‘Where’s Daddy?’

Police investigators inspect the body of alleged drug user Marcelo Salvador, who was shot by unidentified men near his home in Las Piñas City on Sept. 5. AP PHOTOS

The bodies terrified Betchie Salvador, because she had always known her husband could be next.

They had begun turning up all over the country ever since President Duterte launched a controversial war on drugs this year—so many that one newspaper, the Inquirer, had to create a “Kill List” just to keep track. Dealers and addicts were being shot by police or unidentified gunmen, who were dumping them on darkened streets beside cardboard signs that warned, “I’m a pusher. Don’t be like me.”

With each new death, Betchie imagined losing the man she had loved for a decade—a proud father of three who was also a drug addict. “We talked about it a lot,” she said. “I told him, ‘Please don’t go out at night’.”

“Don’t worry,” Marcelo told her. “It’s gonna be OK.”

Marcelo, who worked as a driver, had been introduced to a potent methamphetamine known as shabu two years earlier by a colleague who said it helped him stay awake

at night.

And the nation believed

In his campaign for the presidency, Duterte described the drug as a life-or-death threat to a nation. And the nation, exasperated by decades of crime and corruption, believed him.

It didn’t matter that government statistics showed the rate of methamphetamine use had dropped from 6.7 million in 2004 to 1.7 million today. It didn’t matter that this rate—an estimated 2 percent of Filipinos—was no higher than that of other countries like the United States or Australia in recent years. It didn’t matter that drug wars mounted in countries like Thailand or Colombia or America had failed.

What mattered was that this was a cause the nation could rally around.

After Duterte was sworn into office June 30, the antidrug operation—called “Double Barrel”—began. Police drew up “watch lists” of suspected addicts and dealers, and security forces began carrying out raids. Vigilantes also went to work.

Near Marcelo’s home, a couple was found murdered in their rickshaw. Later, another man was found with his neck slashed beside a placard labeling him an addict and a thief.

The children view his remains during the wake at the family residence.

Family’s fears

By then, Marcelo’s family was starting to fear for his life. He made a living driving a tricycle, earning just enough to support their two boys, ages 6 and 7, and a newborn baby girl.  His mother, Betty Soriano, decided to accompany him to keep him safe and discourage him from doing drugs.

Marcelo also promised to quit shabu, saying it had become too dangerous. He told Betchie she didn’t have to worry “because I’m not using drugs anymore.”

At one point, a government official told Marcelo to turn himself in, a process called “surrendering” that has drawn about 700,000 drug users so far. Most are released after acknowledging their crimes and pledging never to use again.

Marcelo waved the man off, saying he had quit.

In the meantime, the number of deaths piled up: At least 1,578 drug suspects were killed by state security forces since Duterte took office, police statistics show. Vigilantes killed even more, with 2,151 murders either linked to the drug trade or classified as “unexplained.”

As a result, crime fell in some areas by nearly half, police say. But in a country that banned the death penalty a decade ago, the huge death toll has left many aghast.

“What I don’t understand is, how can—it boggles my mind—how can you actually propose that to address the problem of injustice, you perpetuate more injustice?” said Jose Luis Martin “Chito” Gascon, director of the independent Commission on Human Rights.

Men in black

On the night of Sept. 5, Marcelo parked his tricycle at a small roadside kiosk, where he had stopped to buy essentials for the morning—coffee for his family, chocolate drinking powder for his kids.

When Malvin Balingatan, who worked at the shop, leaned forward to hand him change, shots rang out, according to the police report.

It was 10:05 p.m.

As Balingatan ducked, he caught a glimpse of two men in black on a motorcycle, helmets covering their faces.

Marcelo managed to run 10 or 15 meters to the corner, where more shots were fired. He collapsed.

His mother screamed out, “My son! My son!”

At their family home, a five-minute walk away, Soriano broke the news to Betchie. Marcelo’s children appeared, woken by the chaos and the crying.

“Where’s Daddy?” one of them asked. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s gone,” Betchie replied, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘What’s the point?’

By the time Betchie got to the scene, Marcelo—her Marcelo—was sprawled face-down in a pool of blood, his body lit by a halo of light from television cameras. A small translucent packet of white methamphetamines was visible beside his fingertips.

Her mother-in-law insists the drugs weren’t there when he died. She doesn’t know who put them there, or why. But she won’t press the issue with police, who say they have no leads.

“We don’t want any trouble,” she says. “What’s the point? What for?”

Betchie says she hopes they find who did this. But there is resignation in her voice. She is looking down toward her lap, eyes half closed.

Three days have passed since the shooting, and she is trying not to cry.

“I keep wondering what will happen to me, to my children,” she says, explaining that Marcelo, 39, was their family’s sole breadwinner. “All we can do now is pray.”

Outside, Marcelo’s tricycle is parked on the curb, empty and quiet. A pair of red and blue wristbands are wrapped around its headlight and speedometer, propaganda from the election campaign.

Each is inscribed with seven white letters: D U T E R T E. —AP