The ‘Butcher’ up close
In a matter of minutes the news spread like wildfire: The “Butcher,” Jovito Palparan, has been arrested in the most unlikely place—a second-floor flat right above a bakery at the corner of Teresa Street in Sta. Mesa, Manila, near the Polytechnic University of the Philippines, a known hotbed of student activists.
It is an ironic twist to a years-long search.
The Philippines’ most wanted. The fugitive ex-general. “Berdugo” ng Southern Tagalog, Central Luzon at Eastern Visayas. Palparan earned many monikers during his run in the military, largely due to his record of turning thriving, peaceful communities into howling deserts of desolation and desperation. He is the very symbol of impunity in the country, matched only perhaps by the Ampatuans and their bloody backhoes.
I consider myself fortunate that I met Palparan not in Mindoro or Samar or Bulacan at the height of his counterinsurgency campaign, but at the Department of Justice headquarters on Padre Faura in Manila. I consider myself lucky that I met him not as a student activist or even a researcher in the field, like University of the Philippines students Karen Empeño or Sherlyn Cadapan, but as a fledgling campus journalist covering a highly controversial hearing. Who knows, I could have ended up missing, like them, or even dead.
The first—and last—time I spoke with Palparan was on July 8, 2011, a few months before he went into hiding.
That day is still fresh in my memory: A photojournalist of the Philippine Collegian and I headed early to Padre Faura, eager to get good seats for the hearing. Outside, activists were crying for justice for Palparan’s victims, and calling on the military to produce Karen and Sherlyn, whose case was the subject of the hearing.
Inside, the DOJ hall was packed. Ranking military officials, Palparan among them, were seated at the right side of the hall. Directly across from them were Connie Empeño and Erlinda Cadapan, the mothers of the missing UP students, and a number of witnesses and human rights advocates. From where I was standing, I saw Palparan smirk at the witnesses.
During the hearing, which was part of the DOJ’s preliminary investigation on the criminal charges filed against him and several other members of the Armed Forces, Palparan denied involvement in the extrajudicial killings and human rights violations that human rights groups had accused him and his men of committing under the Arroyo administration’s counterinsurgency program Oplan Bantay Laya.
When it was time to talk about Karen and Sherlyn, Palparan boldly faced the two mothers, looked them in the eye, and said, “Wala po akong kinalaman sa pagkawala nila (I have no involvement in their disappearance).” He smirked again.
The hearing proceeded, with military officials covering for their comrades. Outside, the protesters’ cries grew louder.
Right after the hearing, almost all the reporters scrambled to get to Palparan. I managed to squeeze myself nearest to him, and turned on my recorder. Here are direct translations of parts of my transcript of that interview, a copy of which is still extant in my computer.
A reporter behind me asked: “People call you the ‘Butcher.’ What can you say about that?”
Palparan replied immediately: “That nickname will never be erased from their minds. They will always try to peddle it to the media, the public, to really put me down and make their accusations sound credible. But that ‘butcher’ tag is also against the AFP, against the government.”
“Why are human rights groups zeroing in on you when it comes to counterinsurgency campaigns?” another reporter asked.
Palparan gave out a manic chortle. Then he said, “Because my counterinsurgency campaign was aggressive, and, modesty aside, successful. The NPA (New People’s Army) have been dislodged, we stopped them… They can call me names, but all I want is to eradicate the NPA, because when that time comes, that will be a happy time for the Philippines.”
Then it was my turn: “How can you prove that you’re innocent of all the crimes [attributed to] you?”
Palparan blinked twice. Then he managed to say: “Whatever is found on their affidavit, we just have to counter it. If they accuse us of murder, we have to provide answers to that, and if we could find evidence, then better… Frankly, I can’t say that for now. We’ll base our answer on their affidavit.”
The last question thrown at him was this: What do you think of the criminal cases filed against you?
“Disturbance,” he replied. Then he fixed his collar, straightened his shirt, and walked away.
* * *
Every time I hear about a new case of forced disappearance or extrajudicial killing, I remember how Palparan laughed away the accusations against the military. For Palparan, the killing of civilians—hundreds, maybe even thousands of them—apparently didn’t matter, as long as he was able to decimate the rebel ranks. For him, the deaths, the mass evacuations, the forced disappearances, were all part of the job. In his version of reality, he is the hero, and everyone has to bow down before him and thank him profusely.
* * *
In December 2011, the smirking ex-general went into hiding, right after the Malolos Regional Trial Court issued a warrant for his arrest. And it took almost three years for the authorities to find him—surprisingly, in the very bastion of student activism. I can’t help but think: Why was he there? Was he watching, waiting for another target?
Now he is saying that he fears for his life. That he doesn’t want to die in the hands of the enemy. But I think he didn’t resist arrest, not because of security issues, but because he has seen how comfortable life can be in detention. Just look at the detained senators and the rest of the gang.
I imagine Palparan laughing that devilish laugh of his. He probably thinks that, behind bars, he can live the life of a privileged prisoner and forget about Karen, Sherlyn, Eden Marcellana, and Eddie Gumanoy. That in the end, he will still have the last laugh.
He is wrong. This is but the calm before the storm. In the coming days, the ghosts of his violent past will come to haunt him in his cell. Laugh all he wants, but the cries of justice from Luzon to Mindanao will drown his hoots of laughter. The time of reckoning has come. It is long overdue. And the people will not leave him in peace.
Marjohara Tucay, 22, is the executive vice president of the party-list group Kabataan and is a former editor in chief of UP Diliman’s Philippine Collegian.
