The Bangsamoro peace process—once hailed as one of the most promising models of post-conflict transition in Southeast Asia—is now on a precipice. With the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) deferring the decommissioning of its remaining combatants, and the government responding with a detailed defense of its peace commitments, what we’re witnessing is not merely a technical delay. It’s a serious erosion of mutual trust between two signatories to a hard-fought peace agreement—the Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro (CAB).
At the heart of the conflict is a bitter exchange of blame: the MILF accuses the government of failing to fulfill its socioeconomic obligations; the government, in turn, outlines billions worth of investments in livelihood, education, security, and infrastructure, and questions the MILF’s sincerity in completing the peace roadmap.
Yet what is most troubling is the refusal of both sides to recognize their own lapses. Each camp seems intent on projecting itself as the aggrieved party, while painting the other as the main obstacle to peace. This kind of narrative may serve political ends, but it does nothing to move the peace process forward. Worse, it leaves the Bangsamoro people—particularly civilians in remote, conflict-prone areas—dangling in uncertainty once more.
Let’s be clear: the peace process is not about the government or the MILF. It is, and has always been, about the people. The farmers rebuilding their lives in conflict-ridden villages. The widows of mujahideen raising children with hope that the violence that took their husbands will not be repeated. The youth—future voters in the upcoming October 2025 Bangsamoro parliamentary elections—who should be dreaming about university and careers, not worrying about whether guns will again rule their communities.
The government’s response, articulated through the Office of the Presidential Adviser on Peace, Reconciliation and Unity (OPAPRU), shows a comprehensive record of accomplishments. From the ₱4 billion in socioeconomic assistance for decommissioned combatants to the ₱8.5 billion worth of infrastructure projects in MILF camps, to the 396 MILF and MNLF members integrated into the PNP, the state has indeed delivered on many fronts.
But peace is not just measured in pesos spent or projects completed. It is measured in trust. And trust, it appears, has thinned dangerously.
The MILF’s decision to defer the final batch of decommissioning—14,000 combatants and 2,450 firearms—may be rooted in legitimate frustration over bureaucratic delays and unmet expectations. Yet it also undermines the very spirit of transformation they fought for. The decommissioning process is not just symbolic; it is a critical bridge between rebellion and governance, between war and democracy. The delay not only casts a shadow over the coming elections but also risks emboldening spoilers who want nothing more than to derail the fragile peace.
If the peace agreement is to hold, both sides must stop speaking at each other and start speaking with each other again. It’s time to return to the table—not through press releases, but through the established peace mechanisms like the Implementing Panels and the Intergovernmental Relations Body. These are the proper venues to thresh out grievances, not the public arena where misunderstandings are amplified and politicized.
And what of the civilians? If this impasse is allowed to fester, they stand to lose the most. Already, there are fears that the upcoming October elections—meant to be a celebration of Bangsamoro self-rule—may be marred by disruption, or worse, violence. The promise of genuine autonomy, hard-earned and long-awaited, may once again be put on hold.
That cannot be allowed to happen.
We urge the MILF to complete the decommissioning process it committed to, not as a concession to the government, but as a pledge to its own people. We also call on the government to go beyond highlighting past achievements and ensure that remaining gaps are filled with urgency and sincerity.
This is no longer just a test of policy. It is a test of political maturity—of whether former enemies, now partners in governance, can rise above grievances for the greater good.
Bangsamoro deserves peace, not posturing.
The time to act is now. Not next week. Not next month. Because in the vacuum of inaction, guns remember how to fire—and peace, however long pursued, can dissolve in the smoke of war.
The views expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy of any organization or institution.