Unarmed Civilian Peacekeeping in Mindanao, Philippines: My Story

Unarmed
civilian peacekeeping plays a vital role in conflict zones. Most international
peacekeepers engaged in this type of work are deployed in countries other than
their own. That means they shed light on what’s happening locally. Their
presence allows the world to see what’s happening in places affected by
conflict through the eyes of someone who isn’t directly involved.

This is
what makes unarmed civilian peacekeeping so important. These peacekeepers are independent.
They engage impartially with government, civil society, and armed groups. They
monitor, listen, and report what they see in an honest and balanced manner.
Because of that, all the parties know someone is watching. And that alone can
act as a kind of deterrence, like a silent warning. No one wants to be seen as
the one violating people’s rights or breaking peace agreements. So, even if it
doesn’t completely stop the violence, it makes actors involved in conflict think
twice.

But for
this work to succeed, both sides in the conflict must accept the presence of
these peacekeepers. There must be trust. The peacekeepers must remain impartial,
never taking sides in the conflict but instead standing up for civilians and
their safety. We didn’t claim to be neutral. We were not. We always took the
side of civilians.

My
Unarmed Civilian Peacekeeping Journey

I arrived
in the Philippines on 31 March 2014. I spent one night in Makati, Manila, and
then flew the next day to Davao City in the Mindanao region. At the airport, my
team picked me up, and we began the long drive to Cotabato City.

That
journey felt like I was moving between two very different worlds. Manila was beautiful,
developed, and full of energy. Davao was also lively, with good roads and
modern infrastructure and buildings. But as we drove toward Cotabato through
Maguidanao, everything started to change. The roads got narrower. Many houses
looked dilapidated, and some were made from temporary materials. Slowly, the
signs of poverty and war became more visible.

In Maguindanao
and Cotabato, the damage is evident. Broken buildings. Abandoned homes. Many
people in civilian outfits had guns. People who looked tired and worn down.
Fear in their eyes. You could sense the pain and trauma that lingered in the
area. You could see people who had been forced to leave their homes and were
still trying to rebuild their lives from cycles of conflict and displacement. That
drive made things real for me. I knew I wasn’t just stepping into a new job. I
was stepping into a conflict zone. The reality hit me. This was going to be
something completely different from what I knew back home in Uganda.

When I arrived
in Cotabato city, our team provided us with a detailed orientation for 10 days.
They briefed us on security, the history of the conflict, and the principles of
unarmed civilian peacekeeping. They gave us the tools we needed to understand
the situation before being sent into the field. My first assignment was in
Maguindanao. Later, after about a month, I was posted to Pikit Municipality in
North Cotabato Province, which became my duty station.

And
then I noticed something else quickly; it stood out easily. I am Black. And in
the Philippines, people are not. They have lighter skin, though they don’t call
themselves white. Most Filipinos associate white people with those from Europe
or the United States. That’s when I began to understand that being “white” isn’t
just about skin colour. In some places, it’s more about status, where you come
from, how you speak, and how the world sees you. 

So,
there I was a Black man in a place where very few had ever seen someone who
looked like me. In rural areas, people would stare. In the malls, I’d feel eyes
on me. Sometimes, people would ask to take pictures, not in a rude or racist
way, but more out of curiosity. It was strange, but I tried not to take it the
wrong way. At the same time, I found Filipinos to be incredibly warm and
friendly. I was always welcomed. That helped a lot, especially in the kind of
work I was doing because unarmed civilian peacekeeping relies heavily on trust.

Building
that trust wasn’t just about meetings and briefings; it was about establishing
a genuine connection. It meant spending time with people, listening to their
stories, and learning from them. It meant listening to their stories without
judging. It meant empathising, being honest, respectful, and careful with the
information they shared. The identity of the organisation was equally
important. One mistake could ruin a relationship that took weeks or months to
build and bring the organisation’s name into disrepute. However, when you
succeed in building trust, when community members, Non-State Armed Groups, and
Government military personnel begin to trust you, that’s when the real work of
peacekeeping and peacebuilding truly begins.

When I
arrived in the Philippines, a ceasefire agreement had already been in place
between the government and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF). It had
been signed years earlier. However, like most peace deals, it continued to
evolve. New negotiations introduced new terms. In 2014, a new agreement was
reached to improve the monitoring of ceasefire violations, and that’s where my
organisation came in. I was working with the Nonviolent Peaceforce (NP), an
international civilian peacekeeping organisation. With support from the
European Union, NP joined the International Monitoring Team (IMT), charged with
monitoring ceasefire violations. In NP, our role wasn’t tracking military
movements or armed clashes. Our job was to focus on civilian protection to
monitor how ordinary people were affected by the fighting.

We
looked at incidents like attacks on schools or health centres, the destruction
of homes and farms, forced displacement, and any violence targeting civilians.
Those were the types of violations we were tasked with observing and reporting.

But
even with the ceasefire in place between the Government of the Philippines and
MILF, the ground reality was far from peaceful. There were many other armed groups,
small non-state armed groups (NSAGs), who didn’t recognise the agreement. Some
of these groups had splintered from MILF or the older Moro National Liberation
Front (MNLF). One of the more active groups was the Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom
Fighters (BIFF), but there were others, less well-known, scattered across the
region.

These
groups kept fighting. And every time there was a clash between them and the
Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP), it complicated things. The ceasefire
didn’t apply to them, but the violence they caused often spilt into areas where
MILF was present. That made it difficult to tell who was responsible for what.

At the
heart of it all was the long-standing conflict between the Moro communities (Muslim
populations in Mindanao) and the government. The Moros, as they’re known, had
been fighting for self-determination for decades. They sought greater control
over their land, governance, and way of life.

In
places like Maguindanao and Cotabato, conflict over land or boundaries between
Christian and Muslim communities could quickly turn deadly. What may start as a
personal dispute over farmland could escalate into a full-blown clash if armed
groups get involved. More often than not, the army would step in, but the army’s
support was usually seen as favouring the Christian community, which was
predominantly Catholic.

This created a volatile mix of tensions: religious, political, historical, and territorial, tangled together. The web of relationships was complex. Some
fighters were affiliated with multiple groups simultaneously. A commander might
be part of a recognised peace partner today, and he’s part of another NSAG unit
tomorrow. Trying to understand who was who or who was acting under whose orders
wasn’t always possible. Even with the ceasefire holding on paper, the reality
on the ground was messy. The lines were blurred. And that made our job as
civilian peacekeepers even more difficult, but also more critical than ever.

Life in
that conflict zone was never easy. My team conducted daily monitoring visits in
various communities across North Cotabato and Lanao Del Sur (on a few
occasions) to demonstrate a proactive presence. You lived with the constant
fear that fighting could break out at any moment. Armed groups might attack a
military post or ambush the police. You never really felt safe, not at home,
not in the field, not even in transit.

Sometimes,
mortars whistle right over our roof at night when AFP was fighting Non-State
Armed elements. Other times, you’d leave a community after a visit, and soon
after, gunfire would ensue. You’d arrive in a village and find houses still
burning or see families fleeing with nothing but what they could carry.

Our job
was to talk to all sides; the AFP and MILF. We had to stay in touch with
everyone, constantly coordinating and always explaining monitoring patrol
routes to avoid misunderstandings that could put us in danger.

It wasn’t
rare to see people who had been shot, wounded, or worse. I’ve seen bodies. I’ve
seen a person beheaded. I’ve read too many police reports describing horror in
cold, flat language. It leaves a mark. You don’t just unsee those things.

But I
had something that helped me carry the weight. I grew up in the north of Uganda
during the war, and I had already witnessed the devastating impact of conflict.
That background gave me a kind of shield, not immunity, but a kind of strength
to keep going. Still, it got to you. And for me, prayer helped. Prayer, music,
and the stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, my work could make the
situation better for the people in Mindanao.

I
remember one night at around 2 a.m., there was heavy shelling in Pikit. The AFP
were exchanging fire with NSAG, and mortars were landing in civilian homes.
People were terrified. We received phone calls from civilians and promptly
contacted military commanders to inform them of the current situation on the
ground. To their credit, they stopped the shelling and adjusted their strategy.
We met with the AFP regularly, and they understood our work and our mandate,
which was civilian protection.

That
kind of response didn’t come easily. Sometimes, it was difficult to determine
whether the reports we received from communities were genuine or had been
manipulated by armed actors seeking to gain an advantage. We had to be careful.
That’s why we always tried to verify through our networks or by going there
ourselves once it was safe.

And
over time, that trust grew. Communities would call us not just during active
fighting but also in disputes that could escalate into violence. Land
conflicts, in particular, tended to escalate quickly. When people believed you
were fair, they invited you to help talk, mediate, and calm things down before
more blood was shed.

The MILF
wasn’t just one group. It had two sides. There was the political wing, which
handled negotiations with the government, ran the organisation’s administrative
side, and managed its official dealings. They were well-organised and
structured. However, there was also the military wing, the fighters. They had
camps across places like Maguindanao, North Cotabato, and other areas in
Mindanao.

The AFP
also had their camps spread across the region. Both sides were aware of the NP.
They knew we weren’t taking sides. They understood our role, mainly because we
were part of the IMT. That understanding helped us build a working relationship
with them. We could talk to both.

But not
everything went smoothly.

One of
the most challenging cases I dealt with happened in Barangay Galidan, in
Tulunan Municipality, North Cotabato. A Barangay is the smallest administrative
unit of the local government in the Philippines. It was a land conflict, but,
like many things in Mindanao, land disputes were not just about land ownership.

The
Moro (Muslim) community inhabited Galidan, and a Christian community was
located in neighbouring Barangay Popoyon. Between them was a vast stretch of
farmland. Both communities claimed it. Both believed it was theirs. And in
Mindanao, when people fight over land, there’s usually more going on beneath
the surface.

That’s
because many locals, whether Muslim or Christian, are tied formally or
informally to armed actors. In this case, the Moro man who claimed the land was
thought to be a member of the MILF or BIFF. And the Christian claimant? He was
believed to have backing from people close to the AFP. This made our job
harder. How do you tell if someone is acting as a soldier or just as a private
citizen? When violence breaks out, is it a civilian dispute or a violation of
the ceasefire agreement?

The
land dispute continued to simmer for several months, and tensions escalated. Tensions
led to the big one, a firefight in May 2014 that ended with some homes on the
Moro side of Galidan burning to the ground. Houses torched. Animals were killed,
and several households were displaced. The Moro community blamed the AFP for
the attack, but the army denied it. They said it was the work of local armed
Christian actors, not a military operation.

We had
heard the Muslim side of the story; we needed to verify it. We had to see for
ourselves what happened. However, when we asked the military for permission to
visit Galidan, they informed us that it wasn’t safe. They didn’t want us there.
They said it was too risky. The MILF, on the other hand, welcomed our proposal.
They wanted us to go to the disputed area and see what had happened, to
document the violations and promised to guarantee our safety.

That
put us in a very tough spot. If we went without AFP’s clearance, and something
happened, who would be blamed? What if we were attacked and the blame was
pinned on the MILF? What if the military thought we were siding with the other
camp?

It took
a lot of time to negotiate our way through. We continued to communicate with
the AFP, seeking their assurance that we could visit Galidan safely, which was
on fire. Members of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front had agreed to keep a
watchful eye on us from a distance. We explained that we also had strong
contacts on the Moro side and that we believed we would be secure. After a
lengthy back-and-forth, the AFP gave us the green light. Their detachment in
Barangay Popoyon approved our visit to the contested land between the Christian
and Muslim communities. The AFP eventually agreed to let us visit the disputed
area, but reluctantly.

The
journey itself was long. The farmland between Popoyon and Galidan stretched
wide. People grew rice there. You had to walk for hundreds of meters before
reaching the homesteads. We entered the disputed farmland from Barangay Popoyon
side and walked to Barangay Galidan across a vast stretch of flat farmland, wet
and quiet. I was with two national staff, both unarmed civilian peacekeepers
like me. The place had no mobile network, so we carried a satellite phone. It
felt like crossing a border, with one side Christian and the other Moro. It
felt like we were alone in the middle of nowhere.

In the
middle of the farmland, we stopped to call a local contact from Galidan using
the Satellite phone to ask for directions. He picked up.

“Yes,
we see you,” he said.

 That
caught us off guard. See us? From where?

We
looked around. The field was open, but there was no one in sight.

“We’re
watching you,” he repeated. “Go ahead, verify everything. The burned homes, the
dead animals, the damage. We’re here.”

We were
confused. “But we don’t see anyone,” we told him.

He
laughed. “That’s why we’re rebels. You won’t see us. But we see you.”

That
sent a chill down my spine. We kept walking, but now, every shadow in the grass
made us glance over our shoulders. Our fear wasn’t just about being watched but
about the very real possibility of getting caught in another firefight. That
same morning, there had been clashes between the two communities. By the time
we reached Galidan, the smell of smoke still hung heavily in the air. A house
was still burning when we got there. Animals, including goats and chickens, lay
dead, some still warm. 

Blood stains of people who had been shot were all over
the place. The destruction was fresh. It didn’t happen days ago. It happened
hours ago. We were scared. Anyone would be. But we also knew why we were there.
We came to see for ourselves. To understand how civilian families, farmers, and
children were being pulled into the violence. We came to hear their truth so we
could take it back and put it on the table in front of those with guns and
power.

That’s
what helped build the trust we earned from the communities and even from the
armed groups. We didn’t come with weapons. We came with ears and hearts and a
mission to ensure someone was bearing witness.

Unarmed
civilian peacekeeping is a challenging job. It takes a great deal of courage
and even more trust from all parties involved in the conflict. And trust is
never automatic. You have to earn it, bit by bit. Some actors didn’t believe
what we were doing. They didn’t see us as neutral. A few even thought we were
spies, outsiders sent by foreign governments to interfere in Philippine
affairs.

One of
the biggest lessons I took from that experience is that peacekeeping doesn’t
always need a gun. There’s a strong kind of power in being unarmed. Yes, it
makes you more vulnerable. However, your real protection comes from the trust
you build with communities, with both sides of the conflict, and even with those
who disagree with you. That trust becomes your shield. And in many ways, it’s
stronger than any bulletproof.

I also
learned how important it is to be part of the community you serve. During my
time in the Philippines, I established connections with people at the
grassroots level, including farmers, elders, teachers, and even youth leaders.
They’d call me when something happened or when they heard something important.
They provided us with leads, assisted us in verifying reports, and, in many
cases, helped keep us safe. Local partners assisted us with conflict analysis,
conflict early warning and early response planning. That kind of support doesn’t
come unless people feel you’re one of them.

Working
in such a harsh environment taught me more than just how to navigate war zones.
It gave me a deeper understanding of how conflict works and how peace is built.
You can’t make peace if you don’t understand the forces that drive conflict.
You must see the whole picture: power struggles, politics, culture, religion,
and all the history that fuels mistrust and division.

You
also need to understand how decisions made at the top by governments or armed
group leaders are implemented on the ground, sometimes with very real and
painful consequences for ordinary people. And unless you understand the roots
of marginalisation and why specific communities feel excluded or abandoned, you’ll
never truly know what fuels long-term violence.

These lessons have shaped
my perspective on peacebuilding, governance, and development. They made me
believe more strongly in the power of community-driven solutions. They taught
me the value of good governance, not just at the national level but also
locally, where decisions affect people’s lives every day. And above all, they
deepened my commitment to making sure no one feels left behind. Because when
people feel invisible, that’s when conflict tends to grow. And when people feel
seen and heard, peace has a chance.