Tales from the Sulu Archipelago

At the turn of the century, Gen. John J. Pershing asked Colt Industries to make a handgun ‘powerful enough to knock over a running Moro'. Even with the Colt .45, the US Army could not subdue the Moros and end a Muslim secessionist movement that dates from Spanish contact. Following Marcos' declaration of martial law in 1972, fighting between the army and the rebels, now the Moro National Liberation Front, intensified. The Peace Corps stopped placing volunteers in southern Muslim areas, which includes a broad swath of islands that connects Mindanao to Borneo, the Sulu Archipelago. Travel to Sulu was expressly prohibited; any PCV who did so would be immediately expelled.

That’s why I was determined to go there.

On a return visit in 1982 I learned the Philippine Government had just lifted its travel ban to Sulu. An American friend and I hastened down to Zamboanga and grabbed a PAL flight to Jolo, the Sulu Provincial capitol. Upon arrival, the airport authorities searched us, then turned us over to a group of tough-looking young men who looked every bit the part of the fierce Tausug warriors romanticized by Filipinos everywhere. Any further travel into Sulu, they told us, would require the approval of the Sultan of Jolo.

It felt like we were being abducted. But we were merely meeting the Moro National Liberation Front. 

On our way to the Sultanate we saw bombed out buildings and burned down huts. The road was littered with wrecked vehicles. We were the first Americans to arrive in Jolo in ten years, our informants told us. They seemed disappointed that we were not journalists. But we promised to tell their side of the story and that satisfied them. We never saw the sultan but approval for further travel was mysteriously granted.

The next morning the same escorts took us down to the crowded ferry which would carry us to Sitankai, Tawi-Tawi and several smaller islands in between. We pushed our way aboard. The boat soon left, its engines throbbing, the double-decker decks swaying ominously with the swells.

We had no idea how we would get back to Zambo. Nor did we care.

The next three days we spent island-hopping and exploring this stunningly beautiful place. Everywhere, white-trimmed coral islands lay like beads from a broken necklace, scattered in the lime-green waters. Pods of dolphins frolicked as our boat plied the deeper, purple channels. We passed the occasional fisherman checking his traps or trailing a line from a trim outriggered binta. At each stop the same drill occurred. The boat would take on freight and passengers and out of the crowd would appear another group of tough-looking, young men waiting for us. They invariably spoke perfect English. Later we learned why.

 There were constant reminders we were in a war zone. With every island the arms became more conspicuous. On bustling Sitankai Island, where more people live in boats than on land, our hosts brandished M-16s, wore bandoliers across their chests and carried sheathed, serrated traditional Muslim swords. Just a few hundred yards away from the wharf there was a platoon of Philippine Army soldiers. We could see their foxholes behind a barbed wire fence. We never did meet them but we did meet schoolteachers, merchants, fishermen, imams and local politicos. All treated us cordially but not deferentially as other Filipinos unfailingly do. By now we were used to it. What they most wanted was to tell us their grievances. And tell us they did. For hours, as we watched colorful ships sail into and out of the picturesque harbor, we heard accounts of historical oppression, recent army atrocities and hopes for independence. I jotted down notes as a journalist would. 

That night we were honored guests at a Badjao wedding. The Badjaos are an animist tribe that eschews land and migrates perpetually among the Philippine, Malaysian and Indonesian waters. They have co-existed peacefully with the Muslims for centuries. We squatted with perhaps fifty of them in the hold of a large houseboat. As the ritual unfolded, drummers began to play. Soon they glistened with sweat in the candlelight. Then the young women danced, their bright saris swirling, their smiles beguiling. When words fail, smiles do the work. I remembered hearing of an early PCV falling in love with a Muslim princess in Sulu. Legend has it they eloped and live somewhere out here still.

As a child, I used to spin a globe, close my eyes and point to a spot. Tawi-Tawi was one of those imaginary end-of-the-world places, like Timbuktu or Tingo Maria. At last there it was, a Gibraltar-like rock on the horizon. Our first stop was the American Jesuit missionary high school where so many of our MNLF informants had studied. At the rectory we dined with Fr. Timothy, a gracious man who betrayed no surprise at two scruffy, backpacking Americans turning up at his door. He arranged an overnight trip for us to Sibutu, the westernmost Philippine island. We would be just off the coast of Borneo. On the way we would pass Siminul, revered for being the first Philippine island touched by Muslim missionaries. Marcos had made it his private hunting refuge.

The next morning we were the only passengers on a ten-ton junk chugging its way to Sibutu to pick up a load of copra. Our captain was a young Chinese man with whom I had trouble communicating in English, Tagalog, Ilongo or T'boli. As we turned into the Sibutu Passage the boat began to vibrate. The humidity and air temperature dropped. Flocks of seabirds caromed about excitedly, diving for fish amidst the flotsam and jetsam. We had entered a strong current, its edge visible like the curb on a street. Every year this current reverses direction, the captain managed to tell us. The Badjaos take it down to The Celebes and back. Suddenly he fell silent. Off the port side, far in the distance, a small boat appeared. It was shiny and black with two long antennas and no markings. It was heading toward us. The captain reached down and lifted an M-16 from below the floorboards. He checked the magazine, cocked it and set it next to us. "They are either pirates, smugglers or police", he said. As the boat drew nearer my heart began to pound. This was no-man's land, international waters where anything could happen. We had no radio and there was no place on board to hide. Maybe they still need that travel ban, I was thinking. But now it was too late. No one in Manila or elsewhere even knew we were here. I remembered how hard it is to shoot an M-16. Just when we were within shouting distance the mysterious boat stood up and sped away, powered by twin inboards.

We returned to Tawi Tawi the next day, tired and preoccupied with our return to Zamboanga. Our concerns soon evaporated. Fr. Timothy had arranged a flight for us back to Zambo with the Governor of the province, no less. The next morning we boarded a twin-engine Cessna. In the copilot's seat sat the Governor, a worldly, affable Tausug. All the grievances we reported fell like drops off a duck’s back. The problems his people faced, he felt, were more economic than anything. He envisioned investments, new airports, expanded trade. He believed it would come. All we need is peace, he added. I remembered that bumper sticker: if you want peace work for justice. But we had said enough. Seated behind us in silence were his two bodyguards who kept their rifles pointed at our backs the whole time. The bejeweled waters below glistened in the brilliant sun.   

Mike McQuestion

Philippines 74-77

Comments

[Rick Barber]

Cool Story. I was a PCV in Mindanao '82-84. I beleive our group was the last to serve in Mindanao. I was in a town called Hinatuan, in Surigao del Sur.

[AmandaNoble]

Hi Mike. I enjoyed your story so much, partially because a was a PCV in northern Luzon in 76-77. You have a great name but I'm not sure our paths ever crossed. I wanted so badly to visit Mindanao but everytime I was ready to do so, we would receive one of those telegrams from Banerji telling us that State Department was forbidding us to travel there. This is a wonderful adventure story.

[hershelle]

have a nice day....i just want to say thank you to MR SAM he is a us army asign in buhanginan jolosulu for saving me that ive accidentally falling from the rubberboat at the time i feel so nervous......wheni saw mr sam jumped from the rubberboat i feel safe i really salute this person.THANK YOU AND GOOD DAY

[hershelle]

have a nice day....i just want to say thank you to MR SAM he is a us army asign in buhanginan jolosulu for saving me that ive accidentally falling from the rubberboat at the time i feel so nervous......wheni saw mr sam jumped from the rubberboat i feel safe i really salute this person.THANK YOU AND GOOD DAY

[hershelle]

hi ......... we thank u b-coz u alwayz helping us but, u make us a paralyze. we cannot stand by our own. it is very insulting to us being a filipino people. we never say we hate americans but we need to prove to all people in the world that we can survive without other countries that could support us. we are afraid that americans could stay longer in our place, that they are conquering us, and we don't like to happen.
THANK YOU VERY MUCH........!!

[Tara]

Hi!

I dont really know where to start, but I a, a PCV in Cameroon and want to visit the Philippines in July 2009. Can anyone put me in touch with so me PCVs in the Philippines? Please? Thanks!

Tara Smith
mlle.tara.smith@gmail.com

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[David Ruppert]

I was a PCV in Jolo in 1968 and 1969. Left in 1970. Visited many times all the places you mentioned (minus Sibutu). Taught in a local college in Jolo and worked summers in Parang on the southern side of the island. All this prior to the uprising in the early 1970s. I saw pictures of the destruction of Jolo while I was in Hong Kong. A foreign journals had photos he had just received over the wire. My time in Jolo was wonderful - made ever more so by those I met. There was a fellow PCV in Jolo while I was there. Paul Saliba. He stayed and married a local woman and I think went to medical school in Cebu. Have you run across his name? Just a note. When in Sulu the island of Sibutu was mentioned to be the hunting preserve of wealthy men from the north - Siminul was not so mentioned. I visited there (Siminul) one summer to find the source of clay for local pottery. Certainly a beautiful place.

[David Ruppert]

One more item. About 12 years ago I worked with someone whose friend left for the Philippines to work in newly established parks in Luzon. I told him I was once there and would like to communicate with her to find out how things were there so long after I left (email now, can you imagine?). Anyway, I did write to her but found out later that she told her significant other that I was a liar. That the PC never had anyone in Sulu. It made me sad.