MAGDALENA GAMAYO

Textile Weaver
Ilocano
Pinili, Ilocos Norte
2012

The Ilocos Norte that Magdalena Gamayo knows is only a couple of hours drive away
from the capital of Laoag, but is far removed from the quickening pulse of the emergent
city. Instead, it remains a quiet rural enclave dedicated to rice, cotton and tobacco crops.
2012 Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan awardee, Magdalena Gamayo still owes a lot to the
land and the annual harvest. Despite her status as master weaver, weaving alone is not
enough.

Also, even though the roads are much improved, sourcing quality cotton threads for her
abel is still a challenge. Even though the North is known for its cotton, it does not have
thread factories to spin bales of cotton into spools of thread. Instead, Magdalena has to
rely on local merchants with their limited supplies. She used to spin her own cotton and
brushed it with beeswax to make it stronger, but after the Second World War, she now
relies on market-bought thread. She still remembers trading rice for thread, although
those bartering days are over. Thread is more expensive nowadays, and of poorer quality.
Often, she has had to reject samples but often she has little choice in the matter. There
are less local suppliers of thread nowadays, a sign that there is less demand for their
wares, but nonetheless, the abel-weaving tradition in Ilocos remains strong, and there are
no better artists who exemplify the best of Filipino abel weaving tradition than Magdalena
Gamayo.

She says good thread has to be resilient, able to withstand several passes through the
loom. It should have a good weight and color, its fibers should not be loose, and it should
endure years of use. Magdalena prefers to work with linen, because it is obedient to the
master weaver’s touch. In her personal collection are abel that have been in use for
generations, gradually getting softer from handling, but retaining their structural integrity
and intricate designs. Evident is the handiwork that went into painstakingly arranging bolts
of different-colored threads on the four-pedal loom and the math that went with it to ensure
that the patterns are sharp and crisp and evenly spaced.

There is more to weaving than knowing how to choose quality thread and how to intuit
thread placements on the loom. One must also know the proper tension to the threads so
that the warp, or the lengthwise threads that make up the frame of the cloth, can sustain
the punishing over-and-under insertion of the crosswise threads, known as the weft. To
tie the warp threads too tightly to the anchoring pins would cause them to break easily
and result in unsightly bumps in the fabric where the threads were knotted together; to tie
the warp threads too loosely would result in the pattern coming apart. There is also a
matter of keeping a steady rhythm so that the shuttle bearing the weft threads passes
through the warp evenly to ensure a smooth finish. This complicated process is no big
deal for computerized machines but imagine recreating the same process everyday
manually, relying only on instinct, practice, and innate skill.
Magdalena has been relying on her instincts, practiced hands, and innate skills for years,
starting at the age 16, when she learned the art of weaving from her aunt. She was never
formally taught, but picked up the art on her own by copying the patterns. At that time,
every girl in her village knew how to weave, and there would be an informal competition
among her cousins and friends as to who could weave the finest, who could be more
consistent. Her father bought her her first loom at the age of 19; he obtained the sag’gat or
hard wood himself and gave the task to a local craftsman. Her first loom lasted her at
least 30 years, sustaining her through years of marriage and motherhood. When it was
beyond repair, she considers herself lucky to have been able to buy a secondhand
one. Today, there are few locals who have the skills to put together a loom similar to
the ones Magdalena uses: a sturdy wooden frame with three foot pedals with wide
horizontal beams to support the warp and an even longer lengthwise frame to keep the
threads in place. It is different from the back strap loom traditionally used in the Cordillera,
where the warp is anchored to a stationary object on one end and to the weaver’s body
on the other end.

Today, Magdalena has two students: her cousin’s daughter-in-law, who moved to
Magdalena’s community after marrying into Magdalena’s family; and her sister-in-law,
who learned how to weave relatively late, at the age of 38. She has had other students
before. She starts them on the triple-toned warp binakol, and only when she is satisfied
with the quality of their work does she teach them other designs.

Even though Magdalena is already 88 years old, her eyesight still holds true and she still
takes care of arranging the threads on the loom. Weavers agree that in weaving, it is the
hardest task of all. The slightest miscalculation can result in a misaligned design that
doesn’t reveal itself until it’s too late.

Magdalena has taught herself the traditional patterns of binakol, inuritan (geometric
design), kusikos (spiral forms similar to oranges), and sinan-sabong (flowers), which is
the most challenging pattern. She has also taught herself to recreate designs, which is a
useful skill particularly when she is only able to see the design but does not have a sample
of how it is done.

Threading the shuttle through the warp, over and under the strands to tease out the
pattern, while expertly manipulating the foot pedals to ensure that the right column of
fibers is raised or lowered at the exact instant to make way for the onrushing shuttle, is
also a challenge for the dexterous. It is punishing work, hard on the back and leg muscles,
demanding on the eyes, resulting in rough calluses on the hands. Still, when a master
weaver is done with her work, what results is a thing of beauty.

Magdalena’s handiworks are finer than most abel –her blankets have a very high thread
count and her designs are the most intricate and can sometimes take up to five colors.
Making sure the right colored threads are spaced evenly and keeping accurate count is
a challenge that Magdalena has always unerringly met. The beauty of her designs lies in
how delicate the patterns are, and yet how uniform the weave. Magdalena’s calloused
hands breathe life to her work and her unique products are testament to how machines
can never hope to equal the human art. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

TEOFILO GARCIA
Casque Maker
Ilocano
San Quintin, Abra
2012

Each time Teofilo Garcia leaves his farm in San Quintin, Abra, he makes it a point to wear
a tabungaw. People in the nearby towns of the province, in neighboring Sta. Maria and
Vigan in Ilocos Sur, and as far as Laoag in Ilocos Norte sit up and take notice of his
unique, functional and elegant headpiece that shields him from the rain and the sun. A
closer look would reveal that it is made of the native gourd, hollowed out, polished, and
varnished to a bright orange sheen to improve its weather resistance. The inside is lined
with finely woven rattan matting, and the brim sports a subtle bamboo weave for accent.

Because he takes pride in wearing his creations, Teofilo has gotten many orders as a
result. Through his own efforts, through word of mouth, and through his own participation
in an annual harvest festival in his local Abra, a lot of people have discovered about the
wonders of the tabungaw as a practical alternative. Hundreds have sought him out at his
home to order their own native all-weather headgear. His clients have worn his work, sent
them as gifts to their relatives abroad, and showed them off as a masterpiece of Filipino
craftsmanship. With the proper care, a well-made tabungaw can last up to three to four
generations, and the ones created by Teofilo are among the best there are. They are so
sturdy that generally, farmers need to own only one at a time. Even Teofilo and his son
only own one tabungaw each.

Although he has been a master artisan since he learned how to make gourd casques and
weave baskets from his grandfather at the age of 15, Teofilo is still principally a farmer.
Most of the year is spent working the land to coax a good harvest to enable him to send
his five children to school. But during the months that his land is not planted to rice and
tobacco, or caring for his herd of cows, he devotes his land to planting upo (family
Cucurbitaceae), which he then transforms into the traditional tabungaw. Crafting the
tabungaw from planting and harvesting the upo, refining the uway (rattan) that make up
the lining of the tabungaw, weaving the puser (bamboo) that serves as the accent for the
work, and finishing the work takes up a lot of time. It takes at least seven days to finish
one tabungaw, assuming that all the materials are available. He uses only simple hand
tools that he designed himself and he is involved in each stage of the production.

His craft demands a lot of personal input from him because there is hardly any way for
him to source the materials he needs for his work unless he makes them himself. He has
had to turn down large orders because he has no one to help him, and in any case, there
is no one who matches his level of skill. Sometimes, he wants to give up because it’s hard
work, but he doesn’t do it, for fear that the art will end with him.
His output is also limited by his harvest of gourds. In a good year and blessed with good
weather, he can make up to 100 pieces. This year, inspired by increasing orders, he plans
to increase the area of his farm dedicated to gourd planting. His increased visibility is also
partly the result of the local agricultural fairs organized by the local government where he
takes out a booth every year to showcase his work.

Since he learned the craft, he has not stopped innovating. Each handcrafted tabungaw is
the product of years of study and careful attention to the elements that make up the entire
piece. Previously, he used nito (vine trimmings) to decorate the outside of the headgear
and sourced it from Cagayan, but when his relative who supplied him with the raw
materials passed away, he decided to experiment with more locally accessible materials.
His training in weaving baskets served him in good stead, and he was able to apply that
skill when he turned to bamboo as an alternative to nito.

He has developed a feel for each component, and engages in a lot of experimentation to
determine why this particular variety of upo is more resistant to decay, why this particular
species of rattan is unsuitable because it is less pliant to his touch. He has been looking
for other varieties of upo to use as raw materials, but it has proven difficult since he does
not have access to a plant database that would make his work easier. He had been
interested in certain varieties that showed promise but he has been unable to track them
down and now they are no longer available in his area.

It would be to his advantage if he could outsource the preparation of the raw materials so
that he can focus on the more technical aspects of production. But it’s not that easy
to develop in others the same feel for materials with which he has been gifted.

He rues the fact that there is very little interest by other people to make tabungaws even
though it has potential as an export product. Now that his children are grown up, he has
time to teach others the craft and is looking forward to the possibility. He is also eager to
explore new designs, and he has been innovating on his traditional designs based on
inspirations from his trips to the nearby provinces. He has developed many patterns and
built on the traditional patterns that he learned when he was young. He is interested in
developing new ways to show contrast between the shades of matting, and how to keep
the tabungaw colorfast regardless of the weather. Years after he first learned how to make
a tabungaw, it still takes him a long time to perfect the casque because he is still perfecting
his art. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

ALONZO SACLAG
Musician and Dancer
Kalinga
Lubugan, Kalinga
2000

History, they say, is always written from the perspective of the dominant class. It is not as
objective an account as we were led to believe when, as elementary schoolchildren, we
were made to memorize the details of the lives of Jose Rizal and the other notable
ilustrados. History is about as impartial as the editorials we eagerly devour today, the
ones that extol and chastise the exploits and the foibles of government, but with a distinct
advantage: by virtue of its form, it takes on an aura of authority. And this authority is one
ordinary schoolchildren and adults alike are hardly likely to challenge.

Seemingly maligned by both history and popular media are the people of the Kalinga.
Even in the earliest Spanish Chronicles, they were depicted as so hostile that Dominican
missionaries were forced to abandon their plans to build Christian missions in the area.
Their more recent battle against the Marcos administration’s plans to build a series of
hydroelectric dams along the Chico River only added to their notoriety. The very name
they have taken on was a label tagged on to them by the neighboring Ibanag and
Gaddang. It meant “enemy” – a throwback, no doubt, to the days when head taking was
a common and noble practice, intended not only to demonstrate bravery but, more
importantly, to safeguard lives and property.

Such was the emphasis placed on the fierceness of the Kalinga that, except for scholars,
researchers, and cultural workers, very few know about their rich culture and heritage.
Which is why the efforts of Alonzo Saclag, declared Manlilikha ng Bayan for 2000,
become all the more significant. A Kalinga master of dance and the performing arts, he
has made it his mission to create and nurture a greater consciousness and appreciation
of Kalinga culture, among the Kalinga themselves and beyond their borders.

As a young boy in Lubuagan, Kalinga, Alonzo Saclag found endless fascination in the
sights and sounds of day-to-day village life and ritual. According to his son, Robinson, he
received no instruction, formal or otherwise, in the performing arts. Yet he has mastered
not only the Kalinga musical instruments but also the dance patterns and movements
associated with his people’s rituals. His tool was observation, his teacher, experience.
Coupled with these was a keen interest in – a passion, if you would – the culture that was
his inheritance.

This passion he clearly intends to pass on to the other members of his community,
particularly to the younger generation which, he notes, needs to understand and value
the nuances of their traditional laws and beliefs. Although Kalinga life and culture have
remained generally unchanged partly due to their relative isolation, he observes that
some of them are tempted by the illusion of city life. He actively advocates the
documentation of their philosophies before they become completely eroded by foreign
influences – whether cultural, political, or economic – and are completely forgotten by his
people.

He cites as an example the budong or the peace-pact, an established remedy for the
tribal wars that continue to rack their region. He notes sadly that some fail to grasp the
true meaning of the pact and the lives that are lost in a tribal war. These he sees as akin
to a sacrifice made to keep the peace intact. His attitude towards the present-day
institution is one of uncertainty. His disillusionment stems from bitter experience.
Notwithstanding the many tribal wars and peace-pacts he and his people have fought and
sworn to, lasting peace stays elusive.
Much of his energy is channeled towards different preservation efforts. He has for years
urged the members of his community to preserve their artifacts and archaeological sites.
While the unwritten laws and epics chronicle their victories as a people, their artifacts
afford us a glimpse into their day-to-day existence. One such artifact is the Kalinga gong
or the gangsa, the making of which is a disappearing trade. He has endeavored to revive
this dying craft. And to hold these and other treasures, he lobbied for two years with the
provincial government to grant funds to convert the abandoned Capitol Building into a
museum. His persistence was finally rewarded when, with support from the provincial
government and other patrons, the Lubuagan branch of the National Museum was
established.

His campaigns have brought him to schools where he discusses various issues with
administrators. One striking result of these efforts is the children’s practice of donning the
Kalinga costume for important school events such as graduation and First Communion.
To celebrate indigenous values, he puts up skits and other creative presentations in
various schools. At his cue, the mountains seem to resound as elementary schoolchildren
learn the folk songs their parents and grandparents once sang. He has even argued for
the broadcast of traditional Kalinga music alongside contemporary music in the local radio
station.

To guarantee that his knowledge in the performing arts is passed on to others, he formed
the Kalinga Budong Dance Troupe. He takes the young men and women who come to
him under his charge and they learn about the music and dance of their ancestors. While
many have expressed a genuine desire to represent and promote Kalinga performing
arts, he admits that a handful have other, more personal, motives. Because the troupe
occasionally goes on tour, joining it is perceived by some as a chance to see places other
than mountains they call home. Who can resist the lure of foreign places, he concedes.

His own wife and children have joined him in his travels and performances, and though
they match his commitment and his dedication, he acknowledges, with a playful grin, that
his nine children have yet to equal his graceful movements.

While his young charges dream of visiting other places, he hopes to recreate a Kalinga
village comparable to those he remembers from his youth. In it, he hopes to build a
traditional structure that will house the art and artifacts of his people, a showcase of
Kalinga artistry and genius and a source of pride for his community. He remembers with
fondness the Kalinga House in the grounds of the Expo Filipino in Pampanga. Cool even
in the midday heat, he says it served as a retreat not only for the Kalinga participants but
also for some of the students who had visited the Expo.

Already he has purchased a piece of land where his village is to take root. To the people
of his community, he has entrusted the task of planting a shelter of trees and other plants,
providing the seedling himself, just as he did years before to counter the threat of erosion.
In this village, he imagines waking up to a symphony of bird song, a rare occurrence of
late yet one he zealously sought through his call for a prohibition on hunting.
But so far, the village remains a picture that he sees only in his mind’s eye. The house
remains a vision on paper, peopled only by the folk of his imagination. The seedlings of
wild fruit trees fill his house, like sentinels, waiting to be transplanted. One, in fact, has
already begun to flower and bear fruit, proof of the long wait he has had to endure.

Waiting, however, is a small difficulty. The greater obstacle appears to be gaining the
support of those who continue to question and challenge his motives. One would think
that with such a noble purpose, one would have no trouble finding allies, not the least
among the Kalinga themselves. Reality, though, suggests the contrary.

But Alonzo Saclag remains unfazed. With characteristic generosity, he does not, for
instance, begrudge nor fear the efforts others take to put up a group similar to his much-
celebrated Kalinga Budong Dance Troupe. Moreover, he welcomes the idea of
collaborating with them, should the opportunity present itself.

In the meantime, he perseveres in his work, braving long hours of travel even in the face
of a tribal war. His wife, Rebecca, who faithfully follows him wherever his travels take him,
says this is his mission: to continue to nurture and uphold the Kalinga culture, the birthright
of his children. (Salve de la Paz)

EDUARDO MUTUC
Metalsmith
Kapampangan
Apalit Pampanga
2004

Eduardo Mutuc is an artist who has dedicated his life to creating religious and secular art
in silver, bronze and wood. His intricately detailed retablos, mirrors, altars, and carosas
are in churches and private collections. A number of these works are quite large, some
exceeding forty feet, while some are very small and feature very fine and delicate
craftsmanship.

For an artist whose work graces cathedrals and churches, Mutuc works in humble
surroundings. His studio occupies a corner of his yard and shares space with a tailoring
shop. During the recent rains, the river beside his lot overflowed and water flooded his
studio in Apalit, Pampanga, drenching his woodblocks. Mutuc takes it all in stride.

He discovered his talents in sculpture and metalwork quite late. He was 29 when he
decided to supplement his income from farming for the relatively more secure job of
woodcarving. He spent his first year as an apprentice to carvers of household furniture. It
was difficult at the beginning, but thanks to his mentors, he was able to develop valuable
skills that would serve him in good stead later on. The hardest challenge for him was
learning a profession that he had no prior knowledge about, but poverty was a powerful
motivation. Although his daily wage of P3.00 didn’t go far to support his wife and the first
three of nine children (one of whom has already died), choices were limited for a man
who only finished elementary school.
Things began to change after his fifth or sixth year as a furniture maker, when a colleague
taught him the art of silver plating. This technique is often used to emulate gold and silver
leaf in the decoration of saints and religious screens found in colonial churches. He left
the furniture shop and struck out on his own with another friend. One of his first
commissions came from Monsignor Fidelis Limcauco, who asked him to create a
tabernacle for the parish of Fairview , Quezon City . Clients began to commission him to
create other pieces, many of which are based on Spanish colonial designs. Peak seasons
are before Holy Week and Christmas. He derives inspiration from traditional religious
designs and infuses his own ideas into the finished product.

While he finds meaning in making pieces for the church, orders for commissioned pieces
have become fewer because of the economic slump. But even for his secular pieces, he
finds inspiration in church art.

When he is working on metalwork, he begins with a detailed drawing. He then transfers

the design on a block of wood by chiseling out the details. He then covers the wood with
a metal sheet, and then coaxes out the design through careful hammering with a mallet
and an old rubber slipper. Afterwards, he dips the solid metal sheet in molten silver, a
dangerous task that must be done in the open air lest the poisonous fumes overcome
him. He then proceeds to do more hammering and polishing to bring out the details of the
piece.

Each piece has its own demands. Many times the size of the subject demands larger and
more expansive designs to make a statement from afar. Other times it may best be
expressed through careful detailing that needs close observation before it becomes
evident. Mistakes are costly, as brass and silver are expensive. While small tears or
mistakes in cutting out the design could be easily remedied, an error in measurement or
carving might require him to do it over. He acknowledges that he makes fewer mistakes
now that he has become more expert in his craft.

Mutuc’s works are more than merely decorative. They add character and splendor to their
setting. His spectacular shiny retablos that decorate an apse or chapel provide focus for
contemplation and devotion while the faithful commune with the Divine in regular church
celebrations.

He notes that handmade pieces are finer and more delicate than machine pressed pieces,
particularly when commissioned pieces involve human representations. “Facial
expressions are among the hardest to do,” says Mutuc who uses different molds for each
cherub to ensure their individuality. His cherubin are engaging creatures, whose strikingly
lifelike quality comes through the silverplate. They look out at the worshippers with a
concerned, kindly air, seemingly on the alert to guide their prayers upward.

According to him, craftsmanship begins with respect for one’s tools and the medium. The
first thing he teaches his students is how to hold the chisel and hammer properly to
promote ease of use and prevent fatigue and mistakes because of improper handling. He
also cautions against working with an eye towards easy money. The only way to improve
one’s skills, he says, is to immerse oneself, learn the technique, and to practice. Only in
perfecting one’s craft can there be real reward. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

GINAW BILOG (+ 2003)

Poet
Hanunuo Mangyan
Panaytayan, Oriental Mindoro
1993

A common cultural aspect among cultural communities nationwide is the oral tradition
characterized by poetic verses which are either sung or chanted. However, what
distinguishes the rich Mangyan literary tradition from others is the ambahan, a poetic
literary form composed of seven-syllable lines used to convey messages through
metaphors and images. The ambahan is sung and its messages range from courtship,
giving advice to the young, asking for a place to stay, saying goodbye to a dear friend
and so on. Such an oral tradition is commonplace among indigenous cultural groups but
the ambahan has remained in existence today chiefly because it is etched on bamboo
tubes using ancient Southeast Asian, pre-colonial script called surat Mangyan.

Ginaw Bilog, Hanunoo Mangyan from Mansalay, Mindoro, grew up in such a cultural
environment. Already steeped in the wisdom that the ambahan is a key to the
understanding of the Mangyan soul, Ginaw took it upon himself to continually keep scores
of ambahan poetry recorded, not only on bamboo tubes but on old, dog-eared notebooks
passed on to him by friends.

Most treasured of his collection are those inherited from his father and grandfather,
sources of inspiration and guidance for his creative endeavors. To this day, Ginaw shares
old and new ambahans with his fellow Mangyans and promotes this poetic form in every
occasion.

Through the dedication of individuals like Ginaw, the ambahan poetry and other traditional
art forms from our indigenous peoples will continue to live.

The Filipinos are grateful to the Hanunoo Mangyan for having preserved a distinctive
heritage form our ancient civilization that colonial rule had nearly succeeded in
destroying. The nation is justifiably proud of Ginaw Bilog for vigorously promoting the
elegantly poetic art of the surat Mangyan and the ambahan. (Prof. Felipe M. de Leon,
Jr.)
FEDERICO CABALLERO
Epic Chanter
Sulod-Bukidnon
Calinog, Iloilo
2000

Stories are the lifeblood of a people. In the stories people tell lies a window to what they
think, believe, and desire. In truth, a people’s stories soundly encapsulate the essence of
their humanity. And this circumstance is not peculiar to any one group. It is as a thread
that weaves through the civilizations of the ancient East and the cultures of the industrial
West.

So significant is the role they play that to poison a people’s stories, says African writer
Ben Okri, is to poison their lives. This truth resonates in the experience of many. In the
folklore of the Tagalog people, tales abound of a mythical hero who, once freed from
imprisonment in a sacred mountain, would come to liberate the nation. The crafty
Spaniards seized upon this myth and used it as a tool for further subjugation. They harped
on it, enshrining it in the consciousness of every Tagalog, dangling this legendary
champion in front of their eyes as one would the proverbial carrot. So insidious was this
myth that suffering in silence and waiting for deliverance became a virtue. And for a time,
it lulled the people into a false sense of hope, smothering all desire to rise up in arms.

Yet stories can also stir up a people long asleep, awaken senses that have lain dormant
or been dulled by the neglect of many centuries. Throughout history, not a few have
expressed the belief that the pen is more powerful than any sword, double-edged though
it may be. Nonetheless, that the purpose of stories is to change lives may not be
immediately self-evident. But history, or more significantly individual insight, stands
witness to this truth. And perhaps it is partly this realization that compels Federico
Caballero, a Panay-Bukidnon from the mountains of Central Panay to ceaselessly work
for the documentation of the oral literature, particularly the epics, of his people. These ten
epics, rendered in a language that, although related to Kiniray-a, is no longer spoken,
constitute an encyclopedic folklore one only the most persevering and the most gifted of
disciples can learn. Together with scholars, artists, and advocates of culture, he
painstakingly pieces together the elements of this oral tradition nearly lost.

His own love for his people’s folklore began when he was a small child. His mother would
lull his brothers and sister to sleep, chanting an episode in time to the gentle swaying of
the hammock. Sometimes it was his great-great-grandmother, his Anggoy Omil, who
would chant the epics. Nong Pedring remembers how he would press against them as
they cuddled his younger siblings, his imagination recreating the heroes and beautiful
maidens of their tales. In his mind, Labaw Dunggon and Humadapnon grew into mythical
proportions, heroes as real as the earth on which their hut stood and the river that
nourished it. Each night, he learned more about where their adventures brought them, be
it to enchanted caves peopled by charmed folk or the underworld to rescue an unwitting
prisoner from the clutches of an evil being. And the more he learned, the greater his
fascination became. When his mother or his Anggoy would inadvertently nod off, he would
beg them to stay awake and finish the tale.

His fascination naturally grew into a desire to learn to chant the epics himself. Spurred on
by this, he showed an almost enterprising facet: when asked by his Anggoy to fetch water
from the river, pound rice, or pull grass from the kaingin, he would agree to do so on the
condition that he be taught to chant an epic. Such audacity could very well have earned
him a scolding. But it was his earnestness that clearly shone through. Not long after, he
conquered all ten epics and other forms of oral literature, besides.

When both his Anggoy and his mother had passed on, Nong Pedring continued the
tradition, collaborating with researchers to document what is customarily referred to as
Humadapnon and Labaw Dunggon epics. Although his siblings also share the gift of their
forebears, he alone persevered in the task, unmindful of the disapproval of his three
children. He explains that like a number of people in their community, they find no pride
in claiming their Panay-Bukidnon heritage. In the Light of things, such an attitude is
completely understandable. Clearly experience has not been kind. Even history is rife
with instances of intolerance. Prejudice, after all, has always been the recourse of those
who cannot look beyond differences in speech and clothing.

Nong Pedring takes upon himself the task of setting things right. He works with the Bureau
of Nonformal Education, travelling from barangay to barangay, trying to convince the older
folk of the necessity and benefits of learning to read and write. Although he is warmly
received in these places, he has an admittedly difficult assignment. The older people
generally no longer feel up to the challenge of learning a new skill. Besides, they see little
use in it. He appeals to them by saying their help is needed to put into writing their
indigenous beliefs, traditions, and literature. Once documentation is completed, teaching
the younger people, especially those who have expressed interest, becomes simple and
uncomplicated.

In the epics of his ancestors, he finds the root of many of the convictions they adhere to
even today. And the concerns addressed by the epics are diverse, from human and family
relations to matters that affect the environment. In the epic Tikung Kadlum, a man incurs
the wrath of a man-eating witch for cutting down a tree without permission. To make
matters worse, the tree happens to be one that the witch particularly held in regard. In
exchange for the tree, she demands the life of his two daughters. This in her mind is a
truly fair exchange. The lesson is clear, universal, and enduring, one every person would
do well to heed: at all times, justice must be meted out.

In his own way, Nong Pedring strives to dispense justice in the community through his
work as a manughusay – an arbiter of conflicts. In the days before the advent of the local
government system, arbiters like him were consulted on matters concerning family,
neighbor relations, and property. Even today, the barangay officials in his home in
Garangan call for him to help in resolving these affairs. Nong Pedring willingly assists,
believing this to be the better way. He feels disputes need to be discussed by those
concerned at the level of the local government. He disagrees with the rashness of
immediately going to the courts without attempting any resolution. Apart from being
expensive, it has the tendency of alienating people further, threatening to destroy the very
fabric of the community he, as manughusay, has sworn to safeguard.

And his influence extends far beyond the bounds of his community. He is considered
bantugan, a person who has attained distinction. Dr. Alicia Magos a respected folklorist
from the University of the Philippines in the Visayas who has worked with him on the
documentation project, says Nong Pedring has the heart of a scholar. He understood her
vision for the culture of the Panay-Bukidnon. Perhaps even to say that he shares her
vision is not an overstatement.

For his part, Nong Pedring stays resolute in his purpose. Unlike the hammock that has
played so important a role in his story, he is swayed neither by the criticism of some nor
the adulation of others. He continues to travel form his home in the mountains of Calinog
to the busy district of Iloilo City , patiently doing his share in the work that has spanned
nearly a decade. Dr. Magos credits him with opening the eyes of academicians,
advocates, and artists to the beauty of Panay-Bukidnon oral tradition. Yet the greater
triumph is one nearer to Nong Pedring’s heart. His children and family have of late
rediscovered pride in their heritage. They are no longer ashamed of their roots as they
once were. To Nong Pedring, there is perhaps no better reason than this to carry on with
his work.

MASINO INTARAY (+ 2013)

Musician and Storyteller
Pala’wan
Brookes Point, Palawan
1993

Living in the highlands of southern Palawan are the Palawan people, who, together with
the Batak and Tagbanwa, are the major indigenous cultural communities of Palawan.

The Palawan possess a rich, intense yet highly refined culture encompassing both the
visible and invisible worlds. They may not exhibit the ornate splendor of the Maranaw nor
the striking elegance of the Yakan, but their elaborate conemology, extensive poetic and
literary traditions, multi-level architecture, musical concepts, social ethic and rituals reveal
a deeply spiritual sensibility and subtle inner life of a people attuned to the myriad
energies and forms of luxurious mountain universe that is their abode, a forest
environment of great trees, countless species of plants and animals, and a magnificent
firmament.

The Palawan have no notion of property. To them, the earth, sea, sky and nature’s
elements belong to no one. Their basic social ethic is one sharing. Their most important
rituals such as the tambilaw and the tinapay are forms of vast and lavish sharing,
particularly of food and drinks, skills and ideas.
The tambilaw is a collective cooking and sharing of rice which is a ritual offering to the
Lord of Rice, Ampo’t Paray, while the tinapay is the rice wine drinking ceremony. It is
during such occasions that the basal, or gong music ensemble, plays a vital role in the
life of the community. For it is the music of the basal that collectively and spiritually
connects the Palawan with the Great Lord, Ampo and the Master Rice, Ampo’t Paray.
The basal enlivens the night long fast of the drinking of the rice wine, bringing together
about one hundred guests under the roof of the kolon banwa (big house).

The gimbal (tubular drum) begins the music with a basic rhythm, then enter the sanang (
pair of small gongs with boss and narrow rims) and one to three agungs (gongs with high
bossed and wide turned – in rims).

Basal ensemble playing is an accurate and wonderful metaphor for the basic custom of
sharing among the Palawan . For in this music no one instrument predominates. The
techniques of interlocking, counterpoint, alternation and colotomy ensure a collective
oneness. The two sanang play in alternative dynamics. When one plays loudly, the other
plays softly. Contrapuntal patterns govern the interaction of the agung with the sanang
and gimbal. It is the music of “punctuation, rhythm and color rather than melody”. Its very
essence is creative cooperation and togetherness.

A non-musical instrumental element of the basal are the young women’s rapid stamping
rhythm of their foot as they move back and forth on the bamboo slatted floor of the kolon
banwa, carrying taro leaves on both hands at their sides. This percussion dance is called
tarak.

Further highlighting the intensely poetic and subtle harmony of human beings with each
other and with nature among the palawan are the kulilal and bagit traditions. The kulilal
is a highly lyrical poem expressing passionate love sang with the accompaniment of the
kusyapi (two-stringed lute), played by a man, and pagang (bamboo zither), played by a
woman. The bagit, also played on the kusyapi, is strictly instrumental music depicting the
rhythms, movements and sounds of nature, birds, monkeys, snakes, chirping of insects,
rustling of leaves, the elements and the like.

An outstanding master of the basal, kulilal and bagit is Masino, a gifted poet, bard artist,
and musician who was born near the head of the river in Makagwa valley on the foothill
of Mantalingayan mountain. Masino is not only well-versed in the instruments and
traditions of the basal, kulilal and bagit but also plays the aroding (mouth harp) and
babarak (ring flute) and above all is a prolific and pre-eminent epic chanter and story
teller.

He has the creative memory, endurance, clarity of intellect and spiritual purpose that
enable him to chant all through the night, for successive nights, countless tultul (epics),
sudsungit (narratives), and tuturan (myths of origin and teachings of ancestors).

Masino and the basal and kulilal ensemble of Makagwa valley are creative, traditional
artists of the highest order of merit. (Prof. Felipe M. de Leon, Jr.)
LANG DULAY (+2015)
Textile Weaver
T’boli
Lake Sebu, South Cotabato
1998

Using abaca fibers as fine as hair, Lang Dulay speaks more eloquently than words can.
Images from the distant past of her people, the Tbolis, are recreated by her nimble hands
– the crocodiles, butterflies and flowers, along with mountains and streams, of Lake Sebu,
South Cotabato, where she and her ancestors were born – fill the fabric with their longing
to be remembered. Through her weaving, Lang Dulay does what she can to keep her
people’s tradition alive.

There are a few of them left, the traditional weavers of the tnalak or Tboli cloth. It is not
hard to see why: weaving tnalak is a tedious process that begins with stripping the stem
of the abaca plant to get the fibers, to coaxing even finer fibers for the textile, then drying
the threads and tying each strand by hand. Afterwards, there is the delicate task of setting
the strands on the “bed-tying” frame made of bamboo, with an eye towards deciding which
strands should be tied to resist the dye. It is the bud or tying of the abaca fibers that
defines the design.

A roll of tnalak must be individually set on a back strap loom, so called because of the
broad band the weaver sets against her back to provide tension to the work. There is
great strain on the weaver’s back and eyes, particularly since Tboli women are required
to help out in the fields to augment the family income. It is only after the farm work is done
that the weaver can sit down to her designs. Also, due to the peculiarity of the fiber, of its
getting brittle under the noon day sun, working on it is preferred during the cool evenings
or early morn.

Lang Dulay knows a hundred designs, including the bulinglangit (clouds), the bankiring
(hair bangs), and the kabangi (butterfly), each one special for the stories it tells. Using red
and black dyes, she spins her stories with grace. Her textiles reflect the wisdom and the
visions of her people.

Before the 1960s, the Tboli bartered tnalak for horses, which played an important role in
their work. Upon the establishment of the St. Cruz Mission, which encouraged the
community to weave and provided them with a means to market their produce, the tnalak
designs gained widespread popularity and enable weavers like Lang to earn a steady
income from their art. However, the demand also resulted in the commercialization of the
tnalak industry, with outsiders coming in to impose their own designs on the tboli weavers.

Ironically modern designs get a better price than the traditional ones. Despite this, and
the fact that those modern designs are easier to weave, Lang persists in doing things the
old, if harder, way, to give voice, in effect, to the songs that were her elders’ before her.
Her textiles are judged excellent because of the “fine even quality of the yarn, the close
interweaving of the warp and weft, the precision in the forms and patterns, the chromatic
integrity of the dye, and the consistency of the finish.”

She was only 12 when she first learned how to weave. Through the years, she has
dreamed that, someday she could pass on her talent and skills to the young in her
community. Four of her grandchildren have themselves picked up the shuttle and are
learning to weave.

With the art comes certain taboos that Tboli weavers are careful to observe, such as
passing a single abaca thread all over the body before weaving so as not to get sick. Lang
Dulay never washes the tnalak with soap, and avoids using soap when she is dyeing the
threads in order to maintain the pureness of the abaca.

Upon learning that she was being considered to be one of the Gawad sa Manlilikha ng
Bayan awardees, tears of joy fell from her eyes. She thought of the school that she wanted
to build, a school where the women of her community could go to perfect their art.
(Maricris Jan Tobias)

SALINTA MONON
Bansalan, Davao del Sur

Bansalan, Davao del Sur – Practically, since she was born, *Salinta Monon had watched
her mother’s nimble hands glide over the loom, weaving traditional Bagobo textiles. At
12, she presented herself to her mother, to be taught how to weave herself. Her ardent
desire to excel in the art of her ancestors enable her to learn quickly. She developed a
keen eye for the traditional designs, and now, at the age of 65, she can identify the design
as well as the author of a woven piece just by a glance.

All her life she has woven continuously, through her marriage and six pregnancies, and
even after her husband’s death 20 years ago. She and her sister are the only remaining
Bagobo weavers in her community.

Her husband paid her parents a higher bride price because of her weaving skills.
However, he left all the abaca gathering and stripping to her. Instead, he concentrated on
their making small farm holdings productive. Life was such that she was obliged to help
out in the farm, often putting her own work aside to make the planting got done and the
harvest were brought in. When her husband died, she was left alone with a farm and six
children, but she continued with her weaving, as a source of income as well as pride.

Salinta has built a solid reputation for the quality of her work and the intricacies of her
designs. There is a continuing demand for her fabrics. She has reached the stage where
she was is able to set her own price, but she admits to a nagging sense of being underpaid
nevertheless, considering the the time she puts into her work. It takes her three to four
months to finish a fabric 3.5 m x 42 cm in length, or one abaca tube skirt per month.
She used to wear the traditional hand-woven tube skirt of the Bagobo, of which
the sinuklaand the bandira were two of the most common types until the market began to
be flooded with cheap machine-made fabrics. Now, she wears her traditional clothes only
on special occasions. Of the many designs she wears, her favorite is
thebinuwaya (crocodile), which is one of the hardest to make.

Today, she has her son to strip the abaca fibers for her Abaca was once plentiful in their
area, but an unexpected scourge has devastated the wild abaca crops. Now, they are
starting to domesticate their own plants to keep up with the steady demand for the fabric.

When she has work to finish, Salinta isolate herself from her family to ensure privacy and
concentration in her art. At the moment, she does her weaving in her home, but she wants
nothing better than to build a structure just for weaving, a place exclusively for the use of
weavers. She looks forward to teaching young wives in her community the art of weaving
for despite the increasing pressures of modern society, Bagobo women are still interested
in learning the art.

Few women in the 1990s have the inclination, patience or perseverance to undergo the
strict training and discipline to become a weaver. Salinta maintains a pragmatic attitude
towards the fact that she and her younger sister may be the only Bagobo weavers left,
the last links to a colorful tradition among their ancestors that had endured throughout the
Spanish and American colonization periods, and survived with a certain vigor up to the
late 1950s.

“If someone wants to learn, then I am willing to teach,” she says. “If there is none…,” she
shrugs off the thought.

*Salinta Monon is a Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan awardee.

SAMAON SULAIMAN (+ 2011)

Musician
Magindanao
Mama sa Pano, Maguindanao
1993

The Magindanaon, who are among the largest of Filipino Islamic groups, are concentrated
in the towns of Dinaig, Datu Piang, Maganoy and Buluan in Magindanao province. Highly
sophisticated in weaving, okir designs, jewelry, metalwork and brassware, their art is
Southeast Asian yet distinct in character.

In the field of music, the Magindanaon have few peers among Filipino cultural
communities. Their masters on the kulintang (gong-chime) and kutyapi (two-stringed
plucked lute) are comparable to any instrumental virtuoso in the East or West.

The kutyapi is a favorite solo instrument among both Muslim and non-Muslim Filipinos,
and is also played in combination with other instruments. It exists in a great variety of
designs, shapes and sizes and known by such names as kotapi (Subanon), fegereng
(Tiruray), faglong (B’laan), hegelong (T’boli) and kuglong or kudlong (Manobo).

The Magindanao kutyapi is one of the most technically demanding and difficult to master
among Filipino traditional instruments, which is one reason why the younger generation
is not too keen to learn it. Of its two strings, one provides the rhythmic drone, while the
other has movable frets that allow melodies to be played in two sets of pentatonic scales,
one containing semitones, the other containing none.

Magindanao kutyapi music is rich in melodic and rhythmic invention, explores a wide
range of timbres and sound phenomena – both human and natural, possesses a subtle
and variable tuning system, and is deeply poetic in inspiration.

Though it is the kulintang that is most popular among the Magindanaon, it is the kutyapi
that captivates with its intimate, meditative, almost mystical charm. It retains a delicate,
quiet temper even at its most celebrative and ebullient mood.

Samaon Sulaiman achieved the highest level of excellence in the art of kutyapi playing.
His extensive repertoire of dinaladay, linapu, minuna, binalig, and other forms and styles
interpreted with refinement and sensitivity fully demonstrate and creative and expressive
possibilities of his instrument.

Learning to play the kutyapi from his uncle when he was about 13 years old, he has since,
at 35 become the most acclaimed kutyapi master and teacher of his instrument in Libutan
and other barangays of Maganoy town, deeply influencing the other acknowledged
experts in kutyapi in the area, such as Esmael Ahmad, Bitul Sulaiman, Nguda Latip, Ali
Ahmad and Tukal Nanalon.

Aside from kutyapi, Samaon is also proficient in kulintang, agong (suspended bossed
gong with wide rim), gandingan (bossed gong with narrow rim), palendag (lip-valley flute),
and tambul.

Samaon was a popular barber in his community and serve as an Imam in the Libutan
mosque.

For his exemplary artistry and dedication to his chosen instrument, for his unwavering
commitment to the music of the kutyapi at a time when this instrument no longer exists
in many parts of Mindanao, Samaon Sulaiman is worthy of emulation and the highest
honors. (Prof. Felipe M. de Leon, Jr.)

UWANG AHADAS
Musician
Yakan
Lamitan, Basilan
2000
Much mystery surrounds life. And when confronted with such, it is but natural to attempt
some form of hypothesizing. In the days when hard science was nonexistent, people
sought to explain away many of these enigmas by attributing them to the work of the gods
or the spirits. In this way, rain and thunder became the lamentations of a deity abandoned
by his capricious wife, and night and day, the compromise reached by a brother and sister
who both wanted to rule the world upon the death of their father.

Many of these heavenly beings hold sway over the earth and all that dwell within its
bounds. In the folklore of a northern people, a story explains why, in the three-kilometer
stretch of the highest peak of Binaratan, a mountain in the region, there is a silence so
complete it borders on the eerie. Legend has it that the great Kaboniyan went hunting
with some men to teach them how to train and use hounds. When they reached the peak
of Binaratan, however, they could no longer hear their hounds as the song of the birds
drowned their barking. One of the hunters begged Kaboniyan to stop the birds’ singing,
lest the hunt fail and they return home empty-handed. So Kaboniyan commanded the
creatures of Binaratan to be silent in a voice so loud and frightful that they kept their peace
in fear. Since then, a strange unbroken silence reigns at the top of the mountain, in spite
of the multitudes of birds that flit from tree to tree.

And because they belong to this sphere, it is believed that mortal men are as vulnerable
to the powers and the whims of these gods and spirits as the beasts that roam the land
and the birds that sail the sky. Though they are hidden behind dark glasses, the eyes of
Uwang Ahadas speak of such a tale, one that came to pass more than half a century
before. They tell story of a young boy who unknowingly incurred the ire of the nature
spirits through his childish play. The people of his community believe Uwang’s near-
blindness is a form of retribution from the nature spirits that dwelled in Bohe Libaken, a
brook near the place where he was born and where, as a child, he often bathed. His
father, Imam Ahadas, recalls that the five-year-old Uwang quietly endured the pain in his
eyes, waiting out a month before finally telling his parents.

Music was to become his constant companion. Uwang Ahadas is a Yakan, a people to
whom instrumental music is of much significance, connected as it is with both the
agricultural cycle and the social realm. One old agricultural tradition involves the
kwintangan kayu, an instrument consisting of five wooden logs hung horizontally, from
the shortest to the longest, with the shortest being nearest the ground. After the planting
of the rice, an unroofed platform is built high in the branches of a tree. Then the
kwintangan kayu is played to serenade the palay, as a lover woos his beloved. Its
resonance is believed to gently caress the plants, rousing them from their deep sleep,
encouraging them to grow and yield more fruit.

With this heritage, as rich as it is steeped in music, it is no wonder that even as a young
child, Uwang joyously embraced the demands and the discipline necessitated by his art.
His training began with the ardent observation of the older, more knowledgeable players
in his community. His own family, gifted with a strong tradition in music, complemented
the instruction he received. He and his siblings were all encouraged to learn how to play
the different Yakan instruments, as these were part of the legacy of his ancestors. Not all
Yakan children have such privilege. Maintaining the instruments is very expensive work
and sadly, there is always the temptation presented by antique dealers and other
collectors who rarely, if at all, appreciate the history embodied in these artifacts.

From the gabbang, a bamboo xylophone, his skills gradually allowed him to progress to
the agung, the kwintangan kayu, and later the other instruments. Even musical tradition
failed to be a deterrent to his will. Or perhaps it only served to fuel his determination to
demonstrate his gift. Yakan tradition sets the kwintangan as a woman’s instrument and
the agung, a man’s. His genius and his resolve, however, broke through this tradition. By
the age of twenty, he had mastered the most important of the Yakan musical instruments,
the kwintangan among them.

Uwang, however, is not content with merely his own expertise. He dreams that many
more of his people will discover and study his art. With missionary fervor, he strives to
pass on his knowledge to others. His own experience serves as a guide. He believes it is
best for children to commence training young, when interest is at its peak and flexibility
of the hands and the wrists is assured. His own children were the first to benefit from his
instruction. One of his daughters, Darna, has become quite proficient in the art that like
her father, she too has begun to train others.

His purpose carries him beyond the borders of Lamitan to the other towns of Basilan
where Uwang always finds a warm welcome from students, young and old, who eagerly
await his coming. His many travels have blessed him with close and enduring ties with
these people. Many of his onetime apprentices have come into their own have gained
individual renown in the Yakan community. He declares, with great pride, that they are
frequently invited to perform during the many rituals and festivals that mark the community
calendar.

Similar to his mentors before him, Uwang’s teaching style is essentially hands-on. He
teaches by showing; his students learn by doing. His hands constantly keep a firm hold
on those of his students, the gentle pressure encouraging them to tap out music from the
silent bamboo blades and the splendid brass gongs. His soft voice sings praises when
merited and lightly censures when necessary. And each student receives his full attention
while the others persevere in learning and perfecting the art.

His younger brother, Rohas, worries about how best to preserve his techniques so that
they can be passed on to others even after he is gone. For his part, he has started
documenting his brother’s instruction, creating a notation system that will simplify
instruction. Already he has begun using this method for training students and declares
that it shows promise. However, this is only the beginning and much work is still called
for if the hills of Basilan are to continue to resound with ancestral music.

Foremost among these is to give Uwang back the kind of mobility that will permit him to
continue his mission to educate. He admits his dimmed eyesight makes him slightly wary
of travel, as it would compel him to be constantly dependent on others. Of late, he has
found it more difficult to walk, particularly when it is extremely bright and even his dark
glasses afford little protection. To a man of his stature, this admission is certainly one that
is very difficult to make.

Yet when asked how he felt about treatment to correct his condition, he smiles and nods
his head. With possibly the same tranquil with which he faced up to both his fate and his
people’s tradition, he expresses a willingness to endure whatever is necessary. And
strangely, even through his dark glasses, one can almost imagine seeing a not so faint
glimmer in his eyes. (Salve de la Paz)

________________________________________________________________________
HAJA AMINA APPI (+ 2013)
Mat Weaver
Sama
Tandubas, Tawi-Tawi
2004

Haja Amina Appi of Ungos Matata, Tandubas, Tawi-Tawi, is recognized as the master
mat weaver among the Sama indigenous community of Ungos Matata. Her colorful mats
with their complex geometric patterns exhibit her precise sense of design, proportion and
symmetry and sensitivity to color. Her unique multi-colored mats are protected by a plain
white outer mat that serves as the mat’s backing. Her functional and artistic creations take
up to three months to make.

The art of mat weaving is handed down the matrilateral line, as men in the Sama culture
do not take up the craft. The whole process, from harvesting and stripping down the
pandan leaves to the actual execution of the design, is exclusive to women. It is a long
and tedious process, and requires much patience and stamina. It also requires an eye for
detail, an unerring color instinct, and a genius for applied mathematics.

The process starts with the harvesting of wild pandan leaves from the forest. The Sama
weavers prefer the thorny leaf variety because it produces stronger and sturdier matting
strips. Although the thorns are huge and unrelenting, Haja Amina does not hesitate from
gathering the leaves. First, she removes the thorns using a small knife. Then, she strips
the leaves with a jangat deyum or stripper to make long and even strips. These strips are
sun-dried, then pressed (pinaggos) beneath a large log. She then dyes the strips by
boiling them for a few minutes in hot water mixed with anjibi or commercial dye. As an
artist, she has refused to limit herself to the traditional plain white mats of her forebears,
but experimented with the use of anjibi in creating her designs. And because commercial
dyes are often not bold or striking enough for her taste, she has taken to experimenting
with color and developing her own tints to obtain the desired hues. Her favorite colors are
red, purple and yellow but her mats sometimes feature up to eight colors at a time. Her
complicated designs gain power from the interplay of various shades.

Upon obtaining several sets of differently-colored matting strips, she then sun dries them
for three or four days, and presses them again until they are pliant. Finally, she weaves
them into a colorful geometric design. Instead of beginning at the outermost edges of the
mat, she instead weaves a central strip to form the mat’s backbone, then works to expand
the mat from within. Although the techniques used to make the mats are traditional, she
has come up with some of her own modern designs. According to Haja Amina, what is
more difficult than the mixing of the colors is the visualization and execution of the design
itself. It is high precision work, requiring a mastery of the medium and an instinctive sense
of symmetry and proportion. Despite the number of calculations involved to ensure that
the geometric patterns will mirror, or at least complement, each other, she is not armed
with any list or any mathematical formula other than working on a base of ten and twenty
strips. Instead, she only has her amazing memory, an instinct and a lifetime of experience.

Haja Amina is respected throughout her community for her unique designs, the
straightness of her edging (tabig) and the fineness of her sasa and kima-kima. Her hands
are thick and callused from years of harvesting, stained by dye. But her hands are still
steady, and her eye for color still unerring. She feels pride in the fact that people often
borrow her mats to learn from her and copy her designs.

Happily, mat weaving does not seem to be a lost art as all of Haja Amina’s female children
and grandchildren from her female descendants have taken it up. Although they
characterize her as a patient and gentle teacher, Haja Amina’s passion for perfection
shows itself as she runs a finger alongside the uneven stitching and obvious patchwork
on her apprentices’ work. She is eager to teach, and looks forward to sharing the art with
other weavers. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

DARHATA SAWABI (+ 2005)

Textile Weaver
Tausug
Parang, Sulu
2004

In Barangay Parang, in the island of Jolo , Sulu province, women weavers are hard at
work weaving the pis syabit, the traditional cloth tapestry worn as a head covering by the
Tausug of Jolo. “This is what we’ve grown up with,” say the weavers. “It is something
we’ve learned from our mothers.” Darhata Sawabi is one of those who took the art of pis
syabit making to heart.

The families in her native Parang still depend on subsistence farming as their main source
of income. But farming does not bring in enough money to support a family, and is not
even an option for someone like Darhata Sawabi who was raised from birth to do only
household chores. She has never married. Thus, weaving is her only possible source of
income. The money she earns from making the colorful squares of cloth has enabled her
to become self-sufficient and less dependent on her nephews and nieces. A hand-woven
square measuring 39 by 40 inches, which takes her some three months to weave, brings
her about P2,000. These squares are purchased by Tausug for headpieces, as well as to
adorn native attire, bags and other accessories. Her remarkable proficiency with the art
and the intricacy of her designs allows her to price her creations a little higher than others.
Her own community of weavers recognizes her expertise in the craft, her bold contrasting
colors, evenness of her weave and her faithfulness to traditional designs.

Pis syabit weaving is a difficult art. Preparing the warp alone already takes three days. It
is a very mechanical task, consisting of stringing black and red threads across a banana
and bamboo frame to form the base of the tapestry. At 48, and burdened by years of hard
work, Sawabi no longer has the strength or the stamina for this. Instead, she hires one of
the neighboring children or apprentice weavers to do it at the cost of P300. It is a
substantial amount, considering the fact that she still has to spend for thread. Sawabi’s
typical creations feature several colors, including the basic black and red that form the
warp, and a particular color can require up to eight cones, depending on the role it plays
in the design. All in all, it comes up to considerable capital which she can only recover
after much time and effort.

Sawabi faces other challenges to her art as well. In the 1970s, when Jolo was torn apart
by armed struggle, Sawabi and her family were often forced to abandon their home in
search of safer habitats. The first time she was forced to abandon her weaving was very
painful experience as it was impossible for her to bring the loom along with her to the
forest where they sought refuge. They returned to their home to see the pis she had been
working on for nearly a month destroyed by the fighting. There was nothing for her to do
except pick up the pieces of her loom and start again. Because of the conflict, she and
her family had been forced to relocate twice finally establishing their residence in Parang.
During this time, Sawabi supported her family by weaving and selling her pieces to the
participants in the conflict who passed through her village. Because of her dedication to
her art, generations of traditional Tausug designs have been preserved and are available
for contemporary appreciation and future study. She continues to weave at home, while
teaching the other women of her community. In recent years, she has had several
apprentices, and more and more people have bought her work.

Sawabi remains faithful to the art of pis syabit weaving. Her strokes are firm and sure, her
color sensitivity acute, and her dedication to the quality of her products unwavering. She
recognizes the need for her to remain in the community and continue with her mission to
teach the art of pis syabit weaving. She had, after all, already been teaching the young
women of Parang how to make a living from their woven fabrics. Some of her students
are already teachers themselves. She looks forward to sharing the tradition of pis syabit
weaving to the younger generations. (Maricris Jan Tobias)