(Speech delivered by Bam Baraguir during the launching of the book, “Bangsamoro and the Everyday: Stories from the Heart of the Revolution” in Cotabato City on June 17, 2026. The book is published by the Institute of Bangsamoro Studies. Baraguir is one of the authors of the book)

Assalamu Alaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatuhu.

I have been working for more than fifteen years now, and perhaps because my work has always been about the Bangsamoro, I took a while to realize that I am living in a bubble. I became accustomed to thinking that everyone around me already knew our story. So last week, when I spoke with someone whose only idea of the Bangsamoro is that ‘Muslims live here’, I realized that we still have a long way to go.

For a long time, other people have written about the Bangsamoro struggle. Soldiers wrote about it. Government officials wrote about it. Foreign researchers, journalists, academics — they wrote about it. Sometimes, they wrote well. Sometimes, they didn’t.. Often, there are things that are missing. So at some point, we have to ask: when do the people who actually lived through these experiences get to write their stories?

As a bit of background, Chairman Salamat gave Prof Abhoud permission to write about these things. For over two decades, he held off. Until, finally, the time is ripe for it.

Of course, this book would not have seen the light of day without aid from our friends. People who were not even Bangsamoro themselves, but have invested their youth, time, and resources in this region. In a precarious world wherein it is assumed that people operate with hidden intentions, I am thankful for their sincere solidarity. 

I heard people say time and time again that working in the Bangsamoro is a thankless job, and so, allow me to express gratitude this time. For all of you here, and those who were not able to make it but are with us in spirit, thank you. 

Originally, the vision for this project was much bigger. It included archival work, document scanning, video recordings, and many other forms of preservation. But in the end, this is what we were able to build. Piece by piece, it became smaller. Some parts had to be cut. Others were lost along the way. There were interviewees who passed away before we had a chance to talk to them. When we started this project, we knew we were racing against time. So perhaps, when asked what this book is about, I think the simplest answer is this: it is what we managed to save.

The premise of this book is simple: to tell the stories that can finally be told. The movement was clandestine, after all. I still remember the years when these things had to remain hidden. To be honest, even after the plebiscite had passed and the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM) was already established, I was still hesitant to talk about it openly. For half of my life, the umpungan was talked about in hushed voices. It was not a habit easy to let go of. For those who were gagged or who kept silent for so long, finally having a voice can be disconcerting at first. 

But then, I found myself faced with a question: Our right to speak and be heard was paid for with blood, sweat, and tears. When we were finally given the opportunity to tell our own story, did we do everything we could to honor that opportunity?

The fact that this book took half a decade to complete says something in itself. Some of the people who were very young when this project began are no longer quite as young today. Some of those who were part of the initial journey did not live to see its publication. 

For many of us, writing these chapters was a complicated experience. For me, personally, it was also an exercise in understanding myself.

I consider myself fortunate to have been part of this process. I knew I was not simply writing about history or relaying a piece of it. I was entrusted with its care. I became a custodian. And as a custodian, I have a responsibility to treat it with respect. That means this could never be reduced to simply writing words on a page. It could never be about writing something merely for the sake of having something to say. And it certainly could not be outsourced to a machine and turned into an AI-generated slop.

People entrusted us with fragments of their lives. To treat those stories carelessly would be a disservice to the people who shared them, and an insult to the memory of those who fought and gave up their lives to the Bangsamoro cause.

In the chapters I worked on, I had to make sure every claim had a foundation. I could not simply write whatever sounded good. Everything needed to come from somewhere. Everything had to be grounded in the stories we gathered. Stories of hope, happiness, pain, and melancholy that were thoughtfully collected from memories. 

Speaking of memories, one thing I learned from working on this book is that memory is uneven. Some people remember battles in extraordinary detail. Others remember what they ate. Others remember the long walk home. Others remember the person who never came back. History books tend to privilege the major events, but human beings remember differently.

The Bangsamoro experience is a long, lived experience. And as it does with everything, time has a way of eroding memory. This book is supposed to help us remember. Some of those who were at the forefront of it now cease to remember. And for those of us, cursed with the novelty of youth, how do we even remember memories that were never ours to begin with? And so, in a way, this project was a process of gathering them.

These were not memories lying around waiting to be picked up. They were carefully hidden away for decades. We had to search for them, uncover them, wipe away the dust, and arrange them with care, in a way that preserves both their dignity and the beauty of how they were remembered.

Perhaps this is what “knowledge transfer” looks like when we use the technical term. But this is more than knowledge. This is history that was hidden for a very long time. A history that survived only in the minds and memories of those who lived through it. They carried that burden first. Now, it is being passed on to us.

Unbeknownst to many of you, most, if not all, of the writers of the chapters belong to a younger generation. We were not born during the early years of the struggle. And so the process of writing this was also a process of discovering. 

We were told from the get-go that this is beyond individual legacy and ego-driven storytelling. So when you read this book, you might see some familiar names. But I hope you see a piece of yourself, or a piece of your family’s history. This is about collective legacy and memory. Even among the interviews we had, visions and hopes for the future were recurring topics. 

This book, short as it may seem, a trace of the grand plan that once was supposed to be, is not only for its readers. It is also for the writers. For the researchers. For the interviewers. For the transcribers. For the people who shared their stories. And for everyone who contributed to making sure these stories would not disappear.

There are people who may never fully understand the depth or significance of this book. Some of them may even be Bangsamoro themselves. Some may be interested in it. Most will never read it. Of the few will read it, only some will finish it. Fewer will cite it. Only a handful will discuss it. 

My hope is that this book does not simply become a display piece. I hope it is not read once and then forgotten. I hope people talk about it. I hope people engage with it. I hope people argue about it. 

When we were wrapping up the project, the people involved breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Five years. Finally, it’s over. But no. The journey is not done. This is only the beginning. 

Not everyone in the Bangsamoro will read this book. But that was never the goal, anyway. This book was not written with the expectation that everyone in the Bangsamoro would do so. It was written so that if, one day, someone wants to read and know about what it took to get us here, there will be something waiting for them. It was written so that if someone goes looking for these stories, they will find them. 

And that is precisely why we must continue doing work like this. There is still so much that has not been covered. There are still stories left to be shared. We must keep writing, documenting, preserving, and telling our stories until the day comes when every Bangsamoro can find themselves reflected in the history of their own people.

(Bam Baraguir is an independent researcher and development professional with more than 15 years of experience working at the intersections of conflict, development, and anthropology. She has engaged with various international and local organizations on research, strategic planning, systems thinking, project cycle management, evaluation, and protection. Her published works cover key issues in peacebuilding, security dynamics, transitional justice, and the impact of conflict on vulnerable populations in Mindanao. Bam received her MA in Conflict Resolution with Distinction from the University of Bradford as a Chevening Scholar and her BA in International Studies from Ateneo de Davao University.)