The Muslim in me
Assalamu Allaikum! Whenever I use this greeting in Muslim communities, I am always asked if I am a Muslim. I reply: No, I’m a Catholic from Cebu. Some are amazed, some are confused. They ask why I know their greeting. I say: Your greeting of peace is the same as mine. The only difference is, yours is in Arabic.
I am fortunate to be able to pursue one of my childhood dreams: to travel around Mindanao and immerse myself in the Muslim way of life. I had been intrigued by the bias of society (including my own family, to some extent) against Muslims. When I was a kid, I heard that Muslims were traitors, that they smile at you but stab you when you turn your back. I hated the idea that some Muslims wanted a separate state. I could not comprehend why, when we are one country and one people. These circumstances made me want to learn more about Muslim Mindanao.
My work in Mindanao began in 2006 as a volunteer of VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas). My partner and I were the only pair assigned to North Cotabato. I was mainly working with youth groups, providing training for peace- and community-building and leadership formation. On the side, my partner and I collected stories of the communities affected by war and conflict.
Many Muslims were displaced from their own land by the government’s migration policy in the 1950s, which led large numbers of migrants from Luzon and the Visayas to settle in Mindanao. The migrants were given titles to land originally owned by Muslims or indigenous settlers (Lumad). This displacement triggered conflicts between the newcomers (mostly Christians) and the original landowners.
It was during this time that I understood the separatist sentiment, and the need for both the government and the rebels to meet halfway. It was also then that I realized how bias can create false fears. An experience I can’t forget was when my partner and I were in a jeepney in North Cotabato. Three men boarded the vehicle and began asking us questions, and later spoke with one another in Maguindanaon. At that point I panicked and signaled the “alert” code to my partner. I thought the men intended to kidnap us. A few minutes later they alighted, but not before bidding us goodbye and wishing us a safe journey. I was relieved, but also ashamed. I tagged them as kidnappers just because they were speaking a language I couldn’t understand!
Last year I was invited to join the Literacy for Peace and Development Project of Magbassa Kita Foundation. It entailed going to Basilan, Sulu, Tawi-Tawi, Lanao and Maguindanao, and I was excited. I took the job! My father thought I was crazy and offered to give me a small capital to run a business or help him manage his business. I couldn’t blame him. These areas are hot spots for beheadings, kidnappings and such. But I thought: I have many friends there, both Muslims and Christians, and they are not terrorists.
I told my family: I will take the job and the risks it includes. God will be with me in my wanting to contribute to peace. But being pragmatic, I also e-mailed my will to my brother. I told him not to worry if I get kidnapped, and for my family not to raise money for ransom. My organization or the government will find ways. But if I die, they should not worry about retrieving my body. I will go back to the earth as I should and they can just offer prayers for me. My brother told me I was crazy and stubborn.
My work requires me to talk to mayors, community leaders, children, imams, teachers and local residents. What I cherish most are the conversations with the locals. Once, a mayor in Basilan said he thinks the island is being used as training ground for neophyte military officers, who are like dogs pitted against “deranged dogs” (the term he used to refer to the terrorists based in Basilan). He wondered why it is hard for the government to end the violence, and to introduce a sustainable way to peace by investing more in soft skills and productive programs. When I visited a small island-community, I understood what he was saying: There was no functional classroom, no water, no electricity. The children had to go to the other island to get to school. When I asked the residents what they wanted, their unanimous reply was: a school.
I visited Al Barka seven months after a bloody encounter between the rebels and military, where a number of soldiers were beheaded. The wounds in the community were still fresh; the residents spoke of how they got caught in the crossfire. One narrated how they helped a soldier who had been washed up in the mangroves.
While there, I visited one of our classes. I realized it was inside a rebel camp only when I saw a group of armed men emerging from the forest surrounding the community center. There was a brief commotion. I began to get anxious, but the smiles of the women and old people assured me that everything was all right. I asked my local companion what was going on. He told me we were to be held for a while in the camp because an infamous terrorist group was outside the camp waiting for the “outsiders” to come out and execute them.
I remembered my prayer the day before the trip. I told God that He had brought me to this place, and that I was surrendering my life to Him. How quick was the response to test my faith! After an hour, the rebels secured the road and negotiated for our safe passage. As we left I heard the commander shout to his fighters to get into position to provide us security. We arrived at our base safely, still a bit nervous. But I had become convinced that the bias against Muslims in the South as traitors was not true. If it were, they could have simply turned us over to the Abu Sayyaf. But they found a way for us to pass safely, ready to sacrifice their lives.
My first time in Sulu, I traveled alone. I must admit I was nervous. I stayed at the police headquarters, but that didn’t stop me from blocking my room door with the bed and checking out my escape plan. The second day, I felt more at ease. I drove a motorbike around town and tried any local delicacy I encountered. I spoke to some youths; they said they were trying to improve Sulu’s image and offered to guide me around town. I told them that I had been walking around alone. They were surprised and asked me how I could converse with the locals. I said the Tausug and Cebuano languages have a lot in common.
My second time in Sulu, I went to the island of Siasi, where I felt at home.
I also visited the Islamic City of Marawi, where I was able to speak with the religious men and women. I learned a lot about the commonalities between Islam and Christianity. In one of my discussions with an ustadza, she asked me if I was open to converting to Islam. I politely answered: There is no need to. Our ceremonies, our churches, the way we call our God, may be different, but we have the same aim. Islam seeks peace and espouses respect and love. These are the same golden rules in my beliefs. She smiled.
My experiences have made me realize that we may be different but we have sameness. Whether Muslim, Christian, or Lumad, we want normal, comfortable lives. If we deprive ourselves of knowing other cultures, religions and lifestyles because of the fear instigated by society’s bias, we cannot move on and live normally.
Paul Adolfo, 29, manages the USAID-funded Literacy for Peace and Development Project of Magbassa Kita Foundation founded by former senator Santanina Rasul.
