I still remember a time, in my younger years, when being called a Generals—a term of pride for the residents of General Santos City—was a badge of identity. We were proud of our city’s name and the legacy of General Paulino Santos, the man whose name we bore. During the Kalilangan Festival, we celebrated his arrival in 1939, his pioneering leadership in what was then a government land settlement program under the National Land Settlement Administration (NLSA), and the vision of transforming the once wild frontier of Mindanao into a booming agro-industrial hub.
Back then, the city was also commonly referred to as Dadiangas, a name rooted in the natural environment—a type of thorny grass native to the area. Some even referred to the place as Buayan, an older name used by early inhabitants. These names were not just labels; they were remnants of the land’s original story before General Santos and the NLSA changed everything.
But with time, reflection, and learning, I’ve come to see that the story we once proudly embraced was not the whole truth.
The Cost of Settler Development
The name “General Santos City” symbolizes more than progress and development. It represents a chapter of Philippine history marred by displacement, marginalization, and settler colonialism. When General Santos and the NLSA arrived with settlers from Luzon and the Visayas, the land was not empty. It was already home to the Blaan, Maguindanaon, and other Indigenous and Moro peoples who had lived, thrived, and cultivated that land for generations.
But they were not considered. In fact, the stories passed down tell of the infamous declaration attributed to General Santos: “Whatever you can fence, that land is yours.” A chilling reminder that land ownership came not through consultation or negotiation with the existing inhabitants, but through the physical act of fencing and taking.
This mentality—a mindset born from colonial logic—transformed General Santos City into what it is today. The downtown areas were developed, farmlands were established, ports were built. But the Blaan were pushed further into the uplands, their ancestral homes converted to plantations and subdivisions. The Maguindanaon were driven to the margins. What was hailed as “development” for one group meant cultural and economic death for others.
Naming as Memory, Naming as Justice
That is why the call to revert the name of General Santos City back to Dadiangas or Buayan is not a simple act of renaming. It is an act of memory. It is an act of truth-telling. It is an act of justice.
We must begin to ask difficult questions: Why is the city named after a figure who played a central role in the displacement of Indigenous and Moro peoples? Why do we continue to glorify a legacy that was built upon land grabbing and military campaigns against Mindanao’s original inhabitants?
Of course, history is complex. General Santos was a man of his time, and he undoubtedly had skills and vision. But reckoning with our past means recognizing both the good and the harm—and refusing to allow selective memory to dictate our civic identity.
The celebration of General Santos’ legacy without critical reflection perpetuates the myth that the city began with settlers, erasing the people who were already there. This is not just a symbolic erasure—it has real consequences. Many Blaan families continue to suffer from land dispossession. Prejudices against Maguindanaons and other Muslims persist. The downtown development has long excluded those pushed into the uplands.
From Reconciliation to Action
Reverting the name to Dadiangas or Buayan would be a powerful first step toward reconciliation. It would affirm that the city acknowledges the pain and injustice inflicted upon its original inhabitants. It would open the door for deeper conversations about history, land, and justice.
But renaming alone is not enough.
We need massive public education campaigns that tell the true story of how this city came to be—not just the settler version. The history of the Blaan and Moro peoples must be taught in schools and displayed in museums. Their languages, dances, and rituals must be preserved, protected, and celebrated in civic spaces.
We need reparations—material, symbolic, and systemic. There must be efforts to return or compensate ancestral lands lost to government allocation and private development. We must also ensure that the Indigenous and Moro peoples of General Santos have equal access to employment, education, healthcare, and political power. Representation in the city council and planning bodies must reflect the diversity of the city’s population, not just its settler majority.
A Constitutional and Moral Imperative
Let us remember that the 1987 Constitution is not silent on this matter. It mandates the State to “recognize and promote the rights of indigenous cultural communities” (Art. II, Sec. 22), to protect their ancestral domains (Art. XII, Sec. 5), and to remove “cultural inequities” (Art. XIII, Sec. 1). These are not abstract principles. They are constitutional and moral imperatives.
Translating these principles into real change means adopting a framework of transitional justice—one that includes apologies, historical acknowledgment, restorative measures, and, most importantly, structural reform.
We must cultivate a collective memory that makes room for remorse—not as self-flagellation, but as a path to healing. When we acknowledge wrongs, we create space for empathy, dialogue, and repair. This is what a just and humane society looks like.
The Unfinished Story
If the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM) is the unfinished story of autonomy, then SOCSKSARGEN is the unfinished story of settler colonialism. Civil society, youth, and academic networks from both regions must come together—not in parallel silos, but in collaborative dialogues that explore regional reconciliation.
Let us confront the truth that General Santos City did not begin in 1939. It began long before that, in the ancestral rhythms of Buayan and Dadiangas. In the drumbeats of Klintang music, in the stories of Blaan elders, in the long lineages of Moro sultans and farmers.
It is time we reclaim that truth.
It is time we rename not just the city, but our entire way of remembering.
It is time we return—not just land, but dignity.
Let this not be just a debate on city names. Let it be the beginning of reckoning, justice, and healing. For only when we walk in truth can we truly move forward as one.
Author’s Note: This piece is written in the spirit of truth-telling, historical justice, and solidarity with Indigenous and Moro communities. It is a personal reflection and a public call—to remember, to restore, and to rise together.