The killing of Sangguniang Kabataan (SK) Chairperson Prince Mohadz Rafsanjanie “Mohaz” Matanog and his brother, Muamar Salvador Matanog, in Cotabato City is not just another tragic headline—it is a searing reminder that peace in the Bangsamoro remains fragile, fragile enough to be shattered by the rattle of automatic gunfire. Ninety-four spent shells were recovered at the crime scene—each casing a symbol of a broken promise, a failed policy, and an unfulfilled dream of a region once envisioned to rise from the ashes of war.
Cotabato City, once hailed as the heart of the new Bangsamoro, has again been stained with blood. The victims were not combatants; they were community builders. Mohaz was a young public servant, an SK chairperson committed to amplifying the voice of the youth. His death—and that of his brother—represents not only a family’s loss but also a profound betrayal of the peace and reform agenda that the Bangsamoro Transition Authority (BTA), the government, and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) pledged to uphold.
But what peace can thrive in a region still drowning in guns? What progress can take root in soil fertilized with fear? The proliferation of unregistered, unaccounted, and illicit firearms continues to haunt the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM). Despite years of decommissioning efforts and weapons reduction programs, high-powered rifles remain disturbingly easy to obtain. These weapons—once meant to defend ideologies—are now tools of personal vengeance, political rivalry, and criminal enterprise.
The Bangsamoro peace process was built on a vision of moral governance and transformation. Yet the continuing violence—whether in Cotabato, Maguindanao del Sur, or Basilan—proves that the region’s greatest enemy is not ideology but impunity. When killers can strike in broad daylight, in the heart of a city, and vanish into the labyrinth of ungoverned spaces, the message is clear: power still flows from the barrel of a gun.
The MILF, as the lead organization in transitioning the region from conflict to peace, bears a moral and political responsibility to confront this menace. It cannot remain silent or complacent while communities it once vowed to protect are terrorized by the very weapons that should have been surrendered. Likewise, the government—both national and regional—must treat gun proliferation as a national security emergency, not merely a law enforcement concern.
Young leaders like Mohaz believed in the promise of a new Bangsamoro—one where dialogue replaced bullets, and hope triumphed over hatred. His assassination is a painful testament to how far the region still has to go. It challenges not only the authorities but also the communities themselves to ask: what kind of peace are we defending when our youth leaders are gunned down in daylight?
If the transition to peace is to mean anything, then it must be visible in the lives of ordinary people—safe streets, disarmed civilians, accountable officials, and a justice system that works. Anything less is a mockery of every peace agreement signed and every martyr buried in its name.
The death of the Matanog brothers should ignite a collective reckoning. It must push both the government and the MILF to double down on their duty to cleanse the region of illegal arms and to dismantle the networks of violence that continue to operate under their watch.
Peace is not declared—it is defended. And in the Bangsamoro, it is time to defend it not with more guns, but with justice, governance, and the courage to disarm those who stand in its way.
Only then can the region truly live up to the promise of being a homeland of peace, not a cemetery of dreams.