Who Owns Peace?

Reflections of a Former Rebel on a Nation Still Searching for Reconciliation and Healing

“Who owns peace?”

It’s a question that echoes quietly in the hearts of many Filipinos, from the war-scarred mountains of the countryside to the crowded streets of the capital where politics often drowns out compassion.

Every administration, every mayor, every general who takes an oath claims to seek peace. They speak of reconciliation, of unity, of moving forward. Yet, decades pass, and the same promise is recycled like an old campaign slogan: “We will bring peace to our people.”

But peace, real peace, is not a slogan. It is not a decree signed in a palace, nor a press release after a ceasefire. It is something lived and breathed by people who have known loss, who have buried sons, who have fled from gunfire, who still believe that kindness is possible even after being betrayed by systems meant to protect them.

The Politics of Peace

In today’s Philippines, peace has become a performance.

There are some government officials who speak of “amnesty” and “reintegration” as though peace were a transaction, a contract signed between those in power and those they once fought. But peace is not a contract. It is a commitment. It demands listening, humility, and consistency.

When there are national leaders who use peace programs to polish their image, they forget that peace cannot be imposed from the top down. It grows from the ground, in the trust between a farmer and a soldier, in the compassion of a barangay captain who chooses dialogue over fear, in the quiet resolve of a widow who forgives so her children can start again.

How many peace talks have we witnessed collapse because trust was treated as optional? How many promises of amnesty have faded under the weight of bureaucracy or politics? How many local peacebuilders like teachers, community workers, and mayors have been left to struggle alone, bridging divides while the national government may play favorites and can anytime shift priorities?

The Heart of Reconciliation

Reconciliation is not weakness. It is courage.

It means acknowledging wounds, not denying them. It means returning dignity to those who were once labeled enemies. It means that the government, whether in Manila or in the smallest LGU like Talaingod, must learn to say: We failed you before. But we are trying to do better now.

Our peace workers, from Mindanao’s hinterlands to Samar’s hills, have long understood what some politicians have forgotten: peace cannot survive where injustice thrives. Amnesty without justice is empty. Reconciliation without sincerity is manipulation.

The local governments that have built lasting peace did not do it through propaganda, but through presence, being there after the cameras left, when rebuilding homes was more important than rebuilding images.

Owning Peace Together

So, who owns peace?

Not the presidents, not the generals, not the senators who sign resolutions they do not read. Peace belongs to those who have suffered enough to know its worth. It belongs to the mothers who choose understanding over vengeance, to the youth who join service instead of rebellion, to the communities who still believe that we can be better than our divisions.

And if we are to build a nation worthy of peace, our leaders must learn to be humble enough to listen, to treat peace not as a gift they give, but as a duty they owe.

Peace, after all, cannot be owned. It can only be shared.

And perhaps that is the most powerful truth our nation needs to remember today, that peace will not come from the loudest voice, but from the quiet, stubborn hope of those who refuse to give up on this country.

A Reflection for Our Times

Today, as the Marcos administration revives old amnesty programs and reshapes local peace mechanisms, we must ask again: are these efforts built on genuine healing, or merely political control? Are we empowering local peacebuilders, or silencing them under the guise of unity?

The nation’s current challenges, deepening poverty, uneven justice, and the erosion of trust between communities and government, remind us that peace cannot survive where truth is selective and accountability is optional. Real reconciliation demands honesty: about past abuses, about forgotten promises, and about the people left behind in the name of

“national stability.”

In the end, peace is not something Malacañang or the AFP can declare. It is something the Filipino people must reclaim, from the headlines, from the politics, from the hands of those who use it for power.

Because the truth is this: peace will never belong to those who merely speak of it. It belongs to those who live it, protect it, and pay the price for it, every single day.