23/10/2025
At the Mindanao Book Workers for Palestine forum yesterday at UP Mindanao, in Davao City.
Here's an excerpt from my opening statement:
As a Bangsamoro writer, I know too well the pain of erasure. Our own struggle for self-determination was met with military force, distortion, and silence. The narrative of Palestine, in many ways, mirrors our own: the denial of nationhood, the vilification of resistance, the displacement of generations.
My withdrawal from the Frankfurt Book Fair is a small gesture, but one that aligns with a larger movement among artists, writers, and thinkers who refuse to separate art from ethics. Literature is not neutral. Art, when stripped of its moral weight, becomes decoration for power. As writers, our duty is to question, to unsettle, to speak when others are silenced.
Standing for Palestine transcends geography and faith. It is about standing on the side of humanity when it is under siege. It is about rejecting systems that profit from oppression, even when participation could mean personal gain or prestige.
Today, despite a so-called ceasefire, Gaza burns. Its poets, children, and mothers cry out for justice. And as a writer, I cannot remain indifferent. To withdraw is not to retreatโit is to resist. It is to declare that no book, no platform, no accolade is worth more than human life.
Moreover, to stand for Palestine is not a political convenience. It is a moral imperative. It is to affirm that the struggle of a people against occupation, apartheid, and erasure is the struggle of all peoples who have ever been subjugated, silenced, and dispossessed.
As a Bangsamoro, I know what it means to live under suspicion, to have my peopleโs history distorted, and our land fragmented. I grew up hearing stories of how we were made strangers in our own homeland. And so when I see the images of Gaza โ bombed homes, orphaned children, desecrated churches โ I see a mirror of our own collective wounds. The distance between Mindanao and Palestine collapses in the shared language of loss and resistance.
What transcends barrier and distance is empathy. That profound human ability to feel the pain of another as if it were our own. Empathy turns geography into kinship, history into solidarity. When we say Free Palestine, we are not merely echoing a slogan. We are reclaiming our common humanity from the machinery of oppression.
Writers and artists, more than anyone, understand the power of narrative. Colonialism thrives on silence, on the erasure of stories. And so we must write, film, sing, paint, and perform against the current of forgetting. Our art must bear witness. Our words must disturb comfort, challenge propaganda, and humanize the dehumanized.
In the end, to be an artist is to be human, and to be human is to resist all forms of repression.