FOR DECADES, the soil of Mindanao was defined not by its rich agricultural promise, but by the generational grief of the Bangsamoro people. When the Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro was signed in 2014, it wasn’t just a political settlement; it was a sacred covenant to end one of Asia’s longest-running insurgencies. We dared to envision an autonomous homeland built on the bedrock of democratic governance, social justice, and healing.
Yet today, as the region navigates a delicate transition toward its first parliamentary elections—now pushed back to 2026—the architecture of that peace is fracturing under our feet. What was meant to be a showcase of self-determination is increasingly resembling a masterclass in fragmentation.
As someone who has spent a lifetime navigating intra-faith dialogue and the complex anthropological realities of our communities, I view our current political impasse with profound alarm. The International Crisis Group recently argued that while the peace process remains alive, it is growing dangerously fragile. This fragility is not an accident of fate; it is the predictable consequence of structural delays from Manila, incomplete normalization on the ground, and worsening internal rivalries.
On paper, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF)-led Bangsamoro Transition Authority has done commendable work. Since 2019, they have established ministries, shaped administrative codes, and established the legal scaffolding required by the Organic Law. But the grim reality is that institutions alone do not satisfy a population hungry for tangible change. Governance across the autonomous region remains jarringly uneven. In remote, marginalized communities, the dividends of peace are practically invisible, overshadowed by entrenched patronage networks, an acute lack of transparency, and subpar service delivery.
When the state fails to deliver, the old ghosts of Mindanao fill the vacuum. Security in the region is still deeply compromised by local clan feuds (rido), armed splinter groups, and unresolved land disputes. While large-scale warfare has mercifully receded, we are still plagued by persistent mistrust and some of the highest illiteracy rates in the country. To make matters worse, the abrupt exit of the province of Sulu from the autonomous territory in late 2024 has introduced an acute layer of instability, threatening to trigger a domino effect of further electoral postponements.
Amid this instability, the political landscape is being aggressively redrawn. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s appointment of BIAF Chief of Staff Abdulraof Macacua as interim chief minister, replacing Chairman Murad Ebrahim, has fundamentally altered the dynamics of power. Rather than fostering solidarity, this leadership shakeup has sharpened rivalries, particularly alienating the Iqbal bloc, and is widely perceived as an attempt by national and regional officials to engineer the outcome of the September 2026 polls. For the ruling United Justice Party, the electoral arena is no longer just about preserving the peace project; it has morphed into a vehicle for raw political survival.
But while politicians squabble over parliamentary seats, a much more dangerous crisis brews in our villages. More than 26,000 former combatants remain stuck in a state of geopolitical limbo. They laid down their weapons under the impression that they would receive comprehensive socio-economic integration packages and sweeping amnesty measures.
Today, they feel abandoned. This ongoing impasse is an open invitation for unrest, threatening to push thousands of disillusioned young men back into the hands of radicalization or lawless factions.
Our peace panels and government advisers, led by figures like MILF Peace Panel Chair Mohagher Iqbal and OPAPRU Secretary Mel Senen Sarmiento, frequently express public commitment to holding this fragile coalition together. But public platitudes cannot bridge a compounding trust deficit. Reports from independent bodies, including the Third Party Monitoring Team, point to a chilling reality: the legitimacy of the entire peace process is facing a slow-motion collapse. We are trading a historic opportunity for regional reconciliation for short-sighted, intra-Moro technical rivalries.
Manila and the international community must look past the superficial peace of Cotabato City’s government centers. Peace is not merely the absence of war, nor is it a date on an election calendar. If the transition continues to benefit only a select political elite while ignoring the combatants in the hills and the communities in the periphery, the 2026 elections will not be a milestone of democracy. They will be the epitaph of a broken promise.
