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
