Bu-lat-lat (boo-lat-lat) verb: to search, probe, investigate, inquire; to unearth facts

Volume 3, Number 3              February 16 -22, 2003            Quezon City, Philippines







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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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