15 - darkness everywhere

“This is Mya Amores on location at Basilan Island where fifteen military casualties have been reported during yesterday’s fighting in Isabela Town. All of the dead were members of the Philippine Army stationed in the Gensan area…”

Flumes of smoke rose into the air over Isabela City and blanketed the sky. Thick, black clouds had been spotted from as far away as Mindanao’s western coast clear across the Celebes Sea. Collateral damage numbered in the hundreds and mostly occurred within city limits. Well-armed militia, both civil and military, exchanged rounds as mortars rocked the infrastructure of downtown.

Just as it had been throughout August, the reports from Basilan Island had continuously grown more dismal. All the casualties from the recent fighting were boys from home and the feelings infected a large portion of the whole province.

To make matters worse, all forms of communication had been severed between military personnel and their families under direct orders from the Philippine Army. Pirate television stations had broadcast their version of the news across the internet – mostly propaganda - pictures of destroyed homes and mutilated corpses left for the dogs and flies. Meanwhile, the hearts of everyone back home were grief-stricken, worried that loved ones were among the dead.

“Lily,” asked Rosie, “you’ve been daydreaming all morning long. Where is your head today?”

“I’m thinking about Pidro.”

“Oh…yes…we’re all thinking about Pidro.”

Maria Serencio, Lily’s older sister, raised her hand.

“Yes, Maria?”

“I think we’re all thinking about the news.”

Rosie nodded, “Who else is thinking about Basilan Island?”

A collection of hands rose into the air.

“Maybe we should spend some time talking about that. Does anyone have any questions or thoughts?”

“I do,” said Lily, “do you know how we can find out if Pidro is okay?”

“I don’t know if we can,” said Rosie.

Brian stepped forward.

“Lily, there are important reasons why you cannot know where Pidro is right now. If he’s involved in a conflict, the simple fact of knowing his position can put him and all his buddies in danger.”

“It’s just not fair.”

“I know it doesn’t seem fair, but it’s the right thing to do.”

“If he’s dead,” interrupted Maria, “who will tell us?”

“Whenever these things happen, a commanding officer gets in touch with the immediate family as quickly as possible.”

“Until then we just wait?”

Brian shrugged, “yeah, we just wait.”

“The waiting is the worst part of all,” said Lily.

Rosalia moved to Lily’s side and placed a comforting arm about the little girl’s shoulders. “I know it’s hard, but it’s all we can do.”

Lily tucked her lower lip under her upper lip and bit gently. As her face quivered, Rosie quickly pulled Lily out of her seat and rushed her into the courtyard out of everyone’s view.

“I hate Pidro being away, Miss Saspy, I absolutely hate it. All the news from Basilan is just terrible.”

“I know it is.”

“I don’t’ ever want to see that officer at my door.”

As Rosie rubbed her hands over Lily’s arms, the girl broke down completely. Tears turned into sobbing and then into outright bawling. As Rosie embraced Lily, waves of grief trembled through Lily’s entire little body and the tighter Rosie held on, the more Lily’s body shook.

To make matters worse, the acoustics of the courtyard offered little to no privacy. Lily’s sobbing bounced off the concrete walls. Everyone inside had no choice but to overhear Lily’s cries of pain.

“Brian,” said Mr. Gutierrez, “go outside and have Rosie take Lily for a good long walk.”

“I’ll take care of it right away, Mr. G.”

As Brian ran outside, Mr. Gutierrez stepped to the front of the class.

“Let’s turn our attention to something else. How about we do some math?”

Dalisay Rana raised her hand high into the air. Jonny glanced her direction, but didn’t openly acknowledge her. Dalisay’s hand rose even higher.

“Let’s bring some of the younger students to the chalkboard to do math problems. Joy, Jose, Lucy, can you all please come to the front of the class?”

Uncharacteristically, Dalisay threw her free arm over her head and used it to brace her raised hand. The tan skin of her arms shone brightly against her light white headscarf. She cleared her throat – not once, but two times, the second time louder and more exaggerated than the first.

“Yes, Dalisay, how may I help you?”

“I don’t know why there’s all this concern over the soldiers and nobody’s talking about the dozens of civilians who have been hurt by this. I have an aunt and uncle who live in Isabela Town. Nobody worries about them. Vandals have pushed Mr. and Mrs. Soliman out of their very own store. It’s the very same store that provides for everyone in the community. That’s unfair, too, you know.”

“Miss Rana…” pleaded Jonny.

“It’s simply unjust. The news and the people are unfair. When the news concerns the Prophet Jesus’ followers, everyone is up in arms. My Muslim friends are an important part of this community, too. I don’t think our mosques, businesses, and homes should be burnt to the ground just because we choose Mohammed, peace be upon him.”

Dalisay folded her arms across her chest and pursed her lips. The stern look upon her face said it all. Then, Juvie Velasco raised her hand.

“No, Miss Velasco. Please, not now.”

“The prophet Jesus?” blurted Juvie, “you mean everyone’s messiah…even yours.”

“Miss Velasco!”

As Mr. G. tried to settle the dust between two opposite sides, Mr. and Mrs. Soliman were busy at the Jardin Sarangani, cleaning up from the latest (and quite possibly the last) round of rioting at their store.

The previous night, someone had tossed firebombs through the large picture window at the storefront. By the time the fire department arrived, most of the building was engulfed in flames. Thick, black smoke clouds billowed in the air. In addition to the fire department, a bucket brigade had come to the rescue. They saved the outer structure, but the inside was gutted, all sooty and black. Only skeletal remains of the shelves remained.

“Benny,” said Mrs. Soliman, “maybe we should just load the truck with the rest of our stuff and move to Cotabato.”

“I don’t think there’s any way we can do that. We’ve been here through all sorts of misery and this is no time to quit. Plus, we’re too old to pack up and start something brand new.”

“We’re too old to keep fighting.”

“If we move to Cotabato, our problems will just follow us there.”

“Cotabato is a nice, wholesome community with strong Muslim ties. It is not like that here.”

“People are people, dear. Wherever you go, there’s always something.”

Binyamine Soliman kept at it with his big broom in hand, cleaning aisles full of ash and broken glass. The rioting had been going on throughout August, but hadn’t yet hit his store. It would likely continue through September, too. Still, there were rays of hope coming from so many others in the community. Neighbors, known and anonymous, volunteered themselves, working with their own brooms and shovels. Strangers with wheelbarrows carted the trash away. Mr. Soliman couldn’t help but see the end of the rainbow, even through a dirty black lens.

“Benny,” said a woman, “I brought some chicken Adobo for you and your wife.”

“Thank you so much, ma’am, but I can’t take it. I don’t have anywhere to store it.”

“Have a seat and eat it right here,” she said to him. She pulled a silk floral handkerchief out of her purse and used it to wipe the soot off the steps. She folded the dirty old silk scarf and tucked it into her purse. Mr. Soliman looked at her in astonishment. For all intents and purposes, the scarf was ruined.

“Go ahead,” she insisted, “sit down and eat. Let us take care of the dirt.”

Mr. Soliman said a blessing over the food and took the gracious offer to heart, savoring each bite. A freight truck rumbled down the highway towards Mr. Soliman. It was Mr. Rana’s flatbed. A load of fresh lumber filled the back, so much so that the side rails had to be installed to hold everything in place.

“Hello, Benny!” greeted Mr. Rana.

“What is this?”

“It’s a little birthday gift to you.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s not?” asked Mr. Rana as he checked his watch, “Well, I’m impatient, you know.”

“I cannot possibly take this much from you. Let me pay.”

“Pay me back by re-opening yoru store.”

Mr. Rana gave a sharp whistle, directing everyone towards his truck. Quickly, they unloaded the lumber, leaving it just in front of the broken picture window.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Soliman were forced to sit down and enjoy their food as a troop of volunteers continued to work. It was much more than one couple could ever expect.

Mr. and Mrs. Soliman smiled brightly as they enjoyed their meals. Meanwhile, Mr. Rana directed the volunteers, making short work of a sizeable job.

A short distance away, Eiselle Lee cared after her mother. Outside, her brother Mat sat on the front porch with his friends, trying to stay cool in the miserable, muggy heat.

“Hey Aaron, you ready for another beer?” asked Mat.

Aaron nodded.

“While you’re up, put that fan in the window.”

“Here you go,” said Mat as he braced the fan against the window sash. He went to the kitchen and returned with four beers – one for him and each of his buddies.

“Make sure to savor every last drop, these are the last of the cold ones.”

“It’s so God damned hot out here,” said Mat.

Aaron nodded.

“Maybe we should go for a road trip and get another cold six-pack.”

“I dunno. I don’t think any amount of beer’s gonna help in this heat.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mat, “We’ll take the bikes into town and grab a couple bags of ice to put in a bowl next to the fan. That’ll help.”

“We might as well go find a bar with aircon.”

“Alright,” said Mat, “let’s get going.”

He grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and grabbed his 9mm pistol, too.

“Why on earth are you taking that?”

“You know how it’s been downtown lately.”

Aaron nodded, “all them damn Bangsamoro should just get the hell out of Gensan.”

Mat and his friends all jumped on their motorcycles and sped into town. The police presence was tense and well fortified. Heavy-gauge steel wires cordoned off the sidewalk from the street. A mix of police vehicles sat in the median, slowing traffic to a standstill. Officers on horseback oversaw the rest of the action as they drifted in and out of traffic. Mat looked to his buddies. Then, he motioned for the rest to follow him out of the traffic jam.

They sped north out of the city until they reached the outskirts of South Cotabato. Mat’s bike slithered through the traffic effortlessly as his friends cut across the center divide and used the berm to by-pass other traffic. When Mat entered the central district, his bike slowed. The Santa Magda cathedral sat at the side of the road, part of her exterior ruined by the recent firebombing. It wasn’t much different than the Yellow Mosque, but Mat didn’t care about those people. He crossed his heart and kissed the crucifix pendant on his necklace. Then, he revved the motorcycle’s engines and sped off again.

Just ahead, the three remaining minarets of the Yellow Mosque loomed overhead. Mat drove his cycle onto the sidewalk and stopped at the foot of the stairs. He popped the kickstand into place and strode up the staircase. Aaron arrived just in time to hear the sound of three gunshots. Then, Mat came sprinting out, taking the staircase three and four steps at a time.

“Go!” he shouted as he shoved his bike off the kickstand and revved the engine. The cycle peeled out on the sidewalk and laid a thick black patch of rubber as the bike spun out.

Before Aaron could react, Mat had sped down the street. Now, Aaron was also cutting through traffic, ignoring stoplights and street signs. This way and that, the bikes chased through Cotabato’s busy side streets. Aaron felt the blood coursing through the veins in his neck as police sirens blared behind him, far off in the distance. He couldn’t help but think the worst.

“Come on Aaron,” he thought to himself, “just calm down and breathe slowly.”

Everything around him sped by in a blur, but his mind was focused razor-sharp, watching the direction and speed of every vehicle, making split-second adjustments to his route. It felt nothing like the video games he’d played as a kid. His whole body was plugged in to this single moment.

As he caught Mat’s cycle, he knew Mat wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Mat was lost. Finally, Aaron decided to break away from Mat and headed out to the coastal road. As mat exited a small alley, he went left. Aaron went right. That would be the last time Aaron would see Mat or any of his buddies for the rest of the night.

 “This is Francis Vendiola reporting from the MindaNews desk in Davao. An unknown man walked into the Yellow Mosque in Gensan and assassinated a cleric at point blank range. The lone assailant was spotted running from the Mosque with gun-in-hand and speeding away on his motorbike. Witness reports are just now coming in, but police are asking witnesses to contact the police with any additional information in the matter. Police have not yet linked this incident with the Mosque bombing earlier this month and are asking that the public not speculate on the matter…”

“When will it end?” asked Mrs. Santiago.

She moved back in bed as she sat up, propping herself against the headboard. Eiselle leaned into her.

“I don’t know, ma. I just wish the radicals would stop fighting over Mindanao.”

“I suppose,” the old woman sighed, “but an eye for an eye is no way to life your life.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“I’m talking about the Catholics, too. The bishops are talking about peace, but the commoners are doing quite another.”

“Maybe it’s the Muslims…”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Maybe the Muslims are responsible for the firebombing and the shooting at the Yellow Mosque…”

“How on earth can you say that?”

“Maybe they want to keep their religious war against the government alive.”

“Oh, Eiselle, stop it. Just stop it.”   

Eiselle’s body went limp as she relaxed against her mother. There was nothing as sad in Eiselle’s world as being rejected by her mother. She absolutely hated it.

In the streets of Cotabato, Mat was on the run from imaginary pursuers. He veered this way and that through the city streets, still unable to find his way out of town. Although he and his brothers spent a good amount of time in South Cotabato, the recent road closings forced him onto side streets he’d never seen before. It was when he turned back to a main road that he accelerated through traffic again, frantically trying to get away from whatever might be chasing him. When a Jeepney blocked his view, he decided to pass using the wrong side of the street. An oncoming truck blared his horn and Mat laid his bike down in the middle of the street. His body tumbled helplessly as it skidded across the gravel road.

As Mat’s head came to a rest in the dirt, he felt nothing but a dull ringing in his ears and a weak sense of nausea. The sound of sirens blared in the distance. What seemed only a few split seconds was actually a long string of moments flashing through his dizzy head. As he tried to raise his neck off the gravel road, he also attempted to focus his gaze on the men approaching.

“Hello, sir, can you hear me?”

Mat nodded his head.

“Let me check for internal injuries.”

One of the men pressed the tip of one hand against Mat’s abdomen. Mat folded in half as he cringed in pain.

“Just hold still, sir. We’re going to move you on a body board.”

Mat gritted his teeth as the medics rolled him forward and scooted the body board against his underside. His ribs ached as the paramedics rolled him back onto the board.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Where am I going?”

“We’re transporting you to Cotabato Hospital, of course. Is there anybody you need us to contact?”

Mat coughed roughly as he shook his head. The men loaded Mat onto an ambulance and whisked him away.

The reports from local media immediately delivered the news to his family back home.

“South Cotabato’s Police Department states they are following up on several leads related to eyewitness reports of three individuals leaving the scene shortly after last week’s Yellow Mosque bombing. Officials encourage any persons with information regarding the Yellow Mosque bombing to contact the South Cotabato Police Department immediately…

…in related news, reports have reached the MindaNews desk of the shooting of a Yellow Mosque religious leader at point-blank range. News is spotty, but we will keep you up to date with the latest information on the incident…”

Mrs. Santiago reached forward and turned off the radio with a flick of the wrist. She collapsed into her chair and stared across the room.

“What’s wrong ma?”

“It’s Mat. I know it’s Mat.”

“Oh, come on, ma.”

Although Eiselle denied it, she knew her mother was right. It was Mat. Of course it was Mat. He had been angry at everyone and everything Muslim recently, proclaiming a cause to spiritual war. He had let too many of his secrets slip in mixed company.

Artist sketches had even connected him and his friends to other crimes in the past. The local church community, however, had remained largely silent. Soon, however, Mat Santiago’s likeness would be taped to windows and stapled to telephone poles as the manhunt commenced. For now, though, his trip to the hospital would go largely unnoticed as doctors tended to Mat’s wounds.

Meanwhile, aboard the U.S.S. Carl Vinson, Ralj was with Pidro, who was strapped into his gurney and ready to be loaded onto the Huey medivac helicopter.

“Alright buddy,” said Ralj, “you take care of yourself, okay?”

“Where am I headed?”

“We’re shipping you to the Villamor Airbase in the Northern Philippines and then onward to the Army General Hospital at Fort Bonifacio in Metro Manila.”

“Aw, man, I’m alright.”

“You’re far from alright,” Ralj chuckled, “You’ve got a couple pretty big holes in you.”

“I just got my first taste of the fighting. I was meant to be a soldier.”

“You’ll get plenty more chances, chief.”

Ralj patted Pidro gently on the chest before giving a hand signal to the pilot. He backed away from the chopper and headed for cover as it climbed into the sky and headed north.

The pain-killing chemicals swimming through Pidro’s blood sent his head reeling softly towards sleep for the remainder of time he was airborne. It wasn’t until he reached Fort Bonafacio that he regained any sense of consciousness. Still, his stomach swirled as he watched the corridor lights passing by overhead like highway reflactors.

“Where are we going?” he asked the orderly.

“We’re just headed to surgery so we can pull this shrapnel out of your shoulder so we can fix you up.”

“Good. My buddies need me.”

“You’ll be out of action for at least a couple of weeks.”

Pidro sighed.

“You’re pretty gung ho. How old are you?”

“Nineteen years and eleven months.”

“Ah, I wish we all couldl be as smart as the twenty year olds,” said the attending physician.

“If only,” said the orderly with a grin.

Pidro spent the next two hours in surgery, followed by a long, sleepful night of bed rest. By the time he woke late the next morning, a communications officer from Camp Lira in Gensan had stopped by the village in Baluntay.

“It’s an Army officer! It’s an Army officer!” came the shouts from the neighborhood children. They gathered around him like a crowd of pigs around a trough, eager to be fed, even if it was bad news. They all knew why the officer was here. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out the who.

“Do you know where the Serencio’s live?”

“I do! I do!” came the shouts. Children dragged the office along the muddy trails to the low end of the village where the Serencio house sat. Before they’d even arrived, some children sprinted ahead of the group. They shouted the news through the cane and thatch walls.

“An Army man is coming! An Army man is coming Mrs. Serencio!”

All the children’s gazes turned to their mother.

“Just relax, everyone, we don’t know if it’s good news or bad news.”

“You know they don’t come here to deliver good news,” said Maria. After she spoke, everyone looked to Lily.

“Aw, mommy, I hope it’s nothing bad.”

At that moment, a rapping came upon the door. Everyone braced themselves for the worst.

“Hello, ma’am. Are you Pidreo Serencio’s mother?”

“I am. Is he alright?”

“Yes and no,” said the officer, “He’s at Fort Bonafacio recovering from a gunshot wound.”

Lily gasped.

“No, no,” reassured the officer, “he’s alright. He’ll be recovering in the hospital for a few more weeks so the doctors can make sure he’s alreight and to do some physical therapy while it heals.”

Lily let go of a long, deep sigh. It was as if everyone in the room released the same thankful breath.

“He’ll be able to call you in another day or so and you’ll be able to hear his voice.”

“That’s terrific news1” exclaimed Mrs. Serencio as she threw her arms around the communications officer and embraced him.

“It’s not often I get to deliver this kind of news. It’s quite a relief.”

“We were all thinking the worst.”

“Well, now your worries should be over.”

The communications officer strode proudly through the muddy footpaths on his way back to the jeep. As he headed into the clearing, the sun shone brightly and warmed his back. The children ran behind the jeep in just their flip-flops and rag-tag clothes as the jeep sped away. Their shouts brought a smile to the officer’s face. It was the best feeling he had for a very long time.

“What a good day,” he said to himself.

For everyone in Baluntay, it was a very good day, indeed.

.