Aug 6, 2025 8:00 AM PHT
Iya Gozum
It’s their story, so they should be the storytellers'
Rachel Tahay is a Teduray woman from Maguindanao del Sur. She counts the dead and the missing. She is a mother of four children, a wife to a farmer.
Tahay is a small woman. She has brown skin and dimples on her cheeks when she smiles. At 38, she carries herself with quiet assurance. As a Teduray, Tahay is part of the non-Moro indigenous people of the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao.
In 2022, she reported on the Kusiong landslide with other Teduray women. They spent days monitoring the damage left in the wake of Severe Tropical Storm Paeng (Nalgae).
They asked questions that were simple but potentially aggravating: Why was the community allowed to move in a hazard area? How many Tedurays were transferred there? There was no list of people who relocated, Tahay said.
The disaster in Barangay Kusiong, Datu Odin Sinsuat, Maguindanao del Norte, soon became a national issue. Senators held an inquiry and President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. visited ground zero.
The Kusiong landslide happened as Tahay and other non-Moro indigenous women leaders were taking community journalism training under the Umalohokan (“town criers”’”) program of Lilak, a feminist organization for indigenous rights.
For Tahay, community journalism is a way to put on record their stories as they weather disasters and the continuous killings of non-Moros.
“Parang put into record na para ‘yung kuwento maipagtagpi-tagpi na ito ‘yung nangyayari sa community,” Tahay told Rappler. “Kami ‘yung gumagawa ng ‘pag data gathering for the community.”
(We put into record so we can stitch the story and say, this is what’s happening in the community. We’re the ones who do the data gathering for the community.)
She joined the community journalism program then with the members of Inged Fantailan, the indigenous women’s council of the Teduray and Lambangian communities. This is also the same group of women who had been counting the killings of non-Moro indigenous people since 2014.
The non-Moro indigenous woman
Being a non-Moro indigenous woman in the Bangsamoro region, Tahay is well-acquainted with many layers of discrimination.
Throughout the peace process between the government and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), non-Moro indigenous people like Tahay consistently had to fight for representation and voice in the transition.
But fighting for their voices to be heard and represented has its risks. Tahay admitted that being a community journalist has made her even more prone to danger.
“Charge to experience namin na kung sa loob ng BARMM ‘pag nagsasalita ka, i-expect mo nang mataas ‘yung risgo mo dahil nga may ayaw na maglabas ng totoong information,” she said. (Charge to experience that inside BARMM, If you speak up, it heightens your risk.)
At a dinner in Quezon City last June — at considerable distance from the dangerous elements back at home — Tahay and the other women allowed themselves to find humor in the only thing they can say to each other as they carry on their work: “Ingat.” (Take care.) 
DANCE. The women perform dances during their graduation ceremony at Plaridel Hall in UP Diliman in July. Photo by Iya Gozum/Rappler
Non-Moro indigenous peoples comprise about 2% of the population in the BARMM.
Among the chief concerns of NMIPs, according to a recent report from the Institute of Autonomy and Governance: protection of rights, recognition of their ancestral domains, lack of trust in the BARMM Ministry of Indigenous Peoples Affairs, the diminished authority of the Indigenous Peoples Rights Act.
Women in government are also a cause of concern. Women representation in the Bangsamoro Transition Authority has dropped from 20% to 12.5%.
The IAG report nuanced that women in power do not automatically mean a paradigm shift, especially in a conservative society like the Bangsamoro.
“As is the case across the Philippines, those who hold political positions are usually from an elite background, have family ties as daughters or wives of rebel commanders or politicians, or have proven their loyalty to the MILF before or during the transition,” the report read.
It added: “It is not clear that women’s voices are reaching the strategic level of decision-making, making the true effects of their participation hard to gauge.”
Concerns in women representation are prevalent not only in the regional government body, but in communities as well. Tahay said the BARMM views women as a whole, and thus fails to account for the unique identity and practices of indigenous women.
“Wala siyang specific na pagtingin sa mga katutubong kababaihan na nag-a-assert din ng mga rights nila na dapat titingnan sila bilang mamamayang katutubo na may sariling practices doon sa kanilang mga village level,” said Tahay.
(It doesn’t have a specific consideration of the indigenous women who are asserting their right to be viewed as an indigenous community with their own practices at the village level.)
Color of women empowerment
For years, Judy Pasimio, worked in an organization that supported indigenous communities. In the Cordilleras during the 1990s, a younger Pasimio saw instances where women were excluded from decision-making.
These made strong impressions on her. She recalled an instance when there would be no women in the meeting. She would find them in the kitchen preparing their food. They would overhear the conversation during these meetings; but more importantly, Pasimio said the women had opinions on matters being discussed.
“Where are the indigenous women?” was a question she carried in herself, she wrote in a previous article.
Eventually she left to form Lilak with Den Ismael, another women rights advocate. Pasimio, who sports short, graying hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses, currently works as co-coordinator of Lilak. 
SESSION. A visit to the Rappler newsroom for a fact-checking session with researcher Ailla dela Cruz. Photo by Iya Gozum/Rappler
Pasimio earned her degree in broadcast journalism from the University of the Philippines. But she wasn’t that interested in the job of telling their stories as much as she wanted them to tell their own stories. One morning, she would recall, Pasimio sat down with two other women from Lilak and drew out a plan for a community journalism program.
“Kuwento nila, eh di sila ang kuwentista,” said Pasimio. (It’s their story, so they should be the storytellers.)
That same year, Pasimio saw Tahay and other Teduray, Lambangian, and Erumenen ne Menuvu women graduates from the program.
A new batch
In 2025, a second batch of indigenous women would graduate from the program. These women are Manobos from Agusan del Sur and Subanen from Zamboanga del Sur (not NMIPs).
Their graduation was held on a Sunday in the auditorium of Plaridel Hall in UP Diliman. The sun was out following days of rain. Eleven graduates sat on the front row bedecked in traditional wear. They performed dances after the messages of support.
Some of the women took home distinctions. Angel Mae Palubag, 21, was one of those awarded for best radio report. Palubag seemed shy and reserved, her voice low. Her tinted glasses obscured her eyes from view.
But the young Subanen woman spoke earnestly. She talked about capturing stories through the lens, researching for news, and radio broadcasting — among the many things she learned in the Umalohokan community journalism program.
“Magagamit ko ang radio broadcasting sa aming community lalong-lalo na tungkol sa mga isyu ng mga komunidad namin na hindi masyadong naririnig ng karamihan, ng mga media, malalaking media,” said Palubag.
(I can use radio broadcasting in our community specially for issues in our community that are not usually heard by many, by big media companies.)
Palubag joined 10 other women in sessions in Cagayan de Oro and the final leg in Manila where they visited the newsrooms of Rappler and ABS-CBN for a fact-checking session and a tour, respectively. For the 21-year-old, the all-women setup made the program more special and comfortable.
The next day, they joined the protest march before President Marcos delivered his fourth State of the Nation Address. They marched with environmental groups protesting against mining, an issue that largely concerns many indigenous groups and their ancestral domains.
The day after, they went back home. As a final lesson, Palubag said they were taught about security and how any story is not worth any of their lives. No story is worth dying for, she echoed. – Rappler.com
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