Positively Filipino | Online Magazine for Filipinos in the Diaspora – The Magazine

Taylor Sheesh, a Swiftie Love Story

Mima Holt — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 19:11:31 +0000

Mac Coronel as Taylor Sheesh (Photo courtesy of Quonco Productions)

If you haven’t heard of Taylor Sheesh, you’re about to. The Philippines’ iconic Taylor Swift drag queen, known for uncanny lip syncs, polished looks, and a larger-than-life presence, has become both a viral sensation and a cultural force back home. Now, she’s the subject of a new short documentary, Sheesh, A Taylor Love Story, which is premiering in the U.S. at DC/DOX on June 14.

Taylor Sheesh is the drag persona of Mac Coronel, a Manila-based performer who began building a following through live appearances and social media, where his Taylor Swift lip syncs quickly stood out for their precision and emotional detail. What started as performance–part homage, part fandom–grew into something more expansive as audiences responded not just to the accuracy, but to the feeling behind it. Over time, Taylor Sheesh evolved from a niche act into a recognizable presence within Filipino pop culture, fueled by fan communities that treated each performance as both concert and collective experience.

At the helm of the short film is Ramona S. Diaz, one of the most important documentarians of the Filipino experience today. Over decades, Diaz has brought a rare blend of rigor and tenderness to her work, from Imelda to Motherland, which won the World Cinema Documentary Special Jury Award at Sundance, to A Thousand Cuts, her Emmy-winning chronicle of journalist Maria Ressa’s fight for press freedom. With Sheesh, A Taylor Love Story, Diaz continues that tradition, finding in Taylor Sheesh a story that is joyful on the surface and deeply rooted in something more.

She’s joined by Academy Award-nominated producer Diane Quon, whose work on Minding the Gap and Finding Yingying reflects a long-standing commitment to human-centered storytelling. The collaboration is a natural fit: a film that feels celebratory and sincere, but grounded in something real.

Why Taylor Sheesh?

Taylor Sheesh (Photo courtesy of Quonco Productions)

For Ramona Diaz, the answer came quickly.

“I have always been drawn to spectacle, both big and small,” she says. “Throughout my career, I have focused on stories about gender and identity. So when Mac Coronel, also known as Taylor Sheesh, captured my attention in 2024 during the widely publicized Eras Tour, I was immediately intrigued.”

As Taylor Sheesh began to gain traction across Instagram and TikTok, Diaz trusted her instincts.

“I jumped right in without overthinking it–sometimes overanalyzing can lead you to miss important moments, and this was one of those times.”

For Mac Coronel, the persona speaks for itself.

“Filipino drag excellence,” he says simply.

His manager, Drew Pillerva, sees it through a different, complementary lens–one rooted in resourcefulness.

“Accessibility and adaptability,” he says. “The main reason why the Errors Tour happened is because there was no Eras Tour in the Philippines. So let’s just make one. Let’s just enjoy the one we made up.”

It’s a mindset that feels distinctly Filipino: making something out of nothing, and doing it with joy.

The Making of the Film

Filming a performer like Taylor Sheesh means capturing both spectacle and stillness–onstage presence and off-camera reality. For Diaz, that meant leaning into the same intimate, character-driven approach that defines her work.

“The interplay between Taylor Sheesh and the audience was irresistible, and I was thrilled to capture the enchantment,” she says. “To stand among Swifties who were there for pure experience and community felt authentic. It was devoid of cynicism and irony, and that was refreshing.

For Coronel and Pillerva, the experience of being filmed at this scale felt different. While both are used to cameras, this marked their most significant international production.

Drew describes the process as requiring awareness, but ultimately says “everything was very natural,” a reflection of his long-standing partnership and friendship with Mac.

What Taylor Sheesh Means

(Photo courtesy of Quonco Productions)

Taylor Sheesh is, on one level, a performer. But understanding her also means understanding the cultural context she comes from.

Long before drag entered the global mainstream, impersonation and gender performance were already a part of everyday Filipino entertainment. You didn’t have to go to a club to see it–you just had to turn on the TV. It was embedded, accessible, and familiar.

That history makes Taylor Sheesh feel both new and continuous, a modern expression of something deeply rooted. At the same time, that visibility exists alongside ongoing gaps in legal and social acceptance for LGBTQ+ communities in the Philippines, a tension that quietly underpins the story.

For Quon, Coronel’s journey resonates in a more universal way.

“I have always been a fan of coming of age stories,” she says, “and I think folks will resonate with Mac Coronel’s journey to be his authentic self. By following his dreams, Mac has not only found personal happiness–but as a result, has also unexpectedly given happiness to so many others.”

Coming to America

The film’s U.S. premiere arrives during Pride Month, a timing that feels especially relevant.

“During a time when the LGBTQ+ community is experiencing increasing persecution and violence in the U.S., I hope this glimpse of Mac’s life can encourage understanding and empathy among audiences.”

For Coronel and Pillerva, bringing Taylor Sheesh to an American audience comes with both excitement and uncertainty. Their Australian tour offered a glimpse of what’s possible, but the U.S. remains largely untapped.

Taylor Sheesh evolved from a niche act into a recognizable presence within Filipino pop culture, as fan communities treated each performance as both concert and collective experience.

“We just haven’t permeated through it yet,” Drew says, his tone hopeful.
What feels certain is why the story resonates.
“It may just seem like a person imitating someone,” he starts, “but they still go to the show. They still follow and constantly interact with the social media accounts.”
Something about Taylor Sheesh connects beyond the performance itself.
For Mac, it comes back to the journey. What began as a response to a missed concert has grown into something much bigger: a cultural moment that has started to travel beyond Philippine borders. That arc–from local ingenuity to something global–is exactly what Sheesh, A Taylor Love Story sets out to capture.

Mima Holt is a strategist and storyteller who, as co-founder of Dusty Films and a campaigns lead at the Natural Resources Defense Council, champions stories and causes that inspire change and expand visibility for underrepresented communities. To support the campaign to bring Taylor Sheesh to her U.S. premiere, visit bit.ly/sheeshtaylor, and follow @sheeshataylorlovestory for updates.

To You, ‘These Yet to Be United States’

Jose Antonio Vargas — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 19:10:43 +0000

(L-R) University of San Francisco President Salvador D. Aceves Ed.D., Mona Lisa Yuchengco, Jose Antonio Vargas (Photo courtesy of Mona Lisa Yuchengco)

This is the author's commencement address to the 2026 graduating graduate students of the University of San Francisco (USF) College of Arts and Sciences, delivered on May 23, 2026.
USF also conferred on Jose Antonio Vargas the degree of Doctor of Humane Studies (honoris causa). Read the citation delivered by PF Publisher Mona Lisa Yuchengco below.
This is the first time I’m addressing a graduating class of graduate students. Growing up, I was fascinated by this woman on PBS named Julia Child. There’s a great movie in which Meryl Streep plays Julia Child, and my favorite scene in it is when Julia and her editor are struggling to come up with the title of her first book. They play around with index cards and finally they settle on: Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Not “How To,” not “Made Easy,” not “For Dummies.” “Mastering the Art.”
In what feels like a post-literate era, you all have “Master’d” something. Not content-created, not social media-influenced, but mastery. Of Applied Economics, Data Science and Artificial Intelligence, Urban and Public Affairs, Migration Studies, et cetera. So, let’s take a moment for you all to congratulate each other.
And speaking of Migration Studies, much like America is now a country of countries, this graduating class of graduate students represents 6 continents, 43 countries, and 25 states. You all embody the very diversity that powers not only the San Francisco Bay Area—not only California, the fourth largest economy in the world—but the rest of what James Baldwin called “these yet to be United States.”
As we gather here today, immigrant students across our country are under unprecedented attack. Completing college, earning a degree, securing employment––all of that is difficult enough. Now add the constant threat of arrest and detention and deportation. Last year 260 immigrant students were arrested by ICE, and 174 of them were removed from the country they call home.
International students who seek to continue their lives here face tougher barriers than ever. Just yesterday, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services radically changed long-standing immigration policy, now forcing anyone applying for a green card to leave America indefinitely and apply in their home country, disrupting lives being built, or already built, here. The impact of these changes is immense. Without immigrants, international students, and children of immigrants, U.S. colleges and universities would lose up to one-third of undergraduate enrollment and almost two-fifths of graduate enrollment between 2025 and 2037.
For the past 15 years, I’ve traveled all around the country, engaging with people who want me arrested and deported. Among the realities I’ve grappled with is that government officials, from ICE agents to Stephen Miller, are hiding from basic facts about undocumented life––that we don’t commit more crimes than native-born citizens; that we contribute more than we take from government agencies––that undocumented people pay taxes to the same government that is arresting and detaining us.

(L-R) Lloyd LaCuesta, Jose Antonio Vargas, Rita Moreno, Mona Lisa Yuchengco. Moreno was also one of the commencement speakers. (Photo courtesy of Mona Lisa Yuchengco)

This government is hiding from the full force of our history, from the fact that, unless you’re Native American (who were already here) or a Black American who’s a descendant of enslaved peoples (who were kidnapped and forced to come here against their will), you emigrated from someplace else, and your legality, such as it is, is a product of time, circumstances, and whatever laws happened to be in place.
History is cracking before us. Rights hard fought for and earned by the Civil Rights Movement, led by Black Americans and joined by white allies, are crumbling in a country that, because of immigration, is no longer Black or white, in a country that’s always been more complex and nuanced than its history has often allowed. Immigrants must practice our own version of patriotism. Even though we cannot vote––though I’ve called America my home for almost 33 years, because of my immigration status, I’ve never been able to vote––we must ensure that those who can vote, including our own family members, exercise that right and never take it for granted. I define “American” as Americans who are willing to fight for an America that includes all of us.
What’s become abundantly and painfully clear is that what is happening all across the country is not a question of legality. It’s a question of humanity––our shared humanity. All this talk about artificial intelligence, about the promises and perils of AI, demands that we focus, now and more than ever, on human intelligence, on what connects us to each other, human being to human being.
And we, as human beings, are a collection of every single human being who’s ever touched our lives.
The University of San Francisco holds a very special place in my heart. This is the professional home of Teresa Moore, a professor of journalism and media studies. I met Teresa when she was an editor mentoring young journalists and I was a high school student hungry for a byline––you know, that name you see under the headline of a news article: by Jose Antonio Vargas. I was obsessed with bylines because they were proof that I, an undocumented student with no valid green card, no driver’s license, no U.S. passport, existed. Teresa was the first editor who demanded excellence in me. Not just competence, not just get it done on deadline––aim, as much as you can, for excellence. A few years ago, Teresa told me: “You wanted to write your way into America.” I’m proud to be able to say that I would have never written my way into America without Teresa’s mentorship which has turned into a friendship.

On behalf of immigrant families and the risks they continue to take––on behalf of the risks that immigrant students continue to take to get educated and build lives bigger than themselves––it is my honor to receive this honorary degree.

The University of San Francisco is also the home of Law Professor Bill Hing, who founded USF’s Immigration and Deportation Defense Clinic. Every immigration lawyer I spoke to warned me about the dangers of publicly revealing my undocumented status, especially not in the pages of the New York Times. Every lawyer but Bill. Bill was the only one who said, go for it, take the risk. I dug up an email he sent me 15 years ago, days before my life would forever be changed by telling my story. He wrote: “Did I tell you I teach a class named Rebellious Lawyering? Most people think it's about rebelling against the ‘man’ or various standard institutions; but actually, it's more about rebelling against conventional lawyering.” To this day, rebellious lawyering informs my work and the work of Define American, a non-profit I founded with a group of friends.
I stand here today as one, and I carry with me those friends, along with anyone I’ve ever met and every kindness I’ve ever encountered and received. As I say that, please take a moment to think of and be grateful for every kindness you’ve experienced in your time here.
I stand here today as one, and I carry with me the story of my Lola, my grandmother, who left the province of Zambales, in the Philippines, and arrived in Mountain View, California in 1984; and the story of my Mama. 31 years after I left Manila, after decades of waiting for her green card to be approved, Mama is finally here in the Bay Area. Lola, Mama and me now all live together in Berkeley, three generations of immigrants finally reunited after decades of separation.

Vargas with his lola (left) and mom (Photo courtesy of Jose Antonio Vargas)

When you honor me, you honor the risks that Lola and Mama took to come to America.
On behalf of immigrant families and the risks they continue to take––on behalf of the risks that immigrant students continue to take to get educated and build lives bigger than themselves––it is my honor to receive this honorary degree. It is my deepest honor to congratulate this Class of 2026!
Sidebar
The citation delivered by PF Publisher Mona Lisa Yuchengco for the conferment of the Doctor of Humane Letters (honoris causa) to Jose Antonio Vargas:
Award-winning journalist and creator.
Tireless activist for the human rights of all immigrants.
Compassionate and compelling voice for the voiceless.
Masterful multimedia storyteller who illuminates the inconvenient truths and dire consequences that define the perilous journey to citizenship and what it means to be a citizen.
For decades, you have chronicled the harrowing stories of immigration—in print, on camera, online, and in person—captivating audiences across the nation. As a celebrated journalist at The Washington Post, you earned a Pulitzer Prize for your team’s coverage of the tragic 2007 Virginia Tech shooting. Your work as a filmmaker and producer has garnered Emmy and Tony nominations. In 2011, you founded Define American, a nonprofit organization that empowers diverse and nuanced storytelling about immigrant experiences across media through research, partnerships, and storyteller engagement. Define American was twice named one of the World's Most Innovative Companies by Fast Company, and its Immigrants Belong campaign recently won a Webby Award. With unwavering dedication, you have broadened the attention of news media, policymakers, and the public, urging all to witness the full humanity of our nation’s immigrants, one story at a time. Yet, behind your relentless pursuit of truth, you harbored a secret: you, too, were undocumented.
At the age of twelve, you left your home in the Philippines to join your grandparents in Mountain View, California. Welcomed with warmth, you were presented with a green card and Social Security number by your Lolo. A visit to the DMV to apply for a driver’s license revealed a life-altering truth: your green card was fake. Suddenly, your college plans, internships, and dreams of becoming a journalist seemed out of reach. Yet many rallied around you, devising creative solutions that enabled you to attend college and graduate.
While in college, you launched your journalism career at The San Francisco Chronicle, later contributing to The Philadelphia Daily News, Rolling Stone, and The New Yorker. From The Washington Post, you went on to become a senior contributing editor at The Huffington Post. The tension of living the American dream in hiding grew unbearable. Having once come out as gay in high school, you now chose to reveal your undocumented status.
In 2011, you published the groundbreaking essay “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant” in The New York Times Magazine. By sharing your truth, you ignited a national conversation about America’s broken immigration system and advocated for the DREAM Act. You became a beacon for others awaiting legal status, sharing your story in solidarity. Your memoir, Dear America: Notes of an Undocumented Citizen, became an instant bestseller. This year, the Brooklyn Public Library named it one of the 250 most notable books in U.S. history. In a bittersweet turn, you were legally admitted in 2024 with a nonimmigrant temporary worker O visa, renewable every three years, yet still without a pathway to citizenship.

Jose Antonio Vargas’ Dear America: Notes of an Undocumented Citizen

Your work has been honored with a litany of awards, including the Sidney Award for your New York Times Magazine essay, lauded as an outstanding piece of socially conscious journalism. And the Mountain View school district you once attended named an elementary school in your honor. That all may know of our great esteem for you, and our strong support for your vital work as a powerful voice for the voiceless and passionate advocate for immigrants’ full humanity, the University of San Francisco does confer upon Jose Antonio Vargas the degree of Doctor of Humane Letters, honoris causa, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereunto.
Given this twenty-third day of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-six, and of the University, the hundred and seventy-first, in San Francisco, California.

Cirio Siblings Prove Ballet Is Alive and Well

Anthony Maddela — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 19:10:33 +0000

Jeffrey and Lia (Photo courtesy of Lia Cirio)

"I don’t want to be working in ballet, or opera, or things where it’s like, ‘Hey, keep this thing alive,’ even though no one cares about this anymore,” commented Timothée Chalamet on CNN on St. Valentine’s Day, 2026.
Whether Chalamet disparaged ballet and opera to create the illusion that he would have beaten the humbler and more charismatic Michael B. Jordan for the Oscar had he not sabotaged his chances, hinges on the belief that Hollywood values ballet and opera over the nephew of director and producer Rodman Flender. Nepotism or not, Chalamet’s offhand remark bothered ballet dancers and fans.
The Chalamet affair provided an excuse to reconnect with Jeffrey Cirio, 34, and connect with his sister, Lia Cirio, 39. They are principal dancers with Boston Ballet.
“I think Timothée is a great actor,” Mr. Cirio starts with a disclaimer. “Artists putting down artists is not the right. As artists, we get into an art form because of our passion for it. I think some Hollywood actors may have lost sight of the passion that got them into acting.
“If it was all about the money, then they’re doing the art form for the wrong reasons, and it’s very telling.” He believes, “You can see when people are doing it with the right intention, they’re completely driven by the goal of creative freedom in their art and sharing it with the masses.”
Ms. Cirio agrees: “Like Jeffrey, I was surprised that he (Chalamet) said that ballet is dying because I found him to be passionate about art. I was taken aback because we’re friends with some of his family’s friends who are big supporters of ballet.” The Cirio clan hails from Newton, near Philadelphia, which is a train ride from Chalamet’s Hell’s Kitchen Manhattan roots.

Lia Cirio in William Forsythe's Blake Works (Photo by Liza Voll, courtesy of Boston Ballet)

Chalamet’s comments may have injected new life into ballet by drawing the attention of Gen-X and Gen-Z adults in the pool from which his fan base is drawn. “Timothée Chalamet made them intrigued with ballet,” observes Mr. Cirio. “They’re saying, ‘Let’s prove him wrong.’ Now young people are showing up at the theater, and posting, ‘Hey, I went to a ballet. It’s not dead.’”
Not that Boston Ballet needed help filling seats. In 2025, the company performed Vivaldi-inspired Seasons Canon by Canadian choreographer Crystal Pite with music composed by Max Richter. “When we brought the production back last year, people were banging on the door to get tickets to see it again,” Ms. Cirio says of the innovative work that concluded in February 2026.
Yes, They Can Dance, and They Can Sing!

Jeffrey Cirio in George Balanchine’s Mozartiana ©The George Balanchine Trust (Photo by Rosalie O'Connor, courtesy of Boston Ballet)

The vocal pieces of opera tax vocal cords more than most other musical genres. Opera is also demanding of the audience. In a separate article, opera baritone Roberto Perlas Gómez discusses the demands on the audience that hinder an opera company from becoming economically viable without donations and public funds.
Ballet tests the body’s limits in strength, agility, speed and timing. An appreciation of ballet requires an open mind and education. By degrees of difficulty, ballet is the opera of dance.
Filipinos have a cerebral metronome that makes them lively guests on a dancefloor. Quite appropriately, the siblings’ Filipino dad, Ardel, met his Irish, German and French-mix bride, Mimi, at a disco. Two of their three offspring stretched their dance DNA far and wide to excel in ballet. When San Lorenzo Ruiz was dishing talents for Gómez, he dipped his ladle twice into the singing cauldron and skipped dancing altogether. Of course, the two Cirio siblings each received two heaping helpings of dance talent, but also a generous scoop of singing.
Lia and Jeffrey can dance like Margot Fonteyn and Mikhail Baryshnikov, and they can sing like Martha Reeves and Frank Sinatra. When she’s handed the karaoke mic, she’ll pick a Motown classic like My Girl by The Temptations. Her brother is a natural born crooner, so he’s partial to the classics in Old Blue Eyes’ catalog.
From Mass Ave. to Manila

Lia Cirio and Jeffrey Cirio rehearsing Jiří Kylián's 27'52" (Photo by Brooke Trisolini, courtesy of Boston Ballet)

After training at Swarthmore Ballet Theatre in her native Philadelphia, Ms. Cirio began her tenure with Boston Ballet at age 16, and within five years, she was a soloist before becoming a principal dancer in 2010. Ballet has taken her around the world and given her the opportunity to dance with Ballet Manila in the Philippines.
She has avoided major injuries during her 22 seasons with Boston Ballet. “I’ve been super lucky.” She says she protects her body by doing “a lot of cross training. I like cycling, and I do some Pilates and I like acupuncture and have physical therapy to cope with wear and tear from the workload we have in ballet every day.”
Until last year, she was busy outside of the studio, planning her wedding. Now that she and fellow Boston dancer Paul Craig are married, she can return to crafting, with emphasis on DIY Christmas gifts.
Baby Love

Jeffrey Cirio in Mikko Nissinen’s Raymonda (Photo by Rosalie O'Connor, courtesy of Boston Ballet)

Mr. Cirio started out with his sister at Boston Ballet in 2007 before leaving to compete in international competitions that culminated with gold medals at the 2009 World Ballet Competition and 2009 Helsinki International Ballet Competition, a first time for all Americans. In 2009 he returned to Boston Ballet where he rose to principal in 2012. Between 2015 and 2016, he ascended from soloist to principal at American Ballet Theatre.
In 2018, he crossed the Pond to perform as Lead Principal with English National Ballet where his then fiancée and now wife, Anjuli, danced for 15 years. In 2022, he returned as a principal with Boston Ballet. He and Anjuli had a baby boy in 2025. Around the same time, a new work assignment enabled Mimi and Ardel to relocate from Philly to Boston and spend time with their grandson.
“I wanted to be able to be married to the love of my life and have a child,” he professes. “So, I’m truly blessed with the life I’ve been given.” He hopes to eventually return to his serious hobbies of photography and DJing.
As Fun as Fenway

Lia Cirio in Mikko Nissinen's Raymonda (Photo by Theik Smith, courtesy of Boston Ballet)

Spring at Boston Ballet concludes with The Sleeping Beauty from May 28 to June 7, 2026.
The siblings have devoted summers to their Cirio Collective since 2015. “Lia and I decided to make the Collective a safe haven of creation,” the brother explains. “It lets artists create without the stigma that comes when someone dictates that you must make a piece this way with this music, this cast, and this type of costumes. That’s what happens because ballet companies must fill a program. The Collective can bring an artist in, and if they want to create a ballet with X, Y, and Z, we let them do it.
“Lia and I, and the people we bring in are open to new processes and to sharing opinions,” he says of the Open Ground concept that nurtures Cirio Collective dancers. “The best thing about art is it doesn’t have to be literal. It doesn’t have to be spoon-fed to you to make you think or for it to be provocative. Art has these small ways of speaking to you like a little bird in your ear.”

“Lia and I, and the people we bring in are open to new processes and to sharing opinions.”

Ms. Cirio cannot credit her early success to a ballerina who shared her Filipina identity.   She made a life in ballet despite an absence of Asian role models in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. “I never had a ballerina who looked like me to look up to,” she recalls. “I want to be a role model for young generations of girls who want to do ballet but are discouraged by the thought that ballet is for people paler than them.”
The 2026 season of Cirio Collective will bring her and her brother to Martha’s Vineyard in July.

Anthony Maddela is a staff correspondent who’s located in Southern California.

More articles from Anthony Maddela

[Partner] New Green Card Processing Rules Create Fear and Chaos in Immigrant Communities

Contributed — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 17:48:09 +0000

(Creative Commons License)

Fri, June 5, 2026
11am - 12pm PT
REGISTER HERE
WHY:
On May 22, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services issued a policy memo requiring immigrants seeking a green card — known as adjustment of status — to apply from their home countries, rather than within the US. The memo carves out some exceptions for applicants with “extraordinary circumstances,” but leaves such interpretations to the discretion of the consular officer.

The policy has sown fear in the immigrant community, as many thousands contemplate leaving the U.S. to apply abroad. Those who have overstayed visas risk triggering a 10-year bar on reentry.
Speakers this week will discuss who is impacted by the new policy memo, including employment and family-based visa holders, among others. Speakers will also discuss the legality of the memo — which bypassed the normal rulemaking process, including a public comment period and oversight by the Office of Management and Budget — and anticipated legal challenges to the policy.
WHO:
Jeff Joseph, President of the American Immigration Lawyers Association Julia Gellatt, Associate Director of the U.S. Immigration Policy Program at the Migration Policy Institute Xiao Wang, Co-founder and CEO, Boundless Immigration Ashley DeAzevedo, Executive Director, American Families United
Forward this invitation DOWNLOAD INVITATION PDF
REGISTRATION DETAILS:
After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing your individual link and information about joining the briefing. Simultaneous interpreting in Korean, Mandarin, and Spanish provided. When you register you will be asked to choose a language. If you wish to listen to the original audio in English simply choose 'none'.
CONTACT:
Sandy Close -- sclose@americancommunitymedia.org
Sunita Sohrabji -- ssohrabji@americancommunitymedia.org

FilAms Among The Remarkable And Famous, Part 78

Mona Lisa Yuchengco — Wed, 27 May 2026 18:55:58 +0000

Filipinos have been in the United States since the 16th century, yet many of their stories remain untold. For the past years, Positively Filipino has been running a series on notable Filipino Americans who have made their marks in this country. There are hundreds, or maybe even thousands more, that need to be added to this story, and we need your help. If you know of a Filipino American who deserves to be included in this line-up, please send us their names and any supporting documents you may have to pfpublisher@yahoo.com. For now, we are including only those who are currently active and visible in the media and the community, regardless of their religious, sexual or political orientation. Thank you.
Louie Rabara, Data Controller of the Artemis Project

Louie Rabara (Source: GMA News)

Rabara, 29, works with NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) on the real-time operations team. He is involved in monitoring crucial telemetry streams during missions. He was part of NASA’s Artemis II mission, contributing to real-time space operations as a member of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) team. Rabara explained that during launch operations, teams are stationed at NASA’s mission control in Houston, where spacecraft systems are closely monitored as they leave Earth.
Arianne “Nikki” Jubay Lazaro, Senior Materials Engineer of the Artemis Project

Arianne “Nikki” Jubay Lazaro (Source: Sunstar/Mayor Amos Edwin Cabahug)

Lazaro, a Cebuana engineer, was part of NASA’s Artemis II Mission. She served on the Orion Fracture Control Team, ensuring that the safety of the Environmental Control and Life Support System remained intact during space travel. Coming from the town of Balamban, the mayor praised Lazaro, saying, “You serve as an inspiration to the youth of Balamban and beyond, proving that with passion, perseverance, and hard work, even the stars are within reach.”
Armila Reyna Fernandez, Engineman

Armila Reyna Fernandez (Source: Cebu Daily News)

Fernandez, from the municipality of Dumanjug, Cebu, joined staff aboard the USS John Murtha in the Pacific to help retrieve Orion and its components following its splashdown. She served as engineman second class petty officer on the primary recovery vessel for the Artemis II crew and the Orion capsule. April 10, 2026, saw her on far bigger waters in a different southwest. She stood with colleagues aboard the USS John Murtha in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of California during the momentous occasion as Orion returned to planet Earth. During the mission, she and the recovery support team positioned themselves at sea to assist in the safe retrieval of the spacecraft carrying commander Reid Wiseman, pilot Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Canada’s Jeremy Hansen. Fernandez mainly functioned as the vessel’s engineman. She also handled recovery logistics, including ensuring maritime security.
Jay Bustamante, NASA Engineer

Jay Bustamante (Source: Cebu Daily News)

Bustamante, who studied at and graduated from Don Bosco Technical High School, CITE Technical Institute, and Cebu Institute of Technology-University in Cebu City, helped keep Orion’s propulsion, electrical power, temperature control, and life-support systems in top shape. As a young boy, he would take apart the remote-controlled car he received for Christmas. After completing his studies, he was recruited to the United States because of his background in electronics and computer engineering. He later earned an advanced degree in Electrical Engineering and moved into the space industry.
Dr. Gabriel Garcia, Health Professor

Dr. Gabriel Garcia (Photo by James Evans/University of Alaska Anchorage)

Dr. Garcia is a Philippine-born, Alaska-raised Professor of Public Health at the University of Alaska Anchorage (UAA). He received the Alaska Public Health Association’s Short Term Service Award in 2002 and The Barbara Berger Excellence in Public Health Award in 2012. At UAA, Dr. Garcia has also received the Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Community Service, the Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Diversity, and the Center for Community Engagement & Learning’s Community Builder Award.
Dr. Garcia, along with a group of UAA faculty members and students, received UAA’s Stewardship Award in 2014 and the American Lung Association in Alaska’s Breathe Easy Champion Award in 2015 for the group’s successful effort to make the University of Alaska system smoke- and tobacco-free. From 2015 to 2024, Dr. Garcia served as one of the health commissioners of the Anchorage Health Department. His research interests include social determinants of health, health promotion and disease prevention, racial and ethnic health disparities, and health communications.
Joey Macadangdang, Chef and Restaurant Owner

Joey Macadangdang (Source; Macadangdang’s Maui Post/Facebook)

Born in the Philippines and raised on his family’s piggery farm, Macadangdang learned how to cook rice at a very young age. In 1983, his family moved to Hawaii, and at 14, he started working as a dishwasher, busboy, and cook. In 1987, he moved to Oregon and worked as a chef at Kampai Restaurant. In 1994, he joined Roy’s Restaurant (Roy Yamaguchi) as a sous chef and later became executive chef, where he polished his signature flair for Asian-local infused dishes.
In 2015, Macadangdang opened his own restaurant, Joey’s Kitchen, in Maui, blending Filipino and Spanish influences. In 2023, he opened another restaurant, Balai Pata, to pay homage to Filipino families and create a place where diners feel at home. He also led relief efforts after the devastating fire in Lahaina, serving hot meals to the community.
Bianca Catbagan, Director

Bianca Catbagan (Source: bia-film.com/Photo by Isaac Inocentes)

Los Angeles-based Filipino American director and photographer Bianca Catbagan has been selected for the 2027 cohort of the prestigious AFI Directing Workshop for Women+ (DWW+). Founded in 1974, the AFI Directing Workshop for Women+ (DWW+) is a tuition-free directing program created to address gender inequity in the film industry. It remains one of the most influential initiatives supporting emerging filmmakers.
The 2027 cohort includes eight directors, each of whom will develop and direct an original short film over the course of the program. As part of the AFI DWW+ program, Catbagan will direct Royal Blood, a historical drama set in the Spanish-colonized Philippines in 1888, in which Maria Clara, the idealized Filipina created by José Rizal, is viewed through a queer lens.
Before leaving to pursue her master’s degree abroad, she worked as a commercial director and independent filmmaker, directing films such as Suntok sa Buwan, Laya, and the documentary Letters to the Future, a personal project chronicling what it was like to be young in Manila in 2014. In 2018, she graduated from Columbia University with an MFA in Film Directing.
Her film Paraluman was nominated for a Golden Egg at the Reykjavík International Film Festival in 2016, while another film, Supermodel, won a grant from the Cinematografo International Film Festival and screened to a sold-out audience in San Francisco. She also dabbles in development and producing, most recently for the show Family Style, a food and travel series by Indie Pop Films, YOMYOMF, and Warner Bros./Stage 13.
Eric Lachica, Activist

Eric Lachica (Source: USMedicarePH.org)

Lachica is a Filipino American activist who seeks to help Filipino American seniors in the Philippines obtain long-term Medicare coverage during retirement. Together with the Philippine Nurses Association of America and the Association of Philippine Physicians in America, he spearheaded a lobbying effort in 2021 that successfully persuaded President Joe Biden to release the first five million doses of the AstraZeneca COVID-19 vaccine to the Philippines. Lachica was also active in efforts to secure benefits for Filipino World War II veterans and their families.
He is a Political Science graduate of the University of Southern California and earned his master’s degree in International Relations from California State University, Los Angeles. Over the years, he has held various positions, including Community Outreach Specialist with the U.S. Census Bureau in Los Angeles; Senior Media Specialist at United Way of Los Angeles; Regional Manager of the Anti-Hunger Coalition of Gaithersburg, Maryland; Executive Director of the American Coalition for Filipino Veterans Inc., with more than 4,000 members; and Partnership Specialist at the U.S. Department of Commerce, Census Bureau, from 2009 to July 2010.
USN Petty Officer Remigio Cabacar, Veteran

USN Petty Officer Remigio Cabacar (Source: Liberty Zabala’s Instagram)

Senior Chief Petty Officer Remigio “Rey” Cabacar was recognized by the Maryland House of Delegates on January 30, 2023, for his distinguished service in both his military career and community work. He is one of a small group of living WWII Filipino veterans in the Capital Area. He enlisted in 1945 during the latter part of World War II. He went on to serve on numerous ships, including during the Korean War. He also witnessed the testing of the atomic bomb at Bikini Atoll. He served honorably for 25 years before retiring in 1969.
After retirement, he embarked on an 18-year career with the FBI after being recruited by FBI Director Patrick Gray as his personal chef. He later served three more FBI directors from 1969 to 1987.
He has also served the Veterans of Foreign Wars for almost 50 years and is a five-time commander of VFW Post 5471. He has twice been named an All-American Post Commander. Cabacar played an instrumental role in several pieces of legislation aimed at improving benefits for Filipino veterans, including the restoration of hospitalization benefits for veterans living in the Philippines, funding for the maintenance and upkeep of the Veterans Cemetery at the former Clark Air Base, and the naturalization of children of Filipino soldiers and scouts who served in WWII under U.S. command.
Cabacar and his wife, Carolina, have been married for 65 years. They have four adult children, 11 grandchildren, and a growing number of great-grandchildren. He was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal on October 25, 2017.
Shayne Nuesca, Journalist

Shayne Nuesca (Source: LinkedIn)

Nuesca is a Filipino American journalist born in the Philippines and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. She is passionate about thoughtful representation of her community and other Asian Americans and people who deserve equity. She laid the groundwork for Filipinos in Alaska, a project by KTOO Public Media and America Amplified that shines the light on the Filipino experience across the state.
Raised in Anchorage’s Spenard and Sand Lake neighborhoods, Nuesca studied journalism and public communications at the University of Alaska Anchorage and earned a master’s degree from the Newhouse School at Syracuse University. She works with local and national organizations to uplift underrepresented communities through advocacy and multimedia storytelling.
Joel Jong Clemente, Nurse and Author

Joel Jong Clemente (Photo courtesy of Joel Jong Clemente)

Joel Jong Clemente is a registered nurse based in McKinney, Texas. He and his family have lived in the United States for 20 years. A freelance writer and author of the books The Story of a Prudent Nurse and Our Journey, he has received several awards and recognitions, including Best Nursing Book finalist, Amerika Prestige Awards, Global Nursing Leadership and Literary Excellence Award, Philippine Nurses Association of America North Texas Outstanding Service Award, Filipino Leaders Coalition of North Texas Creative Filipino Excellence Award, International Impact Book Award, and the Immigrant Journey Professional Excellence Award.
He also contributes nursing articles monthly to the PNAA Inside PNAA newsletter and serves as an active officer and Faithful Navigator of the Knights of Columbus Assembly #3004 in Allen, Texas.
Margie Llorente Gonzales

Marietta “Margie” Llorente Gonzales (Source: facebook)

Marietta “Margie” Llorente Gonzales was born and raised in Manila, Philippines, with her sister before moving to America in 1994. After starting a new life in Daly City, California, she and her husband moved to Las Vegas in 2002. She became part of the first Transportation Security Administration (TSA) baggage screening team at McCarran Airport, where she published the airport’s newsletter for several years.
Her twin passions for civic engagement and politics led her to become involved with the Asian American & Pacific Islander Democratic Caucus (AAPIDC) and Hillary Clinton’s 2008 and 2016 presidential campaigns, during which she prepared the first-ever traditional Filipino kamayan for the Democratic National Committee. She also advocated for a pathway to green cards for Filipino teachers recruited by the Clark County School District.
Source: Google and Wikipedia

Sampaguita on Center Court: What Alex Eala Means to Filipinos

Cesar Polvorosa Jr. — Wed, 27 May 2026 18:55:50 +0000

Alex Eala breaking through at the Miami Open in 2025 (Source: Alex Eala’s facebook)

For a long time, tennis did not feel like a Filipino sport.
It belonged to gated clubs and inherited memberships, to spaces that suggested refinement rather than participation. Basketball courts appeared wherever there was open concrete; tennis courts, by contrast, felt set apart enclosed both physically, and socially. To watch tennis was to observe a world at some distance, not one in which most Filipinos could easily imagine themselves.
And yet, in the past year, with rapidly growing momentum, Filipinos at home and across the diaspora have been watching a young woman with rapt attention compete on the world’s most elite tennis stages with an unexpected sense of recognition. Alex Eala plays a sport long associated with privilege and Western pedigree, yet she does so carrying something unmistakably Filipino. Not loudly, not symbolically, but in a way that feels natural rather than asserted.
This may be why her rise has resonated far beyond the arena of sport.
An Elite Arena, Reconsidered

Eala at Wimbledon last year (Source: Alex Eala’s Instagram)

Alex Eala’s significance does not rest primarily on titles or rankings although her career-high WTA ranking of No. 29 as of March 16, 2026, is the highest ever attained by a Filipino tennis player. It lies instead in the cultural tension she quietly introduces. Tennis, long perceived as remote from everyday Filipino life, suddenly feels less sealed off. It remains inaccessible in the literal sense with expensive training costs and limited available courts — but it has become accessible in imagination and aspiration.
That recalibration matters. Nations are not built only through institutions or infrastructure; they are built through imagination. Through the slow accumulation of moments when people see themselves perform and triumph in places they were once told explicitly or implicitly were not appropriate for them.
Representation alters the relationship of what we view as what is achievable. When excellence appears culturally proximate, interest follows. What once felt alien or foreign begins to feel legitimate with a sense of immediacy.
Alex Eala does not make tennis a mass sport overnight. What she does is more subtle: she makes it imaginable. And imagination is powerful especially in societies shaped by inequality where aspiration is constrained.
Cynical observers may point out that she comes from an affluent background that allowed her to train in Spain. That is factually true. Yet she herself does not perform elitism. More importantly, her trajectory opens a broader conversation: not about whether her path was privileged, but about how future pathways might be widened so that access like she had is not the exception.

Eala with Rafa Nadal at his namesake academy (Source: Alex Eala’s Facebook)

Carrying Culture Without Display
What further distinguishes Alex Eala is how she inhabits the global stage. She does not dissolve into a generic international athlete, nor does she perform identity in a self-conscious way. Her choices of speaking Filipino with ease and humility, acknowledging home, carrying cultural symbols such as the sampaguita feel unforced.
What resonates deeply with Filipino audiences is not humility alone, but humility paired with confidence that is an ease that neither shrinks nor boasts, and that refuses the false choice between deference and self-belief.
The sampaguita matters precisely because it is unremarkable. A national flower worn in spaces historically coded as European and elite does not announce itself as resistance. It simply exists. In doing so, it suggests that Filipino identity does not require translation to be legitimate.

Eala with the Nike sampaguita hair tie (Source: Alex Eala’s Instagram)

For a diaspora long accustomed to adjusting itself to be understood, this carries significance.
Recognition and the Postcolonial Inheritance
Part of Alex Eala’s resonance, delicately but unmistakably, has to do with recognition.
She is tall by Filipino standards, her body well-suited to the demands of elite tennis. Yet her features, complexion, and manner remain unmistakably Filipina. This matters because colonial history shaped not only Philippine institutions but Philippine aesthetics. For generations, lighter skin and European features were privileged and subtly associated with legitimacy and access, especially in elite spaces.
These colonial hierarchies lingered long after formal independence, embedded in advertising, media, beauty pageants, and aspiration.
Alex Eala disrupts this historical inheritance without argument. She does not position herself against colonial ideals; she renders them beside the point. Her presence in elite global space normalizes a form of Filipino excellence that does not pass through older filters of validation.
For many Filipinos, she is the first tennis player who feels recognizable. Not aspirational in the glossy, distant sense, but legible and comfortably familiar. Her success invites a recalibration of who belongs in global elite spaces and who does not need to ask permission to enter them.
This quiet normalization may be one of her most lasting contributions.
From Gated Sport to Shared Attention
It is striking how widely Alex Eala has been embraced. Tennis has rarely occupied the center of Filipino sporting culture, yet her matches now draw attention from people who may never pick up a racket themselves or previously watched tennis at all.

Eala caught the world’s attention with her terno at the Laureus World Sport Awards in Madrid, Spain (Source: Alex Eala’s Instagram)

This is not because tennis has suddenly become democratic, but because identification has shifted. Alex Eala’s visibility invites ordinary Filipinos into a space that once felt closed not as participants, but as stakeholders in possibility.
I am aware of this distance myself. During my graduate studies in Japan, I had access to university tennis courts and could play regularly with Japanese and international students as one exhilarating way to unwind from our studies. It was an opportunity made possible by institutional privilege rather than economic and social class. It was an exception, not a pathway. For most Filipinos, such access remains unimaginable.
In this sense, her story mirrors broader questions of class and mobility. Who is allowed to aspire expansively? Who is permitted to imagine themselves on global stages? And who decides when ambition becomes excessive?
Promise, Not Arrival
What makes this moment especially revealing is that all of this is unfolding before Alex Eala has won a major title. At twenty years old, she represents not culmination but a generational promise. As I posted on social media, because she is still way below the performance of the topmost elite players of the game some foreign observers subsequently do not quite understand the Alex Eala phenomenon. Her appeal to Filipinos transcends tennis.

Eala wears a pink kit at the 2026 French Open at Roland Garros (Source: Alex Eala’s Instagram)

The Filipino nation is hungry for achievers who can make it proud; it is hungry for heroes.
She has captured the imagination of Filipinos as an underdog who, through grit and dogged determination, battles against the odds—not always successfully, to be sure, but with a never-say-die attitude that inspires. For tennis enthusiasts, including recent converts, her tenacity in staging remarkable comebacks is indelibly memorable: in the first round of the 2025 U.S. Open, and again in the second round of the recently concluded Indian Wells. This is resilience not as slogan, but as practice.
Filipinos are not responding to conquest in the form of prestigious titles; they are responding to possibility. There is a shared intuition—felt more than articulated that something larger may be forming, that we are witnessing early chapters of an exciting narrative. There is a sense, perhaps closer to faith than certainty, that we are at the cusp of her sporting greatness, and that it is something we are allowed to identify with. And that, at this time without any major titles yet, the nation will wait and share with her struggles, victories and defeats.
In a national culture accustomed to celebrating only after success has been secured, Alex Eala invites a rarer posture: belief before validation.
That posture itself is instructive.
A Quiet Mirror to Public Life
Placed against this backdrop, Alex Eala’s confidence acquires broader resonance. It contrasts with a tone that has increasingly shaped Philippine public life, one marked by caution, cynicism, and an emphasis on limitation.
This contrast feels especially sharp in a national mood that increasingly borders on pessimism and one shaped less by principles than by transactional relationships, habituated rhetorics and by an instinct to lower expectations before disappointment can arrive.

Eala at the WTA 125 Oeiras Ladies Open in Portugal (Source: Alex Eala’s Facebook)

Public discourse has grown accustomed to speaking in the language of constraint: what cannot be done, what must be deferred, what risks should not be taken and increasing polarization. Against this register, Alex Eala’s manner feels almost anomalous. She does not perform smallness. She does not compete as though she represents an exception from a marginal country. She competes as though belonging requires no explanation.
Without intending to, Alex Eala exposes how rare it has become to see Filipinos represented in the world not as petitioners or exceptions, but as rightful participants and competitors. She has upended that assumption.
Globalization Without Apology
Alex Eala embodies a form of globalization that many Filipinos intuitively understand but rarely see affirmed. She trains abroad, competes internationally, and navigates transnational systems while remaining culturally anchored. In doing so, she also comes to represent a young, modern Filipina—accomplished, self-possessed, articulate, mature for her age and at ease navigating transnational spaces without apology or self-effacement.

Alex Eala’s visibility invites ordinary Filipinos into a space that once felt closed not as participants, but as stakeholders in possibility.

This is mobility without erasure. Her pursuit of excellence is still unfolding, while her cultural origins remain present and unforced.
For a country whose global presence has often been mediated through labor migration and sacrifice, this distinction matters. Alex Eala does not arrive as a novelty, or as a grateful guest. She arrives as a competitor.
That shift subtly reshapes how Filipinos are perceived and how they perceive themselves.
Reordering Confidence
Alex Eala’s importance ultimately lies not in what she says about the Philippines, but in what she makes imaginable.
Elite spaces are not fixed; they are sustained by habit and expectation. When someone enters them without apology, carrying culture lightly but firmly, those spaces adjust, however slightly.
The sampaguita on Centre Court is not a declaration. It is a fact. It is a reminder that Filipino identity does not need to be explained to belong.
At a moment when national imagination has grown cautious, even stultified, Alex Eala offers something quieter than victory and perhaps more enduring: the sense that confidence can precede validation, that possibility does not require permission, and that greatness, when it comes, often announces itself first as promise.

Cesar Polvorosa Jr. is a professor of economics and international business at a Canadian university. His essays, poems, and short fiction have been published in North American and Asian anthologies and publications, including Likhaan:Book of Poetry and Fiction, The Philippine Star, and BusinessWorld. He was previously an economist at the Central Bank of the Philippines and an AVP at a Philippine bank before moving to Canada.

More from Cesar Polvorosa, Jr.

How to Be Like Batanes

Howie Severino — Wed, 27 May 2026 18:55:11 +0000

Batanes (Source: Google Maps)

There’s a coffee shop in Batanes called Honesty. But unlike other establishments and brands named after ideals — Serenity, Goodwill, Heaven, and so on, which feel aspirational — the Honesty Coffee Shop is not something it strives to become. It is simply what it already is.
This small seaside enterprise operates entirely on trust. There is no cashier, no guard, no staff overseeing transactions. Customers walk in, take what they want, and leave payment in boxes and other receptacles scattered around the shop. Today, you can even pay by GCash or bank transfer.
I’ve been coming to Honesty for more than twenty years. Back then, it served little more than coffee and snacks for boat passengers newly arrived from nearby Sabtang Island. As visitors gradually discovered it, the shop expanded. It now sells souvenir magnets and T-shirts, as well as Arius Wine, made from the berries of the native, pine-like arius tree. I took a bottle from the shelf and paid by GCash. It was delicately sweet.
Over those two decades, while many other places have been transformed beyond recognition, not much has changed in Batanes.
“Honesty” still runs on the same system — a quiet affirmation that not everything in the world has been compromised.
There are still no malls, foreign-owned hotels or resorts, fast-food chains, or even stoplights anywhere in the province, the smallest in the Philippines (pop. est. 19,000). This is not for lack of appeal: the islands are among the most scenic places I’ve visited anywhere.
Rather, residents have deliberately resisted large-scale commercial entry, using progressive national laws to protect both their surroundings and their way of life.
Most inhabitants are Ivatan, an indigenous people and the only ones legally allowed to own land here. In 1994, the entire province was declared a protected area, making it the only one in the country where the whole territory falls under conservation law.
Spend a few days here and you realize there is far more at stake than land and sea.

Photos by Howie Severino

Grandmothers and small children bike safely along well-maintained national roads, where four-wheeled vehicles are rare. Motorists yield to cyclists and pedestrians, and horns are used only when rounding blind mountain curves.
I spoke with two policemen — young, trim, and assigned to the town of Ivana (population 1,400), home of the Honesty Coffee Shop. They told me there have been zero crimes reported this year, as there were last year.
Arriving early for my ferry crossing in Sabtang Island, I was told I could leave my luggage unattended at the port while I looked for merienda across the street. When I returned to a now-crowded terminal, my bag was exactly where I had left it.
Modesty is a province-wide virtue. Prestige here is tied not merely to land ownership, a friend explained, but to the effort one invests in the land — being able to grow staple crops like kamote and sharing the harvest with neighbors. Showbiz celebrities who visit draw curious glances, but are not mobbed the way they would be in Manila malls.
Local executives move about like ordinary members of the community. I encountered the mayor of Uyugan, former school principal James Richard Cabugao, on his way to a wedding with his young daughters. He was driving the family vehicle: a tricycle with a wooden sidecar. On Sabtang Island, I saw a barangay captain standing atop his own tricycle, repairing a street lamp.
I first came here in 2004 to produce a documentary on the mataw, the annual hunt for dorado, a prized fish dried and stored for the lean, windy months — an Ivatan system of food security. Dried dorado is so valuable it can serve as currency, traded for other necessities.
What makes the mataw remarkable is the social obligation associated with it: fishermen with more abundant catches are expected to share with those less fortunate, ensuring no one goes hungry. Life here is anchored in cooperation and mutual care — a value system that has enabled the Ivatan to survive centuries of powerful storms in isolation.
It is a system based on sapat, or “having enough,” rather than the endless accumulation many outsiders take for granted. “Typhoons are our teacher,” one fisherman told me. “They taught us how to survive.”

The Ivatan house is more than shelter. It is a physical expression of a culture shaped by constant negotiation with wind, sea, and scarcity.

In a place where time seems to stand still, my team and I came recently to document change.
For more than two centuries, people here have lived in stone houses — solid structures designed to withstand even super typhoons. A distinctive emblem of Ivatan endurance and ingenuity, these dwellings now face the risk of disappearing.
In 2019, the ground itself turned against them. A series of strong earthquakes shook the province, heavily damaging or destroying more than 200 homes, mostly on the northernmost island of Itbayat. Tested repeatedly by storms, the stone houses proved vulnerable to this different force of nature.
Even before the earthquakes, these structures were already being abandoned. Homeowners cited the growing difficulty of sourcing local materials for repair — kamagong and other native hardwoods chief among them. When the province was declared a protected area in 1994, the intention was to safeguard an exceptional environment, but the law also restricted the cutting of trees, and the gathering of coral and other traditional building materials.
Generally law-abiding, residents did not turn to illegal logging or underground markets. Instead, cement, steel, and other modern materials gradually replaced traditional ones. New houses began to look as though they could exist anywhere. The 2019 earthquake destroyed many of the old stone homes in an instant, accelerating this quiet drift toward the generic.
In response, engineers and architects from Cagayan State University designed a “modern” Ivatan house: traditional in appearance, with stone walls and a cogon roof, but reinforced with steel. Wood was shipped from outside the province so no local trees would be cut.
Drawing on indigenous knowledge, mainland engineers worked alongside local builders for a year to create what they hope is a more sustainable version of the centuries-old design.
My team and I were there to document the turnover of the finished structure, set on a sea-swept edge of Uyugan. The local government plans to present it as both a tourist attraction and a model for future construction.
A seasoned builder in the audience confided his doubts that non-Batanes wood could withstand native termites. Only time in this unforgiving environment will tell.
But as traditional structures disappear, there is little choice but to innovate — or lose them altogether.
The Ivatan house is more than shelter. It is a physical expression of a culture shaped by constant negotiation with wind, sea, and scarcity.
“Resilience” is an overused word, but here it feels complete. It is not merely the capacity to endure hardship, but the discipline of succeeding by living in harmony with nature and with one another.
Cooperation and sharing are not just ideals; they are prerequisites for survival, but also for the kind of social progress possible when greed is restrained. There is no display of extravagant wealth, but neither is there grinding poverty. As we say: sakto lang (just right)— and sanaol (hopefully, all).
In Uyugan, I met an articulate kamote (sweet potato) farmer repairing his cogon roof. When I asked about his family, he mentioned, without fanfare, that one of his daughters is a law student at UP Diliman.
I arrived in Batanes wondering how its people resist the worst influences of the modern world.
I left wishing that we might all learn to be a little more like Batanes.
Reposted with author’s permission

The author recently went to Batanes with his team to shoot the story “Stone by stone: Saving the Heritage Houses of Batanes,” for the podcast, “Howie Severino Presents.”

[Partner] New USCIS Memo On Adjustment Of Status: What Immigrants Need To Know

Lourdes Santos Tancinco — Wed, 27 May 2026 18:55:03 +0000

Citizenship Day (Source: Rawpixel/Public domain)

On May 21, 2026, USCIS issued a new policy memorandum on Adjustment of Status that has caused fear and confusion in many immigrant communities.
Some headlines suggest that green card applicants will now be forced to “go back to their countries” to get their visas. But that is not what the memo actually says.
The memo does not eliminate adjustment of status. It does not repeal the law. It does not automatically require applicants to go through consular processing abroad.
What it does do is direct USCIS officers to look more closely at each case and weigh both positive and negative factors before deciding whether to approve a green card application.
This means applicants must be prepared to show strong positive equities, such as:
• U.S. citizen or lawful permanent resident family members
• U.S. citizen children
• Tax compliance
• Employment history
• Community ties
• Hardship factors
• Evidence explaining any overstays or status issues
The message is clear: do not give up — but do not wait.
Every adjustment of status case must now be carefully documented, explained, and advocated. A strong record matters more than ever.
If you have a pending I-485 or are planning to file for a green card, consult with an experienced immigration attorney to review your case under this new policy.
Tancinco Law, P.C.
1-888-930-0808
law@tancinco.com
www.tancinco.com
#ImmigrationLaw #AdjustmentOfStatus #GreenCard #USCIS #ImmigrantRights #TancincoLaw

The Elderly Filipino Men of ʻAʻala Park

Federico V. Magdalena — Wed, 20 May 2026 18:16:53 +0000
As a graduate student at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa in the 1970s, I occasionally visited downtown Honolulu and passed through ʻAʻala Park. At the time, the park still reflected a social world shaped by a distinctive group of visitors: elderly Filipino men, known as, manongs.
They gathered there daily. Some sat quietly on benches. Others stood in loud, animated conversations. Ilocano, Tagalog, English, and pidgin could all be heard. They laughed heartily, as if they owned the place.
At first, I saw them as old men simply passing the day. In time, however, I realized many were sakadas—first or second-generation Filipino laborers in Hawaiʻi who had come to work in the plantation fields.
Sakada Migration
The first organized Filipino workers arrived in Hawaiʻi in 1906, followed by many more. Most came from the Ilocos region and other poor provinces of northern Luzon. They came out of necessity. Their journey was shaped by economic hardship, land scarcity, and limited opportunity at home. Hawaiʻi promised wages and a chance to support their families back in the Philippines.

First 15 Sakadas, 1906. Statue created on the 100th Anniversary of the Filipino migration to Hawaiʻi displayed at FilCom Center. (Photo courtesy of the author, September 24, 2023)

For many, the journey meant arriving alone or leaving their families behind for years. Because planters recruited men exclusively, workers lived together in bachelor camps on Hawaiʻi’s plantations. There, friendship became a necessity: they cooked together, shared stories, lent money, played cards, and waited for letters from home. In these bonds, they faced a life marked by distance and separation.
As young workers, they entered a plantation economy that required strenuous, disciplined labor. Sugar and pineapple fields demanded strong backs and long hours. The work included cutting cane, clearing brush, digging ditches, loading harvests, and enduring the sun. Housing in the camps was plain. Pay was low. Life was closely supervised.
Yet the sakadas endured because they carried obligations larger than themselves.
Their descendants became teachers, nurses, clerks, soldiers, and public servants. Some entered politics, others formed unions, attended churches, and universities. What stands out is how this presence grew from the margins to a central place in Hawaiʻi’s social fabric. By the 2020 census, Filipinos comprised 26 percent of the state’s 1.4 million residents, making them the largest Asian group and, in numbers, exceeding Native Hawaiians.
Moving out of the Plantation
As plantations slowly declined in the 1990s, Filipino life in Hawaiʻi began to shift from plantation camps to towns and neighborhoods. Workers and their families settled in new communities. On Oʻahu, Kalihi, Waipahu, and ʻEwa Beach became important centers of Filipino life.
Kalihi became an urban home for many new arrivals and established families. Apartment buildings were crowded with kin. Filipino groceries, travel agencies, and churches lined the area. Many homes housed several generations under one roof.
Waipahu carried its plantation history into a new era. Once tied to sugar, it became a residential community. Filipino families bought homes, opened sari-sari stores, and raised children there.
ʻEwa Beach, shaped first by plantation lands and later by suburban growth, drew families seeking better opportunities.
In these places, diaspora manifested as community through everyday cultural expression. It appeared in fiestas, novenas, weddings, graduations, and Sunday gatherings. It was spoken in Ilocano among elders, in Tagalog at public events, and in English among the young. It was tasted in adobo, pinakbet, pancit, and other foods cherished by Filipinos. It filled balikbayan boxes sent home to families and relatives overseas.
The Filipino old-timers were deeply woven into these cultural and social activities. and many others.
ʻAʻala Park as Refuge and Memorial
This is why ʻAʻala Park mattered. It was a place where the aging Filipinos and other retirees gathered to pass the time, carrying forward a world that had vanished. They were survivors of a disappearing social order. In their daily gatherings, one could still imagine the old bachelors of the plantations, now transplanted to an urban park in Honolulu.

ʻAʻala signboard welcoming visitors (Photo courtesy of the author, April 18, 2026)

The park became an informal meeting place in downtown Honolulu. The men came not only for shade or rest, but for company. No explanation was needed among them. They shared plantation memories, experiences with luna supervisors, the value of remittances, and deep homesickness.
Many remained single all their lives. Others married late. Some had children who entered a different world—schools, professions, and suburban homes. Their children belonged to Hawaiʻi in a way their fathers never fully did.
But in the park, the manongs returned to one another.
The men spoke of plantation life as if they had left it only yesterday. Their memories remained vivid. They debated Philippine politics. They compared prices in Honolulu. They joked about being single or growing old. They also recalled villages in Ilocos or Cebu that they had not seen in decades.
They carried history in memory rather than in books.
Silence in the Park
I returned in 1990, 2004, and visited ʻAʻala Park again. The manongs gradually disappeared—until they were totally gone.
No monuments marked their departure; their absence itself signaled the end of an era. As age and illness took their final toll, they faded from the scene. What was once a lively gathering of sakada men quietly receded into history, becoming a closed chapter of the past. In their place, the physical landscape of the park also changed. The benches where they once sat were removed and replaced with recreational facilities such as a basketball court and a children’s playground. A large open space remains, now used for adult soccer and baseball games.

Karthi T. (40 years old), from India, often brings his daughter to play in the park (Photo courtesy of the author, April 18, 2026)

Their absence affected me more than I expected. It revealed how history is lost from memory or storytelling. A people may remain, even grow stronger, while an early generation slips away unnoticed.
A different crowd began to frequent the park. While some came for the amenities, others were homeless individuals or loiterers seeking a few dollars from passersby. They also included parents who brought their children to play, basketball enthusiasts who competed, and those who simply wanted to rest and enjoy nature.

A sleeping homeless man, oblivious to park visitors.

More spacious grounds to play. (Photo courtesy of the author, April 18, 2026)

Filipinos in Hawaiʻi were very much alive in 2004. They could be seen in Kalihi, Waipahu, and throughout the island. New migrants had arrived. Younger generations were advancing in many fields. The community was larger, more educated, and more visible than ever.
Yet, amid this presence, something could not be replaced: the shared experiences of the elderly Filipinos at ʻAʻala Park.
Memories Live on
Gone were the manongs who told stories about the first ship arrivals, the cane fields, the camp barracks, the first dollars sent home, and the years of loneliness.
I remember them now with greater respect than when I first saw them. At the time, they seemed like old men talking in a park. Now I know better. They were sakadas—pioneers of a bygone era who long deserved recognition. Their presence was not incidental but historical. Their photographs were dusty memorabilia, and their conversations were unwritten history.

Dr. Federico V. Magdalena is an Associate Researcher and Assistant Director of the Center for Philippine Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. He serves as a Contributing Writer to Hawaiʻi Filipino Chronicle, specializing in feature articles.

Why Baja? Why Not?

Rudy D. Liporada — Wed, 20 May 2026 18:16:42 +0000

The retirement home of Rudy and Au Liporada in Rancho Costa Verde, San Felipe, Baja, Mexico (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada)

"What? Baja, Mexico? Aren’t you afraid of the cartels?”
“No,” I tell them. “They’re afraid to lose me.”
It’s a line that earns a laugh. But it also opens a door to a truth people don’t expect.
I did not arrive in Baja naïve.
Long before Mexico entered our lives, I had already seen how power—both visible and invisible—operates. I saw it as a boy in Baguio City, when my father managed a bowling alley. He was not the owner. Just the man tasked to keep things running, to account for the day’s collections. Yet it was he whom the local racketeers confronted when money fell short. I still remember one moment with painful clarity: a .45 pressed against his temple, his dignity stripped, his body betraying him in fear.
That was my first education—not in crime, but in how ordinary lives become entangled in systems larger than themselves.
Years later, I would recognize the same patterns elsewhere. Different names. Same instincts. Organized power rarely announces itself with drama; it hums quietly beneath daily transactions—through businesses, through labor, through the simple act of people trying to live. In many ways, the modern cartels did not invent this machinery. They refined it. One could argue they learned its rudiments from older syndicates—the Chicago mafiosos who perfected the art of embedding themselves within the veins of everyday commerce, where protection, profit, and survival blur into one another.
So, when people ask me about cartels in Baja, I do not dismiss the question. I simply refuse to see it in isolation.
Life is never that simple.
What I do see, each morning, is the Sea of Cortez.

Sunrise we wake up to everyday rising from the Sea of Cortez (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada).

We built our home in San Felipe on a piece of land that, by California standards, would sound like a clerical error—less than $25,000 for a quarter acre, secured through a fideicomiso, a bank trust that allows us to hold the property and pass it on to our children. On it stands a modest two-bedroom house, with a solar system quietly catching the sun that rises over the water each day.

The attached picture shows us receiving our Fediecomiso entitling our ownership through a bank trust - we can sell the property anytime we want or have it inherited by our kids (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada)..

And that sunrise—how does one explain it without sounding like exaggeration?
No two mornings are alike. Some arrive gently, the sky opening in pale golds and hesitant blues. Others come in bold strokes—reds, oranges, purples—as if the horizon itself were breathing fire before settling into light. In the evening, the performance repeats, but with a different temperament, more reflective, as though the day were exhaling its last colors before surrendering to night.
At night, the sky does something even rarer.
It reveals itself.

A photo composition of Rudy of a moonrise - porch stone arrangement in front of the Liporadas' home (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada).

You begin to remember that stars are not supposed to be faint suggestions. They are meant to be seen, to be counted until you lose count, to make you feel both small and strangely accompanied. There are moments when the moon hangs so close you imagine it lowering itself into your hands.
If there is such a thing as quiet evidence of the sacred, I have found it there—not in argument, but in light.
The sea, too, is not simply a view. It is presence. It moves, shifts, offers, and withholds. It teaches patience in ways no sermon ever did. You learn to sit, to watch, to accept that not everything is meant to be controlled.
And for someone who writes, that matters.
Baja has given me something I did not know I needed as much as I do now—solitude that is not emptiness, but space. Here, the hours are not constantly broken by noise, by urgency, by the invisible demands of a life that once felt always in motion. The quiet settles differently. It invites rather than isolates. It allows sentences to arrive without being chased. It lets memory surface at its own pace. In that stillness, writing becomes less of an effort and more of a listening.
But if Baja were only about beauty or solitude, we might still have gone elsewhere.
We had, in fact, already decided—back in 2016—that we would retire in the Philippines. It was a return of sorts, a closing of a circle. We were ready for the distance, even if we did not welcome it. Then came an invitation—a bus tour to see a developing community in San Felipe. Free hotel, free meals, the usual promises that accompany such excursions.

A street night scene every weekend in San Felipe (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada).

It was not the free offerings that stayed with us. Nor the sales talk.
It was a realization, quiet but undeniable.
At that time, we had eleven grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Today, that number has grown to fifteen grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. The thought of retiring across the Pacific began to feel less like a homecoming and more like a gradual disappearance—from birthdays, from ordinary weekends, from the small, unremarkable moments that, in truth, make up a life with family.
Baja changed that equation.
From San Felipe, we are still within reach. Not next door, but not distant. A drive away. Close enough that presence remains possible. Close enough that we are not reduced to voices on a screen or faces in photographs sent after the fact.
That, more than anything, anchored our decision.

Fishing at Sea of Cortez just by their home (Photo courtesy of Rudy D. Liporada).

There are, of course, adjustments.
You learn that time moves differently here. Mañana does not always mean tomorrow; sometimes it means “not now,” or “when it happens.” At first, it can test your patience. But then something shifts. You begin to see that not everything urgent is important, and not everything delayed is lost. You may grumble about mañana, but you learn to welcome the siesta—especially when it becomes your own.
Life loosens its grip.
And then there is the question that always returns: safety.
“But the cartels?”
I understand the concern. But I also understand how fear is shaped. We grow accustomed to certain dangers and call them normal, while exaggerating others because they are foreign to us. Yet I have seen more headlines of random shootings in the United States than I have felt fear in the daily rhythm of San Felipe.

The sea, too, is not simply a view. It is presence. It moves, shifts, offers, and withholds. It teaches patience in ways no sermon ever did.

Fear, I have come to believe, is often a matter of distance—how far something is from what we know, and how often we are told to be afraid of it.
So why Baja?
Because here, life has rearranged itself into something both simpler and fuller.
Because here, the sky still performs without ticket or crowd.
Because here, the sea reminds me that not everything must be conquered to be understood.
Because here, solitude is not loneliness, but a companion to thought and writing.
Because here, we found a way to remain close to those who carry our name forward.
And because, after a lifetime of movement, work, and responsibility, I have learned this:
We do not choose a place because it is without danger.
We choose it because it allows us, still, to live without fear.

Rudy D. Liporada was a feature writing instructor in Zambia, Africa before he moved to the US and became a freelance writer/novelist/columnist ("As the Bamboos Sway"). He graduated from the University of the Philippines, majoring in economics.

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When Waymo Stalls Who You Gonna Call? Pinoy Agents, That’s Who

Anthony Maddela — Wed, 20 May 2026 18:16:24 +0000

A Waymo autonomous vehicle in San Francisco (Photo by Raymond Virata)

Uber first appeared on San Francisco streets in 2009, and the emblem of the ride-hailing service now adorns cars on streets of every continent. Waymo robocars, meanwhile, went into service in 2016. Waymo is no longer a novelty for residents of San Francisco and five other cities, where the white robotaxis roam. They like the clean, efficient alternative to Uber. Tourists in San Francisco are now installing the Waymo app on their phones for the experience of riding one of the electric Jaguars.
Waymo’s AI drivers say little more than a greeting and a reminder to fasten your seatbelts. The four times I’ve ordered a Waymo in my hometown of Los Angeles, I assumed I was the only Filipino presence in the car. But I could’ve been wrong.
Take Another Sip of Alphabet Soup
Whether we conduct keyword searches on Google, seek information from Gemini AI, save photos in the Google Cloud storage, or view videos on YouTube, we place our trust in Alphabet, the parent company of them all. You might be nervous about downloading the W in the Alphabet galaxy.
One reason you might not think increased dependence on Alphabet brings us a step closer to robot Armageddon is that Waymo places its vehicles and passengers in the mortal hands of Fleet Response Agents in the Philippines. These are not call center representatives chatting with customers. They are Filipinos who guide AI drivers when the machines encounter problems they cannot handle alone. Not all Americans are comfortable with the idea of turning to Filipinos when artificial intelligence is baffled.
A disturbing prejudice surfaced on February 4, 2026, when Ed Markey grilled Dr. Mauricio Peña, Waymo’s Chief Safety Officer, during a Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation hearing. The senator expressed anxiety that autonomous vehicles caught in hazardous situations with passengers onboard could end up taking direction from foreigners. The Waymo executive did his best to ease the fears of the 79-year-old Democrat, but Silicon Valley technocracy was no match for a paternal view of Filipinos that stretches back to Douglas MacArthur at Leyte. Some American men still do not like taking advice from their little brothers abroad.
We have the President to thank that late-night television hosts did not spend that evening filling their monologues with jokes about Filipinos advising Waymo robotaxis navigating the streets of Atlanta, Austin, Miami, Phoenix, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Comedy writers instead had a partial government shutdown and the suppression of Minneapolis protesters to occupy the first fifteen minutes of airtime.

Dr. Mauricio Peña, Waymo Chief Safety Officer (Source: LinkedIn)

What Waymo Says
I contacted Waymo for information about Pinays and Pinoys advising its robotaxis on American roads. Mark Lewis, a public relations manager, replied that the company would not grant me an interview, though he did share materials Waymo has already published on the subject.
To provide what might be called an enlightened perspective—or, if you will, a Waymo-tinted lens for interpreting the company’s disclosures—Lewis wrote: “Our team in the Philippines advises our fully autonomous vehicles when they need help, making them an important element in critical moments.”
What Lewis is essentially saying is that when a Waymo car faces a crisis, a metaphorical searchlight flashes a bat signal shaped like the golden sun on the Philippine flag. Such moments are rare. But when a vehicle gets stuck in a bog, a Filipino will be there to toss the invisible Waymo driver an invisible life preserver. Unless passengers happened to watch footage of the Senate hearing, they would never suspect their robotaxi had sent an SOS to a road savant 7,300 miles away.
Waymo wants you to know:
“Much like phone-a-friend, when the Waymo vehicle encounters a particular situation on the road, the autonomous driver can reach out to a human fleet response agent for additional information to contextualize its environment.”
“The Waymo Driver does not rely solely on the inputs it receives from the fleet response agent (RA) and it is in control of the vehicle at all times.”
“As the Waymo Driver waits for input from fleet response, and even after receiving it, the Waymo Driver continues using available information to inform its decisions.”
Simply put, the robotaxi seeks human input only as a last resort, and even then its AI brain may overrule a mortal’s remedy and instead trust its computer-chip gut instinct. It is like rejecting a second opinion without ever really accepting a first one.
You may not agree that the consequences of human error are necessarily worse than the harm caused by machine mistakes. Still, Waymo’s literature insists that the Waymo Driver performs competently during the ordinary conditions that account for 99.99 percent of its time on the road: “The Waymo Driver autonomously navigates tens of thousands of rider-only miles across San Francisco, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Austin daily. It can navigate common scenarios, like adhering to a crossing guard directing traffic, as well as unique interactions like avoiding swerving vehicles.”
Filipinos Exonerated

Waymo and creative agency Muros have partnered to provide decorative robotaxis in San Francisco (Photo by Raymond Virata).

Just as everybody loses the lottery except the lucky bloke who wins it, an extremely improbable event has a way of defying the odds. Likewise, the federal hearing was called after a Waymo robotaxi struck a child in Santa Monica. The AI driver didn’t have time to consult an RA agent before the child crossed in front. In some instances, AI drivers must take full responsibility for their actions.
Waymo has highly qualified, heavily screened humans as alternative intelligence when AI loses its way. That is, “All RA agents must have and maintain driver’s licenses and are rigorously vetted, including a comprehensive review of their driving history, thorough criminal background checks, initial and ongoing drug testing, and color blindness and spatial recognition assessments.”
I admit to being an unreliable judge of the prowess of drivers in the Philippines since I have never driven in Manila (or ridden a Jeepney). I give my brothers and sisters in my ancestral homeland the benefit of the doubt. Ghastly scars or survivor stories from past excursions on Quezon Boulevard never come up in my conversations with Philippine immigrants, despite the proclivity of folks to seize every opportunity to initiate Freud’s talking cure to make sense of a mishap they should have prevented.
An Objective Party Weighs In
Now that Waymo has either won your confidence or aggravated your suspicions, it’s time to tackle the proverbial elephant in the room. What about these so-called Filipino “fleet response agents”?
Waymo literature states: “As of February 17, 2026, there are approximately 70 Remote Assistance agents on duty worldwide at any given time.” By “worldwide,” Waymo means the Philippines since that is the only country Dr. Peña referenced in his testimony.
On November 5, 2025, Waymo released findings of an independent audit of the Remote Assistance Program by the safety and testing organization, TÜV SÜD. A summary of the audit reported: “TÜV SÜD conducted a comprehensive review of the program, evaluating the robustness and safety of training and implementation practices, including a multiple-day site visit to observe operations firsthand. The audit confirmed the adherence of Waymo’s policies and practices with the industry best practice on Remote Assistance Use-Cases produced by the AVSC (Automated Vehicle Safety Commission) consortium.”

A nondescript Waymo fleet station is located on Westgate Avenue in West Los Angeles (Photo by Anthony Maddela)

The Waymo executive then added some context to the politician’s claim.

“They provide guidance, they do not remotely drive the vehicles,” Peña says. “Waymo asks for guidance in certain situations and gets input, but Waymo is always in charge of the dynamic driving task.”
Markey then asked about where the operators are located, to which Peña says they have "some in the U.S. and some abroad,” however he did not know an exact percentage of those located elsewhere.
After further questioning, the executive revealed that their international remote operators are located in the Philippines.
“Having people overseas influencing American vehicles is a safety issue,” Markey says. “The information the operators receive could be out of date. It could introduce tremendous cyber security vulnerabilities… And let’s not forget Waymo is trying to replace the jobs of hardworking taxi and ride share drivers.”
A Waymo spokesperson told People magazine on February 5, 2026 that outsourcing to the Philippines is part of an effort to scale the company globally. He added that these operators are required to have a passenger car or van license in addition to undergoing regular driving history checks.
The spokesperson emphasized that these agents never drive the vehicle remotely, instead they only provide additional context to the autonomous diving technology, which typically "is able to resolve these situations on its own."
According to Waymo’s website, the Alphabet-owned company currently operates in six U.S. markets including Atlanta, Los Angeles, Miami, Phoenix, the San Francisco Bay Area and Austin, Tx. The company is looking to expand to other areas like Boston, Dallas, Denver, Las Vegas, Washington, D.C., and even overseas in London.
The hearing came less than two weeks after a Waymo vehicle stuck a child walking to school during drop-off. According to a statement from the company, the incident occurred on January 23rd, in Santa Monica, California.
“The event occurred when the pedestrian suddenly entered the roadway from behind a tall SUV, moving directly into our vehicle's path. Our technology immediately detected the individual as soon as they began to emerge from behind the stopped vehicle."
In 70 Filipinos We Trust
I end this article with peace of mind that every time I order a Waymo on my phone app, should an emergency arise, one of 70 Filipinos sits at his computer screen ready, able and willing to bring me home.

Should a Waymo emergency arise, one of 70 Filipinos sits at his computer screen ready, able and willing to bring me home.

If Waymo is available in your city, I urge you to take a ride. Fares are comparable to Uber, and AI drivers don’t accept tips. Should you be asked to rate a Waymo ride, a maximum score may sustain the livelihood of a former call center worker who landed the rare job that isn’t about to be displaced by chatbots.
While the driver’s seat is off limits, you can tailor the environment to your preferences, even choose the music genre, and a small screen displays silhouettes of pedestrians and line graphics of cars and roadside objects produced by spinning lidar sensors.
Waymo’s Filipinos likely have more interesting uses of their time than to watch you stare at your phone, but it wouldn’t hurt to say, “Mabuhay!” before you exit the cab. Don’t be surprised if a speaker whispers, “Salamat.”

Anthony Maddela is a staff correspondent who doesn’t just write about subjects; he interviews them.

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Siargao Locals Wearying of Growing Israeli Presence

Rene Astudillo — Wed, 20 May 2026 18:16:06 +0000

Siargao Island (SOurce: Google Maps)

Siargao, long celebrated as a laid-back island paradise, is now facing a complicated question: what happens when a global destination becomes so popular that it begins to feel overtaken by a specific foreign presence?
In recent months, conversations—both online and on the ground—have increasingly centered on the perception that Israelis are “colonizing” the island. The term is loaded, emotional, and not entirely precise, but it reflects a growing unease among locals and some Filipino visitors about the pace and character of change in Siargao.
Before all this, Siargao was known first and foremost for its waves—particularly the world-famous Cloud 9, a surfing break that has drawn enthusiasts from across the globe. Beyond surfing, the island’s appeal lies in its mangrove forests, tidal pools like Magpupungko, island-hopping destinations such as Naked, Daku, and Guyam Islands, and a culture rooted in simplicity and community. Life moves slower in Siargao, or at least it used to. That sense of ease, paired with raw natural beauty, is precisely what transformed it into one of the Philippines’ most sought-after destinations.
To be clear, Israelis are not the first or the only foreign group to fall in love with Siargao. For years, surfers, digital nomads, and entrepreneurs from Europe, Australia, and North America have settled or spent extended periods on the island. What makes the current discourse different is the visibility and concentration of Israeli tourists and semi-permanent residents in certain areas, particularly General Luna. Restaurants serving Middle Eastern cuisine, Hebrew signages, and tightly knit social circles have made their presence more pronounced.

Cloud 9 in Siargao, Philippines (photo courtesy of surfertoday.com)

Appealing Refuge
For many Israelis, Siargao offers an appealing refuge. It is affordable compared with Western destinations, naturally stunning, and culturally welcoming. Some arrive after mandatory military service, seeking a place to decompress. Others come as remote workers or small-business owners. Their reasons are not unusual; they mirror the motivations of countless travelers who have transformed Southeast Asian destinations over the past two decades.
Yet perception matters. For some locals, the clustering of one nationality—any nationality—can feel exclusionary. Stories have circulated of businesses catering almost exclusively to Israeli clientele, or of social dynamics that unintentionally sideline Filipinos. Whether these accounts are widespread or anecdotal, they contribute to a narrative that Siargao is no longer as inclusive or “Filipino” as it once was.
One recent flashpoint has been community concern over the reported establishment of a Chabad House on the island—a Jewish community center typically serving as a place of worship, cultural gathering, and support for travelers. While such centers exist in many global destinations and primarily serve religious and social needs, some Siargao residents worry that it could further entrench a single foreign community’s footprint. For critics, it symbolizes not just cultural presence, but permanence. For others, however, it is simply an expression of religious freedom and community support, no different from churches or other faith-based spaces that dot the island.

Chabad House (Photo courtesy of Siargao-Chabad.ph)

Complaints of Harassment
Compounding local unease are reports—shared both online and through word of mouth—of instances where Filipinos claim to have experienced harassment or disrespectful behavior from some Israeli visitors. While such incidents have not been universally documented and should not be taken as representative of an entire group, they have nonetheless amplified tensions and shaped public perception.
Amid these tensions, even Israel’s own diplomatic mission has underscored the importance of accountability. Ambassador Dana Kursh has publicly stated that Israeli tourists who misbehave should not expect protection from their embassy and must face the full force of Philippine law. Her message was unambiguous: consular assistance is for citizens in genuine distress, not for those violating local rules. The statement has resonated with many Filipinos, reinforcing the idea that respect for local laws and customs should be non-negotiable, regardless of nationality.
The use of the word “colonization” deserves scrutiny. Historically, colonization involves political control, displacement, and systemic domination. What is happening in Siargao does not fit that definition. There is no foreign government asserting authority or a formal takeover of land. However, the term is being used metaphorically to describe cultural and economic displacement—when locals feel that their own spaces are being reshaped primarily for outsiders.
Over-Tourism Issue
This raises a broader issue: over-tourism and uneven development. Siargao’s rapid rise has brought economic opportunities—jobs, investments, and infrastructure improvements. But it has also led to rising land prices, environmental strain, and a shift in local culture. These are not problems unique to Israelis; they are structural challenges seen in Bali, Phuket, and even parts of Europe.
Blaming a single nationality risks oversimplifying the situation and fueling xenophobia. It diverts attention from more pressing questions: Are local regulations strong enough to manage foreign business ownership? Are environmental protections being enforced? Are communities meaningfully involved in decisions about development? These are the levers that shape outcomes far more than the identity of visitors.

Before all this, Siargao was known first and foremost for its waves—particularly the world-famous Cloud 9, a surfing break that has drawn enthusiasts from across the globe.

At the same time, dismissing local concerns outright would be equally misguided. Feelings of displacement, whether cultural or economic, are real and deserve attention. Sustainable tourism is not just about limiting numbers; it is about ensuring that growth benefits local communities and preserves the character of a place.
Siargao stands at a crossroads. It can continue down a path where market forces alone dictate its future, or it can adopt a more deliberate approach—one that balances openness with protection, and tourism with local identity. Foreign visitors, including Israelis, are part of the island’s story, but they should not define it.
Ultimately, the challenge is not who is coming, but how the island chooses to evolve. The goal should not be to exclude, but to integrate—ensuring that Siargao remains not just a destination, but a home.

Rene Astudillo is a writer, book author and blogger and has recently retired from more than two decades of nonprofit community work in the Bay Area. He spends his time between California and the Philippines.

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Finding the Philippines in Mexico

Cesar Polvorosa Jr. — Sat, 16 May 2026 01:10:00 +0000

The Yucatan Peninsula (Photo by Cesar Polvorosa, Jr.)

Standing on the sun-warmed shore of the Yucatán Peninsula during my son’s wedding, watching Caribbean waves roll gently onto the Mexican coast, I was struck by an unexpected sense of familiarity. It felt like the comforting embrace of home. The feeling went beyond the tropical sway of coconut palms and the balmy sea breeze. This could have been a beach in Iloilo or Batangas, but it was more than that. The churches, plazas, food, family-centered culture, language, faces, and even the cadence of daily life felt uncannily close to the Philippines. A deep sense of nostalgia washed over me. Thousands of kilometers from Manila, I found echoes of the Philippines everywhere I looked.
I turned and walked back toward the pavilion with a pleasant, expectant air, where my family, our friends, and the bride’s relatives were celebrating. I overheard the Mexican staff and local guests speaking Spanish, and I could follow the gist of their conversations. Though I understood Spanish far better than I could speak it, the body language, humor, and warmth felt instinctively familiar. What I had long encountered in books and historical studies suddenly became tangible and alive. The connection was no longer abstract history. It had entered the realm of lived experience.
Historical Connections
What I felt was not merely coincidence or the lingering traces of Spanish colonialism. It was the realization that Mexico and the Philippines were once deeply connected worlds—linked for centuries through trade, religion, migration, and empire. In many ways, the Philippines and Mexico continue to share historical experiences, cultural instincts, and even social realities that remain visible today.
For many Filipinos, Mexico remains a distant country associated with mariachi music, tacos, and colorful fiestas. Yet historically, Mexico may be one of the most important foreign influences in the shaping of Filipino identity. Long before modern globalization, before airplanes and the internet, the Manila–Acapulco galleon trade connected the Philippines to New Spain—colonial Mexico—for 250 years, from 1565 to 1815. During this period, Manila and Acapulco were not peripheral outposts but twin gateways of a trans-Pacific world that carried silver, spices, textiles, culture, porcelain, and ideas across oceans.
The Philippines was governed not directly from Madrid for much of the Spanish colonial period but through the Viceroyalty of New Spain in Mexico City. Mexican soldiers, priests, merchants, and administrators arrived in the islands, while Filipinos traveled to Mexico aboard the galleons. Cultural exchanges flowed continuously across the Pacific. This helps explain why many Filipino traditions often feel closer to Latin America than to East Asia.
The similarities remain striking even today. Deep Catholic religiosity, elaborate town fiestas, extended family structures, emotional warmth, popular devotions, and even aspects of language and cuisine reveal shared historical experiences. Filipino dishes such as tamales and arroz caldo reflect culinary influences transmitted through the galleon trade.
Words in Philippine languages trace their roots not only to Spanish but also to Nahuatl, such as tiyangge (street market), as well as to Mexican Spanish. The baroque churches that dominate many Philippine towns strongly resemble churches across Latin America. Instead of the towering pagodas and temples commonly associated with Asia, the Philippine landscape often features soaring church steeples.
Similar Passions: The Three Bs
The similarities are not merely historical abstractions; they also appear in everyday popular culture. I smiled when resort staff repeatedly exclaimed “Pacquiao!” after discovering my Filipino roots and learning that I could converse in some Spanish. It was another reminder that I should have taken my Spanish courses at U.P. more seriously decades ago.
Indeed, Mexicans and Filipinos share a surprising affection for what some jokingly call the “three Bs”: boxing, beauty pageants, and billiards.
While soccer overwhelmingly dominates Mexican sports culture, basketball also enjoys enormous popularity—another convergence of interests with Filipinos.
The historian Arnold J. Toynbee is often credited with observing that “the Philippines is a Latin American country transported to the Orient by a giant marine wave.” Historians have struggled to verify the original source of the quotation, and it may well be apocryphal. Yet, authentic or not, the line captures an important truth: the Philippines possesses a unique historical and cultural affinity with Latin America that distinguishes it from much of East and Southeast Asia.
There is even an old saying that “Filipinos think like Americans, feel like Spaniards, and act like Malays.” Though simplistic, it reflects the Philippines’ layered historical identity. Spanish colonialism, American influence, and Asian roots combined to produce a society unlike any other in Asia. This cultural hybridity often becomes the invisible bridge that allows Filipinos and Latin Americans to connect with unusual ease.
Yet the ties between Mexico and the Philippines extend beyond food, religion, and shared sentimentality. They also shaped social structures and political institutions whose effects continue to influence both societies today.

Cancun (Photo by Cesar Polvorosa, Jr.)

Encomienda Legacy
Spanish colonialism implanted deeply unequal class structures across both the Philippines and Latin America. Through systems resembling encomiendas or feudal arrangements, land, wealth, and political power became concentrated in the hands of narrow elites. Over generations, this produced entrenched political dynasties, oligarchic control, regional strongmen, and persistent inequality.
Political scientist Benedict Anderson once described the Philippine system as a “cacique democracy,” where powerful local elites dominate political and economic life. Similar structures emerged across much of Latin America. In both regions, politics often became less about institutions and more about families, personalities, patronage networks, and competing oligarchies.
Such conditions also fostered recurring social unrest. Throughout modern history, both the Philippines and Latin America experienced insurgencies rooted partly in inequality and rural dispossession. The Philippines had the New People’s Army, while Latin America witnessed movements such as Colombia’s FARC, Peru’s Sendero Luminoso, and Mexico’s Zapatistas.
Given these historical parallels in political economy, their economic trajectories unsurprisingly reveal striking similarities. In the decades after the Second World War, the Philippines was among the more advanced economies in Asia. Yet over time, neighboring countries such as South Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia, and later Vietnam surged ahead.
This mirrored Latin America’s own developmental struggles. During the 1950s and 1960s, several Latin American economies were ahead of East Asia in income levels and industrial development. Yet East Asia eventually overtook them through stronger institutions, industrial policy, export competitiveness, and developmental states. South Korea eventually surpassed major Latin American countries such as Mexico, Brazil, and Argentina in per capita income.
The Philippines, meanwhile, often followed a trajectory more familiar to Latin America: cycles of growth followed by crisis, persistent inequality, corruption scandals, oligarchic concentration, and uneven development. In many cities throughout both regions, gleaming skyscrapers coexist alongside sprawling slums. This reflects the power of path dependency—the way history continues to shape the future in both the Philippines and Latin America.
The Marcos era particularly highlighted these contrasts. While authoritarian governments in parts of East Asia oversaw export-led industrialization and economic transformation, particularly in Singapore and South Korea, the Philippines acquired the unfortunate reputation of being the “Sick Man of Asia.” Political sociologist Peter B. Evans used the concept of “embedded autonomy” to distinguish developmental states from predatory ones. East Asian states often developed strong bureaucratic capacity aligned with national industrial goals, while weaker states became vulnerable to elite capture and rent-seeking.
This does not mean, however, that the Philippines and Latin America are identical. Latin America underwent far deeper demographic transformation under European colonization, including large-scale settlement and the forced importation of African slaves after indigenous populations collapsed from disease and exploitation. The Philippines retained stronger indigenous continuity while simultaneously absorbing influences from China, India, Indonesia, and the broader Malay world.
My inability to communicate with Mexicans in fluent Spanish also reflects another stark difference between the Philippines and Mexico. Spanish became widespread as the primary language of communication in Mexico but not in the Philippines. Unlike Mexico, the Spanish colonizers never intended the Philippines to become a large settler society. They relied on the friars for instruction, who, however, preferred to learn the native languages when teaching the indigenous population. The remoteness of the Philippines from Europe and the fragmented geography of the archipelago likewise contributed to Spanish fluency remaining largely limited to the local elite during the colonial period.
Still, Mexico remains perhaps the closest Latin American parallel to the Philippines. The resemblances are remarkable. Both countries are among the world’s most populous nations, possess vast diasporas, and rely heavily on remittances from overseas workers. In both societies, the United States exerts enormous economic, cultural, and political influence.
Most importantly, Mexico and the Philippines shared more than two and a half centuries of direct colonial linkage under the Viceroyalty of New Spain. The Manila–Acapulco galleons did not merely transport goods. They carried ideas, beliefs, traditions, and social structures across the Pacific.
This forgotten connection helps explain why many Filipinos feel an emotional affinity upon visiting Mexico. The similarities appear not only in churches and fiestas, but also in humor, hospitality, family-centered life, and the resilience of ordinary people confronting inequality and political dysfunction.
A Latin American Past—and Future?
At the same time, history offers cautionary lessons. The Philippines faces the danger of settling into a developmental path resembling parts of Latin America: moderate economic growth accompanied by persistent inequality, corruption, weak institutions, crime, and recurring governance crises.
Years ago, I wrote that Vietnam was poised to overtake the Philippines economically. At the time, it was largely a projection. Today, it has effectively happened by several important indicators. Vietnam’s rise demonstrates how governance, industrial policy, and long-term strategic direction can transform a nation within a generation.
Understanding the foundations of Philippine political economy is therefore essential to discerning the country’s future direction. History does not proceed in a mechanistic fashion. History is not destiny, but it shapes the institutions, class structures, and political cultures nations inherit.
Aspiring to Mexican income levels is a worthy objective. Present-day Mexicans enjoy per capita incomes that are more than three times those of the average Filipino. Mexico thus offers one possible future scenario for the Philippines, but it also serves as a cautionary example. The country continues to struggle with high levels of inequality, corruption, and crime. Rather than following the trajectory of South Korea—or even Thailand—the Philippines may be tracking more closely toward the Latin American model.

What I felt was not merely coincidence or the lingering traces of Spanish colonialism. It was the realization that Mexico and the Philippines were once deeply connected worlds.

Yet this story is not necessarily one of caution or decline. The Philippine–Mexican connection is also a story of extraordinary cultural richness and historical resilience. Out of centuries of exchange emerged societies capable of blending indigenous, Asian, European, and American influences into vibrant and distinctive national cultures.
For Filipinos today—especially younger generations and members of the diaspora—rediscovering the Philippines’ historical relationship with Mexico broadens the understanding of Filipino identity itself. The Philippines is not only an Asian nation. In many ways, it is also part of a wider Hispanic and Latin American historical world connected across the Pacific.
As I stood on that beach in Yucatán celebrating my son’s wedding, I realized that the sense of home I felt was not accidental. Amid the sound of waves in the gathering twilight, it became another moment of self-discovery. History had crossed the Pacific centuries before me. The ocean separating Mexico and the Philippines may be vast, but the cultural memory carried across it remains remarkably close.
And perhaps that is what moved me most. In Mexico, I did not simply discover another country. I encountered a forgotten mirror of the Philippines itself.

Cesar Polvorosa Jr. is a professor of International Business and Economics at a Canadian university. He had been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, and both his poetry and short stories have been anthologized in Asian and North American publications. He is an occasional contributor on economic development, globalization and geopolitics to Business World, Interaksyon and PhilStar.

More articles from Cesar Polvorosa, Jr.

Rebuffing Graciano Lopez Jaena’s ‘Dirty Fingers’

Meyen Quigley — Fri, 15 May 2026 23:21:00 +0000

Book Review: Graciano’s Dirty Fingers by Emmanuel Lerona. Friends of the University of the Philippines Visayas High School (UPVHS) Foundation.

Emmanuel Lerona with his book "Graciano's Dirty Fingers"

Ilonggos know Graciano Lopez Jaena as one of the heroes of the Propaganda Movement, a figure important enough that a major thoroughfare in Iloilo CIty is named after him and whose statue has pride of place in the city’s Jaro plaza. Wanting to learn more about this hero, an Ilonggo who picks up Nick Joaquin’s A Question of Heroes will be shocked and dismayed when he finds a Graciano described in the book as a “charlatan,” an impostor who held forth and wrote about topics he knew nothing about and indeed, made up “facts” as he went along.
In Joaquin’s recounting, Graciano was a “coward” with a “complete indifference to Philippine affairs,” whose speeches were full of “empty rhetoric and floridity.” It gets even more personal: Graciano was a “dirty, disheveled and slovenly” hippie who ate sardines with his fingers and wiped his oily fingers on his clothes.

Nick Joaquin drew heavily from accounts by Jose Alejandrino (1870-1951), whose book, The Price of Freedom, published in 1949, revised after a Spanish original published in 1933, became the basis for many subsequent depictions of Graciano. Alejandrino was in Spain at the same time as Graciano, and his mocking descriptions of Graciano have been taken to be eyewitness accounts – including by historians John Schumacher, Jose Victor Torres, and Resil Mojares.

In fact, Alejandrino and Graciano had limited contact, as a new book, Graciano’s Dirty Fingers by Emmanuel Lerona, spells out. Bolstered by painstaking research, Lerona states: “The divergent locations of the two personalities’ circumstances make it implausible for Alejandrino to have directly witnessed Graciano’s activities. Given their limited contact, it would have been impossible for Alejandrino to base (the) description of Graciano as a “dirty” colleague on direct observation.” Alejandrino’s accounts are likely, Lerona says, to have come from secondhand accounts, hearsay, or rumor.

A Fixed Caricature

Lerona does not stop there. He inquires: “How does a historical figure become so fixed in caricature?” The answer, Lerona says, “lies not only in the bias of individual historians but in how the archive itself, the collection of documents, the choices about what survives, the authority of those who interpret it, shapes what can be remembered and how.” He posits that a Graciano with “dirty fingers” is an image that was perpetuated by “a colonial elite confronted with a hero who did not conform to bourgeois ideals of civility and propriety.” And he proceeds to reconstruct for us, based on rigorous research that included a trip to Spain, Lopez Jaena’s unlikely, but most definitely heroic, journey from very humble beginnings in Jaro, Iloilo, to being the clarion voice of a nation waiting to be born.

Lerona started his Graciano project in September 2023. Retired Supreme Court Justice Francis Jardeleza, prime mover and shaker behind the Friends of the University of the Philippines Visayas High School (UPVHS) Foundation, approached Lerona, at the time a lecturer at the University of the Philippines in the Visayas, to see if he would be interested in “redeeming Graciano.”

This was an effort that had already been kicked off by UPVHS alumnus Francisco Villanueva, who, while traveling in Spain and working on his own book, Bugasong to Barcelona: Life and Works of Felix Laureano, had come across and been alarmed by the largely negative portrayal of Graciano in history books and the lack of information on his activities in Spain. Lerona took on the challenge, dusting off church records, going in search of Graciano’s descendants and other possible informants, and using his formidable skills in technological research to access records of libraries and archives not just in the Philippines, but also in Spain, where a few librarians supported his efforts.

Graciano Lopez Jaena monument in Jaro, Iloilo City, where he was born.

Sprawling Book

The result is Graciano’s Dirty Fingers, a sprawling book that begins with a review of Spanish rule in the Philippines, including elements like the encomienda system, reduccion, mercantilism and the galleon monopoly, and the eventual waning of Spanish influence and power. It then takes us to Iloilo, a thriving port city, flush with the proceeds of the textile industry and later, the sugar trade, and its municipality of Jaro, a commercial and ecclesiastical center where an enterprising bishop, Mariano Cuartero, built an imposing cathedral and established a seminary where Graciano would receive a basic education.

With this background, Lerona then follows Graciano’s footsteps from Valencia where he enrolled as a medical student, to Madrid where he first came to be recognized as a gifted writer and fiery orator, and then to Barcelona where he found the fullest expression of his revolutionary ideals and where he died at the very young age of 39.

“By the time Graciano was born in 1856, Iloilo had already been transformed into a thriving commercial hub.” Families that profited from the economic boom sent their children to Manila and/or Europe for further education and cultural exposure. It was these students and their counterparts from other provinces who – exposed in the continent to ideas of nationalism and reform – would go on to found the Propaganda Movement in Spain. Unlike these children of the wealthy and the powerful, Graciano was able to go to Spain with limited funds provided by a distant relative. In Spain, penury was never far from his door.

‘Fray Botod’

Graciano had already achieved some notoriety before he left for Spain, with the distribution of his satirical piece about a dissolute Spanish priest whom he named “Fray Botod” – or the priest with the bloated stomach. His departure for Spain was partly to evade harassment by authorities, but he was also spurred by dreams. He believed Spain would offer the opportunity for him to speak more freely, and he hoped to find support for his ideas for colonial reform there.

Even in his early days in Madrid as a transferee to the medical studies program at the Universidad Central, Graciano’s writing shone. The Gaceta Universal wrote of him: “What a great pity that Mr. Graciano Lopez dedicates himself to medicine, having such enviable talents for literature!” He joined the Circulo Hispano Filipino, one of the earliest organizations formed by Filipinos in Spain, and wrote articles for its paper, the Revista (the equivalent of today’s “review” or “journal”). Among his early articles was an urgent plea for educational reform in the Philippines. In 1883 Los Dos Mundos published in full his article titled “Una Protesta,” a rebuttal of the depiction by writer Valentin Gonzalez Serrano of Filipinos as indolent.

Before long Graciano was giving speeches at prestigious lecture halls and intellectual gatherings, including the Congreso Espanol de Geografia Colonial y Mercantil, the Teatro Real and the Fomento de las Artes. After a speech he gave at the Congreso Espanol de Geografia Colonial y Mercantil Odon de Buen, who would go on to found the Spanish institute of Oceanography, wrote: “…..the young Filipino Graciano Lopez exposed the harmful influence exerted by religious teaching based on religious doctrine; because he carried the voice of a people, he spoke with the sincerity of someone asking for a right on behalf of his fellowmen and drew inspiration from the true principles of civilization.”

And then there was La Solidaridad. Fernando Canon, a contemporary of Graciano, Marcelo del Pilar, and Mariano Ponce in Barcelona called Graciano the “chispa,” the spark behind the newspaper. “He was the author, the initiator, the godfather…Because from his lips came forth the name La Solidaridad.” Interestingly, later historians would come to question even Graciano’s role and involvement in the paper.

Bust of Graciano Lopez Jaena originally displayed at the Graciano Lopez Jaena College in Iloilo, currently St. Robert’s International School. (Photo courtesy of Nereo Cajilig Lujan)

Why the Bad Press?

Why the bad press when, especially as documented by Lerona, Graciano’s achievements are extraordinary? “When historians favored narratives that fit the prevailing nationalist project, Graciano’s papers, scattered across Madrid, Barcelona and Manila had become inaccessible and practically invisible,” Lerona explains. “The documents that prove his role, such as Fernando Canon’s eyewitness account, contemporary newspaper coverage, his own articles and speeches, were dispersed and difficult to access. In reality…a lot of writers and historians have just deemed these accounts irrelevant…”

Thanks to Lerona, Graciano’s footprints and his achievements are not just visible and accessible but challenge us to reflect on who gets to write the story of our nation and our nation’s heroes. “Restoring Graciano to his proper historical place reveals more than his individual accomplishments. It transforms what becomes visible about the Philippine Propaganda Movement itself, about Filipino nationalism, and about how historical memory is constructed...To rehabilitate Graciano is.... not simply to correct an injustice to one man, though that matters. It is to ask how history itself has been structured against the poor, the provincial, the unpolished.”

Lerona concludes: “(Graciano’s) dirty fingers that Alejandrino mocked became, in historical accounts, proof of unfitness. But when the records are read carefully, those dirty fingers, in fact, marked a dignified man’s struggle to make a living, a man who did not have the luxury of retreat into study or contemplation and who had to write and speak and organize while earning his bread….Reframing Graciano allows the emergence of a man who refused aesthetic respectability, would not trade his principles for patronage, and insisted on individual agency and liberty.”

Graciano died uncelebrated and unmourned in 1896 and was buried in a pauper’s grave in Barcelona. The cause of death? Arteriosclerosis, likely an effect of the tuberculosis that he contracted from years of hardship and deprivation. He did not live to see the changes he had so stirringly advocated for in his beloved homeland.

“To rehabilitate Graciano is.... not simply to correct an injustice to one man, though that matters. It is to ask how history itself has been structured against the poor, the provincial, the unpolished.”

As he stood in front of Graciano’s grave in the Montjuic cemetery in Barcelona, where Lopez Jaena was buried, what crossed Lerona’s mind? He says it was reverence and gratitude, gratitude for all the people who saw the genius of Graciano. People like Pando y Valle, publisher of Los Dos Mundos who, in 1882, so admired a speech by Graciano that he published it in full. Now we Filipinos have Emmanuel Lerona to thank, for giving us the full historical and heroic record of Graciano Lopez Jaena – dirty fingers and all.

Graciano’s Dirty Fingers is a publication of the Friends of the University of the Philippines Visayas High School (UPVHS) Foundation. Inquiries about the book may be sent to books.friendsofupvhsfoundation@gmail.com.

Marilynn (Meyen) Quigley is a poet and writer based in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. She is a graduate of the University of the Philippines in Iloilo City (now the University of the Philippines in the Visayas) and was one of the editors of “Graciano’s Dirty Fingers,” together with Maria Luisa Mabunay and Francisco G. Villanueva.

More articles from Meyen Quigley

The Terno: Living Silhouette of the Filipino Soul

Zardo A. Austria — Fri, 15 May 2026 16:57:00 +0000

Likely taken in the early 1900s, the photograph shows two women dressed in the classic Filipiniana ensemble — the baro’t saya — composed of the baro (blouse), the pañuelo draped over the shoulders, the saya (skirt), and the tapis worn as an overskirt. (Photo courtesy of Mario Feir and Lito Perez)

Few garments capture the spirit, history, and artistry of a nation as vividly as the Filipino terno. More than a dress, it is a visual chronicle of the Philippines itself—shaped by colonial encounters, nationalist awakening, artistic innovation, and the evolving role of women in society.
From the layered elegance of the Maria Clara ensemble to the sculptural butterfly sleeves of the modern terno, each transformation reflects the cultural, political, and economic currents of its time.
From Baro’t Saya to the Maria Clara
The roots of the terno lie in precolonial attire, when Filipino women wore the baro (blouse) and saya (skirt), often accompanied by a tapis (overskirt). These garments were woven from indigenous fibers such as cotton and abaca and designed for comfort in the tropical climate.
Spanish colonization in the 16th century reshaped clothing traditions. European ideals of modesty and rigid social hierarchy influenced Filipino attire, ushering in a refined aesthetic that mirrored colonial sensibilities. From this cultural convergence emerged a hybridized form of the baro’t saya, a four-piece ensemble composed of the blouse, skirt, pañuelo (shoulder scarf), and tapis (the single rectangular piece of cloth wrapped around the waist or chest as a skirt).
By the 19th century, this attire had become synonymous with the refined Filipina of the ilustrado class, that is, the educated, middle-to-upper class Filipino intelligentsia during the late 19th century Spanish colonial period. Delicate textiles such as piña and jusi, embellished with intricate embroidery, demonstrated the extraordinary craftsmanship of Filipino artisans.

First printed in The Illustrated London News in 1857, this hand‑tinted wood engraving—Manilla Girl: Vintage Filipina Identity Dress by English artist Charles Wirgman—captures a gentle domestic ritual of the era. Known for sketching everyday life across the Philippines, China, and Japan, Wirgman depicts a “postprandial” pause: a young Filipina wearing an indoor dress, composed and unhurried, enjoying a cigar in the calm that follows a meal. (Photo courtesy of Mario Feir and Lito Perez)

The ensemble was immortalized in literature through the character Maria Clara in Noli Me Tangere, giving the attire its enduring name—the Maria Clara dress. Though often associated with colonial gentility, it also became a subtle expression of Filipino cultural identity within Spanish colonial society.

Based on Charles Wirgman’s 1857 sketches for The Illustrated London News, the scene captures the lively rhythm of 19th‑century street life. In the Manila busy marketplace, a young Filipina in her elegant Maria Clara quietly draws the eye. (Photo courtesy of Mario Feir and Lito Perez)

The Traje de Mestiza and Cosmopolitan Manila
At the dawn of the 20th century, the Philippines entered a new era under American rule. Western education, urban modernization, and global entertainment began reshaping Filipino lifestyles.
During this period, the Maria Clara ensemble evolved into the traje de mestiza, a transitional form that retained its elegance while introducing a more streamlined silhouette. The pañuelo gradually disappeared, sleeves grew larger and more sculptural, and skirts became sleeker.

A modern reinterpretation of the traje de mestiza by 2024 Obra Maestra Awardee for Philippine Fashion Design, Lito Perez of Camp Suki—celebrated for restoring the grace and grandeur of the terno and other garments of Filipino heritage. (Photo courtesy of Mario Feir and Lito Perez)

This transformation reflected the changing role of the Filipina, who was becoming increasingly visible in public life as an educator, civic leader, and professional.
The glamour of the Manila Carnival accelerated this evolution. Carnival queens appeared in dazzling gowns that blended Filipino textiles with Western haute couture aesthetics. Inspired by Hollywood films and international fashion magazines, designers incorporated Art Deco motifs, dramatic trains, and shimmering beadwork. The result was a striking fusion—Filipino tradition infused with cosmopolitan sophistication.

The Carnival Queens stood at the front of a new era, signaling the rise of women’s power and public voice. (Photo courtesy of Mario Feir and Lito Perez)

The Era of the Modistes
The golden age of the traje de mestiza and early terno during the 1920s and 1930s was shaped largely by women designers known as modistes. Though modestly titled, these women were the true architects of modern Filipino fashion.
Among the most celebrated was Pacita Longos, widely credited with refining the dramatic butterfly sleeve that would later define the terno. Her designs became synonymous with Manila elegance.
Equally influential was Juanita Mina Roa, considered Longos’s greatest rival. Roa dressed members of the political elite, including First Ladies Aurora Quezon and Esperanza Osmeña, and is credited with introducing the pañuelo-less terno in 1936—simplifying the silhouette and paving the way for the modern one-piece gown.
Other prominent modistes included Pura Escurdia, whose atelier catered to Manila’s high society during the peacetime, and Marina Antonio, admired for her meticulous craftsmanship in creating elaborate ternos before the war.
Another legendary establishment was the Vanity Dress Shop, run by the Lo sisters—Tita Chayong and Tita Ling—whose dress studio produced elegant gowns for Manila’s most fashionable women. Closely associated with this pioneering generation was the historic House of RT Paras, regarded as the oldest continuously operating fashion atelier in the Philippines.
Founded in 1902 in Angeles, Pampanga, by self-taught seamstress Roberta Tablante Paras, the atelier began as a modest dressmaking enterprise that would evolve into a multigenerational institution in Philippine fashion. Known as Aling Belta, Paras was renowned for her discipline in precision tailoring and mastery of fine materials. She later established the RT Paras School of Dressmaking in Manila, training generations of dressmakers in couture craftsmanship.
Her daughter Josefina Tayag Gonzales, often called the “Chanel of the Philippines,” continued the legacy, elevating the house through technical perfection and refined design. In 1957 the atelier moved to Quezon Avenue, becoming a favored fashion house among Manila’s elite circle.
The third generation was led by Froilan Gonzales, internationally known as Roy Gonzales, who later achieved recognition in Parisian haute couture before returning to continue the family tradition. Across more than a century, the House of RT Paras has dressed presidents (President Cory Aquino and President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo), first ladies, and cultural luminaries—including Imelda Marcos and Imelda Cojuangco—remaining a symbol of enduring craftsmanship in Philippine fashion.

First Lady Imelda Marcos with Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi (Source: Picryl)

Building on the legacy of pre-war Manila’s modistes, post-war designers introduced key innovations that would define the national dress: the sculptural butterfly sleeve, Art Deco embellishment, and unified silhouettes made possible by the use of zippers, allowing garments to evolve from multi-piece ensembles into the sleek one-piece terno.
War, Liberation, and the Male Couturier
World War II disrupted the Philippine fashion scene, yet the years that followed brought profound cultural change. As society emerged from wartime austerity, social attitudes became more relaxed, and traditional gender roles began to shift. This period saw the rise of male couturiers, most notably Ramon Valera.
Valera revolutionized Filipino fashion by perfecting the one-piece terno, eliminating the separate blouse and skirt to create the sleek, continuous silhouette recognized today. His mastery of proportion and architectural sleeve construction elevated the terno to the level of haute couture, eventually earning him recognition as the first National Artist for Fashion Design.
As the Philippines moved toward independence in 1946, the terno emerged as a powerful visual symbol of national identity—distinct from both European and American fashions. However, in the decades following the war, global fashion trends began influencing everyday apparel. Western dresses and casual attire became more common, and the elaborate terno gradually receded from daily use.
Politics, Power, and Reinvention

The Terno at the Honolulu Museum of Art (Source: Picryl)

During the presidency of Ferdinand Marcos, the terno returned to global prominence through the dramatic gowns worn by first lady Imelda Marcos at international events. Her wardrobe projected an image of Filipino elegance and cultural sophistication abroad.
Yet the symbolism of the terno became complex during the years of Martial Law, when it was sometimes associated with political extravagance. During the People Power Revolution, however, simplified versions of traditional attire appeared in civic gatherings, symbolizing dignity and moral resolve within the democratic movement.
A Contemporary Renaissance
In recent decades, the terno has experienced a powerful revival. Contemporary Filipino designers reinterpret the iconic butterfly sleeve through modern silhouettes—from minimalist gowns to avant-garde couture. They incorporate both innovative materials and heritage textiles such as inaul, abel Iloko, and t’nalak, reconnecting fashion with traditional weaving communities.

Today the terno appears on international runways, museum exhibitions, and diplomatic occasions, serving as a cultural ambassador for the Philippines.

Today the terno appears on international runways, museum exhibitions, and diplomatic occasions, serving as a cultural ambassador for the Philippines. It has also become a symbol of modern Filipina leadership. Public figures such as Leni Robredo have worn it at official events, affirming national identity while projecting strength and dignity.
A Living Masterpiece
Across centuries, the terno has mirrored the evolving realities of Filipino society—from colonial hierarchy and nationalist awakening to modern empowerment and artistic reinvention. Influenced by indigenous craftsmanship, Spanish elegance, American modernity, Hollywood glamour, and global couture, it remains one of the most distinctive garments in the world.
More than fashion, the terno is a living masterpiece—a wearable chronicle of the Filipino soul, where history, culture, and artistry merge in a single unforgettable silhouette.
The author warmly thanks Dexjordi Lyle Sison for his generous help with the photographs.

Zardo A. Austria is an award‑winning cultural impresario, writer, and publisher best known for creating Obra Maestra, the landmark series celebrating Philippine fashion, culture, and the arts. A two‑time Aliw Award honoree, he received the 2020 Aliw Award for Artistic Excellence and the 2022 Best Special Event Production Award for Obra Maestra in Taal, distinctions granted by the Aliw Awards Foundation, the country’s foremost institution recognizing excellence in live entertainment and cultural presentation.
He launched his professional writing career at 17, while a sophomore at the University of the Philippines Diliman, beginning a distinguished five‑decade journey in publishing. Since then, he has served as editor and creative director of five lifestyle and travel magazines and has authored and published four acclaimed coffee‑table books on Philippine heritage and history.
He currently writes the online column “Epiphanies of the Soul” and is preparing to release his fifth book, The Premium Collector’s Edition of Obra Maestra: Threads of Power, Silhouettes of Heritage, Weaves of Filipino Soul.

Barong and Filipiniana: A Foreigner’s Altered Impression

Anton Dvoryadkin — Fri, 15 May 2026 15:09:00 +0000

Filipiniana on the Runway
A contemporary Filipiniana shown on the runway, combining traditional silhouette with updated proportions.

I grew up in Siberia and moved to the Philippines in 2022. It was the right decision for me, and I have never regretted it.
Before that, I didn’t even know that the Philippines had a national dress or what it looked like. I first encountered Filipiniana when my former Filipina girlfriend showed me a dress she had rented for a special occasion. She was genuinely happy about it.
“Oh my God,” I thought. Those sleeves looked so strange. What was that supposed to be? That was my first impression. When I cautiously hinted at it, she was surprised and hurt. I think I offended her. I didn’t mean to — I just said what I honestly thought at the time.
My first experience with the barong was not much better. In one store I saw shirts made of semi-transparent fabric and asked a friend what they were. “Barong Tagalog — the national Filipino shirt,” he replied. I stepped closer and touched the fabric. It felt almost like plastic. Most likely, it was synthetic. In a hot climate, it seemed odd. I genuinely didn’t understand how anyone could wear something like that.

Barong Tagalog in Piña Cocoon Silk
Two Barong Tagalog in piña cocoon silk; the right piece features traditional calado integrated into the fabric.

Later, I met Josip Tumapa, who worked as a designer. In the studio, I saw a jacket and heard the same name again — Barong Tagalog. But this one was completely different.
The fabric was soft, with a slight sheen. As I learned later, it was piña cocoon silk. For the first time, I noticed the ornament. It was floral, running across the entire front panel and extending onto the sleeves. Everything looked different from what I had seen in that store.
Gradually, I began to see how varied these shirts could be — from strict, classic versions to more daring and experimental ones. The barong stopped seeming like a strange formality. It was far more complex than I had initially thought.

Calado Detail in Piña Cocoon Silk
Close view of calado, where threads are withdrawn to form geometric openings within piña cocoon silk.

Filipiniana was a different story. I rarely saw dresses like that in stores and for a long time considered the style strange. To be honest, I didn’t like it. Most likely, I simply hadn’t encountered works that could change my perception.

Avant-Garde Filipiniana
An experimental Filipiniana with structured panels and metallic elements.

The turning point came at a fashion show. That was where I saw Filipiniana in very different forms — from traditional interpretations to avant-garde ones. When the models stepped onto the runway, I didn’t immediately realize I was looking at Filipiniana. One look matched the familiar image — with voluminous sleeves and a recognizable silhouette. Another appeared completely different, with bolder construction and unexpected lines. Only later, in conversation with the designers, did I learn that both belonged to the same tradition. I had to ask several times. The difference from the image I carried in my head was that striking.

Over time, I realized that my first impression had been superficial. Back then, I would never have imagined that one day I would want a barong for myself.

That’s when I understood that Filipiniana isn’t limited to a single canon. It can be traditional, or it can take on an entirely different form — with a new skirt structure, altered shoulder lines, and a different architectural balance. Later, I saw many more interpretations, from classic to experimental.

Evolving Filipiniana Form
A modified Filipiniana silhouette with altered sleeves and volume.

Over time, I realized that my first impression had been superficial. Back then, I would never have imagined that one day I would want a barong for myself. Now I find myself choosing the ornament for my future barong — not with irony, but with genuine attention to the details.

Anton Dvoryadkin is General Manager at Josip Tumapa Design in the Philippines. He handles international communication for the studio.

Hard Hats: Filipino Civil Engineers in the Middle East

Michael G. Lucero — Wed, 13 May 2026 16:38:58 +0000

Engr. Michael Lucero and Lifting Supervisor Neil Braga overseeing vibro compaction works in critical areas, part of a Value Engineering strategy combining dynamic and vibro compaction methods to optimize performance, safety, and cost.

Before sunrise, when the desert air is still mercifully cool, Filipino civil engineers across the Middle East begin their day the same way—reviewing drawings, invoices, budgets, and schedules over strong coffee, checking messages from home, and preparing to step onto sites that will soon be alive with noise and motion. Under the hard hat is not just a professional title, but a quiet identity shaped by long hours, multinational teams, and the constant balance between ambition and sacrifice. From highways carved out of sand to towers rising against the horizon, Filipino engineers help build the modern Middle East, carrying with them not only technical skill, but the unseen weight of family left thousands of miles away.
Why the Middle East?
For many Filipino civil engineers, the Middle East was never the original dream—it became the destination because it was possible. “Originally, my dream country to live and work in was Australia because I have relatives there and quality of life is good. I decided to work in the Middle East because the application process is straightforward, deployment is quick and the earning potential is higher.” — Christopher Fermo, Senior QS Engineer. While opportunities in Western countries often came with long credentialing processes, licensing barriers, and years of local experience, the Middle East offered something more immediate: access. Applications moved faster, interviews were practical rather than bureaucratic, and skills mattered more than polished resumes.
The region’s relentless pace of development created openings that few other places could match. Roads, airports, railways, towers, and entire cities rose from the desert, demanding engineers in numbers rarely seen elsewhere. For Filipino professionals—known for adaptability and hands-on competence—this meant steady demand across infrastructure, commercial, and industrial projects. “I decided to work in the Middle East because my salary in the Philippines wasn’t enough to meet my family’s monthly needs and prepare for my children’s future. Working abroad allows me to provide better financial stability and secure my family’s future.” — Ross Fernandez, Site Engineer.
Experience, while important, was not always a gatekeeper. Many companies learned early on that Filipino engineers grew quickly on the job. Those who arrived with limited experience were often given responsibilities that accelerated their learning, guided by senior Filipinos who had already earned the trust of employers. Over time, this created a quiet pipeline: one generation opening doors for the next.
What began as opportunity gradually became reputation. “What surprised me most about working in the Middle East was how diverse the workplace is and how people from different cultures work together professionally and respectfully.” — Christopher Fermo, Senior QS Engineer. Filipino civil engineers were seen as dependable, collaborative, and willing to learn—traits valued in multinational project teams working under tight deadlines. In an industry where performance spoke louder than pedigree, the Middle East became not just a place to work, but a place where careers could take shape.
The Filipino Engineer at Work
On site, the Filipino engineer often operates at the intersection of planning and reality—translating drawings into action while navigating constraints that shift by the hour. “A typical day on site starts with reviewing the work schedule and priorities for the day, followed by a toolbox meeting with the team to discuss safety and planned activities. Inspect ongoing works to ensure they follow the approved drawings, specifications, and quality standards. I coordinate with subcontractors, supervisors, and suppliers to resolve technical issues, monitor progress, and make sure targets are met. I also prepare site reports, update documentation.” — Ross Fernandez, Site Engineer.
Whether coordinating with foremen, responding to unexpected site conditions, or balancing safety, cost, and schedule, their role is rarely confined to a single job description. It is in this daily negotiation between design and execution that many Filipino engineers quietly prove their value—steady, solutions-oriented, and dependable under pressure. “To succeed as a QS Engineer in large-scale infrastructure projects, it takes strong technical knowledge, attention to detail, and a solid understanding of contracts, cost control, and project documentation. It is also important to have good communication and coordination skills, as these projects involve multiple stakeholders, tight schedules, and diverse teams. Adaptability, integrity, and the ability to work under pressure are key to delivering accurate cost management and supporting project success.” — Christopher Fermo, Senior QS Engineer.
Beyond the Hard Hat

Engr. Michael Lucero observes the actual piling operations for cost adjustments.

Work in the Middle East is demanding, but it is often the hours after work that test Filipino engineers the most. When the site quiets down and the helmet is set aside, many return not to family or familiar voices, but to a small room far from home. It is in that silence—after long days of calculations, coordination, and decision-making—that loneliness tends to surface.
For some, it arrives as a question quietly asked at night: Was this the right decision? Especially for those who had careers back home, the distance can feel heavier when weighed against what was left behind. Professional progress comes at the cost of presence—of being there when life happens. “One of the hardest challenges I faced was managing homesickness and boredom while adjusting to the cultural differences of the host country during my early years in the Middle East. This experience pushed me to grow personally and professionally. During my toughest years abroad, what kept me going was my determination to grow stronger both personally and professionally. Being far from home pushed me to become more resilient, disciplined, and self-reliant. Professionally, the challenges motivated me to improve my skills, stay competitive, and prove my value in a demanding work environment. Personally, my family, my goals, and my belief in hard work gave me the strength to keep moving forward.” — Christopher Fermo, Senior QS Engineer.
Yet for many OFWs, that same distance becomes a space for reflection and faith. Far from familiar routines and comfort zones, engineers find time they never had before—time to listen, to reflect, and to reconnect with God. Invitations to attend worship services or small Bible studies, often from fellow Filipinos, become lifelines. What begins as companionship grows into fellowship, offering not just comfort, but meaning. In shared prayers and quiet conversations, loneliness is eased, and faith deepened.
There are other moments of comfort, quieter but equally powerful. Salary day brings relief and purpose—the chance to send support back home, to help families meet daily needs and slowly build shared dreams. Each remittance is more than money; it is reassurance, responsibility, and love expressed across distance.
Still, sacrifice remains the constant undercurrent. Parents worry daily about their children abroad—if they are safe, healthy, and eating well. Spouses left behind carry the weight of raising children alone, shaping values, managing households, and holding families together while partners work thousands of miles away. Love endures, but it is tested by absence.
What cuts deepest are the moments missed: birthdays celebrated through screens, graduations watched in pixels, Christmases spent on video calls instead of around the table, New Year’s counted down in a different time zone, anniversaries marked by messages instead of embraces. Technology makes connection possible, but it cannot replace presence. There is a quiet ache—difficult to explain, impossible to ignore—that comes from knowing you are providing for your family while being physically absent from their lives.
For some, that absence eventually leads to a different kind of adjustment—coming home. Former OFW engineer Francis A. Saltivan describes reintegration as “a mix of both.” Professionally, he adjusted quickly because the technical skills gained abroad remained useful. Personally, adapting to a slower pace and different work culture took time—but being closer to family and applying his experience back home made the transition worthwhile.
“What is rarely talked about is the personal sacrifice of being away from family and missing important moments. These challenges teach resilience, discipline, and responsibility, and motivate me to work harder to provide a better future for my family while representing Filipino engineers with pride.” — Ross Fernandez, Site Engineer.
This is the part of the engineer’s life that does not appear on resumes or project reports. Beyond the hard hat, Filipino civil engineers carry longing alongside responsibility, faith alongside doubt, and love measured not by proximity, but by sacrifice.
Identity and Respect

Engr. Von Villar with fellow QS Engineers during a workday at the office.

In multinational construction sites across the Middle East, trust is rarely given outright—it is earned, often quietly, over time. For Filipino civil engineers, credibility is built not through titles or bravado, but through consistency. Many arrive knowing that they do not have all the answers, and instead of hiding gaps in experience, they ask questions. They watch, learn, and request examples. What they lack in familiarity, they make up for with humility and effort.
Attention to detail is one of the traits colleagues quickly notice. Drawings are checked carefully, instructions followed precisely, and responsibilities carried through to completion. Filipino engineers are often willing to take on additional work, cover for absent teammates, or step into unfamiliar tasks without complaint. In environments where teams are composed of many nationalities and communication is imperfect, this adaptability matters. Being able to understand colleagues who struggle with language—and meet them halfway—becomes an unspoken strength. “Filipino engineers usually excel on site in adaptability, teamwork, and work ethic. We are known for being hardworking, reliable, and willing to take on responsibility even in challenging conditions.” — Ross Fernandez, Site Engineer.
Over time, this reliability shapes reputation. Filipino engineers are known as professionals who do what is good for the project and the company, even when no one is watching. Trust grows not from single moments, but from repeated proof: deadlines met, problems solved, and work delivered with care.
Yet respect is not always immediate. At the start of many careers, Filipino engineers face subtle stereotyping. They may be viewed primarily as technical support rather than decision-makers—valued as “good workers,” but not always seen as leaders. Promotions, when they come, are sometimes quiet; responsibilities increase faster than recognition. Authority is earned gradually, often long before it is formally acknowledged.
Sheila Ann Paragas-Noveloso, a QS Engineer with fifteen years of experience in Qatar, shared that earlier in her career, clients sometimes preferred dealing with male colleagues during meetings. Over time, however, consistent preparation, professionalism, and confidence helped shift those perceptions—reflecting a gradual move toward merit-based recognition in the workplace.
Most Filipino engineers accept this reality without protest, choosing patience over confrontation. Respect, they know, comes with time and performance. In an industry where results matter more than words, many learn to lead through action—earning influence before titles, and recognition through outcomes rather than applause.
“I earned respect by consistently delivering quality work and demonstrating reliability and professionalism. As I gained experience, I became more confident in my work and professional judgment, which allowed me to communicate more clearly and assert myself when needed.” — Sheila Ann Paragas-Noveloso, QS Engineer.
This balance—between capability and perception, between contribution and visibility—becomes part of the Filipino engineer’s professional identity in the Middle East. It is not an easy path, but it is one navigated with resilience, integrity, and the quiet confidence that respect, once earned, lasts.
Looking Forward
For young Filipino engineers considering the Middle East, it is important to understand that technical competence alone is not always enough. Skill opens doors, but how you carry yourself determines how far you go. Learn to communicate with clarity. Document your work. Protect your professionalism. Respect local cultures and workplace hierarchies, but never shrink yourself to fit unfair expectations. Confidence, consistency, and integrity dismantle prejudice more effectively than confrontation ever could.
“Despite having almost ten years of experience in the Philippines, I realized that when you work abroad, you often start from zero again. You have to learn new standards, adapt quickly, and prove yourself all over—but that process shapes you.” — Von Villar, Civil Engineer one-year OFW.
The landscape, however, is changing. More Filipino engineers are moving into supervisory and leadership roles, earning trust through performance and reshaping perceptions one project at a time. Each successful project, each promotion earned through merit, weakens outdated stereotypes and opens doors for those who follow. Progress may be slow, but it is real—and it is cumulative.
“My first ‘I belong here’ moment came when I realized I could adapt to a new environment, work with people from different nationalities, and handle responsibilities that once felt overwhelming. That’s when confidence slowly replaced doubt.” — Von Villar, Civil Engineer, one-year OFW.
What today’s engineers endure and overcome becomes tomorrow’s standard. By mentoring younger colleagues, sharing hard-earned lessons, and refusing to normalize subtle discrimination, Filipino engineers build a legacy that goes beyond individual success. The true impact lies not in titles or recognition, but in making the path clearer and fairer for the next generation.
In the Middle East, Filipino engineers are not just building roads, towers, and industrial plants. They are building credibility, representation, and quiet resistance against bias. Every carefully checked drawing, every solved site problem, every calm decision under pressure adds another brick to that unseen structure.

Sari’s feature films, documentaries, hybrids, experimental works, and video art are being screened in a multisite retrospective which started in March and continues until May.

Even now, working here, I feel the distance from home, the discomfort, and the loneliness all too well. Yet, if I were starting out again, I would still choose this path. The hardship is hardest at the beginning, but with time, it strengthens you. Loneliness can be managed, even conquered, and families are only a video call away, present in daily life despite the miles.
Life outside work also finds its rhythm. Cities offer communities—sports groups, faith fellowships, shared hobbies, and familiar places that bring comfort. From badminton courts and basketball leagues to chess clubs, camping trips, and weekend meals at Filipino restaurants, small routines restore a sense of home. For those assigned near urban centers, even bringing family to live in the Middle East becomes possible, turning a temporary posting into a shared chapter of life.
And none of this stands alone. Today’s opportunities were shaped by those who came before—the skilled workers, foremen, and engineers of the 1970s and 1980s who laid the foundation of trust Filipino professionals now build upon. Their discipline and workmanship continue to echo across job sites, shaping how Filipino engineers are seen and valued.
Long after the concrete has cured and the steel has weathered, what remains is not just infrastructure, but the mark left by engineers who stood firm, worked honestly, and proved their worth without asking permission.

Acknowledgments

Engr. Christopher Fermo, Senior QS Engineer, with 17 years of experience in the Middle East, who has handled mega-projects in roads and infrastructure.

Engr. Ross Fernandez, Site Engineer, whose experience reflects daily site pressures and coordination with multinational teams.

Engr. Sheila Ann Paragas-Noveloso, QS Engineer, providing insight on gender dynamics in Middle East construction companies.

Engr. Francis A. Saltivan, Former OFW Engineer who returned to the Philippines, offering perspective on skills transfer and reintegration.

Engr. Von Villar, Civil Engineer with one year of experience as an OFW, sharing experiences of culture shock and expectations versus reality.

Their decades of professional experience, reflections, and personal stories provided invaluable perspective on credibility, leadership, and the long-term evolution of trust earned by Filipino engineers in the region.

Michael G. Lucero is a Filipino civil engineer from Palawan who has been working as an OFW in the Middle East since 2006 and is currently based in Dubai, UAE. He writes narrative stories and blogs on Filipino life abroad, craftsmanship, and the quiet intersections of engineering, music, and everyday survival far from home, including guitar-related writing at jmjguitars.com.

More from Michael G. Lucero

Overseas Filipino Achievers, Part 4

Mona Lisa Yuchengco — Wed, 13 May 2026 16:38:49 +0000

In keeping with Positively Filipino’s goal of celebrating the 13-million-strong (and counting) Filipino diaspora, we are launching a new series titled Overseas Filipino Achievers. The series recognizes outstanding Filipinos making their mark in various countries around the world. It builds on our popular and long-running feature, “FilAms Among the Remarkable and Famous.”
But we need your help. If you know Filipinos outside the Philippines and the United States who are doing exceptional work in their adopted countries, please send their names, supporting documents or links, and photos to pfpublisher@yahoo.com.
UNITED KINGDOM
Maila Reeves, Wellness Consultant

Maila Reeves (Source: LinkedIn)

Reeves is a British Filipina strategist and founder of The Infinity Code, focused on longevity, modern luxury, and intelligent living. With a foundation in law and international business, she helps high performing individuals and brands design systems that support long term health, clarity, and impact. Her work reframes luxury as precision, sustainability, and strategic self-mastery. Transitioning from a career as a barrister, she is now a dedicated businesswoman, investor, and advisor focused on cutting-edge consumer health tech. In addition, Reeves is the co-founder of Bio Atelier, a luxury brand of science-led longevity supplements. The brand launched with a debut range of clean, clinically supported NAD⁺ formulations, solidifying her role as an innovator in the consumer wellness space.
Emmily Magtalas Rhodes, Author

Emmily Magtalas Rhodes (Photo courtesy of Emmily Magtalas Rhodes)

Born in Manila, Rhodes worked as a staff writer for Filipinas Magazine, a Filipino American publication in the San Francisco Bay Area, before moving to Edinburgh, Scotland when she got married. She is currently living in an English spa town with her husband, the novelist Dan Rhodes, and their two boys. In 2020, she published What It Means to be Malaya, which she describes as "a coming-of-age story that explores the themes of freedom and privilege in a society entrenched in colonial mentality and Catholicism, as well as obsessed with celebrity and social status." Her story, "Dwende" garnered honorable mention at the 2022 Storyshares Story of the Year Contest. Recently, Rhodes was awarded a Developing Your Creative Practice grant by Arts Council England for her project about Philippine myths and Filipino immigrants through a collection of short stories. One of these stories, "The Severed", was shortlisted for the Hammond House International Literary Prize in 2025.
COLOMBIA
Manuel Teodoro Bermudez, Journalist

Manuel Teodoro (Source: Alchetron)

Born in 1960 in New Orleans to a Filipino and a Colombian mother, Teodoro majored in journalism from the University of Miami and started his career in 1984 as an editorial assistant for CBS News. Later he moved to Univision as a reporter and producer and became their correspondent in the Philippines. While there, he also anchored the evening news program "Newswatch" of the RPN television network.
He later became the Hispanic New York based-correspondent for CNN. In 1994, he went to Colombia as correspondent for CNN and presenter of Noticiero CM&. Two years later he moved to Caracol TV, where he directed and hosted the 60 Minutes-like Séptimo día ("Seventh Day") newsmagazine, which, despite its success, was canceled in 2000 because of the large number of lawsuits against the show. In 2007, Teodoro moved back to Caracol TV to direct and co-host, with Silvia Corzo, a new season of Séptimo día, which premiered 10 June 2007.
He was also a correspondent for Spanish media giant Univision and NBC in Los Angeles. He has a total of 14 awards, including two Emmys. Teodoro is also a partner in a communications company that specializes in crisis management, spokesperson training, digital reputation management, and crafting effective corporate presentations.
ITALY
Megan Chloe Quiambao, Child Model

Megan Chloe Quiambao (Source: Janelle So/Youtube)

In 2022, at six years old, Quiambao was already the face of kids’ fashion in billboards around the world, modeling for famous brands like Gucci and Burberry. Born and raised in Milan to Filipino parents Augil, a tattoo artist, and Loevelyn, an entrepreneur, Quiambao loved to pose for pictures. She was discovered by a Milan-based photographer who was looking for an Asian-looking kid to model for a project. Leovelyn says Megan has expressive eyes. “Until now, I still couldn’t believe how she did all of those things. When she is in front of the camera, she becomes this different kid, playful, comfortable, and happy. It is weird to say this, but she looks like she belongs there.” Quiambao started receiving offers for a Filipino TV series and a show on Italian TV. But Augil and Leovelyn says Megan’s formal education is their first priority.
Zargon, Hip-hop Artist

Zargon (Source: Youtube)

Zargon, a Filipino underground hip-hop artist based in Milan, is known for his gritty, immigrant-experience-driven rap and tracks like Tsongke Everyday and Pinoy Gangsta Rap Is Back. He bridges Filipino hip-hop with European underground scenes, and recently toured the Philippines. He emigrated to Milan as a teenager, initially facing language barriers before establishing himself in the underground scene. Known as a Pinoy Gangsta rapper, his content often focuses on life struggles, loyalty, and street narratives. He has released several official music videos, including Loyalty and Tsongke Everyday, which has garnered millions of views on YouTube. He is active on platforms like YouTube Music and Shazam.
SWITZERLAND
Sebastian Esai Eco Eviota, Swiss Guard

Sebastian Esai Eco Eviota (Source: Teri Bautista/Facebook)

In January 2022 Eviota, or Baste as he is known, received a letter informing him that he was formally admitted to the Pontifical Swiss Guard of the Vatican. Born in Davao City to a father from Surigao City and a mother from Agusan del Sur, Eviota moved to Switzerland in 2009 together with his sister on a family reunification visa. He became an active member of the Youths for Christ in Europe. After he finished two-year basic training and served in the 13th Infantry Battalion, Eviota became a second lieutenant in the Swiss Army. He is the second Filipino to be included in the Swiss Guard but the first member of full Filipino origin.
Donna Avellana Kunzler, Author

Donna Avellana Kunzler (Source: EMEA Recruitment)

Kunzler, born and raised in Cavite, Philippines, lives in Zurich with her husband and a daughter. She is currently the Head of Procurement Process Excellence & Digital Transformation for ABB’s Robotics and Discrete Automation business, a board member of neurotechnology company Limbic Life, for the non-profit Breaking Silence Movement, and is the Swiss Country Editor for Roots & Wings magazine. She self-published her book, The Overseas Fabulous Pinay: a modern Filipina’s handbook on how to thrive abroad to realize her advocacies on women empowerment, education, and foreign workers’ welfare. It has won the Best Independent Book Award (BIBA) 2021 for Nonfiction –Living Abroad, Gold Award in Literary Titan Book Awards 2021, Gold Award in the Nonfiction Book Awards 2020, and was a finalist in the Travel and Guidebooks category in Global Books Awards 2022 and Best Book Design category in the International Book Awards 2020.
Joanna Arca-Wennstroem, Community Leader

Joanna Wennstroem (Source: Facebook)

Wennstroem is a prominent member of the Filipino community in Switzerland and is recognized for her leadership and work with the Philippine Embassy, often referred to with the cheer “Go, Gabriela Joanna Go.” She is a founding member and Advisory Board Member of ENFID-Switzerland (European Network of Filipino Diaspora). She is sometimes called a “modern Gabriela Silang in the context of her leadership.”
SWEDEN
Jenny Syquia-Skarne, Model Actress and Fashion Designer

Jenny Syquia-Skarne (Source: The Southern Project/Facebook)

After a whirlwind courtship, Syquia married actor Gabby Concepcion in Las Vegas. They had a daughter, Clole, who became a TV host and performer in the Philippines in addition to winning the Miss Earth Sweden title in 2016. Their marriage was annulled in 1996. Syquia married Filip Skarne in1997 and had another daughter Flippa Babes. She began her career in fashion in New York where she worked as a fashion assistant at Vogue, assisting senior editors and gaining early industry experience that later informed her work in fashion, media, and design. In 1994 Syquia founded and became the editor-in-chief of Bride Philippines magazine. Syquia began her movie career in 1996. She signed an eight-picture contract with Viva Entertainment. Along with half-sister Christine, Syquia founded the handbag and accessories line Charm & Luck in 2004. They received $9 million in funding from Capstone Trade in 2006. Celebrities such as Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Simpson, and Paris Hilton were customers. In 2007, the firm was nominated for Best Accessories company at the Dallas Fashion Awards. By 2008, their "kitschy, fun styles" were carried in more than 1,700 stores in 25 countries, including Dillards, Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and Lord & Taylor. After the birth of her second daughter, Syquia decided to become a full-time mother.
In December 2025, Syquia appeared on the digital cover of Tatler Philippines and was featured in an in-depth cover story in the print edition, which highlighted her international career and life in Stockholm.
Source: Google and Wikipedia

Santa Monica’s Uncrowned King of Real Estate

Anthony Maddela — Wed, 13 May 2026 16:38:21 +0000

Gary Limjap in his office at Coldwell Banker in Santa Monica.

The real estate industry offers an infinite variety of metrics for ranking agents. Anyone can claim to be No. 1 in the industry, but almost nobody does. The good ones let the locals sing their praises. House hunters can discover the agent who works best with people like themselves by asking around at a neighborhood coffeehouse, grocery store they’re likely to frequent, jogger and walker crossings, and anywhere else that might announce the informal mark of excellence: this town’s King of Real Estate. In Santa Monica, California, the name that makes the rounds among condo dwellers and single family homeowners is Gary Limjap, whose real estate practice is located on Montana Avenue. He ranks in the Top 1 Percent of Coldwell Banker realtors, based on statistics he didn’t invent.
Coffee, Clothes, and Construction
I learned of Limjap through St. Monica’s Church in Santa Monica, where he’s a principal sponsor of the Simbang Gabi Christmas dinner. Manila is the city of his birth and where he received diplomas from St. Lorenzo High run by the Salesian Brothers of Don Bosco and De La Salle University, run by Christian Brothers. Gratitude spurs his unexpurgated plugs for Catholic education. Limjap immigrated to Los Angeles in 1976 and is 69 years old but could pass for a man under 50, which he credits to his Filipino genes. Genetics might be a factor along with being a philanthropist, childless bachelor, traveler, and lover of his work.

Gary Limjap (Standing, second from right) at Don Bosco San Lorenzo High in the Philippines.

As in all notable biographies that open in Hollywood and vicinity, Limjap started as a waiter in a coffee shop, which is the modern equivalent of Lana Turner’s malt shop. What would have been his second day amidst baristas became his first day with May Company, the onetime department store chain. Three months later, he was a store manager. From there, he went into Purchasing before leaving retail to work in sales for a construction company. Those jobs were compressed into six years leading up to his move to real estate in 1985.
Try Real Estate, Young Man
“I remember my dad said, ‘You should go into real estate,’” he says of a family influence that was reinforced by friends. “Filipino friends in Glendale nudged me into the business.” In real estate he had the potential to become his own boss.

Gary Limjap with Filipino friends Sonny, Dindo, and Laly.

Limjap offers a vague recollection of his first sale. “I can’t remember everything,” he says, “but it must have been a small house in East L.A. At that time, I worked at a clothing company, and I think it was one of the seamstresses that wanted me to sell her property.”
Real estate in Los Angeles wasn’t quite the Wild West in the Eighties and Nineties, but there were inconveniences that baby boomers recapitulate like they were the modern equivalent of pistol duels. “Today, we go to the internet, but back then,” he recalls with suffering fondness, “we had to go to books. There was no such thing as cellphones. We conducted business in phonebooths.”
When our interview turned to his public image, the self-effacing real estate magnate responds, “No, I would not consider myself the King of Real Estate. I always want to be in sync with the goals of my clients.” Royalty seldom mingles with commoners/consumers.
Through the years, many clients have enlisted him for multiple properties. He cites one who used him in 12 deals. On his secret to success, he elaborates, “You don’t concentrate on the money you can make. You concentrate more on the transaction at hand and just making sure that your clients are satisfied.”
As he inventories lessons learned from 46 years in real estate, he says, “For many people, success is a dollar figure. You can make as much money as you want in this business, but if you’re not in tune with the true meaning of the business, you might not last that long. For me, success is every transaction that I close with a happy buyer and seller.”

The St. Monica's Church Simbang Gabi celebration with Mass celebrant, Bishop Matthew Elshoff, OFM.

You Don’t Always Need What You Want
Limjap’s clients often greet him with a wish list but will adapt for the right house. “When you’re looking for a property, you cannot get 100 percent of what you’re looking for.” He explains, “The way I look at it is that if 75 percent of it meets your needs, that might be it.”
He advises clients who are new to Los Angeles to get to know a neighborhood before committing. “Rent [a house] in a neighborhood that you’re interested in. Learn more about it.”
Limjap’s style doesn’t follow the playbook of real estate agencies depicted on reality TV. “I don’t have an entourage. I surround myself with the best people. I have a partner (Sara Elsayed) I’m mentoring who helps me out. I have a marketing guy that handles social media. A transaction coordinator and an assistant who make sure that I have the proper paperwork. They allow me to do what I do best, which is connect with people and help them reach their goals.”
The good news is, according to Realtor.com, home prices in West Los Angeles trended down by 10 percent in 2025. That is, they fell to a median of $1,225,000. Business website Kiplinger lists home prices in Los Angeles as the eighth highest in the U.S. Even with the burden of pricey residences, Metro L.A. is home to the largest Filipino community in America. Limjap’s door is open to Fil-Ams who are ready to plant roots in his town.
Consider This Before You Spend Your Children’s Inheritance
Limjap disagrees with the standard advice that all clients should spend the maximum amounts their budgets can handle because costlier homes appreciate faster than more economical ones. While this assumption isn’t unfounded, the endless hardship of an astronomical mortgage will torment a debt-averse soul more than it will a profligate libertine.
“You should ask yourself what you’re going to be comfortable affording,” says the prudent realtor. “Rather than pushing yourself, you should plan before you buy. Don’t just jump in, because the process has a lot of idiosyncrasies that are easy to miss.”
He advises, “Before you buy, a financial adviser can help you find a way to save more money or pay off debts and improve your credit score.” While he specializes in upscale markets, he’ll sit down with Fil-Ams in any financial stratum to find a place they’ll be happy to inhabit. Lucky ones might discover that a Santa Monica or West L.A. address is realistic without a $1.7 billion Powerball jackpot.
Thankful to Be a Filipino
He works smartly and humbly. “I’m thankful to God,” he says. “It’s a blessing that I’ve been in this business for over 40 years.”
Limjap acknowledges his Filipino heritage as a guiding light throughout his career. He speaks of certain attitudes that differentiated him from other agents. “I have instincts and values that are familiar to Filipinos.”

Gary Limjap in younger days with his overseas family at church in the Philippines.

“In the Philippines,” he continues, “we respect our elders. So, it was a culture shock when I started out. I was knocking on doors and seeing a lot of elderly people who were living by themselves. They told me I don’t have my son or daughter visiting me. That could never have happened in the Philippines.”
It might be a culture shock if the young agent, who was going door to door in 1985, woke up in 2026. “I’ve always been optimistic,” he says before stating a belief that still animates U.S. immigrants. “I still believe that good will always overcome evil, and I still believe this is a land of opportunity.”
Every night the news astonishes jaded pessimists, but he insists, “This is not going to last.” He compares current conditions to economic patterns that are consistent with classic real estate charts. “It’s all cyclical. This is still a country where your dreams can come true if you put in the hours and devotion.”

Through the years, many clients have enlisted him for multiple properties. He cites one who used him in 12 deals.

Limjap described a common mistake among homebuyers. “I’ve had people who kept waiting for interest rates to drop. If they had bought 15 years ago, they would have already made a lot of monies.” He emphasizes, “Real estate is very cyclical. It’s going to go up and it’s going to go down. But if you look at the statistics through the years as in the 1920s, ’30s, ’40s, et cetera, the latest cycle is always higher than the last cycle. It’s always going to go up in the long run.”
The irreproachable voice of Google artificial intelligence states, “The ultimate responsibility of a real estate agent is to act as a fiduciary, which legally and ethically mandates they prioritize their client’s best interests above all others, including their own.”
The obvious goal of making a sale is supplanted by the intangible goal of making a client happy. Limjap prospers by fulfilling every kind of dream. It’s wrong to assume that he was born for the trade. Doubts proliferated from an unnerving first day in the field. Here’s what happened in his own words:

The First Day I Traded My Dignity for a Listing
My first day as a real estate agent didn't involve a sleek suit or a luxury car. It began with my boss pointing to the door and telling me, “You aren’t making money sitting here looking pretty. Go find some doors and hit them until they open.” The expression ‘wet behind the ears’ is an understatement; I was practically underwater. Armed with nothing but a cheap clipboard and blind optimism, I set out to harass the neighborhood. Here I revisit scenes from my first day of humiliation:
Neighborhood Alarm
At the third house, a woman didn’t even let me finish my "Have You Thought About Selling?” script. She opened the door, glanced at the nervous sweat on my forehead, and screamed like I was the murderer in a slasher flick. She started dialing 911 before I could hand her my business card. I haven't sprinted that fast since high school P.E.
The Full Disclosure Listing
I knocked on another door, and a muffled voice replied, “One minute!” I straightened my tie, thinking, ‘This is it. My first lead.’ The door swung open, and there she was: wearing nothing but a very small, very damp towel. I’m not sure what she was expecting to find on her porch, but it clearly wasn't a stuttering 22-year-old rookie asking if she’d considered a market analysis.
My Reality Check
Looking back, I assert that my manager was “building my confidence” and “preparing me for the unpredictable nature of the market.” But frankly, my manager probably just wanted me out of the office so he could eat his lunch in peace without me asking him where the staples are kept. He didn’t build my confidence; he built my cardio.

Anthony Maddela is a staff correspondent who doesn’t just write about subjects; he interviews them.

More articles from Anthony Maddela

Sari Dalena: A Film Guerrera

Alma Cruz Miclat — Wed, 13 May 2026 16:37:54 +0000

Sari with Storyboards by Danny Dalena

With more than 30 years of practice as an independent filmmaker, Sari Raissa Lluch Dalena came to a realization that “women give birth to revolutions but are often forgotten by history.” She adds, “It’s time for a rebirth, to reclaim women’s rightful place in history and cinema!”
That challenge gave birth to Cinemartyrs, a full-length feature film that won the Best Director for Sari and the Special Jury Award at the 2025 Cinemalaya Independent Film Festival. The film, which explores historical trauma and guerrilla filmmaking in Mindanao, was 25 years in the making and traces its source back to her first feature-length documentary in 2001, Memories of a Forgotten War.

Sari with sons Kino and Paris with the Cinemalaya trophy

A Family of Cinephiles
As a child, Sari, whose parents are celebrated and consummate artists, recalls that one of her family’s favorite pastimes was watching movies. They include a lot of classic films, from the German expressionist Cabinet of Dr. Caligari at the Goethe-Institut along Aurora Blvd, to the Japanese samurai films of Akira Kurosawa in a Japanese film festival. Her father also rented VHS and Betamax tapes so they could watch Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, films by Vittorio De Sica and Alfred Hitchcock in their sala in Kamuning, Quezon City.
Sari was 13 years old when she watched her father, the realist-impressionist artist Danilo Dalena, paint on a large canvas an image of devotees praying inside their hometown church in Pakil, Laguna. She relates, “Smack dab at the center of the frame was a dog wantonly splayed on the church aisle. I asked, out of curiosity, why he painted a dog inside the church.” Her irreverent father replied, “Anak, ang aso na ‘yan, ako ‘yan! (Child, that dog, it’s me!)”
She found the reply absurd and it made her giggle. But it left a deep impression on her. The Asong Simbahan painting was part of the Dalena patriarch’s Pakil series depicting colorful scenes from the Turumba fiesta, the moro-moro during Lenten season, and the askals/aspins (street dogs) lolling around the church when the town plaza became too hot during summer.
Mowelfund Scholar
Almost 10 years later, Sari became a film scholar at the 16mm Experimental Film Workshop at Mowelfund Film Institute (MFI) with Raymond Red and Louie Quirino as mentors. She pitched the story, Asong Simbahan, to the MFI Director Nick Deocampo as follows: “My film tells the story of a young woman who goes inside an old church filled with dogs to confess. Dreamlike and lyrical images will be used to portray the young girl’s disturbed emotions and thoughts of sexual awakening and repentance.” It was chosen as one of the five short films to be produced in the workshop.

Sari with a Bolex camera and “Asong Simbahan”

Deocampo paired her up with Robert Quebral as cinematographer. Later on, Neil Daza came on board as additional cinematographer along with Jojo Gonzales and Dennis Empalmado as sound recordists. The workshop also provided basic production equipment such as Bolex, Arriflex, or Éclair ACL 16mm cameras, a few rolls of KODAK 16mm film stock, Nagra audio recorder, and post-production support such as discounted lab processing, developing, printing and access to Cinemonta 6-plate editing flatbed at the Philippine Information Agency (PIA). Mowelfund’s Ricky Orellana helped in finishing the film.
Asong Simbahan was shot on location in Pakil. Sari’s father Danny agreed to play the part of the painter and he even drew beautiful storyboards to help visualize the film. For the role of the protagonist, she enlisted her sister Kiri, who was just 18 years old at the time, and a Human Ecology student at UP Los Baños. Her other sister, Aba, a painter and sculptor, took care of the costumes and production needs while mother Julie Lluch, who rose to become a respected terracotta sculptor, helped with logistics. Sari says, “We rounded up the town lolas, mostly close relatives, as suggested by my beautiful grandmother Lola Loleng. The frisky dogs of Pakil came with their owners. Then, we ran to the lake to catch the last rays of sunset, the fading magic hour, where we had Kiri walk on water.”
“At the 1994 Gawad CCP para sa Alternatibong Pelikula at Video Awarding ceremony,” Sari recalls, “poet Maningning Miclat graced the event and read her beautiful poem, Ginugunita Kita. In my very first short film, Sari Saring Pinay for Sari Sari Store in 1992, Maningning was game to play the role of The Artist. Meanwhile, Raymond Red announced after a long deliberation with jury members that they were awarding Asong Simbahan 1st Prize in the Experimental (Film) Category.”
After Asong Simbahan, Sari Dalena was drawn to the impact of the cataclysmic 1991 Mt. Pinatubo volcanic eruption. She developed a story on prophetic visions based on the Old Testament that had parallels to events in the country. It related the devastation inflicted on a nation gone astray with the volcanic eruption that buried Central Luzon and drove the Americans out of Subic Bay Naval Base.
The film titled Puting Paalam/ White Funeral has a story line that goes: The bride, played by Myra Beltran, an independent contemporary dancer and choreographer, roams aimlessly in the desert. Later on, she turns away from God and becomes a harlot. Says Sari: “The bride represents the Philippines and because of her harlotry, people became sick. Murder and thievery prevailed. Lahar floods came soon after. Villages were buried and people were displaced. The bride repented her sins, healing the land. It was a resurrection of the people and a return to their ancestral land.”
From Mowelfund to NYU
Sari’s initial success brought her to New York University where she took up her Master in Fine Arts or MFA in Filmmaking. The rigorous graduate film program at NYU allowed her to collaborate with film and art students on various projects, mostly short features or documentary films, culminating in a graduate thesis film with no less than the multi-awarded American filmmaker and actor Spike Lee as her thesis adviser. The latter showed interest in Philippine history and liked the themes of immigration and diaspora tackled by Sari’s thesis film.

Sari and Spike Lee at New York University

The film, Rigodon was co-written and co-directed by her husband, Keith Sicat. It follows the lives of three Filipino immigrants in the age of racial profiling and government crackdowns after the September 11th attacks in New York City. Amado (played by actor Arthur Acuña) is a boxer too old to continue his profession in his native land. He goes to the United States only to meet the harsh conditions every migrant face as they dream of the families they leave behind. Salome (played by actress Chin-Chin Gutierrez) is the dreaming war-bride who has been married to an American for 10 years, but whose visions still haunt her as she pursues her “American” dream. And Dante (played by actor Joel Torre) is the rebel-poet who has been helping his fellow immigrants for over a decade but who himself needs help now.
Rigodon, according to the young, intense director, is the metaphor used in this film for the various colonial “partnerships” the Philippines endured. It is as well the dance of political spheres of influence, social groups, and the millions of individual Filipinos who have migrated to far-away lands for a new life that seems to go around in a spiral.
In a dissertation interview, Sari likened the filmmaking process of Rigodon to child birth due to the exacting demands required of her as a filmmaker. She was thankful to the Bayanihan-level of assistance accorded her and Sicat by the Filipino community in New York, as well as the institutional support of NYU and its artists’ collective. The Filipino community helped scout for locations for the film as well as tap contacts in the creative industries who could assist in the pre-production phase.
Rigodon took two years to complete, including the pre- and post-production. The cast portraying the three main characters involved a series of networks that required familial as well as institutional connections. Philippine-based actor Joel Torre flew straight from the airport to the film set in New York City to begin his role as Dante, while renowned theater stalwarts Arthur Acuña, Ching Valdes-Aran, and Banaue Miclat’s performances merged seamlessly to create unforgettable images. Banaue also sang Lucio San Pedro’s and Levi Celerio’s Sa Ugoy ng Duyan in the film.
A Retrospective

Sari Dalena Retrospective

“I had been thinking about a Sari Dalena retrospective for some time, but seeing Cinemartyrs gave the idea its urgency,” says Patrick F. Campos, film scholar, University of the Philippines associate professor and former director of the UP Film Institute (UPFI).
He curated Counter-Archives of a Film Guerrera: A Retrospective of Sari Dalena’s Cinema, which brings together “so many strands of Sari Dalena’s work: her formal rigor, her political commitments, her personal and family history, and her place in a longer lineage of unsung women filmmakers.”
Campos continues: “It reminded me that many younger viewers do not realize how long she has been working or how prolific she is, partly because she has remained independent in the sense of refusing to bend her practice for wider approval. Very few women have sustained that kind of body of work across both alternative and mainstream contexts. It felt like the right time to look at her work as a whole and to celebrate it.”
Sari’s feature films, documentaries, hybrids, experimental works, and video art are being screened in a multisite retrospective which started in March and continues until May. Following screenings with exhibit, masterclasses and talkbacks were held at the UPFI in Diliman as well as at Mowelfund Center in QC, and UP Mindanao and The Green House Cinema, both in Davao City, plus a few more stops.
This author had an opportunity to watch Sari’s Retrospective of short films at Dengcar Theater of Mowelfund Center on April 15 and 22. The first set of shorts includes Bullet Days, Kamikaze (Divine Wind), Asong Simbahan, Mumunting Krus and Puting Paalam.
The short films, all in B&W, are artistically and technically crafted. The last three films are Sari’s personal favorites, as she says, “Those were pure, magical times, to create the very first short films undertaken in collaboration with my family.” She intuits that it was also about testing film conventions in terms of form and subject matter. It also coincides with a period of spiritual awakening for her, this “filming Godscapes – a young woman walking on water, children playing a game of rituals with dead animals and flowers, a final bridal march into a new heaven and earth taking place in the harsh landscape of lahar.” Sari emphatically says she loves the freedom of making experimental films, as it taught her to be bold and to listen to her duende, that powerful art force in Federico Garcia Lorca’s aesthetic theory and writings.

Sari's Retrospective at Mowelfund Poster

Pinay Power in Philippine Cinema
Women figure in the filmography of Sari Dalena. Jamming on an Old Saya is Sari’s documentary on multi-awarded author Gilda Cordero-Fernando’s celebrated fashion theater show 30 years ago. The idea of putting up such a show, wrote Gilda in Philippine Daily Inquirer on June 7, 2015, began with a pile of old saya (skirts with blouse) in her 1930s childhood she rediscovered in the old steamer trunk left over from her antique shop days. She said, “In 1978 they were selling for P12, P24 or P32. Few customers were interested in old clothes they wouldn’t know what to do with, and fearful of their dead owners haunting them.”
With haute couture designer Steve de Leon, production designer Salvador “Badong” Bernal, Tessie Macasaet, Gigi Escalante, and installation artist Ann Wizer, Gilda engaged Wanda Louwallein, and for over-all theater direction, CCP’s then resident director, Nonon Padilla to produce a spectacle which was not only a fashion show, but also a cultural Pinoy gem–very Gilda Cordero Fernando. It was a jam of a production that also birthed a coffee table book of the same title published by Anvil’s Karina Bolasco.
Other films Sari directed and produced are Guerrera/Warrior Women (2012), a haunting short documentary on the lives of activists Judy Taguiwalo, Mila Aguilar, Aida CF Santos, and Hilda Narciso during the early days of student activism and Martial Law; Ka Oryang, Cinema One Originals for which she won four awards: Best Director, Best Picture, Best Music, and Best Cinematography; and Ang Kababaihan ng Malolos.
In the essay, Pinay Power in Philippine Cinema published in 2018, Sari wrote about her observations on the work and contribution of women in Philippine cinema. She shared, “Women clearly dominate the realm of documentaries. That year I had the opportunity to be part of the Daang Dokyu curatorial team, a festival run and organized by the leading documentary filmmakers in the country, all of whom are women. I asked some of them why female filmmakers feel more at home with documentaries than with fiction films, and they cited creative autonomy and flexibility in shooting schedules. More emphatically they said that women innately possess patience and compassion — nurturing traits that are essential to building genuine connections with subjects in the non-fiction filmmaking world.”

Sari’s feature films, documentaries, hybrids, experimental works, and video art are being screened in a multisite retrospective which started in March and continues until May.

That was just the more positive angle, she adds. “In truth, many women face misogyny in the narrative film space. This is why, even if females outnumber males in film school, many women don’t make it to the director’s chair, even if that is where they dream to be. Too many traumatic experiences become the barrier. This is also why I was compelled to make Cinemartyrs – it is a way to put a face on the misogynistic attitudes from crewmembers all the way up to the cultural gatekeepers. The lines uttered in those scenes in the film all came from real life.”
For most of Sari’s films, history and literature are her primary focus. “I am constantly asking questions, looking for ways I can help shed light for younger generations of Filipinos and their sense of identity. To make sure this type of documentary is also dynamic, I play with form, add personal touches, and merge the subjective with the objective. I often find small, personal histories more interesting than broad-stroke chronicles.”
That a Retrospective on a relatively young filmmaker, and a woman at that, was organized in about six months, with the last three being the most intense, according to curator Patrick Campos, is a feat in itself. He was able to foreground the themes the filmmaker has pursued over the years, especially her connections to Mindanao. “So we worked with curators, educators, and filmmakers in different spaces there. It felt especially fitting that the retrospective opened on March 6, the 120th anniversary of the Bud Dajo massacre, which figures in two of her films, including Cinemartyrs, and on the weekend of International Women’s Day." Indeed, Sari has earned her rightful place in the history of Philippine cinema, in the history of Philippine women filmmakers.

Sari with curator Patrick Campos and UPFI professors

As in her earlier films which were supported by her parents and two sisters, Sari Raissa Lluch Dalena revels in the continued family support in her amazing film journey as she concludes, “Most importantly having a fabulous feminist filmmaker husband (Keith Sicat) who is a big dreamer like me and supportive sons (Kino and Paris) who enjoy hanging around my set makes this process magical. I cannot ask for anything more.”

The Sicat Family in Rotterdam Film Festival

Alma Cruz Miclat is a freelance writer and author of books: Soul Searchers and Dreamers: Artists’ Profiles and Soul Searchers and Dreamers, Volume II, and co-author with Mario I. Miclat, Maningning Miclat and Banaue Miclat of Beyond the Great Wall: A Family Journal, a National Book Awardee for biography/autobiography in 2007.

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