Why Joey Lozano Is A Marked Man - investigative reporter works for the environment

International Wildlife, May 3, 1999

When investigative reporters take on loggers and miners in the Third World, they often put their lives on the line

Joey lozano slides down a steep, mud-choked trail in the green-clad mountains that slice across the belly of the Zamboanga Peninsula. We are on the large island of Mindanao, often described as the Philippine equivalent of the Wild West, in the far south of this 7,100-island nation just before the archipelago bumps into Indonesia. We have been pushing hard since dawn, hot on the trail of timber poachers.

Lozano, 49, is not a policeman but an investigative reporter. He covers the environment for the Philippine Daily Inquirer and other newspapers and produces video footage for Philippine television. In a region where loggers, miners and other commercial interests vie--often illegally--to exploit natural resources as fast as poss- ible, his profession makes Lozano a marked man. He has been vilified and threatened, and he narrowly escaped one assassination attempt.

Across much of the Third World, where coverage of the environment is often seen as a veiled assault on powerfully entrenched individuals, developers and even the government itself, Lozano's story is not unique. In 1997, two Indonesian journalists were murdered while investigating illegal logging and mining operations on Kalimantan, the Indonesian half of the large island of Borneo. Around the world that year, according to the New York-based Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), 129 journalists--many covering environmental issues--were jailed for doing their job, and 26 were murdered. "You have to realize that environment and development issues are often at the root of social conflicts in many developing countries, so reporters covering these stories are always at risk," says Joel Simon, Americas Program Coordinator for the CPJ.

Lozano's current assignment--which involves a look at how the indigenous Subanon tribe is getting ripped off--provides a window into the dangerous and uncertain world of the environmental reporter. As a journalist who also covers environmental issues--though more often from the safety of offices in New York, Stockholm or London--I am slogging along to understand what it's like in the journalistic trenches and to learn how the dynamics of resource extraction in this developing nation have spawned a culture of greed and corruption that all too often puts innocent people at risk.

The Subanon tribe is an indigenous culture that has existed on Mindanao for millennia and whose religion predates both Christianity and Islam. In theory, the Subanon people have rights to the resources on their land. But small-scale poachers creep into the forest at night and cut down rare trees, such as mahogany, then drag the logs to the nearest river for transport down to the coast. The government does not enforce laws that would help the Subanon. Nor does it step in to stop other bigger commercial interests.

Like most indigenous peoples in Asia, the Subanon have little recourse left except to try to stem the hemorrhage of their resources as best they can. It is in their interest to get press coverage of the abuses, which is why they are hosting Lozano and permitting me to tag along.

Our principal guide and tracker, Chris Gumanta, has set a grueling pace over these razorback, roller-coaster hills that rise and fall like those in the southern Appala- chian Mountains in the United States. We are trying to get to the Lituban River, the main artery for ferrying timber from the interior highlands to the coastal town of Siocon, but the intense heat and broiling humidity soon sap strength and endurance.

"I still don't know why, but I suddenly veered off to the side. It was just at that moment that I heard the gunshot. The bullet passed so close to my head that I felt its hot breath on my cheek."

Even on these slippery slopes, Lozano moves like a mountain goat, his trademark ponytail flopping out the back of his hat. He is right behind Gumanta, followed by our porters, who carry cameras, video equipment and food. I bring up the rear, with the chief of the Subanon, Boy Anoy. There are two reasons for spreading out along the trail, Lozano tells me with a wry smile. "First, you won't be able to keep up with the rest of us and second, in case of an ambush, it's better for you to be at the rear. That way you may be able to get out of trouble as fast as I got into it!"

Gumanta carries a .38-caliber revolver under his T-shirt; a menacing machete dangles from his belt. These hills are often alive, not with the sound of music, but with gunfire. Few foreigners venture into the Zamboanga Peninsula, and none have been seen in this particular region for years.

The province we are in--Zamboanga del Norte--is overrun with gun-toting crazies, I am told. "All the major armed groups are represented here," Lozano says. The Lost Command of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF)--a ragtag collection of religious fanatics who want to turn Mindanao into an independent Islamic republic and specialize in kidnapping foreigners--shoot at Philippine army patrols, which fire back. Secret paramilitary groups, akin to the death squads of Central America, target individuals for assassination, mostly testy local leaders and village elders. Private armies, called blue guards, often bump off tribals whose land their employers are trying to steal. And then there are bandits who will rob and kill just about anyone. Telling one from the other is difficult (only regular army units wear uniforms), so it is best to keep a low profile.