The Moro Attacks Jihad or Piracy?

The Moro Attacks: Jihad or Piracy?

Surigao Under Siege: Forts, Friars, and Muslim Incursions Across the Coast 

16 July 2025 Feature | Surigao Historical Society | Local History

On the remote shores of Surigao, centuries before modern headlines and political borders, the roar of waves often signaled more than storms. They carried the sound of fast-moving vintas, war cries, and burning coastlines. In Chapter 8 of Surigao Across the Years, historian Fernando A. Almeda Jr. revives one of the most contested and violent epochs in Surigao's history—the Moro attacks of the Spanish colonial era. The question he poses is as provocative as it is historical: Was it jihad or piracy? 

An Archipelago on Edge

The 17th to 18th centuries in Caraga were a time of relentless alarm. Muslim raiders, often collectively referred to by Spanish sources as “Moros,” launched repeated incursions from the southern sultanates—principally Maguindanao and Sulu—into the Christianized coastal settlements of northeastern Mindanao. Their target? Settlements, slaves, and symbols of Spanish dominance.

Sultan Kudarat, a formidable and strategic leader, looms large in this chapter as both a political and military mastermind. His goal was not wanton destruction, but resistance—armed, theological, and nationalistic—against Spanish encroachment. For the Spanish colonial authorities, however, this was nothing short of piracy. For the Sultan and his followers, it was war against foreign occupation.

Forts as First and Last Lines of Defense

The Spanish response was swift and militarized. In Surigao, friars and soldiers joined forces to build a string of fortifications: most notably the Fort of San Jose in Tandag, which stood as the outermost bastion of the Spanish empire in this part of Mindanao. But the forts were never impregnable. Time and again, they fell—burned, rebuilt, and reclaimed in a cycle that epitomized the volatile relationship between colonizer and native, Muslim and Christian.

Fr. Ducos, a Spanish priest-soldier, arrived only to find Tandag’s defenses in ruins. The Recollects, forced to make Surigao their fixed residence, struggled to evangelize and survive in the face of Muslim naval raids. Surigao Cathedral, like many other coastal structures, was destroyed and rebuilt more than once.

Faith, Fear, and Frontier Violence

The coastal settlements lived in perpetual tension. Warning bells, smoke signals, and watchtowers were part of daily life. For the Christianized townspeople—many forcibly resettled through reducciones—the Moros were figures of terror. But these same “raiders” were part of a wider resistance, fighting to preserve their Islamic sovereignty and retaliating against Spanish offensives in the Sulu Sea.

In truth, the line between religious crusade and economic piracy was blurred. Muslim leaders fought under banners of jihad, yet captured slaves and plundered goods sustained their economies. Spanish friars preached salvation, yet endorsed colonial military campaigns that devastated local populations.

A Local War with Global Resonance

Almeda’s treatment of the Moro raids in Surigao is notable for its balance. Rather than romanticize or demonize either side, he traces the roots of conflict to deeper colonial and cultural collisions. This was not merely a war of religion—it was a clash of worldviews, of territory, and survival.

The chapter invites readers to consider how local narratives in Surigao connect to larger geopolitical struggles: the rivalry of empires, the resilience of Islam in the face of Christianization, and the indelible scars left on communities caught in between.

Legacy of Resistance and Resilience

Today, the memories of Moro incursions survive not just in historical texts, but in the inherited fears, stories, and place names along the Caraga coast. Fort ruins still dot the region, silent witnesses to an era when Surigao was a frontier in a religious and cultural war.

Whether viewed as jihad or piracy, the Moro attacks in Surigao form an essential chapter in the province’s long and layered past. As Almeda reminds us, understanding this chapter requires more than labels—it demands listening to the echoes of conflict, faith, and survival that continue to shape Mindanao’s identity.

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