By Erik de Castro

I woke at dawn to the sound of a bell ringing and Gregorian Chant music at the Saint Augustine Minor Seminary compound on Mindoro island in the central Philippines. It was still dark as dozens of seminarians in the first phase of a 12-year journey to priesthood walked towards a chapel for their morning prayers and a mass.

I walked to the same chapel 41 years ago and left after more than two years in the seminary.

As I walked with them in the chilly air, I felt the seminary’s sprawling compound was so big now compared to the time I was there. Since 1962 when the seminary opened, there have been 1200 seminarians who have passed through, according to Father Andy Lubi. So far it has produced 72 priests, some who have already left for a variety of reasons. From the 100 recruited during an annual vocation campaign, 12 is the average number of candidates that enter the seminary per year.

Renz Hernandez at the Saint Augustine Major Seminary in Tagaytay city has at least one more year to become a deacon in preparation for ordination as a priest. From a batch of 31 seminarians 12 years ago, he is the only one left. This is a common number for those entering the priesthood and some batches don’t even produce any priests.

A seminarian leaving the seminary after six years produced a video as part of his class presentation, comparing priesthood to endangered and extinct plants and animals. According to his video, among the reasons behind the priesthood decline are church scandals and priests’ abuses.

A priest told me, “Credibility is the problem nowadays, brought on by different scandals among priests and those of the holy orders. When you look at a priest, you expect to look at them as someone who would be holy, but it’s a sad fact that a lot of priests are not able to be faithful to that, and that led to a lot of abuses. The seminarians are now afraid of not being able to live up to the standards of priesthood. Could I remain faithful, chaste, and celibate? These are the things that are becoming more challenging. On one hand, these scandals could be positive in a sense that it presents a challenge to those who wish to enter the priesthood – it’s not that easy. These scandals are contradictory to what it means to become a priest.”

Another priest said, “Some priests do not have the genuine vocation for priesthood. If you really have the genuine vocation to serve God, all those temptations, you will be able to overcome. But if you don’t have it, the possibility to be involved in scandals is high.”

I talked to an ex-priest who fathered a child while he was on his eighth year of priesthood. He stayed on as a priest for 10 more years and eventually left after his second child was born. He is now taking care of his grandchildren. It’s common knowledge in the Philippines that some priests have fathered children. A priest told me the church encouraged those who fathered children not to leave the priesthood because there are not enough priests these days. The church takes care of the children financially and morally until such time as the child has accepted that his father is a priest.

As I was leaving, a seminarian walked with me towards my vehicle and told me before parting, “The Church still has to be open to communication, not hiding those who commit scandals, because even if they are priests, they have justice to answer to. The Church has to – if they know a scandal is happening, even if the public does not know it yet – do something about those issues”.

I left in awe thinking, maybe the church should find solutions soon to remedy the shortage of priests, otherwise the video of that seminarian will become a reality, priests will become extinct and endangered in a matter of time.

It was a few minutes before 6 a.m. when I arrived at the dwelling of Liza Cabiya-an, 39, and her 14 children. Liza was pouring coffee on a plate of rice as her five small children, including her youngest 11-month-old baby, huddled on the floor around her waiting to be served their breakfast. On a good day, Liza says breakfast would be pan de sal, or the classic Filipino salt bread, which they dip into hot instant coffee.

While the small children have their breakfast, Liza’s nine other children were still asleep, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a room of approximately 9-square meters.

The only appliances they have are the television and a DVD player. The glassless window provides natural ventilation to the space. Liza’s family lives on the third floor of a three-story tenement in a slum neighborhood in Paco, in the Philippines capital Manila. I had to go up a narrow wooden ladder to reach their dwelling. Residents of the tenement share the same toilet, which is on the second floor. Liza complains that there are nights when they have to endure the stink of the toilet, which is not regularly cleaned.

“Life is hard with so many children but we still try to have fun,” says Liza as she turns on the TV, inserts a music CD in the DVD player and, as if on cue, the little kids start to dance. The noise wakes up the rest of the brood. “I still remember the names and birthdays of each of them,” Liza boasts with a grin, revealing her decaying teeth. After a while, she turns off the music and half-jokingly says, “That’s it for now. Too much activity will make them hungry again.”

While I took snapshots of the family, Liza told her story. She works as a part-time house help and laundry woman. She can’t accept full time work because she still has very young children to take care of. Her husband, a construction worker, comes home only on weekends. Her grown up children – the eldest at 22 – help augment the family income by scavenging, selling rice cakes and working as part-time house helps as well. All children are physically small for their age, most likely because of lack of nourishment. Only five of her children are also in school, most of them in elementary education.

Liza’s situation is a common condition of most poor families in Metro Manila. A lot of them come from the provinces with the false hopes of finding better jobs in the capital. With no money to pay for rent, most of them settle in slum areas, including riverbanks and creek sides, which are often flooded during the rainy season.

Not far away from their neighborhood, at Baseco compound in Tondo, Manila, there is a small drug store that sells birth control pills and condoms. “Look, we have plenty of stocks because nobody buys them. Most people here don’t have the budget for these because they would rather spend on food,” says the drug store attendant. A village watchman who himself has 10 children said it is rare to find families in the area with few children.

Also located in Manila is the government maternity hospital, Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital, where you can find about 300 mothers and their newborns in the ward. As you walk through its halls, pregnant women lining up for prenatal check ups and mothers carrying their newborns are a common sight. Such scenes and the smell of breast milk makes me liken the place to a baby factory, which indeed, has become synonymous with this hospital.

As I was going down the wooden ladder from Liza’s home, a woman named Elsie called out to me from the porthole of her family’s room, asking me to also take pictures of her family. Elsie says she has 10 children but gave up four for adoption. “They have a good life now, they don’t get hungry anymore,” she said happily.

I am a Catholic but I don’t understand the opposition of the bishops to the reproductive health bill in the Philippine Congress, which would provide access to free contraceptives for poor women like Liza and Elsie.

In the years I have been working as a photojournalist, I have encountered stories of poverty even more heartbreaking than theirs. Most of the time, it is the big families who are in such situations, and they have the same stories about not being able to afford family planning. Just like how an umbilical cord connects the mother and baby, poverty and family size are also linked. Those who oppose the bill should visit these places so they can see for themselves how wanting in free family planning services these poor families are. The inhumane living condition of these people is more controversial than the issues they raise about the bill.

When I was a teenager, I remember a slogan on streamers posted on streets in northern Philippines, promoting family planning. It says, “Talo nga anak okey daytoyin” (Three kids in a family is very good). If most families were able to exercise that, perhaps women like Liza and Elsie and their families would have a better shot at quality life.

December is normally a festive month in the Philippines with the Christmas season a big deal in this country of predominantly Roman Catholics. However, based on experience, heavy rains that can bring flash floods, landslides and lead to ferries sinking are also likely to happen during this period. For some Filipinos who have survived the worst kind of such disasters, December reminds them of the trauma they experienced.

Several villages in Cagayan de Oro City and Iligan City were caught flat-footed as they slept last Friday night when tropical storm Washi swept across Mindanao and Eastern Visayas, bringing strong winds and heavy rains that caused massive flooding, flash floods and landslides.

Early the next day, when a colleague told me that there were scores dead and hundreds still missing, I jumped from my bed, collected my disaster gear and asked for permission from Reuters to fly to the area. As soon as I got the approval, I rushed to the airport to get a flight. It was chaos at the airport as people were going home to the provinces for the holidays. The flight to Cagayan de Oro City was fully booked because flights were cancelled the previous day due to the storm. Many of the passengers were hoping they could finally get a flight, even more so after the disaster as they had to get home to check on their families. The names on the waiting list for stand-by passengers was already in the hundreds, with my name included. By luck, I was able to board one of the flights later in the afternoon.

Immediately upon arrival in Cagayan de Oro City before sundown, I went straight to one of the villages inundated by the storm. It was one of the villages near the riverbank, which became the main path of the flash floods. It was already getting dark so I hurriedly snapped some pictures. Even from afar, one could see the extent of the damage caused by the disaster. Nearly each and every single house near the river was toppled by the raging water with plenty of logs and debris from the mountain. Those that remained standing were nonetheless ruined.

In Balulang village, I photographed weary survivors covered with mud as they tried to retrieve some belongings which were soaked in mud as well. Aside from belongings, some of them were searching among the debris for bodies of family and friends, missing since the storm struck 24 hours earlier. Dead bodies were then lined up on the street for identification. Vehicles swept by the waters were scattered, some piled up on top of another, along with the carcasses of livestock. Typhoon victims huddled in makeshift shelters to cook their meals.

The next morning, I shuttled between Cagayan de Oro and Iligan cities photographing the survivors as they tried to move on following the disaster. They cleared their houses of mud while soldiers and police worked around the clock digging among the debris for survivors and bodies. One of the sites they were digging up was the spot in a middle-class subdivision where a two-story house used to stand until it was toppled by a huge log. More than 100 people had sought refuge in the house to avoid the flood – until the log fell on it.

In another residential area in Iligan city, a typhoon survivor who owns a two-story house said that around 200 people from his neighborhood were able to run to his house as the flood water rose. He provided refuge to his neighbors on the second level of his house. However, he could not celebrate his heroic act because while he saved 200 lives, he failed to save his father who lived next to him because the old man was sleeping. He forgot about his father as he assisted his neighbors into his house.

Thousands of survivors and the new homeless started to fill up gymnasiums, schools and churches which served as evacuation centers for the victims. One church in Iligan City hosted both the living and the dead. It was a surreal picture of a Church adorned with Christmas lights illuminating a manger while families mourned the death of three children, whose bodies were inside small coffins adorned with candles. Some refugees, physically and emotionally exhausted from the entire experience, could be seen sleeping next to the coffins.

As more bodies were found, the death toll continued to rise. On Wednesday the death toll breached the 1,000 mark. In Cagayan de oro City, the local government decided to bury decomposing bodies in a mass grave next to a garbage dump as the stench grew strong. On the other hand, the city government of Iligan opposed a mass grave burial for the dead. Instead, local authorities facilitated the construction of apartment-type tombs where the dead could be decently interred.

In a coastal village in Iligan city, more than a mile long stretch of logs and debris were dumped by waters on the shore next to intact houses. Residents said the logs on the shore protected their houses and their lives, they became their savior, but they felt very sad for those who perished because of these logs.

It was all dark and gloomy throughout the coverage except for one unforgettable moment of joy. I was taking pictures of fishermen searching for more bodies and survivors in a coastal town near Iligan. When they came ashore, they apparently recognized me as a photojournalist and told me some good news: “We just rescued a two-year old toddler earlier and four other survivors. The survivors found the child inside a Styrofoam box floating in the water.”

Who would expect that amidst the bad news, there was still good news after all?

As I write this blog, I am on the 38th day of my current assignment to Afghanistan as an embedded journalist with U.S. military forces. I have been assigned here several times since 2001 to cover the war that is still going on 10 years after the al Qaeda attack on U.S. soil. Mullah Omar, popularly known as the one-eyed Taliban, was the first member of the Taliban I met back in 2001. He held press conferences almost daily at the Afghan embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan a few weeks before U.S. forces and its allies attacked Afghanistan to remove the Taliban government.

Ten years and several trips back to Afghanistan later, I still haven’t seen a lot of Taliban fighters. My present assignment is the time I’ve experienced the most encounters between the combined U.S. and Afghan forces and the Taliban.

It is remarkable how the Afghan soldiers and Taliban fighters are more aggressive now. The insurgents, though they know their artillery is no match to that of the Americans, are daring enough to attack at every opportunity, be it with small arms, RPGs or, on occasions, IEDs and rockets. Most of the time, it is a “hit and run” kind of attack wherein they flee after firing some shots. Such eagerness, however, could cost lives.

In Kunar province last week, U.S. and Afghan military engaged insurgents near Combat Pirtle King close to the Pakistan border. I saw Afghan soldiers unloading from the back of their armored vehicle the bodies of two Taliban fighters killed in the encounter. They also captured a wounded insurgent. The Taliban fighters looked barely out of their teens, had unkept long hair and beard, giving the impression that they have been in the mountains for some time.

Afghan soldiers from the joint U.S.-Afghan forces also show the same boldness although their moves are more calculated. On one of our patrols, we saw a white Taliban flag mounted on top of a hill in an area that is known to be a Taliban stronghold. Without hesitation, Afghan soldiers went up the hill to seize the flag as U.S. soldiers watched their backs. There was a fire fight but it was brief as the Taliban immediately fled on motorcycles.

“Afghan soldiers are good fighters, they are very brave that sometimes I have to tell them to stop pursuing the enemies. They always want to be on the front line. They have so much hate for the Taliban,” an Army officer said.

Not just the Afghan soldiers hate the Taliban. In one of the meetings between U.S. soldiers and residents in a village overlooking a valley where Taliban fighters frequently mount their attacks, a teenage boy came out of one of the bunkers made of sandbags and showed the soldiers an AK-47 rifle. Speaking in the local dialect, a village elder told an army officer “This (the firearm) is the only one we have here. I bought this for 6,000 Pakistani rupees (about $150). I sold a cow to buy this rifle.” And then he pleaded, “Please give us more like this and we will help you fight them (Taliban).” When an officer asked what they want in return if they fight the Taliban, the old man said, “Just help us repair our well, or build us another one,” referring to a well which is the source of their daily supply of water for drinking and farm irrigation.

When troops conduct patrols and gather biometrics of the males, they sometimes talk to villagers. People act and speak like things are normal. Perhaps because 10 years of war is already so long that it has become their “normal” way of life. They just carry on with their daily chores, not minding the presence of soldiers and the sight of firearms. All they care about now are life’s very basic essentials such as clean toilets, water supply and electricity.

(Click here to view a selection of iconic images by Reuters photographers from the war in Afghanistan)

Ten years ago I was part of the three-member Reuters multimedia team that went to Afghanistan following the 9/11 attacks on the U.S. We covered the pursuit for Osama Bin Laden and his Taliban followers, who were believed to be holed up in the caves of the Tora Bora mountains, by US military special forces fighting alongside the Afghan Mujaheedin. Nobody from the press saw Osama. Instead about a dozen Taliban captured from the caves were presented to the media in Tora Bora.

As we passed the Afghan border on the road to Jalalabad following a long journey from Islamabad, Pakistan, I remember the precautions our security adviser told us: If ever we are stopped by armed men along the way, stay calm and just hand over our U.S. dollars. Weeks earlier, two Reuters colleagues (a TV cameraman and a photographer) and two other European journalists traveling with a convoy of media vehicles were killed by bandits on the same road.

Ten years after 9/11, I was back in Jalalabad as an embedded photojournalist with the U.S. military forces. I was attached to Task Force Bronco covering eastern Afghanistan. During the first week of my embed with different units, I joined the soldiers as they met with Afghan police officers and local government leaders, patrolling for hours, day and night searches for arms caches, and looking for members of the Taliban.

During patrols, local residents would smile at and greet the soldiers. Children swarmed them asking for pens, candies and one dollar bills.

On one patrol, young Afghan teenage boys crowded around a female soldier until the men in her platoon shooed them away.

The second week of my embed, with a unit from “The Wolfhounds” in Bari Alai, was an entirely different picture. While the soldiers from Task force Bronco were warmly received by the locals, the soldiers in Bari Alai could not get near the villages. Their camp was situated on a mountain ridge in Kunar province overlooking at least five villages and the eastern road to Pakistan. In 2009, the camp was overran by about 100 members of the Taliban, who killed eight coalition troops, including three U.S. soldiers, and captured 11 Afghan soldiers.

For five days, I experienced spartan living with the soldiers in Bari Alai, where the only things you would consider luxuries were the Internet connection and a flat screen television. While I was there, the base was attacked by Taliban every other day. I witnessed how the U.S. soldiers engaged their enemy.

On my first day with the unit, U.S. forces from the nearby Forward Operating Base (FOB) Bostic fired 155mm howitzers at the Taliban position. As I heard the loud explosions, I saw a big column of smoke across the mountain from our bunker. Moments later, loud staccato machine gun fire emanated from the mountains and an exchange of gunfire followed. I took various positions near the American soldiers to take pictures amid the deafening machine gun fire, grenade and mortar explosions. It went on for about half an hour.

A more intense gun battle ensued on the third day. I was awakened by early morning gunfire, and again grabbing my cameras I followed the soldiers as they ran to to their battle positions. This time, they used more force; Tow missile launchers, mortars, jet fighters and assault helicopters. I saw bullets fired by the Taliban barely miss the head of a U.S. Army sniper. The battle lasted almost two hours and then things were back to normal at the camp.

On the days that were quiet, I photographed soldiers going about their daily life at the camp. “It’s normal for my unit to get contact with the enemy on an almost daily basis. The Taliban don’t get tired of firing their PK (machinegun) and RPGs at us,” said Lieutenant Steve Rizley, the commanding officer. He pointed out a white flag in one of the villages, indicating the presence of Taliban in the area, as he and three other soldiers side by side scanned the villages with their binoculars.

When I looked at the villages through my long lens, I couldn’t help but recall the same mud houses in similar looking villages in the Tora Bora mountains 10 years ago. Nothing has changed and it is hard to imagine progress and peace taking place even in another 10 years from now.

Pampanga has become a popular destination for local and foreign tourists, as well as journalists, during Maundy Thursday and Good Friday as thousands of penitents self-flagellate and dozens enact Jesus Christ’s crucifixion. Last Thursday, I followed the shirtless men as they walked the streets while whipping their backs with bamboo sticks. Blood splattered not only on my clothes but also on my camera lens as I got closer to the penitents to take a snap shot of their wounded and bloodied backs. Sometimes I even tasted the blood as droplets landed on my face.

It was 1985 when penitent Ruben Enaje first had himself nailed onto the cross. He said it was a vow he made after miraculously surviving a fall from the third floor of a building he was painting. Seeing him again last Friday for the 26th year of his crucifixion, it was obvious he has aged but the expression of pain on his face – as three-inch stainless steel nails are hammered on his hands and feet – is the same.

Buses of foreign tourists started arriving as early as 9 a.m. although the actual crucifixion wasn’t until 3 p.m. Everyone had to be there early to get a good position to view the “show.” This year, dozens of penitents had themselves nailed on the cross with Ruben Enaje leading them all. He played Jesus Christ in the reenactment where all characters wore costumes, from Jesus himself, to the Virgin Mary and the Roman soldiers riding on horses. After hours of waiting, cameras started snapping and rolling when Ruben, dressed in Christ’s garment, ended the Way of the Cross at the “Golgotha,” or the hill of the crucifixion. He was pushed and shoved by the Roman soldiers as they climb the hill where the three crosses were waiting. A brief dialogue from the Bible was delivered by the characters and then the crucifixion happened, first, of the two thieves, and then Jesus.

The Centurions sprinkled alcohol on the palms and feet of Ruben before hammering the three-inch nails into them. It only took one strike to nail each palm and foot onto the wooden cross. Ruben let out a cry of pain and then the cross was raised for the entire audience to see him nailed to the cross. A few minutes later, he was brought down and carried away by a stretcher to a nearby ambulance for first aid treatment to his wounds. The swiftness in the way the characters played their part shows their years of experience conducting the reenactment.

Once the show was over, the majority of the crowd dispersed but the photographers stayed on for the next batch of crucifixions. Unlike the first where the Golgotha was cordoned off, organizers allowed people to gather around the next batch of penitents to be crucified, allowing us to take better close up shots. In addition, there wasn’t any more acting or dialogue in the crucifixions that followed.

One penitent, still reeking of liquor, said it was his fifth year to be crucified. He made a vow to perform it for his children’s health. Just like last year, he had one extra wish – to win in the small town illegal lottery game known as jueteng.

Just like Ruben I started covering this event in 1985. The ritual hasn’t changed much 26 years later. In fact, its popularity may have even increased, as evidenced by the droves of spectators in cars and buses who arrive at the crucifixion site. The spectators now include foreign dignitaries who get premium VIP seats – that is, a tented area in the vast hot open field to cover them from the scorching heat of the summer sun – arranged by the local tourism office.

As I wrap up my work, I wondered if the penitents perform the annual ritual out of extreme devotion to Christ or out of desperation as they try ways for their prayers to reach heaven.

Yes, it has become predictable and routine but it never ceases to amaze me every time I see the outpouring of emotions and enthusiasm of the people to be part of the event. Last January 9, I was at the Qurino Grandstand in Manila as early as 5 a.m. The procession didn’t start until 7 a.m. after a Holy Mass but I had to make sure I would get the best possible position to capture good images of the crowd. That position was at the rooftop of the grandstand.

This year, police estimated two million devotees participated in the procession that took the image of the Black Nazarene to the streets of Quiapo district in Manila. It was just more or less a five-kilometer stretch but it took 17 hours for the image to reach the final destination – the Quiapo Church.

Devotees, mostly barefoot, walked inch by inch and their bodies pressed against each other. From my vantage point, it was like a vast sea of people snaking its way at the Luneta Park. Imagine throwing yourself into the crowd without worrying that you would hit the ground. It was almost impossible to control the unruly crowd, as most of them tried to force their way near the carriage. Some clambered to touch, kiss or wipe the image with handkerchiefs or any piece of cloth, while some can only went as far as touching the carriage, or even just the rope that pulls the carriage. They have a strong belief that just touching the image, the carriage or the rope will bring them some kind of luck or miracle.

I have been covering this event for 25 years now, but I am still in wonder at such strong faith these people show for the Black Nazarene. It gave me goose bumps as I heard the millions of devotees chant “Viva Nazareno!” while I clicked away. They endured the 17-hour march on bare feet, under the heat of the sun and then a heavy downpour later in the day. Is it poverty that drives them to desperation and do things that they think would make their voices be heard in heaven? On the other hand, there were also people comfortably settled abroad and from the high echelons of society – including politicians and celebrities – joining the event and getting filthy and sweaty as the person next to them.

As the crowd was cleared from the stage where the mass was held, I found a letter written by a woman asking the Black Nazarene when He would grant her wish of winning the lottery jackpot. Clearly, to some people, it is pure devotion. To others, it is a way of expressing gratefulness for a blessing they received. And still to many, it is paying forward for a wish that is yet to be granted.

As soon as I got off the military aircraft that took me there, I saw a helicopter with a red cross sign painted on it. I approached a crew doing a routine check on their aircraft and, after introducing myself, they explained the details of my embed and gave me some instructions. They pointed me to a section in the chopper where they said I should keep my body armor and helmet, which I have to put on when we flew.

Early morning on the second day of my embed with the “Dustoff” medical evacuation team of Task Force Shadow from 101st Airborne Division of the 101st Aviation Brigade, the sound of “Medevac! Medevac!” echoed on the two-way radio issued to me earlier.

Barely awake, I rushed out of the tent and saw everyone in a hurry. Remembering the briefing I had on the first day with the unit, I realized the urgency of the radio message. The Medevac team was rushing to the Black Hawk helicopter, including a female pilot who dashed from the container van shower room straight to the aircraft with water still dripping from her hair.

I was in a panic, worried that I wouldn’t make it, as I hurriedly put on socks and tied the strings of my boots while recalling instructions from my briefing. In five minutes, or a maximum of seven, we had to be flying. I ran inside the tent to grab my cameras and gear and then sprinted to the chopper. Sure enough, as soon as I was done putting on my flak jacket and helmet, we were up in the air.

The patients were picked up either in camps or in areas where the incidents occurred. The paramedics were very quick with their movements despite the cramped space in the helicopter. They were very precise with emergency procedures done on the patients – three of them at that particular time. The patients were offloaded at different ramps, depending on the nature and extent of their injuries. Ambulances were already waiting for them.

My last Medevac assignment in Kandahar AirField had been very busy. On my second day there, I was told by the pilot that I missed three missions overnight, including a very important one – evacuating a dog. I thought that was a joke until I heard about it from another crew member. They indeed evacuated a sniffer dog that had gone crazy from another camp.

To some extent, I witnessed the outcome of violence in one part of Afghanistan from the injuries of both soldiers and civilians that the Medevac team assisted. The Medevac mission is so important and so is time for them. In saving lives, each second counts.

I also felt the grief of soldiers whenever they lose a comrade, such as the sorrow of U.S. troops for their colleagues who became casualties of roadside bombs set up by the Taliban. On another morning, I saw two female pilots huddled together and weeping during a meeting with their team. I learned later that four colleagues from another location died in a helicopter crash the previous night.

Being on a Medevac embed involves a lot of waiting. In my nine days in Ramrod, we had only two missions. The medevac team passed time resting, eating, reading, watching movies, doing physical exercises, and playing cards, RC planes and ball. I overcome my boredom and frustration of not being able to take pictures by just watching what was going on around me and taking snapshots of what was interesting. Not hearing the “Medevac! Medevac!” call on the radio is, after all, something to be thankful for because that means no one is getting injured – or even dying – somewhere out there.

I was told by an officer that they had a mission the next day to deliver snacks to a village called Deveelak on the second day of Eid al-Fitr celebrations.

Before leaving the camp, I saw soldiers loading boxes of chips, muffins and milk onto their armored vehicles. Each of the Marines practiced how many stacks of boxes they could carry for the upcoming trek.

We traveled in a convoy of armored vehicles from the camp to a location less than an hour away.

I anticipated seeing a crowd of people waiting for us to distribute the snacks.

We arrived in a remote place and the Marines carried snack boxes and hiked approximately 30 minutes to a location beside a small mosque where two elderly Afghans sat.

There was no crowd in the area to receive the snacks.

There were children and villagers passing by. As they were checked for suicide bomb vests they looked at us, but showed no excitement and ignored the food the Marines were bringing to them.

I overheard the translator telling the officer conducting an outdoor meeting on a carpet near the mosque, “the people in this village did not arrive to receive your gift for fear of reprisal from the Taliban if they learned the residents were receiving food from the Americans”.

After an hour long meeting, the Marines picked up the boxes again. “The mission was a failure” ran through my mind. Suddenly, I saw one of the elderly Afghans carrying stacks of milk and signaling to the Marines to follow him. I noticed that the marines reluctantly carried the boxes again. This time we hiked another 30 minutes to another part of the village. As we were hiking, some negative thoughts ran through my mind: “What if this is an ambush?” “What if this is set up?” “What if the Taliban have placed bombs on the foot paths we are traveling on?” I comforted myself in the knowledge and confidence that the Marines know what they are doing.

As we neared a cluster of mud brick compounds, I glimpsed a small crowd of mostly children. I was elated to discover our efforts were not in vain and I was going to have pictures.

I saw only young boys show excitement over the food being distributed. There were no women and the men and a few girls in the area just looked at us.

I watched as they opened bags of chips and after tasting them, most threw them away. I concluded that the taste must be too foreign for the villagers.

There were too many snacks for the small group in the area so the Marines took some of the boxes and distributed them to villagers we encountered on our way back to the armored vehicles.

I thought that at least the Marines tried to reach out to the locals, even though their chips and food were not welcomed by some of the Afghans.

By Erik de Castro

I arrived at the scene of the hostage taking in Manila with feelings of excitement because it was a big story. But also, with a pang of sadness as I was at exactly the same place two months ago when yellow was the color of festivities for thousands of people attending the inauguration of our new president, Benigno “NoyNoy” Aquino.

I immediately noticed a parked tourist bus just in front of the grandstand. I was standing behind a police line about 300 yards away. I quickly snapped photos of the bus and and two women looking out from between the closed curtain of the bus.

My colleague Cheryl Ravelo and I set up our communications and our laptops to file pictures from my car. We immediately called Manila-based photographer Bobby Ranoco to arrange how we could get his memory cards to file the first Reuters pictures.

Bobby had earlier called me, out of breath, to advise me of the situation and his safe position hiding from the police at the grandstand. Bobby was near the area as the drama unfolded. He was at the press office of the Manila Police District when he was tipped off by a local photographer and a policeman friend. He went to the area with other local photographers thinking that it was a just a normal hostage taking event, a not-so-unusual occurrence in the Philippines. Bobby needed to hide from the police because of the vantage point of their location, afraid that the police would boot them out from there. He managed to befriend a worker in the grandstand to shuttle his memory cards back and forth to our filing area as he captured the dramatic events.

Philippine media started arriving at the scene and at noon, I looked around the area and it was literally swarmed by press, as the media outnumbered the police.

I was able to get a glimpse of the hostage-taker – a police officer who was dismissed from service – when he opened the bus door to talk to negotiators. He wore a police uniform and carried a long firearm. He was relaxed, in stark contrast to the tense and fearful look of hostage-takers I’ve seen before.

About six hostages were released at intervals throughout the afternoon, and I thought to myself this could be another happy ending for a Philippine-style hostage crisis, good pictures and nobody getting killed. I thought it would soon be over without violence especially with the release of some of the hostages during the early afternoon.

The mood started to change as 3 p.m. passed and the situation started to take a turn for the worse. I knew then that we were in for something. I wore my vest and helmet. I noticed that the majority of the Philippine media were not wearing safety gear except for Reuters staff and others working for the wires.

Tension increased as it started to get dark and a heavy downpour followed, making it extra difficult to cover what was going on in an open field. I was already soaking wet but I was more concerned about my equipment getting wet as well. Definitely not a good time for the cameras to mess up.

I began to think that this wouldn’t be finished soon, but I continued to imagine hostages coming out from the bus as I peered through a 500mm lens.

At a little after 8pm, the bus driver, who had escaped through a window, was seen running away from the bus.

A few minutes later, I saw police commandos running towards the bus and taking up their position around the bus. They started smashing the windows and windshields with an axe and traded shots with the lone hostage-taker.

While shooting pictures, the scene was like in a movie set in my mind, with TV flood lights properly set up adding good lighting for us photographers. Except that this was real. I could hear voices of TV and radio reporters describing what they were witnessing and the blow by blow account was heard nationwide.

During a short period of lull, an eerie silence substituted the gunfire. Events happened quickly from that point onwards. I could still hear the return fire from the hostage taker. I saw a civilian being hit by a bullet and carried away to an ambulance. There were more firefights, and afterward a man’s body hung lifelessly by the shattered glass door of the bus.

Immediately after, I saw a few policemen signal to their colleagues to ceasefire. Five seconds later men, women and children who had watched the event unfold live, just like previous coup d’etats in the 80‘s, started racing with the media towards the bus.

Recalling the events that transpired in the 11-hour hostage drama, I wonder what went wrong. It had seemed like it would end well. The hostage taker was a decorated police officer dismissed on charges of extortion. He denied the accusation and demanded reinstatement. In a local radio interview, he said his dismissal had destroyed his career and he would not mind wasting his life now. He did exactly that. Unfortunately, he took with him innocent lives and left behind national shame and a tainted reputation for the country he once served.