Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines: Everyday Identity Politics in Mindanao (SpringerBriefs in Political Science) 9811525242, 9789811525247

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SPRINGER BRIEFS IN POLITICAL SCIENCE

Anabelle Ragsag

Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines Everyday Identity Politics in Mindanao

123

SpringerBriefs in Political Science

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/8871

Anabelle Ragsag

Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines Everyday Identity Politics in Mindanao

123

Anabelle Ragsag Carleton University Ottawa, ON, Canada

ISSN 2191-5466 ISSN 2191-5474 (electronic) SpringerBriefs in Political Science ISBN 978-981-15-2524-7 ISBN 978-981-15-2525-4 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4 © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

For my parents Nena and Pedro who made Mindanao a home for us For the people of Tino’to

Preface

As this book is being prepared this year, the Bangsa Moro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao has just been established in March 2019 after decades of peace talks and gunfires. The Moro Islamic Liberation Front, which is at the forefront of the secessionist armed groups in the latest peace talks with the government, is reported to be in transition to lay down their arms. The fieldwork for this book project was conducted between 2006 and 2007, at a time when the conflicts in the region have pushed civilians, Muslims and the indigenous Lumads to settle elsewhere where relative safety and peace can be found. This book deals with the everyday politics of these civilians, the Sinamas who are among the poorest Muslims in Mindanao, and the indigenous B’laans, who are displaced by conflicts or fears of conflict in Mindanao. The book also situates the everyday politics along the coast of Sarangani Bay, in border villages belonging to General Santos City and Sarangani Province, an area in Mindanao that has not been given a lot of coverage in other contemporary studies of Mindanao before. Academic scholars, particularly from the political sciences, development and ethnic studies, conflict and border studies, sociology, anthropology and area studies will likely find this book interesting. It will also be of interest to policymakers, researchers and civil society organizations who are working or considering to work in the area. While working on this book, I am reminded of the many favours that have gone my way—directly and indirectly—from specific organizations, individuals, families and other benefactors. Irrespective of the time, distance or medium that made them part of this endeavour, I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude. The most I owe from directly in the genesis, takeoff and completion of this work are my study participants. I am deeply indebted to the women, men and children who welcomed me in their villages in Sarangani, in their homes and in their lives. Scholars whose works in Southeast Asia and ethnicity, I have found to intersect with mine in many ways, and whose generosity in all these, I can only pay forward. Replying to my emails, giving time for my appointments, and patience with my rather far and in between eureka moments, meant the world for me. vii

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Preface

I am thankful to my colleagues at the University of the Philippines Manila, including Josefina Tayag, then Vice Chancellor for Academic Affairs; Paula Sioco, then Chair of the Department of Social Sciences; Dorothy Jose, a feminist Southeast Asianist scholar and one of my best friends; and Julie Gaytano, from the Department of Social Sciences, for expressing their personal and institutional confidence in my bid to complete the study for what is now a book a decade later. The potential for dialogue between my work and that of those whose academic shoulders this work stands on could only be possible with organized information and knowledge gatekeepers turning the key in—i.e. library resources from various institutions. The Davao-based Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao for hosting me and providing me a workstation, for the initial weeks that I arrived. Msgr. Romeo Buenaobra, who introduced me to Marist Bro. Robert McGovern, President of the Notre Dame of Dadiangas University-Business Resource Center, whose office in turn paved the way for me to have entry in the two Sarangani Bay barangays where this work draws its empirical grounding. Donnalyn, Rene, Marykris and Alladin for not only being my field assistants, but were also personal witnesses to a time of tremendous pressure. Abbie, Jayson, Cy, Manet, Loi (+), Ghie, Hongching, and Radenka, thank you. Your consistent friendship has grounded and assured me that I can freely voice my thoughts. While I was on the throes of completing this work, my husband, AU whom we in the family call Baba, has perhaps worn the greatest number of hats in my presence. He is prime witness to my many phases of ‘resets’ at work, celebrating with me in my intermittent eureka moments, providing pressure to off-balance me from bouts of uncertainty. Nena and Pedro, my parents who have instilled the importance of education, against all odds. To my six beautiful siblings Che, Ran, Bon, Grace, and Katherine for helping me in their own ways. For my daughter, Agelia, that she may find the beauty of a life in the intersections. All the errors and omissions in the foregoing are mine alone. Ottawa, Canada 2019

Anabelle Ragsag

Contents

1 Introduction: Ethnic Boundary-Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1 Conceptualizing Ethnicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2 Ethnicity in the Conflict in Mindanao, Southern Philippines 1.3 Sarangani Bay as a Research Site and Its Position in the Mindanao Conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.4 Overview of the Research Sites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5 Barangay Tino’to, Maasim, Sarangani Province . . . . . . . . . 1.6 Sitio Lanton, Apopong, General Santos City . . . . . . . . . . . 1.7 Tino’to and Lanton as Settler Zones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.8 Research Objectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.9 Organization of the Chapters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Theoretical and Conceptual Considerations . . . . . . . . 2.1 Etymology of the Concept Ethnicity . . . . . . . . . . 2.2 Primordialist Versus Instrumentalist Explanations on Ethnicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3 Constructivist Approaches in Ethnicity . . . . . . . . . 2.4 Basic Strategies of Ethnic Boundary-Making . . . . 2.5 Institutions, Powers and Alliances . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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3 The Making of Ethnic Boundaries in the Philippines: A Historical Overview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1 Who Is the Filipino? Ethnic Boundary-Making in the Philippines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2 Pre-colonial Philippines: Sovereign and Subjects as Boundary-Markers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3 Philippines Under Spain: Boundary-Markers as Españoles Peninsulares, Filipinos, Indios, Infieles and Moros . . . . . .

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Philippines Under the United States of America: An Experimentation of Boundary-Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.5 Boundary-Making at the Margins of Power: The Making of the Moro and the Lumads in Mindanao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4 Categorizing Ethnicity in Sarangani Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1 Locality of Origin and Language as Bases for Ethnic Categorization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2 Who Are the B’laans? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3 Who Are the Sinamas? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4 Language as Basis of Ethnicity Categorization . . . . . 4.5 Vehicular Language Switching Between Bisaya and Tagalog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.6 Clan Conflicts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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5 Distribution of Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.1 Repositioning Strategy of Boundary-Making of the B’laans . . 5.2 Economic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.3 Political Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.4 Symbolic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.5 ‘The Authentic Christians’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.6 Blurring Strategy of Boundary-Making of the Maranaos . . . . . 5.7 Economic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.8 Political Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.9 Symbolic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.10 The Normative Inversion Strategy of Ethnic Boundary-Making of the Sinamas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.11 Economic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.12 Political Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.13 Symbolic Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.14 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Vernacular Voices and Locally Situated Agents . . . . . 6.1 Vernacular Voices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.2 ‘What Should Be the Primary Policy Priorities for Mindanao?’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.3 Administrative Governance in Muslim Mindanao . 6.4 ‘Don’t Teach Us How to Fish, Allow Us to Fish’ 6.5 Natives, Pioneers and Settlers: Who Has Claims to the Land? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.6 Locally Situated Agents and Institutions . . . . . . . .

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Historical Projects: Local but from Above . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aid Agencies: External Fund, Local Spending . . . . . . . . . . Local Networks: Krislam Parents Cooperatives, MNLF Recruitment, Clans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.10 The Peace Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.11 Roots of Resistance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.12 Actors on the Peace Process: Presidents, the Government Peace Panel, Two Moro Fronts and the International Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.13 Mindanao Political Economy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.13.1 Three Mindanao Kingdoms in Maritime Southeast Asia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.14 Economic and Human Development Indicators . . . . . . . . . . 6.15 Development Aid in Mindanao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.16 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

Abbreviations

ADB ARMM ASG BRC CAMACOP CHDF CPP DENR GRP GSCPMMCC GSCPMMSBMPO IBS JI JICA MMPC MNLF NCIP NDDU NPA NSO-FLEMMS NSOP ODA OIC OPEC PLKMP SEA

Asian Development Bank Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao Abu Sayyaf Group Business Resource Center Christian and Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines Civilian Home Defense Force Communist Party of the Philippines Department of Environment and Natural Resources Government of the Republic of the Philippines General Santos City Public Market Maranao Credit Cooperative General Santos City Public Market Maranaw Small Businessmen Multi-Purpose Cooperative Institute of Bangsamoro Studies Jemaah Islamiya Japan International Cooperation Agency Muslim Mindanao in the Philippine Commonwealth Moro National Liberation Front National Commission on Indigenous People Notre Dame of Dadiangas University Nationalist People’s Army National Statistics Office Functional Literacy and Exposure to Mass Media Survey National Statistics Office, Philippines Official Development Assistance Organization of Islamic Conference Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries Pambansang Lakas ng Kilusang Mamamalakaya ng Pilipinas Southeast Asia

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SMI SPCPD SPSG TAP UP USAID

Abbreviations

Sagittarius Mines Inc. Southern Philippine Council for Peace and Development Southern Philippines Secessionist Group Tulong-Aral Project University of the Philippines United States Agency for International Development

List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2

A processual model of the making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries. Source Wimmer (2008a, b) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A model of ethnic boundary-making strategies. Source Wimmer (2008a, b) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

25 26

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List of Tables

Table 4.1 Table 4.2

Languages generally spoken in the households of Southern Mindanao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Comparative causes of Clan disagreements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Chapter 1

Introduction: Ethnic Boundary-Making

In this work, I seek to identify the processes and the contexts involved in ethnic boundary formation. To be more precise, I wish to identify, in the tradition of Barth (1954), which have been expounded on by Wimmer (2008a, b), the strategies pursued by individual and collective actors to demarcate and define inclusions and exclusions in their ethnic worlds. Further, I wish to identify the context by which actors pursue which particular strategies of ethnic boundary formation. While the early stages of doing this research was pointing at and was in fact designed around an investigation of why multi-ethnic communities in Mindanao remain in relative peace despite the violent conflict that comes about under their supposed welfare and well-being, it was apparent during the interviews and the observations that were carried out that the research necessitates a different turn towards a direction of an understanding of how civilian social actors appropriate, or modify, or subvert and reproduce the ethnic categories defining them. At the outset, it was apparent that some are in the pursuit of expanding their ethnic identification while some are contracting them. Identifying these strategies of boundary-making and looking at the reasons for such strategies makes the core of this research. Investigations of various scholars have led to debates on how to understand the nature of the ethnic phenomenon, of which a detailed explanation is provided for in Chap. 2. On the one hand, there is a school of thought that views ethnicity as a product of the intersection of various social forces which generally falls under the constructivist approach on ethnicity, which in itself covers a range of sub-approaches. On the other hand, there is also the view that ethnicity holds an intrinsic nature and is the alpha identification of people, defining a people’s sense of being and belonging, among an array of possible identifying choices, which is generally referred to as the primordialist school of thought. However, while the orthodox introduction of theoretical debates on ethnicity is on the dichotomous constructivist-primordialist schools of thought, it must be pointed out that this is misleading. For one, few contemporary scholars remain to defend the primordialist approach. But more importantly, the current debate on ethnicity revolves between the many variants of constructivist approaches. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_1

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1 Introduction: Ethnic Boundary-Making

These variants particularly revolve first, on the nature of ethnicity, i.e. of what it is, including its genesis and reproduction and second, on whether the etic (observer) or the emic (actor) perspective is to be considered. Connected to this is the debate on whether ethnicity is a category (from the observers’ perspective) or a group (from the actors’ perspective). But analysing the nature of, and the perspective on ethnicity, has a tendency of falling into a contradiction of maintaining and containing ethnic terminologies, replicating the dilemmas that are being argued against, and are intended to be overcome in the first place, by the constructivist approach. It is with this understanding that this research has been designed. Rather than focusing on the ontological position of ethnicity, i.e. of what is ethnicity, of what ethnic categories are used and reproduced on the ground and of choosing which perspective to take this research goes to the direction of investigating on the fluidity and the context by which ethnic boundaries are created and recreated, activated and deactivated, expanded and contracted. The research comes from the perspective of the ethnic phenomenon as an evolving, negotiated and constructed process. There is no claim that this is a new design or approach in studying ethnicity. Way back in 1954, in his introduction to an ethnographic compilation of studies on ethnicity, Barth suggested, and is worth quoting that: ‘the point of view becomes the ethnic boundary that defines the group, not the cultural stuff that it encloses’ (1954, p. 15). Barth’s ideas, departing from the Herderian ideas on ethnicity predominant during his time that posits each ethnic group as a unique historical entity (Herder 1969), have become the canon for the constructivist approach in ethnic studies. But like a plant that bred into multiple varieties, the constructivist approach of studying ethnicity branched out into different sub-approaches, which is discussed in further detail in Chap. 2. One of these branches is the multi-level process theory on the making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries that Wimmer (2008a, b) proposes. In this model, Wimmer takes into account the role of macro-level structures (institutional frameworks, position in the hierarchy of power and networks) in the boundary formation process engaged in by agents and, in turn, of the role of agency at micro-structural levels such as the individual or a local collective, in boundary formation at the macro-structural level. However, this research work aims to contribute to the following: first, in furthering the theoretical agenda of transcending the debates not only between the constructivist and primordialist schools of thought, but between constructivist approaches as well, through an investigation not of what ethnicity encloses, but of how ethnic boundaries are created and recreated, activated and deactived, expanded and contracted through the use of a multi-level Wimmerian model; and second, in contributing to area studies by empirically investigating the salience and stability of ethnicity in a Southern Philippine periphery in Mindanao, where polarization is often expressed in ethnically framed contexts.

1.1 Conceptualizing Ethnicity

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1.1 Conceptualizing Ethnicity While a more thorough discussion on the history of ethnicity as a concept and the various debates revolving it is devoted in the succeeding chapter, a clarification on how ethnicity is understood and deployed in this research work is necessary at this point. For the last three decades, countless academic energy from the disciplines of anthropology, to sociology, political geography and, increasingly, in international relations has been poured on understanding ethnicity. There is a broad consensus generated from these studies that ethnicity is premised on the belief of a common origin or line of descent, primarily and secondly, of varying markers of cultural boundaries. Complementing the belief in a common origin are the cultural markers (religion, language, historical experiences) which demarcate the boundaries between ethnic entities, as pointed out early on, in the 1920s by Max Weber, which I find important to quote: We shall call ‘ethnic groups’ those human groups that entertain a subjective belief in their common descent because of similarities of physical type or of customs or both, or because of memories of colonization and migration; this belief must be important for the propagation of group formation; conversely, it does not matter whether or not an objective blood relationship exists. Ethnic membership (Gemeinsamkeit) differs from the kinship group precisely by being a presumed identity, not a group with concrete social action like the latter. In our sense, ethnic membership does not constitute a group; it only facilitates group formation of any kind, particularly in the political sphere. On the other hand, it is primarily the political community, no matter how artificially organized, that inspires the belief in common ethnicity. This belief tends to persist even after the disintegration of the political community, unless drastic differences in custom, physical type, or, above all, language exists among its members. (1968, p. 389)

While the belief in a common origin might not reflect objective blood relationships, as Weber himself points out, self-ascription on the basis of this belief is a requisite of ethnicity.

1.2 Ethnicity in the Conflict in Mindanao, Southern Philippines The politics of identity—of ethnicity—has been used to explain clashes and conflicts in societies. This interpretation—that community differences lie along religious and primordial divides—is common in Southern Philippine scholarship. When the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) and Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) in the Philippines launched their secessionist battles against the Philippine government, these movements were often described to be formed along an ethnic and religious framework. On the side of the movement, the ability to generate a durable, albeit fluctuating following, continuous cadre recruitment three decades later, and recognition abroad

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1 Introduction: Ethnic Boundary-Making

as a movement with legitimate separatist claims, was anchored on the premise that the Marcos government and succeeding administrations thereafter are on a systematic campaign against the Muslim community in the Philippines. The MNLF and the MILF’s success as separatist movements is due in part to its useful contrasting of itself from the Philippine state that while secular is generally believed to have maintained a Catholic core. Further, the unhappy coincidence of historical minoritization and present-day poverty being experienced by ethnic and religious minorities and among the minority of these minorities have played a part as well in the intensification of ethnicity’s salience in Mindanao. Christians, Lumads and Muslims or the self-ascribed Moros are the categories in the Philippine national narrative which have been in use by academics,1 the colonial2 and the present government,3 as well as those involved in the Bangsa Moro cause for self-determination, in referring to the understood ethnic distribution in Mindanao. In reference to the master narrative in the country which speaks of ethnicity along the lines of Christian, Moros and Lumads, or collectively referred to by most peace and development-related organizations as the tri-people’s of Mindanao, this research pursues the curiosity on the extent of these master narratives’ significance and stability. When and why are the broad strokes of demarcation among Christians from Moros and Lumads and vice versa used? When and why is the contraction of these demarcation points into tri-peoples, applied? Do these master narratives on ethnicity matter in the everyday lives of individual and collective actors’ sense of belonging? And if these matter, what is the extent of these ethnic narratives’ stability not only over time but across contexts and situations at any given time, where polarization is often expressed in ethnically framed contexts. It must be noted, however, that while the conflict in Mindanao is often associated with Moro secessionist fronts, said to be the second oldest internal conflict in the world (Schiavo-Campo and Judd 2005), it does not explain solely the dynamics in the conflict map of Mindanao (See Santos Jr. and Santos 2010). Even the movement for Bangsa Moro self-determination is not advocated by a single organization alone— there is the Misuari-led Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), and as some may argue, the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG) (Santos Jr. 2010; Frake 1998). Then there is also the Nationalist People’s Army (NPA), the armed group of the Communist Party of the Philippines. Another 1 Durante

(in George 1980; McKenna 1998; Majul 1985; Durante 2005) gives a count that based on the 18 million population in the 2001 Census, ethnic distribution in Mindanao as follows: (a) the indigenous people or Lumads comprising 5 percent of the population; (b) the ‘Moros’ or Muslims, 28.23% and (c) Christians, migrant settlers from other parts of the country as well as their descendants. 2 In the Philippine Bill of July 1 of 1902, the American colonial government recognized the distinctions between the Moro, the Pagan and the Christian Filipinos, and attempted to adapt their methods of governance according to the supposed specificities of each community. 3 In the inaugural address transcript of the Philippine President, Benigno Aquino III, he said ‘My government will be sincere in dealing with the peoples of Mindanao… I am committed to a peaceful and just negotiated political settlement in Mindanao that is inclusive of all—Lumad, Bangsamoro and Christians’.

1.2 Ethnicity in the Conflict in Mindanao, Southern Philippines

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actor in the conflict cauldron of Mindanao is the Pentagon Group, which like the Abu Sayyaf Group has gained notoriety in its banditry and kidnapping-for-ransom operandi (Santos Jr. 2010). On top of these, clan conflicts or rido have been increasingly identified to be major causes of conflicts (Torres III 2007; Kreuzer 2005). The Institute of Bangsamoro Studies (IBS) found out that from 1970 to 2004, there were about 214 cases of rido just in Maguindanao alone (Torres III 2007). Philippine Army intelligence in 2003 says that on the three major non-state armed groups in Mindanao these are the breakdown figures: (1) the ‘Bangsa Moro’—(1.a) Misuari/MNLF followers 450 members, 450 firearms (1.b) MILF: 12,000 members; 9,000 firearms; (2) ‘national democracy’—CPP/NPA: 3,400 members; 2,300 firearms; (3) banditry and kidnapping rings—(3.1) ASG: 450 members; 350 firearms (3.2) Pentagon group: 200 members, 40 firearms.

1.3 Sarangani Bay as a Research Site and Its Position in the Mindanao Conflict In this study, I refer to Sarangani Bay (National Statistics Office, Philippines 2009, 2010b) as a shorthand for the area in Mindanao that lies along Sarangani Bay, namely, General Santos City and Sarangani Province. This area has enjoyed a comparatively sparse attention in the literature until of late. This is due to a number of reasons. First, its boundaries, in its present form, are relatively newly constituted (Republic of the Philippines 1992, 2009), despite some of its areas figuring in the rich historical life of the Mindanao sultanates of Buayan and Maguindanao (Ileto 1971; Hayase 2007). Second, compared to neighbouring Davao and Cotabato which have been studied for their agro-commercial industries’ contribution to the political economy of Mindanao (Tadem 1980, 2010; Abinales 2000), studies on Sarangani Bay’s tuna fishing and aqua-product processing industry are relatively a new field to pursue (Villano-Campado 1996, n.d; Campado 2005). Third, while records of violent incidents have been increasingly connected to Sarangani Bay, more attention has been traditionally given to the main secessionist fronts, namely, in the provinces of Lanao, Maguindanao and Sulu. However, the very same reasons identified above provide the rationale for choosing Sarangani Bay as the research site for this study. First, despite the movements of boundaries in Sarangani Bay, the area traces a long attachment to the history of the Sultanates in Mindanao, namely, that of Buayan and to some extent, of Maguindanao (Ileto 1971; Hayase 2007). As it is to be recalled, the presence of the Sultanates in Mindanao the Muslim South of the country during the Spanish colonization of the Philippines has been one of the loci of the argument for a separate history and for a separate government. It is this study’s view that Sarangani Bay, by virtue of its history, holds an equal importance as its neighbouring economic bases Cotabato and Davao, and Moro movement fronts Lanao, Maguindanao and Sulu Provinces.

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Second, Sarangani Bay is perhaps one of the most multi-ethnic areas in the Philippines, where the master narrative of a tri-people (Christian, Lumad and Muslim or Moro) can best be observed at the local level. According to the National Statistics Office of the Philippines (2002, 2009, 2010b), in General Santos City alone, there are 29 religious groups, with a presence of substantial numbers of Christian, Lumads and Muslim populations, and a lingua franca that is a mixture of Tagalog and Bisaya. Third, apart from Sarangani Bay area’s relative prosperity than other areas in Mindanao, it is also a zone with high security concerns that are usually observed to be related to the bigger ethnicized secessionist conflict in Mindanao. Sarangani Bay, particularly General Santos City, shares borders with zones where military-secessionist group clashes occur, has a significant aqua-related investment environment to protect, has experienced violent attacks over the years and has been used as transit points in the movement of believed Jemaah Islamiya (JI) and Al-Qaeda operatives (Davis 2002; Ressa 2003). In the book of Ressa (2003, pp. 135–136), key Jemaah Islamiya (JI) and Al-Qaeda operative, Fathur Roman al-Ghozi, credited for being a key person in JI-attributed violent plots, was also said to be an explosives instructor in Camp Abubakar, the nerve centre of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front’s (MILF) operations. General Santos City has also been a site of bombings of public site attacks that were often associated with the alleged Al-Qaeda-linked Abu Sayyaf. During the author’s field research in General Santos City, the public market was bombed in January 2007, using a homemade device, killing six people. This bombing followed other incidents in 2002, 2004 and 2007 (Espejo 2008a; GMANews.tv 2008; Zonio 2008; Papa 2008) in General Santos City. According to a Human Rights Watch Report (Conde 2007), civilian attacks in the Philippines (majority of which happened in Mindanao and in General Santos City, specifically) yielded to a death toll highly exceeding the number of casualties in terrorist attacks in Indonesia including the 2002 Bali bombings, Morocco, Spain, Turkey and Britain taken together in the same period. Sarangani Province, on the other hand, has recently seen an escalation of clashes between the army and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) (Ganibe 2008; ABS-CBN News 2008; Philippine Star 2010). In 2003, Khadaffy Janjalani, identified head of the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG) likewise landed at the mouth of Sarangani Bay, in Barangay Libua, Palimbang, Sultan Kudarat, with the use of hijacked pump boats (Marks et al. 2007). News reports also mention unverified intelligence reports pointing to an arms landing in the Bay (Espejo 2008b, 2009, 2010). The actions made by a military campaign impacts on the outcome of civilian politics, notably in the ethnic distribution of power (Horowitz 1985, pp. 443–525). Hence, the fourth reason for choosing this area of study is that Sarangani Bay is seeing waves of military campaigns allegedly in pursuit of secessionist contenders of the government (Espejo 2008c; Arguillas 2009). This is not to say, however, that militarization is new to Mindanao in the South of the Philippines, which escalated especially in the 1970s. But in this selected research area itself, the Philippine Navy and the government have been in a series of negotiations for the establishment of a naval base in Barangay Tino’to in Sarangani Province, the village where this work is based on (MindaNews

1.3 Sarangani Bay as a Research Site and Its Position in the Mindanao Conflict

7

2009; Yabes 2010). The proposed naval base is receiving varied reactions (Philippine Information Agency 2009). On the one hand, the local residents are reported to be optimistic about the opportunities particularly in terms of jobs and economic possibilities that such an establishment would provide to their rather marginal and poor town. On the other hand, concerns have been raised, whether this proposed naval base is an excuse for furthering a militarization campaign in Mindanao. Meanwhile, during the course of the fieldwork for this research, there are reasons to believe of a mobilization programme ongoing in Sarangani Province. While not conclusive, the researcher saw for herself that hanging in the clotheslines of local residents are MILF-marked tee shirts, which respondents say have been distributed to those who were drafted in the local MILF recruitment campaigns. In sum, Sarangani Bay’s historical significance to the present-day ethnicized conflict in Mindanao, the multi-ethnic nature of its contemporary demographics, the escalation of violence and tensions in Sarangani Bay and the heightening militarization of the area are factors involved in the selection of Sarangani Bay as a research area.

1.4 Overview of the Research Sites This research is confined to two sites, one village each in Sarangani Province (Barangay Tino’to, Maasim) and in General Santos (Sitio Lanton, Barangay Apopong).

1.5 Barangay Tino’to, Maasim, Sarangani Province The town of Maasim is a coastal third-class municipality4 located in Sarangani Province. According to the Maasim local government profile, about 46,600 ha (90%) of Maasim’s land area are forestlands. Of these, 39,100 ha are deforested, leaving about 7,500 ha still with forest cover. Eight hundred (800) hectares, meanwhile, cover Dole Philippines pineapple plantations. Under the Arms to Farms Program, USAID and the Maasim Municipality credit this for the provision of income to about 200 households and the curbing of the insurgency problem in the town (National Statistics Office, Philippines 2009). As per the latest census in 2007, the Municipality of Maasim has a population of 49,274 people in 10,062 households (National Statistics Office, Philippines 2010a).

4 Third-class

municipalities/towns in the Philippines have an average annual income of PhP30M or more but less than PhP40M. Municipalities are divided into income classes according to their average annual income during the last three calendar years. See Department of Finance Department Order, Philippines (2008).

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Of these, 4,932 people are from Barangay Tino’to, which represents 10% of the whole town’s population (see Table 3.4). Barangay Tino’to5 of Maasim, Sarangani Province was carved out from Barangay Kamanga, by virtue of a law ratified on 26 January 1992. It is sandwiched by the economically busier district, General Santos City in the north, and the village’s town centre of Maasim in the south of Sarangani Province. As can be seen by the household map below, Barangay Tino’to has four different sitios (sub-villages): Seguil, Linao, Asnalang (as called by the B’laans, but which is also called Sinalang by the Muslim residents), and Tino’to Proper or sentro. The household map can also give an immediate impression about the selfidentified ethnic household composition in the village. Households who selfidentified as Sinama are the most numerous, followed by the B’laans and the Maguindanawans, the Cebuanos (Bisayas) and a few Tausugs. It is interesting to note that the yellow-coloured households on the left side of the map (in Tino’to Proper), the self-identified Maguindanao who are just a few at more or less ten households were often identified to be power-brokers and power-wielders in the village. This will be discussed in the succeeding chapters. While there are also Maguindanao households in Seguil on the right part of the household map, most of them are newly settled in Tino’to and are not related by kinship to the Tino’to Proper Maguindanaoans. Barangay Tino’to residents are concentrated at the sides of the highway, mostly of labyrinthine informal stilt housing structures sitting on the mouth of Sarangani Bay. These stilt houses are the traditional dwelling places of the Sinama. In the next section, in as much as I would like to write about the Maguindanao Muslims and the Bisaya settlers, I do not want to risk repetition as they are discussed in the preceding chapters.

1.6 Sitio Lanton, Apopong, General Santos City In a dusty, pot-holed interior of suburban General Santos City is Lanton, a village carved out of forestlands where Maranao and Maguindanao Muslims and Bisaya Christian settlers reside. Lanton is also characterized as an informal settlement area surrounded by new suburban residential estate developments and the city jail compound. It may be far from the economic and social centre at thirty-five (35) kilometres away, but in it resides an army of small-scale entrepreneurs in the General Santos City public market. While Lanton looks rural, it has an urban ethos where the village is left like a ghost town for most parts of the day, as majority of its inhabitants pour into the central arteries of downtown General Santos City before the sun rises and goes home past everyone else’s bedtime.

5 The

apostrophe represents a glottal stop similar to the sound uh’-oh.

1.7 Tino’to and Lanton as Settler Zones

9

1.7 Tino’to and Lanton as Settler Zones Three migration patterns emerge from the experiences of Tino’to and Lanton residents: (1) displacement, (2) family reunification or consummation of married life and (3) in search for better opportunities. First, resettlement due to displacement surfaces as one emerging pattern of migration—of which the causes for the displacement are either (1) violent conflict in their locality of origin, (2) deportation from abroad or (3) disasters. Sinamas, Maguindanawans and Tausugs documented hapless narratives of being displaced by violent conflicts in their former towns in other parts of Mindanao, like Sulu and Maguindanao. Most Samals, however, related to me that moving to Tino’to was a remedy to avoid direct encounters with the Sulu-dominant Tausugs with whom the former had a historical unequal relationship that they would rather not go on in the present. Some Sinamas experienced stories of deportation from neighbouring Sabah, Malaysia and Sulawesi, Indonesia6 after being caught without valid documents despite calling these places home since fleeing the Philippines mostly during Martial Law.7 Hearing from their kin that Sarangani Bay is suitable for their seafaring lifestyle, they decided to move in; Bisayas and some Maranaos relate that they were recipients of relocation schemes by government agencies who came to their aid when they were swept by flash floods from Puting Bato or Purok Islam, other settlements in a neighbouring barangay of the same city in General Santos. A second migration pattern is related to family reunification—Bisayas, Sinamas and Maguindanawans share about how they carried out plans of reuniting with their relatives who have settled in these new hometowns while a mix of the local population revealed that they moved after marrying into local residents. While the previous two patterns of migrations are invariably related to a desire for and cannot be separated from economic reasons and a better life, one migration pattern shows a dominant justification in terms of the search for better opportunities. Most of the Bisayas interviewed in this study are secondary migrants, which means they came from other places in Mindanao after that initial foray outside of Visayas. The Bisaya informants in this study disclosed that their movement to Sarangani Bay has been motivated by the desire to find a better source of income. Some mix of Maranaos and Bisayas revealed that after being slum-area dwellers in the urban sprawl of General Santos they were enticed by the possibility of owning a relatively affordable home lot, in a city wrought by fast-increasing prices, contracting real estate land area and fuzzy titling systems. It must be noted here that Lanton is a settlement area that remains to be simultaneously contested among Maguindanaoan and B’laan clans, and the city government, while this is being written. The Maranaos, in particular, reported that they chose this area because of its relative proximity to the General Santos City public market where they are engaged in petty trade, selling pirated DVD movies, vegetables, dry goods and fish retail. Sangils from Balut Island 6 In

both Indonesia and Malaysia, Samals are referred to as Bajaus, but in the Philippines, Bajau or the Badjao is another ethnic category, although they are believed to belong to the Sinama-speaking community as the Samals. 7 This was between the years 1972 and 1986.

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have reported that they moved to Sarangani Bay to ‘take part in modernity’, relating that there is no way for them to earn enough just to cover even their daily food. Ullah (2007), in his study of migration, emphasizes that the ease—in terms of cost minimization and risk reduction—in the process of migration and the propensity of people to migrate are largely determined by the nature of migration networks that facilitate it. The Bisayas and Maranaos were displaced from the floods in nearby villages and were resettled by the government to their current dwellings in Lanton. Their migration to Lanton was relatively easier due to the facilitation mechanism made available by the local government. In the figure below, we see a similar argument, where Samals and Maguindanawans relied on networks that eased their passage from their origin to Tino’to. Whereas Lanton migrants relied on an institutional network—i.e. the government and its agencies involved in the resettlement process, Tino’to migrants relied on informal but perhaps equally strong and organized networks—family and clan links. In fact, movement to Tino’to is characterized not by individual migrations, but the arrival of families from the same villages and communities. Family reunification, another migration pattern is a common story for Bisayas, Sinamas and Maguindanawans who either reunited with their relatives who have settled in these new hometowns or who moved after marrying into local residents.

1.8 Research Objectives This study aims to look at the processes and the contexts involved in ethnic boundary formation in an area defined by its historical significance to the present-day ethnicized conflict in Mindanao, the multi-ethnic nature of its contemporary demographics, the escalation of violence and tensions in Sarangani Bay and the heightening militarization of the area. Specifically, this study wishes: • To identify which strategies are pursued by which actors in a conflict-affected area, taking the case of a select population in Sarangani Bay, to demarcate and define inclusions and exclusions in their ethnic worlds; • To investigate on the role of institutional frameworks in shaping the kind of differentiation and identity boundaries salient in the Philippines at the national level and in Sarangani Bay at the local level; • To find out how the distribution of power influences which actors to pursue which particular strategies of ethnic boundary formation and • To attempt to draw preliminary conclusions from the consensus generated from these negotiations between actors’ agency and the social fields surrounding this agency.

1.9 Organization of the Chapters

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1.9 Organization of the Chapters This study, composed of six (6) chapters, is aimed at an examination of the processes and the contexts involved in ethnic boundary formation. It takes the vantage point not of state and non-state elites or organized movements but of individual civilians whose lives are affected one way or another by an ethnicized violent conflict at the centre, where it is embedded. By taking on the lay perspective on ethnicity, this study does not preclude, however, an examination of the role of government and history, power relations and individual agency in the dynamics of boundary-making. This chapter introduces the core objective of this research, i.e. seeking to identify the processes and the contexts involved in ethnic boundary formation, perusing the perspective of Barth (1954), which have been expounded on by Wimmer (2008a, b). Chapter 2, consisting of four sections, provides a literature review on ethnicity. Section one deals with the etymology of the concept, ethnicity. Sections two and three provide an overview of the debates on ethnicity, starting with the primordialist– instrumentalist perspectives, followed by the constructivist traditions of inquiry on ethnicity research. Section four presents part of the framework guiding this study, Wimmer’s model on ethnic boundary-making strategies (2008a, b). Chapter 3 provides an account of the institutional arrangements defining belonging and citizenship at the national level of the Philippines, where the local level for this study, Sarangani Bay, is located. This is important because the institutional arrangements—or the ‘rules of the game’ which are in place—determine the boundary-making strategies pursued by an actor. Chapter 4 is an analysis of the strategies of ethnic boundary-making that the local cross section of the population employs, given specific conditions and contexts. Chapter 5 shows why actors pursue which particular strategies of boundarymaking. While the previous chapter attempts to explain why actors emphasize ethnic differentiation over other cleavages such as gender, class, income, among others, it does not explain the conditions under which actors modify, embrace, reproduce or subvert categorical distinctions that are used to refer to them by exogenous actors. The chapter examines the process of ethnic categorization and how civilian social actors appropriate, or modify, or subvert and reproduce these categories. Chapter 6, which is the final chapter, closes this study with a summary and a holistic analysis of each chapter and its interaction with other chapters’ findings as it addresses the manuscript of Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict: The Case of Sarangani Bay, Mindanao.

References Abinales, P. (2000). Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Davao in the formation of the Philippine nation-state. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. ABS-CBN News. (2008). AFP foils MILF invasion try in Sarangani.

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Ahmad, A. (1982). 400 year war-moro struggle in the Philippines. Southeast Asia Chronicle. Arguillas, C., 2009. Lumads: Militarization is number one problem. MindaNews.com. Barth, F. (1954). Ethnic groups and boundaries: The social organization of culture difference. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget AS. Campado, A. (2005). Pioneering in the Cotabato frontier: The Koronadal valley project during the pre-war years. Banwa 2. Conde, C. (2007). 400 killed by terrorism in Philippines since 2000, report Says. New York Times. Davis, A. (2002). Extremism exported: Hambali’s Indonesian brand of holy war travels to the Philippines on the back of local Islamic groups. TimeAsia.com. Espejo, E. (2010). Piracy keeping fishermen at Bay. Asian Correspondent. Espejo, E. (2009). The proposed ‘base of our security’ in Sarangani. Asian Correspondent. Espejo, E. (2008a). COMMENTARY: Deja Vu terror. MindaNews.com. Espejo, E. (2008b). Time to crack the whip. Asian Correspondent. Espejo, E. (2008c). Fresh troops arrive in Maasim. Asian Correspondent. Frake, C. (1998). Abu Sayyaf: Displays of violence and the proliferation of contested identities among Philippine Muslims. American Anthropologist, 100, 41–54. Ganibe, D. (2008). Probe on MILF-army clash in Sarangani Kicks Off. Gowing, P. (1979). Muslim Filipinos: Heritage and horizon. Quezon City: New Day Publishers. Hayase, S. (2007). Mindanao ethnohistory beyond nations: Maguindanao, Sangir, and Bagobo societies in East Maritime Southeast Asia. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Herder, J.G. (1969). Social & political culture (Cambridge studies in the history and theory of politics). In: Barnard, F.M. (Ed.), Ideas for a philosophy of the history of mankind [Ideen Zur Philosophie Der Geshichte Der Menscheit]. Cambridge University Press. Horowitz, D. (1985). Ethnic groups in conflict. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kreuzer, P. (2005). Political clans and violence in the Southern Philippines (PRIF Report). Peace Research Institute Frankfurt. Marks, S., Meer, T., & Nilson, M. (2007). Manhunting: A process to find persons of national interest. In J. Forest (Ed.), Countering terrorism and insurgency in the 21st century: International perspectives. CT: Praeger, Westport. Mercado, J. (2009). Conflict between identities. Jun Mercado. Retrieved July 5, 2009, from http:// blogs.gmanews.tv/jun-mercado/archives/44-Conflict-between-identities.html#comments. MindaNews. (2009). Naval base eyed in Maasim, Sarangani. MindaNews.com. National Statistics Office. (2002). Southern Mindanao: Ninety percent of the population were literates (results from the 2000 census of population and housing, NSO). Manila: National Statistical Office. National Statistics Office, Philippines. (2010a). Population of general Santos city exceeded half million (results from the 2007 census of population). Philippines, Manila: National Statistics Office. National Statistics Office, Philippines. (2010b). 2007 census of population Sarangani total population by province, city, municipality and Barangay as of August 1, 2007 Province, City, Municipality Total and Barangay Population National Statistics Office. Philippines, Manila: National Statistics Office. National Statistics Office, Philippines. (2009). Population of Sarangani was almost half million (results from the 2007 census of population). Philippines, Manila: National Statistics Office. Papa, A. (2008). PNP eyeing terror attack in general Santos city blast. Philippine Daily Inquirer. Philippine Information Agency. (2009). LGU pushes naval base installation in Maasim. Philippine Information Agency: Sarangani. Philippine Star. (2010). Suspected MILF members captured in Sarangani. Republic of the Philippines. (2009). An act amending republic act no. 5412, as amended, otherwise known as the Charter of the City of General Santos. Republic of the Philippines. (1992). An act establishing the province of Sarangani. Ressa, M. (2003). Seeds of terror: An eyewitness account of Al-Qaeda’s newest center of operations in Southeast Asia. New York: Free Press.

References

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Santos, S., Jr. (2010). Pentagon gang and other obscure Moro armed groups. In S. Santos Jr., P. V. Santos, & D. Rodriguez (Eds.), Primed and purposeful armed groups and human security efforts in the Philippines (pp. 393–402). Quezon City, Philippines: South-South Network for Non-State Armed Group Engagement and The Small Arms Survey. Santos Jr, S., & Santos, P.V. (2010). Primed and purposeful armed groups and human security efforts in the Philippines. South-South Network for Non-State Armed Group Engagement and The Small Arms Survey, Quezon City, Philippines. Schiavo-Campo, S., & Judd, M. (2005). The Mindanao conflict in the Philippines: Roots, costs, and potential peace dividend. Conflict prevention and reconstruction unit–working paper series. Tadem, E. (2010). Development and distress in Mindanao: A political economy overview. The UP Forum 11. Tadem, E. (1980). Mindanao report: A preliminary study on the economic. Origins of social unrest. Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao, Davao City, Philippines. Tan, S. (1977). The filipino Muslim armed struggle, 1900–1972. Makati: Filipinas Foundation. Torres, W. M., III (Ed.). (2007). Rido: Clan feuding and conflict management in Mindanao. Makati: Asia Foundation. Ullah, A. A. (2007) Rationalizing migration: Bangladeshi migrant workers in Hongkong and Malaysia. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Department of Asian and International Studies, City University of Hong Kong. Villano-Campado, A. (1996). General Santos city in Southern Mindanao, 1939–1990 : From a frontier settlement to a Booming city in the South. Ph.D. dissertation, University of the Philippines, Quezon City, Philippines. Villano-Campado, A. (n.d). The Tuna country at the Southern edge of Mindanao: General Santos City 1939–2000. Wimmer, A. (2008a). Elementary strategies of ethnic boundary-making. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 31, 1025–1055. Wimmer, A. (2008b). The making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries: A multilevel process theory. American Journal of Sociology, 113, 970–1022. Yabes, C. (2010). Calling the navy to secure peace in East ASEAN. Asiaviews, 3. Zonio, A. (2008). 4 killed, 30 wounded in general Santos City blast. Philippine Daily Inquirer Mindanao: Reuters, Agence France Press.

Chapter 2

Theoretical and Conceptual Considerations

The purpose of this chapter is to review the basic conceptual debates in ethnicity studies and to present the framework used for analysis in this research. This chapter consists of four sections and is organized as follows. Section 2.1 deals with the etymology of the concept, ethnicity. Sections 2.2 and 2.3 provide an overview of the debates on ethnicity, starting with the primordialist–instrumentalist perspectives, followed by the constructivist traditions of inquiry on ethnicity research. Section 2.4 presents part of the framework guiding this study, Wimmer’s model on ethnic boundary-making strategies (2008a, b). Section 2.5 presents the conditions and influences under which these strategies are applied. As mentioned in Chap. 1, the process of boundary-making is applied at the local level in the context of the conflict-affected area of Sarangani Bay, which forms the empirical chapters that follow. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Sarangani Bay’s historical significance to the present-day ethnicized conflict in Mindanao, the multi-ethnic nature of its contemporary demographics, the escalation of violence and tensions in Sarangani Bay and the heightening militarization of the area are the factors involved in the selection of Sarangani Bay as a research area.

2.1 Etymology of the Concept Ethnicity Despite being a relatively new concept, ethnicity has a long history, having been derived from the Greek noun ethnos. But the earliest recorded use of ethnos was hardly a reference to human beings. In Homer, ‘[f]requently, ethnos is used for an animal multitude (bees, birds, or flies)… where great size, amorphous structure, and threatening mobility are the qualities to which attention is being drawn’ (see Chapman et al. 1989). Later on, however, the term ethnic and related forms from the fourteenth through the middle of the nineteenth century CE were used in English to mean pagan and heathen. Aristotle, for instance, used it for foreign or barbarous peoples (see Larin 2010). The term ethnikos, which literally meant national, was used in the Septuagint, © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_2

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the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, to translate the Hebrew goyim which refers to non-Hebrews and non-Jews (Chapman et al. 1989, pp. 18–24). In these examples, the terms’ usage indicated exclusion, disdain and strangeness (Chapman et al. 1989, p. 12). In the Byzantine and mediaeval periods, the meaning persisted to refer to religious others—the ‘gentiles’. A notable shift, however, occurred, which is hypothesized to be in the context of the Ottoman Empire in which the dominant religious others were the Orthodox Christian Greeks, as defined by the Muslim majority. In the Ottoman Empire, self-governing religious communities were called millets, and the Orthodox Christian Greeks are said to mostly likely began referring to themselves as ethnos, the translation of the Turkish millet (Chapman et al. 1989, p. 13). Gradually, the term began to refer to ‘racial characteristics’. We now don’t talk about ‘tribe’ but about ‘ethnic group’ and the word racial is replaced by ‘ethnic’, according to Eriksen (1991, pp. 3–4). Huxley and Haddon (1935) claimed ‘Nowhere does a human group now exist which corresponds closely to a systematic sub-species in animals. … For existing populations, the noncommittal term ethnic group should be used’. The authors referred subsequently to a ‘special type of ethnic grouping of which the Jews form the best-known example’. During World War II, Warner and Lunt used the term ethnics in 1941 in reference to members of a group along racial lines, while a 1945 study by Warner and Srole used the noun to refer to groups like the Irish and the Jews (Safire 1993). In the Philippines itself, Haddon did an ‘ethnological survey’ in (1906) to differentiate the natives into categories of Negritos, Malays and Indonesians, which was criticized for its ideological underpinnings on the use of colonial anthropology.1 Insofar as the modern understanding of the concept ethnicity, i.e. the identification with a national and cultural group is concerned, its first usage is attributed to the American sociologist David Riesman in 1953 (Eriksen 1991). The term itself first appeared in the Oxford English Dictionary only in 1972. Modern Greek likewise followed-through, with ethnos now denoting a united people, and is usually translated in other languages as ‘nation’, save, for instances, where the latter is used as a synonym for ‘state’ (Just 1989). However, 10 years later than the attribution to Riesman et al. (1963, 1975) stated that ‘[e]thnicity seems to be a new term’ (1975, p. 1), a statement that has been understood to encompass not only the novelty of the concept but of ethnicity being a new phenomenon, as well. With no reference to biological anthropology and little, 1 In this survey, Haddon worked on a classification scheme that was adopted by the American colonial

government to supposedly understand early Filipinos: the Negritos, who were described as partly Mongolian and appeared to be loosely organized politically, and referred to as ‘the original habitants in the Philippines…and are the relics of one of the most archaic of human stocks’; Indonesians, referring to both the non-Christian but politically organized and freedom-loving Muslims who were also called Moros in Mindanao, the animist Cordilleran peoples in northern Luzon, who were described to be engaged in headhunting and slavery practices and the lowland Malays, who were observed to be products of intermarriages with other Asians and Europeans, and a people described to have survived long colonial rule compared to the other two, and were noted to be the most vocal in demanding autonomy (Haddon 1906).

2.1 Etymology of the Concept Ethnicity

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if any, to cultural anthropology, Glazer and Moynihan’s work was a departure from the prevailing work of its time, on ethnicity, and has put forward a new conceptual frame to be understood, indeed. Contrary to what is expected, in which modernity— a process that is said to be instrumental in the ‘breaking of traditional economic relationships and achieving substantial freedom’ (see Gilley 2004, p. 1162)—will render ethnic and other parochial ties obsolete, Glazer and Moynihan observed the opposite. According to them, ethnic groups not only persisted, but also became politicized, in the very process of modernization which was expected to eradicate it (1975). On the basis of their study of ethnic groups in New York City, the authors concluded that ethnic groups have become ‘interest groups’ (Glazer and Moynihan 1963, p. 17). But what is of import to Glazer and Moynihan’s work on ethnicity is that the points they have raised have spawned debates between the primordialist and instrumentalist schools of thought on ethnicity and has contributed to a revival of social research on the subject matter. The lingering interest revolving on ethnicity is probably the fact that its malleable aspect has been identified to impact intra- and interstate contestations, demands, conflicts and even wars. As Williams (1989) expounds, ethnicity’s elusiveness is neither the result of its inexistence nor to academics’ shortcomings but that the term’s importance in the ‘race to nation[hood]’ makes its definition and use easy target for contestations. The attraction that ethnicity creates is also due to the substantive load that the concept carries, ‘like other key terms and ideas such as “democracy”, it is the ambiguity of what ethnicity means and implies that invests it with such power’, according to Banks (1996). As mentioned in Chap. 1, this study takes the most accepted definition of ethnicity, that of Max Weber which preceded Riesman and Glazer and Moynihan for about 20–30 years. As quoted in Chap. 1: We shall call ‘ethnic groups’ those human groups that entertain a subjective belief in their common descent because of similarities of physical type or of customs or both, or because of memories of colonization and migration; this belief must be important for the propagation of group formation; conversely, it does not matter whether or not an objective blood relationship exists. Ethnic membership (Gemeinsamkeit) differs from the kinship group precisely by being a presumed identity, not a group with concrete social action like the latter. In our sense, ethnic membership does not constitute a group; it only facilitates group formation of any kind, particularly in the political sphere. On the other hand, it is primarily the political community, no matter how artificially organized, that inspires the belief in common ethnicity. This belief tends to persist even after the disintegraton of the political community, unless drastic differences in custom, physical type, or, above all, language exists among its members. (1968, p. 389)

While the belief in a common origin might not reflect objective blood relationships, as Weber himself points out, self-ascription on the basis of this belief is a requisite of ethnicity. The next section is going to make an argument that the debates on the nature of ethnicity have actually moved on from the primordial–instrumental dichotomy to that of differences among streams of constructivist approaches on ethnicity. While there is no single constructivist approach to ethnicity, the single point beguiling the

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followers of this approach is on whose perspective it is to take best, whether the observers’ perspective or the actors’ perspective. The observers’ perspective is also presented in the works of some scholars as the objective point of view on ethnicity and of ethnicity as a category of identification. Meanwhile, the actors’ perspective or the subjective point of view branches out into the idea of ethnicity as a group.

2.2 Primordialist Versus Instrumentalist Explanations on Ethnicity Primordialism deems that ethnicity is a constitutive aspect of human nature that it takes on a singular form from categories of membership, rather than from patterns of interaction, and once acquired, stays fixed over time. The sociobiologist Pierre van den Berghe has been identified most with the primordialist school of thought on ethnicity, which together with race, he finds to be ‘extensions of the idiom of kinship, and […] therefore, ethnic and race sentiments are to be understood as an extended and attenuated form of kin selection’ (1978, p. 403). Of ethnicity he defines as ‘ascriptive, defined by common descent, generally hereditary, and often endogamous’ (1978, pp. 403–404). The works of Shils (1957) and Geertz (1963) have also been associated with primordialism, although at a closer look, it appears that this association does not follow from these works’ intent but from the (mis)interpretation (Fenton 2003; Brubaker 2006), even of known scholars (see Eller and Coughlan 1993), who are reading these works. Edward Shils’ entanglement with primordialism is with his use of the term ‘primordial’ in the context of social integration, to mean the affective ties that bind some ‘primary groups’ together, the family, in particular. Shils writes that ‘the attachment to another member of one’s kinship group is not just a function of interaction […] It is because a certain ineffable significance is attributed to the tie of blood’ (1957, p. 142). The attribution of primordialism to Geertz meanwhile is due to his appropriation of the term primordial attachments from Shils in an essay in which he observes that the persistence of these attachments poses a hindrance to the process of nation-building where supra-identities are being created (2017, pp. 259–260). He qualified this misinterpretation in a lecture 20 years later: ‘Designed to expose the artifactual, or as we would say now “constructed” (and, indeed, often quite recently constructed), nature of social identities, and to desegregate them into the disparate components out of which they are built, it was often seen to be doing just the opposite—ratifying them, archaizing them, and removing them to the realm of the darkly irrational. In any case, by primordial loyalties is meant (by me, anyway) an attachment that stems from the subject’s, not the observer’s, sense of the “givens” of social existence […] from the actor’s perspective, of blood, speech, custom, faith, residence, history, physical appearance, and so on’ (Geertz 2017, p. 6).

2.2 Primordialist Versus Instrumentalist Explanations on Ethnicity

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Part of the misreading of Geertz is the convenient fit of his analysis on the theory of culture to the interpretation of ethnicity. He defines culture as ‘a historically transmitted pattern of meanings embodied in symbols, a system of inherited conceptions expressed in symbolic forms by means of which men communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge about and attitudes toward life’ (2017, p. 89). For Geertz to understand ethnicity requires an understanding of the cultural milieu from which the ethnic participant being studied comes from. The importance of the participants’ perspective is underscored by Connor who said that ‘the wisdom of the old saw that when analyzing sociopolitical situations, what ultimately matters is not what is but what people believe is’ (1994, p. 93). But the primordial perspective on ethnicity suffers from a relative lack of theoretical robustness. As Thompson puts it: ‘There is no coherent set of statements…that permits me to straightforwardly list the basic tenets or assumptions … [of the] … “primordialist” theory of ethnicity. This is due … to the absence of a theory or explanation of why we should regard ethnicity as a natural primordial sentiment’ (1989). Instrumentalism, influenced by sociological functionalism, holds that ethnicity claims are a means of political strategy in political and cultural elites’ pursuit of greater allocation of wealth, prestige, power or all these. As the term implies, the important element of the instrumentalist perspective on ethnicity is the presence of a political elite mobilizing the myth of a common identity by the use of some cultural markers and symbols over a host of alternative identities and symbolisms, as an instrument for personal, factional or groupist gain. A classic example of the instrumentalist perspective is Paul Brass’ ‘elite manipulation’ in which ethnicity is created within the bounds of elite competition. According to him ‘Ethnic self-consciousness, ethnically-based demands, and ethnic conflict, can only occur if there is some conflict either between indigenous and external elites and authorities or between indigenous elites’ (1991, p. 26). Another example is the work of Horowitz (1985), in which he argued that ethnicity is often a means to recover a lost ethnic pride. But the instrumentalist theory of ethnicity is critiqued for its conflation of analytical objects and their emergent behaviour. In other words, the theory defines ethnic groups are defined on the basis of what they do—among which are intra-ethnic cohesiveness, ethnic endogamy, interethnic conflict and violence, ethnic occupational specialization, ethnic signalling and differentiation, among others (Nagata 1981). Furthermore, this approach does not offer a more viable explanation of what makes people follow an obviously elite-driven utilitarian agenda. These two traditions of inquiry are the forerunners in the ethnicity debate and are both known for their attempts to explain the onset of ethnic conflict. The major critique, however, to both primordialism and instrumentalism is their predictive shortcoming on the onset of ethnic conflict at a particular time, and in which places or context does it occur. For long, it has been assumed that any discussion of ethnicity is just within this primordialist and instrumentalist continuum or a combination of these two approaches. But as Larin has pointed out, ‘primordialism is usually a red herring in a debate

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that has for the most part been carried out between constructivists of different persuasions’ (2010, p. 441). This suggests that what is more crucial to look into is not the primordialist–instrumentalist divide, but the debate between the different constructivist approaches on ethnicity, which the next section deals with.

2.3 Constructivist Approaches in Ethnicity The constructivist perspective rejects the primordialist claim that ethnicity is a basic human condition, and rather argues that it is situational (Okamura 1981) and contextual (Brass 1991; Banks 1996). In the same manner, it does not consider that ethnicity is merely a strategic means necessitated by elite competition, but rather emphasizes that not only are the elites able to craft ethnicity, but so do individual agency. To paraphrase Hobsbawm (1991), identification markers, while constructed ‘from above’ as the postmodernists would have it, ‘cannot be understood unless also analyzed from below’ (1991, p. 1). The constructivist perspective takes an approach of explaining the role of social forces—market and state institutions, history, power relations—and individual agency in the shaping of ethnicity. Chandra (2006), in a review of the identity literature, highlights that the constructivist paradigm agrees on the multiplicity of identities, and that while scholars’ all agree on the fact that variations in identities are shaped by several factors, they have not reached a consensus yet, as to what factor ranging from modernization, colonialism, patronage politics, to political entrepreneurship is the most salient. Fredrick Barth’s introductory essay to Ethnic Groups and Boundaries (1954a, b) is attributed for the beginnings of the constructivist approach to ethnicity. Barth and his colleagues hold that ethnicity is a means of ascription and identification by actors themselves, presumptively on the basis of origin and background (1954a, b, p. 13), and a mechanism of social organization maintained by intergroup boundary mechanisms that results to, rather than constitutes a common list of cultural markers (1954a, b, p. 15). According to Barth, ‘we shift the focus of investigation from internal constitution and history of separate groups to ethnic boundaries and boundary maintenance’ (1954a, b, p. 10). Barth’s work has indeed reached canon proportions in the field of ethnic studies, and is used as a reference by a wide range of constructivist conceptualizations of ethnicity. One strand among these different conceptualizations recognizes Barth’s emic view on ethnicity, a perspective that celebrates human agency. However, it takes note that as much as agency is present in Barth, what is missing is the attention on factors that limit human agency. According to Williams (1989) which I find valuable to quote here: Analysis of identity formation processes within a population that shares a political unit require the recognition that not all individuals have equal power to fix the coordinates of self-other identity formation. Nor are individuals equally empowered to opt out of the labeling

2.3 Constructivist Approaches in Ethnicity

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process, to become the invisible against which other’s visibility is measured. The illusion that self and other ascriptions among groups are made on equal terms fades when we ask whether those who identify themselves with a particular ethnic identity could also successfully claim no ethnic identification (emphasis mine). If their group became the dominant power group in the political unit such a claim might be possible.

But the constructivist perspective on ethnicity gained different branches following the emergence of new traditions of inquiry in the social sciences in general. A few of these perspectives on ethnicity, to name a few, are institutionalism, postmodernism and the discursive practice approach. Institutionalism, as the name implies, seeks to explain the role of political institutions and regimes to ethnic identity formation and ethnic accommodation. Similar to instrumentalism and primordialism, this perspective is also highly aggregative and macro-focused, where political institutions refer to general systems of governance while political regimes include specific political arrangements in the likes of multiculturalism (Kymlicka 1995), political pluralism (Dahl 1956) and consociationalism (Lijphart 1971), among others. The institutional approach to analysing ethnicity has a breadth that allows comparative generalization and an aggregative view. However, its state-centric and institutionally focused tendency is also ironically its own weaknesses. Scholars point out that its potency in explaining variance of ethnic identification among countries of similar political systems or within the same political jurisdiction leaves much to be desired. On the other hand, the postmodernist approach recognizes ethnicity as a construct promoted by the knowledge elite and supported by power structures. In Varshney’s account, constructivism has much to thank postmodernist thinking, especially the idea that the formation of knowledge and of what is taken for granted as scientific and objective especially in the social sciences are, in fact, constructed narratives (2003, pp. 32–33). Anderson (1983) has succinctly shown that the construction of ethnic and national categories is a two-way process. Not only are modern technologies of imagination (printing press and capitalism, according to Anderson) accessible to the masses, but also the elites who may indeed have initiated the constructions of certain identities have to create them with a greater approximation of what is understood and acceptable on the ground. What Anderson argues is that the role of social forces—market and state institutions, history and power relations explain the formation of ethnic identity. However, he likewise posits that individual agency’s role in ethnicity formation is a factor that cannot be left out. Ordinary citizens may, in fact, deploy alternative modes of identification, modify what is current and prevailing, or subvert what are otherwise standard categories. Bordieau (1977) is instructive in this regard, as well. He neither validates a purely voluntaristic nor a fully deterministic model of the social world. Rather, he presents the role of culture that sits between objective structures and individual agency as that of ‘structuring structures’. Bordieau’s structuring structures tell us that ethnicity is existent in the material world, but also highlights the fact that it is shaped, changed

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and subverted upon by individual practices and collective human action, which, in turn, is shaped by its consequences. Giddens’ theory of structuration also follows this tradition. He attempted to find the middle way between theoretical binaries in social systems such as agency/structure, subjective/objective and micro/macro perspectives. Giddens’ structuration theory (1984) does not focus on the individual actor or societal totality, rather on ‘social practices ordered across space and time’. Zooming into ethnicity-specific work, Brubaker (2006; Brubaker et al. 2004) promotes the view that rather than being a thing that exists in the world, ethnicity is a sense of perspective or cognition. Brubaker (2006) and his co-authors preoccupied themselves with an examination of ethnicity as a perspective and as a resource used for specific interactional purposes, seeking for the meanings that categories endow, rather than just adopting nominal categories as they are. Discursive analysis, an offshoot of both constructivist and postmodernist approaches to ethnic analysis, on the other hand, seeks to explain ethnicity in accordance with threefold claims. First, it puts premium to understanding categories according to internally generated meanings, and thus focuses not on creating categories but of examining what categories natives employ. Second, it recognizes the constructive nature of categories of identification, which means it balances the treatment of both code (culture) and codal use (how culture is used). Third, rather than examining abstract and fixed cultural categories, these categories are analysed in relation to actual, situated activity. Discursive analysis of ethnicity is echoed in Munasinghe’s (2001) arguments of not doing away with emic definitions, but through it inquire on the dynamics of ethnicity’s construction, adoption and its spread. This approach involves repositioning the subaltern’s narratives, actions and perceptions, as dialectically opposed to state or organized and dominant non-state actors ‘from above’. After all, ethnicity analysts must be aware that nationalist rhetoric does not always coincide with, nor can they reliably be inferred for the sentiments of the people at large. But a discursive analysis of ethnicity does not merely endeavour to replace elitist with subaltern narratives and accounts, but aims to place tensions at the surface, uncover hidden grand narratives and re-examine what is taken for granted as positions of the hegemon and the subaltern. However, an uncritical adoption of indigenous self-designation and nativist narratives, Handler (1985) cautions may lead to an analytical shortcoming. As Comaroff and Comaroff (1992) cautions: ‘There is no historiographic balance that may be restored…merely by replacing bourgeois chronicles with subaltern accounts…For historiography, it is the relations between fragments and fields that pose the greatest analytic challenge’. Given the range, diversity and relevance of constructivist thinking on ethnicity shown above, it can indeed be argued that the relevant debate on ethnicity has already passed from the primordial–instrumental dichotomy. However, among the questions that are emerging is that, has constructivism reached its limits? Has it already lost its luster in understanding the ethnic phenomenon? Are there alternative ways of understanding and interpreting ethnicity?

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A critique of constructivism is that has grown to be the orthodoxy, where it used to be the insurgent knowledge. With commonplace acceptance, its sharpness is observed to have dulled (Fearon and Laitin 2000; Lustick 2000). Brubaker’s hard-hitting comment is that ‘It is rather too obviously right, too readily taken for granted, to generate the friction, force and freshness needed to push arguments further and generate new insights’ (Brubaker et al. 2006, p. 6). Some critiques on the constructivist perspective on ethnicity are that it often becomes a study on people’s perceptions about their culture rather than a study of their culture. This can be seen in the debate between the works of Bader (2001) and Baumann (2001), where the former critiques the constructivist idea of culture by the latter which emphasizes on subjective discourse and self-identification while de-emphasizing the objective aspects of culture. Yet, there is nothing intrinsically wrong about this approach, if Connor is to be heard, ‘the wisdom of the old saw that when analyzing sociopolitical situations, what ultimately matters is not what is but what people believe is’ (1994, p. 93). The suggestions that constructivism is on a decline as a tool of analysis may not entirely be untrue. In the constructivist paradigm of ethnicity, the concepts ‘ethnic groups’, ‘ethnic categories’ and ‘boundary maintenance’ are alternately widely discussed and debated and acknowledged. I argue, however, that these concepts of group, category and maintenance remain to connote fixity, despite the basic dictum of constructivism on the fluid, negotiated and multiple character of ethnicity. The most important point pitched against both the primordialist and constructivist frameworks on understanding ethnicity is their inability to account for variance across time and space. As both schools of thought are highly aggregative, they fall short in explaining the degrees of differences across cases, especially on the areas which Wimmer (2008a, b) has identified as in ethnicity’s social closure, political salience, cultural distinctiveness and historical stability. From anthropology, to sociology, political geography and increasingly, to international relations, ethnicity has become an interest of investigation. However, if there is any dialogue between comparative studies on ethnicity, it proves to be little. Yet these studies allow us to have a comparative view on ethnicity. Literature tells us that the outcome of existing studies on ethnicity either provide typologies of ethnicity forms (see, for example, Eriksen 1992), ethnicity articulators (see, for example, Munasinghe 2001) or distinctions in the way ethnicity is relevant to different kinds of historical contexts (see, for example, Banks 1996) and inequalities. The next section presents the framework used in this research, which shifts the discussion from typology of categorization (ethnic categories), actors (ethnic groups) and contexts (immigrants versus minorities and nationalism versus ethnic conflict, among others) to the typologies of processes involved in the making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries (Wimmer 2008a, b). Further, by moving the investigation on how ethnic boundaries are made and unmade, this research aims to de-situate from the polarity generated by the debates between primordialism and constructivism.

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2.4 Basic Strategies of Ethnic Boundary-Making The ethnic boundary formation analysis in this research adopts part of the multi-level theory of ethnic boundary-making developed by Wimmer (2008a, b). The appeal of Wimmer’s framework lies in its capacity to be aggregative and yet is able to account for variance across cases at localized levels of analysis, which in this research is the case of Sarangani Bay, part of whose population belong to the margins, and whose location lies in the margins of the conflict in Mindanao, Southern Philippines. Wimmer’s theory on ethnic boundary formation also veers away from the dilemma faced by prevailing constructivist modes of ethnic analysis. As already pointed out several times in this and the previous chapter, analysing the nature of and the perspective on ethnicity, which prevailing constructivism has been bent on doing, has a tendency of falling into a contradiction of maintaining and containing ethnic terminologies, replicating the dilemmas that are being argued against, and are intended to be overcome in the first place. It offers flexibility by providing a framework of generalizable categories and yet yields context-specific and localized analysis of ethnicity, by capturing the role of various factors at different levels of processes in the ethnic boundary formation cycle. What Wimmer’s theoretical framework offers a multi-level analysis that commences from the macrostructural level to the level of individual agency, which feeds back into the macrostructural level. The processual model on ethnic boundary formation that Wimmer introduces in the figure below draws from the work of scholars on related fields, from Lamont and Bail’s destigmatization strategies (2005), from the dynamics of boundary crossing, blurring and shifting of Zolberg and Woon (1999), from strategies of categorical fusion and fission in terms of amalgamation, incorporation, division and proliferation by Horowitz (1975), and in the field of attitudinal change, the distinctions drawn among de-categorization, common in-group identity and intergroup differentiation by Gonzalez and Brown (2003). Using the framework of ethnic boundary analysis in Fig. 2.1 that Wimmer has put forward, the following are the aims addressed in this research work: • To identify which strategies are pursued by which marginalized actors in an area marginal to a conflict-affected area, taking the case of a selected population in Sarangani Bay, to demarcate and define inclusions and exclusions in their ethnic worlds. • To investigate on the role by which social fields affect which actors pursue which particular strategies of ethnic boundary formation. It does so by lifting the part of the model on individual boundary-making strategies, and the field characteristics in Fig. 2.2, for use in this research. According to Wimmer (2008a, b), boundary-making strategies that may be pursued by actors are of two general nature, one retains the existing boundaries but changes its meaning or constitution, the other moves the boundaries to a different location than before.

2.4 Basic Strategies of Ethnic Boundary-Making

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Fig. 2.1 A processual model of the making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries. Source Wimmer (2008a, b)

Boundary modification strategies do no contest existing ethnic boundaries, but, in fact, retain them, and instead redefine the boundaries’ meaning or constitution. They may further be differentiated into strategies of transvaluation, positional change and blurring. Transvaluation strategies are directed towards the overturning of hierarchical ethnic structures, where the category of the unfavored is either reinvented to that of a positive and superior group than the dominant group or, to a less radical extent, redefined as a co-equal of the dominant group. Transvaluation strategies involve the establishment of counter-cultures vis-à-vis the dominant culture, the re-interpretation of the history of defeat or discrimination into a struggle for social justice and freedom, and the revival of atavistic symbolisms and practices. Positional change is an ethnic boundary-making strategy that involves boundary crossing and repositioning. Like transvaluation, this strategy does not contest the prevailing boundaries of ethnic categories. The difference, however, is that while transvaluation delegitimizes dominant ethnic boundaries by presenting an alternative, the strategy of positional change reinforces dominant boundaries. Positional moving as a strategy of ethnic boundary-making does not intend to move away from dominant boundaries, but merely wants to adjust or reclassify the positions within, or assimilate to the prevailing boundaries.

Fig. 2.2 A model of ethnic boundary-making strategies. Source Wimmer (2008a, b)

26 2 Theoretical and Conceptual Considerations

2.4 Basic Strategies of Ethnic Boundary-Making

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The third strategy that aims at modifying prevailing boundaries is blurring. Blurring reduces the significance of ethnic boundaries by refocusing a sense of belonging from various points of orientation such as a local community, a global reference of community, or universalizing experiences, cultures or belief systems. Boundary-shifting strategies comprise contraction and expansion strategies. Contraction as a strategy of boundary-making entails a shift of focus to sub-levels of differentiation to disassociate oneself from broader ethnic boundaries. Contraction is a strategy that questions the homogenizing processes of externally imposed boundaries. Also, one may pursue this strategy in an attempt to reinforce claims of superiority or a process of ‘othering’ from those whom one is lumped together. Another boundary-shifting strategy is expansion, which unlike contraction, attempts to create greater inclusivity and aggregation. Expansion as a boundary-making strategy can closely be seen in the politics of nation-building, where either state apparatus, dominant majorities or by social movements led by political entrepreneurs from the minority. However, the rank-and-file often do not carry pan-ethnic distinctions, preferring more exclusive ethnic boundaries in their social environments.

2.5 Institutions, Powers and Alliances The previous section presents Wimmer’s model on ethnic boundary-making strategies (2008a, b). In this section, the conditions and influences under which these strategies are selected and acted upon are discussed. Not all actors have equal capacity in the creation, appropriation of or distancing from ethnic boundaries. This has been underscored clearly by Williams (1989), which I find important to quote here: Analysis of identity formation processes within a population that shares a political unit require the recognition that not all individuals have equal power to fix the coordinates of self-other identity formation. Nor are individuals equally empowered to opt out of the labeling process, to become the invisible against which other’s visibility is measured. The illusion that self and other ascriptions among groups are made on equal terms fades when we ask whether those who identify themselves with a particular ethnic identity could also successfully claim no ethnic identification (emphasis mine). If their group became the dominant power group in the political unit such a claim might be possible. (1989, p. 420)

This being considered the strategies of ethnic boundary-making identified above from Wimmer’s model will only make sense if juxtaposed with the limits affecting this pursuit. Wimmer identified these conditions as institutional frameworks, position in the power grid, and available alliances or access to networks. According to Banks, the differences among ethnicities are, in fact, not in culture but in historical positions (1996). I mention this here to argue the point that historical positions, in fact, provide the context with which ethnic boundary-making takes place. It may be argued after all that culture is not a fixed, tightly bounded phenomenon or being, but is rather created and recreated given the historical contexts by

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which it operates. But what is specifically salient in bringing institutional framework analysis in is on how modern nation-state apparatus provides institutional incentives, especially to elite and non-elite political entrepreneurs from minority groups alike, to pursue strategies of ethnic over other modes of boundary-making. As institutional incentives determine if actors will pursue ethnic strategies of boundary-making, power differentials help explain what strategies actors will favour. According to Wimmer’s theory, an actor pursues strategies of ethnic boundarymaking from a calculation of benefits that this choice accrues to him/her given the physical, social and symbolic resources at his/her disposal, and of how consequential this choice is to significant others in terms of those who have the power to make important decisions. If the institutional frameworks and power differentials are determining factors on whether actors will pursue ethnic boundary-making strategies and what strategies to pursue, constellations of alliances are important as they identify the location of where the boundaries between ‘us’ and ‘them’ should be. With this framework guiding this research, the next two chapters will analyse various levels of actors in their pursuit of ethnic boundary-making strategies. Chapter 3 will look at the village level, analysing what kinds of ethnic boundary-making strategies the local cross section of the population pursue, and what elements of limitations do these strategies operate on. Chapter 4 will analyse the macro-level of ethnic boundary-making pursued by the national government and the organized movements of resistance in Mindanao, for nationally imposed ethnic boundaries. Chapter 4 will also compare how the macro-level resonates or not in ethnic boundary-making at the micro-level.

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Comaroff, J., & Comaroff, J. (1992). Ethnography and the historical imagination. Westview Press. Connor, W. (1994). Ethnonationalism: The quest for understanding. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Dahl, R. (1956). A preface to democratic theory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Eller, J., & Coughlan, R. (1993). The poverty of primordialism: The demystification of ethnic attachments. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 2, 183–201. Eriksen, T. H. (1991). Ethnicity versus nationalism. Journal of Peace Research, 28(3), 263–278. Eriksen, T. H. (1992). Us and them in modern societies: ethnicity and nationalism in Mauritius, Trinidad and beyond. A Scandinavian University Press Publication. Fearon, J., & Laitin, D. (2000). Violence and social construction of ethnic identity. International Organization, 54, 845–877. Fenton, S. (2003). Ethnicity. London and New York: Polity. Geertz, C. (1963). The integrative revolution: Primordial sentiments and politics in the new states. In C. Geertz (Ed.), Old societies and new states: The quest for modernity in Asia and Africa (pp. 105–157). New York and London: The Free Press and Collier-Macmillan. Geertz, C. (2017). The interpretation of cultures (3rd ed.). Basic books. Giddens, A. (1984). The constitution of society: Outline of the theory of structuration. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gilley, B. (2004). Against the concept of ethnic conflict. Third World Quarterly, 255, 1155–1166. Glazer, N., & Moynihan, D. (1975). Ethnicity—Theory and experience. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Glazer, N., & Moynihan, D. (1963). Beyond the melting pot. Cambridge, MA: MIT University Press. Gonzalez, R., & Brown, R. (2003). Generalization of positive attitudes as a function of subgroup and superordinate group identifications in intergroup contact. European Journal of Social Psychology, 33, 195–214. Haddon, A. C. (1906). An ethnological survey of the Philippines. Nature, 73, 584–586. Handler, R. (1985). On dialogue and destructive analysis: Problems in narrating nationalism and ethnicity. Journal of Anthropological Research, 41, 171–182. Hobsbawm, E. (1991). Nations and Nationalism since 1780. Cambridge, Mass: Cambridge University Press Horowitz, D. (1975). “Ethnic Identity.” In Ethnicity: Theory and Experience, edited by Nathan Glazer and Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 111–40. Horowitz, D. (1985). Ethnic groups in conflict. Berkeley: University of California Press. Huxley, J. S., & Haddon, A. C. (1935). We Europeans: A survey of racial problems. New York. Just, R. (1989). Triumph of the ethnos. In E. Tonkin, M. McDonald, & M. Chapman (Eds.), History and ethnicity (pp. 71–88). New York: Routledge. Kymlicka, W. (1995). Multicultural citizenship: A liberal theory of minority rights. New York: Oxford University Press. Larin, S. (2010). Conceptual debates in ethnicity, nationalism, and migration. In R. Denemark (Ed.), The international studies encyclopedia (pp. 438–457). Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Lijphart, A. (1971). Comparative politics and the comparative method. The American Political Science Review, 65, 682–693. Lustick, I. (2000). Agent-based modelling of collective identity: Testing constructivist theory. Journal of Artificial Societies and Social Simulation, 3. Munasinghe, V. (2001). Callaloo or tossed salad? East Indians and the cultural politics of identity in Trinidad. Cornell University Press. Nagata, J. (1981). In defense of ethnic boundaries: The changing myths and charters of Malay identity. In C. Keyes (Ed.), Ethnic change. Seattle and London: University of Washington Press. Okamura, J. (1981). Situational ethnicity. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 4, 452–465. Safire, W. (1993). On language: Ethnic cleansing. The New York Times. Shils, E. (1957). Primordial, personal sacred and civil ties. British Journal of Sociology, 8, 130–145. Thompson, R. H. (1989). Theories of ethnicity: A critical appraisal. New York: Greenwood Press.

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van den Berghe, P. (1978). Race and ethnicity: A sociobiological perspective. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 4, 401–411. Varshney, A. (2003). Ethnic conflict and civic life: Hindus and Muslims in India (2nd ed.). New York: Yale University Press. Weber, M. (1968). Economy and society: An outline of interpretive sociology. New York: Bedminster. Williams, B. F. (1989). A class act: Anthropology and the race to nation across ethnic terrain. Annual Review of Anthropology, 18, 401–444. Wimmer, A. (2008a). Elementary strategies of ethnic boundary-making. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 31, 1025–1055. Wimmer, A. (2008b). The making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries: A multilevel process theory. American Journal of Sociology, 113, 970–1022. Zolberg, A., & Woon, L. L. (1999). Why Islam is like Spanish: Cultural incorporation in Europe and the United States. Politics and Society, 27, 5–38.

Chapter 3

The Making of Ethnic Boundaries in the Philippines: A Historical Overview

This chapter provides an account of the institutional arrangements defining belonging and citizenship at the national level of the Philippines, where the local level for this study, Sarangani Bay, is located. This is important because the institutional arrangements—or the ‘rules of the game’ which are in place—determine the boundary-making strategies pursued by an actor. North (1991) defines institutions as ‘humanly devised constraints that structure political, economic and social interactions’. Constraints, as North describes, are devised as formal rules (constitutions, laws, property rights) and informal restraints (sanctions, taboos, customs, traditions, code of conduct), both contributing to the perpetuation of order and safety within a market or society. This chapter deals with a historical overview of the institutional arrangements at the national level and the resulting boundaries that these national arrangements have shaped. After all, the social closure that is practiced in a society, where those who belong and those who do not are drawn, where the boundary lines are consented and contested, occurs at the level of the nation-state. The importance of the definitions of belonging and citizenship is not only because it entails a sense of feeling towards a community, but more about claiming the enjoyment of rights and resources that are available to members but are inaccessible to outsiders (Brubaker 1992; Wimmer 1997). Hence, the ‘ethnic logic’ of a nationstate presents a case for elites and non-elites, for minority as well as majority actors to use appeals to ethnic identities, because of the incentives that such provides. By showing the historical perspective of ethnic boundary-making in the Philippines, the aim of this chapter is to illuminate and better understand the ethnographic present, particularly the local strategies of boundary-making among those that lay along the margins of ethnic communities is the crux in this study. Likewise, as most studies on ethnicity in the Philippines focus on the role of ethnicity in the conflict in Mindanao, rather than on the contraction and expansion of ethnicity over time and the attendant context defining these boundary movements, this chapter aims to contribute to the literature devoted to ethnicity formation rather than solely on how ethnicity is mobilized. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_3

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However, while the research mainly zooms into the ethnic boundary-making strategies of marginalized actors; in this chapter, the actors investigated are those ‘from above’ in the historical timeline of the Philippines, whose boundary-making strategies not only influenced but also to a large extent, shaped current ethnic boundary formations.

3.1 Who Is the Filipino? Ethnic Boundary-Making in the Philippines The Philippines is oft described as a formally plural society, with a population comprising speakers of approximately 120–175 languages, relative to the method of classification being used (Chretien 1962; McFarland and Bautista 1966; Gonzalez 1998; Nolasco 2007). This explains why at one level, the classificatory boundaries among different populations are often expressed in ethno-linguistic terms. The Filipino project has reached its peak in the 1930s when the government, still a Commonwealth of the United States of America, has promoted the use of the national language, Filipino, based on Tagalog (Gonzalez 1998; Thompson 2003) across the country. At another level, the classificatory boundaries in the Philippines revolve around religious affiliation: Christians and Muslims. The Igorots in the Cordilleras and the Lumads of Mindanao, meanwhile, are often included in this religious classification, with the assumption of their non-incorporation in institutionalized religions. However, despite the acknowledgement of different ethno-linguistic and religious communities comprising the Philippine nation-state, the official line was and remains to be, even in the present, to integrate and assimilate its minorities—whether by virtue of their language or religion. While the Philippines is described as a formally plural society, it is, however, not pluralist in practice. Rather, the making of the Filipino is fixated on a singular national imagining with its Christian subjects being the metonym of what constitutes as Filipinos. Indeed, a common description of the Philippine state is that while conducts its affairs in a secular manner, it is still largely known for its Catholic core. Recalling the framework of ethnic boundary-making of Wimmer (2008a, 2008b), this process of boundary-making uses the strategy of expansion by aggregating existing categories into a new, bigger category. In this Philippine example, the membership of rather disparate language and religious groups in the country is widened into one aggregate whole. This process of aggregation springs from the necessity of the political leadership to consolidate its indirect rule over its subjects, whose loyalty may have been previously been held towards smaller networks and alliances. However, even the categories appropriated several years after colonial rule ended in the Philippines are examples of context-specific boundary-making strategies.

3.2 Pre-colonial Philippines: Sovereign and Subjects as Boundary-Markers

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3.2 Pre-colonial Philippines: Sovereign and Subjects as Boundary-Markers Recent developments in archaeology, among them the Callao human and the remains of homo erectus in Cagayan and homo sapiens in Novaliches and Rizal, and the Tabon human suggest that Filipinos may have evolved from the Philippines, itself (Severino 2010). Landa Jocano argued that the Philippines, like the rest of its Southeast Asian neighbours, had a core population who were able to develop a base culture (1975). However, the genetics of modern-day Filipinos are often a mix of the indigenous stock and the foreign blood that came over the span of time into the country. This partly explains why some would say that the Philippines is a country of migrants and settlers (Sullivan 1991). However, an earlier accepted theory, called the ‘Waves of Migration Theory’ espoused by O. H. Beyer, is that the earliest wave of inhabitants was aboriginal peoples, called Negritos by the Spanish who arrived in the sixteenth century, and followed by a wave of Malay settlers who were attributed for the introduction of lowland peasant culture in the country. According to this theory, the Malay-speaking settlers are accounted for the diversity of languages in the country. In a study of the Philippine sixteenth century, Scott (1994, 9) notes that the writings of Spanish friars account for the communities that subsequently evolved— the Tagalogs from Borneo, Kapampangans from Sumatra or Visayans from Makassar. However, with no archaeological evidence backing Scott, historians commonly accept Peter Bellwood, et al’s ‘Austronesian connection’, in which they explain the commonality of languages in Southeast Asia, Easter Islands and even Madagascar (Bellwood et al. 1995). Knowledge of what ethnic boundary markers in ancient Philippines ascribed to is rather scant. What is known, however, is that Islam arrived through the southern islands of Sulu in Mindanao through Arab traders in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries (Majul 1999, pp. 63–64). It predated the Spanish colonization of the Philippines by 200 years. Through Islamic consolidation, two sultanates became very prominent, the Sulu Sultanate founded in 1450 and the Maguindanao Sultanate in 1500. While this development may have established boundaries premised on religious markers in Mindanao, religious or other aspects of ethnic identification may not have been more important than the identity binding the sovereign and the subject in the political economy of the Sultanate world in maritime Southeast Asia. This may explain why, as Majul (1999) notes that while 1571 CE Manila was ruled by Muslim leaders closely related to Brunei royalties at the time (Rodil 2006), most of the Manila subjects remained with their animist traditions rather than having converted to the Islamic world of their sovereign. The Manila elites, however, are believed to have acquired Malay language fluency, which may have been considered as the ‘prestigious second language in the sixteenth century’ (Scott 1994, p. 10). If this were true, the Manila elite’s acquisition of Malay language is a strategy of positional change.

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The importance of sovereign-subject relationship as a boundary marker prior to the advent of colonialism is also palpable among the Tagalogs in the setup of their barangays,1 described by Franciscan Friar Juan de Plasencia as: These [datus] were chiefs of but a few people, as many as a hundred houses and even less than thirty; and this they call in Tagalog, barangays. And what was inferred from this name is that their being called this was because, since these are known from their language to be Malayos, when they came to this land, the head of barangay was taken for a datu, and even today it is still ascertained that one whole barangay was originally one family of parents and children, slaves and relatives. (Plasencia 18-b, p. 23v as quoted in Scott 1994, p. 5)

The social contract between the sovereign and the subject, characterized by a communal property regime, may have been enough to define social relations and classifications among the people. Given the framework suggested by Wimmer on strategies of ethnic boundarymaking, our analysis brings us to a conclusion that during the pre-colonial period, the strategy of expansion, specifically of blurring ethnic classifications approximates the description of ethnic boundary-making at that time.

3.3 Philippines Under Spain: Boundary-Markers as Españoles Peninsulares, Filipinos, Indios, Infieles and Moros While the Spanish fleet headed by Fernando Magallanes arrived in the Philippines in 1521, it was the Spanish expeditionary commander Ruy Lopez de Villalobos who landed 21 years later in 1542 who named the colony Filipinas in honour of the young prince who would ascend to the throne as Spanish King Phillip II. By then Filipinas, for de Villalobos refers only to the islands of Leyte and Samar (Scott 1994, 6) until it included Luzon 50 years later (Scott 1994, 4) when the colonizers expanded northward. Three hundred thirty-three years of the Spanish ‘pacification campaign’ that involved conversion and force yielded to their effective occupation of the northern islands of Luzon and Visayas but not entirely of the more politically organized Muslim Mindanao. Majul (1999, pp. 63–64) notes that the success of the Spanish campaign in Luzon was in large part because of the political-economic structures in place at that time. Luzon was of sedentary rice farming communities compared to the more militarily and commercially organized sultanates in Mindanao. Under their rule, the native population was divided into Indios, who were obliged to pay taxes, render forced labour to the colonist government and were subjected to various degrading treatment; the aboriginal Infieles or tribus independientes (heathens and tribal Filipinos), who moved further up into the interior mountains and 1 One

of the first native words that the Spanish colonizers learned which, according to Scott in (1994, pp. 4–5), in the book titled the same, all languages in the Philippines share, which mean ‘boat’ except for the Tagalogs who use it to refer to their society’s smallest political unit.

3.3 Philippines Under Spain: Boundary-Markers …

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grew more estranged from mainstream living, and the Moro to refer to the Muslims in Mindanao. I would, however, conjecture that this term is rather particularly used to refer to the sultanate’s leadership. The Spanish colonizers came up with the term from the Moriscos or the Moors, the Muslim Arabs and Berbers in the Roman Province of Mauritania, who conquered Spain from 711 to 1492. Those with Spanish descent born in the colony were referred to as Filipino or the Spanish Insulares, while those who are in the Philippines with Spanish descent were called Peninsulares, to mean coming from the Iberian Peninsula. A number of Mindanao Muslim scholars, among them Majul (1999), Jubair (1999) and Abbahil (1983) argue that the term Moro was not necessarily invested with derogatory meanings. In fact, they say that initially the Spanish only meant to refer it to anyone professing the Islamic faith. Moro is a conceptual abstraction that reflected the context when it was used, reflecting changes in meanings over time. So when the Muslims in Maritime Southeast Asia figured as important gatekeepers in the spice trade, Scott (2001, 112–113) writes about the commission that Magallanes got for his voyage in 1521, to engage in trade with the Muslims and seek the services of their oarsmen. In 1526, the Sultan of Tidore entered into a treaty with Spain for mutual loyalty, as per Noone’s (1982, 146) accounts to create a unified force in the shifting allegiances and power structures during the same period. But any abstraction and social relationship do not retain the same meaning over time. When the Moriscos were expelled from Spain in 1619, the Spanish regime also started looking, rather bitterly, with the Moros in the colony. The term Moro slowly took on derogatory meanings ranging from pirate, slave, violent, irresponsible and the like (Gowing 1969, 85; Abbahil 1983; Majul 1999). Gowing (1969) writes that, ‘The major legacy of three centuries of Moro-Spanish warfare was the “Moro image”—the picture of the Moro as a cunning, cruel, treacherous savage, a pirate, a raider, a slaver. That image, to this day, is operative in the minds of many, if not most, Christian Filipinos, whose ancestors after all bore the brunt of the Moro jihad’.

3.4 Philippines Under the United States of America: An Experimentation of Boundary-Making From the Spanish colonists’ classificatory scheme of Infieles-Moro-Indio, a physical anthropological taxonomy of Negritos, Indonesians and Malays was considered by the American colonial government, which was later replaced by the bipolar religious categories of Christians and non-Christians. Needless to say, this categorization has been rightly critiqued and is no longer acceptable. By benchmarking identification on Christianity from which others are described by negation, this expresses an inferred message that Christianity is the mainstream

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while the Moros and the indigenous constructs of identification are, considered to be, the marked ones. By 1898, when the Philippines was subsequently handed over, together with Guam and Puerto Rico by Spain to the American government, under the Treaty of Paris, Filipino understood to mean the Hispanized lowlander native in the country, whether ‘pure-blooded’ or mixed. Under the premise that Filipinos needed to be prepared for democratic self-rule, the American colonial government utilized a classification scheme2 that supposedly measured ascending civilizations on the basis of satisfying a certain level of cultural and political development with its notorious use of physical anthropology. In this classification scheme, three major ethnic categories were identified among the early Filipinos (Sullivan 1991): the Negritos, who were described as partly Mongolian and appeared to be loosely organized politically and referred to as, ‘the original habitants in the Philippines…and are the relics of one of the most archaic of human stocks’ (Haddon 1906); Indonesians, referring to both the non-Christian but politically organized and freedom-loving Muslims who were also called Moros in Mindanao and the animist Cordilleran peoples in northern Luzon, who were described to be engaged in headhunting and slavery practices; and the lowland Malays3 ,who were observed to be products of intermarriages with other Asians and Europeans, and a people described to have survived long colonial rule compared to the other two, and were noted to be the most vocal in demanding autonomy. The American regime decided to adopt the term Filipino, which initially referred to the Spanish insulares and later on appropriated by the educated middle-class native, to refer to the Hispanized lowlanders in the young Philippine nation. Dean Conant Worcester, who was a member of the US Philippine Commission in 1899–1901, and in 1913 later served as Secretary of the interior for the Philippine Insular Government, is responsible for the ethno-religious classification of people in the Philippines into Christianized lowlanders, Moros and the non-Christian highlanders. More than that, his use of Filipino meant the Christianized lowlanders, excluding the Moros and the people from the hinterlands. A self-styled supporter of the non-Christian ‘tribes’ in the Philippines, he founded in 1901 the Bureau of the Non-Christian tribes. In 1913, he wrote: Filipino control would indeed be a very dreadful thing for the people of the hills, but I have some little hope that they have now progressed far enough so that they would be able to take care of themselves and keep their Filipino neighbours out of their territory altogether. Certainly the Ifugaos, Bontoc Igorots and Kalingas might do this if they had a few guns. I 2 Daniel

Folkmar was commissioned for this classification-setting by Gustavo Niederlin of the Philippine Ex-position Board and David Barrows, Chief of the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes and Ethnological Survey of the Philippines in 1903. (Folkmar 1903, 1904, 1909). 3 Up to my secondary school years (1983–1993) part of the lessons taught in school is that Filipinos are of the Malay race or part of what the Malaysians would refer to as the ‘Melayu World’. However, while the Filipinos may claim to be Malay, the 1957 Constitution of the Federation of Malaya delineated who belong to this world, those ‘who profess the Muslim religion, habitually speak Malay language, conform to Malay customs’, which by virtue of being a country where Christianity is the faith of the majority, excludes the Philippines.

3.4 Philippines Under the United States of America …

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hope they will be able to get them in the event that independence is granted to the Filipinos. (Sullivan 1991, p. 148)

While the American colonial government considered a taxonomy of supposed physical attributes and origin, i.e. Negritos, Indonesians and Malays (Campomanes 2008), religious categorization as components of one’s Filipino identification was finally settled on. The American regime also adopted the term Moro, and further expanded the term’s use as an aggregate for the 13 Islamized communities in the Philippines. But as McKenna (1998, 104) observes, which I also conclude from my own search, there is hardly any official document available that explains the historical and cultural distinction between these 13 communities who got the designation of what has, since then considered to be the encompassing term Moro. Accounts exist, however, that while Spanish accounts in the eighteenth century refer to peoples in Mindanao and Sulu as Moros, the British and the Dutch who had colonial presence in other parts of Maritime Southeast Asia (Indonesia and Malaysia) did not group all the inhabitants into one aggregative term. Rather they differentiate between the different linguistic and political communities of Iranun, Balangingi,4 Maguindanao and Sulu, communities that are considered to be subsumed now as part of the category Moro.5 There is no basis, according to Thomas McKenna (1998, 81), on the claim that the term Moro is a unique marker of Muslims in Mindanao, noting that it has been used first by the Portuguese to refer to all Muslims in Southeast Asia when it seized Melaka in 1511. But the appropriation of the term Moro did not only stop at a cultural description of a community so designated, it also involved a politico-institutional application of the term (Amoroso 2003). For one, the American regime recognized Moro rule in the Bates Agreement of 1899, which gave the Sultan of Sulu governing authority in the Sulu Islands in exchange for his recognition of U.S. suzerainty in the Philippines, even though this was cut short effectively in 1903. Responding to various pressures, the U.S. Government through its Philippine Commission created the Moro Province (southern Mindanao and Sulu) that was made to be under the management and authority of a military governor. Whereas the political arrangements changed from a US-recognized sultanate to a direct US-ruled province, the Moro term prevailed. This singular imagining of a nation, according to Cesar Adib Majul can be gleaned from the following: first, national laws are largely derived from Western or Catholic values; second, a public school system guided by a school curriculum that applied to all regions in the country without regard to religious or cultural particularities, and one that is neglectful of the educational systems that matter to Muslims like the madrasahs or Islamic schools and, third, the encouragement of the government for a steady influx of settlers to Mindanao, establishing agricultural colonies in the 4 This

refers to a subcategory of Sinama-speakers, to which the Sinama-speaking participants of this dissertation are deemed to be related to. 5 These communities are commonly accepted nowadays as the Badjao, Molbog (or Melebugnon), Iranun, (also known as Ilanun), Palawani, Jama–mapun, Sama, Kalagan, Sangil, Kalibugan, Tausug, Maguindanao, Yakan and the Maranao.

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middle of communally owned Muslim lands and the issuance of land titles to the new migrants.

3.5 Boundary-Making at the Margins of Power: The Making of the Moro and the Lumads in Mindanao If Filipino was a category solely prescribed for Philippine-born Spaniards, it was later appropriated by the Ilustrados—the European-educated cross-cutting, middle class of Indios, insulares and mestizos (Spanish-Indio mixed bloods), who were also mostly Catholicized, and by the members of nationalist movements. Following this growing appropriation for the term to connote the local inhabitants of the territory that was later known as the Philippines, the American regime adopted Filipino as well to refer to their new subjects. This is not to say, however, that the term Filipino has not been attributed to the residents of the colony during the Spanish period. Their selective usage can be at best described as situational. To distinguish the Indios in Asia from those in the Spanish colonies in the Americas, Spaniards refer to the former as Filipinos rather than indios. For instance, Pedro Chirino wrote in 1604 ‘The food and terms of courtesy and good manners of the Filipino’, as Juan Francisco de San Antonio in 1789 ‘The letters, languages, and politeness of the Philippinos’ (Quoted in Scott 1994, 6). The construction of being Moro can now be said to evolve in four stages of history—first, as a prescribed identification from the Spanish colonizers; second, also imposed from above, in the American government’s creation of the Moro Province; third, as residual to the Filipinization campaign that started with the Commonwealth government and, fourth, as appropriated by meso-forces, consisting of many historical and contemporary agents, narratives and practices—a few examples of which are the Sulu petition, the Dansalan Declaration, the revolts at Bud Daju, Taglibi, Bud Bagsak, among others, and the formation of mobilized organizations from the Muslim Independence Movement (MIM), Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), including—albeit controversial—the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG). The term Moro, Rodil and Timonera (as quoted from Larousse 2001) document has begun to be accepted by the Muslims at around 1900. But it is safe to say that it is the Muslim political elites in Mindanao, who began appropriating the term Moro as a self-designation. According to records, and if the recordings were faithful to what transpired, the Sultan of Sulu referred to Mindanao Muslims as Moros, in his conversation with General Woods in 1906 while Hadji Butu also used the term in the 1920s. (Gowing 1977, 130–131). Jubair mentions that Datu Piang used the term Moro in a cable message, while Hadji Bogabong also used the term as a self-designation, in his letter to US President Roosevelt (1999, 88–90).

3.5 Boundary-Making at the Margins of Power …

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In 1935, RooseveltLanao datus submitted a third petition—the first being in 1921—to the US President and Congress not to group Mindanao with the rest of the Philippines come independence which was known as the Dansalan Declaration.6 This petition, as history shows, did not prosper. But notice the appropriation of the term Moro to constitute a national boundary separate from Filipinos. There were competing views on the term Moro among the Mindanao Muslims’ political elites however. Senator Alauya Alonto, in a speech in 1935, asked his fellow delegates to refer to Mindanao Muslims not as Moros but as Mohammedan Filipinos. According to Abinales (1998, 49–50), this is the first time that a Muslim leader acknowledges that he is Filipino. This distancing with the prescriptive term Moro, in favour of the category Muslim, went on until the late 1960s because of the generally perceived derogatory connotations attached to the former (Abbahil 1983, 202; Gowing 1962, 59). But at the end of the 1960s, the growing unrest of Muslims against the government policy of encouraging Christian settlements in Mindanao gave a renewed meaning for the term Moro. It is believed that the seeds for the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) were planted during this time, even if the organization’s political and organizational machinery were just established in 1972. Under the MNLF banner, the creation of a Bangsamoro Republic was considered as the basis for the call of secession from the Philippine state. This resistance is not without reason and is anchored on four main premises (See Rabasa and Chalk 2001, 85). One is the concern over the political, religious and cultural dominance of the Christian-majority Philippine state. Another is the increasing displacement of the Moros due to voluntary and state-sponsored migration from the north.7 Third, while Mindanao is a major food and seafood exporter in the country, it has long been lagging in social and economic development, with the north mostly getting the lion share in the government’s priorities.8 Lastly, rido or clan feuds also reinforce the secessionist calls (See Torres 2007). Clans who are involved in ridos may also have private armies whose accountability is to the clan or the strongmen in the clan. In these cases, the clans attempt to be surrogate for, and at times are in conflict with institutions and agencies of the state like the court system, police, military authorities and local government (Ragsag 2006). But the deployment of Moro-hood, as an identification claim by Muslim solidarity groups, should also be seen within its internal dynamic. As much as it is an identification claim from ‘without’—its most prominent battle cry is its contradiction from 6 This historical document read as: ‘Should the US government grant the Philippines independence,

the islands of Mindanao and Sulu should not be included. Our public lands must not be given to other people. The practices, laws and decisions of our Moro (emphasis supplied) leaders should be respected similar to what the Americans have extended to us. Our religion should not be curtailed in any way. All our practices that are incidental to our religion Islam should be respected because these things are what a Muslim desires to live for. Once our religion is no more our lives are no more’. 7 See Abinales (2000) Five major state-sponsored migrations were launched between 1946 and 1972, although it was a flop than voluntary migrations. 8 Out of the 10 poorest provinces in the Philippines, 7 are in Mindanao.

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the Manila-based government—it is also a claim from ‘within’. Nur Misuari, the university-educated Moro leader of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF)), cast the term Moro as a critique to the Muslim elite represented by the datus and sultans. The MNLF originally derived its philosophy from historical materialism based on class struggle, largely because of the left-wing roots of its leader Nur Misuari. A splinter faction, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), launched its own movement relying mainly on more orthodox leanings with supporters like the World Islamic League and the World Islamic Conference (Noble 1987, 19). Both MNLF and MILF are recognized by the Organization of Islamic Countries (OIC). Meanwhile, the 18 linguistic communities which include Ata, Bagobo, Banwaon, B’laan, Bukidnon, Dibabawon, Higaunon, Kalagan, Mamanwa, Mandaya, Mangguwangan, Manobo, Mansaka, Subanon, Tagakaolo, T’boli, Tiruray and Ubo, communities who were previously designated, either by colonizers or the postcolonial regime, as Negritos, animists or nature worshippers in the Philippines have become collectively called as Lumads. While these 18 linguistic communities used to cover 17 of Mindanao’s 24 provinces at the turn of the twentieth century, their population whittled down to less than 6% in Mindanao and Sulu according to the 1980 census. Although the term Lumad means indigenous, the word itself is not, and is taken from the Cebuano language in the Visayas. But the choice of a non-indigenous word to define the indigeneity of a community was explained off as strategic, since the lingua franca among the communities being defined is Cebuano. Ironically enough, there are also the indigenous Butuanons and Surigaunons and the Chavacanos of Zamboanga, whose ancestry are said to be traced back from Moluccas (Indonesia) but are primarily Cebuano-speaking and are not considered Lumads/indigenous. The use of the category Lumad, however, has a recent history. Counting only two decades, as of this writing, the adoption of the term started in June 1986, when representatives of the 15 (of 18) indigenous linguistic communities put forward in Congress their agreement for a common name. This common name was intended to put a distinction between their communities, and the majority Christians and the Mindanao Muslims, whose designation as Moros have been galvanized increasingly. But recognition is not the only objective for such a collective self-introduction. The main goal is to advance their demand for restoration and the securing of their ancestral lands, which they lost to private enterprises such as big logging companies or multinational corporations (MNCs) or to individuals from both the Moro and Christian settler communities alike. Historian Rodil (1994) writes that Lumad practices involve communal ownership of land, a belief that ‘a territory occupied by a community is a communal private property, and community members have the right of usufruct to any piece of unoccupied land within the communal territory’. While their struggle for securing their ancestral domain is an ongoing commitment, 200 representatives from 13 Lumad communities expressed their objection in 2008 (Rodriguez 2008), over the then proposed Bangsamoro Juridical Entity (BJE) that would govern an expanded Bangsamoro homeland to include Lumad territories.

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More than this, these 200 representatives demanded for an Autonomous Region for the Lumad of Mindanao.9 While the politically organized Muslim resistance movements aim from a range of greater autonomy to secession, political representations of Lumad claims are generally centred on the restoration of ancestral domains, i.e. reverting ownership of lands that Lumad communities lost to the consolidation of the Philippine state. Not having the same armed machinery and political organization as the Moros, many Lumads, however, tend to be seen as potential recruits by all fronts—the Moro liberation fronts, the Communist Party of the Philippine’s military arm National People’s Army (NPA) and even paramilitary organizations of the country’s armed forces.

References Abbahil, A. (1983). The Bangsa Moro: Their self-image and inter-ethnic attitudes. Unpublished M.A. Thesis. University of San Carlos, Cebu City. Abinales, P. (1998). The “Muslim-Filipino” and the Philippine state. Public Policy (A University of the Philippines Quarterly). Abinales, P. (2000). Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Davao in the formation of the Philippine nation-state. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Amoroso, D. (2003). Inheriting the ‘Moro Problem’: Muslim authority and colonial rule in British Malaya and the Philippines. In J. Go & A. Foster (Eds.), The American colonial state in the Philippines: Global perspectives. NC: Duke University Press, Durham. Bellwood, P., Fox, J., Tryon, D. (Eds.). (1995). The Austronesians: Historical and comparative perspectives. Canberra: Department of Anthropology, Australian National University and ANU E Press. Brubaker, R. (1992). Citizenship and nationhood in France and Germany. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Campomanes, O. (2008). Images of Filipino racialization in the anthropological laboratories of the American Empire: The case of Daniel Folkmar. PMLA, 123, 1692–1699. Chretien, D. (1962). A classification of twenty-one Philippine languages. Philippine Journal of Science, 91, 485–506. Folkmar, D. (1903). “Some Philippine Physical Types.” Ms. for the Ethnological Survey of the Philippines. Washington, D.C.: Ms. and Pamphlet File, box 66. Natl. Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institute. Folkmar, D. (1904). Album of Philippine types: Christians and Moros. Manila: Bureau of Printing. Folkmar, D. (1909) “Abstract for a Paper for the Anthropology Soc. of Washington.” Ms. Ms. and Pamphlet File, Box 66. Washington, D.C.: Natl. Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Inst. Gonzalez, A. (1998). The language planning situation in the Philippines. Journal of Multilingual And Multicultural Development, 19, 487–525. Gowing, P. (1962). Resurgent Islam and the Moro problem in the Philippines. South East Asia Journal of Theology, 4.

9 At

the time (2006–2007) when data was gathered for this research, there were two autonomous regions in the country. One is the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) and the Cordillera Autonomous Region (CAR). Republic Act No. 11054, signed into law on 27 July 2018, created the new Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao to replace ARMM.

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Gowing, P. (1969). Christians and Moros: The confrontation of Christianity and Islam in the Philippines. South East Asia Journal of Theology, 10. Gowing, P. (1977). Mandate in Moroland: The American government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899– 1920. Philippine Center for Advanced Studies, University of the Philippines, Quezon City, Philippines. Haddon, A. C. (1906). An ethnological survey of the Philippines. Nature, 73, 584–586. Jocano, F. L. (1975). Questions and challenges in Philippine prehistory. Quezon City, Philippines: University of the Philippines Press. Jubair, S. (1999). Bangsamoro, a nation under endless tyranny. Kuala Lumpur: IQ Marin. Larousse, W. (2001). A local church living for dialogue: Muslim-Christian relations in MindanaoSulu, Philippines: 1965–2000. Rome: Editrice Pontificia Università Gregoriana. Majul, C. (1999). Muslims in the Philippines. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. McFarland, C., & Bautista, M. L. (1966). Subgroupings and number of Philippine languages or how many Philippine languages are there? In Readings in Philippine sociolingustics. Manila: Dela Salle University Press. McKenna, T. M. (1998). Muslim rulers and rebels: Everyday politics and armed separatism in the Southern Philippines (1st ed.). University of California Press. Noble, L. (1987). The Muslim insurgency. In D. Schirmer & S. Shalom (Eds.), The Philippines reader. Boston: South End Press. Nolasco, R. (2007). Maraming Wika, Matatag na Bansa [Keynote na Talumpati sa 2007 Nakem Conference]. Ilocos, Philippines: Mariano Marcos States University. Noone, M. (1982). The Islands saw it: The discovery and conquest of the Philippines 1521–1581. Wahroonga, Australia: Helicon Press. North, D. (1991). Institutions. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 5, 97–112. Rabasa, A., & Chalk, P. (2001). Muslim separatist movements in the Philippines and Thailand. In Indonesia’s transformation and the stability of Southeast Asia (pp. 85–98). Sta. Monica, CA: Rand Corporation. Ragsag, A. (2006). Plural orderings : Honor, Clans and the state-secessionist dynamics in Southern Philippines. InXVth Congress on Legal Pluralism. Presented at the XVth Congress on Legal Pluralism, Jakarta. Rodil, R. (1994). The minoritization of the indigenous communities of Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago. Davao City, Philippines: Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao. Rodil, A. R. D. (2006). The relations of Brunei and Manila during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Unpublished M.A. Thesis. Universiti Brunei Darussalam, Bandar Seri Begawan. Rodriguez, Ma. C. (2008). ‘Lumad’ want self-rule, too: Tribal leaders seek autonomous region. Philippine Daily Inquirer. Sarangani Provincial Information Office. (2007). Sarangani Province Updates. http:// saranganiphotonews.blogspot.com. Scott, J. (1985). Weapons of the weak: Everyday forms of peasant resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press. Scott, W. H. (1994). Barangay: Sixteenth-century Philippine culture and society. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Severino, H. (2010). Researchers discover fossil of human older than tabon man. Philippine Daily Inquirer. Sullivan, R. (1991). Exemplar of Americanism: The Philippine Career of Dean Worcester. Ann Arbor, MI: Michigan Papers on South and Southeast Asia. Thompson, R. (2003). Filipino English and Taglish: Language switching from multiple perspectives Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Torres, W. M., III (Ed.). (2007). Rido: Clan Feuding and conflict management in Mindanao. Makati: Asia Foundation. Wimmer, A. (1997). Explaining xenophobia and racism: A critical review of current research approaches. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 20, 17–41.

References

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Wimmer, A. (2008a). Elementary strategies of ethnic boundary-making. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 31, 1025–1055. Wimmer, A. (2008b). The making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries: A multilevel process theory. American Journal of Sociology, 113, 970–1022.

Chapter 4

Categorizing Ethnicity in Sarangani Bay

In the previous chapter, the debates on ethnicity were presented, alongside the framework guiding this study, which, in particular, is Wimmer’s model on ethnic boundary-making strategies (Wimmer 2008a, b). In this chapter, I introduce the basis of ethnic categorizations—locality and language rather than with descent—that are prevalently employed not only in Sarangani Bay, but also reflects usage in the bigger context of the Philippines as well. One of Sarangani Bay’s defining characteristics is that it is a place of immigrants from other places in the country. To generally describe the population in Sarangani Bay, it may be easy to employ the national narrative of Christians, Muslims and Lumads. However, nested inside each of these three categories in the national narrative lies heterogeneous sub-categories of ethnicity, primarily associated with locality and language rather than with descent, and constituted by a wide array of groups coming from and with different social, economic and political practices. Two—the B’laans and the Sinamas—of the different ethnic groups in Sarangani Bay where this study was done. While I find it problematic to use even these ethnic sub-categories, I have decided to employ them, nevertheless, in describing the participants in this study, because the majority of those interviewed used these identification. I chose the B’laans and the Sinamas, for two reasons, they often find themselves at the bottom rung of the ethnic hierarchy, and because as this study discusses in the succeeding chapter, they introduce a new categorization for themselves, the B’laans as the minority Christians in a majority Christian country, and the Sinamas as the cultural Muslims who differentiate themselves from theological Muslims. It is important to include this chapter, which is a depiction of the history and the movement to Sarangani Bay of each of these ethnic communities. As this study involves those ethnic communities considered to be in the margins of even those considered as minorities in Mindanao and in the Philippines, and are less written about, this chapter provides a service of attempting to consolidate scant-related literature, and present them in a more logical manner.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_4

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4.1 Locality of Origin and Language as Bases for Ethnic Categorization What are the ethnic categories being used by my informants from Sarangani Bay to organize their respective home worlds? One of the major but basic issues that I struggled with, in designing this research is on how to carry out this investigation. I thought about putting out a list of categories, with each category written on a flash card that people may choose from and rearrange according to their nearest identification. The categories were linguistic, religious, provincial-regional, major island group belonging, national imaginings and continental. It became apparent later on that this process is limited in two accounts. First is epistemological—I am already putting into container categories those very categories that I wanted to define in the first place. Second is experiential—while some categories like religious and linguistic are familiar to most people, the rest of the categories are of the textbook kind that only the schooled can have the benefit of knowing (i.e. Lumad), or those who have travelled outside of their towns can remotely hear about (i.e. Asyano or Asian). These limitations, notwithstanding, the category selection exercise, if used in tandem with more encompassing, non-fixated methods of identifying categories, could be a useful tool in flagging which of the terms ‘from above’—from government policies and elite reproduction—find their way on the ground. What surfaced as a means, by which informants order their ethnic world, is the formulation of inquiry which I almost did not consider, having taken-it-for-granted in my own interactions, and the fact that it is very much self-evident. The informants of this study invariably ask anyone new in the village, including myself, as ‘taga-asa ka/mo?’, which means, ‘where are you from?’ See the conversation below between myself and an elder in the community (EC) (BIG1, Personal Interview, 06 December 2006): EC: Taga-asa mo1 , Ma’am2 ? AR: I am taga-Davao but have lived in Manila for quite some time. EC: No, originally, I mean. AR: Well, my father is taga-Ilocos and my mother is taga-South Cotabato. EC: So, your mother is from where originally? AR: My maternal grandparents are from Bicol and Negros. EC: Ah, so you are Ilocano and Bisaya. But what is your mother tongue? AR: When I was growing up. At home? Filipino. Outside the house, Bisaya. EC: So you are Christian? AR: Yes. 1 In the Visayan/Cebuano language, ka and mo both mean you. Ka is the singular form for you. Mo, meanwhile is you plural, but also the singular but polite form. In this statement, the polite singular form of you is used. 2 As practiced in the Philippines, English terms Ma’am and Sir are commonly used to show respect to someone, although there are also local terms that are applicable like Kuya/Manong for males, or Ate/Manang for females.

4.1 Locality of Origin and Language as Bases for Ethnic …

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In the context of inquiring on the ethnic category on the ground in Sarangani Bay, one does not ask directly whether one is Moro or Lumad or Christian. Rather the framing is on where the person’s town of origin is, by using the locator prefix taga. Notice that when I answered that I am from Davao and Manila, I was asked back of where I am from originally. To an outsider, this might be confusing, for how can the answer of being from Davao unoriginal. This has to be understood on the basis of Mindanao history. Modern Davao and South Cotabato are known to be peopled by migrants from Luzon and the Visayas, that to claim origin from Davao and South Cotabato (even by a person born there) is considered to this day as an incomplete recollection of one’s origin. Let us compare with another narrative from an informant, a third-generation Sarangani resident: ‘My parents told us that we are taga-Siasi, Sulu originally. My grandfather and his family stayed first in Malapatan (a town in present-day Sarangani Province), where some of our relatives, who left Siasi ahead of them, already took residence at that time. Then, my father was born. The family moved here in this village soon after my grandfather got a teaching position in the public school. After father married my mother, they decided to stay here in Tino ’to (a village in the town of Maasim, Sarangani). Maybe I can say now that I am a taga-Sarangani after being born here. After all, my parents were also born here, not in Siasi. But people from out of town often insist that I am taga-Sulu because my parents who are primarily Sinama3 speakers are from there. Besides, they say, Muslims in Sarangani Province must have come from outside as there are no Muslim natives here’. (S2G3, Personal Interview, 23 November 2006). But what about the case of those categorized as Lumads? One informant is a young B’laan: ‘I am taga-diri (from here) in the village and I was born here, including the parents of my parents and our ancestors as far as I can remember’. When asked if she remembers living some place else or if there was a story she remembers of her parents moving to another place, she continues, ‘I don’t think so. I myself, never even thought of leaving this place. Why should I? I am well settled here with my family and relatives. Our livelihood is also assured in this place. Besides I really like the fact that I live and worship with neighbors, who are “true Christians” (“tinood nga Kristohanon”) in the community. And even if we have Muslim neighbors, we live harmoniously with them’. When asked what language she generally uses, she replied, ‘It is expected that we speak Bisaya, after all that’s the language everyone understands here. And if we go to the city, that’s also what we need to have, right? But I assure you, it means a lot that, at home or with my own compatriots, I can speak Bin’laan’ (B2G3, Personal Interview, 20 August 2011). In all the narratives mentioned above whether from the self-ascribed Filipinospeaking Christian settler, Sinama-speaking Muslim and the B’laan Lumad, the 3 In

the Sarangani village where I did this study, the self-ascribed term Sinama is known among my informants. I am aware, though that this self-ascription is rather contested, and elsewhere in maritime Mindanao, some Sinama-speakers may prefer to be called Sama, considered as devoid of the derogatory meaning embedded in the term Sinama. Unless it’s a direct quote, I will be using the term Sinama.

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locator prefix taga highly figures in their narratives of origin, which is often used to infer to their linguistic and religious designations. The locator prefix taga—which, according to Eric Casiño, is a ‘natural thought form or semantic mould for all Filipinos’4 —is used for ethnic designation, and from it the language of that location is inferred. Thus, a person who identifies Davao as her root location is inferred to be speaking Cebuano Bisaya. What surfaces as ethnic categorization in Mindanao is a confirmation of previous studies that underscore locality and language as the two ethnic markers that are used in the vernacular rather than the politico-religious categories of Moro, Lumad and Christian. The basis for members’ ethnic categorization.5 However, the importance accorded to origin suggests a primordial view of one’s ethnicity. Likewise, the informant refers to external agents, i.e. ‘people from out of town’ who classifies his ethnic category, albeit in an awkward placement—that she is from Sulu and not from Sarangani Bay regardless if this is his and his parents’ place of birth. Older Sinama informants recall that fluency in Tausug in the Sulu life world of their youth provided a heightened status, especially for the Sinamas vis-à-vis the Tausugs. Today, however, the younger Sinamas in Sarangani Bay skirt that requirement altogether, and rather speaks multiple languages—Sinama in their homes, Bisaya in their community with varying levels of functional fluency in Filipino and English. These younger informants tell me that with a different period and environment from their elders’ Sulu, Bisaya, English and Filipino are used as professional, vocational and social means of communication. But other studies show that the choice to speak English and Filipino rather than master Tausug is not unique to the upwardly mobile Sinamas in Sarangani but also to Sinamas in present-day Sulu itself.6 However, one’s mother tongue remains to have a reductionist power in identification, as a half Tausug and half Sinama interviewee narrates, ‘Here in the Philippines, if you are heard speaking a language, you are easily identified with what religion you belong to. If you speak Tagalog, then they would say you are Catholic. But utter one word from our language, they would say “she’s7 speaking in Minuslim”’ (ST2G3, Personal Interview, 14 December 2006). There is no such thing as a Moro or Minuslim ‘of Muslim’ language but as Jocelyn’s narration above conveys, it is common on the ground to refer as such.

4 Eric

Casiño, “Structuralism in Philippine Cultural Diversity,” Solidarity 10, no. 6 (1975): 19. Ugarte, “American Rule in the Muslim South and the Philippine Hinterlands,” in Mixed Blessing: the Impact of the American Colonial Experience on Politics and Society in the Philippines, ed. Hazel McFerson (Abingdon, UK: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2002), 194–198. 6 Lanfranco Blanchetti-Revelli, “Moro, Muslim or Filipino: Cultural Citizenship as Practice and Process,” in Cultural Citizenship in Island Southeast Asia, ed. Renato Rosaldo (Berkeley and LA: University of California Press, 2003), 45–75. 7 In most languages in the Philippines, there is a gender-neutral pronoun to refer to both he and she—i.e. siya. ‘Siya’ was the word used here, the translation to she was my arbitrary choice. 5 Eric Casiño, “Structuralism in Philippine Cultural Diversity”; Raul Pertierra and Eduardo

4.2 Who Are the B’laans?

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4.2 Who Are the B’laans? The B’laans remain to be referred to, and in a number of cases self-refer, in the vernacular as ‘tribal people’. They are believed to be indigenous to the South Cotabato-Sarangani area in Mindanao. The Philippine Indigenous Peoples Rights Act (IPRA) of 1997 defines indigenous peoples as follows: A group of people or homogeneous societies identified by self-ascription and ascription by others, who have continuously lived as organised community on communally bounded and defined territory, and who have, under claims of ownership since time immemorial, occupied, possessed and utilised such territories, sharing common bonds of language, customs, traditions and other distinctive cultural traits, or who have, through resistance to political, social and cultural inroads of colonisation, non-indigenous religions and cultures, become historically differentiated from the majority of Filipinos. ICCs/IPs [indigenous cultural communities/indigenous peoples] shall likewise include peoples who are regarded as indigenous on account of their descent from the populations which inhabited the country, at the time of conquest or colonisation, or at the time of inroads of nonindigenous religions and cultures, or the establishment of present state boundaries, who retain some or all of their own social, economic, cultural and political institutions, but who may have been displaced from their traditional domains or who may have resettled outside their ancestral domains. IPRA, Chapter II, Sect. 4.3h).

Traditionally, they practice swidden agriculture, hunting and subsistence fishing, and are known for their weaving. While culturally rich (See Rodil 1994), most B’laans, however, are deep in poverty. It does not help that they, like the rest of the Lumads, are getting increasingly minoritized in Mindanao (Rovillos and Morales 2002). The B’laans, like the rest of the indigenous Lumads in Mindanao, have suffered dispossession of their lands See (Espina-Varona 2003; Vidal 2004). This was due to the fact that tribal lands, which were traditionally communally owned properties, were partitioned by the government for settlers from Luzon and the Visayas, and in a number of cases are held in parallel claims by Mindanao Muslims (Magno 2003, 127–131; MindaNews 2010; Malid and Gulaya Malid and Gulaya 1997). Most of them today live in areas that are considered to be undesirable due to its distance and not arable enough for productive farming. To date, some B’laan communities are successful in claiming legal ownership of tribal lands, with a Certificate of Ancestral Domain Title. But a number of them continue to fight against what is perceived as development aggression of agribusiness and mining companies’ interests to their ancestral domains. One of these business interests is the Sagittarius Mines Inc. (SMI)-owned $6-billion Tampakan CopperGold Project, considered as the single biggest direct investment in the Philippines. The project is hounded with opposition from civil society groups, but is endorsed by government agencies, among them the Chairman of the National Commission on Indigenous People (NCIP), Roque Agton. The project has also received mixed reactions from the B’laan community themselves, with some satisfied with the development support like farm productivity trainings (Sarmiento 2004) and infrastructure construction provided by the company to the community.

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Contrary to other ‘tribal communities’ and Mindanao Muslim communities, the B’laans are rarely concentrated in one location, but are rather scattered in different parts of Sarangani-South Cotabato provinces. There are three layers of social order in the B’laan world, notes Guardados (2001; Buendia et al. 2006): One layer of this social order is the fulong, who is accorded high respect in the community because of their wisdom and their convincing powers. They are often sought to adjudicate in cases of disagreements and conflicts in the community. The fulongs are also given the responsibility to facilitate community rites and practices. The next in the social order are the admagans or the propertied and wealthier members of the community, which to the community’s standard for he ‘possessed horses, carabaos, agongs and kamagi (gold necklaces)’. The admagans perform the role of being a point of guarantee or a lender patron to ‘help pay fines of an offender or in marital arrangement for dowry’. At the lowest rung of the social hierarchy is the lifan who works as servants for the fulong or admangan to pay for penalties or to pay through their services, for loans made from the admangan or fulong. However, this social hierarchy does not explain how to categorize average members of the community who are neither leaders, nor rich nor servants. Considering too that B’laans are often integrated into mainstream communities, the practice of this hierarchy might be limited, like in the case of this research’ field site in Tino’to. While the B’laans, however, are increasingly entering into the Christian world of faith, as will be described in Chap. 5, their traditional belief acknowledges a pantheon of gods: Melu—creator of the universe, Lamot Ta Mangayo—god of war and Diwata—god of harvest. They also believe in the importance of Almos, a female priestess, who can offer sacrifices to these gods and spirits. Sacrifices to the gods are believed to be necessary to appease their anger due to mortal wrongdoings, and thereby avert calamities and disaster to befall the faithful (Cole 1916, 39–140).

4.3 Who Are the Sinamas? In contemporary times, the Sinamas of Sulu and Tawi-Tawi, where they have the greatest concentration in the Philippines, have specializations in seaweed farming, fishing and boatbuilding. The Sarangani Sinamas, all point to Siasi, Sulu8 as their point of origin, whether they have travelled directly or indirectly from, to the village in Sarangani Province where this study was conducted. The Sinamas’ contemporary voyage to Sarangani Bay is a combination of many factors. According to some of them, their move was driven by their displacement from violent conflicts in their town of origin between the government forces and the secessionist movement, and from direct encounters with the Sulu-dominant Tausugs. Some have come to Sarangani Bay, after being deported 8 Siasi, Sulu is the locality where Sinamas in the Philippines have the largest concentration (Horvatich

2003).

4.3 Who Are the Sinamas?

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from neighbouring Sabah, Malaysia and Sulawesi, Indonesia9 after being caught without valid documents to stay despite calling these places home since fleeing the Philippines mostly during Martial Law10 , and heard about Sarangani Bay as suitable for their seafaring lifestyle. The Sinama interviewees in this research do not consider themselves as among the first settlers in Sarangani. But their ancestors are among pioneers in Mindanao, according to linguistic characteristics and anthropological evidence (Sather and 2006; Sather 1997, 2004). This despite the popular belief that the Sinamas’ arrival in Sulu followed after the Tausugs have already set a socio-political order, and despite little recognition of a bigger Sinama community among the Sinama-speaking population themselves, and the pervasiveness of the use of Tausug as a common language, even in Sinama-populated areas. The Sinama family of languages roughly counts between 750,000 and 9000,000, according to Sather (Pallesen 1985, 246). He further describes that the Sinamaspeaking community are perhaps the most widely dispersed ethno-linguistic group in Peninsular Southeast Asia, spreading from the south of Luzon to Northern Australia: Moluccas, Roti Island, south of Timor Island, and Sulawesi Islands, Indonesia; Eastern Sabah, Malaysia; Capul Island in the San Bernardino Strait; Northern Australia; and Zamboanga, Sulu, Tawi Tawi Palawan’s East and West Coasts in the Philippines. The proto-Sama-Bajau language, Pallesen notes, had an Indonesian origin but ‘was spoken in the Southern Zamboanga-Basilan area about 1200 years ago’; and about 800 years ago, as indicated by linguistic evidence, many of them settled throughout the Sulu Archipelago (Majul 1999). In the accounts of the Maguindanao tarsilas, in year 1515, select Sinamas escorted who would later become as the first royalty in the Maguindanao sultanate, Sharif Muhammad Kabungsuwan (Saleeby 1908; Saleeby 1905). These seafaring peoples are said to come from Johore (now part of Malaysia, on the border to Singapore), who escorted Kabungsuwan were called ‘Sinamas’ by Saleeby (Majul 1999), ‘Orang Selat’ (seafaring people living along the straits of Singapore and Batam) by Majul (Combes 1897) or the ‘Orang Laut’ or ‘Lautan’ or ‘Lutaos’ by Francisco Combes (Majul 1973; Nimmo 1972, 22–23). The Sinamas of Sulu, in their own tarsila, relates to their ancestors, the Sinama Dilauts, whose first mooring place in the Philippines was consequently called by the Sinamas as ‘Samboangan’ (today’s Zamboanga). ‘Shortly after their arrival in Zamboanga’, so the Sinama tarsila states, ‘the Sama Dilaut became subjects of the powerful Sultan of Sulu. During the course of his many marriages throughout Sulu, the Sultan gave groups of Sama Dilaut as bride wealth; thus, the Sama Dilaut became scattered throughout the Sulu archipelago’ (Solheim-II 1975, 158; Solheim II 2000, 274).

9 In both Indonesia and Malaysia, Sinamas are referred to as Bajaus, but in the Philippines, Bajau or

the Badjao is another ethnic category, although they are believed to belong to the Sinama-speaking community like the Sinamas. 10 This was between the years 1972 and 1986.

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A related work on a group of Southeast Asian maritime-living populations, called Nusantao by Solheim. He describes them as ‘a maritime oriented culture from their beginnings, those beginnings probably in southeastern Island Southeast Asia a bit before 5000 B.C. A majority of the people with this culture, at any one time, probably spoke a Malayo-Polynesian language but there was no doubt a varying sized minority of them, from time to time, who did not speak a related language’ (Combes 1897). As to the origin of people who have been called Sinamas, there are a number of accounts available. Combes identified seafaring peoples and escaped slaves whom he called the Lutao, as descendants of Arabs and Indians. Another account, by Han a Sinama scholar, asserts that the discovery of San Hai Chang and its translation by Wang, a great Chinese scholar, in 1989, affirms that the Sama came from China, after an account, purveying Chinese records, relates that after Emperor Yao (2357–2258 B.C.) killed the Sam-Ma leader, the Sam-Ma rose in rebellion then fled to the South Sea where they established their community (Cited in Sangogot 2005, 64). There is also a possible similar descent with boat people from Japan and Okinawa, as Yanagita Kunio wrote: As far as our country is concerned, it appears that we have had people living their lives on boats since the time of Emperor Onin or for about 2000 years. The history of boat people in some other parts of Asia seems to be even earlier. With the Malay peninsula as center, an area including the Dutch Indian Islands, the Burmese Islands, and the Andaman Islands shows traces of similar people. There is a lot in common among the peoples the nusantao maritime trading network 275 who live their lives on the water. However, almost no written documents concerning them exis t (Yanagita 1976).

But what is currently known is that, the Sinama-speakers have been formed as a corporate entity, at least in the Philippines, on the account of their hegemonic incorporation to the socio-political and economic structure of the Sulu sultanate, whose very trade needed them as mercenaries and underlings (Maentz 2010). A related question that is sometimes used as an alternative to essay one’s ethnic belonging but which is largely considered to be impolite is ‘What tribo “tribe” are you?’ My informants see this framing as either embedded with undertones that the one asked is taken to be from a more backward and ‘less civilised’ background than the one asking, or that the one asking displays a patronizing attitude to the one asked. That this alternative question is even used reveals meanings that may not be readily discernible from an outsider but captures what is generally understood among insiders as a representation or a conveyance of an asymmetrical power between the one who asks, who in this case assumes she has the upper hand, and the one being asked. While it is not my first time to hear such questions being an insider in Philippine society, still I found myself needing to understand how this question is meaningful for the local environment where it is deployed. I realized that to be asked where you are from is not in fact a literalist question. What is expected to follow is a narrative of movement and arrival to these Sarangani Bay barangays. There have been no claims from those in the communities studied of being natives to Sarangani Bay themselves, only that some arrived ahead of the others. While each of their reasons and rationalizations for moving may be different from another, each

4.3 Who Are the Sinamas?

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has claims to a story of his or her own origin. Surprisingly, for individuals who trace their roots outside of Mindanao—the ‘taga-lain’—the retelling of one’s and that of previous generation’s place of origin reproduces the ‘Mindanao migrant’ category far into an unending number of generations. As if being in Mindanao is only a temporary stay, regardless that there is no expressed plan of going back into their respective places of origin or of even setting foot in it in the first place. As a man in his late 20s puts it: ‘I was born here in 1979, in another village - in Glan. But we are really from Cebu (emphasis supplied). Only that my parents moved here before I was born’. For a Sarangani Bay migrant, like the young man described here, his story of origin is not only about his and his family as being migrants or about the peripatetic process that he or they as a family have undergone, real and important they may be. What is striking in the retelling of this migration history is a recurring theme on translocality—links with imagined co-ethnics, an emphasis on the association with a community of people coming from a particular territory despite being residents for a long time or being born themselves in Sarangani Bay. When asked the same question ‘where are you from?’, the self-identified ‘tagadiri’—the indigenes and Mindanao Muslims interviewed in Sarangani Bay have the tendencies to frame their answer in land ownership claims. A self-identified B’laan emphasized that, ‘We have been here since time immemorial. Even our parents and the parents of our parents have been here. In fact all these lands in this sitio were owned by B’laans before (B9G2, Personal Interview, 06 December 2006)’. A Maguindanawan man shares his recollection as a young boy, being one of the sons of the pioneers in the area, when it was still uncultivated lands, ‘Our clan went here and cleared this land, made a ranch out of it. But somehow there were political changes, and these lands changed hands. We don’t have now what we had then, but we are from here’ (MG3G1, Personal Interview, 19 October 2006). These ownership claims on land in Mindanao reflect a widely held sentiment by Mindanao indigenes and Muslims alike on the loss of lands following migration to these lands from the north of the country. But not all the self-identified natives to Mindanao have landed property as the key point in their story of origin. Individuals who were self-identified Sinamas provide an interesting deviation from the common. When Sinamas representing various generations of migrants to Sarangani Bay were asked ‘where they are from’, their story generally points to either Basilan or Sulu but more of the waters around these areas than their lands. Oral accounts of the older generations rationalize their move as an escape from the fighting between government troopers and the Tausug-dominated Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) in Sulu so that they can continue doing their trade—fishing. This also explains why they have chosen to move along Sarangani Bay—an area where fishing is the main trade. It must be recalled that the Sinamas have been seafaring peoples in the historical region called Maritime Southeast Asia, as discussed in detail in Chap. 2, which spans the sultanates of Brunei, Sulu, Ternate-Tidore, Makassar and Maguindanao (Hayase 2007) and in contemporary times, Sinamas have occupied specializations in seaweed farming, fishing and boatbuilding. Most of the Sinamas also relate their departure, from Sulu to Sarangani Bay, to avoid

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the conflicting relations with the politically dominant (both in legal and extra legal political circles) co-Muslim Tausugs in Sulu. Historically, the Sinamas have known to be traditionally defined on the negative as non-Tausugs, occupying subordinate positions within the Tausug political-economic structure providing labour in the slave-raiding expeditions of the then Sulu sultanate. The subordinate lot of the Sinamas, relative to the Tausugs, was to a large extent a function of their itinerant and maritime lifestyle that did not give them the time to cultivate a more sophisticated structure of governance, as land-based communities like the Tausugs and Maguindanawans had. Whereas before unfettered and free, the ‘Lords of the Sea’, as Hayase (2007) calls them, was subsumed deep into the Tausug hierarchy and were dispatched to man the messy and dangerous piracy campaigns for the sultanate. This uneven relation in the past between the Tausugs and Sinamas continues to sour their encounters in contemporary times even leading to deadly clashes and fatal ends for both (Bentley 1981; Nimmo 1972; Frake 1980; Horvatich 2003; Hayase 2007). The Mindanao indigenes and Muslims in the community are known for their oral histories, and their stories of origin are, to some extent, informed by this oral tradition. This is not to say that they are illiterate, only that they have chosen an oral11 kind of historiography called the silsila or tarsila where our modern understanding of chronology may not be applicable (Horvatich 2003; Hayase et al. 1999). Certainly, the level of awareness on their ancestral rights to land in Mindanao is, in no doubt, fed by and feeds to the public debate on providing historical justice to the communities in the region marginalized by the massive demographic movement of northern Filipinos. Drawing from these, I have taken note that of the following important points: Translocality as a category of identification rather than the oft-assumed religiolinguistic categories of ethnicity in Mindanao describes the kind of association that Benedict Anderson (1983) calls as an imagined community, which in this case challenges distance or time considerations. However, this begs the question: What makes identifying with the far and invisible others more real and tangible for individuals tracing their roots outside of Mindanao than associating with fellow migrants across 11 This is not to say that the country has no writing system of its own. In fact, in 1567 when Spanish conquistador Miguel Lopez de Legazpi arrived in the country, he observed that the Tagalogs had their own alphabet known as the baybayin or alibata which is believed to originate from Javanese script Old Kawi, and is estimated to be in use from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries. With the arrival of the Spaniards, the alibata was practically decimated with the exception of three scripts that have survived: the scripts of the Hanunóos and Buhids of Mindoro and the Tagbanwas of Palawan Francisco Ignacio Alcina, History of the Bisayan People in the Philippine Islands [Historia de las islas e indios de Bisayas 1668], trans. Lucio Gutierrez OP and Cantius Kobak OFM (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Press, 2002); Malaya, “Shard Find in Intramuros Shows Early Form of Writing,” September 22, 2008, sec. News, http://www.malaya.com.ph/sep22/news4.htm; William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other Essays in the Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1992). With the advent of information technology and the growing interest for it by young professionals in the country who are in search of their ‘roots’, computer fonts of the alibata scripts have been made available in Hector Santos, The Tagalog Script, Computer Fonts for IBM PC and Macintosh (Los Angeles, CA: Sushi Dog Graphics, 1993).

4.3 Who Are the Sinamas?

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the region or with people who have come to settle in Mindanao, regardless of their nativity to it? Why is there a lingering imagination with relations from afar than with neighbours next door? Another could be asked for those primarily reporting to have indigenous ties to Mindanao—the Mindanawan Moros and the B’laan Lumads— to what extent do individuals belonging to these two communities articulate and delineate their claims for historical land claims? Migration literature, specifically the work of Basch, Glick-Schiller and Szanton (1994), calls this deterritorialized identification. But Basch et al. argue that the two-pronged action of building a transnational social field and imagining a deterritorialized nation-state is a form of resistance by the ‘ethnic others’—in this case the Caribbean and Filipino migrants in the US, to their political-economic subordination and cultural marginalization in their host country, and not the other way around. The Sarangani Bay residents who trace lineage from the north of the country are neither nominally nor experientially falling on the category of ‘ethnic others’ but have in fact the standing of ‘the mainstream ethnics’ in Mindanao. On the other hand, the self-identified taga-diri—the indigenous B’laans, the Maranaos, Maguindanaos and Sinamas frame their stories of origin on narrowing, if not lost, economic opportunities. Contrary to what is taken for granted, that ethnicity in Mindanao, and even across the country, is primarily expressed in religious or language terms, my informants in Sarangani Bay define themselves and others on the basis of translocality—an emplacement of oneself to a geographical or moral community. This explains why the Bisayan migrants locate Cebu as where they are from, the Maranaos from Lanao, the Sinamas from Sulu and the B’laans from other parts of Mindanao. To my informants, where they are from defines who they are and how they view their worlds. To conclude this section, I reiterate that instead of the religious and linguistic categories of ethnicity, translocality is a category that surfaces from my informants in Sarangani Bay’s narratives of migration. The translocality discourse allows locating oneself and others in reference to a bigger community from which to draw existential meanings; explain their actions (migration) and to some extent, a vehicle for the articulation of claims. By exhibiting translocality—i.e. placing oneself in reference to identifiable and locatable places provides a sense of home, belonging and living and expresses the potential for the reconfiguring and transformation of relations of power. What is shown in the experiences of my informants is the rejection of dominance, without bias for anyone’s particular religious or linguistic background. Rather than the taken-for-granted ‘Muslims’ and ‘Christian’ categories, take notice of the binary frames ‘taga-diri’ and ‘taga-lain’ used in these villages, which to my analysis is tied to the land dynamics in Mindanao, with the former asserting loss and minoritization after settlers came, and the latter viewing the Mindanao settlement as a journey of courage, endurance, of good faith, and to some, unfulfilled promises. Both narratives are experiential truths, and dismissing one for the other is tantamount to accepting half a story. Rather than pleading to the primordial ties of religion, both the ‘taga-diri’ and the ‘taga-lain’ have a similar story to tell on loss and unfulfilled promises, of migrating in search for better lives—and both willing

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to live and to interact with each other in their mixed neighbourhoods by a mix of involuntary and voluntary reasons mentioned earlier. In a later section of this chapter, however, I present a situation where religious grounds gain currency in the face of local competition.

4.4 Language as Basis of Ethnicity Categorization What categories of identity, among the pre-existing networks of categories— linguistic, religious and national, are lay people familiar with? General narratives talk about the Philippines as a plural society, even if still effectively not pluralist—with cleavages pointed to be along the lines of class, religion and linguistic lines. And of these linguistic lines, there are 103 languages documented to be spoken in the country (National Statistic Office 2000). Observably there often is a convenient coincidence of religious belief to that of one’s primary linguistic affinity. Often, in literature, this is compounded into one variable—ethnicity. This section disaggregates the lines of identification into linguistic, religious and nationalist. This I do by putting out a list of categories, each category written on a flash card, each choice explained in detail, which people chose from and rearranged according to their preferred choice. The categories are linguistic, religious, provincial-regional, major island group belonging, national imaginings and continental. This approach, while embodying certain limitations and is not conclusive as a matter of research method alone, allows a degree of position in efforts to understand levels of vernacular familiarity on master ethnic categories. For instance, it can answer questions that ask: ‘Are the ethnic categories “from above” familiar with the general public?’; ‘Why is it that languages native to Mindanao did not gain the predominance of the language of the Bisayan migrants as a language of conversation and of commerce, not to mention in formal governmental transactions and written documents, along with English?’; ‘Are religious identities Christian, Muslims and non-Christians (non-Muslims), a popular way for the lay to categorise themselves?’ (Table 4.1). In the Sarangani Bay villages of this study, it is common to hear informants identify themselves as belonging to either of these six linguistic categories—B’laan (which falls under the master category Lumad); Bisaya in the variants of Bol-anon, Cebuano and Ilonggo (which fall under the master category Christian settlers); Maguindanawan; Maranao; Sangil and Sinama12 (which fall under the master category Muslims or Moros). The identification of location as an ethnic category among my informants was drawn from spontaneous and casual conversations, and for the most part, unsolicited, whereas the choice of language to define their ethnic membership was borne out of

12 The ‘Sinama’ category has been quoted directly from my informants. I on the other hand use the term Sinama, the more generally accepted term in the light of contestations on the term Sinama itself by others in other parts of Mindanao.

4.4 Language as Basis of Ethnicity Categorization Table 4.1 Languages generally spoken in the households of Southern Mindanao

57

Language/dialect

Number of households

Percent

Southern Mindanao

1,066,199

100.00

428,256

40.17

Cebuano Bisaya/Binisaya

275,794

25.87

Hiligaynon/Ilonggo

115,493

10.83

Bilaan/B’laan

35,268

3.31

Davaweño

27,315

2.56

Tagalog

18,490

1.73

T’boli

17,699

1.66

Boholano

17,672

1.66

Manobo/Ata-manobo

17,391

1.63

Ilocano

15,868

1.49

Other local language/dialect

96,047

9.01

Other foreign language/dialect

906

0.08

Source Philippine National Statistics Office (2000) Census of Population and Housing

an array of choices that involved a certain level of reflexivity, even with location as part of the choices.

4.5 Vehicular Language Switching Between Bisaya and Tagalog In this section, I look at the vehicular language of choice by Sarangani Bay residents in specific functional domains. Vehicular language, as opposed to vernacular, refers to the contact language between persons who do not share a common mother tongue (Firth 1996). It is an important means of communication between non-native speakers, allowing them to engage in basic exchange, gain friends, conduct business, collaborate with each other and even express mutual disdain, at the individual level. The Sarangani Bay villages in this study are home to seven vernacular13 languages: (1) B’laan, (2) Bisaya14 , (3) Ilocano, (4) Maguindanao, (5) Maranao, (6) Sinama, and (7) Sangil. In the 2000 language census, Southern Mindanao15 has about 76% of its population speaking Visayan-related languages, reported as Cebuano/ Bisaya/ Ilonggo (Table 4.1). 13 The

shared language spoken between individuals of the same speaking community. to here as the Southern Mindanao variant of the Cebuano-based language primarily spoken in Cebu and Bohol. 15 Sarangani Bay communities belong to the Southern Mindanao region. 14 Referred

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While some of these different communities’ vernacular languages are related like Ilonggo and Cebuano, the rest are mutually alien to each other, creating a need for a vehicular language. The local vehicular language varies from province to province or even from barangay to barangay all across the country—supporting my argument in the previous section that ethnicity in Sarangani Bay, and to a large extent, across the country, is primarily defined on locality. Bisaya—specifically the Southern Mindanao variant of Cebuano—has an overwhelming use as vehicular medium in this area. It is surprising, however, that a related Bisayan variant, Ilonggo is not widely used, considering that in the southern part of Cotabato, which these Sarangani Bay villages are a part of, was also called ‘the heartland of the Ilonggo Empire’ due to the large movement of people in these parts from western Visayas (Manila Times, February 6, 1954 as quoted in Abinales 2000, 112). The Southern Mindanao variant of Cebuano’s, to which I shall refer to as Bisaya, rise to prominence as the local lingua franca in these Sarangani Bay villages cannot be separated from its contemporary use as a contact language in Mindanao centres of economic and educational activities like in the ‘tuna capital’ General Santos City, ‘banana, ramie and gold capital’ Davao provinces and ‘pineapple capital’ Cagayan de Oro City. It is even possible to go around Mindanao, speak Bisaya among the locals and be understood even if it is not the local language in that area. And on a historical perspective, Bisaya has become the vehicular language in Mindanao mostly as a result one of the downstream movement of people from the Visayas (or Bisayas) which had been going on for centuries, mainly in relation to Mindanao’s promotion as a frontier, and, of the Christian missions which brought with them the Bisayan language in their new settlements. It can be said that an average Sarangani Bay resident has proficiency in at least four languages, which can also be said of Filipinos in general—their own vernacular language or mother tongue, Filipino (which is mostly Tagalog-based), Bisaya, as the colloquial contact language, and theoretically, English. Bisaya, Tagalog and English are all vehicular or contact languages in Sarangani Bay. Thanks to the deep penetration of a variety of media forms in these villages, Tagalog and English are generally within the comprehension radar of each resident. Both English and Tagalog too are the language of education, commerce, government and pop culture in the region, as they are in the country that is not learning them but is highly improbable. Yet despite all three being vehicular languages, not all have the same frequency of use in these areas. After all, equal access to learning and practicing Tagalog and English is not available to everyone. Learning both of these languages is a matter of economic capacity (enrolling in formal education systems where Tagalog and English are mediums of instruction) or access to other resources that are otherwise difficult to acquire but may facilitate it, such as watching television in neighbour’s house. Practicing these languages requires someone to be in an environment where it is normally used, and in the case of Mindanao it would be in white-collar, foreign tourism or information-related economies. As detailed in Chap. 3, while Sarangani Bay capitols may indeed be described to have these economies, the villages under study do not have this scale or kind of economies in the first place.

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59

It is highly probable that the use of one language is not always deliberately cued but is a reflex to what is practical or a matter of habit. But since these vehicular languages do not have the same frequency of use in these areas, it becomes easily noticeable when either Tagalog or English or both are used in conversations in lieu of Bisaya. I problematize then as to what explains the choice by whom of one vehicular language over another, in which specific context. An important method of inquiry for this kind of question is discourse analysis, which emphasizes that power and authority are manifested in verbal exchanges (Coultard 1977). And secondly, but of more import for this study, how is this choice of vehicular language related to ethnicity in action? Steering through these questions requires me to dig deeper into my own grounds of understanding. First, adopting emic vernacular language categories is necessary, not as an end in itself but as a means to problematize what vehicular language individuals choose, from which speaking community and why. Second, it is tempting to dismiss the line of inquiry on vehicular language choice since it is easily narrowed down, if at all exercised, by the fact that access to learning Tagalog and English is basically not available for everyone anyway. Learning Tagalog and English after all relates to one’s economic standing, for these two are generally school-taught or at least popular media-mediated rather than street-learned, like Bisaya. I argue, however, that to pursue my inquiry on vehicular language choice is a meaningful exercise in the sense that I am not mainly in pursuit of their choice of language if they were the speaker, but the choice of language that is expected to be in use in specific circumstances, regardless of the speaker. The expectation that a language is to be used in certain situations reveals that language is often attributed functions such as a channel for ideological deployment. Roger Thompson admonishes that we need to look beyond an analysis of the language itself, ‘not only looking at when the language is used but at its social effect in the promotion of certain ideologies’ (Thompson, 2003). For the purposes of this research, I take a simple definition of ideology as a cognitive lens or a way of seeing things. So what ideologies or ways of seeing does language promote, as fleshed out in this particular work? First, vernacular languages, also referred to as mother tongues, are found to be the primarily self-evident identifier of ethnic belonging in Sarangani Bay barangays. In fact, it is also the case for the rest of the country where one’s primary language basically identifies him/her with a specific language community. One cannot be deemed a true member of the Sinama community without being able to speak Sinama. Regardless of conversion to Islam and claims of Maguindanao Province origin, one is not able to fully enter the Maguindanawan circle if one does not speak the language. Second, one’s primary language not only signal a particular communal belonging, but also define one’s (non-)indigeneity to the region—i.e. whether one is a settler or a native of Mindanao. Third, while there are huge differences in denominational and religious practices among Christians and Muslims in the barangays studied, one’s mother tongue is often the primary criterion as well of religious identification. A young schoolteacher, who is of Tausug and Sinama-speaking parentage, relates that when she was interviewed for her post, her ‘manner of speaking’ gave the

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interview panel a hint of her religious background as well. She expounds ‘Here [referring to Mindanao as a whole], if you are heard speaking a language, you are easily identified with what religion you belong to. If you speak Tagalog in its proper accent, then they would say you are Catholic. But if you have an accent like mine, they would know you are a Muslim. (MST2G3, Personal Interview, 14 December 2006)’. What she expressed as her ‘manner of speaking’ points not only to the choice of language itself, but to the fluency with which it is used. But going back to vehicular language choice, what ideologies are being promoted with an individual’s choice of language not only if they were the speaker, but the language that is expected to be in use in specific domains of action, regardless of who might be the speaker. I singled out conversations as the domain of action in which vehicular language is routinely used. In a zone of competing vernacular and vehicular languages, there is no manifest friction between the language or languages in use and those that are not. Neither is there an overt policing on everyday vehicular language choice in Sarangani Bay. What I found, however, is the presence of a tacit understanding in practice that certain vehicular languages are used in specific domains of action. I detail here which languages are expected to be in use in these domains, and end this section with my own analysis of where this understanding of practice comes from, and what this means for relationships between different speaking communities in these villages. It is interesting that B’laan, despite having been a language used in the area before settlers came, based on oral accounts among community elders has never become a choice for inter-communal communication. Still more interesting is the fact that despite being spoken by the numerically dominant in the Sarangani Bay Village covered in this study, Sinama has remained to be spoken only by its native speakers. Moreover, many younger Sinama-speaking generations’ skill for the language has been reported by elders to be on the decline. This younger set, due to access to various scholarship slots available to them in a grant managed by a local private university, registers their facility for Bisaya, Tagalog and English, in that order. The case certainly becomes more complicated with informants of mixed parentage, where each parent speaks a different mother tongue than the other. Instead of having bilingual fluency, children of parents in such circumstances are often taught to speak and carry to their adulthood a third neutral language—either the regional language variant of Cebuano or the Tagalog-based national language. This point alone hints that even an ethnic identification based on the criteria of language is not at all primordial or inherent but chosen on the basis of convenience so the whole family can communicate with each other, or on the advantages that mastery of a third language is expected to provide. And yet, despite Bisaya rising in prominence as a vehicular language in these Sarangani Bay barangays, switching to Tagalog16 during conversations even if 16 Manila’s version is largely considered as ‘high Filipino’. The Commission on Filipino Language issued Resolution 92-1, specifying that “Filipino is the indigenous written and spoken language of Metro Manila and other urban centers in the Philippines used as the language of communication of

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61

addressed in Bisaya, and even if they have the skill to speak Bisaya, is observable among my informants. Code-switching or language crossing practice in the everyday is no less than a form of performance according to Bauman and Briggs (1990) which ‘move the use of heterogeneous stylistic resources, context-sensitive meanings, and conflicting ideologies into a reflexive arena where they can be examined critically’. Viewing the northern tongue Tagalog switch from the vehicular Bisaya as a performance makes us question the unreflexivity and candidness of the action. What it suggests is that we must consider the possibility that such a practice is deliberative on the part of the speaker that language switching is embedded in contextual meanings and that hegemonic dimensions are involved in such verbal switchings. This allows us an understanding of language as one of the many mediums which individuals in Sarangani Bay localities exploit to their advantage, in asserting equality with the country’s ‘civilised north’. While this is similar to the misleading argument that women’s equality with men can be expressed by satisfying male standards, there is reason to understand, using the vista and history of the individuals studied, that speaking Tagalog is a legitimate weapon of the weak, to borrow Scott’s (Scott 1985) words. This explains why the fresh-from-university Sinamas take on opportunities to speak Tagalog and English, perceived in the village to be the language of the learned—not only as an attempt to elevate one’s individual position, but also that of the Sinama community who carry the burden of memory from generations to generations of the Tausug’s predominance over them in Sulu and Tawi-Tawi, and of their perceived rejection by Sarangani Bay Maguindanawans of their being ‘true Muslims’. For example, one female interviewee, a self-identified Sinama who recently passed the board exams for teachers during the time I was doing my fieldwork, uses Tagalog when she leads and coordinates community-participated activities where a mixed crowd is in attendance. But in an all-Sinama audience, she intersperses between Sinama and Bisaya. When asked why she does this, her first reaction was to ask me back if that is what I have indeed observed. When pressed with further questions, she went on to say that she ‘wanted to give pride to “her” [my] parents and “people”. We know what they have experienced back in Sulu. The Tausugs were not good to us. The Sinamas have at least Siasi (Sulu) but they’re moving there as well. And even in their dealings with us, we were expected to speak Tausug’. By finishing her education and consequently having the ability to express herself in Tagalog, she adds emphatically that she wanted to show that ‘becoming is better than being’. Laura implies here that by becoming who she is now—educated and having a good command of Tagalog are qualities that weigh more than just being a Tausug or a Maguindanao or a Sinama, for that matter. But as much as the choice of language can be one of the many weapons of the weak, it can also be a subterfuge in projecting difference. While there may be few exceptions, I have observed that quite a number of self-identified Maguindanawans

ethnic groups” Naglalahad ng Batayang Deskripsyon ng Filipino, 1992, http://wika.pbworks.com/ Resolusyon%20Blg%2092-1.

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speak Tagalog in a mixed company even in conversations that are carried on predominantly in Bisaya. I remember an incident when I was in the company of a Maguindanawan, Sinama and B’laan waiting for the day to end by engaging in small talk. Maguindanawans I myself speak fluent Bisaya and Tagalog, but in light of the local vehicular language, I see to it that I speak the former in all conversations and in my dealings with anyone in the village. While we were there talking about village life and the hardships of getting water in the village (either through the public faucet or in the freshwater spring, which by the way are major spaces for interethnic interactions in the barangay), our conversations went back and forth in Bisaya with the exception of the Maguindanawan. Observing the others in our circle, I did not notice anyone else taking offense, showing disapproval or even surprise with the Tagalog-speaking Maguindanawan. Perhaps the rest of the village folks have been accustomed to the Maguindanawans’ choice of Tagalog as a vehicular language. But comparing this language switching to a wider set of actions, I take notice, however, that the Maguindanawans in the barangay, despite being numerically smaller than the others, have been perceived to be distinguishing themselves in other areas of village life—whether in building their own mosques apart from the Muslim Sinamas, despite a distance of about 200 m from each other; a call to prayer that is not only done ahead of the other mosques in the barangay but also uses a stronger sound system to call its few faithful, and the public elementary school named in honour of their clan leader. While language switching to Tagalog may not have been an issue of manifest friction, the show of distinction, however, is a subject of veiled complaints, which were all relayed to me in many occasions, from other Muslims in the village, particularly the Sinamas. Going back to the Maguindanawans’ and the Maranao’s propensity to switch to Tagalog, circumstantial evidence shows that most have a good command of Bisaya. Due to the nature of their trade—farming and micro-market trading—they have more contact with Bisaya-speaking people to whom they sell their produce or engage business with, in the public market frequented by people of all ethnies and faiths. They speak Maguindanawan and Maranao at home, Tagalog in the village and Bisaya across town. No one among them will perhaps ever admit that this implies the existence of a glass ceiling in the village. But by speaking Tagalog over Bisaya as contact language in the village despite being able to speak it in other locations— across town and circumstance—for business rather than personal relations, projects a public expression and a self-image of distinction. It could be inferred that by speaking Tagalog rather than the vehicular Bisaya, the speaker is able to publicly express that he or she can be treated as if she is Tagalog— equal and not less to the higher standards of social recognition in the country, and better than her neighbours who can only speak the local vehicular language Bisaya. What is the deal with Tagalog? The language that one speaks in the Philippines, and the accent that one has reverberates hegemonic implications. I am reminded of Lyotard’s words when he said that ‘to speak is to fight, in the sense of playing, and speech acts fall within the domain of agonistics’ (1984) which places language as an arena for the exposure of hidden power relations. In the Philippines, what has become standard Filipino language is largely Tagalog based, with the Manila accent

4.5 Vehicular Language Switching Between Bisaya and Tagalog

63

considered as the ‘high Filipino’.17 This thinking is pervasive in everyday talk where all other languages in the Philippines are referred to by Filipinos themselves, as dialects, despite satisfying linguistic definitions of a language. But what does language switching to Tagalog say in fact with regards to the ‘Sinamas’ ‘Sinamaness’ or ‘the Maguindanawans’ ‘Maguindanawaness’? Does speaking Tagalog make them more Tagalog and less Sinama or Maguindanawan? If you notice, I said above that by speaking Tagalog, the speaker is able to publicly express that he or she can be treated as if she is Tagalog. As if Tagalog, but not really— which means that speaking Tagalog renders the speaker access to the resources and power perceived to be associated with the community speaking the language, without necessarily changing their expression of themselves with their co-ethnies and others.

4.6 Clan Conflicts Clans hold socio-political significance in the Philippines. Vast landholdings in the country called haciendas and large business empires are more often than not vested on the clan—and are often referred to as family corporations. Clans, both based on real and fictive18 kinship ties, are instrumental in political mobilization, as an electoral base to get politicians into office (Lim-Mangada 1997) or as the pool itself from which political dynasties replenish its longevity (Datinguinoo and Olarte 2001). Clans are also used as social exchange mechanisms through intermarriage.19 In contrast to societies which value individualism, one’s identity in Philippine society is, by and large, mediated by the clan where she belongs to. It is then not surprising that clan reunions are organized with much anticipation and vigour, where relations divided by many generations are renewed, blood ties that are not so clear patented, and kinship that can no longer be traced, decreed to exist. These examples validate previous researches, which show that clans actively shape modern life (Schatz 2002; Carlisle 2001; Kreuzer 2005) in the face of an equally strong argument that clans and its leadership composition are, in fact, vestiges of primitive and pre-modern social orders.

17 In the 2000 Philippine Census, out of 76,332,470 (76M), 21,485,927 (21M) claimed Tagalog as their first language. While approximately 50M reported varying degrees of proficiency. 18 The process of expanding kinship networks outside of affinal and consanguinal ties is normally done in the Philippines through the padrino network, i.e. by getting someone to stand as ninong or ninang (literally godfather and godmother, but may also take to mean as surrogate parents) in weddings or baptismal ceremonies. By being a padrino (addressed as ninong for men, ninang for women), one becomes part of the family and is considered, and sometimes even expected to take part in varying familial obligations. Only a few decline a proposal to be a padrino, since there is a very strong cultural sanction to refusal, i.e. being tantamount to embarrassing the person or the clan making the offer. 19 Jokes such as when you marry someone, you marry not only the immediate family, but also the whole clan are replete in the Philippines.

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But although clans’ significance may remain to be found in the modern world, they are also often derided to be bearers of pre-modern practices. After all, a modernizing democratic society needs an institutional basis for its operations, rather than personal networks, the clans being one of them. Recently, an unpacking of the conflict in violence-affected areas of Muslim Mindanao, identified violence in the name of the clan, as one cause of bloodshed in many localities. Clan violence, referred to in the comprehensive Asia Foundation study as rido, appears to have a consequential influence in the daily lives of ordinary Mindanawans (Torres 2007). This is even more felt, the study warns, than the collateral violence caused by the state-level conflicts represented by encounters between the national armed forces and insurgent groups operating in Mindanao Towns. The Social Weather Station, a leading social survey organization in the Philippines, reports the same that violence in Mindanao is said to be experienced mostly in the form of ‘family or clan conflicts and hardly due to Muslim-Christian conflict’. (Mangahas 2009). But what is clan violence in Mindanao like? From the same study, the logic of rido is apparently explained to avenge the perceived loss of a clan’s sense of honour due to a member of another family’s actions. Offense to one clan’s honour can range from petty misunderstandings like gossiping or jesting, to more serious matters such as murder, land-grabbing, political rivalries, elopement and ‘bride kidnapping’. These acts of clan and inter-kin group violence are called by many names: rido by the Maranao and Maguindanao, kontra-konta in Sulu, pagbanta by the Tausugs, kundara by the Yakans, pagbaos by the Sinamas, lido by majority of the Lumads and pangayaw or magahat by the Matigsallug Manobos (Burton et al. 2005; Durante et al. 2005). In the table below, I compare the findings of the study commissioned by the Asia Foundation in 2005 (marked as 1), which outlines the common forms of disagreement leading to rido. While my own fieldwork observations (marked as 2) between the years 2006 and 2007 show that land disputes and political rivalry are the most common forms of disagreements, there was no evidence that they blew into a rido encounter in the villages of my study. It is interesting to note, however, that these two—land disputes and political rivalry—are also the most common cause of conflict in the Asia Foundation report. But the more important issue that this study needs to tackle is whether clan disagreements, channelled institutionally or in a spiral of violence are ethnically flagged. And if so, what explains this flagging? As I have shown in the previous section, the Tino’to land dispute between Maguindanawans on the one hand and the Sinamas and B’laans on the other, rather than being framed as an issue of greed and grievance, was decidedly viewed by the contesting actors as a mirror of bigger historical narratives of ethnic exclusion and conflict (Table 4.2). With the differentiation between private and public conflicts, a range of conceptual terms is also available locally to refer to a range of conflicts. From Di pagsinabtanay ‘misunderstanding’—the term oft used to refer to the least serious of conflicts, to lalis ‘argument’, followed by bikil ‘quarrel’, bangi-bangi ‘fight’, samok ‘inconvenience’

x

2 Disagreements

extracted from the data of Durante, Ofelia et al. 2005 that have not reached violent actions, own fieldwork, 2006–20092

x

Affiliation with Abu Sayaff group or government militia

1 Rido,

x

x

x

x

1

Yakan

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

1

Tausug

Non-payment of debts

x

x

x

x

x

x

2

Family problem jealousy

Drug-related crimes

Petty crimes

Elopement

Disagreements/misunderstandings x

x

Maratabat/Honour

Coincidental involvement/accidental killing/mistaken identity

x

x x

x

x

x

x

x x

Possession of firearms

x

x x

Disgrace/shame

Business rivalry

x x

Political rivalry

1

2

Sinama

1

1

2

MaguindanawanMaranao

Ethnic communities

Land dispute

Causes of Violence

Table 4.2 Comparative causes of Clan disagreements

x

x

x

2

B’laan

4.6 Clan Conflicts 65

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4 Categorizing Ethnicity in Sarangani Bay

and gubot ‘chaos’ as the most serious. Appraising the local knowledge on conflict allows an understanding of how people make sense of the bigger state-level conflicts between the government soldiers and insurgent groups in the archipelago affecting their lives and very existence. Gubot, for example, is how the insurgent and military encounters are characterized while lalis is used to describe arguments arising between neighbours on maintaining cleanliness in their mostly shared yards. The roundabout way of channelling dissent—through complaints and whispers, rather than openly discussing it with the persons involved—bespeak of an asymmetric relationship and the presence of tension, no matter how muted it may be. Complaining and other forms of hidden transcripts are part of what Scott (Scott 1985) calls as infrapolitics. Infrapolitics has been described by Scott as the non-hegemon’s way of addressing power relations. Analysing the conflicts and disagreements in the village of study, what I see is that overt and even violent expressions of dissent are correlates of fragile or ineffective state institutions and the absence of credible and neutral non-state actors and mechanisms, thereby limiting a person’s access to justice or resources. As I have argued elsewhere (Ragsag 2006) of clan violence, it is an incomplete view to claim that rido is incompatible with liberal notions that an offense must be tried by a third party, and the transgression committed against a person is only an offense to that individual and not to those with association to the individual. In fact by carrying out rido, the actors believe in the imperative of delivering justice, although the mechanisms for achieving it, i.e. series of retaliations and counterretaliations, are rather unsustainable and counter-productive. But the decision to choose the workings of clan retribution is rather a calculated move, informed by: a general distrust and inaccessibility of justice institutions to rural, poor and illiterates; expensive lawyers and litigation costs; a perceived bias towards litigants with means and the politically powerful side of the disputants, and the severely protracted process of resolving cases in the court system. Hence, a critical view of ethnicized conflict is necessary so as to avoid the conflation of local disputes with conflicts wrought by separatism, or a problem of law and order, and small arms proliferation, as in some parts of Mindanao. As this section shows, ethnic construction in spontaneous contexts is defined along points of locality with the use of the locator prefix taga. I have presented above that this locator prefix is a means for my informants to infer on ethnic categories, which also conveniently coincides with narratives of place of origin, language and religion. True that the master categories of Muslims/Moro, Christians and nonChristians/Lumads have resonance on the ground; however, these categories do not supersede the lays’ categorization of ethnicity on the basis of location. Further, discussion in this chapter reflects that ethnic categories are neither fixed nor stable—whether the categories constructed ‘from above’ or the forms of ethnic categories that are employed ‘from below’. In the many examples in this chapter, ethnic categories and identification categories, in general, can be traced up from history down to the present time, take the case of Moro, for instance. But while these categories are nominally retained, the meanings steeped in them, and the institutions and agents related to their articulation are ever changing over time. These institutions

4.6 Clan Conflicts

67

and agents, however, are not neutral umpires but are rather partisan actors and brokers in the promotion, defense and management of ethnic categories and the processes under which these categorizations take place. Also, it can be gathered from this chapter that while master narratives of ethnic categories are commonly used, the meanings ascribed to them are not as rigid as often assumed. The language that one speaks in the Philippines and the accent that one has reverberate hegemonic implications. By switching to Tagalog, the non-native Tagalog speaker is able to publicly express that he or she can be treated as if she is Tagalog. As if Tagalog, but not really—which means that speaking Tagalog renders the speaker access to the resources and power perceived to be associated with the community speaking the language, without necessarily changing their expression of themselves with their co-ethnies and others. In the production and reproduction of labels, social identity and relations, contestations and conflict are inevitably involved. But the manner, shape and direction by which contestations are articulated are not uniform for everyone. The expression of dissent is informed by perceived configurations of power, if not the presence of power itself, which sanctions what can be contested and what cannot be in the everyday. What this chapter shows is that the ethnic element is just a starter to a full-course constellation of differences that are not in the least ethnic, such as local relations; perceived configurations of power, if not the presence of power itself; the influence of past hegemonic experiences and identification projects; and the apparent weakness, if not the absence of institutional channels that allow a discussion of local contestations. It is at this juncture that I turn the page to Chapter Four, which deals with an account of the institutional arrangements defining belonging and citizenship at the national level of the Philippines, where the local level for this study, Sarangani Bay, is located.

References Abinales, P. (2000). Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Davao in the formation of the Philippine Nation-State. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Alcina, F. I. (2002). History of the Bisayan People in the Philippine Islands [Historia de las islas e indios de Bisayas 1668]. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Press. Anderson, B. (1983). Imagined communities: reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism. London and New York: Verso. Basch, L., Glick-Schiller, N., & Blanc-Szanton, C. (1994). Nations unbound: Transnational projects, postcolonial predicaments and deterritorialized Nation States. Langhorne, PA: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers. Bauman, R., & Briggs, C. (1990). Poetics and performance as critical perspectives on language and social life. Annual Review of Anthropology, 19, 59–88. Bentley, G. C. (1981). Migration, ethnic identity and state building in the Philippines: The Sulu case. In C. Keyes (Ed.), Ethnic Change. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Blanchetti-Revelli, L. (2003). Moro, Muslim or Filipino: Cultural citizenship as practice and process. In R. Rosaldo (Ed.), Cultural Citizenship in Island Southeast Asia (pp. 45–75). Berkeley and LA: University of California Press.

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Buendia, R., Brillantes, A., Mendoza, L., Guiam, R., & Sambeli, L. (2006). Mapping and analysis of indigenous governance practices in the Philippines and proposal for establishing an indicative framework for indigenous people’s governance: Towards a broader and inclusive process of governance in the Philippines (no. final report). Bangkok: United Nations Development Programme. Burton, E., Matuan, M., Poingan, G., & Alovera, J. R. (2005). Choices of response to Inter-Kin group conflict in northern mindanao (executive summary). Asia foundation and Research Institute for Mindanao Culture. Manila and Cagayan de Oro: Xavier University. Carlisle, K., (2001). Clans and politics in Uzbekistan. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation. Boston College, Boston. Casiño, E. (1975). Structuralism in Philippine cultural diversity. Solidarity, 10, 18–19. Cole, M. C. (1916). Philippine folk tales. London: Curtis Brown. Combes, F., (1897). Historia de Mindanao y Jolo. Manila. Commission on Filipino Language, (1992). Naglalahad ng Batayang Deskripsyon ng Filipino. Coultard, R. M. (1977). Introduction to discourse analysis. London: Longmans. Datinguinoo, V., & Olarte, A. (2001). Political clans make a comeback. Manila: Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism. Department of French Studies, University of Turku, (2008). Call for papers. Presented at the Living, Working and Studying in (a) Vehicular Language(s): Language, Discourse, Hybridity and Identities, Turku. Durante, O., Gomez, N., Sevilla, E., & Mañego, H., (2005). Management of clan conflict and Rido among the Tausug, Magindanao, Maranao, Sama and Yakan Tribes (Executive Summary). Ateneo de Zamboanga University Research Center and Notre Dame University Research Center, Zamboanga and Cotabato City. Espina-Varona, I. (2003). Claimants’ dispute threatens legacy. Manila Times: B’laans recall flight from homeland. Firth, A. (1996). The discursive accomplishment of “normality”: On conversation analysis and “Lingua Franca” English. Journal of Pragmatics, 26, 237–259. Frake, C., (1980). The genesis of kinds of people in the sulu archipelago. In C. Frake (Eds.), Language and Cultural Description: Essays by Charles O. Frake. Stanford University Press, Stanford. Gonzales, A., n.d. The language planning situation in the Philippines. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development 19, 1998. Guardados, J. J. (2001). Mindanao ethnic communities: patterns of growth and change. Quezon City, Philippines: University of the Philippines-Center for Integrative and Development Studies. Hayase, S. (2007). Mindanao ethnohistory beyond nations: Maguindanao, Sangir, and Bagobo Societies in East Maritime Southeast Asia. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Hayase, S., Non, D., & Ulaen, A. (1999). Silsilas/Tarsilas (Genealogies) and historical narratives in Sarangani Bay and Davao Gulf Regions, South Mindanao, Philippines and Sanguihe-Talaud Islands, North Sulawesi, Indonesia. Kyoto: Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Kyoto University. Horvatich, P. (2003). The Martyr and the Mayor. In R. Rosaldo (Ed.), Cultural Citizenship in Island Southeast Asia (pp. 17–43). Berkeley and LA: University of California Press. Kreuzer, P., (2005). Political clans and violence in the Southern Philippines, PRIF Report. Peace Research Institute Frankfurt. Lim-Mangada, L. (1997). Grooming the wards: Dynamics between a political party and community groups. In M. C. Ferrer (Ed.), Civil Society Making Civil Society, Philippine Democracy Agenda. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Third World Studies Center. Lyotard, J.-F. (1984). The postmodern condition: A report on knowledge. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Maentz, J., (2010). Soccsksargen and the B’laan Indigenous Peoples.

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Magno, F. (2003). Human and ecological security: the anatomy of mining disputes in the Philippines. In D. Dewitt & C. Hernandez (Eds.), Development and Security in Southeast Asia—The Environment (The International Political Economy of New Regionalisms) (pp. 115–136). Aldershot: Ashgate. Malaya, (2008). Shard Find in Intramuros Shows Early Form of Writing. Malid, J., Gulaya, W., (1997). We feel the pain of our mountain … our identity and culture will be destroyed. Kasama, Solidarity Philippines Australia 11. Mangahas, M., (2009). The scale of ‘rido’ in Mindanao. Philippine Daily Inquirer. MindaNews, (2010). 2 Dev’t Councils Adopt Tampakan Mining Venture as Regional Flagship Project. MindaNews.com. National Statistics Office. (2000). Census of population and housing: educational characteristics of the Filipinos. Manila: National Statistical Office. Nimmo, H. A. (1972). The sea people of Sulu. San Francisco: Chandler Publishing. Pallesen, A. K. (1985). Culture contact and language convergence. Manila: Linguistic Society of the Philippines. Pertierra, R., & Ugarte, E. (2002). American rule in the muslim south and the Philippine Hinterlands. In H. McFerson (Ed.), Mixed Blessing: The Impact of the American Colonial Experience on Politics and Society in the Philippines (pp. 191–208). Abingdon, UK: Greenwood Publishing Group. Ragsag, A., (2006). Plural orderings : Honor, clans and the state-secessionist dynamics in Southern Philippines. In XVth Congress on Legal Pluralism. Presented at the XVth Congress on Legal Pluralism. Jakarta. Rodil, R. (1994). The minoritization of the indigenous communities of Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago. Davao City, Philippines: Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao. Rovillos, R., & Morales, D. (2002). Indigenous peoples/ethnic minorities and poverty reduction— Philippines. Mandaluyong City, Philippines: Asian Development Bank. Saleeby, N. M. (1905). Studies in Moro history. Manila: Law and Religion. Sangogot, T. L. (2005). The Tawi Tawi Sama voice. In N. Revel (Ed.), Literature of Voice (pp. 59–76). Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Santos, H. (1993). The Tagalog script. Sushi Dog Graphics, Los Angeles, CA: Computer Fonts for IBM PC and Macintosh. Sather, C., (2004). Bajau. In K. G. Ooi, (Ed.), Southeast Asia: A Historical Encyclopedia, from Angkor Wat to East Timor. ABC-CLIO, pp. 200–201. Sather, C. (1997). The Bajau Laut: Adaptation, history and fate in a maritime fishing society of South-eastern Sabah. Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. Sather, C. (1995). Sea nomads and rainforest hunter-gatherers: Foraging adaptations in the IndoMalaysian Archipelago. In P. Bellwood, J. Fox, & D. Tryon (Eds.), The Austronesians: Historical and Comparative Perspectives (pp. 245–285). Canberra: Department of Anthropology, Australian National University and ANU E Press. Schatz, E., (2002). Tribes and clans in modern power: The state-led production of Subethnic politics in Kazakhstan. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation. University of Wisconsin, Madison. Scott, J. (1985). Weapons of the weak: Everyday forms of peasant resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press. Scott, W. H. (1992). Looking for the prehispanic Filipino and other essays in the Philippine history. Quezon City: New Day Publishers. Solheim, W., II. (2000). Taiwan, Coastal South China and Northern Viet Nam and the Nusantao Maritime Trading network. Journal of East Asian Archaeology, 2, 273–284. Solheim-II, W. (1975). Reflections on the new data of South-east Asian prehistory: Austronesian origin and consequence. Asian Perspectives, 18, 146–160. Thompson, R. (2003). Filipino English and Taglish: Language switching from multiple perspectives. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Torres, W. M., III (Ed.). (2007). Rido: Clan feuding and conflict management in Mindanao. Makati: Asia Foundation.

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Vidal, A. (2004). Conflicting laws, overlapping claims: The politics of indigenous peoples’ Land rights in Mindanao. Davao City, Philippines: Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao. Wimmer, A. (2008a). Elementary strategies of ethnic boundary-making. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 31, 1025–1055. Wimmer, A. (2008b). The making and unmaking of ethnic boundaries: A multilevel process theory. American Journal of Sociology, 113, 970–1022. Yanagita, K. (1976). Ebune. Ethnos, 6, 92–96.

Chapter 5

Distribution of Power

The previous chapter explains how institutional structures attendant to nationbuilding in the Philippines have led to the forming of ethnic differentiation along with gender and class cleavages. We have learned that the case of Philippine nationbuilding led to a conduct of state affairs in a secular manner but nevertheless marked by a Catholic-core. Where being Christian is a metonym to who is the Filipino, and of classifying the rest as the so-called ethnic others. These ‘ethnic others’, who are at one point, through an organized segment of their population are in armed opposition, and at one point in the negotiation table with the national government, refer to the Moros: the Mindanao Muslims and the indigenous groups in Mindanao, less organized politically than the Mindanao Muslims, are referred to as Lumads. These so-called ethnic others are far from monolithic, and even have nested further classifications. The Maranaos and the Sinamas are understood to be grouped under the Mindanao Muslims, and the B’laans under the Lumads. The objective of this chapter is to show why actors pursue which particular strategies of boundary-making. While the previous chapter attempts to explain why actors emphasize ethnic differentiation over other cleavages such as gender, class, income, among others, it does not explain the conditions under which actors modify, embrace, reproduce or subvert categorical distinctions that are used to refer to them by exogenous actors. To appropriate for ethnicity what Eric Hobsbawm (1991) explains for nationhood and nationalism, it is a dual phenomenon ‘…constructed essentially from above, [but it]… cannot be understood unless also analysed from below, that is in terms of the assumptions, hopes, needs, longings and interests of ordinary people’. This chapter shows that one’s position in the hierarchy of power influences the boundary-making strategy that one opts to pursue, and as a result, the ethnic differentiation that one chooses to emphasize. In the greater scheme of boundary-making strategy choices, the actor likely pursues the ethnic differentiation that is perceived to further his or her interests, within the context of the available power at his/her disposal. Power, in a Weberian-Bordieusian definition, is understood to be comprising the three dimensions of social stratification: earning capacity (access to economic resources), level of influence towards the choices of others (access to political resources), and prestige or social standing (access to symbolic resources). © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_5

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Specifically, this chapter looks at the location of the B’laans, the Sinamas and the Maranaos in the hierarchy of power and of how this informs the strategies of ethnic boundary-making—repositioning, blurring and inversion, respectively—that each pursues. For the B’laans, by choosing repositioning as a boundary strategy, they not only try to communicate their Filipino-ness, but even articulate a sense of ethnic identity that debunks the idea of a ‘non-Christian native’, and embrace the dominant narrative of who is the Filipino—that of a Christian as opposed to the ethnoreligious others, and yet at the same time, depart from the hegemonic Catholic Filipino sense of identity. Meanwhile, the Sinama Muslims, by way of an inversion of boundaries, presents themselves equally as Muslims and Filipinos, a departure from the prevailing narrative of a divide between the Christian majority Filipinos and the Mindanao Muslims or the Moros in Southern Philippines. Like the Sinamas, the Maranaos are also Muslims. The overriding strategy of ethnic differentiation exercised among their community is also through the process of blurring. But instead of appealing to the Christian/Filipino-Muslim boundary of differentiation, the Maranaos in this study in Sarangani Bay appeal to an identity of the market—as entrepreneurs and business people who espouse the values of an honest living, profit and progress. To recall, the purpose of this whole research work is three-pronged. First is to investigate what causes actors to articulate ethnic differentiation more over other forms of cleavages, which is discussed in chapter four. Second, to identify which strategies are pursued by which actors, to demarcate and define inclusions and exclusions in their ethnic worlds and why, as discussed in this chapter, in the margins of a conflict-affected area taking the case of a select population in the villages of Lanton and Tino’to in Sarangani Bay. Third, to locate where the ethnic boundaries are situated, which is covered in chapter six. This and the succeeding chapters are primarily based on field research results, which form the empirical component of this study. Secondary data is also used, whenever relevant, to corroborate the empirical findings shared in this chapter.

5.1 Repositioning Strategy of Boundary-Making of the B’laans In this section I analyse the position in the hierarchy of power of the B’laans, both within the local and the regional/national sphere and use this analysis to illuminate the reasons behind repositioning as Christian B’laans, as their boundary-making strategy of choice. While it is recognized that the choice of this boundary-making strategy is not reached collectively in a political sense, and that boundary-making is primarily an ideological process, the narratives of my interviewees and the observations of their lives show that individual members of the B’laan community in Tino’to have internalized and routinized repositioning as a strategy of boundary-making. In Wimmer’s framework of ethnic boundary making, the strategy of repositioning does not involve a contestation of the status quo nor are boundaries expanded or

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contracted. Instead, the existing hierarchical system is taken advantaged of by the actor, often in the minority, to change his or her own placement within this system, for the purpose of escaping his or her stigmatized minority status. This analysis brings to fore an understanding of the B’laans degree of access to power, which is understood here to be comprising three dimensions: access to economic resources, access to political resources and access to symbolic resources. Often referred to in the vernacular as ‘non-Christian tribal peoples’, the B’laans are part of the indigenous population,1 an upland minority in the South CotabatoSarangani area of Mindanao. The category ‘non-Christian tribal peoples’ place the B’laans outside of the master narrative of identity that revolves on a ChristianMuslim/Moro dichotomy. The implication of being outside of the categories in the master ethnic narrative has implications on the lives of B’laans—among which include their relatively weaker bargaining power and political influence in the discussions of political and economic governance in Mindanao. As revealed in the interviews and as manifested in the observations carried out among the B’laans in this study, the Sarangani Bay B’laans share in the greater B’laan and Lumad world’s sense of cultural, political and economic insecurity borne from centuries of government neglect, development aggression from resource extraction investments (mining, agribusiness, and cash-crop plantations), susceptibility to land-grabbing of individual Christian settlers and Mindanao Muslims alike (Kamlian 2003), exclusion from discussions and negotiations relating to Mindanao (Rodriguez 2008; Consultation Workshop on Indigenous Peoples’ Ancestral Domain Issue 2009) because of a scattered constituency all over Sarangani and South Cotabato that limits the capacity for unified action and social structure development (Consultation Workshop on Indigenous Peoples’ Ancestral Domain Issue 2009, 5), and from a dearth of an internal leadership and a critical mass of literate members. While at the macro-level, the B’laans are observed to be at a disadvantaged position, the next section details that while the B’laans in Sarangani Bay are for the most part also at a disadvantaged position in terms of access to economic and political resources, access to symbolic resources accrued from the prestige that sub-local leadership positions to those from their community bring, and their increasing religious identification towards Christianity. 1 The

Philippine Indigenous Peoples Rights Act (IPRA) of 1997 defines indigenous peoples as follows: ‘A group of people or homogeneous societies identified by self-ascription and ascription by others, who have continuously lived as organised community on communally bounded and defined territory, and who have, under claims of ownership since time immemorial, occupied, possessed and utilised such territories, sharing common bonds of language, customs, traditions and other distinctive cultural traits, or who have, through resistance to political, social and cultural inroads of colonisation, non-indigenous religions and cultures, become historically differentiated from the majority of Filipinos. ICCs/IPs [indigenous cultural communities/ indigenous peoples] shall likewise include peoples who are regarded as indigenous on account of their descent from the populations which inhabited the country, at the time of conquest or colonisation, or at the time of inroads of non-indigenous religions and cultures, or the establishment of present state boundaries, who retain some or all of their own social, economic, cultural and political institutions, but who may have been displaced from their traditional domains or who may have resettled outside their ancestral domains’. IPRA, Chapter II, Sect. 3h).

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5.2 Economic Access Majority of the B’laans in the area of this study are dependent on subsistence income. The B’laan males who are mostly identified as breadwinners or heads of households, are either into providing farm or irregular wage labour in neighbouring corporate farms and in limestone mines or quarries, respectively. For most of the B’laan farmers, their farmland, if any, are outside of village boundaries which require extended stays, as one interviewee shares: ‘I plant corns in the bukid (literally hinterlands), that is why I cannot go back home as often here in Tino’to. Farming outside of the village perimeter is deemed necessary as its coastal location does not support plant life well, according to another B’laan interviewee: ‘We plant mais (corn), saging (bananas), balanghoy (cassava) out there, because here, nothing can be grown. In our farms, the weather is cooler (compared in Tino’to), there are more chances that what we plant can grow’. Not all B’laans however have access to farmland, much more ownership of land. For some of them, joining the wage labour market is an option, in corporate farms or as construction workers in neighbouring towns and cities. But while the B’laan farmers in Tino’to are generally into subsistence farming and rely on poor earnings, those who work as labourers even have poorer earnings. Other B’laans engage in limestone mining and selling them to buyers. One of those interviewed shares that income from limestone mining is just break-even: ‘It all depends if I can gather 20 sacks of limestone in a day, there will be some extra’. Buyers get a 50-kg sack of limestone for PhP50, which is later distributed to market at the rate of PhP100 per sack. The wives of the farming B’laans however, prefer to stay in Tino’to with the rest of the household, joining their husbands only during the harvest season. When asked why they don’t just move to the farm and establish residence there, most say they prefer being in Tino’to for the relative diversion that it offers relative to their remote farms. Most of these wives however are not stay-at-home housekeepers, rather, most of them are engaged in the informal economy at the neighbouring General Santos City. A proxy for determining a B’laan’s level of means is through an observation of the house he or she lives in, and the furnitures that may or may not be present in this house. For most B’laans, a typical house would be made of nipa leaves, bamboo or corrugated iron walls, and mud floors. Most of these houses do not have partitions, so that the receiving area, the kitchen, the dining area and the bedroom are in the same place. It is very clear from the observations shared above that the earning capacity of most of the B’laan informants for this study is limited. But for most families, while their present incomes may be limited, they look forward to the promise of the value that their children’s education hold in the future.

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75

5.3 Political Access Upland minorities in Mindanao or the Lumads, as a whole, are traditionally labelled as ‘non-Christians’, and albeit unexpressed, ‘non-Muslims’ as well, regardless of their historical ties with both Christianity and Islam. In fact, the term Lumad has been meant to set a distinction from the Moros and the majority Christian Filipinos. Of the 808 adults (18 and above) in barangay Tino’to, surveyed purposely in 2006 for this study, the B’laans only constitute 9.28% or a count of 75 people (as shown earlier in Chapter Three). While clearly numerically insignificant, B’laan representation in barangay politics is worth to mention. The barangay secretary position,2 which many consider as the little barangay chief executive (called barangay kapitan), exerts a position of decision-making and of a level of respect. It is held by a young B’laan woman who was in her thirties. In fact, for most B’laan informants in this study, she is the representation of a modern B’laan—one who is able to take on a position of government service. Entering into government service is considered by the B’laan informants in this study as an indicator of the willingness and the capacity to take full participation in the bigger national community. Besides, government service, especially in rural Philippines, is considered as the best if not the only major employment one can possibly get for the perceived perks, power and privilege that it affords the postholder. Hence, the opportunity to hold government office for a B’laan, regardless of the level of service, feeds into the aspirations of the rest for a bigger sense of belonging, to get away from the perception of being at the fringes of national identity and the life of a nation. However, at the regional or national level, the B’laans do not hold an influential role in as much as claims to resources or rights are concerned. A number of factors may explain this situation. Contrary to Mindanao Muslim communities whose population are often concentrated in several clusters of communities or provinces, the B’laans are rarely concentrated in one location, but are rather scattered in different parts of the Sarangani-South Cotabato provinces. As such, there is little opportunity for them to mobilize or at least organize themselves as an interest group. Also, because of their dispersion across different locations in the Sarangani-South Cotabato provinces, they neither provide an attraction as an electoral base for politicians or for political parties to pursue.

5.4 Symbolic Access While culturally rich (See Rodil 1994), most B’laans like the rest of the Lumads, are increasingly minoritized in Mindanao (Rovillos and Morales 2002). Land dispossession is a common concern among the B’laans that I have interviewed, similar 2 See

Book Three for the appointment, qualifications, powers duties and benefits of a barangay Secretary.

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challenges, as documented (see Espina-Varona 2003a, b; Espina-Varona 2003; Vidal 2004), that Lumads elsewhere in Mindanao experience. This was due to the fact that tribal lands which were traditionally communally owned properties were subjected to the Torrens system of land registration, and were availed by settlers from Luzon and the Visayas, and in a number of cases, are held in parallel claims by Mindanao Muslims (Magno 2003, 127–131; MindaNews 2010; Malid and Gulaya 1997). Most of the B’laans today live in areas that are considered to be undesirable due to its distance and in lands that do not have the quality for necessary for productive farming. Some B’laan communities are successful in claiming legal ownership of tribal lands, with a Certificate of Ancestral Domain Title. But a number of them continue to fight against what is perceived as development aggression of agribusiness and mining companies’ interests to their ancestral domains.3 If access to political and economic resources is difficult, if not totally closed, my interviews revealed that the B’laans’ fare better in their access to symbolic resources. Even less significant government positions are nevertheless considered in esteem. As you may recall in earlier chapters, Barangay Tino’to is further subdivided into three puroks or sitios.4 And of these sitios, two B’laans were appointed as purok leaders. While purok leaders’ main roles are to assist, maintain and secure peace and order in their respective puroks, a purok leadership role in Barangay Tino’to is an enviable position because of the holder’s access to and role in the distribution of a scarce resource in the barangay—potable water. Six communal faucet systems (level 2) and two point sources (level 1) are available in the village for a population of approximately 400 households.5 As early as 3 o’clock in the morning, yellow, red, black, grey and blue empty gallons are lined up in front of these water sources. Whereas, in other areas in the country, water could be easily had from a source point, saltwater intrusion makes it almost useless to dig a well or a pump in the village. It must be remembered that the village lies along the shore of the Sarangani Bay and Celebes Sea basin. And where water access is less accessible, the 3 One

of these business interests is the Sagittarius Mines Inc. (SMI)-owned $6-billion Tampakan Copper-Gold Project, considered as the single biggest direct investment in the Philippines. The project is hounded with opposition from civil society groups, but is endorsed by government agencies, among them the chairman of the National Commission on Indigenous People (NCIP). The project has also received mixed reactions from the B’laan community themselves, with some satisfied with the development support like farm productivity trainings (Sarmiento 2004) and infrastructure construction provided by the company to the community. 4 A purok is a quasi-government unit which usually consists of a cluster of households, and is subsumed under the jurisdiction of the barangay. A purok leader/president is a person who leads the community and is often a member of the barangay council. 5 The Department of Interior and Local Government identifies three types of water sources in the Philippines: Level 1 (point source)—a protected well or a developed spring with an outlet but without a distribution system; generally adaptable for rural areas where the houses are thinly scattered. A Level 1 facility normally serves an average of 15 households. Level II (communal faucet system or standpost)—a system composed of a source, a reservoir, a piped distribution network and communal faucets. It is generally suited for rural and urban fringe areas where houses are clustered densely to justify a simple piped system. Usually, one faucet serves four to six households. Level III (waterworks system or individual house connection)—a system with a source, a reservoir, a piped distribution network and household taps. It is generally suited for densely populated urban areas.

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price is even more exorbitant. Whereas a family of four in the neighbouring General Santos City may consume a minimum of PhP100.00 monthly, in the village where this study was done, each household spends up to five times more per month, ranging from PhP180-480. Not to mention that in General Santos City, the standard of living is higher, income opportunities are more and water is sourced through household taps, compared to the village in Sarangani Province where earnings are poorer, water is fetched or is delivered from merchandizing peddlers, water quality and safety is not guaranteed. Considering the costs too of the water, what households can only afford to buy are for drinking and cooking use. Water for hygienic use remains to be sourced somewhere else. While the purok leader merely oversees that the distribution of potable water is done with regularity and order, the perception of such a position’s power is magnified because the resource that it oversees is considered as highly valuable and with an inelastic demand with the community at large. Apart from political positions that only carry nominal power, the interviews I have done for this study revealed another dimension of symbolic power that the B’laans in Sarangani Bay hold.

5.5 ‘The Authentic Christians’ While the Muslim members of the neighbourhood are welcoming another day in prayer, most of the B’laan Lumad households start preparing for their morning devotions, a daily habit encouraged by the Alliance6 church for the ‘authentic believers’ or ‘born-again Christians’7 —as my informants would call themselves. Alliance is the Evangelical Protestant sect to which most B’laans in Tino’to have converted to. While some admit that there are days when they do not go for their morning devotion, they readily say that there is no excuse for this, and they always hope to do better and

6 The colloquial term, which shall be used in the entire study for brevity, for what is officially known

as the Christian and Missionary Alliance Evangelical Church, which belongs to the umbrella of The Christian and Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines (CAMACOP), a Christian evangelical group in the Philippines, (See The Christian and Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines, online document, Doing the Mission Together, n.d., http://camacop.org.ph/). which in turn is affiliated and was founded by the United States-based, foreign mission-aimed, The Christian and Missionary Alliance. The C&MA website quotes its 1978–1987 President L.L. King’s statement to define itself: ‘The Alliance is a unique missionary denomination—a maverick movement into whose soul the Head of the Church breathed “Go!” from the very start’ (see The Christian and Missionary Alliance, online document, The Alliance: Living the Call Together, n.d., http://www. cmalliance.org/). 7 Born-Again Christians in the context of the Philippines is a loosely used term to refer to those involved with Christian denominations that are in the charismatic or (neo) Pentecostal renewal movement which emphasizes individual spiritual experience, the exercise of the biblical gifts of the Holy Spirit, and worship styles that has a very strong element of millenarianism and populism (see Kessler 2006; Poewe 1994).

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be on track on ‘the daily habit of devotion’. After all, they say, sticking to the morning and evening devotion is the hallmark of an authentic ‘born-again Christian’ (see similar findings of Paredes, 2006). These B’laans in this study speak of their ‘authentic Christianity’ after ‘accepting Jesus as their personal God and savior’ through the Alliance8 church, the Evangelical Protestant sect to which majority of the B’laans in this study area have converted to. Their self-professed claim that they are ‘born-again Christians’9 forms part of the antithetical reality to the historically inaccurate but convenient marker of categorization of B’laans as ‘non-Christians’ outside the converted B’laan world. This claim likewise adds to what has been documented by other scholars that the ‘nonChristian’ Lumads or natives in Mindanao have had historical conversion experiences to Christianity, like other indigenous minorities in the country. There is reason to the argument that as much as the category of ‘non-Christian’ Lumad embeds assumptions of minoritization and stigma, the re-labelling, no matter if self-generated, of the newly converted B’laan who know becomes a card-carrying ‘authentic Christian’, is another form of minoritization and cultural assault. The choices that each individual makes after all, as we follow this argument, are limited by the context in which they operate. Indeed, B’laan conversion to Christianity could be seen as a further capitulation to the hegemonic identity politics in Mindanao. B’laan households whose children’s education is sponsored by World Vision—an international Christian relief, development and advocacy organization—are also part of the Alliance church. Outside the B’laans, there is no single household that is a beneficiary of World Vision. Interviews of local Alliance church and World Vision leaders and observations of their operations while I was doing the fieldwork for this research did not yield a categorical definition of a relationship between each other. However, a preview of the website of World Vision Philippines shows that as part of its Preamble of Church Partnership Policy ‘World Vision’s commitment is to work with churches as indispensable partners, while continuing to engage the total community’ (World Vision Philippines n.d.) Other Christian churches in the village are a small group of Catholic members and a smaller group of Seventh Day Adventists As World 8 The colloquial term, which shall be used in the entire study for brevity, for what is officially known

as the Christian and Missionary Alliance Evangelical Church, which belongs to the umbrella of The Christian and Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines (CAMACOP), a Christian evangelical group in the Philippines, (See The Christian and Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines, online document, Doing the Mission Together, n.d., http://camacop.org.ph/). which in turn is affiliated and was founded by the United States-based, foreign mission-aimed, The Christian and Missionary Alliance. The C&MA website quotes its 1978–1987 President L.L. King’s statement to define itself: ‘The Alliance is a unique missionary denomination—a maverick movement into whose soul the Head of the Church breathed “Go!” from the very start’ (see The Christian and Missionary Alliance, online document, The Alliance: Living the Call Together, n.d., http://www. cmalliance.org/). 9 Born-Again Christians in the context of the Philippines is a loosely used term to refer to those involved with Christian denominations that are in the charismatic or (neo) Pentecostal renewal movement which emphasizes individual spiritual experience, the exercise of the biblical gifts of the Holy Spirit, and worship styles that has a very strong element of millenarianism and populism (see Kessler 2006; Poewe 1994).

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Vision is also with Evangelical Protestant moorings like Alliance, it is likely that they are cooperating in various capacities and levels. On the other hand, the entry of Alliance in the midst of the Sarangani B’laan community is one that is facilitated primarily by the B’laan language, unlike other religion in the locality that draws on foreign tongues—Bisaya, Tagalog, English for other Christian denominations like the Catholic Church or Arabic for the Muslims. For many of the B’laans studied in this work, Alliance’s centering of their liturgy via the native language and formalizing the oral language into written form were regarded positively. Training of church leadership involving those coming from the community members themselves was also part of the Alliance practice, an effort perceived by my B’laan informants to be beneficial for their community, in the long run. On top of the material gains and the spiritual syncretism that Evangelical Christianity conversion offers, my B’laan informants also reflected on the repercussions of this conversion to their ethnic identification. For the B’laans that I have interviewed for this research, is there a sense of conflict over this Christian conversion with the preservation of B’laan customs and traditions behind? Is the ‘acceptance of Jesus as their Lord and Savior’ a turning back to the way of life as an indigenous community? If these questions were difficult to answer, they were also difficult to ask. But the focus group discussions I requested, which were accommodated in the many cell-groups of these prayer meetings, provided the right environment to discuss and think these issues through. While the answers to these questions were expressed in different ways, the summary of their answers point not to a rationalization of the conversion process, but to a rationalization of their choice of religion to convert to. According to them, embracing Christianity together with their indigenous religious practices is not an issue. My own interpretation is that it could be because the B’laans’ religious world is open to syncretism and polytheism.10

10 But Alliance’s strong points are not only in form, but also in substance. One, the Christian story in Genesis is perceived by my informants to be of similar account to the B’laan’s indigenous story of creation (Eugenio 2007, 12; Cole 1916, 139–140). Two, B’laans are believers in a hierarchy of gods and goddesses (D’wata) headed by Melu/Nemula, the most high God (who may be called Megbevayà, Misuwara, Midlimbag, Tulus, Mà Bè Longit, Magbabaya, and Gempiya by other communities belonging to the greater Lumad world). They related to me that the Christian’s ‘God the Father’ and ‘God the Son Jesus’ binary fits in this co-existing hierarchy of deities. Three, the evangelical approach of a personal relationship with ‘God the Father’ and ‘God the Son Jesus’ has resonance on the cosmological belief of the B’laans that the gods and goddesses frequently and intimately communicate with earthly mortals. Thus an individual sharing which is prefaced with ‘Jesus spoke to me…’ in weekly community prayer meetings does not appear as odd or alien for the average B’laan. The success of evangelical Christian missions among the Lumads point to the paradigmatic analogies that they offer between their brand of Christianity and indigenous tradition, as argued in the study of Oona Paredes (2006) among the Higaunons of Northern Mindanao. She points to several factors, but highlights the resonance of the dominant themes of Evangelical Christianity with those of the themes and format of the Ulaging epic that is also the basis of Higaunon and Manobo Lumad millenarian movements. These parallelisms that the native converts draw between the Protestant theology presented to them and their vernacular epics, idioms and belief system, have improved the

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Rather, the more important issue for many of them—which on hindsight informed their decision to convert—is which kind of Christianity they are going to embrace. Using Weber’s sociology of religion, referring to how a religious system of meaning has been embedded to social, political and economic conditions (1963; 1968) we may look at religious conversion among the politically and culturally minoritized B’laans as a choice, no matter how constrained, to regenerate the community’s cultural distinctiveness, rather than an emasculation of tradition. To be fair, a number admitted that their decision to join the Alliance church was a proxy choice made by another family member—a household head, a literate member of the family, a community elder or someone invested by the community with respect. But for these informants who admitted to proxy decision-making, they underscored that these decisions were nevertheless owned by them, and decisions that they can withdraw from if they needed or preferred to. As a male interviewee disclosed: ‘At first, I did not put much thought about going to Alliance. I admit I did not really make this decision to join (the religious organisation). But my wife has been joining their activities and services every Sunday. She is never one who decides on something haphazardly, so I went with her after then. Looking back, I am glad I did follow her decision’. (B5G2, Personal Interview, 01 Dec 2006) The findings detailed above show that the B’laans’ conversion to the evangelical Alliance Church suggests advantages spanning from the material/economic (scholarships/sponsorships; literacy; network expansion; access to broader humanitarian services); the cultural (brand of Christianity has religious resonance with indigenous belief; documentation of an oral language); and the political (distinct identification; identification and training of prospective leaders) that were choices of agency to reinvigorate their sense of being B’laans. Acosta (1994) provides a point of comparison, when he talked about internally articulated process of retribalization in his study of the Lumads in Bukidnon. According to him, this revitalization process involves the ‘creative infusion of modernising influences into a framework of indigenous cultural idioms and practices’. As we can see from the narrative above about the Sarangani B’laans whose experiences inform this study, the success of minority conversion, points to a Gramscian dynamics of coercion and consent, where neither coercion nor consent is a monopoly of the evangelical proselytizing agent and the proselytized. To put it another way, the conversion process is by no means unilateral, but can best be described as a mutually reinforcing transaction, involving multiple layers of agency. By choosing the Evangelical/Born-Again Protestant brand of Christianity, B’laans are able to maintain distinctiveness from the majority Catholic Filipinos. Distinction according to their accounts, not only refer to being different, but to being more authentic from other Christian denominations. In short, converting to Alliance’s acceptability of the religion being introduced, and have blurred the foreign connotation attached to it. As Keyes (Keyes 1996) describes Protestant missions across Southeast Asia: ‘The Gospel in Thai has a Buddhist flavour while that in Indonesia has an Islamic one, and both have differences that reflect the distinctive language practices of non-Christian Thai and Indonesians’.

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brand of Christianity is thus a powerful tool for creating identity, subverting ethnic boundary norms and embracing modernity while maintaining their own indigeneity separate from that of the Filipinos who are predominantly Catholics. For the B’laans, by choosing to reposition their ethnic boundary from a pagan/animist B’laan to a B’laan Christian, this attains the purpose of communicating their sense of being a Filipino. By articulating the identity of being a ‘born-again Christian’ the B’laans professing this engages in the struggle to subvert the idea of a ‘non-Christian native’, embrace the dominant narrative of who is the Filipino—that of a Christian as opposed to the ethnoreligious others, and yet at the same time, depart from the hegemonic Catholic Filipino sense of identity. But the more salient issue for this research is to understand why repositioning is chosen by the B’laans among the different strategies for ethnic boundary making. As mentioned elsewhere in this chapter, and which has value to be repeated here, one’s position in the hierarchy of power influences the boundary-making strategy that one opts to pursue, and as a result, the ethnic differentiation that one chooses to emphasize. In the empirical finding shown above, the actors studied, the average B’laan of Sarangani Bay, pursues the ethnic differentiation that is perceived to further his or her interests, within the context of the available power at his/her disposal. With no economic weight and only nominal access to political power, the symbolic power available from religious conversion is a clear option for the B’laans. By being a part of the Christian majority, the implications of this to the average B’laan is his or her liberation from being a not only a minority but a minority among minorities. And yet, by choosing to convert to a Christian denomination that is not associated with the majority Catholic and a belief that shares similar world-views of traditional B’laan beliefs, a sense of non-disengagement from traditional community and its beliefs is preserved.

5.6 Blurring Strategy of Boundary-Making of the Maranaos Using Wimmer’s framework of ethnic boundary making, this section investigates on the limiting and catalyzing role of access to power to the dynamics of boundarymaking among the Maranaos of Sarangani Bay. The Maranao households in this study, they engage into five main groups of trade: cellular phones, general merchandise, fish retail and wholesale, and secondhand clothing from abroad or popularly known as ukay-ukay, and weaving, wood and bass craft. Most, however, are in general merchandise, which includes all kinds of wares, garments, jewellery and watches and bootlegged VCDs and DVDs in the General Santos City Public Market. My interviews with the Maranaos in this study captured their preponderance to define themselves on the basis of their occupation rather than on other markers, such as their religion as Muslims, and of the Maranao legacy of being involved in the

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armed movement for secession and armed rebellion. The next sections will further explain why. According to Wimmer’s framework of boundary-making, this is boundary blurring. Ethnic boundary blurring is aimed to overcome ethnicity as a principle of categorization by promoting alternative principles of boundaries that appeal to commonalities and universalizing norms. Compared with boundary repositioning which do not stand in opposition to existing hierarchical structures but rather works along these lines, which is associated with the B’laans in the previous section, boundary blurring not only skirts around the hierarchical ethnic status quo, but questions its relevance or applicability. Continuing the same logic in the previous section, here, I look at the access to power of the Maranaos in Sarangani Bay, according to three dimensions— access to economic resources, access to political resources, and access to symbolic resources, and attempt to answer why boundary blurring defines their boundary making dynamics.

5.7 Economic Access While these trading ventures are single-owned, the sources of capital are either family- or community-pooled. The Maranaos have institutionalized the boh-boh, the Mindanao term for the paluwagan system through, among others, the General Santos City Public Market Maranao Credit Cooperative and the General Santos City Public Market Maranaw Small Businessmen Multi-Purpose Cooperative.11 Boh-boh is a collective and rotating saving system, widely popular in the Philippines, under which each member contribute a fixed amount on a regular basis to a fund pool and take turns in collecting the accumulated fund, often referred as a ‘salary’. For the Maranao informants in this study, they use their ‘salary’ from their turn of boh-boh to start a new or expand current business, a practice also documented as key to the financial success of Muslim traders in the upper middle-class shopping district of Greenhills in the national capital region, Metro Manila (Arceo-Dumlao 2010). The Maranao informants in this research argue that the boh-boh system proves to be a viable and a religiously sanctioned source of capital, compared to the five-six12 lending system (see Kondo 2003; Agabin 1988), commonly accessed by their nonMuslim counterparts in the market, which not only charge onerous interest rates, but is haraam or prohibited for Muslims because the charging by the lender and the payment of interests runs against the Sharia Law. 11 According to the Cooperative Development Authority of the Philippines, a credit cooperative is one that promotes and undertakes savings and lending services among its members. It generates a common pool of funds in order to provide financial assistance and other related financial services to its members for productive and provident purposes (Republic of the Philippines 1990; Republic of the Philippines 2009). 12 As the name implies, fixe-six borrowing operates on a collateral free- manner whereby the lender pay 6 pesos for every 5 peso borrowed over a period of one week, coupled with 1 peso interest.

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Their boh-boh scheme typically involves about 10 contributors over a period of time for each group, with each member contributing PhP300.00 each day. Each contributor gets a ‘salary’ of as much as PhP30,000.00 when he or she gets his or her turn for the pooled fund. Compared to the daily minimum wage for non-agricultural workers set by the National Wages and Productivity Commission in 2006 which stood at PhP213.50, the PhP300.00 a day of contribution to the boh-boh system on a regular basis shows the relative greater income, even if not quite high, of the Maranaos in this study.

5.8 Political Access The Maranao respondents to this study, posses and exhibit little political power if any, within their residential neighbourhood or even in the bigger barangay affairs. In fact, most of them spend more time outside of their residential communities than in them, with most of them starting to head out as early as 2:00 o’clock in the morning and head back at around 9:00 o’clock in the evening, due to the nature required of their trade. This can be gleaned in the conspicuous presence of the Maranaos in the marketplace rather than in their residential community. As a matter of fact, because of the important, albeit small-scale, trading role of the Maranaos in the General Santos City Public Market, their political significance is more pronounced in their non-residential job-centred community,13 which manifests, among others, in their willingness to police the public market and cooperate with the authorities in giving tips or information for suspicious activities, especially during high-traffic season. As mentioned in previous chapters, the General Santos City public market has been the location of a number of bombing attacks. At the request of authorities, the Maranaos are called on to engage in self-policing, to deter or fend off threats of bomb attacks to the General Santos Public Market, that are alleged to be perpetrated by Muslim extremists. During the time that the research for this study was carried out in November 2006, the Maranao-run General Santos City Public Market Maranaw Small Businessmen Multi-Purpose Cooperative cooperated with the General Santos police authorities in securing the city’s public market for the national holidays, by volunteering its more than one hundred members to watch out for suspicious circumstances and movement of people. In fact, this engagement in self-policing was considered to be very significant that it was reported in important news agencies in the country (see Zonio and Maulana 2006; Philippine Information Agency 2007). It is understand by the Maranaos that the police authorities come from a different set of assumptions on self-policing, namely, its recognition of ethnic groups as 13 A non-residential job-centred community is a cluster of people engaged in a specific occupation or livelihood, as Muslim community formation in Metro Manila is also characterized in the study of Watanabe (2007).

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political communities with the capacity to appeal to ethnic contract as a deterrent to extremist action. As one interviewee shares: ‘The police seems to draw our help because it is their understanding that the culprit for any attack will be from us, or at least if not from us, we would have inside information of who it would be’. (M1G1, Personal Interview, 07 December 2006). However, by the same breath, what this study found is that the Maranaos in Sarangani Bay participate in securing the public market against attacks, because to them, it is an opportunity to exercise civic participation, and even of citizenship, to the community at large. On the other hand, self-policing is seen as a collective self-defence not only of their persons but mainly of their livelihoods which stand to be the most affected should extremist action be not deterred. A younger Maranao who was interviewed had this to say: ‘My parents have left their hometown because it was difficult to live in a community of strife and lack of opportunities. Precisely the reason we moved here is that we just wanted to go on with life. Work hard like the rest does. While we do not turn our backs on our Muslim heritage, we are primarily business traders. When there is no sense of normalcy, its bad for business. We engage in self-policing because its bad for business. If it is not the issue here whether the culprits are Muslims or Christians. We are as concerned as everyone for the peace of this city and of the public market, so we can have food on the table and we can send our young to schools’ (M2G2, Personal Interview, 11 December 2006). What this does statement does communicate is that it is more meaningful to define boundaries of identification along trade rather than on ethnic lines.

5.9 Symbolic Access As mentioned earlier, symbolic power refers to perceptions of socially inculcated classificatory schemes that may include prestige, honour and attention, among others. While the Maranaos interviewed for this study highlight their entrepreneurial strengths and predispositions rather than their ethnicity. An example is the average Maranao’s interpretation of the invitation accorded to them of self-policing the market place during peak seasons in the Philippines such as the Day of the Dead celebrated on 1–2 November, and on Christmas Day on 24–25 December. The average Maranaos give their assent to self-policing from the standpoint that it is a form of collective self-defence not only of their persons but mainly of their livelihoods which stand to be the most affected should extremist action be not deterred. The presentation of an entrepreneurial identity of themselves is not an isolated case for the Maranaos in Sarangani Bay. In fact, Maranaos, who consider Lanao Province as their hometown, have long held the reputation of being the most entrepreneurial not only among Mindanao Muslims (see L. Lacar and C. Lacar 3-14 1989; Mendoza 2004; Panda 2005; Delfin 2008) but relative to others in the country. Documented evidence of their intermarriages into families of Chinese traders (see Mendoza 2004) is said to cement their trade niche in various areas in the country. In rural areas

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of Mindanao, the Maranaos engage in the buy and sell of crops such as tobacco, coffee, coconut and palay (unpolished rice). Maranao entrepreneurship is also seen in factory-shopping districts—Quiapo and Greenhills, in the capital Metro Manila. As boundary-making is a relational, ideological process, as Maranaos try to elevate their boundary identifiers as entrepreneurs, and in turn, tone down on the ethnoreligious marker, the non-Maranao world in Sarangani Bay draw on the latter, i.e. religious ethnicity, to define their perceptions of them. It is widely known that the Maranaos are associated with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), an organization, whose roster of members and cadres are mostly comprised of ethnic Maranaos, aiming for an Islamic independent state. No less than the founder and the now-deceased former Chair, Hashim Salamat, who has held the MILF leadership for a long time, supported by ethnic Maguindanaos in the split from the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), also belongs to the Maranao ethnic group. This is not to say that the association to the movement immediately casts a negative shadow over the Maranaos. In fact, to their non-Muslim, non-Maranao neighbours, this aspect of their association is taken with respect. A number of communal conflicts among non-Muslims in the neighbourhood are lodged to an informal leader in the Maranao community, whose decision is traditionally accepted by all parties to the conflict owing to the perception that an association to the MILF movement renders one with credibility and principles. Another example of the persisting ethnoreligious identification ascribed to the Maranaos can be reflected upon from the commissioning of the local police for the Maranaos to render self-policing, as mentioned above. Self-policing can indeed be seen as an affirmative regime for each member of the community to have an opportunity to step up in carrying out their citizenship duties. However, self-policing also presupposes a belief in the existence of an ethnic community as a unified political actor with the capacity to appeal to an ethnic contract and deter extremist action. The main question that needs an answer here however is: why do Maranaos in Sarangani Bay participate in a boundary-making exercise that emphasizes their entrepreneurial rather than their militant Muslim characterization? The fact that self-policing is invited among the Maranaos by the authorities in Sarangani Bay presupposes that some elements in the Maranao community might be involved in inciting violence in the centre of Sarangani Bay life—the public market. However, by cooperating, the Maranaos put forward a different angle to the whole scenario—in the sense that this cooperation to police their ranks means, first, that the Maranaos, like everyone else, is concerned about stability that is required for a profitable business as any sensible entrepreneur would; and second, that the Maranaos are in respect of the government and are aware of their civic duty. The divergent meanings accorded above to self-policing shows the contradictory sense of power that the Maranao informants in this study experience and negotiate with, as they live in their daily lives and in relation to the bigger national community. In Wimmer’s framework of ethnic boundary making, the strategy of blurring reduces the significance of ethnic boundaries, as what the Maranaos in Sarangani Bay are doing, by refocusing a sense of belonging from other points of orientation such as

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a local community, a global reference of community, or universalizing experiences, cultures or belief systems.

5.10 The Normative Inversion Strategy of Ethnic Boundary-Making of the Sinamas In this section, an analysis is provided of the correlates between access to power with the boundary inversion strategy of the Sinamas, as they present the critique that they often receive of ‘being not Muslim enough’ by the dominant Muslim communities in Mindanao, into a normative ideal of being ‘cultural Muslims’. Boundary inversion, as the name implies, is an attempt not to move the location of boundaries but to change the hierarchical ordering of ethnic categories. And the reordering of the ethnic hierarchy is brought about by the investment of new meaning to what was otherwise considered as inferior or marginal by the dominant. Sinama-speakers have been formed as a corporate entity in the Philippines, on the account of their hegemonic incorporation to the socio-political and economic structure of the Sulu sultanate, whose very trade needed them as mercenaries and underlings (See Mendoza 2004). In contemporary times, Sinamas of Sulu and Tawi-Tawi, where they have the greatest concentration in the Philippines, are known to engage themselves in occupations such as seaweed farming, fishing and boat-building. The Sarangani Sinamas, all point to Siasi, Sulu14 as their point of origin, whether they have travelled directly or indirectly from, to the village of their current residence where this study was conducted. The Sinamas’ contemporary voyage to Sarangani Bay is a combination of many factors. According to some of them, their move was driven by their displacement from violent conflicts in their town of origin between the government forces and the secessionist movement, and from direct encounters with the Sulu-dominant Tausugs. Some have come to Sarangani Bay, after being deported from neighbouring Sabah, Malaysia and Sulawesi, Indonesia15 after being caught without valid documents to stay despite calling these places home since fleeing the Philippines mostly during Martial Law,16 and heard about Sarangani Bay as suitable for their seafaring lifestyle. While not considered as among the first settlers in Sarangani Bay, linguistic characteristics and anthropological evidence (Sather 1997, 2004, 1995) insist that the Sinamas are among the pioneers in Mindanao. This, despite the popular belief that the Sinamas’ arrival in Sulu followed after the Tausugs have already set a socio-political order, the little recognition of a bigger Samal community among the Sinama-speaking 14 Siasi, Sulu is the locality where Samals in the Philippines have the largest concentration (Horvatich 2003). 15 In both Indonesia and Malaysia, Sinamas are referred to as Bajaus, but in the Philippines, Bajau or the Badjao is another ethnic category, although they are believed to belong to the Sinama-speaking community like the Sinamas. 16 This was between the years 1972–1986.

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population themselves, and the pervasiveness of the use of Tausug as a common language, even in Sinama-populated areas.

5.11 Economic Access In Tino’to, fishing is the primary income of most households, with the use of either hook-and-line or drift gillnet fishing gears.17 Most able-bodied adult male Sinamas are engaged in fishing on a full-time basis. For subsistence fisherfolk, it is a repeated everyday task of coastal fishing with their small bancas that fit only about one to two persons. Compared to small-scale commercial Sinama fishers, who go to the laut (the deep) for a three-month or less fishing expedition, costing PhP10,000 at the minimum, and usually money from loan sharks in the village. Sinama women sell their husband’s and children’s catch and the dried fish that they themselves cured from these catch expeditions. However, these Muslim Sinama households with fishing as primary income source, generally get their income as well from multiple streams—in boat-building, aimed for sale to fisherfolk in the village; having a sari-sari (convenience) store that is usually run without the requisite permits or payment of tax obligations; the preparation by Sinama women of what they call as traditional Muslim food for sale to the rest of the community, particularly tinagtag,18 of which I have been served and given takeaways for free, numerous times; or peeling, slicing and drying bananas for banana chip makers. As Tino’to is along the highway where people pass by on their way from the capital of the town Maasim, in the south of Sarangani Province, to General Santos City in the north, villagers put up temporary stalls by the roadside for their produce of fresh and dried fish, cooked food and vegetables. Rarely is there a day when vehicles do not stop to purchase what is on sale in these makeshift stalls along the highway. This activity adds on to the family table of the villagers in Tino’to. While two private fishing-related industries—the RD Corporation-owned Gensan Shipyard and Machine Works, and Gensan Oxygen Corporation—are based in the 17 For comparison of most common fishing methods in the Sarangani Bay Area, See Edgar de Jesus et al. 2001 Coastal Environmental Profile of Sarangani Bay Area (Quezon City, Philippines: Department of Environment and Natural Resources supported by the United States Agency for International Development, 2001), 65, http://www.oneocean.org/download/20010825/sarangani_ profile for comparison of most common fishing methods in the Sarangani Bay Area. 18 A Sinama interviewee who is in her 50 s shares, as she was offering me a sample: ‘Taste this. This is really a pagkaong Muslim (Muslim food)’. Tinagtag is made of finely ground rice, shaped into brittle strips, mixed with sugar. The whole cooking process is accompanied by the rhythmic sound from the balabad (wooden sticks) and dabakan (an animal skin-covered cask), implements for the tinagtag preparation. See related information from news features on tinagtag at Russtum Pelima, “Tinagtag: From Banquet to Market,” Sun Star General Santos, June 27, 2007, http://www.sunstar.com. ph/static/gen/2007/06/27/news/tinagtag.from.banquet.to.market.html; Ruby Thursday, “Tinagtag: a Maguindanaon Delicacy Best Eaten with Coffee and Coco Milk,” MindaNews (Davao City, Philippines, June 28, 2010), http://dateline.ph/?p=4344.

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village of Tino’to, my informants related that these companies hardly employ anyone from the village. The Tino’to Trading Construction,19 a trading infrastructure also standing in the village, and a million peso project of the Community Infrastructure Project for Mindanao of USAID, was completed the year before this study was conducted, but remained locked and unused at the time. A few Sinamas in Tino’to hold clerical jobs in the local government outside of the village. In recent years, a few were able to complete their university education, gaining education degrees. Three of these few Sinama university degree-holders have in fact, come into my employ for this research project. This generation of university graduates has in fact started the wave of Sinamas engaging in salaried work, e.g. teaching at the local public schools system. From this research, it is apparent that the mostly subsistent income of the Sinamas means that the economic capacity, more so the economic power held by the Sinamas are low, if not at all insignificant relative to the provincial and national incomes.

5.12 Political Access Historically, the Sinamas have known to be traditionally defined on the negative—as non-Tausugs, occupying subordinate positions within the Tausug political-economic structure providing labour in the slave-raiding expeditions of what was then the Sulu sultanate. The subordination of the Samals relative to the Tausugs was to a large extent a function of their itinerant and maritime lifestyle that did was less conducive in cultivating a more sophisticated structure of governance, as land-based communities like the more prominent Muslim communities in Mindanao—the Tausugs and Maguindanawans had. Whereas before unfettered and free, the ‘Lords of the Sea’, as Hayase (Hayase 2007) calls them, was subsumed deep into the Tausug hierarchy and were dispatched to man the messy and dangerous piracy campaigns for the sultanate. This uneven relation in the past between the Tausugs and Samals continues to sour their encounters in contemporary times even leading to deadly clashes and fatal ends for both. History notwithstanding, the Sinamas account that the reason for them to leave Sulu is to primarily put an end to their second-class citizenship to the Tausugs, and to escape from the violent conflict and dire economic opportunities in their hometown. Devoid of Tausug dominance, many of the Sinamas interviewed for this study, however, have expressed their wariness on what they consider as the increasing dominance of their neighbours—the numerically smaller but politically connected Maguindanawans. 19 Completed in 15 October 2005, in the cost of PhP1,069,983 aimed at 3,241 beneficiaries by the joint effort of the USAID’s Growth with Equity in Mindanao II (GEM 2) (Project 295 C-247). See USAID GEM 2008, USAID’s Growth with Equity in Mindanao II (GEM 2) Summary of Completed Community Infrastructure Projects (CIP) (Mindanao.org and USAID Growth with Equity in Mindanao, December 8, 2008), http://122.55.23.17/GEM2/INFR-08Dec31-CIPsSummary.pdf (accessed 02 May 2009).

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The Maguindanawans are the dominant majority in Maguindanao Province, but are minorities in Sarangani towns. The Sinamas meanwhile have the numerical majority in Tino’to but are perceived to be politically and economically disenfranchised. This dominance is said to be manifested in the following instances: primacy in the call for prayers; naming of the public elementary school after a Maguindanawan patriarch, under whose name a claim against the sizeable Sinamal-occupied area is being made; the fact that the official local government head (barangay kapitan) is a Maguindanawan; and the continuing perception that among all Muslims in Mindanao, the Sinamas are among those at the bottom of the hierarchy not only because of their political-economic weakness but more so, because of what is considered as their tepid practice of Islam. The reality to the Sinama of an asymmetric relationship between the Sinamas relative to their Maguindanawan neighbours relates to the issue of their membership in networks at the micro-institutional level and at the meso-institutional level. The Tausugs of Sulu are largely known to make up most of the leadership and cadre positions at the Moro National Liberation Front (MILF), and the Maguindanawans to the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MNLF).

5.13 Symbolic Access That the Sinamas are confronted with being defined unfavourably as ‘not Muslim enough’ by their Muslim neighbours, i.e. the Tausugs in Sulu and the Maguindanawans in Sarangani Bay, is a testament to the formative influences of past experiences and events to local constructions of identity and social relations (See Horvatich 2003; Thomas Kiefer 1972; Warren 1981). Cross referencing with literature show that this perception is contingent on specific features of their introduction to the Muslim world. One, their seafaring lifestyle pushed their introduction to Islam later than the others, unlike the Tausugs and Maguindanawans who were also seafaring in the beginning but advanced earlier on to farming and other land-based activities of production. Two, the Tausugs’ and Maguindanawans’ introduction to Islam allowed them to consolidate political and economic power in the form of the Maguindanao and Sulu sultanates, institutions that on the one hand established a system of formal dominance over the Sinamas and later migrants in the Maguindanao and Sulu Muslim Mindanao sphere of influence, and on the other hand, incorporated them in the economic structure of the sultanates. Three, this incorporation of, and dominance on the Sinamas assigned them to slaveraiding occupations and as slaves themselves. Warren, who devoted his work on the Sinamas, notes that while an important population group in the nineteenth century economy of the Mindanao sultanates, the Sinamas, which he referred to as Samals, in fact did not exist before the beginning of the nineteenth century, or at the very least the Samal term to refer to them as a collective was yet non-existent (Warren 1981).

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In Sarangani Bay, the Sinamas are conscious of being reproached for their practice of Islam, which involves a combination of folk and Islamic beliefs; their lack of discomfort in celebrating Christian-associated holidays like Christmas and Araw ng Patay (Day of Remembrance for the Dead); and of the dangers of developing a dependent relationship to Christian-aid organizations that prioritize the Sinamas as beneficiaries in their many activities, among which is the educational sponsorship programme. However, with this consciousness also comes the opportunity to rationalize on what ethnic boundary to emphasize. On the issue of being considered as ‘not Muslim enough’, the Sinamas argue that there is a distinction between cultural Islam and theological Islam. To their understanding, their Islamic background is part of their cultural tradition, and will remain so. Instead of capitulating to the derisive description of being comparatively insufficient in the ways of Islam, the Sinamas initiate their own self-categorization by redefining themselves to be ‘cultural Muslims’. This redefinition is by no means only philosophical. The strategy of gentrifying an otherwise negative connotation of being ‘not Muslim enough’ into ‘cultural Muslims’ is, without doubt, drawn from a thorough consideration of a cost-benefit analysis. Indeed, what is gained by the Sinamas by presenting a Muslim world divided into cultural Muslims and theological Muslims? Relationally, the Sinama sees little possibility of being fully incorporated into the larger political worlds of the bigger Muslim communities in Mindanao, among them the Maguindanawans, the Maranaos and Tausugs. Based on this calculation, nothing is lost as Sinamas define themselves as ‘cultural Muslims’, and may in fact be construed as a way of conceding that other Muslim communities are stronger theologically. On the other hand, gains are anticipated. By defining themselves as ‘cultural Muslims’ as opposed to ‘theological Muslims’, it delivers a message of attendant meanings such as the Sinamas, while Muslims are of the moderate kind. The idea after all of a moderate Muslim has been at the height of its likeability in the history of Muslim–Christian relations. Added to this, being cultural Muslims that are severely in need of assistance in capacity-building, the Sinamas open the door for development aid. ChildFund Japan (CFJ),20 through its local conduit, the Business Resource Center (BRC)21 of the Notre Dame of Dadiangas University (NDDU), a Catholic institution managed by the Marist Brothers, a religious congregation22 administers the sponsorship programme

20 The sponsorship programme in Barangays Tino’to, Sarangani Province and Sitio Lanton, General Santos City started before the ChildFund Japan became an entity in 2005, and was still the International Sponsorship Department of the Christian Child Welfare Association Japan. As of March 2005, ChildFund Japan is sponsoring 4,959 children all over the Philippines. 21 The sponsorship, as of this writing, counts 123 total sponsored students (65 at the grade school level, 52 in secondary school, and 6 in the university level) in Barangay Tino’to, adding to other students previously sponsored since 1996 when the engagement in the barangay started (BRC, 2007). 22 The Notre Dame University networks, started by the Catholic congregation Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI), has long been a name in the Mindanao education scene, starting in 1941. See http://www.omiphil.org/mission_today/schools.htm.

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that targets student-age Sinamas and B’laans for educational support from grade school until the university. A Sinama Muslim father related: In the beginning, I was hesitant to send my child to the BRC. But we got assurance that joining the sponsorship program does not require conversion and does not require Catholic instruction. After I and my wife discussed about their project, how they specifically cater to Sinamas, we realised it is an opportunity for our child. Just being Samal and having the willingness to study are enough qualifications for her to avail of it. It is a rare opportunity. And it would not pose any compromises from us. We decided to have her join the sponsorship program, knowing that in these times, education is her salvation. (S5G1, Personal Interview, 14 December 2006).

Education as a salvation—this conception is in fact a reflection of the general view of the Sinamas in sending their children to school, and in pursuing opportunities that will allow these children to avail of a free education. Salvation in this sense does not only refer to economic progress but also refers to the aspiration of earning prestige, which has been evading the rather marginalized- ‘minority among minorities’ Sinamas. It is a common practice for parents in the Philippines to laminate and hang in the living room the diplomas that show what degrees their children have completed. Compared to their neighbours in the locality of Sarangani Bay which this study was undertaken, the Sinamas have seen an increasingly decorated living room wall. Further, having their children finish university degrees would mean a change in the pursuit of their livelihood. Salaried employment is considered not only desirable economically, but psychologically and socially as well. Drawing from a salary, rather than self-employment or wage-earning from blue-collar jobs, is considered an indicator of a person moving up the social ladder. In the Philippine context, salaried employment offers a more stable source of income, as one of my interviewees wish to have, that ‘every 15th and 30th23 of the month your next food is assured’. This opposed to fishing, which remains at a subsistence level, if at all. Those who are practicing professions or work in an office rather than the majority occupations in the village—fishing, farming and petty trading, are also generally referred to in the community as the propertied dato ‘rich’, the more comparative term arangan ‘better off’, or may-kaya ‘person of means’, descriptions that were previously hard-pressed to be used against older Sinama generations. As in the case of one of the interviewees for this research, ‘Salary from an employment I found a month after university graduation has not only afforded him to buy new malongs24 for his mother, furnitures for their home, and stock-up the familytended convenience store, he has also elevated his parents’ status in the village. His father, though often destitute, is nevertheless no stranger to local prestige. As 23 Salaries

are paid to employees every 15 days, hence the reference to the 15th and 30th of each month. 24 A malong is a tube skirt with a half-body length from waist up to the feet, of geometric designs. It is the local version of the sarongs worn by peoples in other Southeast Asian countries like Indonesia, Malaysia, and Brunei. See Roy Hamilton, ed., From the Rainbow’s Varied Hue: Textiles of the Southern Philippines (Los Angeles, CA: Fowler Museum of Cultural History, University of California, 1988).

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an imam in the neighbourhood masjid, he feels that his son’s newfound career has improved the way people view their family and in extension his vocation as an imam. Even the employed young Sinama male himself, who is known in the community to be harboring homosexual tendencies and was often taunted because of this, has been treated more seriously, and has even begun to be consulted by the elders and those considered as learned by practice, among their community’ (S8G3, Personal Interview, 06 August 2006).

5.14 Conclusion To conclude, this chapter has shown that ethnic category formations are driven by a constellation of actors, interests and motivations. Specifically, the sections of this chapter, I have shown that government structures—whether the Catholic converting Spanish colonialist, the more secular and democratization-advocating American regime and the nationalist postcolonial and contemporary Philippine Republic, were all accountable for. The previous chapter explains how institutional structures attendant to nationbuilding in the Philippines have favoured ethnic differentiation, over other forms of cleavages such as gender, class, income, among others. In Chapter Four, we have learned that the process of Philippine nation-building led to a secular government that nevertheless frame ethnic categories on the basis of religion—of the Filipino ethos that has a Catholic element at its core, Mindanao Muslims/Moros and the ‘non-Christian’ Lumads. This led to a state of affairs where being Christian has become a metonym for who is the Filipino, and of classifying the rest as the so-called ethnic others. Part of the ‘ethnic others’, who are concurrently in armed opposition and in the negotiation table with the national government, through an organized segment of their population, refer to the Moros or to be more appropriate, the Mindanao Muslims. The other ‘ethnic others’, referred to as Lumads, are the indigenous groups in Mindanao, who many may observe to be less organized politically than the Mindanao Muslims, are. However, the so-called ethnic others are far from monolithic, and even have nested further classifications. The Maranaos and the Sinamas are understood to be grouped under the Mindanao Muslims, and the B’laans under the Lumads. Indeed, the genesis of the state and the institution created in the process, determine which kind of differentiation and identity boundaries are salient in a given society. However, it is also the view held in this study that no matter how steep or lose the limits are on actors to be involved in the dynamics of boundary-making, these actors, whether empowered or emasculated, remain to be wielders of human agency. Therefore, even if the state has crafted the rules of the game in boundary-making, it is equally important to understand that actors modify, embrace, reproduce or subvert categorical distinctions that are imposed on them by exogenous actors.

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But it is understood that not all actors have equal capacity in the creation, appropriation of or distancing from ethnic boundaries. The strategies of ethnic boundarymaking that actors may pursue, will then only make sense if analysed first, within the limits of human agency, and second, on the choice of boundary strategy that provides the maximum possible benefit, and the minimum loss to the actor. Power relations are one of the limits to human agency. With this in mind, this chapter analyses the extent to which ethnic boundary dynamics are shaped by the access to power of the actors being studied. In tandem with power differentials, the choice that brings the most incentive to the actor also helps explain what strategies actors will favour. Using the data gathered from the interviews and observations conducted in between 2006 and 2007, this chapter analyses the movement not only of nominal ethnic boundaries, but of the meanings and the redefinitions accorded to these boundaries by the B’laan, Maranao and Sinama ethnic groups in Sarangani Bay. Comparatively, the B’laans in this study have relatively weaker political, economic and symbolic power. Unlike the Maranaos and the Sinamas, the B’laans and the larger Lumad community have yet to constitute themselves in a manner where their political significance is given the attention it deserves. It includes both historical and present-day reasons for this state of affairs. The disparate distribution of the B’laans and the rest of the Lumad across Mindanao that makes it difficult to engage in organizing themselves; a relatively weaker infrastructure and access to capacitybuilding efforts among their communities, so as to generate an informed and able leadership from within the ranks; and the generation of resources that will not only serve self-sufficiency but will be able to generate wealth as well for the ethnic group. In the empirical finding shown above, the actors studied, the average B’laan of Sarangani Bay, pursues the ethnic differentiation that is perceived to further his or her interests, within the context of the available power at his/her disposal. With no economic weight and only nominal access to political power, the symbolic power available from religious conversion is a clear option for the B’laans. By being a part of the Christian majority, the implications of this to the average B’laan is his or her liberation from being a not only a minority but a minority among minorities. And yet, by choosing to convert to a Christian denomination that is not associated with the majority Catholic and a belief that shares similar world-views of traditional B’laan beliefs, a sense of non-disengagement from traditional community and its beliefs is preserved. As the B’laans engage in repositioning the placement of their ethnic boundary from the fringes to a member of the Christian majority by way of religious conversion, the Maranaos, on the other hand, have been observed to invoke the elements of these boundaries on the basis of their entrepreneurial strengths and predispositions rather than their ethnicity. If we were to recall, the members of the Maranao community in Sarangani Bay have relative power economically and politically. On symbolic power, the Maranaos are aware that their ethnic community’s association with the principled organization Moro Islamic Liberation Front, both inspire fear and respect. If we were to ask then as to why do Maranaos in Sarangani Bay participate in a boundary-making exercise that

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emphasizes their entrepreneurial rather than their Muslim characterization, we may need to look at the political-economic landscape after 9/11 in the United States of America, in which the turn of events helped create an environment that is conducive to nurturing distrust and a collective paralysis on the Muslim community anywhere in the world. In this context, blurring identities to refer to a higher commonality—in this sense, the value placed on an ‘honest and hardworking living’—does not only makes sense but also builds on the fact that Maranaos have long held the reputation of being the most entrepreneurial not only among Mindanao Muslims, but for the rest of the country. As B’laans reposition and the Maranaos blur boundaries, the Sinamas in Sarangani Bay who took part in this study was observed to take the path of boundary inversion. Boundary inversion in this respect is seen in the effort to gentrify an otherwise negative connotation of being ‘not Muslim enough’ into ‘cultural Muslims’ vis-à-vis ‘theological Muslims’. Relationally, the Sinama sees little possibility of being fully incorporated into the larger political worlds of the bigger Muslim communities in Mindanao, among them the Maguindanawans, the Maranaos and Tausugs. Based on this calculation, as Sinamas define themselves as ‘cultural Muslims’, does not make them lose any further in the already tensed relationship they have with the other Muslims in their community. In fact, it may even be construed as a way of conceding to the claims of other Muslim communities that they are stronger theologically. There are obviously incentives to pursuing this strategy. By defining themselves as ‘cultural Muslims’ as opposed to ‘theological Muslims’, a plethora of attendant meanings is being delivered, among them, a counter-narrative to the oft thorny Christina-Muslim relations in the country, and post 9/11, that while Muslims, the Sinamas are of a moderate temperament. The counter-narrative that this inversion facilitates likewise expected to generate material incentives. Being cultural Muslims that are severely in need of assistance in capacity-building, the Sinamas open the door for development aid. The whole exercise of boundary-making strategies in the context of the participants in Sarangani Bay—wherein nontraditional frames of boundaries are introduced, such as B’laans as minority Christians, the Maranaos as the entrepreneurial Muslims, and the Sinamas as the cultural Muslims, elucidate the theory of the Wimmerian multi-level theory of boundary-making that ethnic boundaries are the outcome of the classificatory struggles and negotiations between actors situated in a social field. Furthermore, this social field, characterized by its dimensions—institutional order, distribution of power and political networks—determine which actors will adopt which strategies of ethnic boundary making.

References Acosta, J. R. N. (1994). Loss, emergence, and retribalization: the politics of Lumad ethnicity in northern Mindanao (Philippines). Unpublished PhD Dissertation. University of Hawai’i at Manoa, Honolulu.

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Chapter 6

Vernacular Voices and Locally Situated Agents

Probing Ethnicity in a Constellation of Macro, Meso and Micro Actors and Agents: In Chap. 1, I mentioned that most people may say one thing, behave differently, and mean another. What I have shown in the preceding chapters is an attempt to isolate these three fields of actions in reference to ethnicity in as much as I am aware that these three fields are densely interconnected. Chapter 3 captures how different units of analysis, with special emphasis on local civilian actors, create and recreate ethnic categories. Chapter 5 looked at four major situations in the everyday in which ethnicity forms part of the narrative as an explanatory factor. Chapter 6, which is this chapter, rounds up the empirical segment of this research, by looking at individual voices on public issues, and the larger situation on locally situated agents and institutions, the politics of the peace process entered into by the Philippine government and the two Moro liberation movements, and the Mindanao political-economic structure. In reference to the central research questions guiding this research, this chapter looks at the different constellations of actors and issues that impact directly or indirectly on the ethnic consciousness of the cross section of the population in Sarangani Bay.

6.1 Vernacular Voices An understanding of the secessionist struggles in Mindanao is not complete without investigating what issues matter for ordinary people in Mindanao. Their vernacular voices shed light on how they experience and view their politico-economic situation and that of the country’s, political authority, economic appropriation and the peacerelated efforts of the government and that of principled organizations like the Moro Islamic Liberation Front; local sentiments on policy priorities; and governance in Muslim Mindanao. To my observation, the respondents in both the communities of Lanton and Tino’to, while not all are literate, are very knowledgeable about the situations in the country and in Mindanao. Far from apathetic, they eagerly talk about politics and © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4_6

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social issues, volunteering their own thoughts and opinions and even of strategies should, for instance, there is that rare chance for them to hold a political office.

6.2 ‘What Should Be the Primary Policy Priorities for Mindanao?’ When I coded the qualitative interviews into figures that would be able to provide me an overview of the opinions I have gathered, it shows that peace and order takes the highest policy priority for the studied communities. After peace and order, the next important policy for the participants in this research are those concerning economic security—economic improvement, basic needs’ delivery, and employment prospects. The concern on these particular security issues also reflects their preferences for shortterm and immediate policy interventions rather than those of far-reaching effects but of longer gestation before returns are achieved—good governance, education, justice, sustainable livelihood and population control, which are shown here to be in the latter half of the rankings. While their experiences with conflict and their level of engagement in social issues may be factors in their choice of priority policies, the preference for shortterm and immediate policy interventions reveal clientelist forms of action preference, specifically that access to jobs and basic needs, have been in the past, dangled from the offices of those in political posts.

6.3 Administrative Governance in Muslim Mindanao On 5th August 2008, a year after field research for this study was completed, the MOA-AD or the Memorandum of Agreement on Ancestral Domain,1 which seemed promising in providing the long-awaited comprehensive peace agreement in Mindanao, was supposed to be signed by the peace negotiation panels of the Government of the Philippines (GRP) and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF). However, the Supreme Court in Manila declared the MOA-AD unconstitutional after waves 1 MindaNews,

“Memorandum of Agreement on Ancestral Domain” (Davao City, Philippines, August 5 2008), GRP-MILF Official Documents for Aug. 5, 2008 signing; Eliseo Mercado Jr. OMI, “MOA-AD: Quo Vadis?,” in Autonomy and Peace Review Vol. 4 Issue No. 3, vol. 4 (Cotabato City and Manila, Philippines: Institute of Autonomy and Governance and Konrad Adneauer Stiftung, 2008), 9–20; Institute of Autonomy and Governance, “Solving the Mindanao Problem from the Perspective of the Mindanao,” in Autonomy and Peace Review Vol. 4 Issue No. 3, vol. 4 (Cotabato City and Manila, Philippines: Institute of Autonomy and Governance and Konrad Adneauer Stiftung, 2008), 35–42; Isagani de Castro Jr., “Peace Advocates Raise Concerns Over Ancestral Domain Draft Accord with MILF,” in Autonomy and Peace Review Vol. 4 Issue No. 3 (Cotabato City and Manila, Philippines: Institute of Autonomy and Governance and Konrad Adneauer Stiftung, 2008), 21–34.

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of protest from Mindanao politicians, who also happen to be from the Christian majority. Further, the Philippine President at that time, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was observed by those assessing the peace process, to be not showing enough signs of saving the agreement from collapsing. Analyses and opinions have been made on why the MOA-AD collapsed.2 But one of the commonly cited weaknesses of the MOA-AD is on its non-prioritization of the agreement’s public dissemination, much more of a consultation with all constituencies and stakeholders involved.3 This latter assessment was foreshadowed in the earlier conduct of my field research where my interviewees, Muslims, Lumads and Christians alike were not aware of the issues that are discussed in current peace processes. With this, I gave a brief explanation that the MOA-AD involved issues of implementing the Bangsa Moro Juridical Entity (BJE) in which the MILF would be vested with full fiscal, political and religious authority over those provinces in the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao and Muslim-occupied barangays that are outside the ARMM. Muslims in both Lanton (74%) and Tino’to and (64%) (i.e. an aggregation of Sinamas, Tausugs, Sangils, Maranaos and Maguindanaos) expressed overwhelming disagreement to making their villages as part of the proposed Bangsa Moro juridical entity or any form of an expanded version of the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao. On the contrary, non-Muslims in the urban area of Lanton are more amenable to BJE inclusion (as reflected from a net agreement of 34%). In total however, both villages show poor agreement scores to a proposed expanded Muslim autonomy should their villages be included, with only about −44% net agreement in Tino’to, of an overwhelming Sinama Muslim community; and a net agreement of −29%, which is slightly a better result than Tino’to, considering the fact that its Christian settler population are more numerous. The concern over a Muslim-led government is not about the question of religion, but as one interviewee said, the question of capability: ‘It is not that I am against Muslims, as I am a Muslim myself. But when we talk about government, we talk about leadership. The concern now is that who are the people behind this proposed form of government? Are they capable? Do they have the experience to lead? Are they concerned about common Muslims like us’. A former village official in Tino’to, himself a half-Tausug, half-Sinama Muslim, also expressed his concern. According to him: ‘Unless the Muslims overcome our being clannish, it would be a problem once we hold political power. I am not saying that Christian leaders in Luzon are not also having cliques and that their families 2 Alternate

Forum for Research in Mindanao, “Nganong Naundang Ang Negosasyon Tali sa GRP ug MILF? [Why Negotiations Were Stopped Between the GRP and the MILF?],” AFRIM: Nasayod Ka Ba?, 2006, http://www.afrim.org.ph/news-room/nasayod_issue8-9.pdf; Rufa Cagoco-Guiam, “On the botched MOA-AD: Lessons Never Learned,” Focus on the Global South Philippine Program, n.d., http://focusweb.org/philippines/content/view/201/51/; Timothy Williams, “The MoAAD Debacle—An Analysis of Individuals’ Voices, Provincial Propaganda and National Disinterest,” Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs 29, no. 1 (2010): 121–144. 3 Williams, “The MoA-AD Debacle – An Analysis of Individuals’ Voices, Provincial Propaganda and National Disinterest”; Cagoco-Guiam, “On the botched MOA-AD: Lessons Never Learned.”

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are not corrupt. They are too. But at least, in the dominantly Christian communities, guns and small arms and killings are not as common as is happening in Muslim communities. We do not want what was happening in Sulu. It is not a matter of religion though, I am sure. It is a matter of democratization and institutionalization. How can we be assured that things will be better than the sufferings we are already having?’ In relation to my study, possible explanations to this could be that the Muslim participants in my intensive interviews are those who made a decision to change their environment and their situation. This is expressed by the very fact of their movement to another area. After experiencing traumatic evacuations, strafing, and in many cases of being in the middle of crossfires between rebel and government operatives or of warring armed clans, many of the interview participants and even those who were not, were expressing a desire to attain ‘normalcy’. The desire to be in the mainstream is a common theme among my conversations with the third generation of Muslim migrants. For them, they wanted to be hired in the labour markets in General Santos City, Davao or even in Manila without being discriminated by employers because of their religion or originating province. They said their names are self-explanatory, which shows a vast contrast from the Hispanic names of the rest of the Filipinos. But while it is their desire to return to ‘normalcy’ and to enter the ‘mainstream’, there was no question that they would retain and remain to be in Islam. For them it is non-negotiable. What explains the high acceptance score of the Mindanao migrants who are mainly the Christian Bisayas from several provinces in North and Central Philippines? And why is the Christian dominant Lanton having a higher net agreement result at − 29% than Muslim dominant Tino’to having a net agreement rating of −44%? The sentiments that I have gathered is that, by having direct contact with the Muslims in their villages, the previous misconceptions that were dominant in the country against the Philippine Muslims have been unmasked. One Bisaya Christian interviewee, for example, shared a rather open-minded view on a Muslim-led governance system, provided that safety nets are in place for the protection of non-Muslims’ land tenure: ‘The ARMM has not been tried and tested. It is unfair to assess it as untenable on the basis of the people who are now managing it or who have previously held the Southern Philippine Council for People’s Development. Since the basis of the conflict is the claim for self-determination, why don’t we give it? And just sort out the details so that those who are migrants here in Mindanao and who bought their properties legitimately are protected’. It must be said, however, that this thinking is not largely shared, or else, the MOA-AD should not have collapsed.

6.4 ‘Don’t Teach Us How to Fish, Allow Us to Fish’ The fact that Sarangani Bay largely depends on the fishing industry for its income, so do its residents, as may be recalled from a discussion in Chap. 5. However, most of its residents can be categorized as subsistence fisher folks, whose capacity to continue

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with this trade, as they themselves report, is severely hampered by competition, even from small-commercial fishers, let alone the big players in the commercial fishing industry. Equipment-wise, they acknowledge that they are no match even to smallcommercial fishers. Further, the activities of small-commercial fishers deprive them of their catch because of sheer competition or unfair practice. According to my interviewees, unfair practice in Sarangani Bay fishing abound. This despite available jurisprudence governing fishing: the Fisheries Code prohibits medium (20.1–150 gross tons vessels) and large-scale (150 gross tons and above vessels) commercial fishing within 15 km from the coastline. While the Code gives preference to municipal or otherwise called marginalized fishers (less than 3 gross tons, non-motorized or motorized boats) within the 10–15-km municipal waters, it also provides a leeway for local governments to provide permits to small-scale fishing (3.1–20 gross tons vessels) in the same zone. One of these unfair practices is the use of the so-called super lights within the 15-km zone. Super lights are high-capacity light bulbs usually used by big fishing boats to attract fish along deep seas. Another misinformation is on the prohibition on the use of mesh nets. Another fisher expresses defeat and helplessness: ‘Now, I have lost my source of livelihood, and my only capital - my fishing net. It has been banned by the government. What will I do now? I am not trained in any other trade’. While true that the Department of Agriculture has prohibited the commonly used 1.6 in. in diameter mesh nets, fishing nets of at least three inches in diameter are allowed. But no one seems to know among the micro-fisher folks. And even if they know about this allowance, it also means they need to go further than their usual distance to catch the bigger fishes who could not escape from the bigger 3-in. nets. Going a distance further means as well a better boat or vessel, which most of these subsistence fisher folks do not own or have access to. Another unfair practice my interviewees identified is in the form of local government bribes. As one of my interviewees complains: ‘There in (Sitio) Siguil, the asking ‘fee’ is five pesos for one crate (of fish), but where is the money going?’ When I asked him if he knows who asks for the five pesos, he grunts and vaguely says: ‘municipal office folks’. For most micro-fisher folks who are made to pay for penalties, most say they do not know what illegality they have committed. One of these local resident fisher shares: ‘We don’t use dynamite. Look at those captured in Tino’to a few years back. They were asked to pay a penalty of five thousand (pesos). They were saying, you pay! You pay for your penalty. If you do not have any money, then you are gone. They paid. If it happens to me, I would not be able to pay even a single cent’. One of the fisher folks in the village decries that incidents like the one described above are due to the practice of patronage, ‘It is because the bigger commercial fishers pay protection money. That is why micro-fishers like us are not allowed to fish. They want to kill us, when we were already long dead’. This experience is probably echoed by other micro-fisher folks. The Pambansang Lakas ng Kilusang Mamamalakaya ng Pilipinas (PLKMP or the National Movement of Fisherfolks in the Philippines),

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a people’s organization, claims that there are 1.2 million micro-fishers nationwide compared to around 4,014 or more fishing vessels with 3.1–150 gross tons.4

6.5 Natives, Pioneers and Settlers: Who Has Claims to the Land? In this subsection, I gathered the recollection of those whose stay in the village has been recorded to be among the longest and to investigate how the peopling of the village and the land tenure that ensued came to be. In Tino’to and Lanton, on top of locational origin, linguistic and religious classifications, another local social order among its population is often in terms of natives, pioneers and settlers. In Tino’to, the natives are referred to those who are indigenous to Sarangani, namely, the B’laan Lumads from whom the village name came from. The pioneers are referred to the clan of Maguindanao Muslim origin, although this in itself is a contested claim. The ‘settlers’ refer to the waves of Sinama Muslims from Sulu Province and the Bisaya Christians of neighbouring provinces who are in turn succeeding generations of migrants from the Visayas. Meanwhile, in Lanton, the natives are likewise the B’laan Lumads. The category pioneer does not apply. And the settlers are referred to the mix of Bisaya Christians, Maguindanao Muslims, Maranao Muslims and a few households of Sangil Muslims and Ilocano Christians. In Lanton, the land tenure regime is relatively secure and individual-based. As shown in Chap. 3, houses are built along zoning grids. As one of my interviewee shared, ‘When we were still in Purok Islam, our home lots were not ours yet, we were only squatters there. Then we were thrown here. But we are thankful because the lot we have now, we can claim as our own. This gives us our dignity back – living in a real home. But we know of course, it is still a long way to finish paying this off fully’. Each of the beneficiary residents/families are awarded a lot in exchange for fixed monthly amortization payments to the city government housing office. With Lanton being a relocation area for the urban poor in General Santos City, all residents enjoy the same length of tenure, having arrived almost at the same time, and majority of whom are also neighbours in their former domicile. Land tenure in Tino’to, however, is another case. Only a small portion of land is arable and more than half of the population has built their houses along the shore. Where houses are erected on land and not on the foreshore, ‘rights of use’ rather than possession of land titles are in effect. As one of interviewee related his own story: ‘I got here when I was still 17 years old. I was still single at the time. That house from the church up to that one, are the only houses then. The whole place was yet forest land. Whatever you are able to clean up; it is understood to be yours’. Both the land and the foreshore in Tino’to are currently under the public domain, although there is a pending claim by a supposed pioneering clan. As discussed in 4 Allen Terencio, “Fisherfolks to Hold Protest Rally Today,” Sun Star General Santos, February 24,

2003.

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Chap. 5, this claim has resulted to a period of intensifying friction within the community. An interview with one member of the claimant pioneering clan suggested that the contestation regarding their family’s claim to the land could have been brought about by the family’s departure from the village during Martial Law, just to go back to Tino’to at a later time, when the village was already occupied by others who arrived in between. She said: ‘It was in 1963 when we arrived here in Tino’to. We had a cattle farm here, but in 1972, all our cows were either gunned down or taken away (by the military). It is our father who owns the land here. I remember it vividly, as at that time; I was giving birth to my second child. On the fourth day after the attack, there was no one left here. Everyone went out (of the village). Even our family left. Only the military remained here. But when we went back, we found other people already occupying parts of our land. If you ask me how to get a lot around here, some buy rights from others who initially occupied the lot. But a lot more just install their dwelling, and that’s it. But recently, the lot ownership here has been made clearer. If someone else lays claim on the land, well…there is the court for that. But that takes time. Besides, it is not easy to make people leave from their houses, especially if their stay has been that long’. Another Tino’to resident, on the other hand, questions the ‘pioneer’ clans claims to the land, saying that the clan has sold it long ago to a person named Julio Olarte. In his recollection: ‘I arrived here when that cattle ranch was not yet what it is now – in 1978. This used to be the ranch of that clan, yes. But they sold their ranch to Julio Olarte. As for the rest of us, we were granted two hectares each. I brought in 80 of my cows from Banga (South Cotabato). Olarte also bought most of the lands, he paid all the people 300 pesos for their 2 hectares. At that time, 300 was already a big amount’.5 The shorelines in the Philippines are technically referred to as a foreshore.6 Legally, foreshores are government-owned and may be available for a foreshore lease contract to private persons and entities. However, a commissioned study done by Batongbakal, reports that shoreline use in the Philippines suffers from a disorganized regulation mechanism resulting from an apparent lack of a clear authority for its control and the coordination of its regulation.7 None of the residents availed themselves of a foreshore lease contract, but informally occupied the foreshore along the stretch of Sarangani Bay with their stilt houses, as shown below. As it is, the use of the foreshore and the public domain lands in Tino’to already reflect the character of fuzzy land tenure in the area of study. In the literature, fuzzy land tenure refers to the schism that emerges with the intersection of state’s laws with 5 Today,

30 years later, land estimates in Sarangani Province ranges between 200,000 and 500,000 PhPesos per hectare which could have fetched about half up to a million for the 2 ha sold for 300 in 1978. 6 Defined as the part of the shore which is alternately covered and uncovered by the ebb and flow of the tide (DENR Administrative Order 99-34, 10 August 1999). 7 Jay Batongbacal, A Crowded Shoreline: Review of the Philippine’s Foreshore and Shore Land Management Policies (Quezon City, Philippines: The Coastal Resource Management Project/ Philippines’ Department of Environment and Natural Resources/USAID, 2002), 7, https://docs.google.com/viewer?url=http://www.oneocean.org/download/20020130/a_crowded _shoreline_full_text.pdf.

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free market laws that includes the practice of ‘absentee landlords, illegal encroachment of land, and destruction of land titles’.8 The land tenure situation gets fuzzier under conditions of protracted conflict, in which civic power gets shifted towards armed power holders and violent agents, as illustrated by Korf in his study of land tenure in Sri Lanka.9 In conclusion, the rival claims to land or even technically of non-land but of foreshore, and the fuzzy nature of tenure in Sarangani Bay cannot be separated from the politics of colonization and ethnicity, the Moro and Lumad struggles in Mindanao and of the arrival of Luzon and Visayan migrants to the ‘frontier’.

6.6 Locally Situated Agents and Institutions In this section, I map out the different constellations of actors and agents present that impact directly or indirectly on the ethnic consciousness of the cross section of the population in Sarangani Bay. These institutions (government authority, armies, local states, economic agencies), organizational agents (movements, parties, patronage networks), and popular social formations (neighbourhood-based associations and quotidian activities) have, in no doubt, a role in how my interviewees come to terms with ethnicity, and how this ethnicity identifies and defines them and their relations with others. In the localities of Tino’to and Lanton these agents and institutions involve the institutions of the executive government in the levels of the barangay and the town; foreign government aid agencies like the United States Agency for International Development (USAID); non-governmental aid organizations like the Child Fund Japan, Notre Dame University’s Business Resource Center, and World Vision; and local formalized networks like the Krislam Association and sporadic recruitments of the Moro National Liberation front, and the non-formalized clans.

6.7 Historical Projects: Local but from Above In this section, I rely on the analysis of secondary documents: namely, the typescript which forms an official documentation of the historical development of Tino’to and Lanton. In these documents, I endeavoured to do a meta-textual analysis, a method of analysis explained in Chap. 2, which in gist, refers to an analysis of a text in relation with other texts. In this case, these are texts that form part of both oral and written narratives. 8 Benedikt

Korf, “Rethinking the Greed-Grievance Nexus: Property Rights and the Political Economy of War in Sri Lanka,” Journal of Peace Research 42, no. 2 (2005): 201–217. 9 Benedikt Korf, Ethnicised Entitlements? Property Rights and Civil War in Sri Lanka (Bonn: ZEF Discussion Paper on Development Policy, 2003).

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In the previous section, one subtheme that was discussed was the categorization of natives, pioneers and settlers in the land tenure question in Tino’to. The B’laan Lumads and the Sinama Muslims lay claim for the right to land tenure and express their counter-narratives to Maguindanao Muslim claims of ownership to most of the village of Tino’to. However, both the Tino’to local government and of the Business Resource Center, which is the office of extension services of the Notre Dame of Dadiangas University, that provide community development services in the village, respect or at least do not question the integrity of a typescript10 that supports the Maguindanao Muslim claim. The undated typescript titled ‘Historical Development: Tino’to’, written in Bisaya mixed with English, is interesting in the sense that while it attempts to incorporate the presence of the B’laan Lumads and the subsequent arrival of Sinama Muslims to the peopling of the village, it reinforces the Maguindanao Muslim claims to land ownership. It does so by differentiating parallel narratives of origin—‘mythical/legendary’, ‘cultural/social’, and ‘political’, for the village. Taken to be the most up-to-date definitive description of Tino’to history, this typescript relates that mythically, the village name of Tino’to has been taken from what the B’laans named for the ‘inahan nga adunay tubig nga nagawas’ (mothershaped source of water). What this narrative recognizes is that the B’laans are the ‘unang mga lumolopyo’ (first people) in the ‘bukid’ (which may be translated as fringes or upland) of the village. But even if the narrative attempts to recognize the Blaan Lumads to be responsible for naming the village, and thus follows—to have settled earliest than the others, this recognition seems half-hearted given that the idea remains that this is more of a legend rather than a fact. Comparing this to the social/cultural origin narrative in the same typescript, it identifies Datu Abdul Bali, the patriarch of the Maguindanawon Muslim clan that has a current ownership claim to Tino’to, as owner of lands in Kamánga and Tino’to. In Kamánga, Datu Abdul Bali installed a piniyalan (caretaker of the land), identified as Linoy Tundo, a female B’laan Lumad. The narrative then introduces the arrival of a group of Sinama Muslims from Siasi, Sulu led by a certain Julian Tahil, who established settlements in Kamánga in 1949. Based on the narrative, Abdul Bali gifted Linoy Tundo, a B’laan with a huge parcel of land. The narrative goes on to say that the B’laan Linoy Tundo was wedded with Julian Tahil, the Sinama Muslim leader of the vinta-sailing group from Siasi, Sulu. After this wedding, more Sinama Muslims related to Julian Tahil was said to have arrived in Kamánga. The Tahil household engaged in coconut cultivation in the parcel of land owned by Linoy Tundo, and by virtue of marriage, to Julian Tahil. The narrative then jumps to 1960, in which for ‘wala mahibaloan nga rason’ (unknown reasons), the Tundo-Tahil land was ‘gi-sheriff/iskwat’ (occupied) by a certain Balua Macagcalat, whose name, to my guess, sounded like that of a B’laan. Since by 1961, Abdul Bali married Hadji Jambun, one of the Sinama Muslims’ daughters, he brought the Tahil household to Tino’to, to stop the ongoing conflict between the Tahils and the identified ‘squatter’ Macagcalat, according to the narrative. The Sinama Muslims 10 Tino’to

Barangay Office, “Historical Development: Tino’to.”

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continued to pour into Tino’to, after the move. But in 1972, in the height of Martial Law, the Civilian Home Defense Force (CHDF) were also deployed like in other Philippine villages, in Tino’to. The CHDF members were identified in the narrative as mostly Bisaya. It was at this time that the Abdul Balis were said to have left the village. The socio-cultural origin narrative is interesting in many accounts. First, the seafaring Sinama Muslims seemed to have changed, based on this narrative, their fishing trade for farming, considering that in my own ethnographic research, contemporary Sinamas who have likely descended from the Tahil pioneers could not even imagine themselves switching occupations unless it’s going to a white-collar job, which most think to have an inherent prestige in it. Second, if the land was originally owned by Abdul Bali, and judging from the narrative, he seemed to have wielded gravitas in the area, how was it possible that a squatter can occupy a land he formerly owned and gave to the Tundo-Tahil household? Was it not considered at that time as an offence not only to the Tundo-Tahil household but to their alleged benefactor, Abdul Bali? Third, the narrative provides a picture of Abdul Bali as a benevolent landholder sharing his land, keeping the peace and making everyone satisfied. However, there is no back story in the typescript regarding the acquisition of the lands in both Kamánga and Tino’to by the Abdul Bali Maguindanaoan Muslim patriarch. It does not say how, for instance, the B’laans lost ownership or tenure rights to their apparently indigenous land. The narrative simply states that the village is owned by Abdul Bali and that the Sinamas arrived. The narrative also does not say whether the arrival of the Sinamas in the village was met by resistance or whether they staked out in the land by force. Fourth, and the point most important for this research, is that while the social origin narrative tries to place each ethnic category in different role placements in the development of Tino’to as a village, it does send a message that despite this ethnic differentiation, intermarriages between a B’laan Lumad and a Sinama Muslim and between a Sinama Muslim and a Maguindanao Muslim have made these boundaries less opaque. The political origin narrative points to legislation creating Tino’to, namely, the Sangguniang Bayan Resolusyon No. 38, which also set in motion the conduct of regular elections for the barangay (village) government.11 Since 2002 until the time of this research in 2006–2009, two Maguindanaon Muslims were elected, the father as the Barangay Kapitan (Village Chairman) and his daughter as the Sangguniang Kabataan (the youth arm of the village leadership) Chair. Four members of the barangay officers were B’laans and four also were Sinamas. At the outset, it may seem that the composition of the barangay government is equally representative of the village population. However, it must be understood as well, that in village politics, the Barangay Kapitan mostly wield authority and power, as the positionholder is often courted by many different personalities, aware of its significance in

11 The 1991 Local Government Code is one of the landmark legislations passed in the Philippine Congress which provides guidelines for decentralization among different levels of local government units from provincial to the barangays level.

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vote delivery for the municipal, provincial and even national elections. On the whole, therefore, the person to watch in village politics is the Barangay Kapitan. Lanton, as described in Chap. 3, constitutes ten (10) of the forty-four (44) puroks (sub-village) in Barangay Apopong. Barangay Apopong was surveyed by the Director of Lands in 1958, according to a seven-page typescript, written in English.12 The document further identifies that ‘the first settlers in the area were the families of Alilaya, Ibad, Pragados, Hernandez, Lapong, Cabanit, Isidro and Villavende among others’. To my guess, apart from the surnames Alilaya, Lapong and Cabanit, the rest of the names suggest Christian settlers. The same typescript also narrates that a Muslim-Christian Association was formed in 1972, led by Melchor Legaspi, a Christian and Sammy Akmad, a Muslim, as President and Vice-President, respectively. Ostensibly, the role of the association is to be a go-between of the Apopong residents to the City Mayor at the time. But as to Lanton itself, this purok has been identified in a land dispute of gargantuan proportions that involve varying and mostly opposing interests from the office of the President to various departments in the national government, private corporations, indigenous claims to ancestral domains, the city government and the relocated community residing in the purok as serialized in a report by Espina-Varona in 2003.13 It was a politically charged dispute, where one eye witness account describes the B’laans reaction towards their land: ‘You should have seen them. They knelt on the ground. They scooped up the earth. Then they cried. Finally, they were back from the land that had been taken away from them’.14 The Supreme Court, made a decision in 2008 rejecting the appeal of the private landholding firm,15 deciding in favour of the claims of the B’laan Lumads and the Maguindanao Muslims. While the decision was in favour of the claims of both the B’laan Lumads and the Maguindanao Muslims against entities of Goliath proportions, these two ethnic communities nevertheless, did not approach the dispute from the same side of the fence. In fact, they even had a dispute over their respective claims. Granted that most of Lanton and the bigger Sarangani Bay area have problematic land tenure and land titling systems, the dispute reinforced the narrative that the Lumads are always the 12 Apopong

Barangay Office, “Barangay Apopong” (Apopong, Philippines, n.d.). Espina-Varona, “The Lumad-Alcantara Land Dispute: Squatters Threaten Lumad’s Hold on SC-approved Indigenous Land”; Espina-Varona, “Claimants’ dispute threatens legacy; B’laans recall flight from homeland”; Inday Espina-Varona, “Shortcuts Jeopardize SC Decision Granting Ancestral Land to ‘Lumad’,” Manila Times, June 5, 2003, http://archives.manilatimes.net/others/ special/2003/jun/05/20030605spe1.html; Espina-Varona, “Alcantaras Cast Long, Bloody Shadow Over ‘Lumad’ Lands.” 14 Espina-Varona, “Alcantaras Cast Long, Bloody Shadow Over ‘Lumad’ Lands.” 15 See Supreme Court of the Philippines, Third Division, G.R. No. 161881 Nicasio I. Alcantara, Petitioner, Vs. Department Of Environment And Natural Resources, Denr Secretary Elisea G. Gozun, Regional Executive Director Musa C. Saruang, Denr Cenro Andrew B. Patricio, And Rolando Paglangan, Et Al., Respondents. Heirs Of Datu Abdul B. Pendatun, Represented By Datu Nasser B. Pendatun, Al Haj, Heirs Of Sabal Mula And Gawan Clan, Represented By Tribal Chief-Tain Loreto Gawan, Respondents- Intervenors (Manila: E-Library Doc. ID: 12180906381988754104, 2008), http://elibrary.judiciary.gov.ph/decisions.php?doctype= Decisions%20/%20Signed%20Resolutions&docid=12180906381988754104. 13 See

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most vulnerable, in the face of the weight of Muslims, Christian settlers and private enterprises owned by even the most nominal of Christian men and women. In turn, the Muslims’ experiences of creeping Christian settlements and private enterprises in traditionally Muslim lands in Sarangani Bay in no doubt adds to the politicization of their identity as a polar opposite of the majority Christian Philippines. And yet, B’laan Lumads and the Maguindanao Muslims in Lanton have turned to and directly experienced Philippine political and institutional agencies like the Supreme Court and Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) acting on their behalf.

6.8 Aid Agencies: External Fund, Local Spending Their highway was built by the Americans. For the Sinama Muslims, their children are sent to school using Japanese money, managed by a Catholic university. The ‘non-Christian’ B’laan Lumads, meanwhile, get sponsorship for their children at an Evangelical Christian development agency. Barangay Tino’to is poor, and majority of its residents cannot afford to even go out in the town centre just a few kilometres away. But the influx of funding to the village renders a cosmopolitan air to its residents, even discounting the fact that what is often played in households are pirated CDs of Indian music and smuggled kretek clove cigarettes from Indonesia. The highway that connects Tino’to to General Santos City and to other parts of Sarangani Province is called the USAID Road as it was constructed using United States Agency for International Development’s (USAID) money. USAID likewise installed a bagsakan, as it is locally referred and known formally as the Tino’to Trading Center. The presence of the USAID efforts in Tino’to does not go unnoticed among the residents. While they shared that they are happy for the benefits these efforts do to their community, the talk in the village is that they are aware that these American government efforts are related to a strategy of neutralizing possible hideouts for Muslim dissidents. As one interviewee, a Muslim, shared to me: ‘You ask me what these efforts (of USAID) might mean for us? On the one hand, I think it’s the rich brother helping the poorer relative. But I can’t help to think as well, is this because of altruism or is it because of fear of Muslims?’ By coming to terms with the possible meanings of the aid extended by USAID, my interviewees confront not only their own identification of themselves but of how their identification as Muslims are being shaped by international events, namely, the resurgence of Islamophobia in the West. Education institutions and the various sponsorship arrangements available for Lanton and Tino’to residents also reinforce the sense of ethnic identification in these

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villages of study. Two educational sponsorship16 organizations operate in these villages. One is the ChildFund Japan (CFJ),17 through its local conduit, the Business Resource Center (BRC)18 of the Notre Dame of Dadiangas University (NDDU), a Catholic institution managed by the Marist Brothers, a religious congregation.19 Student-age Sinamas and B’laans are their primary recipients. A Sinama Muslim father related: ‘In the beginning, I did not want to have anything to do with the BRC. After all, it is run by Catholics. But they assured us that they would not require conversion and they do not include Catholic instruction. After I and my wife discussed their project and how they specifically cater to Samals, we realized it is an opportunity for our child. Just being Samal and having the willingness to study are enough qualifications for her to avail of it. It is a rare opportunity. And it would not pose any compromises from us. We decided to have her join the sponsorship program, knowing that in these times, education is her salvation’. The second organization is the Tulong-Aral Project (TAP) of the World Vision Development Foundation, an ‘international Christian development organization’, which likewise sends their university-level sponsored students to NDDU, with solely the B’laans as their primary recipients. ‘Just being Samal/Just being B’laan’—the affirmative action programme of the BRC and of TAP that targets Sinama Muslims and B’laan Lumads provides incentives for ethnic ownership and access to institutional support, which has been historically 16 Unlike scholarship programmes which are contingent first on academic performance, and financial need, second; sponsorship programmes are based on need primarily, although not just on the basis of poverty, but on systemic marginalization—among others, the Samals and the B’laans are included. It also operates on a novel approach of mentoring and involving, not only the sponsored student, but the students’ parents, as well. This must be because of the reality that cohort survival, completion and drop-out rates in the Philippines leave much to be desired, and the family environment and capacity are big factors in abysmal education profile. Both the 1994 National Statistics Office Functional Literacy and Exposure to Mass Media Survey (NSO-FLEMMS) and the 2001 NSO Survey on Working Children found that lack of personal interest, housekeeping or family related chores, and the high cost of education, keep children away from school. In her study on child soldiers in Central and Western Mindanao, Guiam reports that majority (43%) of those they interviewed, stopped school and got involved in private militias or in the armed movement because of financial hardships in the family (Guiam 2002: 30) and saw soldiering as an option to get out of this hardship. But of the same children who took part in the study, majority (54%) expressed their desire to attend school, if the opportunity is presented to them (p. 57). And the student is sponsored directly by a particular individual or family, rather than the stipend coming from a common pool of fund, although the money is managed in common with other sponsorships. 17 The sponsorship programme in Barangays Tino’to, Sarangani Province and Sitio Lanton, General Santos City started before the ChildFund Japan became an entity in 2005, and was still the International Sponsorship Department of the Christian Child Welfare Association Japan. As of March 2005, ChildFund Japan is sponsoring 4,959 children all over the Philippines. 18 The sponsorship, as of this writing, counts 123 total sponsored students (65 at the grade school level, 52 in secondary school, and 6 in the university level) in Barangay Tino’to, adding to other students previously sponsored since 1996 when the engagement in the barangay started (BRC, 2007). 19 The Notre Dame University networks, started by the Catholic congregation Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI), has long been a name in the Mindanao education scene, starting in 1941. See http://www.omiphil.org/mission_today/schools.htm.

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missing among these two communities. In fact, the Sinama Muslims and B’laan Lumads consider the concern of BRC to their welfare as the reason for them not to have been evicted from the land claimed by another clan. What is being realized from this section, is not only the consciousness that aid recipients have on the ramifications of aid going their way but also of the gap in literature on how aid agency professionals, public sector officials, development workers and technical assistance advisors consciously deal with ethnic issues, especially in regions rife with ethnic competition and rivalry.20

6.9 Local Networks: Krislam Parents Cooperatives, MNLF Recruitment, Clans Local networks in the villages of this research can be categorized into formalized networks like the Krislam Association and sporadic recruitments of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), and the non-formalized networks of clans. Krislam—the Kristiyano-Islam Association of BRC-sponsored children’s parents formed a cooperative, which tailors and supplies uniforms, schoolbags and other school-related supplies to the Notre Dame of Dadiangas University. The framing of the association’s name itself, Kristiyano and Islam puts weight on ethno-religiosity, when in fact other names could have been adopted. My interview with some of the parents and of BRC officials themselves, however, point to the rationale of peacebuilding between the two faiths rather than a reinforcement of the differences. But with the Christian-Islam binary being presented, it is not out of the line to ask whether the choice of the association’s name reinforces the master narratives that are used in an unexamined manner, in Mindanao ethnic relations. It is also an important point to ask at this point on the process for coming up with such a choice. Another formalized network that I was not privy about but got a hint of during the conduct of my research is, on the recruitment of the Moro National Liberation Front among local residents. No one among those I asked have categorically denied or affirmed that a recruitment process is ongoing. However, a number of clotheslines that I surveyed in many households had hanged in them orange tee-shirts printed with the MNLF initials. But if I insist on asking, some reply to me in what I feel is a half-joking, half-meant answer: ‘No Samal here in Tino’to will be fighting alongside the MNLF. We just want the tee-shirts’. But there is something to be said of why the Sinama might, even half-meant, join the MNLF when there is another more active movement—the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF). It must be said, that even the movements for a Bangsa Moro are divided along ethnic lines. The MNLF, which 20 John Cohen describes that while studies are almost absent on the awareness of aid agency personnel on the ethnic repercussions of development interventions, emerging case studies say otherwise in “Ethnicity, Foreign Aid, and Economic Growth in Sub-Saharan Africa: The Case of Kenya,” Harvard Institute for International Development Development Discussion Series 520 (November 1995), http://www.cid.harvard.edu/hiid/520.pdf (accessed 20 January 2007).

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has been headed by its head Nur Misuari, who is half-Sinama and half-Tausug, has its dominion in the Sulu world, which the Sinamas point as their origin. The MILF, on the other hand, are more popular in the Ranao area—in Maguindanao and Lanao Provinces. As for informal networks, clans, which are based on kinship ties or extended family relations, are one of the significant socio-political actors locally. At the village level, these clan networks have been instrumental in the movement of people from their original provinces to Sarangani Bay; in carving neighbourhoods within their villages of immigration; in forming spheres of political influence; and, in establishing division of labour as discussed in Chap. 5. Also in the previous chapter, I have discussed the double-sided roles of clans in community life. Clans may be reinforcers of rido or extended family violent conflicts and yet are also agents capable of instituting self-policing mechanisms. Clans and kinship ties in Sarangani Bay have also surfaced as a point of identification not only at the level of extended families, but even of whole ethnic communities. This is the case specifically for the Sinama and Maguindanao Muslims, who have entered into intensified rivalry and competition over political influence, social status and economic access. Not only do clans provide dense and strong mobilizing capacity at the grassroots level, they also serve as proxy for ethnicity, and dominate over other forms of social organization in the Sarangani Bay villages of this study.

6.10 The Peace Process Residual colonial legacies and the memory and experience of injustice played a part in the crystallization of a sense of belonging in the shape of ethnicity that takes the categories of Moros, Lumads and Christian settlers.

6.11 Roots of Resistance Mindanao resistance to Manila can be read back starting the Spanish and subsequent American occupation. During the height of Spanish rule between 1565 and 1898, it has failed in ending the resistance of independent Muslim Sultanates in Mindanao and Sulu. It is ironic that of all time, it was during the Spanish exit from the Philippines that it was able to score a significant attack on this resistance—albeit from a rather unexpected move—by ceding via the 1898 Treaty of Paris, the Philippine colony, including Mindanao, to the United States. This colonial turnover has left an enduringly uneasy and often violent relationship between Muslim Mindanao and Manila.

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The American colonial government’s astute use of force and diplomacy, account for its relative success in integrating Muslim Mindanao in the Philippine Commonwealth.21 What the military cannot penetrate, commerce did. Non-military American settlers came in droves and pioneered in the banana plantation business,22 and later the Japanese, for their abaca fibre plantations. Even the US army campaigned vigorously to make the place attractive to settlers,23 as Patricio Abinales earlier introduced in his book.24 As anti-colonial sentiments reached Southern Philippines, Americans who started banana plantations in the area sought the support of their Manila-based fellow Americans. Their campaign against the resistance movement was along the following themes: that ‘only the American (was capable of) carrying progress in Mindanao’ and peace in the region had only happened when the Americans came.25 But approaching its exit in 1946, the American government ignored appeals from Mindanao Muslim leaders, better known as the Dansalan Declaration, to have them opt out from the framework of Philippine independence that was to be granted. But Philippine independence was interrupted with the arrival of Japanese colonizers, who also brought in their own citizens to do various extracting activities in Southern Philippines, among them the operations of abaca plantations. And later came migrations, not of individuals, but of families from the same villages and communities mainly from Central and Northern Luzon and the island of Panay in the Visayas (Simkins and Wernstedt 1971; Wernstedt and Simkins 1965, 83–103; Abinales 2000). There is evidence that ‘when the … settlers arrived in 1939, 1940 and 1941, they were not armed like the English settlers in America. Neither did they have security as they settled in different settlement districts, in Koronadal and Allah Valleys. The nearby datus…welcomed them’ (Diaz 2002). Unlike previously, the late American period until after independence in 1946 was marked with relative calm (Schiavo-Campo and Judd 2005; Abinales 1998). Five major state-sponsored migrations were launched between 1946 and 1972. This government policy came into being—first, to ease the land unrest fueling the insurgency in Central Luzon; and second, to integrate the Mindanao Muslims to the Philippine state. But the solution for Luzon became a problem for Mindanao. The arrival of the migrants, their settlement in Mindanao and their possession of legal

21 Gowing,

Mandate in Moroland: The American Government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899–1920. banana agribusiness, along with pineapple, rubber and sugar cane are the major exportearning industry in Mindanao covering 27,000 ha of land wholly controlled by multinationals. As of 1975, 20,000 ha were in the hands of three U.S. corporations. Dole had 9,000 ha; Del Monte owned 6,588; and Tadeco had 4,500. As of 1980, Del Monte owns the world’s biggest pineapple plantation with a total of 36,000 acres of land in Mindanao. See Eduardo Tadem, Mindanao Report: A Preliminary Study on the Economic. Origins of Social Unrest (Davao City, Philippines: Alternate Forum for Research in Mindanao, 1980). 23 The Mindanao Herald, 29 July 1905. 24 Abinales, Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Davao in the Formation of the Philippine NationState. 25 Mindanao Herald, “Various Issues.”, 26 January 1907. 22 The

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titles issued by the government26 pushed the Mindanao Muslims and the Lumads farther from their traditionally occupied lands.27 With migration, the share of the Muslim Mindanao’s population declined to 19% from 76% in 1903 (Che Man 1990, 25). The contraction of political resources, land tenure and population of the Mindanao Muslims went on from 1913 until the early 1970s, overturning their previous dominance in these areas (Tuminez 2007). And so it happened that an independent Philippines with its centre of government in Manila has been viewed, especially in Muslim Mindanao, as a stab at internal colonialism. Residual effects of colonialism and the memory and experiences associated with social, political and economic injustice—operationalized by the issue on land appropriation, the consequent displacement of the original occupants from the land, and increasing animosity in Mindanao among the indigenes and the settlers—have played a part in the crystallization of a sense of belonging in the shape of ethnicity that takes the categories of Moros, Lumads and Christian settlers. These tensions have been the platform by which the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) waged its secessionist claims in the 1970s (Gowing 1977; Tan 1977; Noble 1987; Majul 1985). But when the MNLF later acceded to limited autonomy and surrendered their arms in early 2000, the more non-secular Moro Islamic Liberation Front continued the secessionist claim. One may question whether these groups are the legitimate representatives of the Bangsa Moro people but one could agree that these organizations indeed perceived themselves to be one and have been successful in setting an agenda for responses from the Philippine government, relative to the incumbent administration in Malacañang.

6.12 Actors on the Peace Process: Presidents, the Government Peace Panel, Two Moro Fronts and the International Community The primary actors in the Mindanao Peace Process are the Moro Fronts: (1) the Nur Misurari-founded Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) in the 1970s; and (2) the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) which formally broke away, under the leadership of the now-deceased Salamat Hashim, from the MNLF in 1977, and is now the main face of the Bangsa Moro struggle; and the government side; (3) the Philippine Presidents and (4) the Government of the Republic of the Philippines (GRP) Peace Panel. 26 This

follows the Regalian doctrine, which is part of the Spanish colonial policy, that by virtue of conquest, the entire Philippine islands belong to the Spanish crown, and thus required the population through the Royal Decree of 1880 to apply for land titling and consequently forfeited unregistered land in favour of the Spanish Crown through the Royal Decree of 1894. See Fianza, “Contesting Land and Identity in the Periphery: The Moro Indigenous People of Southern Philippines,” 4. 27 This was either done by the northern Filipinos’ ownership or lease holdings of substantial tracts of land to systematic land-grabbing. See Ibid., 5.

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The MNLF favoured a secular Bangsa Moro framework and later acceded to enhanced autonomy through the President Ramos-brokered Southern Philippine Council for Peace and Development (SPCPD). The MNLF forces were integrated into the regular national force (See Villanueva and Aguilar 2008). Misuari then, assumed the governorship of the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM), which in the end resulted to his being disgraced as leader—he went to flee in Malaysia only to be repatriated and charged for inciting rebellion (See BBC News 2002), a case which was dismissed seven years later (Clapano 2009). As an investigative report writes, Misuari ‘…at age 66, [he] is a prisoner. Charged with rebellion, allegedly for calling on his fighters in Sulu to overthrow the Arroyo government…’ (Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism 2006). The MILF, on the other hand, is guided by more orthodox Islamic leanings, as the MILF’s website quotes its founder Al Azhar University-educated Salamat Hashim, who passed away in 2003: ‘The ultimate aim of our Jihad is to make supreme the word of Allah’ (Noble 1987, 198). According to Ressa (2003), MILF’s funding comes from two sources: Islamic relief organizations and foreign government aid from Libya and Malaysia. In a 2000 interview with Mindanao journalist Carolyn Arguillas, Hashim explained how his vision for Bangsa Moro differs from Misuari: ‘I did not like the idea of negotiating within the framework of Constitution. I said once we agree, we can’t move anymore because whatever we say, government will just say it’s against the Constitution. Another thing was I did not like the idea of the Tripoli Agreement (because) if we look at the territory covered by the Tripoli Agreement, it was not practical because it covers areas now no longer dominated by the native inhabitants/ Bangsamoro so I believed it was not practical. It covered Davao. Davao was no longer dominated by the Bangsamoro’ (Conde 2003). Regardless of the differences, the rise and decline, and the turning over of Nur Misuari and Salamat Hashim of their leadership roles in the MNLF and MILF, respectively, their organizing have forged a common mass-based identity for the disparate Muslim groups in the Philippines into Bangsamoro. It must be remembered that while claims to a mature Muslim-based political system in Mindanao, predating the Philippine framework is historically defensible, the Sultanate is primarily an elite-centred rather than a democratic structure. The creation of the MNLF and subsequently of the MILF, therefore, has laid the foundations for an alternative to the traditional Muslim Mindanao gatekeepers of sultans, datus and politicians. But it must be said as well, that both the MNLF and MILF remain to have a deficit in democratic institution-building among its ranks, as both have tactically given emphasis on strengthening its military capacity. Meanwhile, successive past Philippine presidents—Marcos, Aquino, Ramos, Estrada, and Arroyo—have pursued different regimes to address the autonomy issue for Muslim Mindanao. Third-party actors in the peace process concerning Mindanao Muslims (Lingga 2006) include the Organization of Islamic Conference (OIC), and the governments of Libya, Indonesia and Malaysia. The OIC and the three countries mentioned have all performed mediation roles in the peace process.

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In 1972, the OIC’s Third Islamic Conference of Foreign Ministers (ICFM) in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia came up with a decision ‘to seek the good offices of the Government of the Philippines to guarantee the safety and property of the Muslims’ in Mindanao. It did so by giving authorization to the OIC Secretary General to contact the Philippine government; send a four-country (Saudi Arabia, Senegal, Somali and Libya) fact-finding mission to Mindanao; and solicited Indonesia’s and Malaysia’s help to bring the agenda on Muslim Mindanao to the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) (Lingga 2005). The OIC’s framework favoured an establishment of an autonomous region for the Muslims without altering the contours of the Philippines’ territorial integrity and sovereignty. This OIC framework was spelled out in the Tripoli Agreement, where Philippine President Marcos and Libyan President Ghadaffi came up with an agreement that: (1) the President of the Philippines declare autonomy in the 13 provinces covered in the Tripoli Agreement; (2) a provisional government composed of MNLF members and residents in the autonomous provinces be established; and (3) a referendum in the autonomous zones be held, to firm up administrative implementation details.28 This two-executive decision, even if backed by the OIC, was rejected by the MNLF, and Marcos left his presidency in 1986 without having the parties come together in agreement. With a newly restored democracy under President Corazon Aquino, the 1987 Constitution has been crafted with a provision for the establishment of the Autonomous Region for Muslim Mindanao (ARMM). As the transition to the next Philippine administration came to be, the final agreement between the MNLF and GRP was signed in 1996, under the presidency of Fidel Ramos, with the strong mediation of Indonesia. The 1996 Peace Agreement consisted of two phases. The first phase involved the establishment of the Special Zone of Peace and Development (SZOPAD), the Southern Council for Peace and Development (SPCPD) and Consultative Assembly that covered the provinces identified in the Tripoli Agreement. The government also entered into an integration process of the MNLF forces to the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) and the Philippine National Police (PNP). The second phase involved amendments to the Organic Act (RA 6734) of the ARMM, which foresaw full implementation of the agreement. The 1996 Final Agreement between the GRP and the MNLF was heralded as a new leaf for Mindanao history. While the GRP solely conducted talks only with the MNLF until the final agreement was completed, motions were set to sit with MILF next in the agenda. This one-track negotiation is also in line with the wishes of the MILF, as expressed in the statement of Salamat Hashim himself: ‘The MILF is maintaining a consistent policy towards the peace process. We will reject any attempt by the Philippine government to open separate negotiations with the MILF unless the GRP-MNLF talk is finally concluded’ (Hashim 1993 in Lingga 1995).

28 Muammar

Al-Ghadaffi, “Letter to President Ferdinand E. Marcos with reply 1977 March 19,” March 18, 1977.

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With the closure of government tensions with the MNLF, the time was deemed right by the government to reach out to the MILF. The first official negotiations between the GRP and the MILF technical committees were on 7 January 1997. The meetings that followed were focused on setting up mechanisms for a ceasefire implementation. As the new presidency under Joseph E. Estrada came into power, an agreement was signed on 27 August 1998 on the commitment to pursue the path to peace negotiations. However, after a series of reported atrocities and kidnappings against foreigners’ kidnappings by the Abu Sayyaf Group, President Estrada chose a military solution, popularly referred to as an ‘all-out-war’ campaign against ‘Muslim terrorists’. It was not as of the MILF sanctioned the kidnappings and torture of captured foreigners. However, Estrada’s administration deemed it proper to chastise the MILF for what it believed as the inability of the movement to discipline its ranks who have gone rogue, and for the suspicion that the organization allows its camps to be used as a haven for lawless elements. In March 2000, the Philippine Armed Forces have taken over what used to be an impregnable Camp Abubakar—MILF’s nerve centre of operations. News reports show President Estrada leading the Philippine flag-raising in Camp Abubakar and throwing a feast of roasted pigs and beer on what used to be MILF territory, where these things are haram (forbidden) (see Espina-Varona and Villaviray 2002). Expectedly, the MILF withdrew from the negotiating tables. The term of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo saw a resumption of peace talks and an exploration of what was considered by peace specialists, aware of its flaws, to be a promising proposition, a document which was known to be the MOA-AD (or the Memorandum of Agreement on Ancestral Domain). The MOA-AD provided, among other things, for the establishment of the Bangsamoro Juridical Entity (BJE) which was proposed to be composed of the present ARMM as the core territory plus other majority-Muslim towns outside of the ARMM. In the end, the peace talks concerning the MOA-AD also collapsed (Mercado Jr. 2008; Garcia and Iqbal 2008). However, it may be considered a breakthrough for the MILF to be open to the possibility of greater autonomy rather than clinging to a hardliner position for secession as quoted earlier on pages 28–29 from former MILF Chair Salamat Hashim. As Maulana Bobby Alanto, a member of the MILF Peace Negotiating Panel, shares: ‘Those who are diligently following the nine-year peace negotiations – nay, twelve years including the domestic stage - between the MILF and the GRP should not miss the fact that the MILF, in the interest of peace, had agreed to shelve political independence in favor of Bangsamoro sub-statehood within the Philippine State system’ (Alanto n.d.). As of this writing, the MILF-GRP negotiations have produced 87 signed peace agreements, related implementing guidelines and procedural rules, communiqués and joint statements, consensus points and talking points as well as other frameworkrelated documents (Moro Islamic Liberation Front and The Asia Foundation 2010). While the term of the latest President of the Philippines, Benigno Aquino III, who was elected in 2009, does not fit in the original timeline of the field research for this dissertation, I think that information that are available on how this current

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president views the situation in Mindanao is worth noting. In his 26 July 2010 inaugural State of the Nation Address (Aquino 2010) he mentioned ‘the situation in Mindanao’ as one of the ‘two obstacles to our road to peace’. He also expressed a commitment to ‘an honest dialogue of all stakeholders’, perhaps a response to a common criticism in the collapsed MOA-AD of the previous administration, i.e. that the negotiations addressed the MILF solely, without considering other possible stakeholders (Rodriguez 2008) that may not be interested to be subsumed under the selected operationalization of the term Bangsamoro. The appointed government chief negotiator with the MILF, law professor Marvic Leonen has expressed before foreign correspondents that ‘[g]ood faith negotiations require that we consider the universe of possibilities’ (Philippine Daily Inquirer 2010). This comment, however, was described by a national daily editorial to be a ‘wrong start’, since ‘[t]he universe of possibilities, it bears belaboring, is limited by political reality’. Some of these political realities can be gleaned from recent reported actions and pronouncements from personalities in President Aquino’s Cabinet and in Philippine politics in general. For one, Presidential Communications Development and Strategic Planning Secretary Ricky Carandang has contradicted what chief negotiator Leonen said by categorically saying that ‘Charter change is not a priority for the President at this point. He has many other things, more pressing problems, that he has to resolve first’ (Porcalla 2010). Meanwhile, Rodolfo Biazon, a member of Congress, gives the impression that Leonen’s words do not have wide government support: ‘Our supposed willingness to open the Constitution to amendments is an indication of weakness on the government’s part….I hope Mr. Leonen’s statement does not reflect official policy’ (Porcalla 2010). Not to mention that in 20 August 2010, the Philippine Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) issued a ‘note verbale’ that introduces new guidelines for foreign governments, intergovernmental institutions and international organizations in the conduct of their visits, meetings and programmes in the ‘conflict-affected areas’ of Mindanao (Montesa 2010). Essentially, the guideline requires these external agencies to secure prior clearance and approval from the DFA for their Mindanao activities, a move that a member of the MILF negotiation panel lambasts as counter-productive to the preparations for a new round of peace talks (Alanto n.d.). What this section shows is that economic and historical claims form part of the organizing and mobilization of liberation movements. And yet, an examination of social protest movements does not preclude the intersectionality of these claims with an ethnic content and context.

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6.13 Mindanao Political Economy 6.13.1 Three Mindanao Kingdoms in Maritime Southeast Asia Maguindanao, Buayan and Sulu were three maritime kingdoms in Mindanao that rose in power, in contradiction to the consolidated island regions Luzon and Visayas into the Philippine territory (Ileto 1971; Majul 1999; Laarhoven 1989; Hayase 2007). According to Majul, Maguindanao flourished in its peak as a kingdom, under Kudarat (Majul 1999) in 1616, who was also the first to appropriate to himself the title of Sultan. During his leadership, Maguindanao actively engaged in trade with the Chinese and the Dutch, exporting rice and beeswax. Maguindanao, under Kudarat, also consolidated a seafaring army of Illanun and Bajao for its maritime activities, reportedly expanding its ships to around 1,000 with 200-seating capacity each (Hayase 2007). In 1645, Kudarat declared jihad with Spain in 1645 while calling on its allies in Sulu, Ternate, Brunei and Makassar (Laarhoven 1989). These sea ‘pirates’ were notorious in the Southeast Asian seas and were reportedly feared by the Dutch despite being supreme powers in the Maritime Southeast Asian zone at that time (Schreurs 1989). Trading intensified in the mid-eighteenth century when the Chinese who were expelled in Manila, drove down to Maguindanao and Sulu. However, Maguindanao’s political and economic prosperity in the Southeast Asian maritime region hit a stop. One reason attributed to this decline is the restriction to Chinese trading in Maguindanao. Forrest, who went to visit Maguindanao in 1775– 1776, observed that the Spanish installation in Zamboanga, through their patrol boats, have limited the access of the Chinese junks into the area (Ileto 1971). Another reason is pointed to the withdrawal of the sea pirates that were mostly responsible for the sea trade of the kingdom. Hayase’s account says that the Illanun transferred to Sulu after a volcanic eruption in 1765 (Hayase 2007). Hunt meanwhile hypothesized that the Badjaos, originally the orang solok of the Subanos and Lutas simply moved to Makassar, after the Chinese junk trade prohibition closed their trading channels, as well (Hunt 1837). While all these account for Maguindanao’s fast decline as a powerhouse in the region, according to Forrest, it is the British’ transfer of its trade post to Sulu which nailed the proverbial coffin (Forrest 1969). Sulu is believed to have started being recorded in Chinese texts during the Yuan Dynasty, notably the Daoyi zhilüe. However, trade between China and Sulu was to occur later after the Ming period. Sulu, at that time, had the reputation among Amoy traders as producer of mother-of-pearl (Scott 1989; Wang 1967; W. W. Rockhill 1914 as mentioned in Lapian 2003). Apart from China, Sulu had been trading with the Bugis from present-day Indonesia. However, Sulu’s rise to power started when the British traders arrived in 1773, introducing economic activities consisting mostly of opium trade and arms deals (Warren 1981, 37). As it endeavoured to rule the Southeast Asian seas, the Sulu Sultanate—mainly Tausug-speakers, conscripted the Sinamas as its seafaring warriors. The Sinamas were not only known as pirates in the high seas, but were also sent off to various slave-raiding expeditions. Despite being

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important elements in Sulu’s dominion, the Sinamas gained relative independence from the Sulu Sultanate by 1810, according to Warren, and even launched their own raiding expeditions and engaged in external trade (Warren 1981, 189). So as to establish its trade leadership in Sulu, to undermine the Sultanate’s existing bilateral trade treaties with France, the United States and Britain, and to neutralize piracy in the Mindanao seas, Spain started pummeling the Sultanate in the 1840s. Eleven years later, Spain invaded Jolo and made no choice for the Sultan but to recognize Spanish suzerainty over Sulu. While intermittent fighting continued, the Sulu Sultanate eventually diminished in importance over time. Factors for the Sultanate’s decline included the growing non-competitiveness of seafaring expeditions with the introduction of the stronger Spanish steam engine; the rise of alternative trading posts with more modern facilities and communications systems like Hong Kong and Singapore; its export products, mostly raw materials, do not meet the needs of modernizing industries; and China which has been a traditional trading partner was also in its own troubles with the Opium War of 1840–1842 (Hayase 2007, 31–32). Buayan, in Forrest’s accounts, is led by the Rajah of Boyan (Buayan): ‘He is a Mohametan, and his subjects, called by the Magindanao people Oran Selam de Oolo (inland Musselmen), may be about twenty-thousand males’ (Forrest 1969, 188–189). It was around the second half of the nineteenth century, that the Buayan Sultanate rose to power via the leadership of Datu Utto (Ileto 1971). As Jolo, Sulu was taken over by the Spaniards in 1876, Sogod Boyan (Sarangani Bay/Buayan Bay) has served as an alternative trade and slave centre (Rajal 1885: 177–192 as cited in Ileto 1971, 27). Rice, coffee, cacao, beeswax, among others were intensely traded in Buayan, and so, are slaves. In return, Datu Utto gets firearms and ammunitions needed for his expanding Sultanate. Accounts about Buayan, like that of Rajal, say that it is often visited by ‘commercial friends’ not only from its nearest neighbours of ‘Illana Bay and Sulu’ but also of Borneo, Sangir, Celebs, the Moluccas, Chinese and Europeans (Rajal 1885: 177–192 as cited in Ileto 1971, 26). Buayan’s economic orientation was not with Manila but with Singapore. While the enhanced commercial character of Buayan is credited for the Sultanate’s rise to politico-economic power, Datu Utto’s alliance-building is also acknowledged as a consolidating factor. Datu Utto himself, in a letter to the Spanish governor of Cotabato, wrote: ‘Praised is he who can manage everything….I consider it substantial, indeed, that to which one can aspire from marriage. I am making it known to the commanding general that I will come down [to Cotabato] during the coming Lent. I dare to give this information because we will come in a large group, very large indeed: including my uncle the sultan, my uncle the sultan of Limontangan, the sultan of Punul, Talayan, Ladehilayan, Luna-igned, the rajah muda of Baluguis, of Baguiged, Cadiguilan, Martincahuanan, Buluanm Badeha-Buayan of that same place, the sultan of Dupilas, of Salugay, and my brother Tambilauan; we brothers and relatives with all come down this Lent…Also with us will be the sultan if Buayan, of Malasila, of Mamlag, Malada and Ladasihina. It will be good for us to come down in order to join with you in friendship. Give warning to Tumbao; we will not be intimidated’ (Francia and Parrado 1898 translated in English by Ileto 1971).

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The Buayan Sultanate indeed took the form of a basic state, with its economic strength, constituency and internal and external recognition. In 1875, Spain and Datu Utto entered into a treaty which stipulates recognition of the Sultanate’s sovereignty in its domains, provided that Datu Utto likewise shows that recognition to Spanish installations and trade in Mindanao. However this détente would not last. Spanish attacks were launched, the joint efforts of Jesuits and Spanish officials in Cotabato have forged alliances with smaller datus, and smuggled out slaves from Datu Utto’s powerbase, resulting to the Spanish capture of the Buayan domain in 1885. The decline of Datu Utto gave rise to the occasion of another leader, a ChineseMaguindanaoan who arrogated to himself the title of Sultan of Mindanao. Known as Datu Piang (Abinales 2000, 49–52; Ileto 1971, 64–65) many historical observers say it is easy to dismiss him as a typical example of a Filipino collaborator, who facilitated Datu Utto’s weakening by aligning himself with the colonial ranks (Glang 1969, 47). Abinales however put forward a strong case that this was not so. He argues that Datu Piang’s decision to align himself with the colonizers is informed by his experience and thorough understanding of the power dynamics in the Southeast Asian world, no different than Perak’s Raja Abdullah who welcomed British protection in exchange for being recognized as a Sultan by colonizer and locals alike; or that of Abu Bakar of Johor who branded himself as a valuable go-between of the colonizers to the local population (Abinales 2000, 52). An impression of Piang is best described in the following: He is very shrewd, has brains and is self-made, being now quite wealthy and a power in the valley, as he controls all of Dato Ali’s influence over the tribes and adds to this his own brain. He is the only prominent Moro who seems to appreciate what the American invasion means and the business opportunities it brings with it. The Chinese blood in him makes him a shrewd businessman, and he has accumulated quite a fortune and is daily adding to it. He practically controls all the business of Cotabato, especially exports, through his Chinese agents in that place, has complete control of the Moro productions and working with the Chinese merchants makes it practically impossible for a white firm to enter into business in the Rio Grande, even with much capital behind them (ARWD 1902, 528, as cited in Beckett 1982, 401).

What this section has shown is that the political economy of the Sultanates have such an impact in the way the contours of Mindanao have been shaped vis-à-vis Hispanized Luzon and the Visayas, the residual effect of which applies even in contemporary times. So much so that the orientation of relationship is not directed towards the capital Manila but of neighbouring sites of politico-economic power in maritime Southeast Asia—Borneo, Makassar, Celebes and even of Singapore. What it does show as well, however, is that the choice of self-identification and the rise to ethnic political leadership is more open than it is thought to be, with Datu Piang not a full-blooded Maguindanaoan himself, without the lineage to back up his claims to power.

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6.14 Economic and Human Development Indicators Mindanao’s integration in the Philippine economy was started by the US colonial administration, when it started expropriating communally owned, datu-administered tracts of land for agricultural production. American and Caucasian settlers were encouraged by US army officials and the American business community to come over, as is shown in a 1908 advertisement: ‘To make it easy and attractive for [settlers] is the only hope for the rapid progress of the [Moro] Province. The majority of men who are attracted to the Province are men of small means; young men like those who ‘took up claims’ in Kansas and Nebrask, and who are now leading men of their states. One of the most successful planters of Davao, a man who has made a plantation worth 60,000 pesos began on 600 pesos. He is typical of thousands of men who will eventually settle here to establish centers of employment for the native and to contribute to the educational and social advancement of the Province’ (“Mindanao Herald,” 1908). Patricio Diaz, respected Mindanao journalist writes: ‘“land grants and titles under Spanish and American laws recognized but not those granted by the sultans and datus under [the] Moro pusaka (traditional) system”. [Likewise] Under the Commonwealth regime, laws and policies were passed to open lands in Mindanao for settlement and acquisition by corporations. [While} Moros were limited to eight hectares, Filipino homesteaders could acquire up to 24 hectares; corporations could acquire up to 1,024 hectares and lease by the hundreds of thousand hectares’ (Diaz 2002). The Japanese also came down to Mindanao, beginning in 1903, mostly escaping from remoter parts of Japan that were ‘hard hit by the increase in land taxes following the Meiji Restoration of 1868’ (Furiya 1993, 156). Mostly concentrating in Davao, the Japanese involved themselves with abaca production, and were adjudged to be more economically successful than the US settlers in their ventures. Right from these early modern economic activities, Mindanao has been shown to churn out a vast output of resources. Mindanao has been referred to as the country’s food basket. It takes credit for 43% of the country’s total agricultural output, 32% of the total fishery products and over 50% of the country’s total commercial fish catch (Tadem 2010). Forty percent of the country’s food requirements and 30% of the national food trade come from Mindanao (National Economic Development Agency, Philippines 2004). These Mindanao resources that contribute to the output of the entire Philippine economy are not plied back to the region and neither does the economic activity improve the lives of the local population. For instance, the tuna processing corporations—crown companies in Sarangani Bay that rake in US$200 million in annual revenue, has not been legally required to pay taxes to the local government but in Makati, the financial capital in Metro Manila. In 2006, during the time that field research for this study was being conducted, the City Mayor of General Santos City met with the Tuna Canners Association of the Philippines to move their main offices

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locally, so their taxes are also paid locally rather than in Metro Manila (Estabillo 2006). This relationship has forged the uneven development between Mindanao and other parts of the country and contrasting poverty levels between Muslim Mindanao and non-Muslim Mindanao areas. Or to put matters more bluntly, Mindanao’s population, compared to those living outside of Mindanao, can barely eat. Official statistics from the National Statistical Coordination Board (NSCB) showed that subsistence incidence in 2006—the proportion of households and individuals that are unable to afford meeting basic food needs—was highest in Mindanao at 19.2% vis-à-vis 6.4% for Luzon and 14.9% Visayas. Moreover, poverty incidence in Mindanao reached 38.8%, while Luzon was 20% and the Visayas was at 33%. Mindanao’s poverty incidence is indisputably higher than the 26.9% national average (National Statistical Coordination Board 2008). Five of the regions in Mindanao are included in the ten poorest regions in the entire country; with the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) itself, ranking as one of the two poorest regions. Tawi-Tawi, in the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM), was the country’s poorest province in 2006, with eight out of 10 families living below the poverty line. In 2003, the World Bank made a study of the ARMM and identified three factors contributing to human development lags in the region: extreme poverty, armed conflict and historical disadvantage (National Statistical Coordination Board 2008). This section has highlighted that poverty, underdevelopment, misgovernance and inequitable distribution of resources are clearly at the bottom of the problems in Mindanao. However, it is a case where poverty and ethnicity coincide.

6.15 Development Aid in Mindanao The Philippines has a large service sector and private consumption that round to three-fourths of the economy. These economic activities however do not play as much of a role in improving the Philippines’ in bringing about development. A study conducted by the Asian Development Bank in 2007 made observations that the constraints to achieving growth and development in the Philippines relate to a combination of factors ranging from tight fiscal space to inadequate infrastructure, poor investment climate and weak governance (Asian Development Bank 2007). Thus, the role of Official Development Assistance (ODA) remains to have an important space in Philippine development planning and implementation. In 2008—the latest available data for development assistance in the Philippines as of this writing, the Government of Japan-Japan International Cooperation Agency (GOJ-JICA) accounted for 42% of the entire portfolio; followed by the Asian Development Bank with 18%; the World Bank at 15%; a mix of sources (Germany, Belgium, IFAD, Kuwait, France, Finland, NDF, OPEC, Netherlands, Korea, Saudi Arabia, SIDA, Spain and UK) at 14%; and China at 11% (National Economic Development Agency, Philippines 2008).

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Of these ODA, financing the peace in Mindanao, specifically in the ARMM (Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao) has actually become an increasing priority among foreign donors after the 9/11 incident in the US. It is not only the US that is steeped into aid giving policies in Mindanao. In a resolution adopted during its recent session in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, the OIC (Organization of Islamic Countries) Council of Foreign Ministers ‘urges OIC member-states, subsidiary organs, and specialized and affiliated institutions as well as benevolent Islamic organizations to increase their medical, humanitarian, economic, financial, and technical assistance for the development of Southern Philippines’ (“OIC Calls for More Aid to Mindanao” 2010). According to Mindanao political economist Eduardo Tadem, USAID assistance almost tripled after 2001 from US$90.6 million in 1996–2001 to US$242 million in 2002–2006, during this period (Tadem 2010). News reports say that for the year 2010 alone, around $2 billion is expected to be funnelled into peace-building efforts in Mindanao. Of these, $120 million in the form of soft loan is expected to come from the US’ Millenium Challenge Program. About $400 million each is seen to be coming from the Asian Development Bank (ADB) and the World Bank (WB). The other billion dollars is projected to be allocated by donor agencies and countries in the next five years (Regalado 2010). However, despite the increasing interest and pledges in Mindanao development funding, data show that in foreign development assistance allocation, Mindanao lags behind other regions/island groups (Tadem 2007). Moreover, the ODA projects that are specifically ARMM-directed do not necessarily fit the cultural and practical requirements of ARMM or benefit from the institutional memory of ARMM agencies (Human Development for Peace and Prosperity in the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao, 2003). Thus, there is a local ownership deficit in the projects that are being implemented in the region, an issue that is pointed to be contributing to other factors why ARMM-directed ODA fail to bring change in the lives of people in the region (Panao 2010). In this section, I have shown how important donor agencies are in the development efforts and peace process in Mindanao, specifically with the ARMM. However, the presence of foreign-funded projects and activities that are not tested against local peculiarities and needs may have an unintended effect of promoting interests inimical to the situation. At the same time, it is recognized that local actors may not have the requisite capacity to carry out themselves projects for development according to the parameters of foreign donors. Yet, with an excess of foreign players on the ground, the ability of local actors to forge their own kind of peace and development is severely limited, if not stunted.

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6.16 Conclusion This chapter looks at the linkages of the constellation of micro, meso and macrolevels of actors and agents to the ethnic consciousness of the cross section of the population in Sarangani Bay. Their vernacular voices shed light on how they experience and view their politicoeconomic situation and that of the country’s, political authority, economic appropriation, and the peace-related efforts of the government and that of principled organizations like the Moro Islamic Liberation Front; local sentiments on policy priorities; and governance in Muslim Mindanao. On the other hand, institutions (government authority, armies, local states, economic agencies), organizational agents (movements, parties, patronage networks, strategic groups), and popular social formations (neighbourhood-based associations and quotidian activities) have, in no doubt, a role in how my interviewees come to terms with ethnicity, and how this ethnicity identifies and defines them, and their relations with others. Claims to land or even technically of non-land but of foreshore, and the fuzzy nature of tenure in Sarangani Bay cannot be separated from the politics of colonization and ethnicity, the Moro and Lumad struggles in Mindanao and of the arrival of Luzon and Visayan migrants to the ‘frontier’. Residual effects of colonialism and the memory and experiences associated with social, political and economic injustice— operationalized by the issue on land appropriation, the consequent displacement of the original occupants from the land, and increasing animosity in Mindanao among the indigenes and the settlers—have played a part in the crystallization of a sense of belonging in the shape of ethnicity that takes the categories of Moros, Lumads and Christian settlers. Also, not only the consciousness that aid recipients have on the ramifications of aid going their way but also of the gap in literature on aid agency professionals, public sector officials, development workers and technical assistance advisors consciously deal with ethnic issues, especially in regions rife with ethnic competition and rivalry Local networks in the villages of this research can be categorized into formalized networks like the Krislam Association and sporadic recruitments of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), and the non-formalized networks of clans. It must be said that even the movements for a Bangsa Moro are divided along ethnic lines. The MNLF, which has been headed by its head Nur Misuari, who is half-Sinama and half-Tausug, has its dominion in the Sulu world, which the Sinamas point as their origin. The MILF, on the other hand, are more popular in the Ranao area—in Maguindanao and Lanao Provinces. One may question as to who are the legitimate representatives of the Bangsa Moro people but one could agree that the MNLF and MILF indeed perceive themselves to be one and have been successful in setting an agenda for responses from the Philippine government and support from the international community. Economic and historical claims form part of the organizing and mobilization of liberation movements. And yet, an examination of social protest

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movements does not preclude the intersectionality of these claims with an ethnic content and context. As for informal networks, clans that are based on kinship ties or extended family relations are one of the significant socio-political actors locally. At the village level, these clan networks have been instrumental in the movement of people from their original provinces to Sarangani Bay; in carving neighbourhoods within their villages of immigration; in forming spheres of political influence; and in establishing division of labour. Clans and kinship ties in Sarangani Bay have also surfaced as a point of identification not only at the level of extended families but even of whole ethnic communities. This is the case specifically for the Sinama and Maguindanao Muslims, who have entered into intensified rivalry and competition over political influence, social status and economic access. Not only do clans provide dense and strong mobilizing capacity at the grassroots level, they also serve as proxy for ethnicity, and dominate over other forms of social organization in the Sarangani Bay villages of this study. What this chapter has shown, as well is that the political economy of the Sultanates have such an impact in the way the contours of Mindanao have been shaped vis-àvis Hispanized Luzon and the Visayas, the residual effect of which applies even in contemporary times. So much so that the orientation of relationship is not directed towards the capital Manila but of neighbouring sites of politico-economic power in maritime Southeast Asia—Borneo, Makassar, Celebes and even of Singapore. What it does show as well, however, is that the choice of self-identification and the rise to ethnic political leadership is more open than it is thought to be, with Datu Piang not a full-blooded Maguindanaoan himself, without the lineage to back up his claims to power. This chapter has highlighted that poverty, underdevelopment, misgovernance and inequitable distribution of resources are clearly at the bottom of the problems in Mindanao. However, it is a case where poverty and ethnicity coincide. I have shown how important donor agencies are in the development efforts and peace process in Mindanao, specifically with the ARMM. However, the presence of foreign-funded projects and activities that are not tested against local peculiarities and needs may have an unintended effect of promoting interests inimical to the situation. At the same time, it is recognized that local actors may not have the requisite capacity to carry out themselves projects for development according to the parameters of foreign donors. Yet, with an excess of foreign players on the ground, the ability of local actors to forge their own kind of peace and development is severely limited, if not stunted. This research work aimed to wed material and cultural approaches to the articulation of ethnicity by a cross section of the population, in conflict-affected areas in Sarangani Bay, Mindanao, Philippines. Hence, in this research, I looked into ethnicity’s relevance to everyday action and local actors, which I referred throughout the entire research as vernacular ethnicity. This I accomplished by mapping nominal, symbolic and networks of ethnicity in local discourses, and past local events; by looking at enacted ethnicity in everyday life and naturally occurring contexts; and by locating the constellation of micro, meso and macro-levels of actors and agents that influence ethnic consciousness.

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Throughout this work I argued that the ethnic identification of the lay/civilian does not necessarily conform, and at times even run counter to elite-initiated calls for social difference. This recognition however is tempered by an equally important fact, that organized movements and macro-actors like history, economics and cultural changes feed to and feed on vernacular ethnicity. While my subject of study is on vernacular ethnicity, i.e. ethnicity’s relevance to everyday action and local actors, the context of this study is on Sarangani Bay communities that are of mixed populations and are violence-affected areas. Sarangani Bay is a zone that has a rather sparse attention in literature. Notwithstanding, my choice to situate this study in the Sarangani Bay perspective, is far from arbitrary. It is because by looking from the perspective of the bay: First, it allows me to convey to myself and to my readers a mental map of the two places’ socio-economic connectedness and their similar nature in terms of having mixed communities— by religion, language, migration trajectory and social stratification, which I think is more interesting than imagining a plain political structure. Second, this locates my study at a strategic position of influences passing through Sarangani Bay, from peninsular and insular Mindanao and even beyond, to maritime Southeast Asia, in a web of livelihood, historical ties, and migration trajectory, to which even some of its current residents remain to go back and forth, in seeming irreverence to established rules on entry and exit in Southeast Asia. As I found in this work, a number of my informants have related having stayed on and off in Sabah, Malaysia and Sulawesi, Indonesia and of Indonesians to the Philippines, as Tan-Cullamar (1993) found, from the Sangir-Talaud area of northeastern Sulawesi, generally called by others, and even by relatives, as I have even heard in my childhood, as ‘Marore’. Third, choosing the Sarangani Bay perspective in presenting this study fills the gap in the literature on this growing economic and social zone, and hopefully, a market—both in the academic and commercial sense—for the material itself as a basic text not only for the towns covering the villages studied, but in the bigger Socsksargen area, as well. In Chap. 1, I have shown that ethnic category formations are driven by a constellation of actors, interests and motivations. Specifically, the discussions in this chapter have shown that government structures—whether the Catholic converting Spanish colonialist, the more secular and democratization-advocating American regime and the nationalist postcolonial and contemporary Philippine Republic, were all accountable for framing ethnic categories on the basis of religion—of the Filipino ethos that has a Catholic element at its core, Muslims/Moros and the non-Christian Lumads. The religious classification among Filipinos started from the respective administrative and governance aims of the Spanish colonist and then followed through by the American regime. Since conversion is part of the objective of Spain in its rule of the colony, religious conversion and the identities that this created—the converted Christian and the unconverted Muslim and pagan are useful categories. The more secular American rule, on the other hand, was bent on classifying its new colony and its people on the basis of their supposed level of civilization and capacity for democratic self-rule. I have already underscored that the religious discourse on ethnic categorization in Sarangani Bay, and in all likelihood can also be said of the whole of the Philippines,

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are constructions from above. I have also shown in this chapter that the average person on the street is not detached from these macro-categorizations. In fact, these ethnic categorizations not only impact on the identities of the lay, on how distinctions are established between and among peoples in their communities but as much as on the policies that shape their lives and livelihoods, their properties and opportunities, their capacities and institutions for redress. As master narratives of ethnicity are framed along religious lines, we see that for my informants on the ground, not only is there a different reality, but also multiple, negotiated realities, for that matter. Ethnic construction in spontaneous contexts is defined along points of locality with the use of the locator prefix taga. I have presented in the chapter that this locator prefix is a means for my informants to infer on ethnic categories, which, also conveniently coincides with narratives of place of origin, language and religion. True that the master categories of Muslims/Moro, Christians and non-Christians/Lumads have resonance on the ground, however, these categories do not supersede the lays’ categorization of ethnicity on the basis of location. Yet, another reality is also shown in the discussions in this chapter. Vernacular ethnicity is also a construct that is language-determined rather than location-defined. The discrepancy in the different meanings invested on vernacular ethnicity proves Brubaker’s argument that ethnicity is not a thing that exists in the world. Rather, vernacular ethnicity is characterized by internally generated meanings and perspectives that natives employ in relation to actual, situated activity. The actual situated context, where vernacular ethnicity in this instance was investigated was on the one hand, based on my informants’ spontaneous actions (for example, casual conversations asking someone as ‘taga-asa’) vis-à-vis in a context which involves a modicum of reflexivity on the other (for example, providing an array of choices, with each choice explained amply). Further, I have shown in this chapter that ethnic categories are neither fixed nor stable—whether the categories constructed ‘from above’ or the forms of ethnic categories that are employed ‘from below’. In the many examples in this chapter, ethnic categories and identification categories in general, can be traced up from history down to the present time, take the case of Moro, for instance. But while these categories are nominally retained, the meanings steeped in them, and the institutions and agents related to their articulation, are ever-changing over time. These institutions and agents, however, are not neutral umpires but are rather partisan actors and brokers in the promotion, defense and management of ethnic categories and the processes under which these categorizations take place. In Chap. 2, I looked at four major situations in the everyday in which ethnicity forms part of the narrative as an explanatory factor. The findings show that while master narratives of ethnic categories are commonly used, the meanings ascribed to them are not as rigid as often assumed. First, the supposed divide between Christians and Muslims in the everyday lives of my Sarangani Bay informants is more complicated than assumed. Rather, what is apparent is the rejection of the monolithic representations of Islam and Christianity and of the individuals and collectivities who profess either of these two traditions of faith.

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Second, ethnic conversion, especially in the case exemplified by the B’laans, to an otherwise dominant and foreign religion, suggests not a weakness that leads to the erosion of ethnic identification, but of an agency to reinvigorate their sense of being. While the answers to these questions were expressed in different ways, the summary of their answers point not to a rationalization of the conversion process, but to a rationalization of their choice of religion to convert to. According to them, embracing Christianity together with their indigenous religious practices is not an issue, given the openness of the B’laans religious world to syncretism and polytheism. This sense of agency has considered the advantages that conversion entails spanning from the material/economic (scholarships/sponsorships; literacy; network expansion; access to broader humanitarian services); the cultural (brand of Christianity has religious resonance with indigenous belief; documentation of an oral language); and the political (distinct identification; identification and training of prospective leaders). Further, the experiences of my interviewees point not to a rationalization of the conversion process, but to a rationalization of their choice of religion to convert to. Third, occupational specializations reflect on how individuals attempt to come to terms with the environment around them—of enacting practices that both insiders and outsiders may flag as ethnic, but are in fact manifestations of a particular set of historical and social changes facing a community and internalizing them into their daily routines. The choice of income that one undertakes cannot simply be reduced to either ethnic determinism or individual choice, but must be related to wider structures of social change and competing constructions brought about by history, market conditions, power relations and individual agency. What seems like a labour regime based on an ethnic division is no less than a socially constructed division of labour. These real practices, to belabour the point, are not natural but rather locally constructed knowledge of what constitutes a desirable job for which people. Fourth, the language that one speaks in the Philippines, and the accent that one has, reverberate hegemonic implications. By switching to Tagalog, the non-native Tagalog speaker is able to publicly express that he or she can be treated as if she is Tagalog. As if Tagalog, but not really—which means that speaking Tagalog renders the speaker access to the resources and power perceived to be associated with the community speaking the language, without necessarily changing their expression of themselves with their co-ethnies and others. Fifth, in the production and reproduction of labels, social identity and relations, contestations and conflict are inevitably involved. But the manner, shape and direction by which contestations are articulated are not uniform for everyone. The expression of dissent is informed by perceived configurations of power, if not the presence of power itself, which sanctions what can be contested and what cannot be in the everyday. What this chapter shows is that the ethnic element is just a starter to a full-course constellation of differences that are not in the least ethnic, such as local relations; perceived configurations of power, if not the presence of power itself; the influence of past hegemonic experiences and identification projects; and the apparent weakness, if not the absence of institutional channels that allow a discussion of local contestations.

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It is at this juncture that I turn the page to Chap. 6, which deals with the different voices and levels of inquiry that impact on how ethnicity is defined, highlighted, subdued, and reproduced. In Chap. 6, I looked at the linkages between the constellation of micro, meso and macro-levels of actors and agents to the ethnic consciousness of the cross section of the population in Sarangani Bay. Their vernacular voices shed light on how they experience and view their politico-economic situation and that of the country’s, political authority, economic appropriation, and the peace-related efforts of the government and that of principled organizations like the Moro Islamic Liberation Front; local sentiments on policy priorities; and governance in Muslim Mindanao. On the other hand, institutions (government authority, armies, local states, economic agencies), organizational agents (movements, parties, patronage networks, strategic groups), and popular social formations (neighbourhood-based associations and quotidian activities) have, in no doubt, a role in how my interviewees come to terms with ethnicity, and how this ethnicity identifies and defines them, and their relations with others. Claims to land or even technically of non-land but of foreshore, and the fuzzy nature of tenure in Sarangani Bay cannot be separated from the politics of colonization and ethnicity, the Moro and Lumad struggles in Mindanao and of the arrival of Luzon and Visayan migrants to the ‘frontier’. Residual effects of colonialism and the memory and experiences associated with social, political and economic injustice— operationalized by the issue on land appropriation, the consequent displacement of the original occupants from the land, and increasing animosity in Mindanao among the indigenes and the settlers—have played a part in the crystallization of a sense of belonging in the shape of ethnicity that takes the categories of Moros, Lumads and Christian settlers. Also, not only the consciousness that aid recipients have on the ramifications of aid going their way but also of the gap in literature on aid agency professionals, public sector officials, development workers and technical assistance advisors consciously deal with ethnic issues, especially in regions rife with ethnic competition and rivalry Local networks in the villages of this research can be categorized into formalized networks like the Krislam Association and sporadic recruitments of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), and the non-formalized networks of clans. It must be said that even the movements for a Bangsa Moro are divided along ethnic lines. The MNLF, which has been headed by its head Nur Misuari, who is half-Sinama and half-Tausug, has its dominion in the Sulu world, which the Sinamas point as their origin. The MILF, on the other hand, are more popular in the Ranao area—in Maguindanao and Lanao Provinces. One may question as to who are the legitimate representatives of the Bangsa Moro people but one could agree that the MNLF and MILF indeed perceive themselves to be one and have been successful in setting an agenda for responses from the Philippine government and support from the international community. Economic and historical claims form part of the organizing and mobilization of liberation movements. And yet, an examination of social protest movements does not preclude the intersectionality of these claims with an ethnic content and context.

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As for informal networks, clans that are based on kinship ties or extended family relations are one of the significant socio-political actors locally. At the village level, these clan networks have been instrumental in the movement of people from their original provinces to Sarangani Bay; in carving neighbourhoods within their villages of immigration; in forming spheres of political influence; and in establishing division of labour. Clans and kinship ties in Sarangani Bay have also surfaced as a point of identification not only at the level of extended families but even of whole ethnic communities. This is the case specifically for the Sinama and Maguindanao Muslims, who have entered into intensified rivalry and competition over political influence, social status and economic access. Not only do clans provide dense and strong mobilizing capacity at the grassroots level, they also serve as proxy for ethnicity, and dominate over other forms of social organization in the Sarangani Bay villages of this study. What this chapter has shown, as well is that the political economy of the Sultanates have such an impact in the way the contours of Mindanao have been shaped vis-àvis Hispanized Luzon and the Visayas, the residual effect of which applies even in contemporary times. So much so that the orientation of relationship is not directed towards the capital Manila but of neighbouring sites of politico-economic power in maritime Southeast Asia—Borneo, Makassar, Celebes and even of Singapore. What it does show as well, however, is that the choice of self-identification and the rise to ethnic political leadership is more open than it is thought to be, with Datu Piang not a full-blooded Maguindanaoan himself, without the lineage to back up his claims to power. This chapter has highlighted that poverty, underdevelopment, misgovernance and inequitable distribution of resources are clearly at the bottom of the problems in Mindanao. However, it is a case where poverty and ethnicity coincide. I have shown how important donor agencies are in the development efforts and peace process in Mindanao, specifically with the ARMM. However, the presence of foreign-funded projects and activities that are not tested against local peculiarities and needs may have an unintended effect of promoting interests inimical to the situation. At the same time, it is recognized that local actors may not have the requisite capacity to carry out themselves projects for development according to the parameters of foreign donors. Yet, with an excess of foreign players on the ground, the ability of local actors to forge their own kind of peace and development is severely limited, if not stunted. In summary, this research on vernacular ethnicity was an attempt to situate ethnicity not only on being or having but in doing; not on ethnicity only as narratives, but also in contextually embedded actions; not on ethnicity but on ethnic contexts/situation; not in identity but in identification; not in fixed entities but in shifting, renegotiated boundaries; not on ethnic groups but on ethnic categories. By looking at how everyday ethnicity is lived among my informants in the areas of Sarangani Bay, I have stronger grounds to argue that ethnicity is in ‘doing’ and in ‘accomplishing’ rather than in ‘being’ and in ‘having’. What the findings have shown in the preceding chapters is a depiction of ethnicity as a discursive practice—a resource that certain individuals or even collectivities use in certain naturally occurring contextual situations, either to gain leverage or redefine social relations.

6.16 Conclusion

131

Further, this research is aware that ethnic identity is both an asset and a liability, at times a strange if not totally unwelcome attribution, and at times a self-aware definition of oneself within a collective imagining. That it is both a driving force for belonging and for exclusion. Ethnicity as an expression/utility—is a resource deployed. What may appear as ethnic may in fact be representations of one’s location in the spatial organization of the everyday and network configurations in daily life (Stroschein 2007). As a resource, ethnicity in the everyday are not by itself independent, but feeds from and feeds on, and are on some occasions camouflaged in the various network configurations and structural properties in their daily lives: demographics, gender and the economy; networks, clans, strategic groups, and organizations; patterned discourses and norms, the influence of past events, spoilage and patronage system, and institutional relations between, groups compete at the local level not simply for material resources such as land and housing, but also over linguistic, cultural, and symbolic resources. What this research shows is that the Lumads, Muslims and Christians in Mindanao have their own vernacular languages, customs, traditions and histories, but pan-Moro and pan-Christian constructions of ethnic categories were fundamental components, at each point in time, in nation-building and contesting nation-building processes to present an alternative one. A dismissal of ethnic ascription is out of the question, as identification with an ethnie remains to be of personal and local currency. What this study however shows, is a shift in the meaning and function of ethnicity from one that calls for separation to one that aims for a renegotiation and redefinition of ethnic boundaries and national definition. The fact of the Samal’s relative unrootedness and late embrace of Islam and the B’laans embrace of Protestantism instead of Catholicism is an argument against sweeping narratives of ‘Catholic and Islam’ dominance. The specific case of my Sarangani Bay informants proffers a two-sided critique of Philippine social relations. First, the need for broadening and redefining who is a Filipino—bore naked from both foreign influences that have shaped the current discursive divide between Muslims and Christians. Second, of recasting rather than dismissing the Philippine framework—from a country of ethnic majorities and minorities, and a country of plural singularities to a pluri national state that respects the history and aspirations of its citizens while resisting patronizing views that is unfortunately commonly bestowed towards Muslims and Lumads even by academics29 and civil society groups; to a framework of governance that replaces current practices of patronage and clan-centred politics; a consciousness to go beyond the Muslim and Christian binary—and truthfully make sense of the oppression and the resulting stratification in the contact between and within historical communities—between ‘Muslims and Christians’, between ‘Muslims and Lumads’, between ‘Christians and Lumads’, and within each of the ‘Christian’, ‘Muslim’ and ‘Lumad’ communities; and of tipping the balance on the weight of importance given from the ‘Bangsa Moro

29 Notice

that when ‘Lumads’ and ‘Mindanao Muslims’ are referred to, the noun ‘inhabitants’ is used, but if referring to the mainstream ‘Filipino Christians’, it is inadvertently ‘residents’.

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Index

A Abaca, 112, 121 Abdul, 105–107 Abdullah, 120 Abinales, 5, 39, 58, 112, 120 Abingdon, 48 Aboriginal, 33, 34 Abubakar, 6, 116 Abysmal, 109 Accord, 98 Acosta, 80 Actors, 1, 2, 4, 10, 11, 18, 20, 22–24, 27, 28, 31, 32, 64, 66, 67, 71, 72, 81, 92–94, 97, 104, 111, 113, 114, 123–127, 129, 130 Adib, 37 Adjudicate, 50 Adneauer, 98 Adventists, 78 Advisors, 110, 124, 129 Advocacy, 78 Affirmative, 85, 109 Africa, 110 AFRIM, 99 Agabin, 82 Agency, xiii, 2, 7, 10, 11, 20–22, 24, 80, 83, 87, 92, 93, 104, 108, 110, 121, 122, 124, 128, 129 Aggression, 49, 73, 76 Agribusiness, 49, 76, 112 Agricultural, 37, 83, 121 Alanto, 116, 117 Alcantaras, 107 Alcina, 54 Alilaya, 107 Alladin, viii Allah, 112, 114

Alliances, 27, 28, 32, 120 Alonto, 39 Altruism, 108 Amoroso, 37 Ancestral, 49, 73, 76, 98, 107, 116 Andaman, 52 Anderson, 21, 54 Animist, 16, 33, 36, 81 Animosity, 113, 124, 129 Anthropological, 35, 51, 86 Antonio, 38 Apathetic, 97 Appropriation, 18, 27, 37–39, 93, 97, 113, 124, 129 Aquino, 4, 114–117 Arceo, 82 Archaeological, 33 Archipelago, 51 Arguillas, 6, 114 Aristotle, 15 ARMM, xiii, 41, 99, 100, 114–116, 122, 123, 125, 130 Arroyo, 99, 114, 116 ASEAN, 115 Asia, vii, xiii, 33, 35, 37, 38, 48, 51–53, 64, 80, 116, 118, 120, 125, 126, 130 Asianist, viii Assimilate, 25, 32 Assistance, xiii, 122 Association, 90, 104, 107, 109, 110, 121, 124, 129 Astrid, 113 Atrocities, 116 Austronesian, 33 Autonomous, vii, xiii, 41, 99, 114, 115, 122, 123 Autonomy, 16, 36, 41, 99, 113–116

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 A. Ragsag, Ethnic Boundary-Making at the Margins of Conflict in The Philippines, SpringerBriefs in Political Science, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-2525-4

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138 Azhar, 114

B Badjaos, 9, 37, 51, 86, 118 Bagobo, 40 Bagsak, 38 Bagsakan, 108 Baguiged, 119 Bajao, 118 Bajaus, 9, 51, 86 Balangingi, 37 Bali, 6, 105, 106 Balua, 105 Baluguis, 119 Balut, 9 Bamboo, 74 Bangsa, vii, 4, 5, 99, 110, 113, 114, 124, 129, 131 Bangsamoro, xiii, 4, 5, 39–41, 114, 116, 117 Barangay, 6–9, 34, 58, 62, 75, 76, 83, 89, 90, 104–109 Barth, 1, 2, 11, 20 Basch, 55 Basilan, 51, 53 Batayang, 61 Bates, 37 Batongbacal, 103 Batongbakal, 103 Bauman, 61 Baumann, 23 Bautista, 32 Bellwood, 33 Benedict, 21, 54 Benigno, 4, 116 Bentley, 54 Berbers, 35 Bernardino, 51 Biazon, 117 Bible, 16 Biblical, 77, 78 Bilingual, 60 Bisayan, 54–56, 58 Bisayas, 6, 8–10, 46–48, 54, 56–62, 79, 100, 102, 105, 106 Blanchetti, 48 Bobby, 116 Bogabong, 38 Bohol, 57 Boholano, 57 Bordieau, 21 Bordieusian, 71 Borneo, 33, 119, 120, 125, 130

Index Boundaries, 2, 1–3, 5, 10, 11, 15, 20, 23–28, 31–35, 38, 39, 45, 49, 71–74, 81, 82, 84–86, 90, 92–94, 106, 130, 131 Boundarymaking, 11, 28, 31, 71, 81 Bounded, 27, 49, 73 Bourgeois, 22 Boyan, 119 Breadwinners, 74 Brubaker, 18, 22, 23, 31, 127 Brunei, 33, 53, 91, 118 Buayan, 5, 118–120 Buddhist, 80 Buendia, 50 Bugis, 118 Buhids, 54 Bukidnon, 40, 80 Buluanm, 119 Bureau, 36 Burmese, 52 Burton, 64 Byzantine, 16

C Cabanit, 107 Cadiguilan, 119 Cagayan, 33, 58 Cagoco, 99 California, 48, 91 Callao, 33 CAMACOP, xiii, 77, 78 Camouflaged, 131 Campado, 5 Capacity, 24, 27, 58, 71, 73–75, 84, 85, 88, 93, 94, 100, 101, 109, 111, 114, 118, 123, 125, 126, 130 Capul, 51 Carabaos, 50 Carandang, 117 Caribbean, 55 Carlisle, 63 Carolyn, 114 Casiño, 48 Castro, 98 Categories, 1, 2, 4, 11, 16, 18, 21–25, 32, 35, 36, 45, 46, 48, 54–56, 59, 66, 67, 73, 86, 92, 97, 111, 113, 124, 126, 127, 129–131 Catholicism, 131 Catholicized, 38 Caucasian, 121 Cebu, 53, 55, 57 Cebuano, 8, 40, 46, 48, 56–58, 60

Index Celebes, 76, 120, 125, 130 Cenro, 107 Census, 4, 57, 63 Century, 15, 33, 37, 40, 54, 89, 118, 119 Certainly, 36, 54 Charter, 117 Chavacanos, 40 ChildFund, 90, 109 Childhood, 126 Christianity, 35, 73, 75, 78–81, 127, 128 Christianized, 36 Citizenship, 11, 31, 48, 67, 84, 85, 88 Civic, 84, 85, 104 Civilian, xiii, 106 Civilizations, 36 Claimants, 107 Clannish, 99 Clans, 5, 10, 39, 53, 62–66, 102, 103, 105, 107, 110, 111, 125, 130, 131 Clifford, 18 Climate, 122 Coastal, 87, 103 Coincidental, 65 Cole, 50, 79 Colloquial, 58, 77, 78 Colonial, 4, 16, 32–37, 40, 48, 92, 111–113, 120, 121, 126 Colonialism, 20, 34, 113, 124, 129 Colonialist, 92, 126 Colonization, 3, 17, 33, 104, 124, 129 Commonwealth, xiii, 32, 38, 112, 121 Communal, 34, 40, 59, 60, 76, 85 Communist, xiii, 4, 41 Conant, 36 Congress, 39, 40, 106, 117 Consensus, 3, 10, 20, 116 Constellation, 67, 92, 97, 124–126, 128, 129 Constituency, 73, 120 Construction, 88 Constructivist, 1, 2, 11, 15, 17, 20–24 Consultation, 73 Consumption, 122 Contestations, 17, 67, 128 Contesting, 113 Controversial, 38 Conversation, 38, 46, 56, 59, 60, 62, 100, 127 Conversion, 34, 59, 78–81, 91, 93, 109, 126, 128 Cooperation, xiii, 122 Copper-Gold, 49 Corazon, 115 Cordilleran, 16, 36 Cordilleras, 32

139 Corporation, 40, 63, 87, 107, 112, 121 Cosmopolitan, 108 Cotabato, 5, 46, 47, 49, 50, 58, 73, 75, 103, 119, 120 Crystallization, 111, 113, 124, 129 Cullamar, 126 Culprit, 84 Customs, 3, 17, 31, 36, 49, 73, 79, 131

D Dadiangas, viii, xiii, 90, 105, 109, 110 Dahl, 21 Daju, 38 Dame, viii, xiii, 90, 104, 105, 109, 110 Daniel, 36 Dansalan, 38, 39, 112 Daoyi, 118 Datinguinoo, 63 Datus, 34, 38–40, 105, 107, 112, 114, 119– 121, 125, 130 Davao, viii, 5, 46–48, 58, 87, 98, 100, 112, 114, 121 Davaweño, 57 David, 16, 36 Davis, 6 Debacle, 99 Debts, 65 Decentralization, 106 Declaration, 38, 39, 112 Decreed, 63 Defense, xiii, 106 Delegitimizes, 25 Delfin, 84 Delicacy, 87 Democratic, 36, 64, 114, 126 Democratization, 100, 126 Demographics, 7, 10, 15, 54, 131 Descent, 3, 17, 18, 35, 45, 49, 52, 73 Deskripsyon, 61 Development, vii, xiii, xiv, 4, 33, 36, 39, 49, 73, 76, 78, 82, 87, 90, 94, 100, 104, 105, 108–110, 114, 115, 117, 121–123, 125, 129, 130 Dialects, 63 Diaz, 112, 121 Dibabawon, 40 Dichotomous, 1 Dichotomy, 17, 22, 73 Dignity, 102 Dilauts, 51 Disagreements, 64–66 Discourse, 23, 55, 59, 126

140 Discrimination, 25 Discursive, 21, 22, 130, 131 Disenfranchised, 89 Displacement, 9, 39, 50, 86, 113, 124, 129 Diversity, 48 Division, 24, 111, 125, 128, 130 Diwata, 50 Domain, 49, 73, 76, 98, 116 Dominance, 39, 55, 88, 89, 113, 131 Donors, 123, 125, 130 Dumlao, 82 Dupilas, 119 Durante, 4, 64, 65 Dynasty, 118

E Economically, 8, 89, 91, 93, 121 Education, viii, 58, 61, 74, 78, 88, 90, 91, 98, 108, 109 Educational, 37, 58, 90, 91, 109, 121 Edward, 18 Electoral, 63, 75 Elisea, 107 Elite, 19–21, 28, 33, 39, 40, 46, 126 Emasculated, 92 Embedded, 11, 47, 52, 61, 80, 130 Employment, 75, 91, 98, 121 Empowered, 20, 27, 92 Endogamous, 18 Endogamy, 19 Entitlements, 104 Entrepreneurial, 84, 85, 93, 94 Entrepreneurs, 8, 27, 28, 72, 85 Environmental, 87 Equally, 10, 20, 27, 63, 72, 92, 106, 126 Equity, 88 Españoles, 34 Espejo, 6 Espina, 49, 76, 107, 116 Estrada, 114, 116 Ethnicity, vii, 1–4, 11, 15–24, 27, 31, 45, 48, 54–56, 58, 59, 66, 71, 82, 84, 85, 93, 97, 104, 111, 113, 122, 124–127, 129–131 Ethnicized, 6, 7, 10, 11, 66 Ethnographic, 2, 31, 106 Ethnological, 16, 36 Ethnoreligious, 72, 81, 85 Ethnos, 15, 16 Evangelical, 77–80, 108 Extremist, 83–85

Index F Faith, 18, 35, 36, 50, 55, 62, 110, 117, 127 Farmland, 74 Fenton, 18 Ferdinand, 115 Fernando, 34 Fianza, 113 Filipinas, 34 Filipinization, 38 Filipinos, 4, 16, 32–39, 46–49, 54, 55, 58, 60–63, 71–73, 75, 80, 81, 92, 100, 112, 113, 120, 121, 126, 131 Firth, 57 Fiscal, 99, 122 Fisher, 100, 101 Fisherfolks, 101, 102 Fisheries, 101 Folks, 62, 100, 101 Followers, 5, 18 Foreshore, 102–104, 124, 129 Formations, 32, 92, 104, 124, 126, 129 Forrest, 118, 119 Forum, viii, 99, 112 Framework, 3, 11, 15, 23, 24, 27, 28, 32, 34, 45, 72, 80–82, 85, 112, 114, 115, 131 Franciscan, 34 Francisco, 38, 51, 54 Fredrick, 20 Friar, 33, 34 G Ganibe, 6 Garcia, 116 Gargantuan, 107 Gawan, 107 Gaytano, viii Geertz, 18, 19 Gemeinsamkeit, 3, 17 Gempiya, 79 Gender, 11, 48, 71, 92, 131 Genesis, 79 Gentrifying, 90 Geography, 3, 23 Geometric, 91 Ghadaffi, 115 Giddens, 22 Gilley, 17 Glazer, 16, 17 Glick, 55 Goliath, 107 Gonzalez, 24, 32 Governance, 4, 21, 54, 73, 88, 97, 98, 100, 122, 124, 126, 129, 131

Index Government, vii, xiii, 3–7, 9–11, 28, 32, 34– 40, 46, 49, 50, 53, 58, 65, 66, 71, 73, 75, 76, 85, 86, 88, 89, 92, 97–108, 112–117, 121, 122, 124, 126, 129 Gozun, 107 Grassroots, 111, 125, 130 Greenhills, 82, 85 Greenwood, 48 Grievance, 104 Gulaya, 49, 76 Gustavo, 36 Gutierrez, 54 H Haddon, 16, 36 Hadji, 38, 105 Hamilton, 91 Handler, 22 Hanunóos, 54 Harvard, 110 Hashim, 85, 113–116 Hayase, 5, 53, 54, 88, 118, 119 Hazel, 48 Hebrew, 16 Hegemon, 22, 66 Hegemonic, 52, 61, 62, 67, 72, 78, 81, 86, 128 Heirs, 107 Henry, 33–35, 54 Heralded, 115 Herder, 2 Herderian, 2 Hernandez, 107 Hierarchy, 2, 45, 50, 54, 71, 72, 81, 82, 86, 88, 89 Hiligaynon, 57 Hinterlands, 48 Hispanized, 36, 120, 125, 130 Historical, 2–5, 7, 9, 10, 15, 23, 27, 31, 32, 37–40, 53–55, 58, 64, 75, 78, 93, 104, 105, 117, 120, 122, 124, 126, 128, 129, 131 Historiographic, 22 Historiography, 22, 54 Homeland, 40, 107 Homogenizing, 27 Horowitz, 6, 19, 24 Humanitarian, 80, 123, 128 I Identities, 3, 10, 17–21, 24, 27, 31, 33, 56, 63, 65, 67, 72, 73, 75, 78, 81, 84, 89,

141 92, 94, 108, 113, 114, 126–128, 130, 131 Igorots, 32, 36 Ilanun, 37 Ileto, 5, 118–120 Illana, 119 Illanun, 118 Illegality, 101 Ilocano, 46, 57, 102 Ilocos, 46 Ilonggo, 56–58 Ilustrados, 38 Immigrants, 23, 45 Immigration, 111, 125, 130 Incorporation, 24, 32, 52, 86, 89 Independence, 37–39, 112, 116, 119 Indians, 52, 108 Indigeneity, 40, 59, 81 Indigenous, vii, xiii, 4, 19, 22, 33, 36, 40, 49, 55, 60, 71, 73, 76, 78–80, 92, 102, 106, 107, 113, 128 Indios, 34, 35, 38, 54 Indonesia, 9, 51, 86 Indonesian, 16, 35–37, 51, 80, 126 INFR, 88 Injustice, 111, 113, 124, 129 Inquirer, 117 Institutions, viii, 20, 21, 27, 31, 39, 49, 66, 73, 89, 97, 104, 108, 117, 123, 124, 127, 129 Insurgency, 7, 112 Intergovernmental, 117 Intergroup, 20, 24 Intermarriages, 16, 36, 84, 106 Intersectionality, 117, 125, 129 Isagani, 98 Isidro, 107 Islam, 9, 33, 39, 59, 75, 89, 90, 100, 102, 110, 127, 131 Islamic, vii, xiii, 3, 4, 6, 33, 35, 37, 38, 40, 80, 85, 89, 90, 93, 97, 98, 110, 113–116, 123, 124, 129 Islamiya, xiii, 6 Islamized, 37 Islamophobia, 108 Islands, 9, 33, 34, 37, 39, 46, 48, 51, 52, 54, 56, 112, 113, 118, 123

J JICA, xiii, 122 Jihad, 35, 114, 118 Jocano, 33

142 Jocelyn, 48 John, 110 Johor, 120 Johore, 51 Jolo, 119 Jose, viii Jubair, 35, 38 Judd, 4, 112 Judiciary, 107 Julian, 105 Julie, viii Julio, 103 Justice, 25, 54, 66, 98 Justification, 9 K Kabataan, 106 Kabungsuwan, 51 Kalagan, 37, 40 Kalibugan, 37 Kalingas, 36 Kamagi, 50 Kamánga, 8, 105, 106 Kamlian, 73 Kapampangans, 33 Kapitan, 75, 89, 106, 107 Kawi, 54 Kessler, 77, 78 Keyes, 80 Khadaffy, 6 Kingdoms, 118 Kinship, 3, 8, 17, 18, 63, 111, 125, 130 Kobak, 54 Kondo, 82 Kong, 119 Konrad, 98 Kreuzer, 5, 63 Krislam, 104, 110, 124, 129 Kristiyano, 110 Kristohanon, 47 Kudarat, 6, 118 Kymlicka, 21 L Laans, vii, 8, 9, 40, 45, 47, 49, 50, 53, 55– 57, 60, 62, 64, 65, 71–82, 91–94, 102, 105–110, 128, 131 Ladasihina, 119 Ladder, 91 Ladehilayan, 119 Laitin, 23 Lakas, xiii, 101

Index Lamont, 24 Lamot, 50 Lanao, 5, 39, 55, 84, 111, 124, 129 Landa, 33 Landgrabbing, 73 Landholder, 106 Landholding, 107 Lanton, 7–10, 72, 90, 97, 99, 100, 102, 104, 107–109 Lapian, 118 Lapong, 107 Laut, 51 Leaders, 33, 39, 50, 76, 78, 80, 99, 112, 128, 132 Leadership, 32, 35, 63, 73, 76, 79, 85, 89, 93, 99, 106, 113, 114, 118–120, 125, 130 League, 40 Leeway, 101 Legacies, 35, 81, 107, 111 Legislations, 106 Legitimate, 4, 61, 113, 124, 129 Legitimately, 100 Liberation, vii, xiii, 3, 4, 6, 38–40, 53, 85, 89, 93, 97, 98, 104, 110, 113, 116, 124, 129 Limontangan, 119 Linguistic, 32, 37, 40, 46, 48, 51, 54–56, 63, 86, 102, 131 Literature, 5, 11, 20, 31, 45, 55, 56, 89, 103, 110, 124, 126, 129 Locality, 9, 45, 46, 48, 50, 58, 66, 79, 86, 91, 127 Location, 24, 28, 48, 50, 56, 57, 62, 66, 72, 74, 75, 83, 86, 127, 131 Lopez, 34, 54 Loreto, 107 Loyalty, 32, 35 Lucio, 54 Lumad, vii, 4, 6, 32, 38, 40, 41, 45–49, 55, 56, 64, 66, 71, 73, 75–80, 92, 93, 99, 102, 104–111, 113, 124, 126, 127, 129, 131 Lumolopyo, 105 Luna, 119 Lunt, 16 Luster, 22 Lustick, 23 Lutaos, 51, 52 Lutas, 118 Luzon, 16, 34, 36, 47, 49, 51, 76, 99, 104, 112, 118, 120, 122, 124, 125, 129, 130

Index Lyotard, 62

M Maasim, 7, 8, 47, 87 Macagcalat, 105 Macapagal, 99, 116 Macrostructural, 24 Maentz, 52 Magallanes, 34, 35 Magbabaya, 79 Maguindanao, 5, 8, 9, 33, 37, 51, 53, 57, 59, 61, 64, 89, 102, 105–108, 111, 118, 119, 124, 125, 129, 130 Maguindanaoan, 9, 106, 120, 125, 130 Makassar, 33, 53, 118, 120, 125, 130 Makati, 121 Malacañang, 113 Malada, 119 Malapatan, 47 Malasila, 119 Malaya, 36, 54 Malays, 16, 33, 35–37, 52 Malaysians, 36 Malid, 49, 76 Mamamalakaya, xiii, 101 Mamanwa, 40 Mamlag, 119 Mandate, 112 Mandaya, 40 Mangguwangan, 40 Manila, viii, 33, 40, 46, 47, 54, 58, 60, 62, 82, 83, 85, 98, 100, 107, 111–113, 118–122, 125, 130 Manobos, 57, 64 Maranao, xiii, 8–10, 37, 55–57, 62, 64, 65, 71, 72, 81–85, 90, 92–94, 99, 102 Marcos, 4, 114, 115 Marginalized, 24, 54, 91 Marriage, 105, 119 Martial, 9, 51, 86, 103, 106 Masjid, 92 Maulana, 83, 116 Mayor, 107, 121 McDonald, 15 McFarland, 32 McFerson, 48 McGovern, viii McKenna, 4, 37 Megbevayà, 79 Meiji, 121 Melaka, 37 Melayu, 36

143 Melchor, 107 Melebugnon, 37 Melu, 50, 79 Membership, 3, 17, 18, 32, 56, 89 Memorandum, 98, 116 Mendoza, 84, 86 Mercado, 3, 116 Meso, 38, 89, 124, 125, 129 Metro, 60, 82, 85, 121 Midlimbag, 79 Migrants, 4, 9, 10, 33, 38, 47, 53–56, 89, 100, 102, 104, 112, 124, 129 Migration, 3, 9, 10, 17, 33, 39, 53, 55 Miguel, 54 Militarization, 6, 10, 15 Militias, 109 Mindanao, vii, xiii, 1–7, 9–11, 15, 24, 28, 31–41, 45, 47–51, 53–60, 64, 66, 71– 73, 75, 76, 78, 82, 84, 86, 88–90, 92– 94, 97–100, 104, 110–115, 117–126, 129–131 MindaNews, 6, 49, 76 Mindoro, 54 Ming, 118 Minority, 4, 23, 27, 28, 31, 32, 45, 52, 73, 75, 78, 81, 89, 91, 93, 94, 131 Minuslim, 48 Misgovernance, 122, 125, 130 Misinformation, 101 Mission, 58, 77, 109, 115 Misuari, 4, 5, 40, 111, 114, 124, 129 MNLF, xiii, 3–5, 38–40, 53, 85, 89, 110, 113–116, 124, 129, 132 Mohametan, 119 Mohammedan, 39 Molbog, 37 Moluccas, 40, 51, 119 Montesa, 117 Moriscos, 35 Moro, vii, xiii, 3–6, 34–41, 47, 48, 53, 55, 56, 66, 71–73, 75, 85, 89, 92, 93, 97, 99, 104, 110, 111, 113, 114, 116, 120, 121, 124, 126, 127, 129, 131 Moroland, 112 Moro National Liberation Front (MILF), 3–7, 38, 40, 85, 89, 98, 99, 110, 113–117, 124, 129, 132 Mothershaped, 105 Mountain, 34 Movement, 3–6, 9–11, 27, 28, 31, 38, 40, 41, 45, 50, 52, 54, 58, 77–79, 82, 83, 85, 86, 93, 97, 100, 101, 104, 109, 110, 112, 116, 117, 124, 126, 129, 130

144 Moynihan, 16, 17 Munasinghe, 22, 23 Municipal, 101, 107

N Nagata, 19 Naglalahad, 61 Nasayod, 99 Nasser, 107 Nationalism, 23, 71 Nativity, 55 Naturally, 125, 130 Naundang, 99 Negosasyon, 99 Negritos, 16, 33, 35–37, 40 Negros, 46 Netherlands, 122 Nganong, 99 Nicasio, 107 Nimmo, 51, 54 Noble, 40, 113 Nolasco, 32 Normative, 86 Notre, viii, xiii, 90, 104, 105, 109, 110 Nusantao, 52

O Okamura, 20 Okinawa, 52 Olarte, 63, 103 OPEC, xiii, 122 Opposition, 49, 71, 76, 82, 92 Oral, 53, 54, 60, 79, 80, 104, 128 Oran, 119 Orang, 51 Organization, vii, xiii, 4, 20, 38–41, 64, 78, 80, 85, 93, 97, 102, 104, 109, 111, 113, 114, 116, 117, 123–125, 129–131 Organizational, 39, 104, 124, 129 Orthodox, 1, 40, 114 Othering, 27 Ottoman, 16

P Paglangan, 107 Panao, 123 Panay, 112 Pangayaw, 64 Patriarch, 89, 105, 106 Patricio, 107, 112, 121

Index Peacebuilding, 110 Penalties, 50, 101 Pendatun, 107 Peninsulares, 34, 35 Pentagon, 5 Pentecostal, 77, 78 Perak, 120 Percent, 57 Pervasiveness, 51, 87 Pesos, 82, 88, 101, 103, 121 Peter, 33 Philippinos, 38 Phillip, 34 Pilipinas, xiii, 101 Piracy, 54, 88, 119 Pluralism, 21 Pluralist, 32, 56 Pluri, 131 Poewe, 77, 78 Polar, 108 Polarity, 23 Polarization, 2, 4 Politeness, 38 Politically, 16, 34, 36, 41, 54, 66, 71, 80, 88, 89, 92, 93, 107 Politicians, 63, 75, 99, 114 Politicization, 108 Politicized, 17 Politico, 37, 48, 97, 119, 120, 124, 125, 129, 130 Politicoeconomic, 97 Polynesian, 52 Polytheism, 79, 128 Popularly, 81, 116 Populated, 51, 76, 87 Population, 4, 6–11, 16, 20, 24, 27, 28, 32– 34, 40, 45, 49, 51, 52, 57, 71–73, 75, 76, 87, 89, 92, 97–99, 102, 104, 106, 113, 120–122, 124–126, 129 Populism, 77, 78 Porcalla, 117 Portfolio, 122 Portuguese, 37 Postmodernism, 21 Postmodernist, 20–22 Poverty, 4, 49, 109, 122, 125, 130 Pragados, 107 Prehispanic, 54 Primordial, 3, 17–19, 22, 48, 55, 60 Primordialism, 18, 19, 21, 23 Propaganda, 99 Propagation, 3, 17 Proselytizing, 80

Index Protestant, 77–80 Province, vii, 5–8, 35, 37, 38, 47, 50, 59, 77, 84, 87, 89, 90, 102, 103, 108, 109, 121 Punul, 119

Q Qaeda, 6

R Rabasa, 39 Rajal, 119 Rebellion, 52, 82, 114 Recruitments, 104, 110, 124, 129 Referendum, 115 Regime, 34–38, 40, 85, 92, 102, 121, 126, 128 Regional, 107 Repercussions, 79, 110 Repositioning, 22, 25, 72, 81, 82, 93 Reproduction, 2, 46, 67, 128 Republic, xiii, 5, 39, 41, 82, 92, 113, 126 Resettlement, 9, 10 Residence, 18, 47, 74, 86 Resistance, 28, 39, 41, 49, 55, 73, 106, 111, 112 Resolusyon, 61, 106 Resolution, 60 Retribalization, 80 Retribution, 66 Reunification, 9, 10 Riesman, 16, 17 Rivalry, 64, 65, 110, 111, 124, 125, 129, 130 Rizal, 33 Robert, viii Rockhill, 118 Rodil, 33, 38, 40, 49, 75 Rodolfo, 117 Rodriguez, 40, 73, 117 Roger, 59 Rogue, 116 Rolando, 107 Romeo, viii Roosevelt, 38 Roque, 49 Rosaldo, 48 Rovillos, 49, 75 Russtum, 87

S Sabah, 9, 51, 86, 126

145 Sabal, 107 Sagittarius, xiv, 49, 76 Saharan, 110 Salamat, 85, 113–116 Saleeby, 51 Salugay, 119 Salvation, 91, 109 Sama, 37, 47, 51, 52 Samals, 9, 10, 86, 88, 89, 91, 109, 110, 131 Samar, 34 Samboangan, 51 Sammy, 107 Sangguniang, 106 Sangil, 9, 37, 56, 57, 99, 102 Sangir, 119, 126 Sangogot, 52 Santos, vii, xiii, 4–9, 54, 58, 74, 77, 81–83, 87, 90, 100, 102, 108, 109, 121 Sarangani, vii, viii, 5–11, 15, 24, 31, 45– 53, 55–61, 67, 72, 73, 75–77, 79–82, 84–87, 89–91, 93, 94, 97, 100–104, 107–109, 111, 119, 121, 124–127, 129–131 Sarmiento, 49, 76 Sarongs, 91 Saruang, 107 Sather, 51, 86 Sayaff, 65 Sayyaf, xiii, 4–6, 38, 116 Schiavo, 4, 112 Schiller, 55 Schism, 103 Scholar, vii, viii, 52 Scott, 33–35, 38, 54, 61, 66, 118 Secession, 39, 41, 82, 116 Secessionist, vii, xiv, 3–6, 39, 50, 86, 97, 113 Secular, 4, 32, 71, 92, 113, 114, 126 Security, 6, 98, 112 Sedentary, 34 Seguil, 8 Settlement, 4, 8, 9, 55, 112, 121 Settlers, 4, 8, 33, 37, 49, 51, 55, 56, 60, 73, 76, 86, 102, 105, 107, 108, 111–113, 121, 124, 129 Severino, 33 Shipyard, 87 Siasi, 47, 50, 61, 86, 105 Siblings, viii SIDA, 122 Siguil, 101 Silsila, 54 Simkins, 112 Sinalang, 8

146 Sinamas, vii, 8–10, 37, 45, 47, 48, 50–57, 59–63, 65, 71, 72, 86–94, 99, 102, 105, 106, 108–111, 118, 119, 124, 125, 129, 130 Singapore, 51, 119, 120, 125, 130 Sitio, 7, 8, 90, 101, 109 Slavery, 16, 36 Socio, 51, 52, 63, 86, 106, 111, 125, 126, 130 Sociobiologist, 18 Sociopolitical, 19, 23 Socsksargen, 126 Sogod, 119 Soldiers, 66, 109 Solheim, 51, 52 Solidarity, 39, 48 Southeastern, 52 Sovereign, 33, 34 Sovereignty, 115, 120 Spaniards, 38, 54, 119 SPCPD, xiv, 114, 115 Squatters, 102, 107 Stiftung, 98 Stigma, 78 Stigmatized, 73 Strategic, 20, 40, 124, 126, 129, 131 Subordination, 55, 88 Subterfuge, 61 Sulawesi, 9, 51, 86, 126 Sullivan, 33, 36, 37 Sultan, 6, 35, 37, 38, 51, 118–120 Sultanate, 5, 33–35, 37, 51–54, 86, 88, 89, 111, 114, 118–120, 125, 130 Sulu, 5, 9, 33, 37–40, 47, 48, 50–55, 61, 64, 86, 88, 89, 100, 102, 105, 111, 114, 118, 119, 124, 129 Sulu-dominant, 9 Sumatra, 33 Supreme, 98, 107, 108 Sushi, 54 Szanton, 55

T Taboos, 31 Tactically, 114 Tadeco, 112 Tadem, 121, 123 Taga, 46–48, 53, 55, 66, 127 Tagakaolo, 40 Tagalogs, 6, 32–34, 48, 54, 57–63, 67, 79, 128 Tagbanwas, 54 Taglibi, 38

Index Tahils, 105, 106 Tailors, 110 Talayan, 119 Tali, 99 Tambilauan, 119 Tampakan, 49, 76 Tausugs, 8, 9, 37, 48, 50, 51, 53, 54, 59, 61, 64, 65, 86–90, 94, 99, 111, 118, 124, 129 Tawi, 50, 51, 61, 122 Tawi-Tawi, 86 Taxonomy, 35, 37 Tayag, viii Tensions, 7, 10, 15, 113, 116 Tenure, 100, 102–107, 113, 124, 129 Terencio, 102 Ternate, 53, 118 Territory, 36, 38, 40, 49, 53, 73, 114, 116, 118 Theological, 45, 90, 94 Theologically, 90, 94 Theory, 2, 19, 22, 24, 28, 33, 94 Thereafter, 4 Threatens, 107 Timonera, 38 Timor, 51 Timothy, 99 Tinagtag, 87 Tino, 6–10, 50, 64, 88, 97, 99–106, 108 Tinood, 47 Tino’to, 8, 47, 72, 74–76, 87–90, 99, 105, 108–110 Tonkin, 15 Tons, 101, 102 Torrens, 76 Torres, 5, 39, 64 Traditionally, 5, 49, 54, 75, 76, 85, 88, 108, 113 Traditions, 11, 15, 19, 21, 31, 33, 49, 73, 79, 127, 131 Translocality, 53, 55 Transvaluation, 25 Treaty, 35, 36, 111, 120 Tribal, 34, 49, 50, 73, 76, 107 Tripoli, 114, 115 Tulong, xiv, 109 Tulus, 79 Tumbao, 119 Tuminez, 113 Tundo, 105, 106 Turkish, 16

Index U Ugarte, 48 Ukay, 81 Ulaen, 54 Ulaging, 79 Ullah, 10 Underdevelopment, 122, 125, 130 Upland, 73, 105 Upwardly, 48 USAID, xiv, 7, 88, 103, 104, 108, 123 V Vadis, 98 Varona, 49, 76, 107, 116 Varshney, 21 Vehicular, 57–62 Vernacular, 48, 49, 56–60, 73, 79, 97, 124– 127, 129–131 Versa, 4 Vidal, 49, 76 VillanoCampado, 5 Villanueva, 114 Villavende, 107 Villaviray, 116 Vinta, 105 Violence, 7, 10, 15, 19, 64–66, 85, 126 Virtue, 5, 8, 32, 36, 105, 113 Visayans, 33, 46, 57, 104, 124, 129 Visayas, 9, 34, 40, 47, 49, 58, 76, 102, 112, 118, 120, 122, 125, 130

147 Visibility, 21, 27 Vision, 78, 79, 104, 109 Vista, 61 Voyage, 35, 50, 86

W Wares, 81 Warfare, 35 Warren, 89, 118, 119 William, 33–35, 54 Williams, 17, 20, 27, 99 Wimmer, 1, 2, 11, 15, 23–28, 31, 32, 34, 45, 72, 81, 82, 85 Wisdom, 19, 23, 50 Woon, 24 Worcester, 36 Worship, 47, 77, 78 Worshippers, 40

Y Yabes, 6 Yakan, 64, 65 Yanagita, 52

Z Zamboanga, 40, 51, 118