Passages Is A Majestic Look At Sulu

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I watched her sleep in peace. The deep blue evening sky above her unfolded endlessly, mirrored by the calm seas surrounding her below.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

In the stillness of night, Sulu was beyond beautiful in all her quiet majesty and mystery, casting a subtle spell that for a moment brought me seven centuries past, when Arab missionaries first laid eyes on her, and introduced her people—the proud Tausugs—to Islam.

Since the 12th century, Muslim traders and missionaries from Arabia and Persia had arrived in Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago through Sumatra, Indonesia. In 1380, more than a century before the Spaniards introduced Christianity in Cebu, Arab missionary Karim ul-Mahkdum came and fortified Islam among the first Muslim settlers in Sulu, laying the foundation for the political rule of his successor, Rajah Baguinda, from 1390 to 1460.

Sultan Phugdalun Kiram II, one of the five members of the Royal Council of the Sulu Sultanate.

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PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

To the brave Tausugs, the kalis is the weapon to weild and an heirloom of honor.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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Sultan Muedzul-Lail Tan Kiram, son and Rajamuda (Crown Prince) of the late Almarhum Ampun Sultan Mahakuttah Kiram, the last recognized Sultan by the Philippine government.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

Years later, Sayyid Abu Bakr Abirin, an Arab explorer and religious scholar from Johor in present-day Malaysia, married Baguinda’s daughter and settled in Sulu, establishing himself as the first ruler of the Sultanate of Sulu, which reigned through a succession of descendants until 1915. Throughout the country’s colonial history, Sulu’s sons and daughters would bow only to Allah, even as others would come to subdue them, with swords and crosses, pistols and rifles. The conquerors would come and go, fail and turn away in shameful defeat. Sulu would be left unconquered, her people unbowed.

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PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

During Martial Law, the Philippine army battled with the Moro National Liberation Front forces that had laid siege on Jolo that February in 1974. In the crossfire, civilian homes and business establishments were burned to the ground, families rendered homeless, charred corpses left in the streets under the sun. A generation later, embers still burn in the minds of those who remember, glowing in their eyes when they speak of what was lost in that fire. The town has since been rebuilt, with modest low-rise buildings replacing older structures that were destroyed.

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MNLF commander Hadji Yahcub Mahmoud.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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The Masjid Tulay mosque survived the Burning of Joli in 1974.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

In the past, I had traveled to other remote islands in the country. But it was only in Sulu that I traveled like a captive, escorted everywhere by a team of Philippine National Police in some places, and the Marines in others.

An Astana replica built by marines in Talipao.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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Recently, I had spent time in Patikul, in another military camp. I’d visited the home of a Datu, a kilometer or so from the Abu Sayyaf camp, along a beautiful beach. There I felt the urge to go for a swim, but could not. It did not feel right to take leisure while uniformed escorts were risking their own lives to protect mine. Kidnapping was a reality here, as were encounters with—and beheadings by—the dreaded ASG.

One time, we had planned on going to the village of Parang to visit the mosque there. But the mayor had radioed, “Maraming baril sa daan.” And itineraries had to change. Just like that.

A soldier patrols the shrine of Baguinda in Camp Bud Datu.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

Instead, I found myself at a party to which the provincial director was invited. One of his Special Armed Forces police was married to a local girl. It was inspiring to see how they carried their ancient culture in sacred ceremonies beginning with the Pagpassal, a practice of purification for both bride and groom before the actual marriage. During the wedding rites, both groom and bride wore colorful traditional costumes and jewelry that included gold and pearl rings, as a promise of prosperity.

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A warm welcome for newlyweds in white.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

A bride is separately prepared in Pagpassal rites before the wedding.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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I had made awkward attempts to meet and talk to the locals while being escorted around, and my meanderings somehow led me to some of the finest traditional weavers of Sulu. Aside from seeing the iconic pis siyabit, I was awestruck by incredible tapestries of colors and patterns on cloth that spread and extended across walls and ceilings.

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PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

A pis siyabit weaver from Parang.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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The story of creation woven on a pis siyabit.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

One was a visual narrative of how the world and people were created. And then in a neighboring barangay, I met a young village woman who created intricate embroideries and sold her work to pay for tuition, went to school for a semester, and then stopped schooling to work again to earn enough to pay for the next semester.

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PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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And then I was brought to the mountain fortress of Camp Bud Datu. The camp had been used by the military as a center and stronghold in promoting order in the area. Amidst a decades long struggle for Bangsamoro faith and self determination, addressing poverty has turned out to be essential to establishing peace, while establishing peace has proven vital for economic growth and livelihood to flourish.

In the meantime, while peace negotiations forged on and gained ground, the extremist Abu Sayyaf remained at large—and active.

The morning sun started to rise. Sulu began to awaken. As dawn broke and the skies began to light up, the ancient voice of prayer soared through the birthing of a new day, while children went off to school. I looked out from the balcony again, sleepless yet dreaming, for this land of unfulfilled promise to find her peace.

Prayer beads and the Qu’ran.

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PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

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One of Panglima Tahi’s jewels.

PHOTO: Gabriel Malvar

As told to Froilan Medina. This story is an excerpt from Passages by Gabriel Malvar.

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