The
Beasts of War
Off
goes one of the dozens of killers released this morning, aimed supposedly at
bandits and criminals and guerrillas but -- as the tens of thousands of refugees
now crowding the evacuation centers in this and in the other towns know -- would
destroy more than what they had intended to destroy. The smoke that billows from
the Howitzer right after it was fired gives an eerie sense of dread.
BY
CARLOS H. CONDE
Bulatlat.com
A
haze of smoke wafts from this howitzer fired at the military firebase atop a
hill in the town center of Pikit. At the foot of the hill, about 200 meters
away, are relief and volunteer workers keeping tab of the day's figures, mostly
new refugees flooding the already crowded evacuation centers. Four howitzers are
being fired from the firebase alternately, hitting targets at least 10
kilometers away. Photo
by Carlos H. Conde
PIKIT,
North Cotabato – The soldiers are quite jovial.
Each time one of them scurries to the two men manning the Howitzer
cannon, a small piece of paper in hand, they would whisper to each other and
smile broadly, as though they are making fun of the way the soldier sprints. It
is an odd spectacle, especially since, when one thinks about it, no one knows
where exactly the projectile would land and, most important, who would end up
killed or maimed because of it.
But
the soldiers, many of them in camouflage shorts and sleeveless this Thursday
morning, are almost cheerful, as though they are watching a parade. Squatting on
an elevated portion on the side of the road leading to the police headquarters
perched on top of a hill, they’ve been watching the firing since it started
early in the morning.
The
routine goes like this: a bespectacled officer would huddle with four or five
soldiers outside a hut about 20 meters from the four Howitzers aimed at the
horizon. One of them taps into a large calculator while the others study the
coordinates in the maps sprawled on a table. Another faces the direction of the
Howitzers and peers into a compass. He yells some military jargon back to the
soldiers busy with the maps.
Moments
later, a soldier is handed a piece of white paper and runs to the Howitzers. The
two men manning one of the cannons – the only one being operated this morning
– laugh, apparently amused at a joke or a comment from the bearer of the
coordinates. One of them peers down into something on the Howitzer, apparently
adjusting the sights.
The
officer in glasses shouts at the men in the field: “Where is the chopper?”
He scans the horizon for signs of the army helicopter that lifted off a few
minutes ago; on board are Brig. Gen. Generoso Senga and a crew from GMA-7.
“Let’s wait a while. We might hit it,” the officer says.
Five
minutes later, apparently satisfied that the chopper bearing the commander of
the 6th Infantry Division is safe, the officer orders the Howitzer
firers to load up. One soldier lifts a 105mm ammunition a little bigger than a
Coke Litro and shoves it into the cannon. For some reason, the three infantrymen
at the Howitzer suddenly leaned back, as if something untoward happened right
after the cannon was loaded. They laugh nervously, and the one who loaded the
projectile scurries back to his position a few steps from the weapons.
The
soldiers and spectators now have their fingers plugged into their ears. One
reporter tells his driver to roll down his van’s windows because the impact of
the firing might shatter these. The officer then shouts: “Okay, fire!” The
soldier on the right of the Howitzer takes the orange Nylon rope dangling from
the cannon and, after scanning the scene behind him and after glancing one last
time at the officer (as if to make sure that he got the order right), pulls the
rope.
And
off goes one of the dozens of killers released this morning, aimed supposedly at
bandits and criminals and guerrillas but -- as the tens of thousands of refugees
now crowding the evacuation centers in this and in the other towns know -- would
destroy more than what they had intended to destroy. The smoke that billows from
the Howitzer right after it was fired gives an eerie sense of dread.
Right
at the foot of the hill where the firebase is located, about 200 meters away, is
the operation center that keeps tab of the damage of this war. Computers have
been set up in one of the sheds in the town’s plaza; volunteers from
nongovernment groups and the Department of Social Welfare and Development would
encode into these computers the number of refugees and the amount of help
they’ve been getting.
Beside
the hut is a large table where officials and volunteers would discuss the
day’s activities and where they would exchange horror stories about what they
had found in the refugee centers. This morning, a reporter from a national daily
tries to coax information from the volunteers about a woman who had given birth
in one of the refugee centers.
Two
huge blackboards on the side and back of the table bear chalk writings: the
number of evacuees, where they came from, where they are now, the amount of food
and supplies available. Today, Thursday, the blackboard says the grand total of
refugees is 24,752.
Fr.
Bert Layson, the parish priest of Pikit, is one of those who run this operation
center. A trim man who likes wearing a Khmer shawl that hangs around his neck,
Father Layson is calm and serenity personified, a disposition that somehow seems
incongruous amid such chaos and violence. It was he who texted friends on
Sunday: "It's a mess here. Babies, children, mothers, old people, there are
thousands of them. There's no dignity inside this warehouse. My heart begins to
cry again." (He was referring
to a warehouse on the outskirts of the town where close to a thousand refugees
have been holed up since Saturday.)
Sitting
on a Monobloc chair with his back to the firebase, Father Layson would talk and
talk about the violence in central Mindanao and what he thinks of the contending
forces (“They’ve lost the people’s confidence,” he would say). Every now
and then, the Howitzers would rip through the air. The reporter Father Layson is
talking to flinches, closes his eyes in genuine shock (or is it fear?) but the
priest does not, as if telling the journalist that he’s used to this and that
nothing shocks him anymore.
Does
he find it wickedly ironic that here he is, trying to appease and succor those
who have been violated and driven off their lands, sitting only 200 meters away
from the men and machines who created this misery in the first place? “Of
course it’s ironic. It only shows the absurdity of this war,” he says.
But
unlike the soldiers atop the hill who seem to derive some glee out of firing
those long-snouted beasts of war, Father Layson is not smiling.
Bulatlat.com
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