COTABATO CITY (MindaNews / 8 August) – In the January 2019 plebiscite, the Province of Sulu said “no” to its inclusion in the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM).
Around that time (December 2018), Sulu—alongside two others—petitioned the Supreme Court, questioning the constitutionality of the Bangsamoro Organic Law (BOL), particularly its interpretation of the ARMM core territory as a single political unit for purposes of the plebiscite.
Fast forward to more than five years later, on July 24, 2024, leaders of the Bangsamoro Grand Coalition (BGC), led by then Sulu Governor Abdusakur Tan, signed a coalition agreement in preparation for the first BARMM parliamentary election, rescheduled recently for October 2025.
But soon after that milestone, the Supreme Court had finally spoken.
On September 9, 2024, it issued its surprising decision. The BOL was upheld as constitutional. But in the same breath, the Court affirmed what many had forgotten, or hoped would go away: that by virtue of its “no” vote in 2019, Sulu is legally excluded from the BARMM.
The ruling, handed down after half a decade of silence, stirred emotions and reignited debates across coffee shops and social media feeds alike. The surprise was profound; even, I suspect, among the petitioners themselves.
I chose not to react immediately. Instead, during traffic standstills and in Mabuhay lounges while waiting for flights, I quietly pored over the Court’s 99-page unanimous En Banc ruling penned by Senior Justice Marvic Leonen, along with the ten-page concurring notes by Justice Japar Dimaampao.
Then, in November 2024, the Court declared the decision final and executory.
A few months later, on July 31, 2025, President Bongbong Marcos issued Executive Order No. 91, officially transferring the Province of Sulu back to Region IX (Zamboanga Peninsula).
As expected, the executive order triggered another wave of emotion, this time not just political or ideological, but also deeply practical. Budget realignments. Thousands of employees unsure of their posts. The need to amend the Bangsamoro Electoral Code and Parliamentary Districts Code. The dominoes began to fall.
But beyond these, something more profound was shaken, especially for the youth.
The ruling raised unsettling questions about the Bangsamoro story itself. About who belongs. About the meaning of Moro. About whether the narrative of Bangsamoro nationhood could truly accommodate all who had once rallied under its name.
At this juncture, I can almost hear you saying that the ‘no’ vote of Sulu represents only the view of the provincial leadership and similar views.
Here’s my personal take: the close fight, 54.3% no vs. 45.7% yes, largely reflects the real view of the constituents. A good number of Tausūg would express their sentiments online and offline along that line. As a Tausūg academician privately told me something to that effect shortly after the plebiscite in January 2019: “Outsiders could not understand when the Tausūg ‘martabbat’ (pride) is touched. Even if our ‘no’ vote would not win as a whole, what is important is the expression of our view.”
It was for this reason that, last February, I presented a paper titled “Unpacking the Sulu Exclusion: Reflections on Moro Nationhood, Self-Determination, and the Decolonization Option” at two scholarly gatherings: the 15th Social Ethics Society (SES) International Conference and the Mindanao International Studies Society Convention (MISSCON) 2025.
Allow me now to share a few reflections drawn from that paper—reflections not merely academic, but personal and historical.
The Birth of a Word
There is no doubt: Moro has served as a rallying cry; one that transformed a colonial insult into a proud identity of resistance.
Based on surviving records, the term Moro Nation, translated into Malay as Bangsa Moro, was first used in the Zamboanga Declaration of Rights and Purposes on February 1, 1924. The signatories? Sultan Mangigin of Magindanaw, Hadji Panglima Nuno, Datu Sakaluran, Maharaja Habing (Sambuangan), Abdullah Piang (Buayan), and Datu Benito (Lanao).
A decade later, it would implicitly reemerge in the Dansalan Declaration of March 18, 1935; this time signed by Hadji Datu Abdulhamid Bongabong and 189 other M’ranao datus, addressed as an appeal to the U.S. Congress.
In more recent memory, both the MNLF and the MILF embraced the Moro identity. The former, formed in October 1972, even declared the establishment of the Bangsamoro Republik.
All these point to a reality: the Bangsamoro identity, as a nation, is rooted in shared culture, memory, and faith. It became the bedrock of a people’s claim to self-determination.
And yet, like all identities, it is also constructed. It was not written on our foreheads at birth.
As Mohagher Iqbal (using his penname Salah Jubair) observes in “Bangsamoro: A Nation Under Endless Tyranny” (Chapter 2, “A Nation Was Born”), the idea of Bangsamoro nationhood is not timeless; it is a political construct, shaped by the historical pressures of colonialism, marginalization, and resistance.
Even the BOL itself acknowledges this. It defines Bangsamoro not by bloodline or geography, but by subscription or self-ascription:
“Those who, at the advent of the Spanish colonization, were considered natives or original inhabitants of Mindanao and the Sulu archipelago and its adjacent islands, whether of mixed or full blood, shall have the right to identify themselves, their spouses and descendants, as Bangsamoro.” (RA 11054, Art. II, Sec. 1)
In short, the identity swings on a hinge—an ever-open door.
And doors, by nature, allow both entrance and exit.
Identity and Inclusion
Among the six points raised in the Sulu petition, two stood out, at least for me:
1. The erasure of the autonomy and identity of the indigenous peoples of Sulu, and
2. The designation of the MILF to lead the Bangsamoro Transition Authority (BTA), allegedly in violation of the principle of equal protection.
The first is an appeal for official recognition of Bangsa Sūg, a distinct identity. The second, a call for inclusivity in regional governance.
A Tent in ‘Arafah
Talking about the first point, I recently witnessed the assertion of sub-regional identity in the most sacred of places: ‘Arafah, during Hajj.
Our group of four sheikhs had settled in an officially designated tent when a fifth group, inserted belatedly, arrived, demanding a specific portion of the tent. A reshuffle followed. The four original sheikhs suggested delivering the khutbah ‘Arafah in Filipino, a unifying language. The fifth sheikh refused.
A compromise was reached: he would deliver his sermon in the vernacular of his jama‘ah, while the others delivered a unified sermon. Prayers would be conducted as one group.
But as the four sheikhs were still delivering the khutbah, the smaller group started praying—breaking the agreement.
That moment, seemingly small, spoke volumes. Even in Hajj, even in ‘Arafah, tribal identity is asserted.
On Equal Protection and Unequal Arithmetic
Let’s now talk about the second point.
Consider this: from the beginning, Maguindanao has two provinces. Each of the other ethnolinguistic groups has one. Then add Cotabato City and eight municipalities of the Special Geographic Area (SGA).
Now enter the politics of gerrymandering.
Six of the eight SGA municipalities have only seven barangays each. In contrast, Talipao in Sulu has 52 barangays, Siasi has 50, Parang has 40. Even in Maguindanao del Norte, the two largest municipalities, Sultan Kudarat and Datu Odin Sinsuat, have only 39 and 34 barangays, respectively.
And yet, pending parliamentary bills seek to further divide these municipalities into two or three. Meanwhile, Marawi, a mainland city, seeks to expand by creating two more barangays.
As political units multiply, coffee shop prophets and Facebook pundits warn that population bloating may soon follow.
Add to that the perceived underrepresentation of Tawi-Tawi in both BTA 1 and BTA 2, and one begins to question how inclusion is being defined and distributed. And you can cite on and on.
The Fragility of Nationhood
Last December, I was invited to speak on Bangsamoro history and the Shari‘ah role by Muslim students at UP Diliman. At the presidential table, I noticed the decoration: Inaul—the textile of the Maguindanaon and Iranun.
No Langkit. No Pisyabit. No visible trace of the M’ranao or the Tausūg.
Even the forum’s title (Paninind’g) was drawn solely from the Danao language group (M’ranao, Iranun, and Maguindanaon).
In my unholy homily during the Q&A session to the young organizers, my daughter among them, I underscored the weight of such details. In matters of identity, small things carry heavy meanings.
The same holds true for any nation, including the Filipino nation. Luzon cannot keep invoking ‘national unity’ in the past while continuing to presently marginalize Mindanao in word, deed, or representation.
When belonging is threatened in a large group, the human instinct is to retreat—to a smaller group where one still feels whole. Filipino to Mindanaon. Bangsamoro to Bangsa Sūg.
In the end, Moro nationhood is not carved in stone.
It is a social construct. A work in progress. A relationship constantly negotiated, constantly redefined.
It is a fire that must be nurtured daily, or risk flickering out.
It stands before an ever-open doorway.
And both entrance and exit remain possible.
Always.
#Bangsamoro #SuluExit #MoroNationhood #SelfDetermination #MindanaoPolitics
[MindaViews is the opinion section of MindaNews. Mansoor L. Limba, PhD in International Relations and Shari‘ah Counselor-at-Law (SCL), is a publisher-writer, university professor, vlogger, chess trainer, and translator (from Persian into English and Filipino) with tens of written and translation works to his credit on such subjects as international politics, history, political philosophy, intra-faith and interfaith relations, cultural heritage, Islamic finance, jurisprudence (fiqh), theology (‘ilm al-kalam), Qur’anic sciences and exegesis (tafsir), hadith, ethics, and mysticism. He can be reached at mlimba@diplomats.com and www.youtube.com/@WayfaringWithMansoor, and his books can be purchased at www.elzistyle.com and www.amazon.com/author/mansoorlimba.]
