(Editor’s Note: On Sept. 15, 2008, the Abu Sayyaf abducted humanitarian workers Merlie “Milet” Mendoza, Esperancita Hupida, Ludovina Borja-Dekit, driver Dionisio Estandante and their companions Romeo delos Reyes and Sahida Alasa. Except for Mendoza and Hupida, who were held captive for weeks, the others were able to “extricate themselves from their captors” after a few hours, police said. Hupida and Mendoza were freed after ransom was paid, Hupida on Oct. 30 and Mendoza on Nov. 14. This recounts how one victim of the Abu Sayyaf coped with her enforced detention for 61 days.)
MANILA, Philippines – My companions and I were abducted by the Abu Sayyaf in Tipo-Tipo, Basilan, early afternoon of September 15. On the third day, we were separated from each other and held in different locations until we were released, my companion after 47 days, myself after 61 days. At the mercy of our captors, we did not know if we would ever survive.
When one finds oneself in such a situation, the phrase “living day-to-day” becomes a reality. You begin counting not just each day but each hour, each minute and, during periods of extreme terror, each second. I forced myself to confront the ordeal of my captivity with the Psalm of David as my consolation.
During our treks through the mountains, it was this biblical verse and my prayers to Mother Mary that I held on to. These, as well as other lifelines I discovered along the way, helped me survive captivity.
It was late evening on the first day that my companion and I realized that our greatest fear had come true. Earlier, three of our companions who had been abducted with us, were driven away on two motorcycles. Our abductors said they had made a mistake and were going to bring us back to the Mayor of Tipo-Tipo. Because there were only two motorcycles, two trips would have to be made. My companion and I would be on the second trip.
As the night grew darker, we realized we were not going to be released. We were trekking up a mountain under a moonlit sky, filled with foreboding, when Psalm 23 hit me. We were walking into the valley of the shadow of death.
It is in situations like these that you experience deep in your bones the fear of the unknown, the fear of not knowing what lies ahead of you. Often, when compelled in the middle of the night to move on, I would be in tears trying to overcome the terror that seemed to paralyze me.
But I would check my tears and hold on to a prayer in my heart. “The Lord is with me. His rod and staff protect me.” (Psalm 23:4) “God’s will be done” (Matthew 26:39). It was a moment of acceptance, of holding on only to one’s faith in God.
Looking back, I realize that I was no different from a devout Muslim. After all, a Muslim is one who submits oneself to the Will of Allah. So is it with a Christian: we submit ourselves to the Will of God. It is in situations like this that our Faith takes on a real meaning. We realize that we, Muslims and Christians, are really one in our belief in One God.
On that first day, after we had eluded a pursuing Cafgu team, our abductors went through our personal things, appropriating to themselves everything they fancied: obviously what money we had brought, ATM and credit cards, certainly mobile phones, digital camera, and jewelry.
The leader of the group confiscated my rosary beads, a special memento from Pope John Paul II, which I had kept all these years. To him, it was a trinket he planned to sport around his neck. To me, it was a lifeline, one I reluctantly gave up.
Nevertheless, even without the rosary beads, I prayed the Hail Mary in my heart throughout the darkest moments. I felt the love of Mother Mary embracing me throughout my captivity.
Whenever I was brought out for a walk, always late at night, always with armed guards, whether to move to another house, which would serve as my detention center for weeks, or when we would have to go up the bud (mountain) to catch signals for a phone call, I would pray the Hail Mary with every step I took.
Back in my cell, I would run through the Mysteries day and night, reliving the decades in my own “Way of the Cross,” gaining strength from the spiritual connection I was establishing through prayer.
The Rosary and the Tasbi
Prayer sustained me during those periods of terror.
As we walked, there was always the possibility that we would be accosted either by military patrols or by the “Lost Commands” who might try to grab me. Then, of course, as a lone woman in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by strange, armed and clearly violent men, there was always the possibility of harm being done to me. I could do nothing more than pray.
In reflection, I realize that my practice of praying the Rosary is no different from the devout Muslim’s chanting of his prayers using the Tasbi or prayer beads.
One evening, an 18-year-old Abu Sayyaf fighter came to peep into my room. He seemed sad and distraught because, he said, he missed his home. Earlier on, he had reached out his hand through a hole in my cell with two pieces of candy. I desperately needed the sugar for hiking. I stored those candies for my next long hike.
He told me he had been with the Abu Sayyaf since his junior elementary days and had been separated from his family since. He said he was tired and would have severe attacks of migraine every time he heard gunfire. How he wished he could go back to school.
Yet he knew it was impossible to go back home. He knew he would probably just die as an Abu Sayyaf.
He was holding his tasbi. I asked him if he could include me in his prayers so I could go home safely. He said he would and prayed I would be reunited with my family. I prayed for him, too.
I also recall a poignant moment one evening when the Abu Sayyaf commander and I prayed side by side. He had let me use his hammock and I lay in it silently praying my rosary, while he knelt on the floor facing Mecca, his back turned to me.
I was very certain then that we were praying before the same Supreme Being.
Visions of Mary, Fr. Roda
Because of the fear that gripped me, I would be on my guard at night, forcing myself to stay awake in case anyone tried to come into my cell, until I dropped off to sleep in exhaustion. Often attacked by bangungot, I would take comfort in some visions that would sustain me when I woke up.
I often saw and conversed with my departed mentor, Fr. Rey Roda, OMI, who had been brutally murdered 15 months ago at the convento in Tawi-Tawi. Father Rey appeared in my dream to embrace me with a smile, showing behind him all his OMI brothers praying for me. Then Fr. Rey led me to a chapel so we could pray together. He said this was to be the way out. I woke up grateful with the message of hope that all would be well.
In the most difficult situations, I would feel Mother Mary’s mantle of protection over me. Often, too, I would hear my own mother’s voice whispering to me, lulling me to sleep, feeding me in my dreams to appease my hunger pangs. Often, as I stumbled in the dark during night treks, it was Mother Mary’s and Father Rey’s hands who would guide me.
With negotiations going on for my release, I feared the approach of the deadline because of the harm that might come to me if certain demands were not met.
One evening, Mother Mary came to me in a dream. “Milet, this is your Mama Mary. Please continue to pray. You will be home soon.”
Two days after the dream, I was freed.
Dealing with torture
The group that held me was adept at psychological torture. This obviously was my first experience in undergoing something like a mock execution. The terror that gripped me, which remains with me to this day, is indescribable. I was not afraid of death, but I wanted one with dignity.
Two men barged into my cell and dragged me out into the dark. They tied my hands behind my back, taped my mouth, and pushed me down on my knees.
One of the men pushed the barrel of his rifle against my head while the other pulled out his bolo and raised it to decapitate me. “Mabuti pa ikaw ang mamatay kaysa kami!” he shouted. (“Better that you should die than us!”)
I was stunned by what they were prepared to do.
I remember the feelings that ran through me in that terrifying moment: Why had the animosity come to this, that men such as these were prepared to harm women? Why was the hatred so deep?
Wracked with terror and sobbing quietly, I begged forgiveness, not for my life to be spared, but forgiveness for the transgressions of Christians against Muslims which had kindled such deep animosity.
In that same moment, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and respect for the Muslim families and communities who had welcomed me into their homes these past years and shown me the true essence of Islam. They had, in turn, made me a better Christian.
Then my captors stopped, having achieved their aim of terrorizing me, showing me they had the power of life and death over me.
I do not remember anymore what happened after that, only that I was back in my cell, curled up, shaking with fear and in tears.
When one is left with nothing, when you have been stripped of everything, including even your dignity, even the most ordinary things acquire meaning; things that normally you would take for granted and not even notice. My experience made me aware how the most insignificant can become most significant to me.
Except on the first day of our abduction, when we were taken by seven heavily armed men on a road from Tipo-Tipo to Lamitan, not even once was I allowed out of my cell during the day.
If ever I would go out – to be moved to another place of detention or to climb a mountain to make a phone call or take an occasional bath in a stream – it would always be late at night. Thus, I never had the chance to see the sun, except once when I begged for sunlight to get me energized in view of my physical weakness.
Although I had the opportunity to walk out at night, this seldom happened. Hence, I also missed seeing the moon and the stars. My windows had been sealed and I was not allowed to take a peep through any hole.
In one of the houses, I got to talk to a 16-year-old girl. At night, I would ask her to describe the sky. Is there a full moon? Are the stars shining brightly or covered by clouds? One evening, she described the splendor of the moonlit sky. It was a moment of yearning and hope, amidst darkness and fear.
Little miracle games
I knew Father Rey was there in spirit with me. So I decided to play games with him.
Once I asked him to send me Coke, something I thought the Abu Sayyaf family that kept me would never have. I would see the family drinking orange during their merienda, but never Coke. The following day, the 2-year-old son of a neighbor handed me his milk bottle half-filled with Coke!
Food was hard to come by. Often, it was rice and very salty tuyo. I asked Father Rey if I could have an egg with my meal. Voila! The following morning I was given half a hard-boiled egg to eat with my rice for breakfast.
The coincidences started to bother me. Were my thought waves somehow influencing the people around me? I decided to test it. There was a tuko that I sometimes heard in the trees. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the tuko joined me in my cell? The next morning, I woke to see a tuko on the ceiling!
Then I asked for a bird to fly into my cell. Hours later, a chick ran agitatedly into my cell, probably looking for its mother!
I also prayed for strong rains just so I would not be told to move out at night. It rained heavily on the days or nights I would pray for them.
Then I had regular dreams of numbers which to this day I have not been able to figure out. I dreamed of the number “1” twice. First was the day before my companion – whom I had worked with for years and looked upon as my sister – was released.
The second time the number 1 came in a dream was the night after Mother Mary told me I would be going home soon. I knew then I only had one more night with the Abu Sayyaf.
All these gave me hope when all seemed hopeless.
I tried to reach out to the commander holding me. I felt there must be a touch of humanity underneath his strict demeanor. Some of his men were actually civil to me. One 18-year-old told me, “Awa ang unang inaalis sa amin(Compassion is the first thing removed from us).”
I believe that in the end the commander was concerned about me. During the final negotiations for my release, I saw him genuinely agitated after he learned some of his men had hit me in his absence. He half-apologized for what happened and promised he would personally accompany me during my release to ensure there would not be any hitches.
That night, he also promised me that I would be seeing my parents again.
(While the ability and the means of dealing with such a situation is unique to each victim and is a product of one’s background and the circumstances under which one is held, it is hoped this narration will help other potential victims find the strength to persevere under difficult situations. The writer also hopes this will provide others – families, friends of victims, the public and those in positions of responsibility – with an inside look at how a victim may be dealing with the difficulties he or she faces.)
