The Children of Carmen

(22nd of ‘My Story’ Series)

The years after my stint with the 9th SR Company took me through a very different path. I returned to General Headquarters, and had an opportunity to pursue further schooling abroad. As was customary for officers who had been sent abroad for further studies, I was eventually assigned to the Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC). In TRADOC, I became immersed in the broader business of preparing soldiers and shaping the Army itself. In 1998, I had an opportunity to return to the field, this time to command a much larger unit, the 3rd Infantry Battalion (3IBn) in Central Mindanao.

Much had changed in those six years. I had learned more about doctrine, organization, training and the institutional side of soldiering. But the most important lessons I carried with me were still those I had learned as a Ranger commander up in the mountains of Hilongos: that rank alone could never command genuine loyalty, and that leadership ultimately rested on credibility and trust. I was about to discover that those lessons applied far beyond the battlefield.

During my time with the Commanding Generals of the Army, my greatest satisfaction had been in being able to witness them apply their different styles of leadership up close and personal. Gen Cacanando taught me that leadership was about humanity; being able to look at everyone – most especially the most lowly people – in the eye, validating their pain, and helping them imagine a brighter future for themselves. General Flores taught me that leadership was about listening. He believed that people do not respond to being told what to do; they respond better to being heard. General Abadia taught me that leadership was about gaining the trust and confidence of your own people. And from General Enrile, I learned that one’s warmth and trust compounds faster than any other emotion you offer on the table. Different as their leadership styles were, they shared one quality: an ability to make people feel that they mattered.

These lessons would soon be put to the ultimate test in Central Mindanao.

When I took command of the 3rd Infantry Battalion (3IBn), we were deployed to Carmen, Cotabato, which was previously a notorious Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) hotbed. The air there was thick with decades of suspicion and raw conflict. The road leading to the Malitubog-Maridagao river still carried the painful scars of intense conflict, with a number of wrecked armored carriers still littering its way.

I soon realized that the heaviest walls of anger, fear and distrust within the Muslim communities were carried by the elders, who had seen decades of destruction and perceived oppression. They had survived the pain of losing brothers, neighbors and sons in the never-ending cycle of violence and finger-pointing. What was present was an uneasy peace between the Christian and Muslim communities, and I strove to find a way to make that peace a more permanent one.

Over the years, I have come to believe that achieving any lasting peace requires addressing the root causes – the historic grievances, the injustice, the mistrust, the lack of education, the lack of opportunities – rather than merely the suppression of conflict. I truly believe that while peace through strength can deter any immediate aggression, it only creates an uneasy and temporary truce. For so long as the grievances remain, so does the dream for a better world. And once that strength wanes, then the tensions resurface, risking an even bigger conflict.

Gen Cacanando once said that ‘Winning the war is not what counts. What really counts is winning the peace.’ He professed to us – during our frequent lunch talks – that conflicts resolved without shedding blood were far more effective and more economical than those won by sowing fear and destruction. I knew then that rank and firepower alone would not earn the trust of a wounded community. I had to find another way. Hence, I chose to walk into the community not simply as the commander of an army battalion, but as a neighbor who genuinely wanted to reach out and understand.

It was a difficult task, that of trying to reach out to the elders. Hardened by years of fierce combat, the elders’ distrust was close to palpable. But I found that the key to softening them lay with their grandchildren. These young kids may have grown up knowing only the terrifying crack of gunfire, but I would learn that these children had fewer layers of accumulated resentment and therefore were more open to a new experience, whereas the elders have had decades of experience in grief and distrust.

To bridge the divide, I organized for these village kids a four-day tour of Davao City, funded by the generosity of civic organizations and other well-meaning friends. I wanted them to see what an urban center looked like, and how development could bring in a better future for them. I wanted them to see a glimpse of a life beyond the boundaries imposed by war.

At first, there was a strong disapproval among the elders. The distrust was evident. They were unsure of our intentions for their young kids. I then proposed that a group of elders join the group to assure the safety of their young ones. With this, the elders finally gave their approval for our Davao educational tour to push through.

During the tour, we visited a school, where they saw – for the first time – how computers worked. The local school children also prepared a beautiful song and dance program that emphasized the value of education. And as they finished the program, the dancers gave away flowers and candies to their visitors as a gesture of love and reconciliation.

We also visited a Gaisano Mall, where its owner, John Gaisano, personally welcomed the children. He spoke to them about the opportunities that commerce and development could bring in a peaceful community and sent them home with bags of goodies. Along with members of the local Rotary and Eagles Clubs, John was among the generous friends who helped make the journey possible.

We brought them to the City Hall, where they were welcomed by the city officials and given a view of how the city was run. Next, we took them to the airport for them to see a plane fly, and imagine themselves on board one. In the Coca-Cola plant, they saw how big machines worked, showcasing how growth can be achieved in a peaceful environment.

Finally, we gave the children time to enjoy the beach – to swim, run, play, laugh, and simply be children. For many of them, it was a rare chance to set aside the anxieties of the world they had grown up in. Our stay was made possible through the generosity of Jess Dureza, who opened Seagull Resort to our group of more than 150 children, plus elders and soldiers for the entire four-day visit, free of charge.

For many, this would be the first time to experience so many things: the lights and sounds of a city, the aircon buildings and other amenities, the busy streets and the traffic, the computers, and finally, the beach. Gradually, we could see the smiles surface and the previously guarded laughter grow louder. Clearly, the activities were giving them hope for a brighter future. We wanted them to dream big for tomorrow; and to not confine their worlds to the conflict around them today.

On our last night, as we talked about our journey home the following day, I asked what they had learned. After hearing from many kids, many of them offering gratitude for the trip, a young teenager – someone who had stayed silent and detached for most of the trip – raised his hand slowly, his eyes wide and innocent, and when acknowledged, spoke candidly in the local dialect. His words pierced straight through my heart: “I learned that not all soldiers are killers.” Silence. “And not all Christians are land-grabbers,” he added.

For a few seconds, everybody froze. I remember looking at him and thinking how bold he was for uttering those words. And then I realized that I had just heard decades of conflict aired out in a single sentence, spoken by a child who – sadly – had never really known peace.

Hearing the teenage boy articulate a pain he had carried his entire young life broke my heart, but somehow, it also mended it. For the longest time, he had harbored such a negative view of soldiers and Christians. For a child who had known so much pain and conflict, something in his universe had suddenly shifted.

In the weeks that followed, I began to notice small changes in the neighborhood. Whenever I visited a village, children would come running to greet me. They were no longer hiding behind their mothers, or watching us from a safe distance. They would take my hand and walk with me. ‘Sir Holganza’, as the kids would call me, had become their friend.

In a way, those children became my first ambassadors. They would accompany me, introduce me, vouch for me, and help break the awkward silence whenever I sat down with their elders. They would talk about how they were treated in the trip to Davao, and what a wonderful time they had. Slowly, the elders who had initially kept their distance began to open their doors and talked more openly with us. The children had gone to Davao to discover a world beyond war. When they returned, they brought something equally important back to Carmen: a new way of seeing the soldiers, with the possibility that we – the soldiers in their midst – might not be their enemies after all.

I had arrived in Carmen eager to lead a battalion. But the children taught me that, before I could lead anyone toward peace, I first had to earn the right to be trusted. And sometimes, the first bridge across a divide is built not by generals or politicians, but by children, with their willingness to see another human being from a different lens.

For more on this, you can read back on “What I Learned From The Hills Of Hilongos” (21st of My Story Series). Just click on the title.