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De Guzman meets MILF contact. |
The next day we switched vehicles without too much trouble. We
left our van behind and piled into a mustard-yellow passenger
"Jeepney." Its engine sounded like it was running on half of its
cylinders. Our new driver plied this route every day, and the
familiar vehicle would raise few suspicions along the way.
Before we left, I was led through a crowded market to meet
the real Azwar. I found him squatting on a low stool next to
a tobacco vendor. He was wearing aviator shades that covered
almost half his face. He explained that there were at least
a dozen checkpoints along our route, but that an informant had
traveled the road earlier this morning and found that the military
was not searching any vehicles. We were clear to go.
Villagers flee as intense fighting
begins between civilian militia and MILF rebels. |
But as we were leaving town, two heavily armed soldiers flagged
us down. My heart skipped a beat. It turned out they just wanted
a ride. I overheard them asking my MILF guide if I was Arab. (In
the past, Camp Abubakar had hosted a number of foreign guests
from the Middle East. And there have been persistent reports of
Malaysian and Indonesians, presumably belonging to the terrorist
group Jemaah Islamiya, helping train the MILF. The MILF hasn't
denied it has hosted foreigners, but insists it has nothing to
do with al Qaeda and Jemaah Islamiya.)
A home destroyed during intense fighting
deep in MILF territory. |
We passed more checkpoints, but seeing our two military hitchhikers
hanging off the back of the Jeepney, the soldiers waved us through.
I tried my best to hide my anxiety, and in my head, I was polishing
my alibi in case we were questioned. "We've started a water
project here, and we've come to film a short information video
about the village up ahead, to convince our donors to release
the funds soon." My MILF guide had a phony government I.D.,
and he was accustomed to bluffing his way through checkpoints.
I lost count of the checkpoints after number 21. Our hitchhikers
dropped off, and we continued alone.
Finally, the dirt road passed through a small village and ended
next to a river. We were told to hurry up and walk. The trail
took us through coconut groves and a few houses, where villagers
dried fragrant strands of abaca fiber on wooden racks. Abaca
fiber, or Manila hemp, was once the engine of the country's
economy -- until DuPont invented nylon. There are few things
as eerie to me as abandoned farmland. These hills have become
too dangerous to till. The land lies weed-choked and fallow
from war.
Elderly man whose home was burned down. |
Along the way, we passed entire villages turned to ashes. We
were told that these homes were burned by the military before
they pulled out earlier this year. I met a 70-year-old man gathering
wood along one of the mountain's ridges. He took me to his burned-out
home. The roof was gone, so was the kitchen. A rain-soaked copy
of the Koran rested on a shelf in what must have been the bedroom.
I pulled it out to find it infested with cockroaches. He must
have left in a hurry when he saw the soldiers. I offered the
Koran to him, and he told me to leave it where I'd found it.
"I don't need it anymore," he said bitterly. "Everything is
now in the hands of Allah." Before leaving, he told me that
he would join the MILF if he only had a rifle and more years
to live. "I have nothing else to lose," he said, pointing to
his blackened house. As I left him, I couldn't help feeling
that there must be something terribly wrong with a nation that
makes a 70-year-old man want to pick up a gun and kill.
NEXT: On the March With the MILF
PREVIOUS: A Messenger From the Underground
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