In her testimony in the special court in Camp Bagong Diwa last Thursday, she didn’t repeat what she had written in her account of her 377-day ordeal of terror concerning contacts between the ASG terrorists and a Filipino general, and perceived collusion between some military men and the hostage-takers, probably because this had been hearsay and might have ensnarled the special court’s process in unnecessary legal tangles, when her main intent was to identify the thugs and murderers who had violently abducted her, her husband, and 16 other tourists and employees from the Dos Palmas resort in Palawan on May 27, 2001. Those murderous kidnappers, claiming Islamic fervor, had put them through a harrowing aftermath of bestiality and horror.
Burnham’s testimony was crucial, particularly when she pointed the finger at that gutter-rat "Kosovo", who beheaded another hapless American (Guillermo Sobero from California), on June 11, 2001 – 16 days after the poor sod’s seizure – and the other Abus who might have been responsible for beheading the resort’s cook, Sonny Dacquer, on June 1, along with security guard Armando Bayona – both just days after they were forcibly taken hostage, too.
Those beheadings in far away Iraq, quite obviously, are not a new event to us besieged Filipinos. They ’re a common practice among Islamic terrorists in our own Mindanao, from Basilan to Zamboanga to Maguindanao-Cotabato.
It’s possible, of course, some of the hostages might have been hurt, or like Martin Burnham more than a year later, slain in an attack – but the Abu Gang would have been captured, or better still annihilated – and even Soberno’s life (too late for Sonny and Armando) might have been spared.
Instead, by some weird happenstance, aside from Reggie Romero, his friend, Rizza, and an eight year old boy R.J. ("released" after ransom paid), the terrorists cheerfully waltzed through the armed forces "cordon" taking their pathetic victims along with them – and adding four more hostages, nurses Ediborah Yap, Sheila and Reina, plus a hospital orderly Joel, who was luckiest of the four. Joel escaped during a firefight on October 14, 2001.
Owing to the military blunder or "collusion"(?) (I hope they’re not the "marshmallows" referred to by that blowhard "Down Under", Australian Foreign Minister Alexander Downer), the Abu Sayyaf hoodlums were able to thumb their noses at our government, humiliate us internationally, and put their remaining victims through unspeakable hardships and tortures for another year.
What’s touching about Gracia’s brave, even if brief, return to this land is that she continues to express her love for Filipinos and our country – despite the pain of the loss of her equally courageous and religious husband, Martin, so tragically killed by three bullets, hearthbreakingly perhaps from the guns of their own rescuers, just at the moment of their long-hoped-for redemption.
Gracia and Martin had lived and worked among us for 17 years as missionaries, and their three children – Jeff, Mindy and Zach – had been born here. The late Martin, a skillful "jungle pilot", had served with the New Tribes mission, delivering mail, supplies, and visiting other Christian missionaries in the field, or flying sick and injured patients from farflung municipalities on missions of mercy to hospitals and other medical facilities. Gracia, a graduate of Calvary Bible College in her native Kansas City, herself a pastor’s daughter, had also been active in the mission. They spoke our dialects, they lived among our people. Poignantly, they had gone to Dos Palmas for a brief two-day honeymoon to celebrate their wedding anniversary.
God, it’s truly and often painfully said, "moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform". His "wonder" in this soul-searing matter is that both Gracia and Martin patiently bore their cross in captivity (he was chained to a tree every night) and the sadism and savagery of their tormentors without wavering in faith in the goodness of the Lord – and their affection for us Filipinos. What can we say, in our shame? And in our gratitude? God bless you, Gracia! You inspire us all.
It was right for our Foreign Affairs Secretary Delia Domingo Albert to have summoned Australian Ambassador Ruth Pearce to the Foreign Ministry to give her a tongue-lashing (all that tongue-stuff!) over Howard’s and Downer’s insulting remarks about GMA’s decision to pull our Liliputtian Filipino "military" contingent – 51-members "strong" – out of Iraq. This is tit for tat, after all. Downer had summarily summoned our envoy in Canberra, Ambassador Christine Ortega (from La Union), for a dressing down, too.
Poor Ruth Pearce, naturally, mumbled, "Let’s move on." Ambassadors are always tasked to be the shock absorbers and to be scrupulously polite. Just as Cristy Ortega – who assumed her post in Canberra only last march – had to grin and bear it.
Interestingly, Secretary Albert knows Australia very well herself, having been our Ambassador to Canberra for more than a dozen years. (After the official scolding had been administered, it’s possible – though the DFA will promptly and indignantly deny it – the two diplomats, Delia and Ruth, sat down for a cordial cup of tea (no scones), or even a schooner of "Foster’s light" or San Mig.
Pearce, if you’ll recall, was the Ambassador who was living in the Oakwood luxury condominium (next to the Glorietta’s) when the Scout Ranger, Marine, Navy Seals and Air Force mutineers seized that building last year. What a shock it must have been for the lady Ambassador to have woken up in her suite (her official home in a nearby high-class village was being renovated and she was "camped out" in Oakwood during the interim) to find herself surrounded by gun-toting rebels.
I don’t believe she regarded those fellows – many of them decorated for combat in Mindanao – as "marshmallows" at that time. They had even wired the entire complex, plus the surrounding area up to Rustan’s, SM, the Inter-Continental Hotel, etc., with explosives and booby-traps.
Instead of taking her, and a couple of other diplomats also living there, plus three Australian police officers here on an official visit, and other Oakwood residents hostage, the "mutineers" courteously had her and her helpers pack up her belongings, then escorted the Ambassador and the others outside to a bus sent to fetch them by the government, expressing apologies for the "inconvenience".
I know something of what happened because I was one of the negotiators who went to Oakwood and joined the government panel, led by Ambassador (General) Roy Cimatu. We spent more than three and a half nervous hours in there, listening to the armed mutineers’ angry gripes and complaints, their threat to fight to the death and blow everything up (Cimatu recalls, "yes, and us negotiators along with them). Thankfully, we finally convinced those young officers and men to surrender without firing a shot, defuse their explosives, and march out, in correct military formation, to end the mutiny.
All I can say is "whew!"
They are now, as agreed, under court martial – although I continue to strongly disagree, as a former negotiator, to their leaders being tried in the RTC. That was not the deal. An agreement is an agreement. It’s a question on the part of the government, and everybody involved, of palabra de honor.
A person’s honor and a nation’s honor have to be upheld – above everything else. Without honor, there can be no rule of law. It is what separates man from the beasts.
As subsequently happened, only a feeble demonstration was mounted to try to discombobulate her SONA and disrupt the opening of the 13th Congress.
By the same token, both Bad Boy Howard and Bad-mouthing Downer have their own democratic reasons for being furious – and venting their ire on the Philippine withdrawal from the "Coalition of the Willing". Howard and Downer are being severely assailed and criticized in their own home constituencies in Australia for having sent 850 Australian troops to Iraq to join the invasion and occupation of that now war-torn and suicide-bomber exploding country.
"Where are those Weapons of Mass Destruction?" The Australian voters are shouting – and Howard and his ruling party face a fierce election contest, in which the rowdy opposition is effectively making the Australian expedition to Iraq the major campaign issue, growling the Howard’s puppetry had put their "Diggers" in harms way. (John is being called Bush’s "pet poodle", next to Tony Blair, of course).
In the same manner, George "Dubya" Bush’s re-election campaign was somewhat damaged by our La Gloria’s unexpected defection. So we mustn’t expect either Washington, DC or Canberra to be oozing with love and affection for us. Should we expect retaliation? Surely. We must just have to learn to cope with it – and resolve to tough it out, and live within our means.
At the end of the day, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
This is not to excuse those Australian larrikins, the Howard and Downer Duo, for their insults. (Many a time I’ve enjoyed an Australian "marshmallow-roast" under the gum trees near the Outback.)
The usual crack about Aussies is that they’re descended from convicts. This is no longer true. Even the mayor of Melbourne, one of the biggest and best cities, is a Australian-Chinese, or Chinese-Australian – I’m never sure which term is politically correct. The "White Australia policy" which we all detested and lambasted many years ago, is dead – though this fact doesn’t make those guys down in Oz any less acerbic and rough-cut in their language.
I remember some years ago attending a session in parliament in Canberra. As one of the M.P.s was speaking, the other M.P.s hooted, banged on the table, crying out, "Boo!" or "Rubbish!" or, in a roar, "Liar, Liar!" It’s like Aussie rules football. The fans throw everything at the referee, including beer (in the can), while on the field, it’s a bunch of grown men fouling, gouging, and attempting to maim each other.
So it’s no surprise they’re presently rubbishing us.
Rubbish them back, I’d say. They won’t eat our mangoes, and we won’t eat their beef or kangaroo steak or something like that. Then we might someday even become some sort of friends again. Ridgy ditch, mate.