Rafcom

Last week in Tangcal, Lanao del Norte, I saw Commander Bravo sit at the presidential table alongside military officials. I was touched and teary-eyed. I figured people might find it strange to feel that way, so I reflected on what it was about that scene that left me so emotional. I thought about it all evening, and what I will write here is what I made out of it. 

My father passed away when I was eleven. It was a Tuesday, exactly twenty years ago today. 18th of July 2000. I was in school, and he was in the mountains of Barira, Maguindanao. My father was an MILF combatant. He was one of the trainers of the infamous MILF-Special Operations Group. My mom told me he joined in 1994 but was already aware of the movement as early as 1992. As a civilian, he was an Agricultural Technician of the Department of Agriculture (ARMM). 

This was the 90s and it was a sketchy time to be working for the government and be supportive of an insurgency group as well. I guess it is always sketchy regardless of the time. But that back then, these two things were almost always mutually exclusive. Of course, the assumption is that, if you work in the government, you live on a stable enough salary and are, more often than not, detached from the struggles of the marginalized. Perhaps this would also give us an idea why the BARMM government was so adamant with the idea of starting anew with a blank slate: ‘cleansing' the government of the people who used to work for the ARMM for decades; who, despite the years they’ve worked there, the results were rarely felt by those on the ground.

I never knew of my father's involvement in the movement as a child. Partly, because I grew up with my grandmother. Mostly, because they do not talk about it in my presence. All I know is that the days when he would show up in my grandma's house are the days when he would prepare to go to the “mountains”. I've always thought that it was for his work in DA. It is true, to some extent. I remember during the first few weeks of the all-out war, we were watching the news, and it showed footage of a field turned upside down as military planes dropped bombs over it. My dad was sitting beside m,e and I saw him dab his eyes with the collar of his shirt. I asked why he was sad, and he said something along the lines of how the farmers who have tended that field have spent half the year toiling only for their hard work to disappear in the blink of an eye.

My mom told me that my dad ended up in Barira because nobody in DA would want to take the Iranun provinces on the borders of Lanao. It was, after all, rebel territory. But he got that post, and for five years or more, he would go in and out of the mountains bringing programs of DA to the farmers there. Given his constant visits to the area, I guess it is but expected that he will eventually join the movement. My mom also told me the story of how she was able to locate my father's grave. It was by accident. See, my dad died during the height of the hostilities, and his body was never brought to us. All we knew then was that, in adherence with the tradition of martyred mujahideen, he is to be buried right at the place where he fell. 

My mom went to Parang a week after we received the news of his passing. She initially intended to look for the Municipal Agricultural Officer of the town to ask where my father was last located before his death. This was at the height of hostilities, and droves of people have moved to Parang following the massive displacement in the inner municipalities. Around lunchtime, my mom found herself at a makeshift karenderya and sat down to eat beside an elderly woman. Typically, they engaged in small talk. The elderly woman asked my mom what she was there for, and she stated her purpose. She described what my father looked like and, in a curious twist of fate, the elderly woman said she knew exactly who my mom was referring to. 

The elderly woman told the story about how this "tall, cheerful young man" would visit their community and talk about agricultural practices and that at one point, he gave them a sack of rice on his way up to the mountain. It was then that my mom knew that they were talking about the same man. Apparently, my father told my mom about how in one of his visits to the mountains, he passed by the community and gave them the ration that was supposed to be for him and his group of men. 

My mom went home that day and told my grandma about what happened. They then planned their trip to my dad’s grave not soon after. 

I’ve only visited that place once. It was very difficult to get there, but the scenery was breathtaking. I remember that after we arrived at the community in the mountains, we had to ride a horse and walk past two more mountains.

My father and one of his companions fell near a spring somewhere in Marigalupa. The locals, upon hearing it, brought his body immediately to safety and buried it near a big mango tree.

What I know of my father is centered on my memories of him when he was with us. To me, he was my dad. Not a combatant or someone else. He was the man who would carry me around even when I was already too heavy to be carried around. He would always listen to my stories and had never looked down on me just because I'm a child. It is strange because I grew up with my grandma and my dad would only visit us once in a while, but his influence in my life goes on until now. Mostly, it was the stories that the people say about him that make up the rest of his memory for me. About how kind and humble he is and how he never had an enemy. He lived a very low-key life. No political ambitions, devoid of material wealth.

Now that I’m older and I get to rub elbows with ‘important’ people, especially in the Bangsamoro, someone would ask me, "A Baraguir! Whose daughter are you?" I would respond, "ah, you probably don’t know him." Because that was how I remember him. Someone who does not introduce himself with his name but as "wata ni Kagui Racma" (Kagui Racma's son) or "ama ni Mulag" (father of Mulag---what he calls me). And so, I know him not as anybody else except as my father. 

Every once in a while, I will meet someone who actually knows him. And they would always look at me with kind, sometimes teary, eyes. One certain afternoon late last year, I was walking with my officemate Miraj under the shaded walkways of the BARMM compound when a man kept looking back at us. He was in front of us and kept glancing back. Annoyed, I asked Miraj in a loud voice, “kilala mo yang lalake?”. And then the man said, “Seka, Bai. Kilala ko seka. Wata ka ni RAFCOM.” And I swear to God, I felt the afternoon grow quiet. Then the man said, “La ilaha illallah. Wata ka ni RAFCOM. Bedtindeg i bumbul ko.” And in a broken voice said, “Tagepeda aku ni ama nenka.” Ashamed of my rather rude response earlier, I said softly “, Ampun, Bapa. Da ko seka makilala.” And he gave me a sad smile. It’s the kind of smile when your lips are pursed, and no glimmer of joy reaches your eyes. He asked me to send his salaam to my mom, and then we parted ways at the BARMM gate.

People had treated me kindly, even now, whenever they find out that I am his daughter. To a point that I feel most at home knowing that I live under his shadow. He is a man so great that he cast a shadow so large; I am able to grow this big under it.

I am still trying to learn about him. Less about the father he was, but more about who he is from how people knew him.

This is just one of the many stories that I have to tell. Even though they are not my stories. This is the first time that I will tell this in public, partly because I was mostly hesitant. I still don’t know who to trust. Even though BARMM is now in place and so many MILF people have come out of hiding, some aren’t even supportive of the movement before but are now wearing the MILF tag as if it is a badge. I am still hesitant to share because I lived and still remember the time when affiliation to the group is to be hidden. Because it will cause you harm. Because it will bring death. And to my family, it did; even though I don’t regret that now.

Many times I find myself wondering, “how would it be like if my dad were still here?” Will I be the same? What will be different? What would be his opinion of the BARMM? For the most part, I never felt that my dad had passed on. Instead, I feel that he just left for a looong, long while but will eventually return.

Maybe that’s why I got emotional in Tangcal.

My dad will never see what I have seen that day. But perhaps his passing is one of the many knobs in the wheel of fate that made that scene happen. A full circle. At the expense of a life and four fatherless kids.