Donate Now"I'm looking for the day that the Bangsamoro would be the master of their own selves and destiny," Mohagher Iqbal told me during an interview at the MILF's political headquarters at Semuay Crossing, southern Philippines. "On that day, whether there is heaven or hell, what is important is that the Bangsamoro people could no longer accuse anyone, including the Philippine government, of creating our mess here in Mindanao."
Mindanao is still messy, but not as crazy as it once was back in the days of the 2000 and 2003 wars. At least Iqbal and his cadres no longer head arrest warrants on their heads.
I had been to Iqbal's office twice before, once with TIME magazine while trying to investigate the MILF's alleged ties with al-Qaeda. The other visit took place one year after the signing of the first post-2000 war peace agreement in Tripoli, Libya.
The compound at Semuay Crossing looked the same. 17-year-olds wearing flip-flops and toting vintage tommy-guns still guarded the rusty green gate. Loads of cars still filled the small parking lot, and kids continued to watch black and white movies under a thatched hut just inside the entrance. There was a new café, however, that sold tea and snacks behind the old meeting room. Beer and cigarettes were definitely not on the menu. I had to step outside the compound to smoke a Marlboro.
Iqbal, head peace negotiator for the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, used words well. It's not easy task to wage an insurgency for 36 years. He seemed more tired from dealing with non-commital government officials than helping to lead the country's largest Islamic separatist movement.
"There is one unwritten law in negotiation, and also in war and in love," he went on to tell me. "In war and love, as in negotiation, everything is fair meaning if the other side resorts to some dirty tricks, then that is expected." Spoken like a true diplomat.
Officially established in 1984, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front believes that self-rule is still possible for the Bangsamoro. Government peaceniks have refused to entertain any rebel demands outside the notion of enhanced autonomy until recently. When asked if independence is still on the table, Iqbal said it will be up to the Bangsamoro people to decide what they want. Right now the choices could range from a federal state to a sort of commonwealth, sub-state entity. Ideally this choice will be made in a UN-sponsored referendum. Without an amendment to the Philippine constitution, however, nothing will move forward outside the framework of autonomy. Based on the MNLF's failed effort to govern an autonomous region inextricably tied to Manila's pocketbook, it is doubtful the MILF would ever sign a deal that contained the word autonomy.
It was nice to see Iqbal again. I think he was suspicious of me when TIME asked me to photograph their camps and look for signs of Jemaah Islamiyyah bombers. I told the editors it was a bad time to do this story. And naturally Iqbal closed off access to all camps. Fortunately no bridges were burned.
Four years later, Iqbal still remembered me and offered coffee, an interview, and two camp visits.
We first visited Darapanan, an extremely fertile agricultural valley where the MILF maintained a platoon size unit that protected both civilian supporters and a complex of mosques, homes, and thatched conference rooms.
Our driver Hexsam, a passionate MILF propagandist named Amor Pendalipay, and I drove through four checkpoints and a heavily-armed gate to get to Darapanan proper. The Armed Forces of the Philippines actually sited unruly MILF checkpoints along a major transport artery as the reason why it launched the all-out-war in 2000. Philippine Marines overran all 43 of the secessionist group's camps and forced the Islamic insurgents to shift to guerilla existence.
A series of sub-agreements allowed the MILF to use a few permanent bases, primarily for political purposes. Darapanan was one of them. Because the AFP now maintains a cautious gentlemen's agreement with the insurgents, the MILF can put up as many checkpoints as it wants to-just not on the highway.
Enormous robust fields of beans, corn, eggplant and rice grew both inside and outside the camp's perimeter. Victor Abdullah, an old MILF vet, weeded an eggplant field behind a large, open-walled conference room where Iqbal met with Bangsamoro youth to discuss concerns about the new anti-terrorism law. Abdullah and 18 other mujahideen belong to a cooperative that shares profits from the camp's corn, eggplant, rice, and bean crops. They each receive about $60 every month from the harvested crops. It's not a huge salary, but at least it makes the volunteer-nature of their struggle somewhat sustainable.
Benny Bacani, the director of the Institute on Autonomy and Governance, made a barter deal with me so that I could get to the next camp the following morning on time. I had been late to Darpanan and didn't want to miss my boat ride to Buliok. In exchange for use of his car for 2.5 days, I agreed to give him a set of photos for a soon-to-be published anthology by the MILF's current and late chairman.
After stopping to get my favorite rice/chicken roll called "fastil", we drove through Camp Rajah-mudda and headed to Buliok on a horrendously muddy road. In 2004, the AFP claimed the Pentagon kidnap-for-ransom gang sought refuge inside MILF territory. For one week Philippine troops bombed, shelled, and attacked on foot the complex which had been home to the late chairman Salamat Hashim. In the end the military admitted it's objective was to wrest control of the complex from Hashim's men.
I went in there four days after the fighting began. I risked the lives of my driver Bong, a squard of Filipino troops and a friend named Keith so that I could get my first dose of combat photography. Buliok was an entirely different place now. Some local residents lived in new homes. One family had turned a 500-lb bomb crater into a flower-ringed fish pond. And Army engineers had constructed two hanging foot bridges that spanned the Pulangi River.
The wood was so rotten that I felt like I would shape-shift into Indiana Jones in "The Temple of Doom" and fall right into the muddy stream below. I had already swum that crocodile-infested river once. I was not about to do it again.
Once across the rickety footbridge, we visited Hashim's old house at the Islamic Center. Vines and moss covered this small, simple compound. Four years ago the Philippine Marines posed for a photograph in front of the MILF's headquarters, guns raised victoriously in the air. They were no where to be seen today. Just a few locals who could barely take care of their families. Korean and Japanese NGO's had made several visits, claiming to want to rebuild the structures inside the complex. A farmer said that they got tired of waiting and recently decided not to entertain anyone from an NGO.
Finally, Commander Lapu-Lapu met us on the banks of the river. Named after the country's historic hero who speared Magellan to death back in the 1500's, this contemporary freedom fighter wore a green army jacket and a pair of flip-flops. Two other rebels wore no shoes at all. We had interrupted their corn milling session and lunchtime game of volleyball. Nonetheless, they were under orders from Iqbal to guide us down the river.
Six of us climbed into a wooden pump boat that was slightly submerged in water and wobbled from side to side For the next hour and a half we cruised down a small tributary and entered the mouth of the famous Liguasan Marsh. During the dry season, MILF members and their families plant corn on floating patches of soil. By June, Lapu-Lapu says rising waters will inundate his harvest. He hopes that his corn grows quickly. In the meantime, he makes a little money from selling Pop Cola and sugary snacks out of his brother's store.
The Liguasan Marsh is a strategic economic and agricultural region over which the MILF and government soldiers have fought numerous times. The MILF claims the area as part of the Bangsamoro ancestral domain and fears that private companies and government agencies will seek to remove rebel units from the area in order to extract valuable natural gas and fish resources. There are definitely lots of fish in this swamp, but large reserves of natural gas have yet to be proven. Cotabato's provincial governor submitted a plan to turn Buliok into a giant banana and cocunut plantation. It's doubtful this will come to fruition. Both sides, however, will probably continue to fight over land, and assumptions.
Hunger pangs hit us again on the way back.
"Is it true that Americans love to eat bread?" Amor Pendaliday asked me while chewing on African Hito and rice in the town of Kabacan, southern Philippines.
"And do you say nee-ther or nay-ther when you want to pronounce the word neither?" he continued. "What about the word either? And Chevrolet?"
The barrage of questions continued as we gobbled up our plates of fish. Amor, a Moro Islamic Liberation Front ideologue, clearly wanted to perfect his command of English and knowledge of American traditions. He was working on an anthology of writings from the MILF's late chairman, Salamat Hashim, and the current leader Al Haji Ebrahim Murad, and probably thought a little cross-cultural exchange might benefit his editing process.
"How much does a woman cost for a night in America?" asked Hexsam our driver who had been listening intently while polishing off his second cup of rice. The African Hito, which is actually a Philippine version of the catfish, had already been stripped to the bone.
Everyone has stereotypes of one another. Some are hurtful, some harmless, and most driven by ignorance, fear, Hollywood or a combination of all three. At least we made an effort to set the record straight on a few matters of concern. Amor's most far-fetched assumption, however, was that consumers in Saudi Arabia only drink Pepsi because the Jews own Coca-Cola.
A good chunk of the outside world believes that Islamic revolutionaries are diehard jihadists who espouse the shariah and shun the earthly. Images of Hamas gunmen, bearded Taliban mullahs, and kofia adorned sheikhs on trial for advocating terrorism create a certain mythology of who a Muslim is and why he may choose to die for his cause. I admit even a part of me thought we'd be talking about more substantial issues besides how to pronounciate the names of American cars.
The ordinariness of my afternoon with Amor reminded me of the time I spent with an MILF guerilla in 2004 near Marawi City. While drinking many beers and shooting pool with his crew of MILF vets and a sexy German anthropologist whom all of them loved, Ka Ariel bragged about killing close to a dozen Filipino Marines in hand-to-hand combat after their ammo ran out during the 2000 war. By day, Ariel was a student and periodic insurgent. By night, he was just another college kid looking for fun. His fun though, had to take place 30 miles away in Iligan City where Islamic law held no sway over the citizenry.
Revolutionaries and the average Joe have many things in common, particularly the young ones-they all want a bit of lovin, a job, and hopefully some peace. Although our politics over women, family, Islamic jurisprudence and when to wage an armed struggle may differ, Amor and I found lots of jokes and stories to share. We were two dudes eating the same fish who probably wanted some of the same things out of life.
I probably won't ever carry a gun though.