A trowel (/ˈtraʊ.əl/), in the hands of an archaeologist, is like a trusty sidekick – a tiny, yet mighty, instrument that uncovers ancient secrets, one well-placed scoop at a time. It’s the Sherlock Holmes of the excavation site, revealing clues about the past with every delicate swipe.
I recently spent five incredible days in Tawi-Tawi, the southernmost province of the Philippines, for Embracing the Currents: An International Conference on the Sulu Archipelago. Held at the Mindanao State University-Tawi-Tawi College of Technology and Oceanography (MSU-TCTO) and co-sponsored by the University of the Philippines, the event brought together scholars from across disciplines to discuss the intricate history and pressing challenges of the region. It was my first time visiting Tawi-Tawi, and I was captivated by its beauty, humbled by its resilience, and reminded of the complexities of island living.
The Sulu Archipelago isn’t just a collection of islands — it’s a living, breathing seascape of history. Its strategic position between Mindanao, Borneo, and the Celebes Sea made it a hub for trade, migration, and cultural interaction long before the Spanish arrived. This is where the Sama-Badjao navigated the seas with unparalleled skill, and where Chinese traders bartered ceramics for marine resources like sea cucumbers. Archaeological sites, such as the Bolobok Rock Shelter in Tawi-Tawi, show evidence of human activity dating back at least 8,000 years, offering glimpses into early coastal foraging, settlement, and the development of maritime trade networks. Artifacts including stone tools and pottery connect the region to larger Southeast Asian and even global exchanges.
One moment that stayed with me was standing at the edge of Tawi-Tawi’s blue waters, watching local Sama-Badjao fisherfolk expertly maneuver their boats. It’s a scene that could have played out centuries ago, yet it felt timeless. I imagined how ancient seafarers might have viewed these same shores as a waypoint in their vast maritime journeys. Talking to a Sama descendant later, I learned about their ancestors’ deep knowledge of currents, wind patterns, and celestial navigation — practices passed down through generations that still guide them today.
Yet, for all its beauty and cultural depth, Tawi-Tawi faces immense challenges. Basic infrastructure — running water, sewage systems, reliable internet — is scarce. A colleague joked during the conference, “Here, the signal is as elusive as peace talks once were!” It was a lighthearted moment, but it underscored a serious point: decades of conflict have left their mark. The peace agreement in Mindanao offers a fresh start, but only if paired with real investment in development and opportunity.
At the conference, Dr. Rosalie Arcala-Hall of the UP Center for Integrative Development Studies posed a question that continues to resonate: How do we, as academics, decolonize scholarship? This question isn’t just theoretical; it’s urgent, especially in contexts like Tawi-Tawi, where colonial legacies intersect with the cultural and ecological landscapes. Decolonization is a call to action — a framework for reshaping the way we approach knowledge, research, and education. Yet, it is not a one-size-fits-all solution; decolonial approaches must be tailored to the unique histories, contexts, and needs of each community.
The first step in decolonizing scholarship is to acknowledge the colonial legacies embedded in academic disciplines and methodologies. Colonial powers often dismissed local knowledge systems while exploiting resources and people. In regions like the Sulu Archipelago, this history has shaped modern academia’s extractive practices. Recognizing these dynamics is crucial for dismantling them. It means taking an honest look at how research has historically excluded or marginalized indigenous voices.
Decolonization also requires centering local knowledge. Indigenous and local perspectives should not merely complement academic research, they should take the lead. In Tawi-Tawi, for instance, the Sama-Badjao’s deep understanding of marine ecology and navigation provides invaluable insights. Their knowledge, rooted in centuries of lived experience, must inform studies of maritime history, archaeology, and fisheries management. Valuing these perspectives ensures that research is not only relevant but also respectful.
Collaboration is at the heart of decolonization. Knowledge co-production involves working with local communities not as subjects but as partners. This means working with them in every stage of the research process, from design to dissemination. For example, archaeologists documenting submerged sites in Tawi-Tawi could collaborate with fisherfolk who navigate these waters daily. Oral histories and scientific methodologies can intersect to create more nuanced understandings of the past.
Equally important is the act of returning and sharing knowledge. Academic outputs should not disappear into the ivory tower, inaccessible to the communities they concern. Findings must be communicated in ways that empower local populations — whether through community workshops, publications in local languages, or visual storytelling. When communities see the tangible benefits of scholarship, they are more likely to feel a sense of ownership and pride in their heritage.
Decolonization also means challenging academic hierarchies. The notion that scientific ideas are “too complex” for communities to grasp is both false and patronizing. Academics must commit to translating knowledge into forms that are meaningful for non-academic audiences. Leaving the ivory tower isn’t just a metaphor, it’s an invitation to engage with people on the ground, to listen and learn as much as we teach.
Finally, decolonization requires systemic reform. Institutions must recruit scholars from marginalized communities, fund grassroots initiatives, and embed decolonial practices into research protocols and curricula. Structural changes are necessary to ensure that decolonization moves beyond rhetoric and becomes a reality.
While the conversation around decolonization often focuses on the social sciences, it’s equally urgent in the natural sciences. Much of what we do in the sciences is extractive, with little regard for how our work impacts communities. Fisheries research is a case in point. Indigenous fisherfolk possess ecological knowledge honed over generations, offering sustainable practices that are both practical and innovative. Incorporating this knowledge into scientific frameworks not only improves research but also ensures its relevance to local communities.
Decolonization in the sciences reminds us that we don’t have a monopoly on knowledge production. Claiming that it’s too difficult to translate scientific ideas for communities overlooks opportunities for meaningful collaboration. It’s time to step off our high horses, engage as equals, and co-create solutions that combine academic expertise with local wisdom.
This framework is not a checklist; it’s a process that demands humility, accountability, and a willingness to rethink assumptions. In Tawi-Tawi, I saw glimpses of this approach in action. Local voices led discussions, and scholars worked across disciplines to address shared challenges. It’s a reminder that decolonization isn’t about rejecting knowledge, it’s about expanding it, making it meaningful, and ensuring it serves the many, not just the few.
Climate change looms large over Tawi-Tawi. Rising seas and coastal erosion threaten its archaeological record and contemporary livelihoods. But discussions at the conference emphasized integrating local knowledge with advanced methods like LiDAR mapping to preserve both tangible and intangible heritage. One scholar noted that Tawi-Tawi could become a model for heritage-driven development, blending sustainable tourism with conservation.
And then there’s the heart of the place: its people. During a dinner hosted by local colleagues, we shared seafood and laughter, talking about archaeology, history, fishing, and the region’s potential. It reminded me that while infrastructure and economies can be rebuilt, the spirit of community is what truly defines a place.
So, here’s my plea: visit Tawi-Tawi. Marvel at its past, embrace its present, and help shape its future. Let’s not wait another generation to give this region the attention it deserves. The currents of change are here — let’s navigate them together.
Note: Although colleagues have pointed out that the term Sama-Badjao can be seen as pejorative since it was assigned by outsiders (an exonym rather than an endonym), I use it here in recognition of the evolving context of its usage. The term has increasingly been embraced in academic and public discourse, reflecting the dynamic nature of identity and language. Special thanks to Chancellor Camposano for the invitation to be part of this groundbreaking event. A heartfelt shoutout to MSU-TCTO, led by Chancellor Mary Joyce Z. Guinto-Sali, for not only hosting this amazing gathering but also giving us a warm introduction to the beauty of Tawi-Tawi. – Rappler.com
Stephen B. Acabado is professor of anthropology at the University of California-Los Angeles. He directs the Ifugao and Bicol Archaeological Projects, research programs that engage community stakeholders. He grew up in Tinambac, Camarines Sur. Follow him on IG @s.b.acabado.
