Eight years ago today, the city of Marawi was declared “liberated.” The government raised the flag above a city reduced to ashes, marking the end of a five-month siege that left the Islamic capital of the Philippines in ruins. It was hailed as a victory — the defeat of terrorism, the triumph of the state. But for the Maranao people, that day was not liberation. It was the beginning of another kind of struggle — one fought not with bullets, but with bureaucracy, neglect, and broken promises.
The 2017 Marawi Siege remains the longest urban warfare in modern Philippine history. What began as an operation to capture Isnilon Hapilon turned into a brutal, drawn-out conflict that cost thousands of lives and displaced more than 200,000 people. Homes were flattened, mosques reduced to rubble, and memories buried under concrete and dust. The Maranao, once proud stewards of their ancestral city, became refugees in their own land.
When President Rodrigo Duterte stood before the nation on October 17, 2017, to declare Marawi “liberated,” hope flickered among the displaced. They believed they would soon return, rebuild, and reclaim their lives. But eight years later, that promise remains largely unfulfilled. The once-vibrant city center — now known as the “Most Affected Area” — remains fenced off for many of its former residents. Where family homes once stood now rise parks, stadiums, and commercial complexes, monuments of “progress” that exclude the very people they displaced.
Temporary shelters, meant to house residents for a few months, have become long-term limbo. For many, “temporary” has stretched into nearly a decade. Livelihoods are gone, ancestral lands have been reclassified, and generations grow up knowing Marawi not as home, but as a memory told in stories.
In 2022, the government passed the Marawi Siege Victims Compensation Law, a long-overdue measure meant to deliver justice through financial reparation. Yet, as with many promises made to the poor and displaced, its implementation has been marred by inefficiency and delay. Many victims have yet to receive a single peso. Others were offered paltry sums that do not come close to the replacement cost of their destroyed homes.
Victims ask: Why are approved claims still unpaid? Why is the process opaque and slow? Why are consultations treated as mere formality rather than genuine dialogue? Each unanswered question deepens the wound of neglect.
Marawi’s ruins are not just physical; they are moral. They represent our failure to honor the very people whose lives were upended in a war they did not start. They remind us that reconstruction is not about rebuilding walls — it is about restoring dignity, returning ownership, and compensating loss.
For too long, the Maranao have been told to wait — to be patient while policies are drafted, funds are processed, and projects are inaugurated in their name but not for their benefit. Eight years is too long. Liberation without justice is not liberation at all.
As we commemorate this day, let us refuse to be satisfied with hollow anniversaries and ceremonial wreaths. Let us instead demand accountability — from those who pledged rehabilitation, from those who promised compensation, from those who continue to speak of “progress” while thousands still live in makeshift shelters.
Marawi does not need more speeches; it needs justice. It needs homes restored to their rightful owners. It needs compensation that is fair, transparent, and swift. It needs the Maranao to be at the heart of rebuilding — not sidelined by it.
Until every displaced family is able to return, until every legitimate claim is honored, until the people of Marawi themselves say they are free — we cannot speak of liberation. We can only speak of a wound that refuses to heal.
This anniversary must not just remind us of the war that ended — but of the peace that was never truly won.