The journey of self-discovery can be an unsettling one, revealing truths that are often difficult to articulate.

I often picture this moment arriving with the dawn—those hidden fears lurking in the crevices of our thoughts, ready to confront us with the new day.

The mind has a peculiar way of exposing us to our most toxic thoughts, dredging up the negativity we tried to suppress just yesterday. As I sip my morning coffee, I can’t help but ponder whether I am awakening my body or my consciousness.

Perhaps we engage with these hidden fears in the morning because it’s when we decide what persona we will project to the world.

On this particular morning, I found myself caught between two demons: hesitation and denial.

I struggled to accept the possibility that I might be perpetuating discrimination and harboring racial biases. I couldn’t fully confront the idea that my own narratives might have compromised the dignity of my people.

In this moment, I paused, searching for a recollection that could soften the harshness of these realizations. Could it be that I acted unwittingly? Maybe there were justifiable reasons for my actions? I attempted to rationalize my behavior, but deep down, I knew there was no excuse for injustice.

This realization left me feeling empty, unable to process the weight of what I had uncovered. I lay still in my dimly lit room, accompanied only by the sounds of crickets and the soft rustling of my blanket. Soon, the call to prayer echoed in the distance, prompting me to rise and begin my day.

The Badjaos represent an enduring narrative in my province. I’ve written about them multiple times, believing myself to be an ally of their culture. I take pride in sharing their language and appreciating their unique traditions. However, a recent field visit for my academic research forced me to confront the uncomfortable truth: my empathy had been selective.

The Badjaos, often referred to as sea gypsies, depend on fishing for their livelihoods. Recent changes in their employment sparked curiosity in my colleagues and me, leading us to propose a research project through the Bangsamoro Youth Commission.

As we prepared for interviews and focus group discussions, I was chosen to lead the dialogue due to my fluency in the language and my heritage as a full-blooded Sama, a tribe related to the Badjaos.

Before diving into the topic, I needed a moment to reflect on my connection to the Badjaos, so I made my way to the kitchen. As I watched the sky shift from dusky orange to a warm blue, the neighborhood stirred to life around me—sounds of cooking, chickens clucking, and faint melodies of Malaysian songs blended with Qur’an recitations filled the air.

As a child, I remember the Badjaos visiting our neighborhood to sell fish, carrying baskets filled with their night’s catch. They would haggle with my mother or grandmother, often accepting food or water in lieu of cash.

Growing up, I viewed them through the lens of social hierarchy, perceiving them as inferior. Their worn clothes and fishy smell often drew mockery from others, a reality I failed to challenge at the time. I witnessed the hurt in their eyes when they responded to ridicule, yet society painted them as the villains.

By ethnicity, the Badjaos are my kin; we share a language and cultural heritage. Our tribes diverged only in lifestyle: the Badjaos chose the sea while my tribe took to the land, embracing modernity while they maintained a more traditional existence.

Over the years, I became aware that the community's treatment of the Badjaos was unjust, yet I realized that mere recognition of the problem was insufficient.

A heavy sigh escaped me as I confronted my own hypocrisy. I poured myself a cup of strong black coffee, known as kahawa, and prepared for my visit to the Badjao community.

I had anticipated interviewing immature teenagers, expecting challenges in gaining their cooperation. To my surprise, the individuals I encountered were respectful and engaged.

Previously, my interactions with the Badjaos left me with a skewed perception, shaped by my encounters where they sought advances or left without notice. My preconceived notions of their character made me wary, but as I met the respondents, I felt a wave of shame for my earlier judgments.

Initially shy, they gradually opened up as the interview progressed. Their willingness to share allowed us to create a comfortable atmosphere. As we exchanged jokes and encouraged each other, I noticed their initial wariness stemmed from an awareness of how outsiders viewed them, which left me feeling guilty.

Despite this, the atmosphere lightened, and we began building rapport.

One of the most significant lessons from the interview was gaining insight into the Badjaos’ worldview. There were moments where their responses seemed shallow, but it became clear that those answers reflected their lived realities.

During discussions with the second community, I began to understand their perspectives. When asked about school dropouts, many admitted they left due to romantic relationships. Their laughter indicated an acceptance of this as a natural part of life, contrasting with my own expectations of education’s importance.

I realized that when basic needs aren’t met, priorities shift, and education may seem irrelevant.

Reflecting on my past judgments of the Badjaos—seeing them as lazy or ungrateful—I came to understand that their actions were shaped by limited choices.

There was a time when I distanced myself from them, feeling superior, yet I would still claim to be their ally, often profiting from their stories while harboring disdain.

Throughout this experience, the most valuable lesson was learning to listen. When they finally felt comfortable to share their stories and struggles, I recognized the genuine desire for connection and understanding.

As we approached the final question, I was moved by their concern for their children’s education. They sought a better future for them, rather than immediate needs for themselves.

This realization stirred feelings of relief and guilt within me. I felt relieved to confront my biases, yet guilty for the hurtful words and actions that I had directed toward them.

I learned that my disdain affected not just individuals but the entire community, reinforcing feelings of alienation.

I paused, allowing these truths to resonate deeply within me. I wanted to remember this moment, to ensure it would leave a lasting impact. After sipping my kahawa, I prepared to wrap my head with a hijab and continued reflecting.

I recognize that many in my community view the Badjaos as outsiders, yet simultaneously appreciate their cultural contributions. It’s a tragic irony that while we celebrate their artistry and customs, we often neglect the humanity of the individuals behind them.

I glanced at my reflection one last time, adjusting my attire for the research presentation.

Racism, I realized, is a daunting concept, particularly when it manifests in actions and attitudes. Even with this newfound awareness, my thoughts remain muddled as I grapple with the implications of my biases towards the Badjaos. I worry that I might slip back into old patterns.

Despite acknowledging my prejudices and aspiring for positive change, I find myself questioning whether this presentation serves them or merely my own redemption.