Jesse (not his real name), a trusted henchman of the Ampatuans, narrates his role in the Nov. 23 massacre and subsequent coverup in the following account:
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.