Fear
As a five year-old I loved hanging out at my mother’s sari-sari store in Baguio. The variedly colored and shaped items for sale fascinated me. I was thrilled by the comings and goings of people throughout the day. Many of them would often say a kind word or two to me, which delighted me immensely. I would earn praises from my mother each time I helped out at the store, and would be scolded for times I got caught filching a banana or two.
On some occasions, after being reprimanded, some customers would jokingly tell me that I would be given away to “the Muslim” due to my dishonest behavior. “The Muslim” they were referring to was an ambulant salesman from Mindanao who came to the store ever so often to sell his wares. There was nothing special about this man who people in our neighborhood referred to as “the Muslim.” To me he was no different from the many people who frequented my mother’s store.
I did not know what “Muslim” meant at the time; I actually thought it was the man’s name. I suspected, however, that when I was told that I would be handed to “the Muslim” that it was not a good thing. I never got to know that man because I grew very afraid of him before I could get to know him. I would hide under my mother’s sewing machine each time I would see him approaching the store; my heart would skip a beat when I heard his voice from where I was hiding. I grew up scared of the “the Muslim” not knowing who he was, or what “Muslim” really meant.
I eventually learned about Islam and about Muslims as I was growing up. That fear I felt under the sewing machine as a boy, however, never really dissipated in spite of the new knowledge I had incrementally acquired through the years; I was still scared of Muslims without really knowing why. All of that changed on 10 May 2010 in Lanao del Sur in Mindanao.
Kept Safe
Last may I joined the People’s International Observers Mission (PIOM), a network of individuals coming from the Philippines and abroad that would observe and document the May 10 automated elections. I had asked to be assigned to the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM). Our team was hosted there by a partner organization, Healing Democracy, a Maranao grassroots project that aimed to organize and educate the Lanao del Sur electorate, as well as monitor the conduct of the May elections in the province. It was a new experience for me. Aside from the fact that the area was risky, it was also my first time to set foot on the Islamic City of Marawi.
Everything seemed all right until we were caught in a two-hour gunfight on Election Day between political rivals in a town called Tugaya not far from the city of Marawi. What started as a small scuffle in one of the voting precincts would turn into a gun battle that would leave three people dead and one wounded.
The men who started it all were just a few meters from where I was standing looking through a window. I was shocked when they started shooting into the air but found myself still taking photographs; I was trying hard not to be overcome by fear and not to attract attention to myself. People were screaming and running for cover. I and a colleague, Ipelenio Soco from Manila, were separated from the rest of the group. Ipe and I stayed put in the precinct where we were; we had nowhere else to go. After a lull in the shooting, we got out of the precinct and started searching for the other members of our group half running, half walking doing our best not to panic.
We eventually found the rest of the group safely sheltered in the home of Moks Jamalodin, a colleague from Tugaya. We were relieved to see each other again. We had barely started telling our stories when all hell broke loose. The exchange of gunfire started again only this time it seemed worse. I could hear heavy gunfire coming from just next door to us. There seemed to be no pause in the shooting. I also could hear explosions not too far from where we were. It was there that I started fearing for my life. I started texting friends and fellow MJs. It was a precaution on my part that in case our group did not make it, at least people would know where I was and what had happened. It was the most difficult text message I had composed in my life, I could barely keep my hands from shaking.
At noon, without warning, the shooting ceased. The immediate silence was deafening. The sudden cessation of violence baffled us. The call to prayer from the masjid nearby explained the silence; it was time for noon time prayer and the warring factions had put their guns down presumably to pray. We took advantage of that window of opportunity. Hurriedly bidding the Jamalodin family farewell, we got into our vehicles and speedily headed out of Tugaya.
We gathered that evening to talk about what had transpired that day and to plan for the coming days ahead. One of our colleagues, Adelaida Ditucalan, Ate Adel as she preferred to be addressed, from Healing Democracy, entreated us to listen to what she had to say about the incident in Tugaya. In a solemn tone she apologized to us for what had happened. She cited our coming from afar to be in solidarity with the Filipinos in Lanao to monitor the elections only for our lives to be put in danger. As a Maranao, she said, she felt ashamed at what had befallen us.
I felt ill at ease about her apology. Addressing myself to her and to the group, I expressed my view that there was no need to ask for an apology. First and foremost, the members of PIOM knew of the risks of coming to Lanao and chose to come anyway. Secondly, I asserted that what had happened was not intended by the Maranaos but the intent of a number of people who wanted power for themselves at the expense of the people; I said this was not unique to Lanao but was regrettably a common practice in many parts of the country. Thirdly, I told the group that based on what I had witnessed and on what I had heard from the people I interviewed during the gun battle, the many Maranaos of Tugaya were also victims of the violence. They did not desire what had happened and were in fact helpless to do anything about it. I told Ate Adel that, in my opinion, there was no need for her to apologize for what had happened.
Hope
Despite what had happened in Tugaya, there is every reason to hope. Amid the dehumanizing poverty and the shameless abuse of power by the wealthy and powerful in the province and in the country, people like Ate Adel and the other members of Healing Democracy are there audaciously trying to make a difference. People of lesser stuff would not even dare dream of what they are currently doing. I will forever be grateful to them for having kept us safe even to the point of putting their lives at risk. The team of PIOM was staying only for a few days, they, on the other hand, would stay on after our job was done. Anything could happen to them. We were alive and we were safe because they had stuck their necks out for us. There was no need for them to apologize to us; on the other hand, we had every reason to be thankful to them. I went to Lanao a stranger, not knowing anyone. I left it a better person having gained the friendship of Maranaos who kept me safe when I was in danger.
We often fear that which we do not know. I never got to know the ambulant salesman who came to my mother’s store when I was a boy of five. How could I? I was cowering in fear under the sewing machine. In Lanao last May I became friends with Muslims. My life was in danger but there was no need to cower in fear because these friends kept me safe. I know them by name: Amira, Aida, Ate Adel, Moks, Salman, and Dimplex just to name a few. I grew up scared of Muslims; in Lanao last May they had put their lives at risk to keep me safe.
Joey Gánio Evangelista, MJ
21 July 2010
Cubao, Quezon City
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