The truth behind the ‘Badjao’ stereotype: Poverty, not choice

When Filipinos hear the word Badjao, what often comes to mind is an image of children knocking on car windows during traffic, women carrying infants while asking for alms, or families singing for coins on jeepneys. But this narrow picture barely scratches the surface of who the Sama Dilaut are. 

The word Badjao has historically referred to sea-dwelling indigenous communities in the Sulu archipelago and the coastal areas of Mindanao.  Far from being beggars, they were navigators and divers, people whose lives and survival depended on a deep relationship with the ocean.

Many Sama Dilaut themselves do not even use the word Badjao to describe who they are. They prefer Sama Dilaut or simply Sama, emphasizing their identity as part of a larger ethnolinguistic group. Over the years, Badjao has been used less as a cultural identifier and more as a social slur. To call someone “Badjao” on the street is often to insult them, reducing them to the stereotypes of poverty and begging. That shift in meaning reveals how language can be weaponized. Instead of serving as recognition of culture, the word has become a tool of exclusion.

Respect as a human right

Respect for the Sama Dilaut should not come in the form of charity alone. It is not the act of giving coins to a child at the jeepney stop, nor is it the fleeting guilt we feel when a barefoot family passes by while we sit comfortably in air-conditioned cars. Respect is recognizing that every person, no matter how different their life may look from ours, has the same right to dignity. For the Sama Dilaut, respect is often the very thing they are denied.

Instead of respect, they are treated as spectacles. Children are mocked for their accents, their skin color, or the fact that they live on boats or in makeshift shanties near the shore. 

A concrete case illustrating the discrimination against the Sama Dilaut is documented in a 2023 article discussing their forced migration and social exclusion. The Sama Dilaut are often wrongly accused of criminal associations and face stigma as “nuisances” or “lazy,” reinforcing harmful stereotypes. 

The truth is that many Sama Dilaut are pushed into urban begging not by choice, but by structural violence. In Bongao, Tawi-Tawi — the heart of Sama Dilaut communities — researchers have shown how chronic poverty persists because of what development scholars call the “deprivation trap”: the cycle of lacking assets, physical weakness, isolation, vulnerability, and powerlessness. These systemic disadvantages leave families with almost no options, forcing them into survival strategies like begging. Respect, then, means understanding this context and refusing to blame individuals for failures of the system. It means going beyond pity to recognizing their culture and rights as equal citizens.

Identity and cultural significance

The Sama Dilaut — often called the Badjao  — are not “just another poor community.” They are among the most obscure, misunderstood, and marginalized Filipino ethnic groups, yet their history and way of life are woven into the cultural fabric of the Philippines. Long before borders divided Southeast Asia, the Sama Dilaut crisscrossed the Sulu Sea, following the tides, fish, and seasons.

Jesuit anthropologist Fr. Albert Alejo, in a report by Rappler, describes them not as “stateless” but as “multistate” people, whose presence predates modern boundaries. Generations of Sama Dilaut have honed skills that scientists today would call marine expertise: free diving without gear, navigating by the stars, reading currents and winds with precision, and building boats that endure the waves. Yet instead of valuing this indigenous knowledge, mainstream society often erases it.

To reduce them to beggars is to erase their identity. To call them only Badjao without knowing the meaning is to deny the fact that they are carriers of culture, not just victims of poverty. Protecting their identity means protecting a piece of who we are as Filipinos.

Root causes of negative perceptions

Why do many Filipinos instinctively look down on the Sama Dilaut? The answer is rooted in history and development failures. For decades, the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao, now the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM), has remained among the poorest regions in the country. Even with recent improvements, poverty here still sits well above the national average. 

In 2024, BARMM recorded only a 2.7% growth rate and a per capita gross regional domestic product of P56,643 — figures that reveal just how far behind the region remains. For indigenous groups and fisherfolk like the Sama Dilaut, this underdevelopment translates into daily struggle: limited access to schools, healthcare, and livelihood, and constant risk of displacement from conflict and climate change. Many are pushed into cities where they cannot find stable jobs due to discrimination and a lack of formal education.

Instead of being given opportunities, they are pushed into begging and then blamed for it. It is easier for society to say, “They’re lazy” than to admit the state has failed them. It is easier to treat them as criminals than to face the uncomfortable truth that poverty and displacement are not choices, but consequences of neglect.

What’s happening here can’t be reduced to money alone. It is a human rights issue. When communities are excluded from education and basic safety nets, their rights as citizens are violated. When they are treated as “less Filipino” because of their culture and appearance, their rights to identity and dignity are also under attack.

Responsibility of social media platforms

In today’s world, stereotypes spread faster than ever. TikTok trends and viral memes often exploit marginalized groups for entertainment. The Sama Dilaut are frequent targets — children dancing on the streets filmed without consent, families turned into punchlines for being “different.” What might look like harmless fun to viewers is, in truth, digital violence.

Social media platforms like TikTok have the power to stop this. They can enforce stricter content moderation to remove videos that mock or dehumanize communities. They can work with human rights groups to develop guidelines on protecting indigenous peoples online. If platforms profit from Filipino users, they also have the responsibility to protect them.

But it cannot stop with platforms. As users, we too must be accountable. Every share, like, or laugh at the expense of the Sama Dilaut contributes to their humiliation. If we want a society that respects all Filipinos, we cannot allow discrimination to go viral.

Our duty as fellow Filipinos

At the end of the day, this is about us. The way we treat the Sama Dilaut reflects what kind of Filipinos we are. If we call ourselves proud of our culture, we cannot pick and choose which parts of our culture to respect. If we believe in equality, we cannot deny it to those whose lives look different from ours.

The call is simple: learn their story and stand with them as equals. Before hopping on a trend, before making a joke, before repeating stereotypes, pause and ask — what am I really saying about my fellow Filipinos? What harm am I helping spread? The responsibility is collective. We cannot wait for the government alone, or NGOs, or social media platforms. Change starts with how we speak, how we act, and how we refuse to normalize discrimination.

The Sama Dilaut are not nuisances, not mere symbols of poverty. They are people with culture, dignity, and rights. And the least we can do, as fellow Filipinos, is to treat them as such.