Filipino as a language, regardless of the gender-neutral words we take pride in, continues to perpetuate harm against women, especially when they are transgender, nonbinary, or gender non-conforming. Filipino as an identity, regardless of our good intentions, sometimes risks the erasure of precolonial identities such as that of the Bangsamoro and the Lumad who seek to assert their right to ancestral land and self-determination within the Philippine state. To identify one’s self as a Filipino and to speak the language requires a constant interrogation of our shared histories, while confronting the links between our personal privilege and another’s oppression.

To be Filipino is to carry the weight of centuries’ worth of colonization, and hopefully learn from our peoples’ struggles that are being fought until today. Our language is not merely words on paper, but meanings we share with each other. What it means to have rights, to live in freedom, to build a home, and to struggle in solidarity should be shared across languages.

History hinges on days that demand decisions, and the people of the Bangsamoro are going to steer their collective history along a new path towards the future. Claims about the general result of the plebiscite so far and its impact on the future of the region must be taken with a grain of salt, however.

It should not be too much for women like me to feel safe, especially in situations where nobody else seems to feel threatened — except women. [...] Women around the world are tired of doing all the work, only to be blamed for the moments when we allow ourselves to feel safe. The last thing we need is to be told we are not doing enough.

There are laws, and there are legacies. In the case of the Bangsamoro, the fate of their people lies not only in legislation but in the long history of persuasion and perseverance. This legacy is not for any president or legislator to claim or own, but for the Bangsamoro people to build and work on. The work continues.

The great tragedy is that we call ourselves Filipino only because we no longer know how else to name ourselves, our identity bound to a name of a king we never saw. Meanwhile, those who continue to take pride in their indigenous roots are forced to fight for their land and language — their existence defined by the defense of their local culture and traditions, and assertions of truth that are only heard when rendered in the nation’s official, but no less foreign, language.

"In the team, we are all women, and I think telling the story of Jabidah has a different effect on people when women like us tell it. Our men were killed, and for every man there was a mother or a sister or a wife or a daughter who mourned his death. Imagine how heavy it would be if he had all these women in his life, and all these women carried their share of grief," she said.

"When you go through conflict, it stays with you like a nightmare. For the rest of your life, whenever you hear gunfire, the first instinct is to run even if you don't know where you're going. Fear is always the first instinct," she says. But things have changed, she says. The most remarkable change, she shares, is that her old high school, which used to be made of sawali, is now housed in a new school building funded by the regional government and constructed back in 2016.

My birth certificate affirms my Filipino citizenship, and I have always imagined myself as someone fluent in Filipino. But after relocating far from Manila, it didn’t take long for me to realize that my idea of Filipino — both as a language and an identity — is more construct than reality, and is far from being whole. Living in the Bangsamoro and struggling to speak in languages I am yet to learn has taught me that there was so much more to learn about myself and my country. Speaking in Filipino comes with a lifelong process of learning and becoming, and it can only be limited by our refusal to embrace the life and language of people and places still unknown to us.

To say never forget and never again is to recognize Martial Law as a distant memory that we refuse to relive – an understandable sentiment, but is one that is also mildly unmindful of the fact that elsewhere Martial Law was never distant nor has it ended completely. As the fear of Martial Law going beyond the bounds of Mindanao builds, there is a need to assess where our sincere concern for those at the periphery ends and where our self-interest begins. Once Martial Law is lifted in Mindanao, will we still care about the issues that plague the south or will some of us go back to living our separate lives?

Let us speak out against those who speak of women, especially single moms, with prejudice. Let us call out gender biases when it comes to views on parenting roles, and remind each other that it takes a village to raise a child. Let us fight and change the system that makes single parenthood all the more difficult, instead of condemning single parents and leaving them to fend for their children’s lives and rights themselves. Together, let us assert our right to quality healthcare, livable wages, and decent housing. If we feel so strongly about the rights and dignity of single parents, let's take part in the collective struggle for rights and dignity for all.

It has been sixteen years since the fall of Camp Abubukar, but the struggle did not end with the dismantling of camps and death of Moro revolutionaries. As long as there is a refusal to confront the truths of our shared history, as long as there is a failure to understand and celebrate our differences, and as long as there is a child who longs to belong in a country she calls home, the struggle will not end. The struggle never ends for the oppressed.