Despite the government’s ongoing truth-seeking probes on the tragic clash between the Philippine National Police-Special Action Force (PNP-SAF) and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) and the Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters, people remain angry, confused, disappointed. Because when a law enforcement operation leaves scores of people—44 PNP-SAF troopers, and at least 18 MILF members and seven civilians—dead, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth.
What happened in Mamasapano is not simply a “misencounter.” It is a tragedy that adds to a long, bloody history of altercations between the government and insurgents. It is a narrative that has been going on for at least 40 years, and much like the January clash, many of the encounters are plagued by unclear details, vastly imprecise casualty counts and a great lack of accountability even decades later. It is crucial to see past the narratives woven by the government and mainstream media.
The Jabidah massacre in 1968, for one, was only acknowledged by the government on March 2013 or 45 years after the incident, even if it is widely regarded as the catalyst for Moro insurgency. The Pata Island massacre in 1981, considered as one of the most devastating encounters for the military, saw 119 soldiers killed. The list goes on, with singular incidents seeing anywhere from 11 to more than a thousand people killed.
Yet blame is a flighty concept. The violence in Mindanao cannot be completely pinned on the insurgents. As the current investigations show, the police and the military are never completely blameless. In Oplan Wolverine, the operation behind the clash last January 25, the chain of command was disregarded, reinforcement failed and crucial tactical mistakes were committed on the ground. The Mamasapano clash painfully exposed the operational limitations that plague the police and the military.
We are also limited to seeing Mindanao as a hotbed of violence and the Moros as a people with a penchant for brutality. The grievances of the Moros, often glossed over, are deeply rooted in history. Since the American occupation, they have continually struggled against conquest, and insurgents have long desired an independent Islamic state. The Moros have also been facing economic concerns, as the area remains as one of the most impoverished in the country. Islamophobia is rampant as well. This is a region at the fringe end of the country, after all, obscured from government control and overrun by militias and powerful political clans.
As the circumstances that led to the tragic outcome in Mamasapano slowly unravel before our eyes, we must fight the urge to simply play the blame game; it will not be enough to solve the conflict in Mindanao. Rather than just pointing fingers, we are called to critically analyze the political, social and institutional structures in place that have allowed the bloody conflict in the region to span decades. We are challenged to accept that accountability is not just a burden to be shouldered by the president, the police or the rebels—we are players in this narrative too. We are players as a public that has subscribed to a culture of generalizations and stereotypes, of glossing over what may be legitimate grievances and seeing events without the bigger picture, the encompassing contexts. Indeed, a game change has long been overdue, and it is a change only its players can enforce.
Yet it is equally essential to see that some mechanisms for change are already in place. Peace talks have been ongoing. They have been painstakingly slow, perhaps, and often ironically marred with dissent, but they are there, and it has never been more important that they continue and succeed. The Mamasapano clash, along with the often obscured five-decades-long struggle, compels the need for equally deep-seated solutions such as those the ongoing peace talks have been attempting. Standing by the peace process despite the opposition is not only necessary—it is also perhaps our best hope.
