Base. We purchased 150 Simbas, and made it the backbone of the ground counterinsurgency effort. It was a controversial contract in that the Philippines was the only country in the world to buy the Simba; not even the British would use it.

With a load roar from their Perkins 210T turbocharged engines, two Simbas were maneuvering around a hundred meters down the road. The rear hatch of one Simba opened, and soldiers poured out and deployed into a banana grove on the right side of the road. Aside from having a crew of three, a Simba can carry up to ten fully armed soldiers. I remember one soldier struggling with his pack in panic after its strap got caught in the Simba’s hatch. Realizing that the schoolhouse must be close, I picked up my pace.

Just then, the two Simbas started firing. It was my first time to hear shots fired in anger in a conflict, so I dropped to one knee and hunkered down, unsure of what to do next. One Simba swiveled its turret, pointed its long-barreled M2 browning machine gun to the right, and poured out a continuous stream of .50 caliber bullets. I couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but a .50 caliber bullet is a pretty hefty piece of metal. I mean, it’s heavy enough that I can send you to the hospital just by throwing one at you, how much more by sending it your way at almost 3,000 feet per second. The half-inch thick slug can pulverize a concrete wall or easily slice a hardwood tree in half. I took out my cheap camera and started taking some stills.

I crossed the road and hurried to where the soldiers had deployed. Just then, a spark flew off the side of a Simba, and a red flare rose into the sky. Simbas have sloping armor around 8mm thick, enough to deflect most rifle and machine gun fire, although a fifty-caliber bullet would pass through like it was melted cheese. Unsure if the spark and flare were a sign of return fire, I plunged into the banana grove hoping to link up with the soldiers.

I almost stepped on one of them. The soldiers were spread out, lying on their bellies, their rifles pointed to the right. I dropped down beside them and took stock of my situation. It was almost nightfall, I was in the middle of nowhere, and I had no idea who was shooting at whom, and from where. Fortunately, the soldiers seemed as friendly and confused as I was. The lieutenant in charge asked me what in the world I was doing there, and I told him I had just gotten off the plane from Manila. If it weren’t so muddy, you probably would have heard his jaw hit the ground. Manila, you say? Don’t you have better things to do?

Not really, I countered. I needed the exercise, or something like that. Having warmed up somewhat, we started bantering, with the Simba’s gunfire providing counterpoint.

The lieutenant asked if I worked for TV. Then, I noticed that the ABS-CBN cameraman had followed me into the grove. Nah I work for the Manila Times. The Times? He asked. The newspaper along Pioneer Street?

Now that got my attention. This guy knew my paper, and even knew where it was located. The Times doesn’t have its own building. Instead, it was banished to a hole in the basement of Robinson’s Hypermart, a grungy warehouse-like affair next to a major highway. You mean you read my paper? I asked hopefully. Nah. I just know someone who lives near there. What a letdown.

Still, it was nice to suddenly realize that people know your newspaper exists.
Then it started to rain. Hard. I tried to struggle into a raincoat, which was virtually impossible with my backpack still strapped to my back. It didn’t help that I was lying flat on the ground, and trying to stay lower. Since I had just arrived in Manila and had not expected to end up in a warzone immediately, I was wearing a white shirt. With the Simba still pouring out gunfire, I had no intention of rising to my knees and risk getting shot.

I rolled over on top of my backpack and tried to put on the raincoat. The rain spattered on my face, and you could almost see the steam rise from the ground. I rolled around trying to get the raincoat on. Eventually, I ended up with the muddy raincoat over me AND my backpack, giving me the appearance of a beached whale.

To my side, I noticed the ABS-CBN cameraman was busy taking footage of the soldiers in their fighting positions. I noticed how he centered on a soldier with an M60 light machine gun. The soldier was lying in the mud, like everyone else, gripping his M60. The difference was, that he was pretending he was firing at an unseen enemy - for the benefit of the camera. He was jiggling his machine gun, to make it look like it was firing. At the same time, he was making silly puttering sounds, just like a kid would when "firing" his machine gun during a game of cops and robbers. The cameraman was carefully filming the scene. Days later, I would see the footage, and how it was carefully crafted to look like a real firefight. The shot was cropped so that you could see the look of intensity on the soldiers face, as his machine gun "recoiled" against his shoulder with every "burst" of fire. Cropped out of the frame was the muzzle end of the machine gun. After all, the lack of any muzzle blast would destroy the action-packed scene. This was before Erap’s all out war in Mindanao, when combat footage would become a common thing.

After a few minutes, the rain stopped, and so did the firing. It was beginning to get dark, so the cameraman and I agreed it was time to move back and file a story. We said our goodbyes to the soldiers and started walking towards the car.

Back in Cotabato, I rushed to the nearest photography shop to have my film developed. After that unusual experience, I guess I was expecting to see photos that conveyed action, terror, uncertainty, and maybe fright. Maybe even a muzzle blast or two from the Simbas. So you can imagine my disappointment when I got the prints. All you could see was a road framed by banana trees. There, at the end of the road, small as gnats, were the Simbas.

Since I carried a cheap point-and-shoot camera with a don’t-worry-even-if-you’re-stupid wide-angle lens, the Simbas appeared so far away that you could barely make them out. The photo shop clerk didn’t help when he asked which banana tree I was trying to photograph. So much for combat photography.

Terribly disappointed, I phoned in a few details to the news desk in Manila. At least I made it to the city edition. I also went through several internet cafes, looking for one with a scanner with which to send my photos. I finally found one that had a hand scanner, and we gingerly scanned each photo and emailed them to Manila. The hostage crisis ended that night, with the rebels freeing their hostages and disappearing into the jungle.

The next day, I linked up with Sylvia, who was still part of the ABS-CBN Cotabato bureau, but preferred to operate on her own. Sylvia is a class on her own. A Tausug born in Jolo, she moved over to Cotabato at an early age and grew her roots there. And what roots. She knew everyone you had to know in Central Mindanao, and even people you shouldn’t know.

Probably more than any journalist, she was also trusted by the top leadership of the MILF. Once in a while, she gets invited to personal gatherings by the late MILF chairman Salamat Hashim. On a more regular basis, she chats and drinks coffee with Murad.

Normally, access to the MILF main camp of Abubakar was easy. You just dialed a Cotabato-registered number, and Al Haj Murad, the MILF chief, would lift his phone and answer. That is, if he’s not busy surfing the internet. Unless you catch him on a particularly bad day, it’s almost impossible not to get permission to visit Abubakar.

At first, Sylvia and I tried the regular route to Abubakar, through the main highway from Cotabato passing through Parang town and up to Camp Pendatun. But as a result of the hostage taking, the military had sealed off Abubakar, and blocked the highway leading to the camp. Then, clashes started erupting between the forward units of the military and the rebel units guarding the entrance of Abubakar in Matanog town. Civilians were leaving Matanog in droves, and there were reports of heavy shelling near the town hall. Everyone was on a war-footing. We were in a convoy of ARMM governor Zacaria Candao with Libyan Ambassador Abdul Aziz Azzarouk. Still, we were stopped by a military checkpoint several kilometers from Matanog and shooed back to Cotabato.

Not to be deterred, Sylvia decided to take the more difficult route. She called up Murad, and told him plainly that we wanted to cover his side of the story, and maybe share a few cups of coffee as well. Unfortunately, the military had closed the only land route in. No problem, Murad said. I’ll have you picked up.

So the next day, following Murad’s instructions, Sylvia and I met up with a contact in the outskirts of Cotabato, boarded a pumpboat and headed north. That was when the chopper buzzed us.

I didn’t know where we were going, and it was only when we disembarked at a pier when someone told me we were in north in Malabang, Lanao del Sur. A group of men met us there, and led us to a small eatery, where we ate some food for the trip ahead. I didn’t know where Malabang was on a map, but the men said that we had already skipped through the military roadblocks.

Pinoys seem to have that knack of making ripoffs, whether they are storylines from movies or designs for cars. Years ago, a small automobile outfit made a local version of the Mitsubishi Pajero, then the "classiest" car around. They labeled their creation the "Parejo," meaning "the same."

We were in rebel territory. But this was still part of the Philippines, no matter what they said. So in keeping with territorial traditions, they made us ride on another ripoff. It was a green "Hammer."

Now that sounds familiar, you might say. In 1985, the United States Army replaced the General Purpose [GP] 4X4 quarter ton truck [otherwise known as the Jeep – GP, G-P, Jeep… get the phonetic evolution?] with the High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle or HMMWV. If you think that’s a mouthful, remember that this is the military, which makes a living creating acronyms to test the limits of the English language. And in keeping with military tradition, the grunts shortened it all to the Humvee. It’s basically that wide-bodied squat monster that you normally see in those old gulf war footage. It also costs five million pesos a pop.

So pinoys who had had enough of ripping off the Wrangler Jeep now began ripping off the civilian version of the Humvee, the Hummer. Factor in ethnic and tribal accents, and local manufacturers started painting the label "Hammer" on the rear of these ripoffs.

We boarded Murad’s Hammer for the long bumpy ride into Abubakar. Even though the rebels insisted that we ride in front [as guests of honor], I insisted on riding on the truck bed at the back. I didn’t say it then, because I don’t think they would have appreciated the thought. But if we are stopped by an ambush, you have less chances of getting away if you are stuck inside a cramped vehicle. Night fell as we travelled up the lonely highway, with nothing but the occasional bug hitting you in the face.

It was already dark when we entered Abubakar and pulled up in front of Murad’s house in the sub-camp of Camp Sarmiento. Murad himself welcomed us inside, and told us to get some rest in a large room adjoining his house. We would have a busy day tomorrow.

Sylvia and I laid out our gear in the room, which had large, shutterless windows. Our light came from a gas lamp. Murad’s men served us some dinner, which was fish, rice, and some monggo beans. After that, they left us alone, with a reminder that everyone here gets up very early in the morning.

The fact that they let Sylvia and I share the room spoke volumes of how much they trusted Sylvia. This was Abubakar, their version of the Holy Land, where a more conservative form of Islam was being practiced. The more traditional would have balked at the idea of Sylvia and I sharing the same room.

They gave us sleeping mats and thin blankets. Luckily, I had brought a space blanket, a thin, foil-like sheet that folds into the size of a deck of cards. The space blanket keeps you warm by reflecting body heat back at the person. It came in very handy as the night got deeper, and the cool wind turned into a blisteringly cold wind. It was also very noisy, and crackled like popcorn with every movement.

The next morning brought breakfast and a quick chat with Murad, who appeared quite busy. The vice chair asked what specifically we wanted to see, and we replied, quite naively, that we wanted to visit his front lines. A wide, knowing grin creased his face. If that’s what you want, that’s what the look seemed to say. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

He introduced us to Jon Abubakar, who appeared to be his right hand man, or the camp commandant, or both. I don’t recall anymore. Whatever, Jon was to be our guide. It was a good thing Sylvia and I packed light, because we brought everything we had on our backs as we alternately road and walked to the frontline.

Years later, Sylvia would tell me that our little road trip was not part of the MILF plan. Jon would later tell Sylvia that he was merely testing the two of us to see how far we were willing to go. We could have just been given the regular tour of the inside of the camp. But seeing that we were willing to go to the front, he decided to take us along.

The first signs of war appeared in the form of craters left by 105 millimeter howitzers from the army. They were probably courtesy of the army guys in camp pendatun, whom we had visited just a day earlier. The colonel in charge of the artillery battalion had been friendly enough, especially when he found out that Sylvia worked for ABS-CBN. I told him I worked for the Manila Times, and you could see from his reaction that he didn’t know if the Times was a newspaper, a tabloid, or a brand of timepieces. Still, he was kind enough to offer us some souvenir ashtrays made from the brass casings of spent artillery shells. Sylvia liked hers, but I had to say no because I knew I would have trouble with airport security.

A 105 millimeter artillery shell makes small shallow holes when they explode on hard, dry, compacted earth. Explosions on softer, moist earth produce more spectacular visual results, with a neat shower of flying earth. While the results on hard earth may seem unimpressive, consider what this means – little explosive force is absorbed by the hard earth, and most of it is this directed upward and outward, along with the shrapnel. We came across a hut that had been shredded by an artillery shell that exploded nearby. The wood and bamboo were torn and broken, as hot strips of metal sliced through porous, soft wood. Even the trees had been shredded.

Be careful, and just follow me, Jon said. We’re here already at the firing line. And keep you head down.

The sun had begun to bear down on us mercilessly. It was already close to midday. But this was not the place to complain about the heat.

After a while, we came upon a network of trenches dug in the earth. Some parts of the trench were reinforced with wood saplings. Assalamu Alaikum, we greeted the rebels we encountered. Some of them appeared quite young, not even in their twenties. Many did not look old enough to vote. But they all seemed to have that hard edge that comes with living in the front.

Finally, we came to the frontmost trench. Sylvia and I hunkered down and swapped stories with the rebels in the trench, while some of their colleagues lay against the side, ready with their rifles and RPGs. I made the mistake of rising a little, and was promptly chastised by Jon. Don’t stand up, if you want to keep your head. The "enemy" trench is just a few meters up front.
The enemy, as Jon referred to them, were elements of Charlie company, Philippine Army. They were dug in several yards in front of us, and were waiting for some unfortunately forgetful soul to raise his head carelessly. On my side of the battlefield, rebel soldiers were also waiting for something to shoot at. Still, I rose a little, raised my camera, and snapped a photo of rebel soldiers, weapons pointed outwards, waiting for movement from their enemies.

The soldiers and the rebels had been firing at each other all morning, Jon recounted. We were lucky that both sides had appeared to take a break. Otherwise, they may lob another couple of artillery shells in our direction.

More than gunfire, the thought of artillery frightened me. Unless you’re incredibly unlucky, you’re basically safe from gunfire so long as you’re hunkered down in a trench. But artillery. That can dig you out of any hole. A direct hit can tear you into pieces so small that your rescuers won’t find enough to fill a condom. And the noise and concussion. Veterans have been driven mad by artillery.

LIFE IN THE GUERILLA FOXHOLES
Ed Lingao
The Manila Times, February 1, 1999

FROM a rebel trench, Matanog – Raise your head a bit above the trench and you could see the positions of Charlie company, 27th Infantry Battalion. Raise your head a little too high, and you could lose your head completely.

"Baba ka lang, baka may sniper," warns Jon Abubakar, a cadre of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front. "Nandito na tayo sa firing line."

For the past week, MILF rebels and government troopers waged war from the trenches that now scar Matanog, trading everything from small-arms fire to 60mm mortars to 105mm howitzer shells.

Just the day before, the Army tried to dig out the rebels from this trench with howitzers. Just meters from the trench were small craters made by the exploding [shells] The trench is actually a network of trenches dug into Matanog’s soft brown earth, that zigzags for several meters. At one part, there is a small bunker, almost a tunnel really, where you can crawl into during the shelling, its roof made of logs covered with dirt. During heavy shelling, you just crawl in, draw your legs to your chest, and pray the next shell falls somewhere else.

After taking my stills, I remembered that Sylvia may need some help. Sylvia was a one man team. She had an old sharp camcorder in her backpack, and she does her own shots and interviews. I guess that’s also why we work well together; I usually offer to film for her.

I took the camera and gave her a working script for a standup, or a piece-to-camera. In all her years working for TV, this was the part that Sylvia had very little experience with, primarily because it’s extremely difficult to shoot your own standup. A standup is basically those one or two lines that the reporter delivers to the camera, mouthing words that sound marvelously vague but seemingly authoritative.

It took Sylvia a few minutes and a couple of takes to get it right. A few interviews later, we were all done. Jon was on the radio with someone. After a while, we started to leave.

Jon was ecstatic, even more than we were. You are the first mediamen to come to our firing line, he said. We are happy that someone has come to the front to tell our story.

And Jon had more news. Apparently, both sides were now trying to iron out a truce. Then Senator Teofisto Guingona was been allowed through the blockade to talk to Murad and Salamat in Abubakar. It seemed that the truce was going to hold.

But more importantly, Guingona had finished his meeting with the two MILF officials, and was going to head down the mountain road in a convoy. If we wanted to get back to Cotabato City ASAP, he was our best bet.

Now that left me stumped. What were we going to do? Flag down the Senator’s convoy with a few dozen armed rebels? Jon muttered some more words in the radio, and brought us to a part of the highway that was still within rebel territory. Don’t worry, he said, Guingona’s convoy is coming down this way.

True enough, the convoy appeared, and slowed down when it saw us. We waved and flagged him down. Guingona rolled down his window and gaped at me in surprise. Apparently, I didn’t look part of the scenery, and had MANILA BOY written all over me. I grasped his hand and shook it, and introduced myself. Manila Times, I said. Ohhh what are you doing here? He asked. Same thing you are. Are you headed down to Cotabato? Oh yes, hop on if you like. That solved it.

We thanked Jon and his men profusely, and asked him to convey our thanks to Murad.

The senator was riding a pickup, so again, Sylvia and I jumped into the truck bed, where Guingona’s security detail were riding. We sped off with such violence that I barely had the chance to wave to our old friends. The road down from Abubakar weaves and turns like a snake, and is bordered by bluffs and hills that afford the rebels plenty of opportunity to ambush military units. Several times, we spotted rebels positioned high up above the highway, guarding against intrusions.

I sat on the lip of the truckbed, with my left elbow on the roof of the cab. It started to rain again. There’s something about Cotabato’s weather that makes it rain so much in the afternoon after a dry baking morning. The rain came in sheets that drenched us thoroughly. I didn’t mind. I was just happy to have had so many turns of good luck.

The terrain flattened out, and we slowed down as the abandoned Matanog muncipal hall appeared to our left. We stopped at the first military checkpoint. There were several mediamen assembled there, waiting for the first chance to get in, as well as waiting for word from Guingona. Imagine their surprise when they saw me on top of the senator’s pickup bed. An ABS-CBN cameraman asked me where I came from. I told him I came from inside Abubakar. How did I get in? Long story.

While the reporters converged around Guingona for a quick ambush interview, I hopped off the pickup and walked over to the side of the municipal hall. There lay the debris and rubble of several houses that had been flattened by the fighting. I snapped several photos before being called over. We were leaving.

Guingona asked me how far I planned to go with him. I told him I was going to Cotabato, and maybe fly back to Manila the next day. He smiled and said he was flying to Manila on a borrowed jet this same afternoon, and I could ride with him if I wanted. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had gotten a free ride in and out of the rebel camp, and now I was getting a free ride to Manila.
So there. One morning, I was hunkered down in a rebel foxhole, waiting for artillery to fall on my head, and before nightfall, I was in Manila, hailing a cab to the office and wondering which pizza delivery to call.

I made next day’s front page. With photos, to boot.