In stance: Dear Ampatuan, Jr.
I have to admit one thing: you were great. While everybody was busy reckoning how they’ll blatantly advertise themselves on every possible way for the coming elections, you were effortlessly hitting the headlines with that monstrous act you did on Maguindanao one Monday dawn. I know you’re innocent until proven guilty. But sure it wouldn’t be too much of me to accuse you, like what everybody else does, as the mastermind behind the slaughtering of journalists and the family and relatives of a would-be candidate in Sitio Masalay since it has been your name who’s dragged on evening news and morning papers for weeks now, since it was the name of your family that was printed on the crane used to viciously cover the carcasses of 57 innocent people with soil, since it was your name that Genalyn Mangudadatu last uttered over the phone to her husband, since it has been you whom Esmael pointed to be accountable for the horrendous death of his wife. For now, let’s just pretend you’re the culprit here. This wouldn’t actually stir me if it’s just another killing in the south which is feeding on us every now and then. What made me shiver was the seething number of innocent people set to support a gubernatorial candidate slaughtered at once, the 30 media workers, mindless of their gender, butchered at once which brought the Philippines now ahead of Iraq as the most dangerous country for journalists, which brought the numbers flying to 134 since 1986. You should know I had a hard time looking at the videos and pictures of the people killed in such ruthless manner—with holes in their heads; blood sprawled all over, bloated, some even raped left to rot. But it must have been harder for you to hide under your blanket every night hearing their cries and seeing their faces howling for justice, protesting for evenhandedness. You say people shouldn’t throw words of ire before you because you yourself were terribly hurt and suffered a loss because of this mayhem, because you say they were your family too. Nice try. I wonder who taught you to love and care for family members like that. You have a gruesome way of showing it. I wonder what was running through your mind while planning the cruelest incident to media workers ever recorded. I wonder how your remaining relatives feel about the shame you left for them to face. And I wonder how you’re feeling now about how thousands of people think about you—how much they loathe you and the other hundred armed men you were with. Actually, I wonder what you’re wondering about now, if you’re even feeling an iota of guilt or if you’re just sauntering around your doomed cell smirking behind our backs—feeling so legendary. The people you eradicated— the wife, relatives and supporters of a politician, the journalists set to cover an important news with their notebooks and cameras ready and the people who were just passing the same road; you never heard their cries and moans that were those of protest and begging, did you? It didn’t dawn on you that they were just doing acts of love and support, that they were just doing their jobs, yet you extremely punished for doing so. You never heard their helplessness in its loudness. Or is it more proper to say “didn’t choose to”? But remember these: you might have stolen the lives of 30 cameramen and writers of publications over Mindanao all for politics, but the remaining ones will never cease to write the truth about how filthy it is. You might have stolen the years they could have spent with their children, but you only got their young minds grow bolder than ever to face the peril of life, if not media and politics. You might have scared out the wits of aspirant journalists of today, but you never stopped them from unveiling what is nor from writing what should be. You never will. Madly enraged, Paulina David-Legarte Possibly Related Posts:
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