A trip to Maguindanao: Retracing a deadly itinerary

It has been two years since the massacre of 58 people in Ampatuan, Maguindanao. To this day, the assignment remains a daunting task for journalists; 32 mediamen were murdered there on that day.

Here is a log of our recent visit to the massacre burial site, as we retraced the route of the victims on that fateful day.

9 a.m. – We arrive at the camp of the 901st Brigade of the Philippine Army in Tacurong City in Sultan Kudarat province. A day earlier, we had paid a visit to Brigadier General Leo Ferrer, the brigade commander, to request for security escorts for our trip to the massacre burial site.

In a conversation earlier, he had told us that things in Maguindanao were more peaceful than they were before. I asked him about the presence of men that had been part of the Ampatuans’ private armies, who remained loyal to the influential clan.

“I wouldn’t use the word loyal,” he said, “the right word is probably sympathetic.”

He quickly cut off the lesson in semantics and assured us that either way, there is no reason to be worried. He said he would assign four soldiers – two men in uniform and another two in plain clothes – to escort us to the site.

I wanted to ask: If there is no reason to worry, why the need for four security escorts? But I knew the answer to my own question, and I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The four soldiers join us in the vehicle, and we are off.

9:10 a.m. – We pass through downtown Tacurong City, a place of about 80,000 people. It’s a surprisingly progressive city. There is a Jollibee at the center of town, making it no different from hundreds of other mid-sized cities across the Philippines. Except that it’s only about thirty minutes away from Ampatuan town in Maguindanao, where the massacre took place.

9:15 a.m. – We head to the town of Buluan, Maguindanao, to visit the home of the province’s governor, Esmael “Toto” Mangudadatu. The group that was massacred had come from there and was headed to the capitol in Shariff Aguak on that fateful day to file Mangudadatu’s candidacy for the governorship of the province; his wife, two of his sisters, and several other relatives were among those murdered.

We receive a call from Mangudadatu to instead meet him at a resort he owns in Tacurong City, where he was hosting licensure exam reviews for public school teachers from his province. It was no surprise that the Maguindanao governor would own property in Sultan Kudarat; the Mangudadatu clan has been in power in the neighboring province for decades.

We turn back to meet the governor at the resort.

9:39 a.m. – Our group arrives at the Genalin Forest Garden Resort, which shares the name of Toto Mangudadatu’s late wife.

They had acquired the place together a few years ago, and it was her pet project. “She designed this place,” he said, smiling. “She made all the decisions; in fact, she always told me she didn't want me to interfere when it comes to this place.”

The governor greets Inquirer Mindanao’s Aquiles Zonio, one of our companions.  Zonio had originally been part of the contingent that was supposed to go to Shariff Aguak before the massacre, but he turned back at the last minute.

Mangudadatu introduces Aquiles to members of his staff. “He was the one who survived,” he tells them. Aquiles doesn’t seem to mind the morbid introduction.

The governor tells us matter-of-factly that there was another threat to his life less than a week ago. Last August, Mangudadatu survived a car bomb attack. This time, someone discovered an improvised explosive device planted along a highway in Buluan. Even though there was no recipient card on the device – bombers never have the courtesy to bother with such details – Mangudadatu knew that he was the intended target.

11:30 a.m. – Our group decides to go out for a lunch of native chicken stew, grilled catfish, and deep-fried tilapia nuggets, in a nipa restaurant built over a fishpond in the middle of rice paddies. It was a perfectly rustic meal, except perhaps for the sign announcing that the place has free wifi.

12:43 p.m. – We head east, back on the road to Buluan, Maguindanao, where the convoy to Shariff Aguak assembled two years ago. Several roadside carinderias advertise their halal food; sari-sari stores have signages rendered in Arabic. We take a right turn and pass the governor’s satellite office, a small building that stands over a river.

After being elected governor of Maguindanao in 2010, Mangudadatu began holding office in his hometown of Buluan, instead of the provincial capitol in Shariff Aguak, which remains a bailiwick of the Ampatuans.

12:54 p.m. – We arrive at the mansion of Mangudadatu’s younger brother, Khadafeh, who serves as an assemblyman for the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao. Two years ago, members of the delegation to Shariff Aguak had met in this very place to discuss the day’s itinerary, and they’d made plans to hold the press conference after the trip here as well.

Khadafeh’s wife had been advised by the governor that we were on our way over, and she had prepared a merienda for us. She tells us that she was also in charge of preparing the merienda for the media delegation two years ago. The press conference never happened, and that merienda was never served.

We take some photos, and about an hour later head back west to resume our trip to the massacre burial site.

2:14 p.m. – We pass by Isulan town in Sultan Kudarat, just down the highway from Tacurong City. There is a large, blow-up San Miguel Beer Grande towering beside the provincial capitol, and there were stalls selling food, clothes, and other items along the highway. Posters carried pictures of an eclectic group of entertainers scheduled to be in town the next few days: rock band Kamikazee, comedienne Giselle Sanchez, and what I think was the jukebox duo April Boys.

Isulan is in the midst of the Kalimudan Festival, which celebrates the founding of the province. In 2009, a number of journalists were in town to cover the festival. They stayed on to join the Mangudadatu convoy to Maguindanao, and ended up among the victims of the massacre.

2:29 p.m. – We enter Esperanza, the last Sultan Kudarat town before reaching Ampatuan, Maguindanao. It still strikes me how a town named “hope” is the last place one passes before entering a place that evokes nothing but despair.

2:35 p.m. – We see three armored vehicles parked along the highway, a few minutes away from the headquarters of the Army’s 46th Infantry Batallion. We take photos of the soldiers.

2:55 p.m. – We take a left turn to the road that leads to the massacre burial site. There is an ongoing road-widening operation, and over to one side of the road, is parked a yellow backhoe. It wasn’t the most comforting sight.

3:00 p.m. – We finally reach the top of the hill where, two years ago, 58 people were murdered and buried along with their vehicles. Part of the road to the top of the hill is cemented now, and a new wall fences off the ridge to our left where the largest burial hole used to be. To our right were the spots of two other pits, this time fenced in. At the end of the fence, on the right, is a tablet that lists the names of the victims of the massacre. A few months ago, there was dismay among families of the victims because some names were misspelled.

The very top of the hill had been paved and cemented, and a roof had been built over it. The construction workers called it a “social area,” and it was two basketball goals away from being your standard multi-purpose hall, the type politicians build all over the country.

There was, notably, no other military presence in the area except for the escorts we brought along with us.

3:07 p.m. – I climb to the top of the hill and take in the view. It was serene, almost clichéd in beauty, the type of scenery you would see in a cheap Amorsolo knockoff. It didn’t look much different from any place in the Philippines that had rolling hills; there was nothing here you couldn't see if you stood on a hill in, say, Rizal or Negros Occidental. It is so common, in fact, that after a few minutes, I am almost lulled into thinking that nothing extraordinary ever took place here.

3:21 p.m. – My companions call me. It’s time to go. While I was taking in the view, apparently, a man on a motorcycle rode up to the site to spy on us. One of my colleagues was able to take a picture of the man. Someone surmised that the man was an aide of one of the Ampatuans who still remains in power in the province. Members of our security detail decide that it is no longer safe to stick around.

3:36 p.m. – We go down the hill and head north, to Shariff Aguak. We are welcomed by a giant tarp bearing the face of Zahara Ampatuan, wife of Anwar, the former town mayor who is now jailed along with his father, former Maguindanao governor Andal Ampatuan Sr. There are a lot of new structures on the highway which weren't there a year ago, and even more are being built.

3:41 p.m. – Within minutes, we pass two mansions – former ARMM governor Zaldy Ampatuan’s to the right and his father Andal Sr.’s to the left.

Less than a kilometer ahead is the provincial capitol. It is made of the same materials and boasts the same color scheme as the Ampatuan mansions up the road. The majesty of the three structures remains surprising, if not downright vulgar, considering the squalor that surrounds them.

3:45 p.m. – The provincial capitol was deserted except for the soldiers who were still detailed there. Inside the compound, there were a handful of goats grazing lazily on the lawns. The soldiers who guarded the capitol bar us from coming any closer to the building itself.

We decide to head back before it gets too dark.

3:50 p.m. – I remark about the new structures along the highway. A soldier credits the relative peace now in the town, so businessmen are supposedly more willing to put up new establishments. “Before, you could see armed men at every corner,” he explained. Perhaps there is hope for this place after all.

Later, however, a colleague had a more cynical explanation for all the new structures. “Maybe the Ampatuans are investing their money into the new structures,” he said.

4:05 p.m. – We make a stopover in Esperanza, at CJ’s Buko Snackhauz, which serves great buko pie. In two prior trips to Maguindanao, my reporter colleagues always made this joint part of our itinerary.

The buko pie is good and well-known among travelers. It was not hard to imagine the journalists who went to Maguindanao two years ago thinking about making a stop at this place. The buko pie would have made for perfect pasalubong for their families.

I chat up Nene, the store owner, who tells us that there was only one pie left – barely enough for our group of ten – and that we should have stopped and made a reservation earlier in the day so that she could’ve baked extra pies for us. She asks where we’ve been, and I tell her that we just came from the massacre burial site. She tells me how reporters who go up to the site always make a stop at her store.

Then she remembers the anniversary date of the massacre. “It’s November 23, right?” she asks me, almost rhetorically. “I should bake extra pies; there’ll be a lot of people going there.”

I tell her that reporters were actually planning to go up to the site with families of the victims for a commemoration on the 22nd.

4:45 p.m. – We go back to the 901st Brigade Camp to drop off our security escorts. After we thank them and say our goodbyes, we take to the road back to General Santos City.

When we were by ourselves in the vehicle, my colleagues began to talk about how unsafe they felt during our trip to the burial site; the lack of military presence there, they say, was a massive red flag.

“We only had two rifles with us,” one of them says, illustrating just how vulnerable he felt we were. During the trip, I never felt as threatened as they had been, but that might have been less about their paranoia and more about my own inexperience and naiveté. Two years after the massacre, the reporters who dare tread Maguindanao still live with that constant fear.