Not all revolutions wear fatigues. Some strut across a humble stage, dressed in traditional panubok, armed not with rifles, but with rhythm, restraint, and raw nerve. Last Saturday, June 28, I found myself—at exactly 5:00 p.m.—in the cozy but electric embrace of the UPV Little Theater, watching RanDalama: Binukot, Maka-Masa, a sarsuela whose title alone hinted at a collision of tradition and rebellion. I came on the invitation of Sir Alfredo Diaz, its spit-fire artistic director and one of my former professors in UP, who, true to form, continues to bend genre, time, and even teenage resolve toward the power of storytelling. I chose the late afternoon run over the morning performance, rightly guessing it would be their closing fire. And fire it was—not the kind that glitters, but the kind that burns steady. It did not aim for perfection—it aimed straight for the gut.
 
At the center of RanDalama is a woman, raised to be revered but never heard—powerfully embodied by Julia Marie Barcelona in a performance that anchors the entire play. A binukot—kept away from sunlight, protected by custom, and promised to her cousin in a union she did not want. Her refusal sets off a cascade. She flees, but her flight leads her into the grip of an abusive military officer, one who brutalizes her and attempts to seize their ancestral land. But she survives. Not quietly, not shamefully, but with force. The escape marks a turning point—not just in her life, but in the tempo of the play set under the Martial Law dictatorship. From victim, she becomes voice. She joins the hublag, the people’s resistance, and there meets a comrade who was once a priest—one who had left the comfort of the pulpit to fight alongside the oppressed. What blossoms and withers between them is not a love that distracts, but one that strengthens, nonetheless. Her transformation from silenced daughter to social movement leader is what gives this narrative its heartbeat. This is not merely a character arc—it is a cultural reckoning. And every stomp, every tremble in her song, makes it unmistakable: some truths can only be told through courage born of rupture.
 
Sarsuela, of course, is no stranger to stories of heartbreak and upheaval. But it has, over the years, quietly faded from the consciousness of the younger generation. Which is why Sir Diaz’s call during the curtain call—“Magtipon kag bagbitbit sang kaisog… magmartsa kita para sa kahilwayan sang tanan”—landed with such urgency. The production does not simply honor tradition; it refuses to let tradition be forgotten. The UP Visayas Junior Theater Arts Club, led by Roxanne Christine Dela Cruz, and the UPHSI Kundiman and Gongs Ensemble, under the musical guidance of Mary Antoniette Nalangan, resurrect sarsuela not as a relic but as a rally. And they do this as high school students. Not conservatory-trained adults. Not professional troupes. These were teenagers who could have spent weekends scrolling or streaming—but instead chose to carry culture on their backs. And they carried it well.
 
Critic and creative writer Nicanor Tiongson (2008) once wrote that sarsuela only remains powerful if it serves not nostalgia, but necessity. This “fresh” production understands that. It does not romanticize the past. It turns it into a megaphone—broadcasting stories that still sting, still matter, and still demand to be heard.
 
Were there cracks? Absolutely. A few notes wandered off key. A couple of dancers missed cues. The wireless mics, at times, lagged behind the actors’ fire. But here’s the thing: perfection would have dulled the edge. The beauty of RanDalama lies in its rawness. It is unfiltered, sometimes unhinged, but never uninterested. And in this age where the youth are so easily dismissed as distracted or disinterested, this production roars back: look again. These are not students pretending to care. They are students who do. They did not just perform history. They embodied its ache.
 
Much of that ache is channeled through the music. Jose Taton, Jr., the show’s emphatic musical director, did more than wave a baton—he stirred spirits. His arrangements married classical gravitas with indigenous pulse, allowing every beat to echo something older than memory. The percussion and the string sections, especially, did not merely support the drama; it carried it. There were moments when I found myself pulled not toward the actors, but toward the corner where the student musicians—mostly Grades 11 and 12—sat poised, summoning ancestral cadence through strings and skin. Taton’s deep work in ethnomusicology, especially with Panay Bukidnon and Ati traditions, clearly shaped the musical landscape. It did not decorate the show. It defined it.
 
And then there was the audience—a mirror in its own right. The Little Theater was filled with professors, parents, fellow students, and sarsuela enthusiasts. For the most part, they sat still, eyes locked on stage. But inevitably, a few forgot the quiet covenant of theater. Phones blinked. Whispers fluttered. Someone shifted too noisily during a tense scene. These moments, small but telling, serve as reminders: we still need to reintroduce our youth to the etiquette and value of watching live performance. Not as novelty. Not as school requirement. But as cultural literacy. As the National Endowment for the Arts (2022) found, consistent exposure to live performance builds not just aesthetic awareness but empathy—and it begins young.
 
What kept the momentum flowing was the production’s refusal to sanitize. When the characters shouted, they meant it. When they spat—sometimes literally—it was not for shock but for scorn. Rage was not abstract here; it was textured. Taton, Theodore Juliano, and the rest of the creative team wrote lines that refused to tiptoe. Diaz himself peppers the piece with barbed truths: “In any love relationship, may traidor gid, but we survived,” and “Fight for love and fight for your love stories.” They may sound theatrical, but within the play’s ecosystem of betrayal, struggle, and sacrifice, they made perfect sense. This love was not decoration. It was defiance.
 
Visually, the production understood restraint. Richter Berlin’s set and costume design leaned on metaphor rather than spectacle. Flowing panubok fabrics clashed with typical military garb, signaling cultural resistance without needing didactic staging. Fionna Vito’s lighting, while occasionally abrupt, captured tone more than texture. It cued emotion. It shaded vulnerability. The choreography by Teresita Portugalete and Crisanto Soraño, Jr. also stood out—not for acrobatic complexity but for its rootedness. Every group movement evoked community, ceremony, or protest. The body was not just a tool here. It was a message.
 
And of all the scenes that will stay with me, none was louder than the quietest. It was a moment when the binukot, RanDalama, now transformed, sings—not to plead, not to entertain, but to reclaim, to pour out. No spotlight. No dramatic crescendo. Just voice. And in that unaccompanied honesty, the show reaches its soul. It reflects what education theorists like ‘bell hooks’ (1994) describe as a liberatory space—where the learner, or in this case the performer, becomes the narrator of their truth. You do not need to be spiritual to see the grace in that. Sometimes, power begins when one finally says what has long been unsaid.
 
This is not to say RanDalama is beyond critique. Some scenes dragged, understandably. Some staging choices leaned heavy on symbolism. Ensemble cohesion, especially during chorals, could be more tight. But if theatre is a reflection of society from which it springs, its imperfections are part of the premise. A squeaky clean musical play would have been forgettable. This one—this messy, mighty, moving thing—was unforgettable.
 
By curtain call, it was clear. RanDalama is not just an impressive high school production. It is a cultural act of resistance. A soft protest with sharp teeth. A love letter to the silenced. A warning to the complacent. In a time ruled by image, status, and spectacle, this zarzuela dares to speak in a voice textured by land, love, loss, and longing. And like the binukot’s final cry—it does not beg for permission.
 
If love and freedom must be fought for again and again, let it be to the beat of gongs, the rhythm of risk, and the rising of voices that remember what it means to be both binukot and maka-masa.
 
Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.