In the history of Philippine literature, the theme of suicide is not unfamiliar. In epics and legends, we find characters who choose to end their lives as an act of honor, sacrifice, or escape from unbearable suffering. In José Rizal’s novels, María Clara is often interpreted as a symbol of women trapped in a patriarchal and colonial society. While Rizal does not explicitly narrate her suicide, her withdrawal into the convent, which some critics view as a form of social death, serves as an allegory of suffocation and hopelessness. In more contemporary works, we also encounter novels and poems that portray young people consumed by depression, characters who drift into silence, and lives that end abruptly.

But here lies the critical question: what is the role of literature in addressing suicide in a country like the Philippines?

From a personal standpoint, I believe literature is a mirror of our shared pain and struggles. Stories of those who wrestle with the desire to end everything should not be erased or hidden. On the other hand, writers also bear a profound responsibility. In an age where children and young readers can so easily access books, poems, films, and even social media posts, we can no longer dismiss the impact of every image, every metaphor, and every line.

It is important to write about suicide because it reflects a truth in our society. According to the 2021 Young Adult Fertility and Sexuality Study (YAFS5), funded by the Department of Health, the proportion of Filipino youth who have attempted suicide more than doubled, from 3 percent in 2013 to 7.5 percent in 2021, affecting nearly 1.5 million young people. When literature tells these stories, it gives us the courage to face what society often silences. However, this is also where the conversation turns political. Not every representation of suicide is helpful.

If, for instance, a novel depicts suicide as a romantic ending, what message does that leave a young or vulnerable reader with? They might come to think of it as noble, poetic, or the only way to escape suffering. If a poem describes methods of dying in excessive detail, it risks becoming a “how-to manual” rather than an invitation to reflection. At that point, the writing no longer functions as art but instead becomes a potential source of harm.

There are, however, writers who attempt to use literature as a bridge to healing. For example, spoken word poets in the Philippines often narrate their battles with depression and anxiety but conclude their performances with an invitation to fight on, to endure. In such works, literature becomes not only an expression of pain but also an act of building community. By revealing the wound, they open the possibility of collective healing.

For me, the true challenge of the Filipino writer is how to narrate suicide without turning the text into a catalyst for further tragedy. This is especially important in children’s literature. Children can vividly picture an image but are not yet capable of fully understanding its context. If a story for children features a character who dies by suicide, then the narrative must also clearly show the grief it causes, the reality of the struggle, and most importantly, an alternative path toward hope.

This is why I say that writing about suicide is both a personal and political act. It is personal because it is often drawn from lived experience, either one’s own or those witnessed in others. It is political because it shapes the public conversation, as literature has the power to alter how readers perceive life and death, to either silence the discourse or open it.

I do not argue that literature should avoid the subject of suicide. Instead, it should confront it with full awareness: every character who chooses to end their life is not only fictional but also a reflection of real people, some of whom might be reading in the midst of their own darkness. Every paragraph might become their last straw, or it could become their bridge to survival.

As writers, we are not gods who decide who lives and who dies within our pages. We are storytellers, entrusted with a responsibility to our readers. If we choose to write about suicide, we must do so with care, compassion, and accountability. In the end, literature is not merely the art of words; it is also the art of life. And in a time when so many of our young people are struggling with the desire to end everything, the most radical act of writing is to insist on painting reasons to stay alive.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post When Stories End Too Soon first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Judith Butler argued that gender has always been performance, not essence. Masculinity has always been theater, whether in the form of flexing at the gym or sipping latte foam with deliberate irony. Men in nursing, for example, sometimes lean into “softness” and other times overcompensate with hyper-masculinity. The performative male is just the 2025 version of this long-running show, now with TikTok filters and Hinge prompts.

Psychotherapist Namrata Jain notes that performance often comes from insecurity. Men trying to transition from dominance to vulnerability sometimes don’t know how to “do” vulnerability without faking it. And in dating, this gets messy. If every guy suddenly loves Sylvia Plath, women start wondering whether he’s sincere, or if Plath has just replaced cologne as the new way to impress.

Presto warns that this can slip into manipulation: using feminism as a kind of aesthetic weapon. But others, like journalist Connolly, remind us that making an effort, even if slightly performative, isn’t always sinister. Honestly, dating is performance by nature. Everyone’s playing a role until they’re comfortable enough to fart in front of each other.

The same dynamic shows up in classrooms and offices. Studies have shown that men are often overconfident about their abilities, while women consistently underestimate theirs despite performing just as well or better. Confidence, in other words, becomes part of the masculine costume. Competence is sometimes an afterthought.

On social media, the performative male has become a meme: tote bag, matcha latte, Instagram bio with a Rupi Kaur quote. Final form unlocked. The joke lands because we all know what bad acting looks like. When “feminist chic” is played inconsistently, the cracks show. And nothing is funnier than a man earnestly rehearsing equality but forgetting his lines.

But beneath the memes is a real truth: Butler was right, gender is something we do, not something we are. The performative male just puts this on display in its most obvious, Instagrammable form. The real question is whether these performances lead to growth or just repackage patriarchy with latte foam on top. A tote bag will not dismantle the patriarchy, no matter how sustainable it is. So the next time you see a guy quoting Audre Lorde at a coffee shop, don’t just swoon. Ask yourself: is he enlightened, or is he just rehearsing?

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Latte Foam Masculinity first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Protest in the Philippines is as old as the nation’s struggle against colonialism. The Revolution of 1896 against Spain was born out of collective indignation against an oppressive system. During the American and Japanese occupations, mass uprisings and local resistances intensified as Filipinos sought land, livelihood, and dignity. Under Martial Law in 1972, protest became an indispensable means to confront dictatorship, proving that silence under tyranny is complicity.

In Iloilo, known historically as “La Muy Leal y Noble Ciudad” (The Most Loyal and Noble City), protest has likewise shaped civic life. Beyond its colonial architecture and reputation for cultural refinement, Iloilo bears the marks of labor strikes, student demonstrations, and grassroots mobilizations. Workers fought abusive factory owners, teachers and students organized for fair wages and quality education, and activists marched against corrupt governance. From the streets filled with parades during fiestas to the same avenues echoing with chants for justice, Iloilo exemplifies how protest is woven into the fabric of civic life.

Protest is not chaos; it is resistance to enforced silence. In a society marked by vast inequalities in wealth and power, silence often means consent. Protest asserts that quiet endurance is not enough, for it demands recognition, justice, and reform. Protest is not exclusive to activists.

It is frequently stigmatized as the realm of agitators or anti-government dissenters. Yet every citizen who complains about rising prices, who voices discontent online, or who demands better public services participates in the broader tradition of protest.

It is also an emotional and human experience. For a mother marching with her child to demand access to education, every chant carries a dream. For a farmer raising a placard under the scorching sun, every step bears the weight of labor and longing for land. For a student in Iloilo standing firm before police lines, every act of courage defies fear and affirms dignity.

Authorities often invoke “order” as a justification to suppress protest. They argue that demonstrations disrupt daily life, tarnish the country’s image, or hinder progress. But what kind of order is being defended? An order built on the silence of the hungry? An order maintained by fear? Genuine order is rooted in justice, not repression. Every protest dismantles the illusion of false order and opens the path toward authentic change.

To attend a protest in Iloilo is not merely to participate in a public event, it is to undergo transformation. To march with hundreds of others, to raise one’s voice in unison, is to experience a strength greater than the individual self. The collective act of defiance creates a profound sense of unity and hope that private prayers within the safety of one’s home cannot replicate. Protest is therefore an emotional revolution, a reminder that one is never alone in struggle.

Protest matters because it is the lifeblood of democracy. Without protest, we might still remain bound by colonial rule, dictatorship, and systemic corruption. In Iloilo, as in the rest of the nation, protest reminds us that sovereignty ultimately lies in the people. We must resist attempts to criminalize or delegitimize collective dissent. With every chant on the street, every placard lifted, and every step taken toward light, we reaffirm the most fundamental lesson: change is never granted, it is fought for.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post The Power of Protest first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Food safety should not be treated as a niche academic topic, discussed only in classrooms, buried in research papers, or presented at professional conferences. It is a fundamental right, especially for the people who cook, sell, and eat food every day.

But what happens to a good idea when it fails to reach the people it was meant for?

This is not just a question. It is a warning. The manual, while complete and ready, currently faces logistical hurdles in printing and distribution. Without immediate action, its potential will be stifled. And that would be a serious loss, not just for the project team, but for Iloilo’s broader food ecosystem and the public health of our communities.

I encountered the manual almost by chance. I was visiting the desk of my co-teacher, Ma’am Gerth, well known in Western Visayas as both an educator and a news anchor when I found a copy. I borrowed it without hesitation and finished reading it that same afternoon. What drew me in was not just the subject matter, but the language. Two of the translators, Prof. Eliod Dimzon and Dr. Alice Tan Gonzales, are Hiligaynon writers I deeply admire. Their version of the manual in Hiligaynon is one of the most accessible and community-sensitive translations I’ve come across. They did not use highfalutin or overly formal Hiligaynon. They used the language that people actually speak, the language of markets, kitchens, and homes. That choice alone makes this manual an important cultural text.

What also struck me was the structure. The manual was designed with intention and care by a team led by Dr. Johannes M. Magpusao, Dean of the School of Technology. It is clear, relevant, and well-organized. It was created for real people doing real work in the food service industry. Its practical sections are supported by striking illustrations from Mr. Kristoffer T. Panes, whose visuals make the material more engaging and far easier to grasp. These drawings are more than decorative; they carry instructional weight. They speak to cooks, helpers, and vendors in ways text alone cannot.

The value of this publication lies not only in what it teaches but also in how it teaches. It embodies the belief that community education must begin in the language of the people and reflect their lived realities. In a city like Iloilo, proudly designated as a UNESCO Creative City of Gastronomy, recognition means little if the very people sustaining its food culture—vendors, carinderia owners, household cooks lack access to practical, understandable food safety education. Manuals and guides shouldn’t sit forgotten in university drawers. They should be in the hands of the community, written in their language, reflecting their lived experiences, and designed to be used.

And yet, despite its promise, the manual is not reaching its intended audience. Printing costs remain unresolved. Distribution plans are uncertain. While it would be ideal for local government units to support the effort financially, we cannot afford to wait for funding that may never arrive. The pace of bureaucratic support is slow, often glacial. Meanwhile, the need for food safety education is immediate and growing.

That is why we must think beyond traditional channels.

First, the manual’s existing Facebook page must be actively maintained and updated. Beyond English, the team should begin sharing Hiligaynon content regularly and actively coordinate with official LGU social media pages in Iloilo, Oton, Dumangas, and beyond. Consistency is key. With regular, local-language updates, the page can build a community of readers who will engage with and promote the manual organically.

Second, a dedicated website should be developed, one that allows the manual to be downloaded freely or read section by section. This move would make the resource accessible not only to those in Iloilo but also to a wider national audience hungry for usable, localized public health information.

Third, the manual should travel. Its potential as a national resource is real. By translating the content into other major regional languages such as Cebuano and Aklanon, the project can extend its reach to communities with similar food cultures and safety concerns. Partnering with LGUs in these regions can help fund this next wave of translation and localization.

Fourth, the physical format of the manual needs to be reconsidered. A4 is unwieldy for vendors and small-scale operators. A compact, pocket-sized edition would be far more useful, easy to carry, to share, and to use in kitchens, stalls, and markets.

If we fail to ensure that food safety knowledge reaches the public in ways that matter, we allow it to remain a privilege of the educated few, an issue of inequality masked by good intentions. That failure is not just logistical; it’s ethical.

Publications like this are not simply academic outputs. They are community assets. And when universities step beyond their gates and speak in the language of the people, they fulfill their highest purpose. They remind us that scholarship is not only about theory but about impact.

The University of the Philippines Visayas has already done the difficult work of creating something necessary and excellent. Now, it is up to all of us cultural workers, local officials, educators, and citizens to ensure it finds its audience. To let this manual remain confined to shelves and staff rooms would be more than a missed opportunity. It would be a failure to act in the interest of public good.

Let us not let that happen.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Food Safety as a Community Right, Not an Academic Footnote first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Yet history tells us, again and again, that cultural expressions, particularly those rooted in community and necessity, do not die so easily. In the years that followed that unsettling global rupture, a quiet and determined resurgence began. This resurgence did not arrive through grand gestures or spectacular breakthroughs, but through modest, underground, and fiercely independent efforts. Artists from Iloilo have begun reintroducing themselves and reclaiming space in the cultural landscape through zines, self-published komiks, workshops, and small press fairs. These are not the products of large industries or mainstream institutions. They are labors of love, born out of necessity, sustained by passion, and anchored in conviction. They are fueled by a belief that stories from Iloilo, told through the unique visual language of komiks, still matter.

What is unfolding within the Ilonggo comics community is not simply a revival. It is the slow, patient gestation of a movement. A movement without spectacle, without institutional backing or the safety net of established infrastructures. It is instead marked by the slow-burning tenacity that often characterizes the most consequential cultural shifts. This is a development both precarious and promising, deserving of our close attention, our critical engagement, and our support.

In the Philippines, discussions about komiks have often revolved around Manila-centric narratives, whether in terms of historical output, such as the storied pages of Liwayway and the dominance of Atlas during the komiks golden age, or in terms of current industry standards, where adaptation into film or migration into digital platforms often defines success. Regional efforts, when mentioned at all, are often reduced to mere footnotes. This marginalization reveals just how uneven the cultural terrain continues to be. In this light, the re-emergence of Ilonggo komiks, however modest and fragile, becomes an act of resistance against cultural erasure. It becomes a quiet yet firm assertion of presence, of relevance, of the right to be heard and seen.

For the purposes of this reflection, I will momentarily set aside the rich and colorful history of komiks in Iloilo, those pioneering artists whose works once graced the pages of Hiligaynon Magazine. That legacy is worthy of its own critical excavation, an endeavor that requires both scholarship and reverence. What demands our attention now is the present, unfolding narrative: the ongoing, often overlooked efforts of Iloilo’s contemporary comic artists to reclaim and reshape a distinctly local comics culture.

For more than half a decade, a small but fiercely committed cadre of artists has been quietly laying the groundwork for this resurgence. Through relentless creation, self-publication, and grassroots promotion, these artists are fostering a space for the next generation of Ilonggo readers to engage with a distinctly local form of visual storytelling. This is not simply about making comics for the sake of output. It is about cultivating cultural soil, about asserting that Iloilo’s stories deserve their own visual and narrative language, free from the filters of metropolitan approval.

At the vanguard of this movement are figures like Hermz Gacho, whose contributions to Iloilo’s underground and independent comics scene have been both prolific and provocative. His works not only entertain but often challenge the boundaries of genre and form, inviting reflection on the sociopolitical conditions that shape contemporary life. Alongside him is Zak Bravo, a fixture in the city’s independent arts community whose work spans not only comics but also illustration and other visual arts initiatives. His collaborations with fellow artist Sasha Bravo, herself a formidable talent, have helped expand and deepen the collective’s creative range, introducing new textures and perspectives to the evolving Ilonggo komiks landscape.

Further enriching this creative circle is Frances John Haro, an artist deeply invested in the promotion and development of local comics and illustration. Haro’s contributions extend beyond personal output. They manifest in the fostering of platforms and opportunities for fellow artists, building networks where none previously existed. Completing this constellation is Alden Sorongon, whose graphic artistry has found space in numerous local exhibitions and continues to challenge the limits of visual narrative within the region. Together, these artists embody the resilience and defiance of Iloilo’s comics community. Their work is not driven by commercial trends or the demands of algorithms. Instead, it emerges from a deeper commitment to keeping the spirit of komiks alive, evolving, and relevant to their community.

Central to this emergent ecosystem is Pasyon Komiks, a collective whose ambitions are refreshingly clear-eyed. Their aim is not simply to produce content, but to craft meaningful, socially engaged comics that serve as both artistic expression and cultural intervention. Their publications, such as Amaranhig: Retaliation (Vol. 4), EJK Zombies: Tallano Gold Heist!, Alden Sorongon’s OTW, and Hermz Gacho’s Dyablo Boyz! reflect a commitment not only to genre and craft but to the socio-political dimensions of storytelling. These are works that interrogate history, myth, and contemporary realities with equal parts irreverence and seriousness.

But Pasyon Komiks is not solely about artistic output. It is equally about outreach, about fostering a wider appreciation and deeper engagement with the art form within the local community. Their Facebook presence serves not just as a portfolio but as a chronicle of their efforts—workshops, talks, public engagements, and collaborations designed to spark dialogue and cultivate interest. These initiatives do more than build audiences. They cultivate critically engaged publics, communities that understand the value of local storytelling traditions and their relevance to contemporary life.

Their recent participation in the Philippine International Comics Festival, alongside fellow Ilonggo artist Mia Reyes, signals more than mere representation. It asserts Western Visayan creators’ rightful place within the national conversation on comics and culture. Events such as these illuminate the untapped potential of Iloilo’s comics scene, suggesting what could be possible if local and national institutions were willing to offer meaningful, sustained support.

It is important to recognize that for most Ilonggo artists, komiks-making remains a passion-driven pursuit, often balanced alongside their regular day jobs. Many of them have long been part of the broader creative industry, though much of their work has been for international publishers. Notable examples include former Pasyon Komiks member Jun Premiro, who previously worked with Marvel Comics. There are also pioneers such as Mia Reyes, Jann Galino, and the late Art Geroche, who once illustrated for DC Comics. These individuals stand as proof that Ilonggo artists have always possessed the talent to make their mark on the global stage. What sets the current generation apart is a renewed commitment to bringing this world-class artistry home, focusing on original Filipino stories and contributing to the revival and growth of the local komiks industry.

The question, then, is not whether Ilonggo Komiks exists. It undeniably does, albeit in fledgling form. The more urgent and pressing question is whether it will be allowed to thrive. What is at stake here is not merely a niche subculture but the broader issue of cultural equity. Without institutional recognition, whether through funding, infrastructure, or education, such movements remain vulnerable. Their momentum is difficult to sustain without systemic support.

It is no exaggeration to claim that literature and publishing could serve as vital pillars in the cultural and tourism industries of Western Visayas. Iloilo, with its deep reservoir of folk narratives, histories, and mythologies, is uniquely positioned to leverage comics as a medium for both preservation and innovation. Yet this potential remains largely untapped, in part because local government units have yet to fully grasp the cultural and economic value of investing in literary arts.

Similarly, the National Book Development Board (NBDB) must move beyond token gestures toward true regional inclusivity. If its mandate is indeed to advance Philippine publishing, then it must recognize the centrality of regional voices to any meaningful conception of national literature. Grants, workshops, residencies, and platforms must be actively directed toward communities historically excluded from the Manila-centric publishing apparatus. It is not enough to acknowledge these communities’ existence. They must be empowered and supported.

Ultimately, this is not merely a question of comics or regional arts. It is a question of cultural democracy. If the stories of Iloilo and countless other regions continue to be marginalized, then we perpetuate a literary and artistic monoculture that impoverishes us all. The voices from the peripheries matter precisely because they offer perspectives, narratives, and aesthetics that complicate, enrich, and challenge the dominant discourse.

To ignore them is not simply a disservice to future generations of artists and readers, it is an insult to the very idea of a pluralistic, inclusive Filipino culture. Let us be clear: culture does not survive through grandstanding or empty rhetoric. It endures through the quiet, stubborn, and relentless efforts of those who refuse to be erased, who continue to create even when no one is watching. The Ilonggo komiks community does not need permission to exist. What they deserve is recognition, respect, and solidarity. Because in their struggle lies not just their future, but the future of a Philippine culture that dares to call itself complete.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Does Ilonggo Komiks Truly Exist? first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Upon first encountering the book, both in its material form and its visual presentation one is immediately struck by its exceptional production quality. The printing, the texture of the paper, and the vibrancy of the illustrations undeniably meet, if not exceed, international standards. It is a book that invites neither apology nor hesitation when presented alongside its global counterparts; indeed, it can confidently stand shoulder to shoulder with the finest illustrated books produced in more established literary markets. Such excellence in production is still, regrettably, a rarity in the Philippines, where children’s books too often suffer from thin, low-quality paper, substandard binding, and poor color fidelity, as though subjected to minimal quality control. Thus, when I first held and perused this book by Kat and Karen, I could not help but feel a certain envy, a bittersweet recognition of the disparity between this work and the children’s books previously published here in Western Visayas.

For readers familiar with the traditional narrative of Nagmalitong Yawa, this rendition by Gomez-Limchoc is unmistakably a modern retelling, one that respectfully diverges from its epic source material while introducing new elements through both text and illustration. Details have been thoughtfully added or omitted, yet these creative liberties do not diminish the story’s essence; rather, they reframe it through a contemporary lens. This reimagining allows readers, both young and old to experience the tale anew, enriched by the distinctive artistry and interpretive vision of Gomez-Limchoc and Francisco. This version becomes not merely a retelling but a cultural translation, a deliberate and sensitive mediation between the past and the present, the local and the global.

To those with an intimate knowledge of the Sugidanun epics, it will be clear that Nagmalitong Yawa in this incarnation has undergone a thoughtful reinterpretation. Gomez-Limchoc and Francisco offer a perspective that bridges the traditional with the modern, making the fierce heroine’s legend accessible to today’s young Filipino readers and, potentially, to children beyond our shores. Their work exemplifies how indigenous narratives can be lovingly and intelligently recontextualized for a globalized generation, without forsaking the cultural integrity from which these stories originate.

It is not an exaggeration to say that this book represents an important contribution not merely to children’s literature but to cultural work at large. Through this project, Gomez-Limchoc, Francisco, and their collaborators affirm the enduring necessity of preserving and promoting the stories from our regions and remote communities. They demonstrate how Philippine narratives, when handled with both creative flair and cultural sensitivity, can achieve resonance far beyond their points of origin. Beyond the pleasure of reading, this book elevates our expectations of what children’s literature can offer, it integrates new technologies, inviting engagement through audio narration and musical accompaniment accessible via QR codes, thereby enhancing the reading experience in ways that acknowledge the evolving habits and preferences of today’s young readers.

Such an initiative must be recognized not merely as a creative achievement but as a cultural imperative. Writers and illustrators like Gomez-Limchoc and Francisco challenge us to reimagine the possibilities of reading for children. They urge us to innovate and elevate the literary experience, to capture the attention of young readers by offering them stories that are not only entertaining but also deeply reflective of their heritage. This book, in its thoughtful conception and execution, stands as a model for future endeavors in Philippine children’s publishing.

What is particularly commendable is Gomez-Limchoc’s evident respect for the Panay Bukidnon culture. Her writing demonstrates a careful consideration of key cultural concepts and terminologies, such as binukot, panubok, and sugidanon which she deliberately retains as part of her narrative, recognizing their importance as cultural markers. More importantly, it is evident that her creative process was informed by rigorous research and respectful consultation with the Panay Bukidnon community. She visited their communities, engaged with cultural bearers, and conducted ‘kid-testing’ with Panay Bukidnon children, an invaluable gesture of humility and respect that grounds the book not merely in creative imagination but in lived cultural realities.

Yet, one critical reflection must be offered, not as a detraction but as a point for further consideration. In projects such as this, where the source material is rooted in living oral traditions, it would have been an even more powerful act of cultural solidarity to recognize the original cultural custodians as co-authors. Acknowledging chanters and tradition bearers, such as Romulo C. Caballero, Rolando C. Caballero, Rodolfo C. Caballero, and Rita T. Caballero, as co-creators rather than mere consultants would not only honor their contributions but affirm the ethical stance of the creators as respectful cultural outsiders. Such recognition would extend beyond mere acknowledgment; it would embody a deeper, more meaningful practice of collaborative authorship, an act of reciprocity towards those whose narratives we seek to share with the world.

Nagmalitong Yawa shows us what becomes possible when literary artistry, cultural respect, and publishing excellence come together with purpose and heart. It reminds us that our country holds a vast wealth of stories still waiting to be honored, stories that deserve to be carried forward with care, imagination, and integrity. This book is not merely a retelling; it is an act of reclaiming, a celebration of cultural memory, and above all, a heartfelt invitation. It calls on children, readers, and storytellers alike to recognize that these stories are not relics of the past, they are living, breathing voices that continue to shape who we are, and who we can still become.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Reimagining ‘Nagmalitong Yawa’ for New Readers first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

Food safety should not be treated as a niche academic topic, discussed only in classrooms, buried in research papers, or presented at professional conferences. It is a fundamental right, especially for the people who cook, sell, and eat food every day.

But what happens to a good idea when it fails to reach the people it was meant for?

This is not just a question. It is a warning. The manual, while complete and ready, currently faces logistical hurdles in printing and distribution. Without immediate action, its potential will be stifled. And that would be a serious loss, not just for the project team, but for Iloilo’s broader food ecosystem and the public health of our communities.

I encountered the manual almost by chance. I was visiting the desk of my co-teacher, Ma’am Gerth, well known in Western Visayas as both an educator and a news anchor when I found a copy. I borrowed it without hesitation and finished reading it that same afternoon. What drew me in was not just the subject matter, but the language. Two of the translators, Prof. Eliod Dimzon and Dr. Alice Tan Gonzales, are Hiligaynon writers I deeply admire. Their version of the manual in Hiligaynon is one of the most accessible and community-sensitive translations I’ve come across. They did not use highfalutin or overly formal Hiligaynon. They used the language that people actually speak, the language of markets, kitchens, and homes. That choice alone makes this manual an important cultural text.

What also struck me was the structure. The manual was designed with intention and care by a team led by Dr. Johannes M. Magpusao, Dean of the School of Technology. It is clear, relevant, and well-organized. It was created for real people doing real work in the food service industry. Its practical sections are supported by striking illustrations from Mr. Kristoffer T. Panes, whose visuals make the material more engaging and far easier to grasp. These drawings are more than decorative; they carry instructional weight. They speak to cooks, helpers, and vendors in ways text alone cannot.

The value of this publication lies not only in what it teaches but also in how it teaches. It embodies the belief that community education must begin in the language of the people and reflect their lived realities. In a city like Iloilo, proudly designated as a UNESCO Creative City of Gastronomy, recognition means little if the very people sustaining its food culture—vendors, carinderia owners, household cooks lack access to practical, understandable food safety education. Manuals and guides shouldn’t sit forgotten in university drawers. They should be in the hands of the community, written in their language, reflecting their lived experiences, and designed to be used.

And yet, despite its promise, the manual is not reaching its intended audience. Printing costs remain unresolved. Distribution plans are uncertain. While it would be ideal for local government units to support the effort financially, we cannot afford to wait for funding that may never arrive. The pace of bureaucratic support is slow, often glacial. Meanwhile, the need for food safety education is immediate and growing.

That is why we must think beyond traditional channels.

First, the manual’s existing Facebook page must be actively maintained and updated. Beyond English, the team should begin sharing Hiligaynon content regularly and actively coordinate with official LGU social media pages in Iloilo, Oton, Dumangas, and beyond. Consistency is key. With regular, local-language updates, the page can build a community of readers who will engage with and promote the manual organically.

Second, a dedicated website should be developed, one that allows the manual to be downloaded freely or read section by section. This move would make the resource accessible not only to those in Iloilo but also to a wider national audience hungry for usable, localized public health information.

Third, the manual should travel. Its potential as a national resource is real. By translating the content into other major regional languages such as Cebuano and Aklanon, the project can extend its reach to communities with similar food cultures and safety concerns. Partnering with LGUs in these regions can help fund this next wave of translation and localization.

Fourth, the physical format of the manual needs to be reconsidered. A4 is unwieldy for vendors and small-scale operators. A compact, pocket-sized edition would be far more useful, easy to carry, to share, and to use in kitchens, stalls, and markets.

If we fail to ensure that food safety knowledge reaches the public in ways that matter, we allow it to remain a privilege of the educated few, an issue of inequality masked by good intentions. That failure is not just logistical; it’s ethical.

Publications like this are not simply academic outputs. They are community assets. And when universities step beyond their gates and speak in the language of the people, they fulfill their highest purpose. They remind us that scholarship is not only about theory but about impact.

The University of the Philippines Visayas has already done the difficult work of creating something necessary and excellent. Now, it is up to all of us cultural workers, local officials, educators, and citizens to ensure it finds its audience. To let this manual remain confined to shelves and staff rooms would be more than a missed opportunity. It would be a failure to act in the interest of public good.

Let us not let that happen.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Food Safety as a Community Right, Not an Academic Footnote first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

The conferring of such a significant title upon a real estate development project foregrounds image, branding, and commercial visibility over the integrity of cultural memory and the lived realities of the people who have long sustained it. It risks further marginalizing those individuals, collectives, and institutions that have carried Iloilo’s creative legacy with quiet endurance, limited resources, and a deep, hard-earned commitment to cultural life. It reduces the labor of generations to a decorative label. It implies that culture can be rebranded, professionally curated, and packaged into high-end infrastructure, detached from its social struggles and emptied of its historical contradictions.

Mayor Raisa Treñas publicly announced the designation on the afternoon of July 9 through a Facebook post. In doing so, the title was broadcast to the city not through an inclusive consultative forum, but through a unilateral digital proclamation. While many received the news with applause, particularly those aligned with development agendas and institutional narratives, many others especially those embedded in the arts sector, academic communities, and heritage circles were taken aback. For them, this act was not a moment of shared triumph. It was a moment of quiet grief. It was not the recognition of decades of cultural work, but its erasure in favor of convenience.

This moment demands that we ask, slowly and with care: What does it truly mean to be a center of arts and culture?

At its most essential, a cultural center is not a place of pristine facades or gated aesthetics. It is not a collection of galleries hosted in air-conditioned commercial buildings. Nor is it a schedule of tastefully executed events backed by corporate marketing. A true cultural center is rooted in history, animated by community, and sustained by a deep, often invisible infrastructure of relationships. It is a space where creation, reflection, dissent, and memory coalesce. It is not merely a site of celebration, but a site of struggle where difficult truths are held, where marginalized voices are amplified, and where tradition and experimentation are allowed to coexist in tension.

Most importantly, such a title is not something that can be granted through an executive order. Cultural legitimacy is not assigned from above; it is earned from below. It is not the outcome of a decree, but the result of generations of meaningful work: curating without funding, organizing without recognition, educating without institutional support, and remembering without monuments. Culture is not built overnight. It is the accumulation of stories, spaces, rituals, and resistances. It is the slow sediment of time, conflict, joy, and care.

When one carefully reads Executive Order No. 021, there is an overwhelming absence of any substantive rationale to support the bold claim it makes. There is no historical grounding, no genealogical tracing of cultural lineage, no public record of dialogue with the very communities who have shaped Iloilo’s creative ecosystem. The justification, instead, leans heavily on infrastructure, curated activity, and private sponsorship. These elements, while not without merit, are insufficient. They do not constitute cultural stewardship. At best, they are gestures toward visibility; at worst, they are mechanisms of appropriation.

Let us be precise: culture is not an accessory to real estate. It is not a backdrop for consumerism. It is not the aesthetic layer applied to an urban blueprint to make it more palatable for tourists or investors. True culture is inseparable from the life of the people. It resides in ancestral memory, in contested narratives, in the acts of reclaiming language, land, and identity. It is found not only in official exhibitions, but in street murals, in oral traditions, in poetry shared under dim lights, and in songs passed from grandmother to grandchild. It is expansive, unruly, and often inconvenient to the polished order that development seeks.

The site of Iloilo Business Park, once the location of the old Iloilo airport, has undergone significant transformation in the last decade. Yet it would be inaccurate, even intellectually careless, to claim that this transformation has produced a cultural nucleus. It has produced capital, infrastructure, and employment. But it has not produced, nor has it sustained, a cultural movement that can speak to the city’s deeper artistic and historical spirit. It is not a cradle of heritage, nor a sanctuary for experimentation. It is a commercial space, and its priorities are shaped accordingly.

To be a cultural center, it is not enough to build spaces. One must also build access, relevance, and critical engagement. Who enters these spaces, and who feels excluded from them? Are the arts used to interrogate and unsettle, or merely to beautify and brand? Are young artists being mentored? Are local languages being preserved? Are dangerous questions being asked? Are difficult histories being remembered?

In Megaworld’s case, the answer to many of these questions remains uncertain. The cultural activity it hosts tends to be curated in ways that align with corporate identity. Events are often accessible only to a narrow audience. Programming rarely challenges dominant narratives or opens space for political, indigenous, or anti-colonial expression. The culture that emerges in such spaces is frequently apolitical, commodified, and risk-averse.

Again, this is not inherently wrong. Commercial spaces may serve useful functions. They may support the arts in ways that are aesthetically pleasing and logistically convenient. But that alone does not justify the designation of “Center of Arts and Culture.” It is not merely a matter of contribution, it is a matter of depth, of authenticity, of historical and social embeddedness.

More importantly, we must ask: what kind of culture is being affirmed by this declaration? Whose stories are being told, and whose are being left out? What values are being normalized under the guise of art? Who is visible in this narrative of development, and who is made invisible?

True culture is not simply celebratory. It is critical. It asks difficult questions. It refuses easy answers. It disturbs the comfortable and comforts the disturbed. Can a space engineered primarily for consumerism, and framed by market logic, carry this responsibility?

If the answer is no, or even not yet, then it is not too late to reconsider.

Megaworld has contributed to the city’s recent modernization. That fact is not under dispute. But modernization is not synonymous with cultural stewardship. Economic vitality and cultural integrity are not interchangeable. One can build structures without building meaning. One can host events without building memory. One can fund the arts without truly standing in solidarity with artists.

To declare Megaworld as the cultural center of Iloilo is, intentionally or not, to sideline the work of countless individuals who have kept the city’s spirit alive without fanfare: community theater groups, heritage educators, poets, musicians, independent filmmakers, weavers, dancers, teachers, and memory-keepers. These cultural workers are often underpaid, underrecognized, and undervalued. But they are the true architects of culture. They are the quiet spine of Iloilo’s creative soul.

It is perhaps not too much to ask for a moment of humility. If those behind this designation feel that the responsibility it implies is heavier than anticipated, then they may consider returning the title, not in shame, but in honesty. Not as a step backward, but as a gesture of respect. The title may be held in trust for now. It may be something to work toward, not something to immediately claim. And in the meantime, Megaworld can continue to build partnerships, open its spaces, and deepen its engagement with the city’s living culture.

Let time, rather than titles, be the arbiter of truth. Let the people, not proclamations, define where culture lives.

Culture is not granted from above. It is cultivated from below.

And the city remembers.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Megaworld Iloilo on the Rise! first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

As someone who has spent countless hours in local libraries, I speak with a mix of sadness and urgency when I say that many of these spaces are slowly fading into irrelevance. Too many of them have become static and outdated, functioning primarily as quiet storage rooms for books. They are no longer places where knowledge is lived, shared, and actively explored. Instead, they remain locked in time, both physically and conceptually—lagging behind not only in infrastructure but, more critically, in vision.

Many of our libraries are falling behind when it comes to acquiring new and relevant books, adapting to digital technologies, or offering programs that truly engage the public. What’s more troubling is that they often exist on the periphery of our cultural and educational landscape, unnoticed by a younger generation that sees little value in visiting them. For many young people, libraries no longer feel welcoming, inspiring, or even necessary.

But this is not a failure of the library as an idea. Rather, it reflects a failure of investment, imagination, and political will.

Around the world, libraries are experiencing a quiet revolution. In cities such as Helsinki, Medellín, and Singapore, libraries have been transformed into dynamic community spaces. These modern libraries offer much more than access to books, they provide digital literacy programs, art workshops, music labs, forums for public dialogue, and inclusive services for all ages and backgrounds. They serve as sanctuaries for the curious, the marginalized, and the hopeful. They are places where people come together to learn, connect, and grow. Why should Iloilo be any different? Why can’t we dream big for our own libraries?

The gap we face is not a lack of dreams or good intentions. It is a gap rooted in insufficient policy, limited funding, lack of training, and weak institutional support. Many local librarians, committed, hardworking individuals continue to serve under difficult circumstances. They are often under-equipped, underpaid, and overlooked. Opportunities for professional development are scarce. Initiatives such as community-led programs, creative reading campaigns, or interactive storytelling sessions are more the exception than the norm.

It is deeply unfair to expect our librarians to create transformative learning spaces when they are not provided with the tools, resources, or recognition they need to thrive.

We need a profound shift in perspective. Libraries should no longer be seen merely as book warehouses. They must be understood as living, breathing institutions that nurture critical thinking, empathy, and civic imagination. They should be spaces where young people can access information and also engage in thoughtful conversations, explore their identities, and participate in shaping their communities.

This is a challenge that demands collective effort from local government units, schools and universities, cultural institutions, and the national government. Strengthening our libraries should not be seen as an afterthought or a luxury. It is central to building an inclusive, resilient, and educated society. If we truly believe that education is the backbone of national development, then we must ask ourselves why libraries continue to be among the most neglected parts of our public infrastructure.

To our policymakers: I urge you to invest not just in constructing library buildings, but in building the capacity of the people who bring those spaces to life. Support our librarians. Provide training, access to technology, and funding for programs that promote creativity, community engagement, and lifelong learning.

To civil society and the private sector: I encourage you to view libraries as essential partners in nation-building. Collaborate with them. Sponsor programs. Donate books, equipment, or time. Treat these institutions as the public assets they are.

And to the librarians: Continue to advocate for your profession and your patrons. Seek out collaboration, push for innovation, and never lose sight of the transformative role you play in our society. Now more than ever, your work matters.

So, do we still need libraries in Iloilo? Absolutely. But the more important question is this: are we ready to fight for the kind of libraries our communities deserve?

If we are bold enough to embrace this challenge, the libraries of Iloilo can become more than they have ever been. They can be spaces of hope, memory, resistance, and transformation. But that future depends on the choices we make today—guided by purpose, fueled by passion, and grounded in our belief in the power of learning and imagination.

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post Do We Still Need More Libraries in Iloilo? first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.

In the Philippines, the word “bakla” carries far more meaning than the simple Western idea of a man who is romantically or sexually attracted to other men. Here, being bakla is a rich, cultural experience. It blends gender expression, sexuality, social roles, humor, fashion, performance, and often resilience. It’s a spectrum of identities and personalities that cannot be reduced to a single label. Being bakla or agi in the Philippines is not just about who you love, but how you live, express, and survive in a society that can be both welcoming and harsh.

Let us begin with one of the most iconic figures in Filipino gay culture: the Parlorista, or salon gay. You’ve seen them in your neighborhood beauty parlor, blow dryer in one hand and gossip in the other. They are often hairdressers, makeup artists, or manicurists, and they speak fluent “swardspeak” or gay lingo with unmatched flair. Their conversations are filled with “Charot,” “Eme,” and “Gora,” and they always know the latest showbiz scoop. These cheerful, flamboyant personalities are more than just beauty experts; they are community therapists, life-of-the-party characters, and sometimes even second moms to their clients.

Next is the Beking Kalye, or the streetwise beki. These are the ones who hang out on the corner with the boys, playing basketball or having a laugh while eating fishballs. At first glance, they blend in with the macho barkada, but watch closely and you’ll notice a sudden hip sway, a flirtatious giggle, or a playful catcall when a handsome man walks by. They may use rough language and act tough, but don’t be fooled. They know exactly what they’re doing. They’re the embodiment of Filipino street smarts, unfiltered humor, and effortless charm.

Then we have the Discreet or DL type, which stands for “down low.” These are the bakla who keep things hidden. At work, they appear straight-laced and serious. They may even have girlfriends or wives, and are careful not to reveal anything that might give away their true identity. On social media, they’re ghost-like, never posting anything too personal. But at night, they quietly come alive in dating apps, where usernames are vague and photos are optional. They avoid flamboyant displays and would never be caught at a Pride March. But beneath the clean-cut appearance lies someone longing for expression, acceptance, and possibly love.

Opposite them are the Out and Proud bakla. These individuals live their truth boldly and without apology. They proudly declare their identity in public, support LGBTQIA+ causes, and are often involved in activism. They may be feminists, organizers of Pride events, or educators pushing for inclusivity. They are the ones who raise the rainbow flag high, whether through speeches, social media posts, or simply by showing up as their authentic selves. Their courage inspires others, and their presence challenges norms in workplaces, families, and communities.

In contrast, the Closeta remains hidden. These are the closeted gay men who have not yet come out to the world, and sometimes, not even to themselves. They are often quiet, seemingly straight, and keep their personal lives very private. When asked about relationships, they say they’re too focused on their studies or career. But deep inside, they may be struggling with fear of rejection from family, friends, or society. They might cry secretly while watching a coming-out scene in a movie, or feel a pang of envy seeing others live freely. Their silence speaks volumes, and their journey is deeply personal and often filled with quiet bravery.

There is also the Pa-Mhin, or masculine-acting bakla. These men often appear tough and rugged. They may be into sports, have a deep voice, and keep up a masculine image. But beneath the exterior, they are attracted to men and often have a soft, sensitive side. Some might never openly express their sexuality, but you’ll catch glimpses of it in how they talk, who they smile at, or what music they secretly love. They’re the ones who play basketball by day and watch K-dramas by night. They are often wrapped in mystery, which only adds to their charm.

We must also recognize the Transpinay, or transgender woman. These individuals were assigned male at birth but live and identify as women. While not all trans women consider themselves bakla, society often places them under the same umbrella. Transpinays may undergo hormone therapy, legally change their name, or begin a full transition. Regardless of how far along they are, what matters is that they live according to their truth. They often face discrimination in employment, healthcare, and daily life, yet they continue to fight for dignity and recognition. Their strength, grace, and beauty shine through in every space they enter.

Equally dazzling are the Drag Queens. These bakla perform exaggerated, glamorous, and powerful personas on stage. They are not necessarily trans women, nor do all of them want to be women. Drag is their art form, a celebration of self-expression and theatrical creativity. Their wigs are high, their makeup is bold, and their performances are electric. To them, the stage is sacred and fabulousness is a weapon. They challenge beauty standards, gender expectations, and make people laugh, cry, and sometimes dance along.

Among the more intellectual side of the spectrum is the Academic or Artista Bakla. These are the gay men immersed in the arts, literature, academia, or film. They might quote Judith Butler at a drinking session or write essays about queer representation in Philippine cinema. They tend to have deep conversations about identity and society, and they often carry themselves with elegance and sophistication. You’ll spot them at art exhibits or poetry readings, wearing long scarves and wide-rimmed glasses, offering critiques of everything from capitalism to the color scheme of your outfit.

And finally, we meet the Beki Queen, also known as the Social Media Influencer bakla. These bakla are always online, creating content that entertains, educates, and inspires. They dance on TikTok, spill tea on YouTube, and serve looks on Instagram. They are the face of modern Filipino LGBTQ+ culture—funny, relatable, and unapologetically visible. Their videos often go viral not just for humor, but for showcasing the everyday lives, joys, and struggles of bakla in the digital age. They are trendsetters, entertainers, and cultural commentators rolled into one.

As we celebrate Pride, let us remember that being agi in the Philippines is not one thing, it is many things. It is performance and protest, humor and heartbreak, celebration and survival. Each type of agi, from the flamboyant parlorista to the quietly struggling closeta, plays an important role in our society’s rich cultural landscape. Together, they form a spectrum as vibrant as the rainbow flag itself.

This Pride Month, may we go beyond tolerance and embrace understanding. Whether you are still in the closet or out on the streets waving a flag, you are valid, you are loved, and you are worthy of living your truth with joy and pride. Mabuhay ang mga bakla. Mabuhay ang Pride!

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.

The post The Many Shades of Agi first appeared on Iloilo Metropolitan Times.