Rebels of Mindanao

by Tom Anthony

  From the way Kumander Ali analyzed the situation of the New Peoples Army, they could not maintain a large army in the field for very long, but paradoxically they needed a large army to defeat Task Force Davao, which, unknown to him, was being augmented every hour with more infantry and light artillery.

  Mahir found it easier to converse with Kumander Ali when Lateef was present, as a catalyst. So later that day he asked Lateef to go with him for a meeting with Ali. Mahir wanted to know what Ali intended to do now that their positions had been probed by the AFP task force. He thought the major attack was likely to happen soon, given the events of the last few days. The Americans had not yet responded to the humiliating execution of one of their officers, but the international news networks had been reporting his execution every hour after editing out the horrific sounds of his death. If Kumander Ali had wanted to make news with the manner of Hayes’ death, he had certainly succeeded. In Mahir’s view, if Kumander Ali took advantage of the NPA’s superior strength in numbers that he enjoyed at the present moment, including the large army of new recruits, and threw the whole mass at the task force before more troops or even the Americans were brought in, he would have the advantage and a good chance to win. But he would have to act soon.

  Kumander Ali, drinking his coffee from a worn-out Styrofoam cup smudged with muddy fingerprints, flipped his cigarette butt into the street. As Lateef and Mahir walked up the steps of the hut to join him on the porch, he lit another and casually offered smokes to them also—a welcome luxury, American brand cigarettes for a change, Marlboros made in the Philippines and recently seized from a merchant at a roadblock as a tax payment to the revolution. Lateef squatted down and turned his baseball cap around backwards, looking like a malnourished Latino player on the farm club of a major league team. Mahir squatted on the porch floor as there were no chairs outside; in fact there were no chairs inside, just three benches around the square table where Ali had spread out the map. They were all silent; the presence of his two subordinates seemed to indicate their curiosity about what Ali planned next, and they impatiently waited for him to get to the point where he was ready to talk.

  Ali knew about the supposedly secret but openly obvious presence of American army combat troops in Mindanao. He began by telling Mahir, “If we can get the wavering Yankees to waver more, we can get them off this island and end outside influence on our culture.”

  “But I am also an outside influence.” Mahir wondered what Ali really thought about him. “I brought in money, just like they do, the only difference is I carried it in cash. Obviously, if they know about me, I am a target for an American hit squad or an air attack for bringing in the money.”

  “Be sure you are, and I’m also a logical target because I’m the chief initiator bringing the Abu Sayaf and the NPA together,” Ali said.

  Ali sensed their unspoken questions. “Our war for Mindanao must be seen as universal, not just a local disagreement between neighbors.” He knew generally that independent Islamic cells would also be waging jihad in other countries soon. “If Allah permits me, I will destroy the pride of the Yankees and Zionists who are responsible for this war.” He flipped another cigarette butt into the street.

  Mahir, the foreigner, added his perspective. “The world is momentarily mesmerized by images of American dead sons on television. They will have no stomach to continue a war that has no purpose for them. You don’t even have oil here for them to take, only tuna fish and pineapples.”

  “We must define the cause not only for ourselves, but in the eyes of our enemy,” said Ali, becoming as animated as Lateef had ever seen. “We must apply ijtihad, the critical thinking process taught by the Prophet, and determine our actions within the teachings of the Prophet. Study the book!”

  For Lateef, the argument seemed simple. He saw no reason for academic debate. “There is no way to interpret the Koran except literally. It tells us whoever offends the Koran will die by the sword; he who defends it will live in paradise.”

  Mahir reminded them, “The Koran prohibits killing children, herdsmen or unarmed men, so we must be careful how we employ our power. I don’t like the way the American captive was executed. I can’t accept such actions.”

  “You don’t understand the politics of Islam,” Ali lectured him. “The West has combined their president and their pope to unite against us. The Yankees have brought in military police trained in Iraq to lead the PNP and the AFP. Their actions justify our reaction.”

  For another half-hour and two more rounds of cigarettes the dialogue continued. Ali’s new comrades Aldrin Bumbog and Mehmet Al Zein showed up at the shack unexpectedly and joined the others on the porch. Ali took the newcomers inside where they sat down on the slatted, rough rattan benches to study the map for a while. After talking with each other quietly and continuously about their problems with camp life, Lateef invited them back to the porch and passed around a liter bottle of Fundador.

  Alcohol was permitted only to Islamic warriors fighting in holy war, according to Lateef, who liked brandy and sometimes made on-the-spot interpretations of the rules based upon how he perceived the immediate situation. Alcohol was not the only personal problem Lateef had. Most of his other difficulties were in the relationships between himself and his three wives—such problems as how to manage the money he would bring home after this current undertaking. He was not looking forward to those discussions.

  Kumander Ali, unable to read the Koran in Arabic, improvised his own interpretations, stretching the limits of his intellect and knowledge to fill in where he was short on dogma. “We will have justice. In one month, we will be able to follow strictly the laws of the Koran and no longer work for foreigners. Their laws will no longer be needed; we need only the law of the Koran and the codes written there. All will embrace the faith.” Some of this came from his memory of the teachings of the ulamas in his village when he was young.

  His speech interested Bumbog as well as Mehmet. Bumbog stated a long-standing problem in his area: “Large tracts of our land are already occupied by Christians, and ownership of tribal lands has been transferred to corporations that mass-cultivate it with cash crops. We have no place to hunt or plant, and every year they extend their fence lines.”

  Ali seized the moment. “The Manila government of the north asks us to renounce terrorism as a condition for their cease-fire. How do we respond?” he asked in a raised voice.

  “With blood, Ali, with their blood, O Ali!” was the enthusiastic response from the four listeners. Passersby in the street joined in the clamor and fired a few shots into the air, a practice Kumander Ali immediately stopped. They were short on ammo, and some of the troops might have used their last bullets in praising him. If so, they would have to go through the rest of the campaign with empty rifles.

  Mahir wondered how his purist philosophy permitted Kumander Ali under the laws of the Koran to offer him the exclusive and lucrative fruitexport rights of Mindanao for commercial development. He was just as much a foreigner as the Tagalogs, even more so. But Ali’s commercial proposal to Mahir was at least half the reason he was still in camp and not already on some banka halfway to Indonesia and back to Turkey. Mahir considered how Muslim entrepreneurs in the new independent state could make a profit legal under the laws of the Koran. How did Ali rationalize his planned bribery to get votes with the high morals of the Koran, for example? Who would do the work in the fields? How could they buy tools or fertilizer without capital investment by one of the locals, maybe even the Chinese? Although Turkey was a Muslim country, at least they used currency and traded with their Christian neighbors in Europe. How would Ali manage the great wealth he would control? Mahir listened with curiosity. Lateef merely listened, but was pleased that Mahir was with him. He had grown to like and to respect the Turk, the foreigner who could ask the innocent questions the others heard in their minds but never quite formulated and certainly dared not speak.

  Mahir wanted to move into more tactical and less theoretical areas, so
he put the question to Kumander Ali: “We have thirty days until the election, thirty days during which we must survive, let alone defend ourselves from the enemy pursuing us. And they are increasing in strength every day. Can we feed our own growing army and all their followers while we sit here in Sultan Kudarat doing nothing?”

  Kumander Ali cut him off, showing impatience for the first time since they had met. “Allah will provide. It is not necessary for us to think about this.” Then there was quiet, as the four looked at Ali, surprised by his atypical outburst.

  Ali felt he had to paint the big picture and teach his followers what he believed. “The Luzon government has tried to deal with the MNLF and for over ten years we have watched sporadic peace talks, facilitated by outsiders, Malaysia, Syria, Libya, but all this time we kept the pressure on with our regular business throughout Mindanao.”

  By “business” the rebel commander referred to kidnapping for ransom and progressive taxation quotas that were little more than extortion, like forcing delivery trucks to pay taxes to gangs when they crossed province or even village borders, effectively stopping deliveries of foodstuffs into the most needy areas. For thirty-six years the NPA had been kept alive by keeping the people poor, its terrorism discouraging investment. The vicious cycle was self-perpetuating: no investment, no profit, again no investment in their provinces in northern Mindanao, and then unemployment, discontent, hopelessness, and revolution followed in that order.

  The captured radio station in Itig, RFM, was still broadcasting news in Visayan, the language understood by most of the people in Mindanao, and foreign to the average Filipino on the other large islands, who spoke Tagalog or other dialects. The news came between the reading of the Koran and prayers in Arabic, and the NPA leaders listened before they made their prayers.

  RFM reported, “From North Cotobato to Zamboanga we are now united. Neighbors from Agusan and Surigao, we wait for you to join us! The news: In the south, the former government has admitted they cannot supply food to the residents of T’boli, Banga, and Polomolok, while in the north, our allies, the New Peoples Army, have freed themselves from the oppressors and now join with us here where we can take care of ourselves, Enshallah!”

  After a pause the announcer continued, “The corrupt generals and politicians who take bribes in Manila tell us we do not have the right to hold the elections we have already scheduled for next month. But we learned from the Americans that we could. The Yankees taught us how to run elections while war continues during their aggression in Iraq. Elections will be held on schedule. This station supports the MNLF party, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, and the New Peoples Army.”

  Then, sure to arouse all who identified themselves with their roots, the inspiring anthem began. First the low notes of the brass agong, then the strings, and gradually the legendary voice of Freddie Aguilar:

  Filipino against Filipino are fighting in Mindanao

  Is all their blood wasted in the land of

  Mindanao. Mindanao.

  Is there no way to stop it?

  Is there no way to end this?

  Is the solution only found in war?

  In this land of promise

  Mindanao. Mindanao

  Is there no chance to save

  our brothers and our sisters in

  Mindanao. Mindanao.

  Mahir did not understand the Visayan words, but he felt the emotion and witnessed its effect. His instructions from Sheik Kemal in Lefkosia and the Syrian in Damascus were to support Kumander Ali in his efforts to achieve an Islamic state. And now he was witnessing the creation of that state. Others like him were organizing teams with separate missions in other countries at the same moment, intending to call local elections wherever they were. The United States could not fight them all at once, and Manila could not win alone in combat, having neither the stomach for it nor the resources. The five million U.S. dollars that Mahir had brought into Mindanao would go a long way in this part of the world. They could give 10 dollars to more than 300,000 voters, and that gesture would get them the swing vote and win the election. The rest of the money they needed for personal use, like automobiles, travel expenses, and houses made out of hollow concrete blocks not just raw wood. They might obtain a majority vote without the ten-dollar reward, but the gesture would insure a good turnout. And a minimum of sixty percent of the half million voters in the five voting provinces would be a good enough result to confuse international opinions. Perhaps they would even invite observers to witness procedures and report to the world regarding the validity of the elections.

  The announcer came back on. “We, formerly known as the Moro National Liberation Front, confirm our agreement with the New Peoples Army to provide security in the South as they will in the North. Voters do not need to fear going to the election sites to vote out the imperialists.”

  The announcement by Radio Free Mindanao intimidated many who would otherwise have considered voting for candidates supporting the federalist movement and opposed to the NPA. Terrorist groups were integrated into their barangays, the small local districts, and everyone knew everyone else and their politics. If the mullahs monitoring the election did not know you or were unsure how you would vote, it would be best to stay home. The RFM newscast ended with a call to prayer, after which the station reverted to recitation of the Koran in Arabic on a looped tape that continually replayed, “Bismilahi rahumani rahimi.”

  Mahir, Lateef, and the NPA leaders left the hut after the newscast and their personal prayer session ended, rolling up their multi-purpose prayer rugs and tucking them into their combat gear. Lateef walked with Mahir and asked him, “What is the real reason that you are with us?”

  Mahir thought for a moment and replied, “For the honor of it. That is why I made the long trip, that is why I started, anyway, but I have to say that Ali’s promise of other rewards is what keeps me here now, for these next few weeks. Why do you stay?”

  Lateef knew his reasons and explained to Mahir, “There must be justice. We will continue the kidnapping of foreigners and Christians, like that girl we have tied and gagged over there—maybe we can trade her for something—until we have justice.” He jerked his head in Elaiza’s direction.

  “But,” Mahir was not sure if Lateef had it right, “Islam means peace. When can we end this war and begin the peace?”

  “When we have restored central Islamic authority over the world, as in the time of the Prophet Muhammad.” The answer was obvious to Lateef.

  “How do we involve the people in an Islamic democracy? Is that possible? We are fighting for their freedom to choose their leaders and governments.” Mahir was still confused by Lateef’s logic.

  “Democracy and Islam are like oil and water. They do not mix without adding flour. We achieve the faith of oneness because we will provide the flour, we warriors of Jihad.” Lateef understood his role.

  “For me, I want to get this over with and then leave here for a while. I have some things to attend to back home, and down south in Digos as well. Ali has made me an offer to work with him in the new country. I will see.” Mahir looked around him at the collection of men and women who composed their army, the Islamic cell of organized terror in Mindanao. He asked Lateef, “What will you do after our victory?” They had reached their tents.

  It was easier for Lateef to decide; he had no conflicts of interest. “I have no place else to go.” He reflected, logically, he thought, “I will work overseas someday, unless I die in jihad and go to paradise, or perhaps move to Davao City and study to become a nurse, and then get a high-paying job in Europe. Or maybe work as a truck driver in Saudi. But sometimes, I think my time may have passed.”

  34

  King of Battle

  Wings spread, silently sailing upward on an invisible wind drafting out of the valley, Kabayan soared. The last Philippine eagle, son of renowned parents Pagkakaisa and Pag-asa, was looking for lunch, perhaps a slow-moving tarsiers monkey in the treetops or an even slower rat in the grass farther
below. Kabayan observed an unfamiliar object, perhaps a rock from an erupting volcano, pass below him in slow motion as it reached the apex of its trajectory and slowed in its arc, changed pitch and began its acceleration downward toward the alluvial plain slanting away from the highest point in Mindanao, where it exploded upon contact. The object Kabayan watched was the first artillery shot fired in the battle of Mount Apo.

  The AFP artillery did not need to call on their forward observers to give them estimated coordinates for the radio station; they knew exactly where it was, already marked on their maps with a bright red X. The fire direction center had the firing directions for the radio station not only memorized but pre-programmed, waiting for the inevitable order to fire.

  “This way, follow me with those bags!” Mahir yelled to the cargo porters. Mahir untied Elaiza from the tree, released the gag in her mouth so she could breathe while running and pulled her with him. He had to get out of Itig with the cash.

  Colonel Liu had decided to hit the surprised enemy force in Itig village with “punitive action” as authorized by Galan and ordered a barrage of five volleys from the entire battalion, a total of ninety high explosive rounds to be walked across the target area starting at the edge of Itig and progressing along its main street.

  For this important fire mission, the artillery battalion commander called for high explosive munitions with fuses to explode on impact, targeting the sandbagged radio station and its dug-in defenders. After the rounds were in the air, Liu knew he could forget about RFM and that the insulting radio station at Itig and the bastards around it who made him so angry. Now it was time to decimate the enemy. Leaving the artillery to do its bloody work, he retuned to his jeep, where he gave orders to the infantry brigade commanders, “Chase them and keep firing until they surrender, then put any captives into confinement behind barbed wire until we have new orders from Manila.” It would be troublesome for the junior officers and their sergeants to contain and take proper care of any survivors, and the fewer the better anyway.