The Cry for Justice: The Displaced Maranao Farmers’ Struggle for Their Ancestral Lands
Across the fertile plains of Alamada and Banisilan, North Cotabato, lie lands once tilled by generations of Maranao farmers, lands that nourished families, sustained culture, and anchored a people’s identity. These farmlands were not mere parcels of soil; they were sacred grounds of ancestry, woven into the fabric of life, memory, and survival. For centuries, the Maranao people drew strength, dignity, and livelihood from these lands. The soil carried not only their crops but their stories, their prayers, and their connection to the Creator. Yet, through the violent tides of conflict, deceit, and systemic injustice, these lands were stolen. What was once a landscape of life has become a territory of loss and longing. The fields once rich with harvest now lie under the shadow of dispossession. Behind these lost hectares are human faces families who live in poverty, children who grow up in displacement, and elders who weep for lands they can no longer touch.
Today, the displaced Maranao farmers rise again not with weapons, but with truth, moral courage, and an unyielding faith in justice. Their struggle is not only about reclaiming land but reclaiming dignity and humanity. It is not merely a local concern; it mirrors a national tragedy that has long scarred the lives of Indigenous and Muslim communities across Mindanao. It is a story of generosity betrayed, of state neglect, and of moral failure that has persisted for more than half a century. This is both an appeal and a declaration a call to conscience and a demand for justice long delayed. “We, the displaced Maranao farmers, have been forced to live in poverty and suffering after being stripped of hundreds of hectares of our ancestral farmlands located in Alamada and Banisilan, North Cotabato. These lands, cultivated by our forebears for generations, were unlawfully taken during the dark years of the 1970s ILAGA conflict, a conflict that unleashed unspeakable violence against Muslim and Indigenous communities in Mindanao.”
In those perilous times, they fled not out of cowardice, but out of love for life, for family, for survival. The ILAGA (Ilonggo Land Grabbing Association) spread terror across their villages through harassment, arson, and massacres. Their homes were burned, their crops destroyed, their livestock slaughtered. Entire communities were uprooted. Many perished; others carried lifelong scars of terror and trauma. When the gunfire ceased and the survivors dared to return, they found their ancestral lands already titled under powerful and influential families. What once bore their sweat and labor now bore signatures of strangers. “We were accused of abandonment,” they lamented, “but how can one abandon life itself? To flee from violence is not abandonment it is survival. To protect our children from the horrors of war is not desertion it is humanity.”
The accusation of abandonment was a cruel deception, a legal disguise for land grabbing. It mocked the very essence of justice and violated the sacred principle of human rights. The Philippine Constitution declares that no person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. Yet for the Maranao farmers, this law was trampled by the boots of power and privilege. Their lands were transferred, titled, and occupied without their consent or even their knowledge.
When they appealed to the Department of Agrarian Reform and other agencies, their pleas were ignored or rejected. Some were even told to “move on,” as if justice were a privilege reserved for the powerful. What kind of justice system silences the poor while rewarding the oppressors? This is not merely a failure of bureaucracy it is a moral collapse of a system that has forgotten compassion and truth. This injustice is not a relic of history it continues today. Land grabbing persists in their communities, aided by coercion, forged documents, and collusion between political elites and local authorities. Farmers are threatened, harassed, and even killed for daring to speak the truth. The brutal murder of their leader, Kaontungan Puriga, remains one of the most painful symbols of their struggle. He was slain for defending his right to his land his body stuffed inside a sack, burned to ashes in an act of pure cruelty. The intention was clear: to silence others through terror. Yet his death did not end the fight it rekindled it. The fire meant to destroy his courage has now become a torch lighting the path for those he left behind. “We cannot and will not remain silent,” they declare. “We will continue the struggle not with hate, but with truth; not with vengeance, but with justice.”
Their story is not isolated it is part of a much larger narrative of exploitation and betrayal that has haunted Mindanao since the 1950s. When President Ramon Magsaysay launched the Resettlement Program in 1956, its intention was noble to provide land for the landless. The Maranao, Maguindanao, and other Indigenous peoples welcomed settlers from Luzon and the Visayas in the spirit of pakikipagkapwa-tao (brotherhood). Generosity guided their hands as they shared their ancestral domains with those seeking a better life.
But that generosity was later twisted and abused. Settlers who came in goodwill were replaced by opportunists driven by greed. Political interests and corrupt officials conspired to legitimize land seizures. The resettlement program originally a symbol of unity became a weapon of colonization within the nation itself. The ILAGA conflict was the violent eruption of that betrayal a war not only between faiths, but between justice and greed. Now, after decades of displacement and silence, the Maranao farmers speak again, their voices rising from the ashes of their suffering. “We, the Maranao Farmer Complainants, demand a full and impartial investigation into the land-grabbing cases that displaced our families from Alamada and Banisilan. We demand recognition and restoration of our ancestral land rights as protected under the Constitution and the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act. We demand accountability for those who facilitated and benefited from the unlawful transfer of our lands. We demand the immediate cessation of harassment and violence against our communities.”
They are not asking for pity; they are demanding justice. They are not seeking privilege; they are reclaiming their rights. Their cry is not merely for land, but for life itself. This is not just a Maranao issue, it is a Filipino issue. It is a moral question that strikes at the heart of our national conscience. When the law fails to protect the poor, it fails to protect anyone. The oppression of one community weakens the moral foundation of the whole nation. Mindanao has long been called the Land of Promise, yet for many, that promise has turned into pain. Behind its green mountains and fertile fields lie untold stories of dispossession and silence. It is time for that silence to be broken. The struggle of the displaced Maranao farmers is a mirror reflecting who we have become as a nation whether we still value justice, truth, and compassion, or whether we have surrendered to apathy and greed, to flee one’s land is never an act of abandonment. It is an act of love, a desperate choice to protect life when the world collapses in violence. These farmers left their fields not because they stopped loving them, but because they loved their families more. They left with dignity and faith, believing that someday, justice would remember them.
Their story reminds us that the fight for land is not merely about property; it is about survival, cultural identity, and the sacred right to live free from fear in one’s own homeland. As I listened to their testimonies, I realized that their struggle is not just historical it is moral and spiritual. It exposes the deep wound in our society: how easily power distorts truth and how silence perpetuates injustice. Writing this piece is not just an act of documentation it is an act of conscience.
Every Filipino who still believes in truth and justice must hear their cry. Their pain must awaken our collective soul. Justice is not a privilege of the rich it is the foundation of peace.
“We, the displaced Maranao farmers of Alamada and Banisilan, declare before the nation and the world that our struggle is not only for land it is for life, justice, and dignity. Our land is sacred. It is ancestral. It is not for sale. We will not be silenced. We will not surrender. We will continue to fight not with hate, but with truth; not with vengeance, but with justice. Our voices will be heard, our stories will be told, and our rights will be reclaimed. For in the end, truth and justice must prevail.”
Their cry is not just theirs it is ours. For the measure of a nation’s greatness is not in its wealth or power, but in how it defends its most oppressed. Let their story awaken our conscience. Let their struggle call us back to what it means to be human to stand for justice, to protect the weak, and to honor the sacred bond between people and their land. Only then can Mindanao truly become the Land of Promise not for the few who exploit it, but for the many who have long suffered to keep it alive.
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