In Payatas, we knew this all along. Almost no one believed us. Some attacked us. Trolls were everywhere at the time. “They aren’t state-sponsored,” they said. “The addicts are killing each other,” they accused.
Others blamed us for inventing stories, claiming we were sowing hatred. They told us we should be helping to clean society of its lawless elements. Many just stood by and didn’t care. These were well-meaning, pious Christians. But the truth shall set us free. Today, the victims are vindicated.
This is my first post about the first killing I encountered in Payatas on December 11, 2016. I wrote this after coming home from my Sunday Mass in Payatas. Since then, we have counted more than a hundred deaths in the area.
I just came from Payatas today. Around the chapel where I usually celebrate Mass every Sunday, there are three wakes awaiting funeral. I usually bless these wakes after my Mass, but this Sunday is different. Most are victims of state-sponsored killings—drug users and pushers. “State-sponsored” because the perpetrators were policemen—some in uniform, some not.
The mothers who shared their stories, our chapel leaders, are anxious because they witnessed and heard the gunshots themselves.
Last Thursday, non-uniformed men arrived in fancy SUVs early in the morning. Their target was eating with his children at the family table. He had been absent for several weeks, as people said he was on the watch list. He returned only to bring weekly provisions and to hug the kids who missed him. One of his daughters was celebrating her birthday that week, and he had cooked spaghetti. Later in the day, he was supposed to return to his workplace far from here.
While they were eating, young men with guns barged in—some in shorts, others introduced later as coming from Manila. The one who pulled the trigger was from Davao. They forcibly pulled the children away from their father and shot him point-blank. It was mayhem. The target’s mother screamed in protest, but her neighbors, fearful of the guns, quieted her. They took the body away while the helpless neighbors—our BEC members—looked on, unsure of what to do or say. One of the gunmen turned to them and said, “Pasensiya na, Ate. Di kasi siya nagbago, eh.” (Sorry, Sister. It’s because he didn’t change.)
During Advent, people are supposed to wait in excitement and anticipation. This year, at least around the chapel where I celebrate Mass, people wait in fear and trepidation. Truly, change has come. And people don’t know what to do with it. They asked me, “What shall we do, Father?” I, too, was at a loss for words. I still don’t know what to do.
Click this link for the funeral that happened a few days later.
Father Daniel Franklin Pilario, C.M., is the President of Adamson University in Manila. He is a theologian, professor, and pastor of an urban poor community on the outskirts of the Philippine capital. He is also Vincentian Chair for Social Justice at St. John’s University in New York.
