The gunshots had ceased, the bloodletting was over, and all that remained was a barrio both physically and mentally scarred. Almost every hut and house had broken-down doors. Some of the smaller ones had collapsed completely, and a few had been burnt to ashes.
The villagers themselves were traumatized, each reacting in their own way—blank stares, silent sobs, and angry outbursts as we passed by. Stones were still being thrown at the pirates, now bound together by a single sturdy abaca rope to form a human chain. Some of the rocks struck our soldiers instead.
It had been a tragic event, but in truth, the damage was relatively minor. Everything the pirates had tried to take had been returned. The broken and burned huts could be rebuilt in a week. And while the five deaths were tragic, they barely dented the village's population.
