The Awakening of Milbuk
Diary of a Missionary Priest
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
The Sergeant and I approached a group of three soldiers who were nonchalantly leaning up against a wall of stacked sacks of grain, smoking cigarettes and observing the milling crowd of women and children with bored looks. Our presence disturbed them a bit but they were polite enough to listen to our request for directions to Colonel Molina’s command post. One of the soldiers slung his Armalite rifle over his shoulder and directed us to follow him. The sergeant and I followed the soldier to the interior of the village toward a group of well-built homes that lay about thirty meters from the Mosque over to the left of the village. The soldier then directed us to a small square table encircled by three chairs. An umbrella- like covering hung above the table to provide shade from the day’s sun. Within seconds, a middle aged man, about 40, dressed in the khaki of his profession and wearing the insignia of a colonel moved smartly toward us and greeted us. “I’m Colonel Mateo Molina”, he said business-like. “I’m Father Arthur Amaral, parish priest of Milbuk and this is Sergeant Romero. We’ve been sent here, sir, by Colonel Villarin to confer with you about your plans for the refugees.” “Please be seated, Father, you too Sergeant.” The Colonel then called to one of his aides and instructed him to bring us all some tea. “Well, Father, how do you find this place?” he continued. “It’s quite crowded, Colonel. Where did all these people come from?” I inquired. The Colonel replied to my question with a definite air of authority, “We gathered them all from the villages in the area. We wanted to make sure that no rebels escaped into the mountains. Now we are questioning the men about their involvement in this secessionist movement of theirs.” The Colonel was obviously intelligent. He appeared to be a learned man and one whose authority was not to be questioned. I informed him again that Colonel Villarin had commissioned me and Sergeant Romero to set up refugee services for the hundreds of displaced evacuees. And so I said to him… “Colonel, where do you intend to set up the evacuee camp?” I inquired. “The women and children will be sent to Kulong-Kulong” he replied. “You can take care of them over there. The men remain here with me.” Then the Colonel’s face grew dark and his eyes stared at me as he said, “Let me ask you, Father…is it better to feed them or to kill them?” (The Colonel was speaking of the 500 Muslim men that he had imprisoned in the Mosque under heavy guard.) I was visibly shocked at these words…words that seemed unbelievable from a responsible Officer of the Army of the Philippines. I thought to myself, “Am I really hearing what he said? If he was trying to shock me, he succeeded. What kind of man am I dealing with?” I began my defense of the detainees by stammering out…”Of course it’s better to feed them than to kill them.” The Colonel replied…“If we feed them, then we will have to fight them another day.” “And if you kill them,” I replied, “you will have their sons growing up to hate you. They will fight you and the violence will continue out of revenge. It is better to feed them and win them over to your side in the hope that one day they will see themselves as true Filipinos and not demand secession.” I could tell that Colonel Molina was not convinced by my words. He stared at me in silence and then the conversation came to a sudden halt. As we sat in silence, the tea arrived and the three of us sipped from our cups until the Colonel abruptly rose from the table, wished us a good day and directed one of his officers to accompany me and the Sergeant around the village to see whatever we wanted. I bid farewell to the Colonel and courteously thanked him for his time. Numbly I walked off with the Sergeant and the Officer assigned to us by Colonel Molina to tour this place of sadness. It was only too evident to me that something horrible was about to happen. “I want to see the Mosque”, I said to the Lieutenant. Without a word, the Lieutenant led me sixty meters over to the right of the Mosque to a side door that led to the darkness inside. By now, the sun was high and the brightness of the day made it difficult for me to see inside this almost windowless building. No noise or sound could be heard within, only the voices of the soldiers outside as they patrolled the village and kept order. Then slowly, as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the room, shadowed images began to appear from across the expanse of floor. From the front of the large prayer area and all the way to the back of the Mosque, the floor was covered with the squat figures of 500 men huddled together, and cramped into this tight space. I gazed upon these frightened men, strangers to me, nameless, faceless people. All eyes turned toward the doorway which I now filled. There was expectation…but only silence came. What could I say to them that meant anything at all? What words of encouragement could I give them from a mind so confused by this whole situation? I never felt so helpless…and so embarrassed at my powerlessness. I was a missionary priest after all. I must be able to do something. No more than a minute or two was spent peering upon this scene of tragedy. I wanted to get away …to leave this place. Turning about, I walked slowly from the Mosque in the direction of the beach, eyes downcast. After walking about twenty paces, I quickly looked up to find myself staring into the barrel of a .30 caliber machine gun positioned on the back porch of one of the houses and directed at the Mosque. There were no soldiers attending this weapon. How strange, I thought, “Like sheep led to the slaughter…” These Muslims were silently submissive to this army. There was no revolt here. Where were these rebels that caused so much trouble for Milbuk? News had come to me later on that there was no opposition to the troop landings at Malisbong or at any of the other villages along the coast. No weapons were found on any of the people or in their villages. Nevertheless, “We will interrogate the men to find out who the rebels are”, said the Colonel. Did the AFP really want to find out the truth?
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
An American missionary priest narrates his experiences of human tragedy and political deception, while serving as a parish priest in a logging community of 4,500 people, situated along the verdant, southwestern coastal plain of the Celebes Sea in Mindanao, Philippines. A previously peaceful and idyllic Christian town is abruptly torn apart with the senseless murders of its citizens by a group of armed Muslim rebels belonging to the MNLF (Mindanao National Liberation Front). This fact-based account describes the incidents that led up to the massacres and the continuing slaughter that spiraled out of control, when elements of the Armed Forces of the Philippines came to the defense of the town and in the process retaliated against the neighboring Muslim communities. Hundreds of Muslim men were mindlessly slaughtered in retaliation. These events during the civil conflicts of 1974 exacted a heavy toll upon both communities.
About the Author
Arthur E. Amaral, originally from Boston, Massachusetts, has lived in New Jersey for the past thirty nine years with his wife and five children. Ordained to the priesthood in 1964, Rev. Amaral was assigned to the Philippines where he successfully worked as a missionary for more than ten years. He resigned from his duties as a priest and returned to the United States to begin employment in a New Jersey Youth Correctional Facility where he spent the next 26 years, developing programs of treatment for inmates and serving as Director of Policy and Planning. Upon retirement, Arthur volunteered his services as substitute teacher at the local Middle and High School Facilities. This lasted for two years until the demands of family care-giving became critical. During this time, he began working on a manuscript of his memoirs, three years after retirement, publishing his first book entitled, “On the Palms of My Hands” on February 8, 2007. The book awakened the memories of former residents of the logging town about whom he wrote. Most of the residents had to abandon their home town for safety and settle elsewhere in the Philippines during the civil war conflicts of 1974-76. However, the sons and daughters of the displaced loggers were able to continue their education and successfully live in other cities of the Philippines and on every continent. Reunions began to spring up all over the world in which the former residents found themselves. A new found joy and pride in the place they called home, gave rise to a new sense of their community with each other and their desire to visit once again this special place. The author himself made the journey back to this fabled town over a year ago, on April 10, 2014. And so arose the need to continue the story of this special community and to find out “whatever happened to…” Yes! This time there is a hope of a happy ending.