In Philippine drug war, family of addict struggles to stay safe

MANILA: The bodies terrified Betchie Salvador, because she knew her husband could be next.

They had begun turning up all over the Philippines ever since President Rodrigo Duterte launched a war on drugs this year — so many that one local newspaper had to create a “Kill List” just to keep track.

Dealers and addicts were being shot by police or 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 an addict.

“We talked about it a lot. I told him, ‘Please don’t go out at night.’“

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

Marcelo, who worked as a driver, had been introduced to methamphetamines two years earlier by a colleague, who said it helped him stay awake at night.

After Duterte was sworn into office on June 30, the anti-drug operation — called “Double Barrel” — began. Police drew up “watch-lists” of 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 labelling him an addict and a thief.

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

Marcelo promised to quit his habit. He told Betchie she did not 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.

Marcelo waved the man off, saying he had quit.

On Sept 5, Marcelo parked his rickshaw at a roadside kiosk, where he had stopped to buy essentials for his family. When Malvin Balingatan, who worked at the shop, leaned forward to hand him change, shots rang out, according to the police report. It was 10.05pm.

As Balingatan ducked, he caught a glimpse of two men on a motorcycle, helmets covering their faces. Marcelo managed to run 10m or 15m to the corner, where more shots were fired and he collapsed.

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

At their 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?” they asked. “He’s gone,” Betchie replied, tears streaming down her cheeks.

By the time Betchie got to the scene, Marcelo was sprawled facedown in a pool of blood, his body lit by a halo of light from a bank of television cameras.

A small translucent packet of white methamphetamines was visible beside his fingertips.

Her mother-in-law insisted the drugs were not there when he died. She does not know who put them there, or why. But she won’t press the issue with police.

Betchie said she hoped they find the culprits. But there is resignation in her voice. She looked down towards her lap, eyes half closed.

Three days have passed since the shooting.

“I keep wondering what will happen to me, to my children,” she said, explaining that Marcelo, 39, was their family’s sole breadwinner.

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

Each is inscribed with seven white letters—DUTERTE. AP