By: Butch Galicia
On Feb. 25, 1980 in Cotabato City, a beautiful sunset was at its edge. The sky started to dim. Stars peeked and teased for a fervent wish. People milled and strolled in and around the plaza to relax and enjoy the cool air. Tired bodies trekked to the plaza’s corners, where passenger jeepney and tricycle drivers awaited to bring them home from work and from school.
The promise of a peaceful Monday dusk, however, would be abruptly ended.
Metallic thuds … blinding flashes … ear-piercing blasts.
An explosion shook the half-full orchestra section of the Yusingco Theater near the waterfront. Another flashed in front of the Sanitary Barber Shop at the plaza’s southeast corner. Deadly shrapnel flew after the third blast along the main street near city hall. Two lives were instantly claimed. Many others were scarred, if not maimed. Panic ensued amid cries of pain and subdued pleas for help.
*****
Panting heavily and visibly shaken, Jimmy Deboma rushed his way into Radio Station DXMS and broke out the ugly piece of news to me and Roy Sinfuego, a defense reporter of Manila Bulletin visiting the city: “Tatlong granada … sa plaza … Yusingco … may patay … maraming sugatan (three grenades … at the plaza and Yusingco … someone killed … scores wounded).”
Jimmy was the teletype operator at the Philippines News Agency (PNA) Cotabato. PNA senior reporter Lito Catapusan opened PNA’s small office at DXMS, under an exchange deal, in mid-January 1980. I was its bureau chief for ten years.
“Pare, pang-headline ito. Trabaho tayo (Buddy, this is headline material. Let’s get to work),” Roy told me. We geared up for the job ahead, agreeing on teamwork and information sharing as opposed to the ‘scoop’ mentality of most newsmen those days.
It was mid 6 and 7 p.m. We had to work fast to send detailed but accurate accounts to Manila Bulletin and PNA newswire clients across the Philippines and abroad. We knew we had only until 9 p.m. to do that, before editors put the dailies to bed.
*****
Late that afternoon, Jennifer Rodriguez, 11, went with her cousin, Virginia Dimaano, 15, to the city plaza. They had to. Vending balut (steamed duck eggs) was their family’s source of life as far back as they knew. They took their usual strategic spots, at the corner of Sinsuat Ave. and Almonte St. between the city hall and the city plaza, near the queue of jeepneys waiting to be filled up with peak hour commuters. Both girls hoped for brisk sales that evening. But before they could even sell a balut …
Before dusk, Maguid Alilaya, 28, went to a comic book stand – that also served as a retail outpost for candies and cigarettes — near the entrance to Sanitary Barber Shop, just a block away from Jennifer and Virginia. Maguid, a regular at the stand, was there to read, relax and while away the time after a hard day’s work. Well on his way to finishing his third Wakasan …
As the projector reeled inside the Yusingco Theater, a university student was enjoying a movie with his girl. They had classes that night, but thought of skipping some ‘boring’ lessons for a long overdue date. It was mid-flick when …
*****
“URGENT ….. COTABATO CITY, Feb. 25 (PNA) – Three grenades exploded in different parts of the city at dusk today, killing at least two and wounding scores, two of them seriously. (PNA) ... MORE TO FOLLOW”, thus Jimmy typed this news bulletin on an antiquated M15 teletype keyboard, and transmitted it to PNA Manila.
Roy and I hit the phones for more fast facts and figures from the police, hospitals, clinics and DXMS’ live broadcast feeds.
PNA Manila desk editors burned the reply-back telex machine demanding for updates, which were fodder for national global radio and television.
*****
One of the grenades exploded inches away from Jennifer and Virginia. The impact carved a hole on the asphalt. Despite bloodied shrapnel-mangled bodies, both girls hanged on to dear life. In haste, good Samaritans carried Jennifer to the City General Hospital about 120 meters away; Virginia, to the nearby Cotabato Regional Hospital.
The other blast was quite far from Maguid, but grenade fragments reached and hit his leg. Although hurt and shaken, he managed to hop to the nearby City General Hospital.
The students were lucky, shielded from shrapnel by the theater’s rows of old wooden seats. Like the rest, they joined the mad dash out of the theater, nursing the trauma of near injury or death. They went back to school with a shocking tale to tell friends and classmates.
Shortly before 9 p.m., Roy and I wrapped up our updates, sent our stories and went out for more follow-ups. Roy had an interview with constabulary commander Major Brassim Mamalinta. I went to the city hospital. Jimmy held the PNA fort.
*****
Unconscious but breathing, Jennifer lay still at the only bed at the city hospital’s emergency room. Around her stood hospital director Dr. Eduardo de la Fuente and his team, working on her wounds. He had that usual extraordinary surge of adrenaline and sense of urgency when he worked in matter-of-life-or-death situations.
At one point, Dr. de la Fuente asked for blood to be quickly transfused on Jennifer. When he looked my way, it was a sad glance. “Sir … Type O … regular donor,” I muttered.
He shook his head and told me, “You had a drink, it smells; you are tired and stressed, it shows.” “But …” was all that I could say, disappointed to have been shut off from Jennifer’s timeline.
Nearing 11 p.m., Dr. de la Fuente pressed my shoulder lightly and whispered: “We’ve done everything possible. Even if she survived, she would lose her legs. It’s just a matter of time.” Before midnight, he told me that “Jennifer had gone to heaven.” Virginia passed a few hours later.
Sleep was wanting that night. I dared not close my eyes, fearing a nightmare. Vividly imaginable were the angelic ghosts of Jennifer and Virginia hovering above. Their spirits were pleading not for an eye or a tooth, but for mercy and forgiveness for those who did them away. They were praying that their tragic deaths would be the last unimaginable desecration of human life.
*****
As soon as the news broke out, calculated whispers on who carried out the bombings also swiftly circulated. Rumors claimed the grenade lobbers were new rebel recruits on test missions. Gossip alleged of lone expendable wolves let loose to justify further military expansion in Mindanao’s garrison cities, swarming with troops to ward off known and perceived threats from secessionist and communist armed groups.
People would have none of the above. They knew only one thing, that peace-loving city residents once more had been hurt, maimed and killed by cruel, heartless and cold-blooded beasts and criminals.
The story hogged the front pages of dailies and breaking news reports of the broadcast media. Roy’s byline was tops in the Manila Bulletin; mine in the Times Journal. It was the first Philippine national daily headline story credited to me. However, I felt that it was just an ego booster; a grim and bloody proof of a job that news reporters were trained to do and which ought to be done as brief, as fast and as accurate as could be.
*****
Today, as I reflect on what transpired that fateful evening, I could not believe that all I did then was count the number and jot down the personal profiles of the dead and the injured. I could not believe how insensitive I was to the indignity and pain the victims suffered from acts of cowardice and murder. I realized that if I ever wanted to talk to them, it was not out of caring or sympathy but to merely use their stories to empower mine.
Such was the nature of the job that I had to see what I couldn’t un-see, hear what I couldn’t un-hear, and sense what I couldn’t un-sense at all. I have always stood aback, and maintained the image of being cold and hard, callous and stoic. I was treading a fine line between being objective, which the profession hails as a hallmark of good and credible news coverage, and having to cast judgment formed by emotion and opinion.
Yes, buddy. A news reporter is human and has feelings too. Plainly recalling this episode in my career as a news reporter entrenched in Mindanao for over 30 years sends a shiver down my spine. Just thinking of that dreadful night makes me wonder why there exist people who would rather assert bigotry, hate and ignorance than help resolve a lingering problem as elusive as peace and prosperity in Mindanao.
Like others, I wish to ably understand why there are those who just look on, shrug a shoulder, blame whoever and whatever, and insist that violence is, was and will always be just one of those cruel things in this mad and crazy world; instead of extending an arm to ease the pain and suffering of fellowmen. One would really find it hard to walk the talk unless one has seen and felt violence, death and destruction right in his own backyard.
Yet, I still believe that despite the challenges and the risks, persistence and a noble goal will continue to guide peacemakers to go on working hard and to leave no stones unturned to prove wrong the critics and the enemies of peace in Mindanao, or in any other place for that matter.
Recovered from files and news clips, the foregoing grenade bombing story happened 36 years ago; and it has haunted me throughout. Meanwhile, the reality remains: Long before and much longer after Jennifer and Virginia, a lot more innocent unsuspecting victims have been displaced, crippled and killed in an armed conflict that has gripped Mindanao in Southern Philippines for nearly five decades. butchgalicia@yahoo.com
