SPECIAL REPORT | Baka sakali, hanapbuhay: Undocumented in Sandakan
Trafficked through Mindanao’s maritime backdoors to Sabah, a woman has lived in Sandakan for 20 years without a passport from either country.
SANDAKAN, Sabah, Malaysia (MindaNews / 30 January) — Forty-eight-year old Maguing (not her real name), keeps the door open whenever there are immigration operasi (operations) in their village.
Risking deportation every time there is an operasi, she pretends that all is well, and she has instructed her husband and children to do the same.
Some Filipino settlers in Sandakan have found themselves living in informal settlements like this one along a river. MindaNews photo by GREGORIO B
“Yang pintu, bukaan lang, hindi ako mag takbo, hindi nila ako habulin (The doors, I keep them open, I do not run, they do not chase me).”
She figures, if she or her family doesn’t look guilty, immigration agents would leave them alone. It has worked so far, two decades since she was fooled into thinking a steady income awaited her in Malaysia.
Maguing makes her way to sit on her bed one early morning in January 2026. When the tides are high, this bed’s mattress could be soaked by river water, even if the home is propped up by stilts a meter or two above the mud. Every movement is a creak.
Near the bed is a table and on it is a local seaweed in vinegar dish and on another plate, a few clumps of cassava, a donation from neighbors. She will share today’s meal with her husband Hassan, and five children aged 3 to their late teens. If things don’t work out today, she may have to stretch today’s food until the next day.
The only other space at home is a small area that functions as kitchen, children’s bed, and storage area.
The house is only around 6 x 5 square meters. The foundations are rotten, and they could give up at any moment. There are also spots on the flooring that could easily collapse if one isn’t careful.
Like most days, the entire family is in the same house. There is nowhere else to go. Maguing and Hassan do not always have kontrek (contract) work, and the children cannot go to school.
No one in the household has a valid passport—neither from the Philippines nor from Malaysia. Maguing has been hiding from Malaysian immigration authorities for two decades now. Hassan’s Philippine passport expired more than a decade ago.
Malaysian immigration operatives have stormed this village numerous times. Here, the stilt houses are home to many undocumented immigrants.“Marami dito (there are a lot of us here),” she said. “Galing sa atin (coming from the Philippines).”
During the operasi, the glare of the search lights, the sound of boots and shouting from the immigration operatives, send the undocumented residents scrambling to dive into the darkness of shallow water for protection. Never mind the mangrove roots and broken bottles that could probably pierce feet. There are helicopters, too, and larger boats in deeper water. The escapees are at the mercy of the tides.
Residents say there is an operasi at least once in three months.
No proof of identity
Maguing speaks in a mix of Filipino and Bahasa, an indication of how long she has been here. In the past two decades, Maguing has been living without a passport, but not for lack of trying. She was promised one by her agen (agent), but she was never given one.
Right now, even getting out of the house is risky. She has no papers proving her existence, not even a birth certificate, and no proof she has been in the country that once promised her twice her income back home.
Maguing, who hails from Marawi City in Lanao del Sur, was minding her own business and spinning barbecue sticks over a hot grill in Zamboanga City when
someone whose name she could no longer recall, approached her, and offered to hire her as restaurant worker at MYR1,000 a month (around PhP 15,000 then). when she was earning only PhP 8,000.
Sandakan beckoned. After all, she had a four-year-old to support from a previous marriage, there was an inherited land in Mindanao she leased and wanted to get back, and she was already starting life as a separated woman. After rentals and other expenses, her monthly income of P8,000 would only net around P2,000.
All she needed to do was come along for a ride, and that was it.
“Sixteen kami lahat,” she said of her companions. “Babae lahat” (All women). Maguing recalled leaving Zamboanga for voyage by sea and landing in Bongao, Tawi-Tawi around 24 hours later. According to the stranger, who Maguing surmised was a recruiter from Jolo looking for people to hire as sales ladies and restaurant staff in Sabah.
“Madali lang yung biyahe,” she said of the crossing. But the waters in the corridor aren’t always forgiving.
It takes at least 24 hours to get from Bongao to Taganak, and from there, an hour by speedboat.
Just recently, rough waters capsized the wooden-hulled M/L Sitti Nur while en route to Bongao, Tawi-Tawi. Another ship from Zamboanga City, the MV Trisha Kerstin 3, listed on its side and sank off Baluk-Baluk Island, in Basilan. In that sinking, at least 18 died and many are still missing.
Debt before arrival
In Bongao, Maguing was told she already owed the stranger 1,500 ringgit. “How can I be in debt, when I did not agree to it?”
The stranger told her that the money financed her travel to Sandakan and that this same money would pay for her passport. And this was only the beginning of her ordeal.
She would spend a month in Bongao, with only P1,000 allowance from her recruiters. She would save it for food, for daily necessities, for hygiene. While she and her companions could move around the town, there were always a couple of people following them around, making sure that they did not get away.
All sixteen of them were crammed inside small dorm rooms in Bongao, and they rarely spoke to one another as they awaited what was to come. But this would not be the smallest room they would find themselves in.
In the vessel that took them to Sandakan, by way of Taganak in nearby Turtle Islands, they were hidden inside a small compartment, the space just enough for them to crouch and hide until authorities went away. She shows us how small: It is a hidden cubic compartment inside a ship barely the size of her old double sized bed.
Taganak in Tawi-Tawi is only an hour by speedboat from Sandakan. But Maguing would not know what Taganak looks like, as they weren’t let out into the island during the stop.
According to Maguing, a checkpoint at the Malaysian dock was not able to see the hidden compartment. And she has been in Sandakan ever since.
Porous coasts
Bashir, 46, who owns s a speedboat that legally operates to carry goods from Sandakan to Taganak, shows how easy it is to move in and out of Sandakan if you know the right people, and if you knew the waterways around villages.
There are numerous spots in Sandakan that connects the sea to informal routes toward land, even toward roads. For recruiters, this means multiple opportunities to import cheap labor.
Sometimes, in the dark, it’s the way people get into the country. Bashir would know, because when he was still an illegal immigrant, he transported others into the island before.
Legally, one flies into the island via Kota Kinabalu or Kuala Lumpur. If one has a passport, all they have to do is line up at immigration at Sandakan and get their credentials stamped.
Until recently, one Sandakan could also be reached by boat directly from Zamboanga, but on January 27, the Department of Transportation suspended the operations of Aleson Shipping Lines following the sinking of the MV Trisha Kerstin 3, which left at least 18 dead, including a six-month-old baby.
The uncertainties of those trips were nothing compared to the alternative.
Back when barter ships were around, Bashir would approach passengers travelling through Taganak and ask who among them wanted entry into Sandakan. Two to three at a time, he would charge a fee to get into a small inlet, just an hour’s trip from Taganak, leading into one of the many waterways towards Sandakan. He would charge each of the passengers around MYR700 or around PhP 10,000 per head.
At the end of this waterway and under cover of darkness, recruiters would usually wait for the arrival of their hires, mostly from the Philippines.
Risky ride
It’s a risky boat ride, not just for the unpredictable rough seas. If Malaysian immigration officials spot the boats, it’s every man for himself. The passengers would jump and maybe swim away. But this has never happened to Bashir.
Bashir said that it was a lucrative source of income for a while, as there were a lot of people traveling to Taganak who were looking for work in Sandakan.
At least until he was himself caught and detained for being undocumented.
One day, he was piloting a small boat carrying barrels of crude oil. Malaysian
Coast Guard approached the small boat and, seeing him undocumented, immediately detained him for two months at a processing center and another two months at another facility as he awaited passes to get back home.
The Philippine Bureau of Immigration has since helped him come back home in Taganak, and he hasn’t looked back since.
His returns to Sandakan have been exclusively for legal purposes, and he has since gotten citizenship along with his children.
Bashir does not have a Philippine passport. He would eventually get a passport from Malaysia, after getting married to a Malaysian woman he met in Sandakan.
According to Bashir, he once tried to get a Filipino passport. But the asking fee for processing was way too high – MYR 5,000 (P74,717). It was not worth it.
Trafficking
Taganak residents regularly travel to and from Sandakan through a note from the Municipal Government. This allows them to travel across the borders, but strictly for trade and medical emergencies. For the latter, this makes sense, as Sandakan is the nearest medical facility in the Turtle Islands in Tawi-Tawi. Bongao, the capital, is at least 24 hours by passenger vessel.
Malaysian law is clear about trafficking: It is an illegal act that is not softened by consent.
The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime defines human trafficking as “The recruitment, transportation, or harboring of people through force, fraud, or deception for the purpose of exploitation.”
The Immigration Department of Malaysia relies on the Immigration Act 1959/63 (Act 155), Passport Act 1966 (Act 150), Immigration Regulations 1963 and the Anti-Trafficking in Persons and Anti-Smuggling of Migrants Act 2007 (Act 670) to guide operations on the arrest, prosecution, deportation, and repatriation of
detainees.
While Malaysia is famous for its hospitality, one of its stern warnings before any flight lands is how human trafficking carries with it severe penalties.
Under the Immigration Act 1959/63, undocumented individuals face fines up to RM10,000 (around P150,000), five years’ imprisonment, and mandatory whipping for adult males. Convicted traffickers under ATIPSOM 2007 face even harsher penalties, ranging from 20 years to life imprisonment and significant fines.
Despite these penalties, Filipinos continue to try their luck here, some even coming from Luzon and entering Sandakan via Mindanao’s backdoor.
Trafficking corridor
In Bongao, “backdoor” and “trafficking” are commonplace terms. The local government here even categorizes trafficking into “willing victimness” and the ones who were forced across borders.
The waters of Zambasulta (Zamboanga-Basilan-Sulu-Tawi-Tawi) are traditionally porous posts connected through a network of vast waterways.
Zamboanga City prosecutor Wendell Sotto, who is part of the Regional Inter-Agency Council Against Trafficking in the Zamboanga Peninsula, told MindaNews that Zamboanga and Taganak are usual jump off points towards Sandakan.
The regular presence of speed boats and other small craft have made the area susceptible to trafficking. However, Sotto says there have been cases already filed in court for apprehended traffickers caught at port.
For Sotto, the trafficking corridor is prone to transnational crime when, for example, cargo vessels not intended for passengers still accept chartering passengers for a fee.
The IACAT has also received information on hidden passengers but did not
elaborate.
Another key challenge is when witnesses stop appearing during trial.
“There are witnesses who don’t appear… That’s the challenge for us,” Sotto told MindaNews.
But it’s not as simple as the victim being absent.
Nonprofit Katilingban sa Kalambuan, Inc. (KKI) has seen the worst forms of trafficking. Managing two shelters in Zamboanga City, social workers at the organization have seen how trafficking affects vulnerable women as young as 13 years old into the dangerous trade.
Some of the women, all minor, that they help rehabilitate have been separated from their own families. Worst, some of the cases involve their own family members trafficking the victims themselves.
In one such case, it was a stepbrother; in another, a mother.
And so this sometimes contributes to the victims not showing up during trial.
In some cases, the prosecutors would prefer airtight cases first.
Sotto said that the City Prosecutor’s Office “only recommends filing when there’s a certainty of conviction,” otherwise case-building can be difficult.
“We must see to it that the evidence would suffice the 100% conviction. Otherwise, we will recommend for the dismissal,” he said.
Apprehended and prosecutedIn 2025, MindaNews reported on scores of rescued victims and a handful of apprehended and prosecuted alleged traffickers in operations before the vessels could leave port.
In August, for example, three suspected recruiters were apprehended in Barangay Baliwasan, Zamboanga that tried to traffic 38 individuals including four minors. The victims were promised work in countries like Malaysia and China.
In September, 24 were rescued before they could leave a port in Bongao, Tawi-Tawi through a vessel supposedly en route to Cambodia and Malaysia while another 14 were intercepted at the Sanga-Sanga Airport, Tawi-Tawi.
Some of the victims had traveled from as far as Manila.
In October, two linked operations rescued six victims in Tawi-Tawi and another six victims in Zamboanga City. The suspect remains at large.
A source from the Western Mindanao Naval Command who asked not to be named confirmed the tendency of the waters in their jurisdiction as a center of gravity for trafficking apprehensions, through the 2nd Marine Brigade.
Another source from a naval unit operating in the area said there were also political limits beyond their control.
Maritime interdictions eventually lead to turn overs to lead agencies like the Bureau of Customs, Bureau of Immigration, and the Philippine National Police, but the Navy said it could not freely give out data without permission from higher command.
In the grassroots level, the IACAT said it pushed for barangay-level information campaigns following the rescue of 38 Sabah-bound trafficking victims.
Last year, MindaNews reported five interdictions along the Zamboanga – Tawi-Tawi corridor, from reports across various units of the RIACAT: 38, including four minors, were rescued in Zamboanga City on August 8 from a boat headed to Taganak; 22 were intercepted from a ferry docked in Bongao on Aug. 29; 24 were rescued in Bongao on Sept. 6 with most coming from Metro Manila and other places in Luzon, 14 were rescued in Bongao on Sept. 18 after traveling from Manila to Tawi-Tawi via Zamboanga; and six more victims were rescued in two
operations in Bongao on Oct. 16.
In Kuala Lumpur, we stumble upon a queer man at a mall in Bukit Bintang. Noy, 58, said he had been through it all, including sex work. He was once apprehended for being undocumented and had spent some jail time. He was sent home to Zamboanga Sibugay, but decided to come back anyway to try his luck anew. He has since received his IC identity card) after 30 years and sells retail items for a living. The IC, or Identity Card, is an identification requirement for all Malaysian citizens aged 12 and up. The IC guarantees citizenship and identity in a card that’s easily carried by residents.
At the same mall, a woman tells us, openly, that she was finding her luck in KL. We were asking for directions and realized she was a Filipina. She has only been in KL for a couple of weeks and is with her sister, who has been around for years. Her sister arrives, and pulls her out of the conversation, afraid she was revealing too much.
In Manila, Maguing’s eldest son is already 24 and has a thriving online business.
He also works as a recruiter for Western clients looking for Filipino overseas workers. They have not been speaking to each other since 2018, after he accused his mother of living a comfortable life in Malaysia.
Maguing has been crying since the start of the interview, but here her voice pierces even if with longing. “Paano mo masabi na maganda ang buhay ko dito? (How can you say that I’m living a good life here?)”
While her son knows where she is located, Maguing says he does not know her current hardships. “He thinks I have it well, but he has no idea.”
Her husband is suffering from a brain injury from a motorcycle accident from years back. A relative had to vouch for them so that emergency medical workers in Sandakan could attend to his injuries. He can no longer do heavy construction work. But he looks for the elusive kontrek anyway, getting subcontracting jobs but
for tasks that he can do with his hands.
For her part, Maguing has a stomach pain that she manages by watching what she eats.
Her predicament did not stem from a lack of education.
On the contrary, she holds a diploma in computer science in the Philippines. She had the skills — and the willingness — to work, if only she had been given the chance.
“But when I tried to apply in Manila, nobody would take me in,” she said. “Some jobs even had height requirements. I also didn’t have the money to keep looking for work.”
She is the only one left in Sandakan, from among the 16 women she traveled with. There were five of them who were first-timers. And as it turns out, the other four have returned to the Philippines, she said.
Yearning for home, but more for a passport
She said there was no work for someone like her if she does decide to return. “I cannot go home because my family is here. If I do come home, I hope it’s just for vacation.”
To make ends meet, Maguing hopes and prays for temporary hourly work at the restaurants in nearby food districts made famous as food destinations. She said her companions were all hired in these establishments, mostly Chinese restaurants. She gets these gigs sometimes, but not always, and so each day is a wonder.
Maguing is a mother, teacher, and healer, and yet there is no proof that she is any of this.
She also practices traditional massage for nearby neighborhood clients, as a local hilot or therapist.
Instead of school, she teaches her children basic literacy skills as they cannot go to school without documentation.
Her 18-year-old daughter, her eldest, has not passed the Malaysian equivalent of Grade 1. But she has taught her to read and write. She could teach the neighborhood children to read and write, too. Except she has no space for it at home.
For his part, Hassan says he used to have a stable job working as an attendant at a bird’s nest farm.
There, he used to help cultivate birdhouses that produce edible bird’s nests in Sandakan. With operations no longer held by their former employer, Hassan was forced to rely on other non-formal work instead, until his injury during the pandemic. Now, both of them rely on work that comes in small trickles instead of streams.
Maguing’s life has always been one of finding work. In Filipino, hanapbuhay means livelihood—life you have to keep searching for.
Until Maguing gets a passport, from the governments that do not know she is in limbo, she remains at home, her strength and hope keeping their home intact.
Her world remains this small house, measured in unschooled children, odd jobs, and an unpredictable tide that sometimes reaches her bed. And when the operasi come, she opens the door, and she has already told the children: do not run away.
This story was funded under a fellowship from the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism, in partnership with the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC).
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