The Day I Chose Peace

SOUTHERN MINDANAO—During one of the sessions in a government-led deradicalization program, a circle of former rebels sat together. Some uneasy, others quiet, but all carrying the weight of stories too long untold. They were men and women once bound by the language of struggle and sacrifice, who are now learning a new vocabulary of peace and reintegration.

In that room, surrounded by facilitators, counselors, and fellow former rebels who surrendered ahead of them, they began to tell their stories. They didn’t speak as combatants or revolutionaries; they spoke as parents, neighbors, and Filipinos longing for another chance at life.

The deradicalization program, a vital part of the government’s peace and reintegration efforts, provides former members of the CPP-NPA-NDFP with psychological healing, ideological reflection, and skills training to help them rebuild their lives in civilian communities.

But more than therapy or livelihood support, the program also opens a space for truth-telling and transformation. This provides a chance for former rebels to confront not just what they fought against, but also what they still hope for. It is here that many of them rediscover the meaning of service, freedom, and belonging outside the barrel of a gun.

These testimonies were culled during one of those sessions. They are stories of surrender, but not of defeat. They are stories of fear, but also of courage; of loss, but ultimately of redemption. Told in their own words, they reveal the quiet strength of those who chose peace, which they see not as an end to their struggle, but as a beginning of a new one.

One of the harder themes that confront former rebels is that there comes a moment in their lives when the noise of war fades, and only one question remains: What kind of life do I want to live?

For many former rebels across Southern Mindanao, that question marked the day they chose peace. It wasn’t a single day on the calendar; it was a turning point in their hearts. Their stories, spoken softly yet firmly, remind us that peace is not weakness. It is courage reborn.

‘I wanted my children to know I tried.’

“I thought if I will be arrested, detained, or even killed because I surrendered, it doesn’t matter,” Dodoy, a former rebel father, shared. “As long as my children know that their father did something. That I acted, so I could finally be with them again.”

For years, he fought believing that armed struggle was the only way to protect the poor. But the longer the conflict dragged on, the more he realized that the ones who needed protection most, his children, were the ones left behind. “I wanted them to see me not as a fighter, but as a father who came home for them,” he said.

‘I still wanted to serve.’

“When I finally decided to surrender to the folds of the government and finished the ECLIP program at the halfway house, I immediately tried to apply in a government office,” said Jopay. “I still wanted to serve the people. I just learned that there are many ways to do it.”

For her, surrender wasn’t defeat, it was rediscovery. Her desk job now allows her to work for the same cause that once drew her to the mountains: helping communities get the services they deserve. “Before, I thought you had to carry a gun to change society,” she said. “Now I realize, you can carry a pen, or even a shovel, and do the same.”

‘I lived—but I mourn for those who didn’t.’

“I was happy that I was not among those who died in the war,” Jojo said, eyes heavy. “But I was very sad because they died.”

He still remembers their laughter, their dreams, and the silence that followed the gunfire. Survival brought him guilt but also responsibility. “I owe it to them to live differently now. To show that peace is not surrender. It is a continuation.”

‘Maybe fear brought me here, but love pushed harder.’

“I was afraid of what people might think of me,” Kitty admitted. “But I had to overcome it.”

Jam shared, “I feared for my life but at least now, I won’t be living in fear every single day.” For many of them, fear was the first reason to leave the battlefield. But it wasn’t the strongest one.

“Maybe fear brought me here,” Neil said, “but I believe, among all the reasons, it was love that had the strongest push. Love for family. Love for life. Love for the chance to begin again.”

‘I chose to live and to serve differently.’

“I was arrested,” said Jong. “And I chose to cooperate with the government in ways that I can still continue my passion to help the marginalized, without taking up arms again.”

Today, he visits communities to share his experience, helping others find legal and peaceful means to advocate for change. “I am not ready to die for our country,” he confessed, “but I am ready to live and serve the people in the ways still possible to me.”

‘I will tell my story.’

Many former rebels now speak to the youth, not to glorify their past, but to try to spare the next generation from learning the hardest lessons the hardest way.

“I will tell my story,” Jaya said. “Maybe it will help them understand that love for the country doesn’t have to mean war. You can fight for peace too.”

Each of them made the choice at a different time, in a different way. But their stories converge on a single truth: peace is not given, it is chosen.

They now return to their farms, their families, and their communities. They plant seeds where once they carried rifles. They rebuild what conflict once destroyed. And though scars remain, they wear them as reminders of the day they turned their backs on war, not because they were weak, but because they were finally strong enough to choose peace.