From Peace Process to Peace Governance

Amal Hussein is a 36-year-old widow. Her eldest son is in detention, her middle child works as a caregiver, and her youngest is still in school. Life is hard, but Amal holds on to a simple dream: a quiet life, food on the table, peaceful relations with her family and neighbors, and a better future for her children.

Her family was displaced during a military offensive against armed groups in Lanao del Norte. Fearing for their safety, they left behind their home and small vegetable farm—their main source of livelihood. A year later, they have yet to return. The security situation has improved, but armed groups remain in some enclaves. Much of their livelihood was also destroyed by the conflict.

Amal lost her husband years ago after he became involved in a family clan conflict, or rido. Now a bakwit—someone forced to leave home because of conflict—she lives with her children in a nearby city. She stays with better-off relatives and works as a household helper. Her income barely covers their needs.

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Her 18-year-old son began taking odd jobs and running errands for neighbors to help the family. He did not know that some of the goods he transported were illegal drugs. He was arrested and detained. A public attorney was assigned to his case, but the slow pace of justice has prolonged his detention. He now shares a cramped cell with other suspects, including people accused of involvement with drug gangs and armed groups. He is young, angry, and increasingly bitter. He wants revenge.

Amal is not a real person. She is a composite of the stories of people I have encountered through years of working on peace. Her story reflects a reality we often overlook: the absence of peace does not end when the shooting stops.

Conflict leaves scars long after the guns are silent. Families lose homes and livelihoods. Communities lose trust. Children grow up with fear and anger. Grievances remain unresolved. And young people with few opportunities can become vulnerable to crime or renewed violence.

This is why the Philippines’ long peace journey matters.

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For decades, successive administrations have worked to end armed conflict in Mindanao. The 1976 Tripoli Agreement and the 1996 Final Peace Agreement with the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), and the 2014 Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro (CAB) with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) are major milestones in that journey. These agreements took years of negotiation, compromise, and confidence-building. They also taught us an important lesson: Signing a peace agreement is not the same as achieving peace.

Peacemaking brings parties to the table and seeks a political settlement. Peacekeeping helps ensure that fighting does not resume. But peacebuilding is what makes peace endure. Peacebuilding happens in communities. It is the quiet work of rebuilding trust, restoring livelihoods, resolving grievances, helping former combatants return to civilian life, and giving people alternatives to violence.

Some of the country’s most important peace gains have come through this less visible work. Former combatants have laid down their arms. Community leaders have persuaded families to keep firearms out of public spaces. Commanders have chosen not to return to fighting. Former armed organizations have transformed themselves into civilian groups. These may seem like small victories. But they are how peace takes root.

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Peacebuilding takes time. It cannot be switched on and off depending on the political priorities of the moment. And so we ask: When is a peace process considered “finished”?

The Office of the Presidential Adviser on Peace, Reconciliation and Unity (OPAPRU) currently leads the government’s peace agenda. Its work has expanded significantly—from negotiating agreements to supporting normalization, reconciliation, social cohesion, and the transformation of conflict-affected communities.

Yet the work does not end when agreements are signed.

Former combatants still need to rebuild their lives. Communities divided by conflict need to heal. Historical grievances need to be addressed. Livelihoods need to be restored. Vulnerable communities need protection. And the next generation needs to learn that political differences can be resolved through dialogue rather than violence.

These are not temporary tasks. They are part of the permanent work of government. This is why the Philippines should seriously consider creating a Department of Peace. And this should not simply mean changing OPAPRU’s name. It should mean making peace a permanent function of government—from managing peace processes to building and sustaining a culture of peace.

A Department of Peace could provide a permanent institutional home for sustaining peace agreements, strengthening community peacebuilding, preventing conflicts before they become violent, supporting reconciliation and transitional justice, and ensuring that conflict-sensitive and peace-promoting considerations are integrated into development, governance, and security programs.

More importantly, it would help us broaden our understanding of what peace means.

Peace is not simply the absence of war. Peace means that people can live safely, earn a decent livelihood, access justice, participate in decisions that affect their lives, and trust that government institutions will protect their rights. In this sense, peace is inseparable from good governance and human security.

The real test of our peace agreements, therefore, is not simply whether armed groups have stopped fighting. It is whether families like Amal’s can go home. Whether they can rebuild their farm. Whether her children can grow up without fear. Whether her son can find a path back into society instead of becoming trapped in a cycle of crime and violence.

The Philippines has made remarkable progress in its peace journey. Successive administrations, despite their political differences, have sustained the country’s commitment to negotiated peace. This continuity is an achievement worth protecting. Peace must indeed outlive presidents, administrations, and political cycles.

As we reflect on our peace journey, perhaps the question should no longer be, “When will the peace process end?” The better question is: How do we make peace a permanent part of how the Philippine state governs?

A Department of Peace would be an important step. It would recognize that peace is not a project that ends when an agreement is signed. It is a continuing investment in our institutions, communities, children, and future.

For Amal, peace is not an abstract policy idea. It is the possibility of going home. It is a farm that can once again feed her family. It is a son who can rebuild his life. And it is the hope that her children will inherit something better than the conflict that shaped her family.

The Philippines has spent decades making peace. Now, we must build the institutions that will keep it.

P.S. As this piece went to press, news broke of the ambush on BARMM Chief Minister Abdulraof Macacua. That he survived unharmed is a blessing; that such violence still occurs is a stark reminder of why peace must be built into the permanent fabric of our institutions, rather than left to the mercy of armed force.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Dr. Jennifer Santiago Oreta is the Dean of the Ateneo School of Government (ASoG). She is an expert in security governance and peacebuilding, having served as Assistant Secretary for Policy at the Office of the Presidential Adviser on the Peace Process (OPAPP).