MAKATI CITY (MindaNews / 21 July) – My recent short while home visit to Cotabato City was not merely a return to familiar soil. It was a purposeful journey to attend one of the latter series of workshops on the development of the Bangsamoro Halal Industry Development Plan (BHIDP), held at an office nestled inside the Bangsamoro Government Center (BGC). But as fate would have it, a small yet symbolic episode just before the workshop reminded me of what we’ve lost — and what we could still regain.
It was ten minutes before eight in the morning when I found myself stuck at a junction inside the BGC compound. The culprit? A garbage truck collecting scattered garbage — refuse spilling onto the road as though protesting its own neglect. As I sat there, waiting, I whispered many wishes under my breath. Not the kind of wishes that float into oblivion, but the kind that sprout from a longing born of memory and possibility.
I wished the compound could return to its old ORC days—when “Order,” “Respect,” and “Cleanliness” were not just initials, but lived values. Or even clearer, even greener, even more inspiring.
I wished the small vendors — humbly eking out a living within the compound —could be properly organized and beautified, integrated into a collective vision of dignified public space. Not pushed away, but planned with.
I wished the new government buildings — half-risen, perhaps since the pandemic — would soon be completed and landscaped, so they would add not just function, but also aesthetic integrity to the seat of our regional government.
Citywide, I wished solid waste management would go beyond slogans and hit the ground running. I wished the city government and its people, in partnership rather than blame, would finally breathe life back into the dying rivers and creeks —lifelines that earned Cotabato its poetic identity as the “city of rivers and creeks.”
In the 1980s, right after the late afternoon (‘asr) prayer, we would ride a banca from the riverbank of Sousa Extension. Our journey would follow the winding river, passing through Bagua, Lugay-Lugay, Manday, Tiksing, down to the Matampay River until the Pagsakan in the Super Market, and then return before the dusk (maghrib) prayer. The water then was not pristine, but it was alive. Now, that route is no longer navigable—not because the river ceased to exist, but because we failed to honor it.
These are not mere nostalgic musings. They are grounded in a deep-seated belief that we—individually and collectively—possess the cultural capacity and religious backing to restore what has been tarnished.
Islamic civilization is replete with ecological ethics that speak directly to our contemporary crises. We have the concept of miqat, a sacred boundary reminding us that cleanliness and reverence for space are preconditions for spiritual elevation. We have hima, traditional protected zones that once preserved pasturelands and water sources. We have waqf institutions that historically supported public gardens, fountains, and green spaces—charitable endowments that beautified and sustained urban life.
The idea of taharah — cleanliness — is not just about personal hygiene. It is an ethic embedded in our faith: “Cleanliness is half of faith,” said the Prophet ﷺ. Our ancestors built mosques with courtyards and gardens, not just for prayer, but as spaces for serenity, shade, and reflection. Our sacred texts command us not to waste, even when water is abundant: “Do not be wasteful, even if at the banks of a flowing river.”
These are not abstract ideas. These are practical frameworks for environmental responsibility—rooted in Islamic tradition, and proven through Islamic history.
So, I whispered those wishes not just as a longing for lost beauty, but as a call for revival—a revival of spiritual values, civic consciousness, and communal cooperation.
The Bangsamoro Government Center could become a model not just of governance, but of environmental harmony. Cotabato City, still rich with the pulse of rivers under its skin, could breathe again.
It begins with one less plastic bottle in the creek. One more tree planted along a bank. One local ordinance that is finally enforced. One family teaching their children that garbage belongs in a bin, and rivers are not dumping grounds.
And it begins with belief—belief that our faith and heritage are not silent in the face of pollution, but roaring with guidance.
After all, to revive a dying river is not just an act of environmentalism—it is an act of worship.
[MindaViews is the opinion section of MindaNews. Mansoor L. Limba, PhD in International Relations and Shari‘ah Counselor-at-Law (SCL), is a publisher-writer, university professor, vlogger, chess trainer, and translator (from Persian into English and Filipino) with tens of written and translation works to his credit on such subjects as international politics, history, political philosophy, intra-faith and interfaith relations, cultural heritage, Islamic finance, jurisprudence (fiqh), theology (‘ilm al-kalam), Qur’anic sciences and exegesis (tafsir), hadith, ethics, and mysticism. He can be reached at mlimba@diplomats.com and www.youtube.com/@WayfaringWithMansoor, and his books can be purchased at www.elzistyle.com and www.amazon.com/author/mansoorlimba.]
0 Comments