Stop the violence

From my personal archives. February 2007

No one can stop a determined bomber.

When you live in Mindanao, where bomb threats never fully disappear, you have to keep these words in mind.

I first heard this warning two years ago, uttered by the police chief of Koronadal City, when I had an interview with him for an article I was writing for the student publication. Ever since, I have made it a point to stay away from the public market and other crowded places where the perpetrators usually leave their deadly devices.

Judging by the number of victims, the recent explosions were less violent than the attacks years ago, perhaps an indication that the government’s anti-terrorism campaign is paying off or the enmity in the island is subsiding. But the bombings have been constantly recurring that one is reminded not to be so assured just yet.

Every time military offensive against the rebels intensifies, not a week would pass before another bomb would blow up. The terrorists would retaliate in the worst possible way they could mock the government—by preying upon innocent lives. One example is the bombings in the eve of the Asean summit, several weeks ago. The blasts in the cities of General Santos, Cotabato and Kidapawan left seven dead and more than 40 wounded. A day before that, President Macapagal-Arroyo had declared victory over the Abu Sayyaf in Sulu.

Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.

This is not to put all the blame to the administration. Mindanao has been troubled for decades, since the vast island started to become too small for the Muslim natives and Christian settlers. The conflict even stems from the age-old war against adherents of Christianity and Islam who have been trying to prove to each other whose god is mightier (never mind that the gods they claim to worship and wage war for are the one and the same God). Everything will not fall in place overnight.

The road towards peace in Mindanao is long and painful. Progress has been made possible through concerted efforts of many people—from government officials to educators to individuals who got the better of their prejudice. And each time a bombing occurs, the peacemakers have to move back and retrace the agonizing steps, as old pains, fears and biases rankle again in the hearts of Mindanaons.

Even before the Moro insurgencies surfaced, Christians and Muslims in Mindanao have long had nasty strifes. In the province of Cotabato, populated mostly by Antiqueños and Maguindanaons, anyone was fair game. The father of Manang Lucy, my cousin, was among those who suffered a senseless death. While drinking with his friends in the town market of Carmen one Sunday, he was fatally stabbed on the back. It turned out that some Muslim men mistook him for someone—a Christian—whom they had a fight with. (The true meanings of the words “Christian” and Muslim” do not fit some people I am referring to, but for lack of other words to call the two groups of warring people, I use the terms liberally.)

The killers got away with the crime, and the injustice seared the memory of Manang Lucy and her siblings’. Worse, they have passed on the bitterness and resentment to their children. Now that their children have children too, the kids will likely grow up harboring the same ill-feeing against Muslims.

For my friend Kareem (not his real name), the latest bombing is another reason to hide his Muslim lineage. When the topic of a conversation comes into his religion or ethnicity, I notice he would cringe and be quiet, until I or someone else would change the subject. When I first met him, he introduced himself with a Western name. Two weeks or so later, probably after realizing that not all Christians are bigots, he insisted on being called by his real name, which incidentally sounds very Arabic. Until now, however, he avoids as much as possible being identified a Muslim. It does not help that other guys sometimes tell him in jest that he must be carrying a bomb or he’s a close associate of Bin Laden.

I want to tell Manang Lucy that the crime of one or two person is not the crime of the entire family or community or race. But then, I’m not the one who lost a father. It’s not difficult for me to rationalize because there’s no pain that cloudens my mind. I want to tell Kareem to take pride of what he is and to stop trying to please people who can’t respect his faith. But it’s he, not I, who grew up in a polarized town where Christians discriminate Muslims. I have not experienced being the butt of racist jokes or the topic of spiteful whispers. It would be easier to make Manang Lucy and Kareem listen, or they themselves would change their views, if they see a reason to let go of the past—if there are no more division, no war, no bombings.

It’s not only my cousin’s hatred and my friend’s fears that a bombing rouses. There are countless Manang Lucys and Kareems out there. Stop the bombings. Put an end to the violence. Then we can talk about healing.