Em 1906, tropas dos EUA massacraram cerca de mil Moros em Bud Dajo, no sul das Filipinas, e depois classificaram o episódio como uma batalha. O historiador Kim Wagner explica como um império pode cometer atrocidades e como ele próprio aprende a esquecê-las.
Entrevista com
Kim Wagner
Entrevista realizada por
Michael G. Vann
Em março de 1906, tropas dos EUA subiram a cratera vulcânica de Bud Dajo, na ilha de Jolo, no sul das Filipinas, e mataram mil homens, mulheres e crianças Moros que haviam resistido à autoridade colonial americana. O evento foi celebrado por autoridades dos EUA como uma vitória militar, e fotografias dos mortos circularam como lembranças, cartões-postais e troféus. Hoje, Bud Dajo está quase totalmente ausente da memória histórica americana.
Em seu novo livro, Massacre in the Clouds, Kim Wagner reconstrói o massacre e a maquinaria de negação que se seguiu a ele. Wagner mostra como o império dos EUA transformou um assassinato em massa em uma "batalha" heroica e como essa mentira sobreviveu por mais de um século. O historiador Michael G. Vann conversou com Wagner sobre Bud Dajo, a violência colonial americana, a fotografia de atrocidades, o racismo antimuçulmano e por que o esquecimento nunca é inocente.
Michael G. Vann
Para os leitores que não conhecem Bud Dajo, você poderia nos contar brevemente o que aconteceu em março de 1906? Quem eram os Moros na cratera, por que estavam lá e o que as forças dos EUA acreditavam estar enfrentando?
Kim Wagner
A operação em Bud Dajo foi uma de uma série de expedições punitivas ocorridas após o fim da Guerra Filipino-Americana, à medida que os Estados Unidos tentavam afirmar sua autoridade no sul das Filipinas. Isso se prolongou por mais de uma década. Sempre que as forças americanas marchavam pelas ilhas e incendiavam aldeias, alegavam que aquela seria a campanha final contra os Moros. Então, no ano seguinte, eles faziam tudo de novo.
A operação de Bud Dajo foi uma de uma série de expedições punitivas ocorridas após o fim da Guerra Filipino-Americana.
Os Moros que recuaram para Bud Dajo em 1906 recusaram-se a submeter-se à autoridade americana. Eles se recusaram a pagar o imposto individual obrigatório e opuseram-se ao fato de que o sultão de Sulu — seu próprio líder — havia se tornado aliado dos americanos. Em sentido bastante literal, tentaram livrar-se do domínio americano retirando-se para o topo de uma montanha remota.
No entanto, as autoridades americanas encararam isso como um desafio direto. É por isso que surge, então, a narrativa de "fora da lei" que ameaçavam a população ordeira, bem como a alegação de que uma batalha final seria necessária para eliminá-los.
The event is often called the “Battle of Bud Dajo,” but your book frames it as a massacre. What is at stake in that language?
Kim Wagner
It was reported as a battle in the United States at the time — and that’s how it is described on Wikipedia today. You see the same thing with Wounded Knee. Calling it a battle is a conventional way of turning an atrocity into something that allows for a heroic narrative. Three Medals of Honor were awarded after Bud Dajo, and the operation is celebrated with a campaign streamer on the US Army flag. So language was central to the cover-up — it transformed mass violence into military valor.
That is why the choice of words matters so much. We see similar disputes today when people argue over whether something should be called a genocide. The terminology shapes the public meaning of the event, and the prevalent use of euphemisms and the passive tense is responsible for far more violence than we usually acknowledge.
Michael G. Vann
Your book reconstructs the massacre in close detail. What surprised you most as you worked through the military reports, photographs, letters, and colonial records?
Kim Wagner
The well-known photograph from Bud Dajo was only one image among many, and I found something like thirty or forty other images. There were actually three photographers present, and the iconic image of the trench is not even the most graphic one. There are worse photographs, if you can believe it.
At first, I was not sure I would be able to tell the story, because the American authorities did such a thorough job of burying it. They controlled the trans-Pacific cable and could effectively suppress the story while the official military reports were carefully doctored to downplay civilian casualties.
At first, I was not sure I would be able to tell the story, because the American authorities did such a thorough job of burying it.
But the US soldiers wrote letters home, and those letters were not censored. By trawling through contemporary American newspapers, I found accounts in which soldiers would write home with ordinary details and an opening like “Dear Mom, I’m in the Philippines, I’m enjoying myself,” but then proceed to describe extreme violence, using racial slurs and language that framed the Moros as savage enemies to be exterminated. That was when I realized there was a story to tell beyond the official record.
There is also an oral tradition in Jolo today among descendants of the Moros. I managed to visit Bud Dajo and talk to some of the descendants, and that was really important as I did not want American soldiers to have the final word.
Michael G. Vann
What did the local perspective add?
Kim Wagner
The local traditions are in the form of songs, almost like epic poems. They do not always clearly distinguish between the Spanish and American periods and are stories about heroic sacrifice by Moros, within an Islamic framework, who refused to submit to Christian invaders. So the narrative is stylized and formalized.
But what you get from those traditions is a sense that this was not simply a refusal to submit to American authority. These were people taking a stand for a way of life they saw as threatened. For all their rhetoric of nonintervention, the Americans had completely transformed Moro society and upended many of the traditions that formed its backbone. To the Americans, however, such resistance to colonial rule could never be accepted as legitimate.
Michael G. Vann
One of the most disturbing aspects of Bud Dajo is that it was photographed. How did the images function at the time — as evidence, trophy, warning, scandal?
Kim Wagner
The key photograph was taken by a local American photographer who made a living by producing tourist images of Moro life — Orientalist photographs for visitors. He happened to be present during the expedition. There were also two other photographers there with cameras. At this point in time, the line between amateur photography, tourist photography, and official photography was very fluid.
The photographer, who had the improbable trade name of Aeronaut Gibbs, captured this scene on the final day of the massacre, after almost every Moro had been killed. We see the soldiers are posing and facing the camera. This is not a snapshot in the modern sense of war photography. It is part of the violence, and that is what makes it a trophy image: soldiers posing with the dead bodies of people they had killed. Not too different from how hunters pose with their prey — or how some soldiers today take selfies in the middle of a battlezone.
These were people taking a stand for a way of life they saw as threatened.
The photograph from Bud Dajo later became one of Gibbs’s most popular postcards. He reproduced and sold it, and it circulated widely. I found copies in the private papers and photo albums of American officers, including some of the highest-ranking officials in the Philippines.
Leonard Wood, the commanding officer, had some of the most graphic images in his family album. On one page, you see his children with a nanny from the Philippines or riding horses on the beach; then you turn the page and see Bud Dajo. That tells us something about the normality of this kind of violence. These images were not understood by many Americans as evidence of atrocity.
Michael G. Vann
You and I have both worked with images of racialized colonial violence. In fact, that’s how we met many years ago. We recently spent several days with the staff of the My Lai Massacre museum and memorial in Vietnam, discussing their displays of photographs both in the secular Communist Party–run museum and in the Buddhist prayer hall.
I’ve always been impressed with how thoughtful you are when engaging such documents as historical artifacts. What responsibilities do historians have when writing about atrocity photographs?
Kim Wagner
In a general sense, I don’t think we know what to do with such images, and we are still not very good at “reading” them. It is important to consider the ethical implications of reproducing images of racialized violence, for sure. But I also think that refusing to look can become a kind of evasion.
The American authorities later tried to destroy the most incriminating image. So we have to ask whose interests are served if we hide it now, even if our intentions today are admirable. Susan Sontag made an important point about Abu Ghraib: the posing of tortured prisoners recalled lynching photographs. That historical perspective is precisely why we need to look closely at these images and dwell on them.
Some people have accused me of indulging in war pornography. I think that comes from a superficial way of thinking about atrocity photographs. If all you see are dead bodies and a source of trauma, you cut yourself off from a crucial historical source.
This image shows the soldiers who carried out the massacre, posing, and they then sent it home to their families. It is incriminating not just of the act itself but of their mindset. If we want to understand why atrocities happen — how supposedly liberal nations can kill civilians and think nothing of it — we cannot afford to look away.
Michael G. Vann
How did US officials justify the killing of women and children at Bud Dajo?
Kim Wagner
It is interesting because they actually did have to justify the killing of women (nobody seemed to care much for the children). They could not simply get away with it. After all, this was only sixteen years after Wounded Knee. In American political culture, the definition of “savage” warfare had long included indiscriminate violence against women and children, yet the very notion of innocence was highly gendered.
At first, the US Army denied that women had been killed. Then officials said women were collateral damage, hit by artillery from a distance. Finally, they admitted women had been killed but claimed the soldiers could not tell they were women because they were wearing trousers.
The cover-up ended by asserting that these women had been fired up by religious fanaticism. By not conforming to expected feminine behavior, they supposedly lost their protected status as women and became legitimate targets. The Army could then say: yes, women were killed, but we had no choice because they acted like men and were just as dangerous. That argument tied directly into ideas of Muslims as irrational, fanatical, and uniquely dangerous enemies.
Michael G. Vann
The subtitle of your book is An American Atrocity and the Erasure of History. How does an atrocity that was photographed and reported become forgotten?
Kim Wagner
We can look around the world today and see how easily people can watch mass violence unfolding before their eyes and deny that it is happening. Atrocities are not difficult to deny — in the past or in the present.
There was a cover-up that went all the way to President Theodore Roosevelt, and parts of the press helped bury the story. The San Francisco earthquake also cleared the headlines, which mattered because San Francisco was the forward base of American empire in the Pacific.
There was a cover-up that went all the way to President Theodore Roosevelt, and parts of the press helped bury the story.
But it was a strange cover-up because it happened in plain sight. There were newspaper headlines; there were debates in Senate. Both Mark Twain and W. E. B. Du Bois commented on the affair — though not publicly. Ultimately, the fate of a thousand men, women and children on a faraway island was not enough to capture the attention of the American public. And that’s still pretty much the way it is today.
The forgetting is not passive. It is a matter of choice. Raoul Peck says in his film Exterminate All the Brutes that knowledge is not what we lack. The problem is the willingness to confront uncomfortable facts.
Michael G. Vann
Many Americans know about Wounded Knee and My Lai, which you are currently writing about, but not Bud Dajo. What does that absence tell us about how Americans remember empire?
Kim Wagner
Bud Dajo was arguably the worst massacre of its kind. More people were killed there than at Wounded Knee and My Lai combined, and yet, as you say, it is almost completely forgotten.
One thing to note is that even Wounded Knee and My Lai are remembered in a very particular way. They are recognized only as isolated episodes and framed as exceptions that prove the rule of America as a benign or progressive force. The emphasis becomes rogue officers, poorly trained soldiers, or “bad apples.”
In one documentary, for instance, Ken Burns describes the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864 as a “dark chapter” or a “shameful moment,” and that is what I would call historical containment. You acknowledge atrocities that cannot be explained away, but only as discrete episodes. There is never an acknowledgment that they are part of a broader pattern, and a larger history, of indiscriminate or exterminatory violence.
Bud Dajo was buried because powerful interests wanted it buried. But the amnesia has lasted because for too many Americans, it is preferable not to remember these kinds of events.
Michael G. Vann
How should Bud Dajo change the way we understand the Philippine-American War and the broader US presence in the Philippines? Should this be taught as foreign policy, military history, colonial history, or American history?
Kim Wagner
One of my arguments is that there is a direct line from settler violence and westward expansion to Bud Dajo. Some of the senior officers at Bud Dajo were actually veterans of the last stages of the so-called Indian Wars. A couple had been present at Wounded Knee, and it was commonplace to compare to the Moros to the Apache.
At the same time, Americans were deliberately studying how European empires administered Muslim populations. Bud Dajo sits at the intersection of an American tradition of settler violence and European imperialism. It is a particularly brutal convergence.
Bud Dajo sits at the intersection of an American tradition of settler violence and European imperialism.
So this is US history, imperial history, military history, and colonial history all at once. Interestingly, the Moros did not necessarily see themselves as Filipinos, so Bud Dajo also sits at the margins of the conventional Philippine-American story. It belongs to several intersecting histories that are too often kept separate.
Michael G. Vann
What role did Islam and anti-Muslim attitudes play in the way American soldiers, politicians, and journalists understood the Moros?
Kim Wagner
I began this book before the US withdrawal from Afghanistan, so I was very much thinking about the “war on terror.” What struck me were the historical continuities — some headlines about Bud Dajo could have been taken from American newspapers a century later.
The anecdote that Donald Trump told about General John J. Pershing and the use of bullets dipped in pig’s blood is actually an oblique reference to the campaigns against the Moros — and American officers did use pig’s blood as a type of spiritual warfare against the Moros. So the discourse about what Trump referred to as “radical Islamic terrorism” is straight out of the colonial playbook.
The Americans inherited much of it, not from the Spanish so much as from the British and the Dutch. This playbook held that Muslims constituted a particular type of enemy against whom ordinary weapons were ineffective and normal rules of war did not apply.
Leonard Wood, when pressed to explain why US forces had wiped out hundreds of men, women, and children, said they fought as fanatics and did not wish to live. That is almost identical to later narratives about suicide attackers and in the American context, this way of thinking comes from the campaigns against the Moros.
The logic is that Muslims are irrational, superstitious, intractable, and implacable; violence is supposedly the only language they understand. That is a self-fulfilling political strategy with an inevitable outcome.
Michael G. Vann
What do you hope readers take away from Massacre in the Clouds about history and accountability?
Kim Wagner
There is real value in recovering a forgotten atrocity. I was surprised that no American historian had really done this before. Bud Dajo is probably one of the best visually documented colonial massacres in history, yet it became almost a nonevent in the historical record. So establishing the facts matters in a very basic sense.
Bud Dajo is probably one of the best visually documented colonial massacres in history, yet it became almost a nonevent in the historical record.
But I also wrote the book so that it wouldn’t be so easy for Americans to say, “I never knew.” This is, I should add, not about guilt-tripping. I do not think guilt or shame are especially useful ways of engaging with the past.
We are not responsible for the past, but we are responsible for what we choose to remember and what we choose to forget. When we choose to forget atrocities like the Bud Dajo Massacre, exceptionalist myths persist — and we can see how that is playing out right now.
Michael G. Vann
Seus trabalhos anteriores examinaram a violência colonial britânica na Índia — as campanhas contra os Thuggee, os eventos de 1857 e o massacre de Amritsar. Por que voltar-se para a violência colonial americana?
Kim Wagner
De uma perspectiva histórica, os paralelos faziam sentido. Depois de estudar o Império Britânico por muito tempo, analisei a atuação dos americanos nas Filipinas e percebi muitas semelhanças. A história dos EUA precisa ser contextualizada globalmente — como um número crescente de estudiosos tem demonstrado nos últimos anos. Essas conexões e comparações mais amplas são fundamentais se quisermos ir além da abordagem nacional convencional do passado.
Mas há também a questão do excepcionalismo americano. Os americanos — e aqui estou obviamente generalizando — muitas vezes têm dificuldade em encarar momentos violentos de seu passado sem recorrer a justificativas como "não somos assim" ou "já não reconheço meu país". Existe uma espécie de negação da realidade que considerei importante abordar. Como historiador, é assim que o faço. A história não é apenas um passatempo de estudiosos; ela nos ajuda a enxergar o presente — por mais desconfortável que isso possa ser.
Colaboradores
Kim Wagner é professor de história global e imperial na Queen Mary University of London e autor de Massacre in the Clouds: An American Atrocity and the Erasure of History.
Michael G. Vann é professor de história na California State University, Sacramento, e coautor de The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt: Empire, Disease, and Modernity in French Colonial Vietnam.





