I DID not have any opportunity to study. My family was poor and my father farmed land that was not his. I only reached grade one. I could neither read nor write.

But I grew up in a town where guns were a fact of life. Guns were prized highly in the community. I learned to use a gun at an early age. For the most part, and because I could not have any gainful employment for being unschooled, I hung around in the neighborhood or played basketball.

But I was tough. People told me that. Perhaps, it was this quality that caught Datu Unsay Ampatuan’s attention.

It was Datu Unsay who picked me to serve as a member of the Police Auxiliary Force (PAF) of Ampatuan town. One day he talked to my parents and told them he wanted me to work for him. In Maguindanao, the word of the Ampatuans was the law. No one went against what Datu Unsay wanted to happen because he will not hesitate to kill anyone who disobeyed his wishes.

What he did to people who went against him is common knowledge to the residents of Maguindanao. It was either you said “yes” to him, or you got yourself killed for daring to say “no” to Datu Unsay. Working for the Ampatuans, I’ve seen with my own eyes how everyone bowed to his every whim and how he ruled with an iron hand. My parents did not have any choice. My father told me about Datu Unsay’s request.

So I showed up at Datu Unsay’s bidding at the Ampatuan town municipal hall to see someone whom, he said, was supposed to process my papers. There, I was told that I would be given the name _____________________. And that was that. I could not do anything about it. From then on, I came to be known by that new name given to me.

However, he assigned me to his cousin Datu Kanor, with whom he worked closely.  The two Datus were inseparable. They were like brothers. Not only were their houses in Ampatuan town within a stone’s throw of each other; they were always together, so much so that wherever they went, I went too. It is for that reason that I gained intimate knowledge of the workings of the Ampatuan clan, especially of Datu Unsay and Datu Kanor. For about one and a half years – and until a few days after the massacre –I worked for them, and did their every bidding.

As a member of the town’s PAF, I was paid a monthly salary of three thousand pesos and a sack of rice. In addition, Datu Kanor would occasionally give me small amounts ranging from two hundred pesos to five hundred pesos as allowance. I was even issued the regulation blue police uniforms worn by members of the Philippine National Police, except that my uniforms – eight pairs all in all – bore a patch that said “auxiliary.” It worked this way: we auxiliaries were always accompanied by at least one regular PNP officer.

Now I am executing this affidavit to tell of what I know of, and what my participation was in, the Nov.  23, 2009 massacre which took place in Barangay Salman, Ampatuan town, Maguindanao.

About a week before the incident, Datu Andal Ampatuan Sr. called a meeting at his house in Ampatuan. In that meeting, Datu Unsay, Datu Kanor, Datu Mama and some others whom I could not remember were present. I was also in the meeting because my boss Datu Kanor asked me to accompany him. In that meeting, Datu Andal instructed the leaders present to prepare their men because Esmael “Toto” Magundadatu will soon be filing his certificate of candidacy in Shariff Aguak. He told the gathering that Toto Mangundadato must be stopped. The old man then told the leaders that they will lie in wait along the highway near Barangay Salman and block the Mangudadatu’s convoy there. Everyone is to be taken – the Mangundadatus and whoever will be escorting them to Shariff Aguak.

Datu Kanor deployed me and the other auxiliaries under him on Friday, Nov.  21, 2009. There I was surprised to see so many armed men. I estimated our number to have reached at least 200. There, regular PNP personnel worked side-by-side with the auxiliaries, Civilian Volunteer Organization (CVO) men, as well as Special Civilian Armed Auxiliary (SCAA) men. I also saw soldiers there – I must have counted about 30 of them – and they were dressed in Army fatigue uniforms. I know they were real soldiers (we  usually call them “original”) because of their uniforms, which bore Army patches not worn by SCAAs or by CAFGUS. It was the largest operation of its kind I have ever seen since working for the Ampatuans, who even deployed two Sangukus – armored trucks bristling with .50 caliber and .30 caliber machineguns – there.

Datu Kanor himself manned the road block we placed along the highway, not far from a bridge. I accompanied him there. Also with us was a man who was introduced to me as Superintendent Dicay, an “original” PNP officer.

The Mangundadatus showed up at our roadblock late morning Sunday. I could not tell exactly what time it was, but I don’t wear a watch and I don’t know how to read time, but the sun was already high up in the sky. Datu Unsay wasn’t there when we stopped Magundadatus’ convoy of five vehicles. He had to be called in by handheld radio.

The first thing that Datu Kanor ordered me to do was seize the video cameras of what I took to be media people on the lead vehicle, a white pickup. Then at gunpoint the people in the convoy were ordered to step out of the vehicles and form a line beside their vehicles. Orders were also given to confiscate from them cellphones, cameras and other electronic equipment. These were placed on a table we had set up near the road block.

Shortly after, Datu Unsay arrived, toting a baby M203 rifle grenade launcher. He headed for the third van, which carried the Mangudadatus. I saw Datu Unsay hit Genalyn Mangudadatu with the butt of his rifle on the left cheek. She staggered and gave a cry of pain. She cursed Datu Unsay.

Then they were herded back into the vehicles. This time, some from our party took over the wheels of the Mangundadatu convoy.

From what I remember, the bulk of the blocking force of around 200 men remained in their positions along the highway. Only 26 of us accompanied the convoy to the hilly portion of Sitio Masalay, Barangay Salman, Ampatuan. Of the 26, seven were designated as shooters by Datu Unsay – himself, Datu Kanor, Datu Ban, Datu Mama, myself, a certain Kudja, and a police officer whom I knew to be Police Officer 1 (P01) Ando Masukat.  The last two men were part of Datu Unsay’s close-in security personnel.

Three of us shooters were armed with Baby M203 rifle grenade launchers – myself, Datu Ban and Datu Unsay; Datu Mama held an AK-47 rifle; Datu Kanor, a K-3 light machinegun. Both Kudja and Ando Masukat were armed with M16 Armalite rifles.

The rest of the men—also heavily armed—were to act as Of these men, I could remember the names of seven: Buka, Lingkong, Surin, Armand, Kaking, Tony and Misuari. If I see these men again I believe I will be able to identify them. They brandished high-powered weapons, including M60 machineguns, M16 Armalite rifles, M203 rifle grenade launchers and M14 assault rifles.

I could only remember who drove five of the six vehicles up to the site of the massacre: the first, Datu Kanor; the second, a CVO whose name escapes me now; the third, Alex, the fourth, Kaki, the fifth, Tony.

I rode on the third van driven by Alex. I do not remember exactly how many were there in the van but I am sure that it was full of people, most of whom were women. In the same van rode Genalyn Mangudadatu, the wife of Vice Mayor Esmael Mangudadatu. I sat on the front seat, beside the driver.

When we reached the hill, Datu Unsay, who came in his black DMX truck, ordered the passengers in the third van to alight first. I followed the passengers as they stepped out of the van. As Genalyn Mangudadatu emerged from the van, Datu Unsay hit her on the left cheek with the butt of his gun. She staggered at the blow and nearly collapsed to the ground, breaking into loud sobs. Datu Unsay then told everyone to form a line and to lie prostrate on the ground not far from the van. The victims complied with his order. We shooters then formed a jagged line just a foot or so away behind them.

Genalyn Mangudadatu lay at the head of the line (?) When Datu Unsay tried to pull her up by an arm to stand, she refused. Instead, she knelt on the ground. An angry Datu Unsay then aimed his baby M203 rifle grenade launcher at her back and fired pointblank on full automatic mode. I heard the woman gave a loud cry as she fell to the ground.

“Sige, fight,” Datu Unsay then shouted at all of us to indicate that we start shooting; I pulled the trigger – we all pulled the trigger and we all fired on full automatic mode. We stood so close to our victims that when we stopped shooting, we were all drenched in blood and bits of human remains – brain matter, bone splinters, strips of skin. I did not know shooting people at such a close range could do that to you. Datu Unsay’s white polo shirt turned to crimson because of that.

I do not know how many I killed that day. It was difficult to determine exactly who were killed by whose bullets. But when we stopped firing, I checked my weapon and found that I had nearly emptied its long magazine, having fired twenty three out of thirty rounds in that moment of madness.

After making sure that everyone from the third van was dead, Datu Unsay shouted at the people who had been herded into the other vans to step out. But none of them would. That only seemed to incense Datu Unsay even more. He gave the order to shoot everyone inside the vans.

There was more shooting. Datu Unsay took care of the occupants of one van. I saw a small woman in the van raise her arms, pleading at him, “Datu Unsay, huwag mo kaming patayin kasi hindi naman kami lalaban sa inyo.” He shot her on the chest without mercy.

It was over in about less than half an hour and the sun had already dipped away from the middle of the sky.

In each of the five others vehicles, it was a gory and dreadful sight.

But I did not anymore participate in the shooting. Instead, as my companions gunned down the other members of the convoy, I walked away and sought refuge near the van we had earlier emptied of its occupants. There, I broke down and cried. I pitied the people we had just gunned down utterly defenseless. I was half-expecting Datu Unsay to take it against me for chickening out of the carnage but he fortunately did not. Perhaps, he and the others were too busy finishing off the other victims to mind me.

I saw one man manage to get out of one of the vans when the firing started again; but he could not escape our guns. The man was shot in the back by Datu Kanor with his K-3 machine gun before he could slide down one section of the hill.

I was standing a few feet away from Datu Unsay when I heard him call someone on the radio: “Ama, papuntahin mo na dito ang backhoe,” he said in Magindanawon. The person at the other end answered in the affirmative. The voice that answered back to Datu Unsay was familiar to me. I had heard that voice many times before. I had heard the person behind the voice speak within my earshot on many occasions. It was Datu Andal Sr.

He then told us that he will go ahead because the soldiers would be arriving soon.

Yet, before he left, he walked up to the broken and bloodied body of Genalyn Mangundadatu, knelt down and touched it in many places with his right palm as if to make sure the woman was dead. Then he repeatedly ran his right palm – now bloodied from touching the woman’s body – over his bloodied shirt. Then he stood up, paced back and forth before the lifeless bodies of the victims, and laughed out loud, as if mocking them.

Datu Unsay took off on his black truck. From where I was standing on top of the hill, I saw his vehicle meet along the way down the backhoe he had earlier called in as it was being taken up on a carrier.

We stayed there until the backhoe had dug up a huge and deep hole and buried a car and the body of one victim. Datu Kanor ordered us to pull out when a helicopter arrived.

We started on foot for Shariff Aguak through a shortcut route in Tuayan. When we reached Shariff Aguak, we found a digging that had filled up with water near a bridge. We cleaned up ourselves at the said spot.

But around four days after Datu Unsay was taken into custody by the National Bureau of Investigators, Datu Kanor received a call from him. We were in a room when the call came through. Datu Kanor stepped out and I followed him. I heard them converse in Maguindanaoan: Datu Unsay was ordering Datu Kanor to send me to do a hit.

The target: one of Datu Unsay’s men, whom I only know by his first name Tanto. He was to be eliminated, Datu Kanor later told me, because he would not stay put in our designated hiding place, despite Datu Unsay’s orders. Because of his carelessness, Tanto ran the risk of being discovered and arrested. I knew him to be one of Datu Unsay’s drivers. He did not participate in the killing but he had witnessed it.

I shot him two times with my baby M203 in Barangay Dicalungan, Ampatuan, in an area planted to bananas and coconuts. I took him there and shot him close to midnight. Some other people I don’t know took care of burying him somewhere, on orders from Datu Unsay. After that, Datu Kanor asked me to surrender my weapon to him. I did.

Even while in detention, Datu Unsay has still been able to contact his followers in Maguindanao. He would send word to us to stay where we are –to be patient – because he will prevail over his enemies. Not even the Mangundadatus, he said, would be able to defeat him because the Ampatuans have the money and the connections. He would also warn us that any of us who decides to betray him will pay dearly for it. He would warn us that he will eventually catch up with anyone who turns against him. Not even prison walls can stop him, he would say.

At first, that he could still call us up and send text messages to us even while in detention deeply impressed me. Somehow it proved to me that Datu Unsay is indeed an untouchable because even while in detention he has a cellphone and is still able to order his men. But later on, it scared me; I realized that no one – not even I who know a lot about the massacre and who am one of the Ampatuans’ trusted henchmen – is safe from Datu Unsay.

Shortly after that, another two of Datu Unsay’s men were killed on his orders. It was carried out by others.

Sometime in January 2010, I decided to leave our designated safehouse after I learned that I too, had been marked for liquidation. I know what Datu Unsay is capable of doing. But I do not want the secrets of the Ampatuans buried with me.

FOR someone who had undergone much sorrow and pain, Corazon Aquino laughed easily and well.

People unaccustomed to hearing the former president laugh would quickly turn around to look for the source of the guffaw and be surprised at the woman who was known to be demure and self-effacing.  But she was given to hearty laughter, especially when faced with the ridiculous or simply anything hilarious. On one of those occasions, she was sorely misunderstood.

I was one of the reporters covering Malacanang in the last half of Mrs. Aquino’s six-year term as president. I was working for the daily newspaper Malaya. It was a time when the Philippines became, for some reason, a frequent disaster zone. One calamity kept happening after another–typhoons kept hitting the country and a volcano that lay dormant for 600 years suddenly erupted and put a large area of Luzon under cover of darkness and a thick layer of lahar. Countries and international organizations that rushed eagerly to help the country at the beginning of Mrs. Aquino’s presidency began complaining and said they were suffering from what their representatives called “donor fatigue.”

One day, while waiting at the gazebo for Cabinet officials to come out of the Guest House which served as the President’s office, the ground literally started shaking beneath our feet. Water from the Pasig River began splashing onto the Palace grounds. To keep from falling down, reporters had to hold on to one another for support. Then came the frightening realization: Earthquake!

 
But it was over in a couple of minutes and the reporters wondered what the intensity was. Then, Malacanang officials started coming out of the Guest House, President Aquino among them. As they gathered outside, one official recounted how they all scampered under the table when the tremors became too strong to be ignored. They never saw one another in such awkward positions! Everyone laughed but Mrs. Aquino laughed the hardest.

Seen on television news that night, after stories of fatalities began coming in from the provinces, the laughter scene in Malacanang reaped criticisms from those who saw it. Viewers were shocked by what they thought was the President’s insensitivity. She had to explain that stories of the tragedies had not yet reached her by then. Even so, she quickly apologized to the public.

That was one thing about Mrs. Aquino: She had no problems with making an apology. And she did this as soon as the offense–real or imagined–was pointed out. In one other occasion, it was Manila Archbishop Jaime Cardinal Sin who publicly scolded Mrs. Aquino and her vice president, the late Salvador H. Laurel, for their political bickerings. Right then and there, the President apologized to the nation. Filipinos had no problem believing she was truly sorry either.

Credibility was something that Mrs. Aquino enjoyed with media. She never surprised us by turning around on any issue to which she had already given her position. When she was undecided, she would say so. When she didn’t like a question, she’d let us know. Reporters at the early part of her term said she’d smile whenever she refused to answer a question. Later in her term, she would still smile on those occasions but she had also realized her prerogative to show irritation.

She didn’t hide her emotions. She’d raise her eyebrows when delighted, frown when she didn’t understand or welcome a question, and roll her eyes when exasperated. And because she usually gave short answers, even her facial expressions would find their way to our stories.

Perhaps the demands of the presidency became heavier as she moved on to the completion of her term. Increasingly, she realized that she could choose what to do when she wanted to. Meetings with the press became less frequent and statements from her spokesman or press secretary came more often. Journalists were not happy with that, especially when ambush interviews became more difficult with security restrictions. The dynamics between the President and the press continued in a relentless tug-of-war that would end with a compromise in some form.

Still, Mrs. Aquino’s relationship with the press remained strong and warm. In one of her birthdays, the press corps gifted her with a dress, a brown and blue number that a designer agreed to do after some haggling by the reporters. Within a few days after receiving this, the President wore it. (I do not remember, however, if she wore it again.)

At other times, the Palace reporters were at the receiving end of the President’s generosity. One afternoon, a bowl of pate arrived at the press office. Immediately buying some pan de sal, the reporters helped themselves to the best merienda they ever had. We were later told that Mrs. Aquino–who knows her way in the kitchen quite well–made the pate herself.

She was not above playing the role of host to media. Near the close of her term, she treated the press to a tour of Hacienda Luisita, the vast Cojuangco-owned sugar plantation that covered 11 barangays and escaped land reform. Reporters were too awed to ask about the possibility of land distribution among the sugar workers.

We learned the rhythm and work habits of the President quite early. It became clear that she preferred working regular hours, from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. There were certain events and meetings held beyond that time but these were the exceptions rather than the rule.

Mondays to Fridays were her working days and that presented quite a problem for media that needed to put out stories every day.  Saturdays were spent by the President taping her program, “Magtanong sa Pangulo.” The transcript would be made available the following day, Sunday, to the press. On the basis of the discussions in that transcript, reporters would write their stories.

Stories from “Magtanong…” were rarely exciting but the dialogues that the President had with ordinary Filipinos in that program were real.  Indeed, serious governance was harder to write about.

Much easier to report were the foreign trips that Mrs. Aquino made. In France, she was hailed as a modern-day Joan of Arc or the political equivalent of the celebrated singer Edith Piaf. In the United States where she spoke before a joint session of Congress, American legislators did not mind looking silly while wearing miniature Cory dolls on their lapels. Everyone wanted to shake the hand of the diminutive Philippine leader who spoke so well and so touchingly that the late Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham wondered if it was actually an American who had written her speech. Even the Kennedys jumped in on the bandwagon by hosting an event graced by Cory Aquino.

But back home, the luster of Edsa was fading quickly. In the last few years of Mrs. Aquino’s term, celebrations had become less festive and the malaise brought about by cynicism was beginning to be felt. Ironically, the government had become more stable. Gone were the days when reporters would warily walk inside the Palace grounds that have just been bombed that morning by rebel soldiers. The enemy was no longer the defeated mutineers but the victorious beneficiaries of People Power.

But Mrs. Aquino knew that. She would be the last to say that the work was over. Never known to mince words or disguise their meaning, she made it known in her last State of the Nation Address that she was going to continue serving her country. No longer as president but as a private citizen. And the public and the press believed her.

WE departed the island of Seychelles in the Indian Ocean on April 6 for a 21-day trip that would bring us back to the Mediterranean port of Palma de Mallorca in Spain to get the M/Y Teleost ready for summer. The 160-foot private superyacht sails to the Mediterranean in summer and to either the Caribbean or Indian Ocean islands in winter, entertaining multimillionaire clients who pay $240,000 dollars a week for a nice holiday.

Morale on board the ship was understandably low. A few days ago a charter yacht had been seized off Asuncion island a couple of hundred miles south from where we were. It was the first hijacking incident in the area. That night we received another report of an attack 100 miles north of where we were. A maritime advisory warned vessels against traveling 600 miles close to the Somalian coast. Our captain decided to divert the yacht’s course more to the east, away from the pirate-infested waters.

At night we sailed in total darkness. All lights were off, including our navigational lights. We also turned off our Automatic Identification System (AIS), which broadcasts most of the ship’s data such as length, gross tonnage, number of crew and destination. We relied only on our radars’ ARPA solutions to find out what the other ships were doing and for them to do the same. ARPA solutions are the radars’ computer automatic calculations of a target vessel’s speed and distance, among other data. Though not as informative as the AIS, they minimize the risk of collision. (People used to call other vessels to know their intentions, but the computer now does the job for us. In fact, all controls, including engine controls, are on computer monitors.)

Crossing the equator

After a couple of days at sea, we were passing the equator. It’s a tradition for mariners to hold a blessing ceremony every time they cross the equator. We would baptize every new crewmember with humorous ceremonies. This time, it was our 30-year-old captain, and everyone was excited. Our worries about being attacked by pirates momentarily dissipated.

For this ceremony, everyone dressed up as a pirate; well, we were in a pirate-infested area. The first officer was King Neptune. We arrested our captain, bound him and took him to the stern of the boat and read the charges against him. After prosecution, which of course found him “guilty” of all the charges, we got him to eat a plate of sushi and afterwards poured on his head mixed stuffs that the chef had concocted from the galley.

After seven days at sea, we arrived at the Port of Salalah in Oman. The weather was good, and the girls and other crew got tanned from sunbathing every day. Our 10-member multinational crew consists of seven men and three women. I am the only Filipino in the group.

We anchored outside of the port while waiting for the two Special Forces security escorts who would accompany us on this journey. The two used to be part of the French Anti-Terrorism Team.

After loading the two supernumeraries that night, we lifted anchor and sailed to the Gulf of Aden, now known as the most dangerous waters of the world. Even with our armed security on board, we still adopted anti-piracy safety measures.

We could not risk being seen at night since we did not know what vessels we would run into. The most suspicious were the little ones like the fishing vessels which could not be seen on radar. It has been known that the pirates use mother ships then launch small boats to attack other vessels.

Close call

The next day, our security escorts briefed us on what we might get into and taught us what to do in case our ship got hijacked or, worse, we were taken hostage. Shortly before the briefing ended, our captain sounded the alarm.

It was not a drill! Two little boats or skiffs were approaching—one from the righthand side in front of the boat and the other from the stern. We spotted them first at three miles before we could make them out as target on the radars. Five minutes later, three more skiffs arrived from all directions and stayed with us from two miles away.

I stayed as the navigational team in the bridge with the captain and the chief officer and the second engineer as the fire team. According to our security team, the tactic of these pirates is to shoot on the bridge to confuse the bridge personnel. They had fired rocket-propelled grenades or RPGs on commercial ships on a few occasions. That’s why we had the firefighting team ready.

We increased our engine revs to increase speed and the security escorts were deployed on the sun deck with a crewmember to communicate with the bridge. The chief engineer closed down the engine room with him inside. The rest of the crew, especially the women, was sent to the safety room. The pirates are used to seeing an all-male crew, but as our vessel is a yacht with European women as part of the crew, we knew it would be a different ball game.

After 15 minutes the skiffs started heading in different directions, leaving us behind. It was a close call. Maybe they were just fishermen curious to see a yacht like ours. Or maybe they did not sense panic and disorientation in our crew and the sight of the security team carrying automatic weapons made them change their mind.

It turned out we were lucky. Thirty miles south of our location, a commercial ship was fired on with RPGs and automatic weapons by men on board skiffs.

Transit corridor

There is an area at sea where Coalition Navy recommends ships travel in a convoy so they can keep an eye on one another and immediately send for help when an attack occurs. But as we plotted the positions of the attacks, we found they were inside the Internationally Recommended Transit Corridor. So our captain, with the approval of our insurance company, decided to take the route north of the transit zone and pass 30 miles off the Yemeni coast. Since the pirates are from Somalia, we thought they would not go closer to Yemen. But you’ll never know.

We recorded at least one attack per day in the transit zone during the few days we were in the area. There was one time I picked up a transmission from another vessel and I knew it was a Filipino on the radio reporting to the Coalition Warship that they could see a suspicious vessel trying to launch their skiffs. Such as brave act can save others.

Piracy and poverty

Why have the Somalians taken up piracy in the high seas?

Piracy is, of course, an age-old problem. It happens around the world, including some parts of the Philippines and the Malacca Straights in Malaysia. The Somalian pirates have already raised millions of dollars in ransom money paid by shipping companies in return of the release of their crew and the ships that were held hostage.

But the Somalian piracy problem is just a symptom of a bigger issue. According to U.S. intelligence reports, the pirates come from the village of Eyl that is home to crumbling houses and rows of ruined boats. Somalia is one of the poorest, most violent and most unstable countries in the world today. Somalians suffer from severe drought, hunger and lawlessness. The ongoing fighting between the Al Shabaab militia that controls Kismaayo and the southern part has turned Mogadishu, Somali’s capital and largest city, into “the deadliest place on earth,” according to foreign journalists who have been to the area.

The situation, journalists say, is worse in Putland in northeastern Somalia, from which most pirate attacks are launched. Village folks flee to Yemen almost every day. Human smuggling flourishes. Some refugees die at sea, their bodies unceremoniously dumped into the water. It comes as no surprise that Somalian warlords encounter no difficulty recruiting people to capture ships travelling this rich trading route.

Protecting RP seafarers

How can the piracy issue affect Filipinos? At least 75 percent of the ships passing Somalia have Filipino seafarers on board. These ongoing incidents can endanger the life and livelihood of our seafarers. If the company decides to stop its trading for security reasons, a lot of Filipino seafarers will find themselves out of a job.

Some of our politicians have proposed a ban on Filipino seafarers passing pirate-infested waters. Seafarers, they say, could choose to take a leave before passing these critical areas. These politicians must be out of their mind or simply misinformed. The shipping companies will not pay these seafarers once they leave the ship. They also have to get replacement for these seafarers to keep the ship running toward the next port. Our government is not ready to subsidize the loss of income for these poor seafarers.

Container ships, tankers and other commercial ships have specific schedules to meet and a slight delay can cause tremendous losses to the company. Not to mention their clients’ losses arising from the delay, including the destruction of, say, perishable goods. Shipping companies are ready to pay millions of dollars in ransom not because of the lives of the crew are at stake but because they stand to lose much, much more than the amount of the ransom money if the ships are delayed. That is the very reason this piracy issue will continue—and keep growing. Ships will still pass the area, no matter what. Shipping firms equate ransom money to a heavy tax for passage.

Instead of a ban, what our politicians can do is to communicate with shipping companies or ship owners through their manning agencies in the Philippines and work for the deployment of our special forces as security personnel for these ships. Even the U.S. Navy has issued an advice to shipping companies to hire private security teams. We send our soldiers to do peacekeeping in war-torn countries, why not send them to protect our seafarers?

Our well-trained soldiers can stop any attack on these ships. They do not need to shoot the people on board the skiffs. Instead, they can target their boats or engines to disable them and stop the assault from being carried out. These pirates are nothing compared to our soldiers. First of all, most of these them are hired out of nowhere and just given a gun to point at somebody.

The suggestion to deploy Filipino soldiers to ships passing the Gulf of Aden will entail logistical and diplomatic arrangements. But this would go a long way in helping guard the jobs and lives of Filipino seafarers.

(The author is the second officer of the charter yacht M/Y Teleost.)