Neshrin M. Macabago

“Good morning, Bolawan. You eat na.” As soon as I sat on the dining chair for breakfast, Naynay, our longtime helper, greeted me with a smile as she put rice on my empty plate. “Fried chicken?” she offered. I shook my head and pointed to the plate of fried eggs on the other side of the table. “I want one, please?” And before she even stretched her right hand to reach it, I asked her about Mamang and Papang.

“Madam went out… to the jewelry shop. Kanina pa,” trying to talk to me in her broken English, “and your Papang?” She then finally reached the plate of fried eggs and put one on mine. “Not yet home. Maybe next week.” Upset, I rolled my eyes, feeling sick of my parents’ absence every meal.

My family was well-known in our inged or province. My parents owned two businesses: jewelry and clothing line. We lived in a white and blue three-storey house with a high-walled compound, had 3 helpers and 2 drivers, and owned four cars – one each for my parents and my two older brothers, Kuya Ahmad and Kuya Arsad, and because I was still young at that time, I didn’t have one. People in our place spoke highly of us, even calling us “Bolawan a manga taw” or people with high status, or literally translated as “golden people.” Probably the reason they dubbed us that was because of my parents’ business – selling jewelries from Saudi. In fact, that’s actually where my parents got my nickname from – Bolawan or Golden. I am the youngest and the only daughter, and dare I say, I owned that name.

At home, we didn’t speak Meranaw at all, only my parents did when they talked to each other. My brothers and I spoke English regularly. Since kids, we were taught to speak it until it became our first language; Tagalog was our second because of our helpers. Other kids in our hometown didn’t really talk to us as they couldn’t speak the language anyway and were too intimidated by us.

Despite having almost everything, I could still feel lonely most of the time. Usually, I was alone in our house with our servants, while my parents were somewhere else. My brothers, though, had their own things too. Kuya Ahmad, the eldest, married Ate Saira, our third cousin in my mother’s side, and they were expecting a baby. Kuya Arsad, on the other hand, loved to brag his car and money off to his friends, living his best life. He could even go to clubs and rent girls as many as he wanted. While me, I could only go out if Ate Jaja, Naynay’s daughter and my personal yaya, chaperoned me – and that is if I had my father’s consent. Sometimes, I’d wish my life wasn’t that perfect so I could go out freely, just like my childhood friend, Bibi.

When we were kids, Bibi would tell me how she fancies everything about me and wishes to live a life like mine someday. And whenever she says that, a part of me fluttered as it reminded me of how fortunate I was. I always liked, though, how people get jealous of me, of us. Although my life and hers were entirely different, I still called her a friend. But most of the time, I treated her as my little servant. Bibi was free, kind, but mostly gullible. Whatever I tell her to do, she does it for me. But she could be deceiving too. She befriended me in exchange for my toys and snacks, yet I still made friends with her regardless, because she was the only kid who could understand and speak English a bit compared to her other dugyot friends. Little did she know, I only played with her whenever I got sick of Ate Jaja tailing me.

Another thing I secretly admired about Bibi, though, was her faith. She would always pray with her mother and siblings at home, and her father would be in the masjid. I tried to recall about a time I prayed with Mamang, but I couldn’t remember anything, except when it was in Eid. The truth is, I wasn’t sure if I could fully call myself a Muslim, for praying never occurred to me and I even barely wore kombong (hijab).

One time, Bibi invited me into their house, and the way her mother, Ante Edah, welcomed me with warmth, as though there was a celebrity who visited them, overwhelmed me. She even spoiled me with Bibi’s favorite snacks: toron and buko juice. Their generosity was quite impressive for people like them who had less, yet rich by heart. And it saddened me to think that while Bibi’s mother treated me that way, she never felt that from my mother. Mamang disliked people who weren’t like us, including Bibi’s family. Mga patay gutom (broke and starving) as she often described them. It even came to a point where she forbid me from playing with her, more so of going to their house. So I instead asked Papang to let Bibi come over our house, but Mamang heard it and didn’t approve it.

“You’re too golden for a girl like her. In fact, you shouldn’t be letting her touch you!” she said. I sensed despise in her voice when she uttered “her,” as if Bibi was dirt. I admit, it hurt me too because after all, she was a friend to me. But what can I do, then, if my mother said it so?

A week later, Mamang told me that she’d send me to Singapore to study there until I graduate college, and the good news delighted me and felt excited to move there and leave my childhood behind, even if it meant losing contact with Bibi.

Eleven years later, I finally came back to inged. But this time, not as the kind of Bolawan people always thought of me. Instead, I came back as a failure and disgrace to my family. When I was in my freshman year, Mamang sadly passed away. I returned home for her dowali (wake) and then went back to Singapore after the funeral to continue my studies. A year later, I was informed that Kuya Arsad mishandled all the money from our clothing line for his lavish lifestyle, until our business turned down, and Papang almost disowned him. Another year had passed; Kuya Ahmad contacted me through a video call and shared me the news about Papang’s wedding to his third cousin. And the moment I heard it, my heart skipped a beat, as if all the oxygen in my body failed to function. Slowly, rage consumed me. Kuya Ahmad didn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence, and I hung up. I banged my phone on my bedside table out of devastation. I couldn’t think of good thoughts at this point as I was already clouded by disgust and disappointment. So I thought of doing something that could possibly hurt them too. And the next thing they also heard about me: I dropped out of school, even though I was halfway finishing my studies. I took it as revenge against my father.

A few days later, I booked a flight back to Manila and stayed in our vacation house there and then decided to completely ruin my future. I wasted two years of my life clubbing and drinking, just like what Kuya Arsad always did. Ironically, I found pleasure in those forbidden acts and somehow felt some kind of freedom too. My whole life, I was the golden daughter, the favorite child. I kept it all together for my parents, until I no longer wanted to be perfect. I thought by doing those would hurt my father and regret his decision, as it turned out, I was the one who regretted every damn decision I made.

Fast forward, I met Khalid, the only person who accepted and truly loved me despite my impurity. I thought I’d found someone who could finally fix me. But instead our love brought more chaos. My family detested him because he was, unfortunately, nothing like us. If Mamang had been alive, I was certain she’d disown me.

Trash, slap soil, opportunist would be the words she’d spit on him and would definitely slap and thrash me. But nothing would change the fact that he and I had already happened. I already had his child inside me. When Papang learned about it, he wanted to kill us both for the shame we had caused. I knelt down before him, crying and begging him to forgive me. And thankfully, his love for me as his only daughter somehow prevailed. So he had no choice but to demand betang (dowry) and a wedding from Khalid’s family as soon as possible to make it up for our mistake.

And when the wedding finally convened, at one point, a slice of regret suddenly crept in. I was in the bride’s hiding room, waiting for my groom to knock on the door while guiltily thinking of running away after realizing I was actually going to marry the man that my younger self would possibly loathe if I hadn’t loved him. And if I did, that would cause more talks about the misfortune of my family. Gossips would always be the judge of it. “I need to fix the damage I caused,” that was the least thing I could say to coax myself.

The ceremony took place in Manila to keep it private, but it was far from my dream grand wedding. Although I got to wear expensive jewelries from our store, my white gown was nothing special. No huge, sparkling venue, just a small space that could only contained a few guests from my family and his. I knew in myself that I had no right to ask for a fancy wedding when it was me who sucked it all.

Three days after that ceremony, we decided to stay in my parents’ house in inged for good. I noticed that our beautiful three-storey house looked very old now. The paint, once shiny white and blue, had faded to ghostly yellow and eroded in parts, revealing the layered bricks beneath. The windows had cracks, as though the house turned haunted. No one lived there since Mamang passed, except for Ate Jaja, who stayed there with Kuya Nono, our houseboy, and lived together after Naynay passed months after my mother did. And since I had nowhere and no one to turn to this time, I decided to live there with my husband and them, hoping to start anew. But I still wondered, though: Did our neighbors know what really happened to me? Well, I bet gossips reached them too.

Inside my bedroom in the third floor, I peeked through my rusty window and looked for Bibi’s, my old friend, house. Their small, old wooden house used to be standing next to ours, and I noticed it wasn’t there anymore. What I instead saw was a white two-storey house with a huge glass window on its second floor now standing in the exact space of Bibi’s.

Then, the night came. At the dining table, eating dinner with my husband, I asked Ate Jaja about Bibi and whose unfamiliar house was that. And to my surprise, she replied, “Bahay nina Bibi yun, yung kalaro mo dati. (That’s Bibi’s house, your old friend.)” In disbelief, I forcefully swallowed the food inside my mouth. She also mentioned Bibi became an accountant after she graduated college and now married to a police official. But instead of feeling happy for my old friend’s success, a sudden ache settled in my heart, as if telling me she’d defeated me, and now I’m the loser. I mean, table always turns, as they say. Eleven years was indeed long. We were both twelve since we last saw each other. For sure, many things also happened to her between those years.

Khalid and I were lying in bed, talking about our future when drowse signaled, and I told him I was going to sleep, so he gently grabbed the blanket for me. Then I closed my eyes when out of nowhere, a thought of Bibi lingered. It’s like, her memory was haunting me. A kind of realization saying: While I was ruining my life, she was fixing hers. I could vividly remember the way she fancied me, but now I guess, I felt envious of what she’s become. I hate it because jealousy had never come over me before, not like this way. Some of the things I once had, she has them now. But the very two things I looked up about her since we were kids: her freedom and faith – I still don’t freaking have them both!

No complete freedom for a woman who brought ignominy to her entire family and no faith for someone like me who has already lost her hope.

I was called Bolawan by my parents because of our, my privileges – good-looking, rich, and soft-spoken. As it turned out, I was never as precious as jewelries. I could now relate myself to the ghostly yellow and cracks in our house – unclean and broken. I supposed, all this time, Bibi was the true bolawan, for she’s ever since pure and innocent. But more importantly, her dignity still belonged to her – something I could no longer possess back. I wondered, though, if she and I happened to run into each other, would she talk to me? Or look me in the eye, at least? Probably she would also despise me the way my mother did to her and her family. And for sure, even if our eyes meet once again, I don’t think my humiliation would allow me to face her now that I became a woman of ill repute.  

Gonaranao B. Musor

The stench, dirt, pollution, overcrowding, and the pickpockets -– people may immediately describe Quiapo as such. But Quiapo will always have many other meanings for me.

I am reminded of “Trip to Quiapo” by National Artist, Ricky Lee. A manual for scriptwriting, it has become my bible when I got accepted in Lee’s scriptwriting workshop after two attempts at applying. Held during the height of the pandemic in 2020 while I was based in Singapore, I was lucky enough that the workshop was conducted online.

I also remember watching as a child the film “Batang Quiapo” (Child of Quiapo) that starred another National Artist, Fernando Poe, Jr., and Maricel Soriano. I can still recall the song played during the opening credits: 

“Kami mga taga Quiapo sa gitna ng Kamaynilaan,
Ang buhay namin sa Quiapo ay di pwedeng pantayan…”
(“We are from Quiapo in the heart of Manila,
Our life in Quiapo cannot be compared…”)

I am a Batang Quiapo. I was born in Santa Ana, Manila and lived for a time at the Islamic Center, or simply called “Center” (pronounced with a typical Maranao accent as “sen-tehr”) in Quiapo. It was located along Carlos Palanca Street near the Ayala Bridge and adjacent to the SM Shoemart Headquarters Ruins.

*****

Known as the “Old Downtown of Manila,” Quiapo was reportedly named after the water cabbage known locally as kiyapo that grew abundantly in the Pasig River that borders the district. It is home to the Quiapo Church, where millions of Catholic Filipinos annually converge to attend the feast of the Black Nazarene. Quiapo can be considered a haven for bargain hunters brave enough to venture into its narrow and humid maze of alleyways. But what’s more fascinating are the fortune tellers, faith healers, and peddlers of herbals and amulets surrounding the church that create a seemingly perfect contradiction — paganism alongside the Catholic faith.

At the heart of Quiapo, beside the church, is a town square called Plaza Miranda. I’m sure people know Plaza Miranda more for its political rallies, the most tragic of which was the bombing that occurred on 21 August 1971 that killed nine and injured almost 100 civilians, than the person who gave it its name -– Jose Sandino y Miranda, the country’s secretary of the treasury from 1853 to 1863.

The busy Quezon Boulevard fronting the Quiapo Church seems to be a dividing line between two different faiths. Across the street lies the concentration of Muslim settlers. Just as the Catholics converge around the Quiapo Church, the Golden Mosque serves as the center of activity on the other side. The Golden Mosque, or the Masjid Al-Dahab, was built in the 1970’s supposedly as a showcase for the visit to the Philippines of the late Libyan Leader Muammar al-Gaddafi that never materialized.

*****

Pictures kept during our years in Quiapo and the stories told to me by my parents, aunts, uncles, and other relatives who were our neighbors provide a glimpse of our previous life there. My parents were just starting a family, with me as the newest member. Hence, living in Quiapo, although not the most suitable environment, was the only practical option then.

I have a hazy recollection of our house at the Center right beside the basketball court. My Mom, or it could have been my older sister, was holding me as she sat with other family members in front of our house while watching an ongoing game at the basketball court. My older sister, whom I fondly call Atekolay, would sometimes tell me how she would regularly wipe the snot from my nose. This would later become a pet peeve whenever she sees adults indifferent to the runny noses of their children.

Sepia-tinted memories of life in our simple house in Center include sharing it with my aunt Inamanae (older sister of my Mom), uncle Ama Manong (my aunt’s husband), and Ate Annie, who was my very first BFF, almost like my older sibling and not just a cousin. My innocent recollection also includes the addition of my younger sister Sandrea to our family.

By the time we left Center to settle in Las Pinas, I was already of preschool age and starting to have more vivid memories of life.

*****

Las Pinas was far different from Quiapo — more suitable for raising a family, cleaner, and definitely a lot safer. We transferred to Las Pinas at a time when one can still see the salt beds along Naga Road, Pulang Lupa upon entering from Diego Cera Avenue and past the cemetery, the tricycle terminal and public school. The salt beds, which were once the defining local industry, have long since gone and eaten up by modernization. In place of the salt beds are concrete structures to make way for increased demand for urban settlements.

Further along Naga Road were the talahiban fields that have now been developed into residential subdivisions catering to families wanting to lead the typical suburban life in the south of Manila. Our newfound family home was in Camella V, which was among the early subdivisions  established in the area.

*****

Despite living already in Las Pinas, my parents, especially my Dad, would always make time to visit Center every weekend to see relatives and other old friends. I guess for my Dad the orderly, more stable lifestyle in Las Pinas can never compare to the familiar chaos of Quiapo. I remember eagerly counting the minutes whenever we were in Quiapo. The only thing I enjoyed was staying at the house of my Mom’s younger sister and playing with my little cousins. My Dad, being the frustrated politician blessed with so much confidence and PR skills, would use these visits as an outlet and take his precious time much to my annoyance.

Imagine that it would take almost an hour or even more for us to finally reach the exit of Center from the nearby parking area as our car would repeatedly stop every time my Dad would see someone familiar and make small talk. This so-called small talk would not stop unless me or my younger sister would rudely interrupt them.

My Dad also loved eating at the halal restaurants near the Golden Mosque at Globo de Oro Street. The food, mostly Maranao dishes, are already prepared in advance and put inside a glass display for the diner to easily see upon entering the restaurant. Just like a typical carinderia, you just point at your preferred ulam — beef rendang (beef slow cooked and braised in coconut milk seasoned with palapa and muscovado sugar), piaparan a manok (chicken cooked in a coconut milk-based broth with herbs and spices), pisawawan a karne (beef in turmeric and coconut milk), aruwan (mudfish), etc. The waitress will then bring your order to your table served with 2 cups of rice.

Yes, not 1 cup or even half-rice but 2 cups. I also noticed the same whenever I eat out in Marawi -– they always assume that your order goes with two cups of rice. What would Senator Cynthia Villar say with her alleged disapproval of ‘unli’ rice?  I wouldn’t mind an extra cup, especially if I’m really hungry.

Back then, it was a struggle for my Dad to convince me to eat in those restaurants in Quiapo. Being a minority, it was not easy for my parents to inculcate in us a love for our indigenous culture and heritage as we were constantly being mainstreamed and homogenized by society. In the case of food, we were brought up to love McDonald’s and Jollibee but reject our palapa and rendang.

In 2003, I found myself working at the Presidential Management Staff (PMS) in Malacanang, which was a stone’s throw from Quiapo. Of course, through the years, as part of maturing, I learned to know more and appreciate my identity and heritage as a Muslim and Maranao, including our cuisine. But there was that one particular day -– it was lunchtime and I went to the PMS cafeteria to check out the food. Turned off by the mostly pork options, I suddenly had this craving for Maranao food and found myself riding the jeep going to the Golden Mosque.

I went to the same restaurant closest to the mosque. The same restaurant where my Dad used to take us, mostly against my will. Since I last ate in that restaurant, some things have changed -– there is now air-conditioning and newer tables, but still filled with people unmindful of the cramped space.

While enjoying my pisawawan a karne with my 2 cups of rice and a bottle of ice-cold Coke, I realized I have indeed come so far from that kid who hated eating in Quiapo.

*****

I grew up never feeling that close to my Dad. I was always a Mama’s boy and my Dad, for me, was either a dominant figure who implemented discipline and punishment or a generous provider who always made sure we had more than enough of what we needed. Don’t get me wrong as I loved my Dad dearly. I knew that the order and discipline he imposed while providing more than what we needed were his language of love.

Those times when we were walking around in the streets of Quiapo and I would hold his hand, he would immediately brush it away. I was a child wanting to feel secure through his father’s protective hand. He was a Dad wanting his son to be independent and brave at a young age.

My Dad was a man of contradictions. He wanted me to be independent, yet he always had a say on my every decision and action from what I could wear, how I should carry myself, to what dreams I could pursue. The angry outbursts and the spankings with his belt were tempered by the swiftness of his apology and regret at having hurt his son. Many years after that, I found myself saying to my 8 year old daughter how lucky she was that corporal punishment is no longer the norm. How tough is ‘tough love’ in this modern concept of parenting? I can’t really say.

*****

I came straight to the National Kidney and Transplant Institute (NKTI) as soon as my plane landed in Manila. It was 2007, almost a year since I left for diplomatic posting in Cairo. I had to rush home to Manila to see my Dad who was hospitalized due to complications from diabetes. He was supposed to follow my Mom to visit me in Cairo, but eventually my Mom had to go back when we learned of my Dad’s deteriorating health.

I arrived at the hospital feeling relieved at seeing my Dad just the way he was when he sent me off at the airport last year, or so I thought -– in the pink of health and eager to go home. He asked me if I could stay the night until we check out tomorrow. I kissed the top of his head and told him I’ll be back first thing in the morning to pick him up. That was my last conversation with him.

I have never gone through EDSA as fast as that fateful night after we received the call from Atekolay who was looking after him at NKTI. EDSA, surprisingly, was as calm as the night as we sped through at breakneck speed. Never minding the danger, I can only focus on my Mom’s effort to hold it together. My Dad died peacefully in his sleep due to heart failure. I felt like I disappointed him when I declined to stay with him. My family claims until now that my Dad was only waiting for me to arrive back before he passed away.

My Dad’s body was taken to the Ma’had Manila and Islamic Center Mosque inside Center itself for the ceremonial washing, before it was wrapped in white cloth and then loaded on a plane to fly him to Mindanao so that he can be buried in his beloved hometown in Palao, Lanao del Sur before sunset, according to Islamic rites.

All roads lead to Quiapo. Quiapo was where he started building his family. Quiapo was the last place in Manila he was taken to before his final resting place in Lanao del Sur.

*****

My Dad was an enigma and I can only try to understand him through Quiapo. I am reminded of him in that basketball court inside Center, or in that area where our old house once stood. I feel my Dad whenever I eat in one of those halal restaurants, with every bite of the beef rendang and the turmeric soup that goes with every meal. The familiar dome of the Golden Mosque evokes memories of him praying there. Batang Quiapo, resurrected as a TV series courtesy of Coco Martin, will now be a constant reminder for me.

After my Dad died, he left a legacy that was difficult for me to live up to. He was both a stern and generous father; but to the many people and family he helped, he was a compassionate man. Yes, he was a frustrated politician, but he never needed a formal title to help people. Despite the many years that passed since his death, every familiar face I meet in Quiapo still always brings up their fond memories of my Dad.

*****

It’s been almost 17 years since my Dad passed. After he left us, many people were expecting my Mom to follow soon given her frail condition and having not experienced adult life without her husband. She was already married to my Dad while transitioning from teenager to adult. Nonetheless, God was merciful enough to give me 10 years to enjoy my mother’s company and take care of her. Just recently, my younger sister also passed away. I would have technically considered myself an orphan, if not for the presence of my own family now – a wife and a daughter.

After all these years, visiting Quiapo seems like a homecoming, even if it’s just a few hours away from my home in Las Pinas. In some aspects, it remains the same – the landmarks embedded in my childhood memories that will forever remind me of the Quiapo trips with my father. The Golden Mosque is still there, albeit with a few renovations, but still largely belying the association that something “golden” is expensive and even ostentatious.

Of course, the stench, dirt, pollution, overcrowding, and even the pickpockets will always be there.

But there are also those changes to Quiapo, even nuances I can easily discern given my ties to the place. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I go home to the Philippines from overseas posting. The changes, no matter how small, are initially disorienting, but you get over it as familiarity slowly takes over. Indeed, going to Quiapo is always a homecoming.     

The restaurant near the Golden mosque is still there, but I can no longer recognize it based on how I remember it. I’ve not gone inside to eat since the last time I did during my PMS days. Many other halal restaurants have sprouted around the area and we now go to a different, newer restaurant where I still get to enjoy my beef rendang and turmeric soup.

There are now a lot of Maranao entrepreneurs selling “Muslim-appropriate” clothes, including hijabs and modest apparel for women. Previously, it was pirated DVDs that were sold until they were eventually overtaken by technology as people moved on to streaming services.           

No matter how much we try to stay the same, we move on. Life goes on in Quiapo after Dad left, and we change. Nonetheless, even if the Quiapo in my memories with Dad may slowly fade, snippets will remain. Just buried, waiting to be unearthed and never really going away.

*****

I am still trying to understand what Quiapo meant to my Dad or who my Dad was through Quiapo. So far, I’ve realized that you can take us away from Quiapo, but you can never take Quiapo away from us. Amidst the homogenization and mainstreaming, we cannot deny what is in our very core. We long for something familiar when forced upon us something foreign and even something forbidden. We will always look for that familiarity that brings comfort. Perhaps, that was why I was suddenly craving for comfort food when left with no choice but haram (forbidden in Islam) options at the cafeteria. That was why my Dad kept coming back to Quiapo despite my protests.

Ricky Lee said in his book that there are many ways to get to Quiapo. You may take the direct route — from point A to point B. You may choose to have many stopovers or take a circuitous route before finally arriving in Quiapo. It doesn’t really matter how and when as long as you eventually reach your destination. I am still trying to reach the end of my journey to the real  Quiapo or maybe I just keep on coming back to Quiapo until I find out what I am really looking for.

Noor Mohammad Saada

The Imagined Bangsamoro. When the Moro secessionist movement erupted in the 1970s, its rallying cry was independence from the Philippine body-politic. The objective was not merely local self-government but the establishment of a sovereign Bangsamoro state. This aspiration was reflected even in the official correspondence of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), whose stationery bore the inscription “Bangsamoro Republik” rather than “Autonomous Region.” This imagined Bangsamoro Republik was to be carved out of Mindanao, the Sulu Archipelago, and Palawan, and specified in the 1976 Tripoli Agreement, including provinces of Basilan, Sulu, Tawi-Tawi, Zamboanga del Sur, Zamboanga del Norte, North Cotabato, Maguindanao, Sultan Kudarat, Lanao del Norte, Lanao del Sur, Davao del Sur, South Cotabato and Palawan, and such cities as Zamboanga, Davao, General Santos and Cotabato. However, after a series of referendum, the vast Minsupala supra-region that forms the historic Bangsamoro is now reduced to just four provinces and sixty-three barangays carved out of North Cotabato, named as Bangsamoro political entity.

What happened? How did a movement founded upon secession and national liberation arrive at the political destination of autonomy? Why did a revolutionary struggle for statehood gradually redefine itself as a struggle for self-governance within the Philippine state?

Realities of War and Conflict. The conventional answers are familiar. Military realities made outright victory difficult and war has lingered for decades, further marginalizing many already marginalized Moros. Unfortunately, the balance of power favored the Philippine state; and international support for secession weakened as many Muslim states are also confronting their own separatist movements and therefore became reluctant to endorse the partition of existing nation-states. While the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) provided a platform for the internationalization of the Moro struggle and recognized a revolutionary movement as the representative of the Bangsamoro people, the OIC’s mediation efforts ultimately encouraged a negotiated political settlement rather than full independence. Successive Philippine governments likewise offered various autonomy arrangements as frameworks for peace. For many years, these proposals were rejected because the movement’s objective remained independence rather than regional self-government.

Language of Self-Determination. The prior explanations may not be insufficient. The more difficult question is not why the Philippine state preferred autonomy. That is obvious. The more difficult question is why significant sectors of the Moro liberation movement eventually accepted it. Why did the Moro revolutionaries influence the Moro public to accept autonomy as an acceptable option?

Somewhere along the way, a profound ideological shift occurred, the language of independence gradually giving way to the language of self-determination. The discourse of liberation was reformulated into the discourse of governance. The aspiration for a sovereign Bangsamoro state was transformed into the aspiration for meaningful autonomy within the Philippine Republic.

By the late 1990s and early 2000s, the concept of the Right to Self-Determination (RSD) increasingly occupied the center of Moro political discourse. RSD became the new overarching concept through which the struggle was explained, justified, and reinterpreted. In this way, independence became only one possible expression of self-determination rather than its necessary outcome. For many supporters, this represented political maturity and realism. For other revolutionaries who opt out or remain on the peripheries of the politics of autonomy, it marked the beginning of ideological retreat. The revolutionary objective remained rhetorically intact while its practical content was steadily reduced. Self-determination became flexible enough to accommodate autonomy, power-sharing, and participation in the status quo.

From Secession to Autonomy. This raises an uncomfortable dilemma: was autonomy accepted because it was the most achievable form of self-determination? Or was self-determination reinterpreted precisely to justify the acceptance of autonomy? The establishment of the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) and later the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM) represented the institutional culmination of this transition. President Noynoy Aquino in accepting the new Bangsamoro political entity justified that the regional autonomy model initiated by his mother was a failed experiment.

Whether this evolution should be understood as strategic adaptation or ideological dilution remains contested. Supporters argue that the current autonomy has begun to deliver political space, recognition, and a measure of self-rule previously denied to the Bangsamoro people. Critics contend that it redirected the movement away from its original objective and normalized participation within the very state structure that earlier generations of Moro revolutionaries fought, and sought to leave behind. For these critics, neo-colonialism is an apt description of the new reality.

Performance and Moral Legitimacy. Today, much is expected from this new political experiment. BARMM, with an annual budget that now exceeds one hundred billion pesos, is no longer judged merely by the standards applied to ordinary local governments. The expectations are far higher. The Bangsamoro project was never presented simply as an administrative rearrangement of the Philippine state. It was presented as an alternative based in the historical aspirations of the Bangsamoro people. Consequently, the measure of success cannot be limited to roads, bridges, schools, and other conventional indicators of government performance. The greater challenge lies in demonstrating that Bangsamoro governance embody a higher standard of public service and public morality.

Many regional documents speak not merely of reducing corruption but of advancing “moral governance,” the latter is a far more ambitious claim. Less corruption is not the same as corruption-free governance. Transparency is not the same as integrity. Efficiency is not the same as moral leadership. If moral governance is to mean anything, it must aspire toward a public order in which corruption is not merely minimized but systematically prevented and socially unacceptable. This may ultimately become the defining test of the autonomy experiment. If autonomy was justified as an expression of the Bangsamoro people’s right to self-determination, then BARMM must demonstrate that self-governance can produce not only better administration but better governance; otherwise, autonomy risks becoming merely a change in political structure rather than a transformation in political culture.

Therefore, the ultimate question is no longer whether autonomy replaced independence. The more pressing question of the day is whether autonomy can deliver what independence once promised: dignity, justice, accountability, and a government genuinely reflective of the moral aspirations of the Bangsamoro people.

Aaqilah S. Mangarun

Despite it being five in the morning, the water was a little too lukewarm to wake me up. By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, I barely felt the sleepiness escape me. The takbir echoed from the nearby masjid, filling the background of the otherwise listless dawn. I groggily went back to my room to get dressed.

My fingers ran through the smooth fabric of my abaya, a plain but well-made thing. The loose, black dress-like garment was a size too long for me, and I immediately thought of the two-inch heels I had to pair with it to compensate for my average stature. The textured hem of the sleeves was the only thing that gave it a modicum of personality.

I liked the abaya, but I felt it lacked color, so I wore a blue shimmering hijab to pair with it for Eid al-Adha. To finish the look, I applied sunscreen, a touch of powder and a red lip balm.

Somebody’s looking real mature, I thought as I looked in the mirror. I felt far from it, though.

My mother bought the abaya from someone who supposedly bought it from Saudi Arabia. As a niqabi, my mother’s wardrobe consisted of abayas of all sorts, from plain ones for everyday wear to colored and bejeweled ones for formal occasions, including today’s Eid.

What I hoped no one would notice was that this was the same abaya I had worn a few months ago in Eid al-Fitr. Only I paired it with a pastel green hijab instead, a color I had never worn before. The odd choice made the outfit novel, I told myself, but that did not change the fact that I was repeating it. I was no stranger to abayas or repeating outfits, or the two combined. But there had always been a part of me that hoped that every Eid meant new clothes, new outfits.

It was not like our family could not afford me a more colorful, elaborate getup; I simply wore whatever my mother bought me. Even at my tender age of 22, she still had a habit of choosing my Eid clothes, a small tradition I have come to accept as part of the holiday itself. As much as I wanted to pick my dream Eid outfit (I did not have such a thing yet), I did not have the heart nor the guts to demand anything beyond whatever clothes she provided me.

Breakfast came and went with little fanfare. After a ride to a neighboring town, my family met and sat with my aunt and her kids—my cousins—in the masjid a few steps from their house. We took up the whole front row of the ladies’ section, our row decorated with a medley of prayer mats of different colors and sizes.

Sitting on my legs, I stared at the other women behind our row out of the corner of my eye. They all looked beautiful with their vibrant dresses and sparkling accessories as they chatted away while waiting for the prayer to begin. It was as if the masjid became a mini fashion exhibit for the day. A pang of jealousy and nostalgia hit my heart at the same time. There used to be days when I wore similar clothes, back when I was younger and when my family and I lived in the Middle East during my adolescent years. It was only for a handful of times, however, before my parents decided that I was old enough to wear the classic abaya every other woman wore. Sure, my abaya had some color or decoration, but it was nothing compared to the cute outfits kids my age wore.

During that time, every Eid spent with my family meant eating out after khutbah. Most establishments would close for the first few days after Ramadan, but those that were not would be filled with families going out to half celebrate and half escape the desert heat. Malls and some chain restaurants would remain open, and they would be quite crowded. After a month of fasting and keeping to ourselves in our homes, it was an almost poetic way to break that routine.

Chances are, you’d find me and my family among those celebrating outside. Despite the happy atmosphere all around, a strange quiet befell me each Eid. A yearning for something more. I longed for the kind of holiday that meant homes filled with visitors and endless food, but I barely experienced any of that.

As Filipinos, we are well known for marking holidays or special occasions with some sort of salo-salo or, from a Maranao perspective, a kandori with family and friends. Eid was no exception: big, hearty meals and desserts set out on the family home table, laughter and stories shared, adults handing out Eid money to the young ones.

This was a far cry from when my family lived far away from home for half of my childhood. We barely knew anyone, including fellow kababayans, well enough to get invited or host a party of any sort. Any relatives we did know who were around were too far apart to celebrate. A better livelihood abroad came with the price of losing touch with most of our extended family. For a time, that made it difficult for me to adjust and connect to them once we returned to the homeland for good. It felt like joining a conversation that everyone else had been having for years.

Now, every Eid is quality time spent in the homes of relatives happy enough to host and feed us. After the prayer, we followed my aunt and the others back to their house, where shoes gathered at the doorway and voices overlapped before anyone had even sat down. Someone was always asking who had eaten, who wanted a second serving, who had grown taller, who looked like whose mother and father. I did not suddenly become good at these gatherings. I still found my place near the side, close enough to listen but far enough not to be pulled into every conversation. Still, there was comfort in being there.

For years, I thought I had missed something. Maybe I had. But sitting there, in the same abaya I had worn for a second time, I felt less embarrassed by its repetition. The dress had followed me from one Eid to another, from one version of myself to the next. It was not new, but neither was the ache I carried, and neither was the longing to belong somewhere.

This time, I did belong.

Teng Mangansakan

The legacy of the Jabidah massacre refuses to fade away and sticks with each generation like a name that’s always on the tip of the tongue. It shows up in pieces, slipping between what people say out loud and what they choose to keep hidden. And from those scattered pieces, we try to build a story for ourselves, and sometimes even a future.

As a Moro, I have inherited its legacy too, like someone who hangs around the edges, picking through what’s left unsaid, listening for echoes that travel even to the remotest places. My grandfather, Datu Udtog Matalam, did not have the luxury of such distance. When Jabidah erupted into the national consciousness, he responded not with metaphors as writers are predisposed to invoke but with one sweeping movement. He founded the Muslim Independence Movement, an act that was at once grief and defiance, a declaration that history had reached a point of no return. His revolution was urgent and carved out of outrage. Mine, I have come to understand, is quieter, slower, almost hesitant. It is a revolution in the mind, where memory is both weapon and wound.

For years, I have circled Jabidah without quite entering it, like an island seen from afar, its shores too thick with meaning to approach directly. But in the last two years, I found myself traveling repeatedly to Tawi-Tawi, drawn by a need I could not fully articulate. There is something about islands that insist on isolation, but they also promise a form of clarity. In Simunul, where the story of Jabidah is said to have begun its quiet gestation, I felt the past not as something concluded but as something waiting patiently, like some unresolved business.

It was there that I encountered the story of Sophia Mirkusin. It did not come to me like history from authoritative textbooks or the brittle certainty of archives. Instead, it arrived as a love story told in fragments. Sophia, they said, had loved a man named Eduardo Martelino, a man whose presence in the narrative of Jabidah is often reduced to rank and function, but who, in Sophia’s remembering, existed first as a bearer of promise of everlasting love.

He arrived, as such men do in island stories, with the aura of foreignness. He carried with him the weight of a nation that had not yet learned its own fractures. In Sophia’s telling, he was attentive in ways that suggested he was the right one. He spoke of return as though it were inevitable, as though distance was only a temporary inconvenience. Love, he told her, could easily overcome this. In that fragile space between encounter and departure, she allowed herself to believe in a future that extended beyond the horizon. She dreamed beyond the uncertainties that already hovered over Simunul.

But history, like the tide, does not honor such intimacies. It intrudes, takes what is private, and subjects it to violence in the open. When Martelino left, summoned back into the machinery of a state that was itself unraveling, he carried with him not only his obligations but also the silence that would come to define his absence. He did not return. Or rather, he returned only in stories that contradicted one another, every version clashed with the next, in a history that has never been settled.

Sophia waited.

This waiting, I have realized, is not incidental to the story of Jabidah but is central to it. Because what is Jabidah if not a prolonged act of waiting? Waiting for truth. Waiting for acknowledgment. Waiting for justice that never arrives in the package one desires. Sophia’s vigil became a quiet mirror of the Bangsamoro condition itself, a testament to the endurance required to live with histories that do not resolve easily.

She waited through the slow sedimentation of myth and rumor, through the shifting narratives that alternately obscured and exposed the contours of the massacre. All the while, the man she loved became increasingly drawn into those stories. People kept mentioning his name, making him feel both close and impossibly far away. And then, at some point, no one can say exactly when, she decided to move on, though even that phrase feels inadequate, as though it suggests a clean break where none existed. What does it mean to move on from something that has never properly ended?

In Sophia’s story, I began to see Jabidah not only as a political rupture but as an intimate one, a crack that extends into the most private corners of human experience, reshaping love, memory, and the very possibility of closure. Her waiting was not passive, but an active engagement with absence, a refusal to let the story settle into the neatness that history often demands.

This is perhaps why her story found its way into my own work, why it lingered at the edges of Island Fever, why it haunted the imagined conversation between Lina, a journalist, and Jabidah survivor Jibin Arula, who returned from the Hereafter. Because even in that speculative space, where the dead are allowed to speak, the questions remain unresolved. The journalist seeks answers, but what she encounters instead is a series of echoes, bits and pieces of memory and afterthought that never quite come together.

Writing that story, shaping it through long conversations on the many questions of identity, history, and the burden of memory, I began to understand that my work is not to resolve Jabidah but to inhabit it. To sit with its ambiguities. To allow its contradictions to breathe. This is perhaps the quiet revolution I have chosen, not to simplify and make a chronicle of some sort, but to stick around and allow the tangled stories that make up Bangsamoro identity to unravel.

Because, really, this isn’t just about how we remember Jabidah. It’s about how we see ourselves in its shadow. Are we just carrying old wounds, stuck in this endless cycle of anger and payback? Or are we keepers of memory, holding on to the hard truths of the past without letting them swallow us whole? Sophia’s story doesn’t reconcile any of that. If anything, it makes the questions heavier.

In the end, I keep coming back to the image of the tide. Jabidah always comes back through different faces and voices, even in silence. It keeps shaping Bangsamoro’s future. It keeps shaping the Filipino imagination, too, even if we pretend it is the least of its concerns. And in Sophia’s waiting, in the way she loved a man tied to a history that won’t let him go, I see the tide at its most personal. It’s not just in our politics or our shared memory, but also in our quietest hopes and the things we want most.

And in that, perhaps, lies the real weight of inheritance, knowing that every time we write, every time we remember, we’re still waiting and listening, still trying to figure out a story that has no neat ending.