Covering the crisis in Zamboanga City, journalists had to contend with the large volume of gunfire exchanged daily between government troops and the MNLF fighters. It has been standard practice among journalists to run full tilt when crossing alleys and streets near the conlfict areas knowing rebel snipers would have a hard time distinguishing a journalist covered in body armor from a soldier or policeman.
So it was with great interest that I followed a lead from a loose tongued policeman about what I thought of then was a tall tale about MNLF snipers having surrendered or captured and being held by the police.
It turns out the story was true.
I went to a police facility near the areas of conflict and chanced upon a handful of alleged MNLF snipers in the process of being fingerprinted and booked.
Most of the rebels had wounds, ranging from superficial gashes on their arms to oozing bullet wounds on their legs and shoulders. I counted around five men in their late sixties among the arrested MNLF soldiers while the rest were in their late teens and early 20s.
An emaciated looking young man with long, oxide-bleached hair sat on the floor with handcuffs bobbing his head to some song playing through his earphones.
They smelled of sweat and gun powder, their hands blackened, and faces burnt dark brown.
It was then that I saw him. A giant of a man with long curly hair and huge hands, sat sleeping in a corner of the room. His head was leaning on a makeshift blackboard where a list of the names of known hostages were written.
His handcuffed hands were swollen from burns and cuts, a patina of soot painting the skin an ashen gray. His thick fingers, scarred and calloused from use, bore more cuts and bruises.
The camoflauge pants he was wearing had turned a light gray from age and he nursed a wound on his right arm. His skin, a deep, dark olive brown, glistening from the grime and soot of the days past. A serene, almost relieved expression was on his face. After the violence and uncertainty of the past few days, I imagine dreams may be the only safe refuge for men like him.
A police official sidled next to me and whispered with unmasked awe.
"Thats the Sta Catalina sniper", referring to the village where the most intense fighting had been waged since the rebels entered the city.
He must have heard us for the man suddenly opened his eyes and fixed his intense eyes at our direction. Words can never describe how It felt to be on the receiving end of that burning stare. His eyes were like coals in the night, smoldering and unflinching with the fire of purpose. It was a good thing I had my camera.
I was told this man was one of the many MNLF snipers that had prevented soldiers and tanks from making headway into the rebel positions along Lustre St.
For days, the rebel snipers held their positions, on top of buildings and inside attics. This man did not surrender. He was cornered by government troops simply because he ran out of bullets.
A flicker of recognition crosses the man's face and he breaks into a wide, almost sheepish smile. It was like watching a chameleon, a killer turning into someone's goofy uncle.
I was convinced I had seen this man before, or him me. Not in the sense that I was a tv journalist but because we had seen each other before in the far off jungles of Sulu.
"I know you" I tell him.
Incredibly he nods and cracks an even bigger smile.
"Tausug" he answers back.
"Bitanag?" I ask, referring to a trip I made to MNLF Commander Ustadz Habir Malik's old stronghold in Panamao in Sulu.
He nods again.
I try to prod him for more information but the only word he utters is 'Tausug'
One of the questions that had been burning through my mind in the past days of strife and scorched earth was the seeming indifference of the MNLF fighters to the incredible odds stacked against them. Government troop estimates number around 5000 in the conflict area while intelligence reports peg rebel numbers at around 180 armed men.
The devastation and loss of life caused by the MNLF assault is unforgivable, whatever motive and belief behind it. But one cannot be faulted for feeling a sense of awe at the determination of this men.
What was this blind loyalty and belief that drove former fishermen, farmers and ordinary folk to follow the man they call commander Malik to the very gates of hell?
I get my answers from a nineteen year old sniper named Udab from Talipao, Sulu who was also among the arrested.
He tells me they were promised ten thousand pesos to attend the planned MNLF flag raising at the Zamboanga City hall. Most of them did not have guns when they came to Zamboanga. On Monday, just before the planned march, they were issued firearms somewhere in Brgy Sta Barabara.
The military had been circulating news about the death of Commander Malik perhaps in an effort to dampen the morale of the remaining MNLF fighters. But Udab shakes his head when I try to confirm the death of the senior MNLF commander. he tells me he last saw Malik, Friday night.
"It is God's will that he is alive. Bullets cannot harm him"
I leave the snipers to their fate. But before I leave, I am compelled to take one last look at the Sta Catalina sniper.
He is still sleeping, the same contented, peaceful look marking his slumber. It must be the first real sleep he has had in the last few days. Whatever fate awaited him in the secret places reserved for dangerous men like him he seems to have already accepted. Perhaps he was dreaming of his home in far away Sulu or simply content that despite his capture his family honor is intact and his place in heaven secure, for having fought to the very end.
