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The Official Student Magazine of West Visayas State University
Salamangka | Vol. XLIII No.1 December 2024-October 2025
Forum-Dimensions is the official student publication of West Visayas State University in Iloilo City. It was founded in March 1939 and remains as one of the top bearers of truth in progressive journalism.
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Verna Crissa P. Villorente MANAGING EDITOR Josef Henri S. Tumbagahan
ASSOCIATE EDITOR Ashley Denise B. Feliciano
EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2025-2026
EXECUTIVE EDITOR FOR DESIGN Marion Jed D. Bernas
NEWS AND SPECIAL REPORTS EDITOR Symon Peterneil F. Vacunawa
Sangkal Vol XL No.1 December 2004-October 2025
Yshi Mei G. Pomarejos Jan Floyd J. Vallota
about the cover hans cling to what they believe in. Some to dreams, others to the ghosts of what once For Helen Balajadia, 67, "Sea Warden" of Pan de Azucar, it is the hope that a better d awaits beyond the horizon.
ecember 2024, the Supreme Court Regional Trial Court granted Mercidar Fishing poration permission for large commercial vessels to enter municipal waters-within the ilometer zone once meant for small fishers.
da dwindling livelihood and the ence of greed that eats away at their es, Nanay Helen chose to stay, with her clenched. To her, leaving would mean ng the world's cruelty win.
For Nanay Helen, the truest kind of faith is not blind. It is stubborn. It is choosing to stand that this sea, this soil, this nation can still rise, if we care enough to keep fighting for it.
at magic is purer than the love for one's land-its waters, its people, its memory-kept by hands that believe this country, scarred and salt-stung, can heal once more.
MAGAZINE DESIGN BY Ralph Lorens C. Mosquera CJ Kent T. Octavio Genesis Jeziah L. Saldevia
TOR
Steven Keith L. Catotal Nikolai Ryza R. Eularia Constantine Miguel E. Ko Lawrence Christian C. Montiague Ralph Lorens C. Mosquera CJ Kent T. Octavio Kent Zachary E. Salcedo Genesis Jeziah L. Saldevia
COVER EDITED BY Rogie Ken Villarin
Tekla Tamoria Mary Mariano Ana Mae Artates Boladas. Esteleta "Tiling Artates Lucia Bolada Christopher Semolava. PJ Arañador Helen Balajadia Juliane Judilla Concepcion Tourism Office Seven Seas Resort Jinky Baldove Teressa Estrella Rita Caballero Datu Sandigan Caballero. Maggerose Carado Prof. Jason Cocjin Daniel Salmorin. Imelda Torreda Nove Joy Losbañes Cybelle Rio Jhane Hembra Amethyst Alumbro James Bryan Almonia Justin Kyle Quinesio John Paul Daquin
All the photos, statements, and information of the subjects included in the articles of this Publication were utilized with the proper consent of the people and authorities involved.
Ang mga nagdaang buwan ang ilan sa pinakamabigat na pinagdaanan ng Forum-Dimensions (FD) sa mga nakalipas na taon.
May mga taong umalis, mga ugnayang nagbago, at mga tradisyong unti-unting nabiyak sa ilalim ng mga tanong na hindi na namin maaaring ipagsawalangbahala. Tulad ng isang salamangkero, sa ilang pagkakataon, tila mas madaling bumaba sa entablado kaysa manatili sa ilalim ng mga ilaw.
Sa loob ng 86 na taon, bihasa ang FD sa mahika ng pagkapit sa mga nakasanayan. Ang mga tradisyon ay naging ritwal at tuntunin na hindi maaaring galawin. Ngayong taon, napagtanto namin na ang pinakamalaking ilusyon ay ang paniniwalang dahil matagal nang umiiral ang isang bagay, kailangan na rin itong manatiling ganoon.
Itinuro sa amin ng taong ito na masakit ang pagbasag sa isang mahika. Subalit minsan, kailangan nating hilahin ang kurtina at itanong kung kanino ba talaga nagsisilbi ang mahikang ito.
Madalas, ang pagbabago ng palabas ay nangangahulugang kailangan nating pakawalan ang mga taong hindi natin kailanman inakalang mawawala.
Nasa edisyon ng magasing ito ang mga kuwento ng mga indibidwal na patuloy na lumalaban, mga sektor na hindi sumusuko, mga realidad na humihingi ng pansin, at mga tinig na tumatangging maglaho.
Kung hinihingi natin sa lipunan na harapin ang mga katotohanang hindi komportable, kailangan din nating harapin ang sarili nating katotohanan.
Hindi ko alam kung ano ang naghihintay sa atin sa mga susunod na buwan at taon, ngunit alam kong hindi kailangang maging malinaw ang lahat upang piliing magpatuloy.
At kung may salamangka man akong nais manatili sa FD kahit hindi na ako bahagi nito, hindi ito ang salamangka ng pagsunod sa nakasanayan. Ito ang salamangka ng pagkakaroon ng tapang na magtanong kung ano ang dapat manatili, ano ang dapat baguhin, at ano ang dapat nang bitawan.
VERNA CRISSA VILLORENTE
Editor-in-Chief iv dimensions
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COZEDZES
For the things we seek and people we find.
The circle that never breaks Mahika sa tela ni Tekla Monsters we invented
Sa pula, puti, kag asul nga higot End of the world
Grief's daughter Mitsa sang kabuhi A nation of forgetting Kumander
Healing
For the magic of becoming whole again.
Sa Tigayon, may panata ang isang tibak dimensions vii
The fevers always came at night.
SAMONO
Long after the kerosene lamp had been snuffed out, Imelda's son's skin would burn hot as embers, his breaths quickening with the shadows. By morning, he would lie limp, with eyes clouded and far away.
In their small home in Aliputos, Aklan, she prayed the way she had been taught-"Ama Namin, Sumasalangit Ka. However, her words kept returning to her like they hit an invisible wall. Each prayer made the same orbit, circling back unanswered. Although she whispered it again and again, as though God might hear better if she bled through the syllables, the fever stayed.
And so, when the church's prayers failed, Imelda turned to the mountain's ones.
In Akeanon, "pasaka" means to lift-to raise something back up that is slipping away. Among the Ati, it is used for the act of calling back a soul that has wandered too far. It is a bridge between the seen and the unseen, a prayer carried not by words, but by breath and smoke.
Imelda met the "sorhana" at dawn. The traditional healer did not ask for the name of the sickness. She looked instead at Imelda's eyes, at the child's stillness, and at the faint pulse fluttering beneath his small ribcage.
Then she nodded. The boy's soul had gone too far. He needed to be "lifted."
They laid the boy on a mat woven from pandan leaves. Around him, the sorhana moved slowly, humming a tune older than the chapel's bells. Smoke rose from a small clay bowl of "kamangyan" and twisted like a spirit trying to remember its body. Imelda clasped a rosary in one hand anda cross in the other. Her whispers of Ave Maria collided with the Ati hum, as if two faiths entwined like roots beneath the same soil.
The pasaka has begun.
In the 1500s, when Christian missionaries reached Panay, the Ati adapted faith in both spirits and saints instead of choosing one. Anthropologists writing on Akeanon believe this as syncretic continuity, that old cosmology carried forward through new symbols, not erased by them.
They kneel before the Santo Niño inside the chapel, and they also speak to the unseen in the mountains. For them, this is not a contradiction, but a survival. One God can sit above many intermediaries and the world remains whole.
Keeping this practice alive is harder now. Younger Ati leaves for work. Many rituals are no longer performed in full. Some communities report pressure to abandon what is called "superstition."
But the practice persists in quiet spaces-inside homes, at night, when illness refuses to yield-for it is knowledge that still works for the people who hold it.
The sorhana stands in that middle ground. She speaks to what cannot be measured. She knows which plants cool the body, and which words steady the soul. She finds ground for the visible and the invisible, inside a world where both remain real.
Imelda watched as the sorhana circled her son, her hands tracing the air above his chest, as if gathering something unseen. The chant grew louder, sharper, like a voice rising not against death, but toward life.
"Balika ang imo gininhawa," the healer murmured. Return your breath.
And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, the boy gasped. Just once-a shudder, a spark-then again. His eyelids fluttered, his body slick with sweat. The fever had broken.
Imelda wept, not sure if it was for joy or exhaustion. The sorhana simply bowed her head. "Nabatian kita sang kabukiran," she said. "Pati man sang Dios mo."
Days later, Imelda returned to the chapel with her son in her arms. The priest sprinkled holy water over the child, unaware that he had already been lifted once before, by hands older than his prayers. Imelda whispered a "thank you" to the Virgin, but in her heart, she also thanked the unseen ones-the spirits of her ancestors, the earth beneath her feet, and the healer who had walked the line between both worlds.
After all, faith is not a single, straight line. When the living cry out, it is not always the church that answers first. Sometimes it is the wind, or the river, or the whisper of the old ones still watching from the trees. And as long as there are mothers who care and people who remember that both God and the spirits listen, the circle will not fracture.
The circle will never break.
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Folklore has always been our way of naming the things we feared, especially when meaning was beyond our reach. In the absence of answers, we created stories. We made creatures out of shadows. And sometimes, we made monsters out of people.
On Panay Island, the "aswang label became that monster. It clung to families, passed down as rumor and shame, long before science would ever explain their pain. For decades, men living with a rare illness were treated as something unnatural, not because they were, but because the world didn't know how else to understand them.
However, the real tragedy was never the disease itself-it was how society chose to see them.
X-linked dystonia parkinsonism (XDP), locally known as "lubag," is a rare genetic and movement disorder originating from Panay Island that primarily affects middle-aged men. This condition is often linked to the aswang myth, as patients were once described as "transforming due to their muscle-twisting and tremors over time.
In truth, at the core is a mutation in a gene on the inherited X chromosome, which disrupts how nerve cells in the brain's movement centers communicate and survive. As these cells weaken and die, the body first twists in dystonia before gradually slowing into parkinsonian stiffness.
Patients struggle to stand upright, speak, or swallow due to uncontrollable muscle contractions. Most develop symptoms around age 39 and live an average of 13 years after onset.
Before the tremors came, each patient once lived a life anchored in purpose. One was a Certified Public Accountant who found joy in teaching, another a seafarer who explored the world. Above all, they were brothers, sons, and fathers-men who built their lives around work, family, and community.
According to recent data from the Sunshine Care Foundation (SDF), an organization dedicated to XDP research and support, about two in every 10,000 Ilonggos live with the condition.
While modern research has identified its cause and origin, no cure has yet been discovered. Five decades after it was first reported in Roxas City, Capiz, more than 500 afflicted individuals were left untreated by medicine, and often by the world around them.
As symptoms began to appear, their lives took a turn, trying to comprehend such a condition. Subtle muscle spasms evolved into uncontrollable movements that stole their speech, balance, and independence.
Oral medication, therapy, and surgery remain the only available interventions to ease the pain for those who can afford them. For many who cannot, they become reliant on others for daily routines, often forced to leave their professions as their bodies no longer obey them.
Patients who returned home to seek comfort were instead met with fear. Some communities saw them through the lens of folklore, cruelly tied to the "aswang." Isolation, rather than care, became their only remedy amid the waning state of their illness.
This led to a gradual increase in depression among XDP patients, where many begin treatment only to abandon it later, worn down by the slow, irreversible decline of their condition. Worse, death has become imminent.
Breaking the curse
Culture shapes how we perceive illnesses, separating people from myths.
In one case, a family with a member diagnosed with XDP believed that they were victims of "sumpa," a curse that had been passed down through generations. Their theory stemmed from the condition's resistance to prescribed medicine and the presence of similar symptoms in the maternal great-grandfather.
Despite being incurable, patients and communities must recognize XDP as a medical disorder that calls for empathy, not superstition.
The SDF is dedicated to finding a cure for XDP while providing holistic care through medical and community programs.
Beyond research, the foundation offers livelihood support, psychological and family counseling, and financial assistance. It also leads awareness campaigns to dispel the myths and stigma surrounding the disorder.
The provincial health office of Capiz just launched an XDP program on September 5 this year, marking a historic step toward inclusive healthcare and rare disease management in Western Visayas.
This initiative unites government agencies, health experts, and communities to provide comprehensive care, awareness, and support for affected patients and their families.
Understanding is the first act of healing. To see illness not as a curse but as part of the shared human story is to return compassion to those long defined by fear. In the quiet struggle of every XDP patient lies a truth often overlooked: humanity endures even when the body falters.
Every tremor, every broken syllable, speaks of lives that once moved freely-of bodies who simply wish to be whole and free again. They do not need saving from spirits. They need saving from stigma.
Isolation can be cured by education and awareness. A "sumpa can be broken once science replaces folklore.
Healing begins when knowledge bridges the divide between myth and medicine. Perhaps, that is also where hope resides, in every community that chooses to listen, in every family that refuses to hide, and in every hand extended not out of fear but in faith in our shared humanity.
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SA PULA, PUTI
KAG ASUL NGA HIGOT
May mga nagahambal nga ang aton kalibutan indi lamang puluy-an sang mga katawhan, kundi pati sang mga misteryoso nga tinuga. Ang ila presensya nagapalig-on sa mga tawo nga magpangayo sing bulig, kay ang nagakabuhi kag ang nagtaliwan, bisan magbulaganay, padayon gihapon nga may kahilabtanan.
Para sa pamilya nanday Mary Mariano, 78-anyos nga manugbulong sa probinsya sang Capiz, ang pula, puti, kag asul nga higot sa alima nangin tanda sang bugkos nga nagaangot indi lang sa isa kag isa, kundi pati sa mga kalag nga ila ginadumdom.
Sa tion nga nagatipon sila agud "mamutang-butang," nagahugpong ang pamilya, nagakilalahanay liwat, kag nagapamalandong.
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ROGIE KEN VILLARIN
Ang pamutang-butang para sa mga kalag isa ka ritwal nga nagsugod humalin sang pag-abot sang Katolisismo sa Pilipinas kag asta subong ginasunod sa gihapon sang pila ka pamilya sa Capiz kaangay sang mga Mariano.
Naga-umpisa ang nobena para sa mga kalag sa sulod sang siyam ka adlaw. Pagkatapos sini, nagapreparar ang pamilya sang pito ka sahi sang pagkaon nga ihalad sa mga kalag nga ginatawag nila nga "pito-pito." May ara sang kasag, ibos, pasayan, bayi-bayi, inihaw nga manok, tuba, alupi, kag iban pa nga klase sang pagkaon nga makit-an sa lamesa.
Ang mga ini ginapatihan nila nga mga pagkaon nga "nauyonan" sang mga "tag-lugar." Ini ang ila mga paborito nga pagkaon sang nagakabuhi pa sila kag ginahalad subong bilang tanda sang padayon nga pagdumdom sa ila. Ginasambit ang orasyon samtang nagakaptanay ang ila mga kamot nga nahigtan sang pula, puti, kag asul nga laso.
Sa kada ritwal kag kada pagkaon nga ginlubong, indi lang kalag ang ila ginatamyaw. Nangin simbolo man ini sang mabakod nga relasyon sang magpamilya. Kon may magmasakit, magatipon man ang pamilya para buhaton ang orasyon.
Suno kay Mary, "Ang kalag nagapanilag lang, kag wala sila nagahalin."
Sang una nga tion, ang mga manugbulong kag babaylan amo ang nagapanguna sa pamutang-butang. Ginapatihan nila nga kon indi mahatagan ang mga kalag, magadala sila sang balatian ukon malain nga kapalaran.
Ginpasa kay Mary ang ini nga pagtuo halin sa iya lolo nga "sorhano" nga makabatyag sang presensya nga may kaangtanan sa mga espiritu. May abilidad siya nga magpaayo sa mga nasapwan kag naga-atubang sa mga kalag.
Ang mga sorhano ang naga-atipan sang mga pamaagi nga indi makita sang ordinaryo nga mata kag naga-angkon sang katungdanan nga magtaliwan sa kalibutan.
Gina-ubra namon ini para sa kaayuhan sang mga tawo nga gasunod sang pagsulundan.
Kag para man ini sa halit sang taglugar, nga kon pahalinon mo sila, pakan-on mo danay sila." siling ni Mary.
Sa subong nga tiyempo, isa ka dako nga hangkat para kay Mary ang pagpasa sang nakaandan nila nga pagpati sa masunod nga henerasyon.
Apang, paagi sa sini nga tradisyon, nangin mabakod ang relasyon sang bilog nga pamilya nga may pag-intindihanay sa isa kag isa. Bisan talagsa na lang sila magkitaay, nagpakahulugan ini sang pagtipon liwat sang mga ginikanan kag kabataan pinaagi sa mga kalag nga ginadumdom nila.
Puno gihapon sang paglaum si Mary nga may kabataan pa nga magapanumbalik, magaupod, kag magapadayon sang ila ginsuguran.
Indi lang mga kalag ang ginhalinan sang pamutang-butang, kundi ang gahum nga dala kon magtipon-tipon sila sa panimalay. Indi kahadlok sa kalag ang ginatipigan kundi ang handum nga indi gid magbulagay ang pamilya, buhi man ukon nagtaliwan na.
Sa tunga sang dulom kag kahadlok, ang ini nga sahi sang pagtuo padayon nga nagasiga kaangay sang kandila nga indi mahuyop sang hangin, kag pareho sang gugma nga ginahalinan sa paghalad sang tanan.
Sa pula, puti, kag asul nga higot, ara ang kamatuoran nga wala sing makatublag sa pamilya kon ang ila paghanduraw sa mga nagtaliwan nagapabilin nga gamhanan.
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WHAT TO DO IF THE WORLD ENDS
1. Wrap yourself in something soft.
Your favorite sweater, a blanket, a scarf. Let it remind you that even when the world shakes, you were once held.
2. Reread old journals. The words you wrote in tears, laughter, or longing are still alive. They carry pieces of you that never left, waiting to hug your heart again.
3. Cry in front of the mirror. Your reflection knows everything. Let your tears fall freely, as they are proof that you have loved and 4. Write your wishes. Even if they never come true, at least you dared to believe.
5. Apply salt in wounds and call it seasoning.
Let it sting so you remember that pain does not need to be purified but owned and tasted.
A Some say the end of the world is a curse. Others call it destiny finally catching up. But if this is truly the last act, then let healing be the small, stubborn magic we still choose.
Because maybe the world won't end in one explosion. Maybe it dies slowly, in every disappointment we swallowed, in every goodbye we forced ourselves to survive. After all, the most human things-the smallest joys, the stupid softness, the fragile wants-were the real miracles all along.
6. Flip a coin and lie to yourself about what side you wanted. That moment of hesitation? That's your answer. Congratulations, you just divined your own cowardice.
7. Let mosquitoes bite you. Some things just take. Some people do too. But maybe it's still holy to be bitten and not bite back.
8. Read your palms.
Those lines are proof you have held on too long, and still haven't let go. Touching it is touching the scars of 9. Hold someone's hand, even briefly.
A pet, a stranger, a friend. Let their heartbeat remind you that connection is sacred-fragile, but undeniable.
10. Look at the sky for five minutes.
Let the clouds, the stars, the rain remind you that beauty persists, even when it seems the world has forgotten how to be gentle.
SYMON PETERNEIL VACUNAWA
CARINNA TORREDA
Ang hirap mawalan ng lugar sa mundong patuloy na nagbabago, lalo na kung dito mo na inialay ang buong buhay mo.
Para kay Esteleta "Tiya Tiling" Artates ng Barangay Pondol, President Roxas, Capiz, ang unti-unting pagkupas ng tradisyon ay isang anyo ng paglimot ng mga paniniwala at kasanayan na ipinasa mula sa isang henerasyon patungo sa susunod.
Sa modernong panahon, madalas maliitin ang pamamaraan ng 87-anyos na albularyo at ituring lamang bilang isang superstisyon na pamana sa kultural.
Gayunpaman, sa kabila ng mga pagdududa, buhay pa rin sa mga mata ni Tiya Tiling ang apoy ng paglilingkod para sa kapwa. Sa bawat hilot, dasal, at ritwal na kaniyang isinasagawa, hindi lamang siya isang manggagamot ng karamdaman, kundi tagapangalaga rin ng isang kultural
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Sa pinsala ng digmaan unang nakilala ni Tiling ang ginhawa ng pananampalataya. Sa murang edad, ninakaw ng Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig ang kaniyang kalayaan at seguridad. Sariwa pa ang alaala ng mga sigaw, hikbi, at mga baril na nagmistulang mga "teleskopyong nakatutok sa kaniya."
Habang patuloy na bumabagsak ang mga bomba't bala sa himpapawid, natutuhan ni Tiling at ang kaniyang mga kasama na magdasal habang nakatago sa gitna ng mga puno. Naging sandigan nila ang dasal upang maibsan ang hapdi ng digmaan at manatiling buo ang loob.
Pagkatapos ng giyera, ika-anim na baitang lamang ang natapos ni Tiling. Mula sa Dumalag ay napadpad siya sa Pondol upang mamuhay bilang mangingisda-isang bagong yugto na huhubog hindi lamang sa kaniyang kabuhayan kundi sa kaniyang pananaw sa buhay at mga paraan ng pagpapagaling na di kalaunan ay magiging sentro ng kaniyang pagkatao.
Mula sa Panay Bukidnon hanggang sa iba pang katutubo sa Iloilo, Capiz, Antique, at Aklan, itinuturing na sagrado ang tungkulin ng albularyo. Gumagamit sila ng mga halamang gamot na minana sa kanilang lahi, tulad ng dahon ng alocasia, tangkay ng amomum, at iba pa. Bukod dito, ang proseso ay may kasamang ritwal at
minsa'y pagsunog ng halaman upang maitakwil ang masamang espiritu.
Isa sa mga natatanging aspeto sa paraan ng paggamot ni Tiya Tiling ay ang pakikipag-ugnayan sa mga nilalang na tinatawag niyang "salaguron."
Sa sobrang tagal, hindi na niya maalala kung kailan nagsimulang "kumapit ang mga nilalang sa kaniya. Ayon sa Tiya Tiling, sila ay isang pamilya ng mga lamang lupa na tumutulong sa paghihilot ng mga pasyente, katulad ng mga "kaibigan" niyang sina Maninilag at Silak Adlaw.
Upang gumaling mula sa sakit, naglalagay ng pitong pirasong luya at dulaw si Tiya Tiling sa iba't ibang bahagi ng katawan habang hinihilot ang kirot. Kapag masyadong malubha ang nararamdaman, ipinapadala na lamang ng pasyente ang malinis na damit para kaniyang ipanalangin.
Si Tiya Tiling lamang ang may kakayahang makausap ang mga salaguron. Ipinapayo niya sa pasyente na sundin ang mga utos ng mga nilalang-maging ito man ay pagsindi ng kandila o pagdalo sa misa.
"GABALIBAD NA GANI AKO, NGA INDI NA AKO. KASO KON INDI AKO MAGBUTANG PAGKAON, DAW GINABITIN AKO SA IBABAW."
Ganito ang sambit ni Tiya Tiling nang tanungin kung gusto niyang makalaya sa kamay ng mga salaguron.
Masyado mang mabigat minsan, wala siyang pagsisisi sa buhay. "Gabulig ko ya sa kapareho ko, ngaa mauntat ako?"
Ang bawat orasyong isinasagawa at sugat na hinihilom ni Tiya Tiling ay patunay ng di- mabilang na oras na inilaan niya para sa kapwa. Bagama't nagbago na ang panahon, at lumilihis na ang mundo mula sa mga sinaunang pamana, ang mga albularyo tulad niya ay patuloy na naglilingkod sa kani-kanilang mga komunidad.
Sa mga ritwal, haplos, at gamot na inihahandog, dala nila ang diwa ng tradisyon na hindi basta-basta mapapalitan. Isa itong paalala na ang tunay na dedikasyon sa tungkulin ay hindi nasusukat sa kung ano ang naaayon sa panahon, bagkus ay nasa tibay ng puso at paniniwala.
Hangga't may mga lumalapit at patuloy na naniniwala sa kababalaghan ng buhay, hindi sila mawawala. Si Tiya Tiling ay mananatili.
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THE 66 Samtang nagaturok ako kananda nga naga-pangayo kang bulig, nagturo akon nga luha kay naluoy takon.
LONGEST STOPOVER:
A SURVIVOR'S MEMORY OF THE 2023 HAMTIC BUS CRASH
TIMOTHY JAMES SAMPANG
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For 21-year-old Christopher Semolava, what began as an ordinary day on December 5, 2023, became a memory he would carry forever, when the Ceres bus he was riding crashed into a ravine in Hamtic, Antique.
Now living by the coast of Barangay Bucaya, San Joaquin, Iloilo, Christopher makes a living through online selling after his studies came to a sudden stop. Even after two years, healing remains a journey without shortcuts, and no prayer can quiet the guilt of being left behind to live.
Trauma often leaves either amnesia or an unshakable memory. Christopher lived through the latter. Out of all the people in the bus, this one family piqued his interest the most. A family of five, with three children traveled to Antique from Mindanao. Christopher could remember a toddler who was seated in front of him as he made her laugh with funny facial expressions.
During one of the stopovers, he recalled how the inspectors and conductor had expressed concern about the bus' defective tires. They inspected the insides and mechanical parts, eventually giving it a go signal. He overheard them downplay the risks and proceed with the trip, even knowing the mechanisms might not survive the perilous terrains of Antique.
He was the first to regain consciousness, surrounded by the crushed bodies of the family, the fractures of two teachers, and the cries of students. He would've helped those calling for aid, but his own arm was already broken. With what strength he had left, he climbed the steep cliff to seek rescue. That hour felt the longest in his life.
What Christopher feared soon happened. The bus sped downhill without control and the brakes failed. Panic took over the atmosphere. Passengers and crew clutched each other, bracing for the impact.
Christopher, bound for his boarding house at the University of Antique, quickly tied his clothes together to serve as a cushion for his chest.
When the bus crashed along the curved roads of Brgy. Igbucagay, Hamtic, Antique, it plunged into a 30-meter ravine. Christopher, seated on the right side, was thrown out through the left, sustaining injuries to his right arm. Among the 28 passengers, bus driver, fare collector, and inspectors, 19 were pronounced dead. Christopher was one of the nine survivors.
DETOURS AND DELAYS
Christopher together in the days after the crash. When pain and screams replayed inside his head, he sang Gary Valenciano's "Lead Me Lord" over and over.
Pain deepens when the system refuses to admit fault. Vallacar Transit Inc. (VTI), the operator of the Ceres bus, delayed financial assistance and hospital reimbursements. Christopher also recalled corruption within the company, with cuts in the promised support and red tape that left him furious at the negligence.
"Kami na ang gin-agrabyado niyo, kami pa ang kupitan ninyo," he said. When asked about filing a lawsuit, Christopher admitted his fear of VLI's power and influence.
After the accident, the Land Transportation Franchising and Regulatory Board issued a 90-day preventive suspension of about 15 buses of the Ceres Liner that ran the same route.
No full written investigation was released by the authorities. No cases were filed against VLI, even though the company had been involved in past incidents, including an April 2019 crash where a Ceres bus fell into a ravine in the same barangay as the Hamtic accident.
In 2023, the number of deaths due to land transport accidents climbed to 13,125, the highest in 14 years, representing nearly two in every hundred deaths in the country.
What could not leave Christopher's mind until now is the memory of the same child he once made laugh on the bus. He still remembers the laughter and joy it had when he entertained the child.
What seemed to be the spirit of that same child appeared at the hospital, and he could not hold his tears as her soul was slipping away.
The memories of the 19 strangers found their way into his dreams. No matter how loud his prayers are, the grief never really goes away. Christopher may have survived, but he does not live alone anymore. Nineteen souls travel with him- toward a road the system still refuses to fix.
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GRIEF'S DAUGHTER
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When I was nine, there was a small grave behind our house that my mother often visited.
It was a mound of earth under a rambutan tree, beside pots of orchids and santan, near a cage of chickens that never stopped clucking. Sometimes, a fallen leaf or a drifting feather would land there, and Mama would brush it away gently, as if tending to a sleeping child.
She would sit there for hours, talking to the earth. Sometimes she sang lullabies. Most times she cried. I used to watch her from the window, unsure if I was seeing prayer or madness.
It started after she lost the baby she was carrying. Papa had just come home from Manila after almost eight years of working abroad. For a while, our house was filled with laughter, plans, and the small hope that things would finally feel whole.
However, things went wrong. Mama lost the child, and the silence that followed was heavier than before.
After that, she talked less, ate less, smiled less. She began disappearing for hours, sometimes returning drenched from the rain, sometimes with mud on her hands. Once, I woke up and saw her outside, digging the small grave she had made herself. I wanted to stop her, help her, but fear, or perhaps pity, kept me still.
As a child, I thought her grief was strange, even unfair. She still had us. I couldn't understand why she would love something she never held. At times, I felt jealous of the unborn child, jealous of how much of her heart it still owned.
Eventually, life moved on. Papa went back to Manila. Mama stopped visiting the grave. We stopped talking about it altogether, as if silence could bury what pain could not. Soon, we moved to Iloilo, and our old backyard was built over by a neighbor's house.
The rambutan tree was gone. The soil where Mama once knelt now lies under someone else's floor.
But sometimes, in dreams, I still see her there-kneeling by the tree, her hands pressed against the earth, whispering to something only she could hear. In those dreams, I realize something I never did as a child. The curse wasn't only on my mother, but also on me.
Even now, decades later, I still find myself visiting graves that no one else remembers. I still look for what's been lost in places that no longer exist. Sometimes I catch myself tracing the outline of old wounds, like following the map of a spell I didn't mean to inherit.
I used to think Mama was trying to raise the dead, to bring back what life had taken. But maybe she was only trying to speak to the silence that followed. Maybe that's what grief does-it binds you to an unfinished story, one you keep rewriting in your head just to make sense of it.
The older I get, the more I understand how curses work. They don't come from witches or whispered words. They come from love that refuses to rest, from memories that stay too long. They live in the things we can't name, in the people we can't stop missing.
Maybe the real curse is how grief never truly leaves. It just changes shape, finds new soil, and waits to be remembered.
Perinatal mood and grief-related disorders are interse emotional and psychological reactions following pregnancy loss-whether miscarriage, stillbirth, or other losses before birth. Similar to postpartum depression, these conditions are marked by persistent anxiety, guilt, and withdrawal.
"In the Philippines, research shows that about 16% of mothers in rural areas experience postpartum depression six weeks after delivery, yet specific data on mood disorders after pregnancy loss remain scarce. Limited mental healthcare access, cultural stigma, and the invisibility of these losses mean that countless women endure these conditions without support.
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Gugma ang nagapadaba-daba sa tagipusuon sang mga maestro kag maestra kada sila magtudlo sa mga kabataan nga ila ginatatap kag gina-atipan. Kag bisan sila nagtaliwan na, ang ila man gugma kag mga ginbilin nga leksyon sa aton kabuhi ang pinakaulihi nga magapalong.
Amo ini ang ginsigurado sang mag-asawa nga Julius kag Louelyn Reyes, lunsay mga maestro sang Iloilo City National High School, sang sila gakabuhi pa.
Masubo nga balita ang gin-atubang sang nabilin nga pamilya, mga kakilala, kag labi na gid ang mga estudyante kag anay estudyante sang mag-asawa nga Reyes, matapos ang sunog nga nagluntad sang kaagahon sang Marso 8 sini lang nga tuig, sa ila panimalay.
Wala nakaluwas ang mag-asawa kag ang ila 7-anyos nga bata nga si Amber sa kalayo nga nag-umpisa sa ila balay kag nagtapos sang ila kabuhi sa Brgy. Infante, Molo, Iloilo.
Ginapatihan nga naghalin ang sunog sa problema sa electrical wiring sang ila balay nga ginatunga sa duwa ka bahin. Sila nga pamilya ang ara sa likod nga bahin kag ang kapid naman ni Louelyn ang sa parte lapit sa kalsada nga nangin rason para sila makalagyo pa sa sunog.
Takna las singko sang kaagahon gindeklara nga fire out na ang lugar kag haligi na lamang sang ila balay ang nabilin nga ginsidlakan sang adlaw.
Sa dira nga tini-on, tatlo ka kabuhi ang nadula.
Madamo sa ila mga kakilala ang indi magpati sang kinaangtan sang ila kabuhi, labi na gid diri ang ila anay estudyante nga si Gab.
Para kay Gab, asta sa subong mabudlay batunon ang reyalidad nga ang iya mentors, titsers, kag nangin pangaduwa nga ginikanan, hindi niya na makita liwat.
Grade 1 lang siya sang nakilala niya ang mag-asawa nga anay gatudlo sa Baluarte Elementary School. Luwas sa ila propesyon sa pagka-maestro kag maestra, may ara sila nga ginapanag-iyahan nga art workshop kon sa diin man si Gab nag-eskwela kag ang iya pa gid duwa ka mga utod.
"So ever since grade 1 nahasa na ako sa painting especially ang expertise nila is mixed media, painting, kag poster making, so dira kami nag-connect ni sir Julius."
Ang ila workshop nga Sining Figura dugay na nga nagabulig maghanas sang mga estudyante nga may talento sa visual art.
Para kay Gab, luwas sa mga "art terminologies" nga pirme ginamitlang nanday Julius kag Luoelyn, time-management kag disiplina ang nagapabilin sa iya nga gintudlo sang mag-asawa.
Parehas man sa iya, ang iya magurang nga si Milagros nga estudyante man sang maestro kag maestra nagapangasubo sa pagkadula sang pamilya.
Apang nagapabilin sa gihapon ang ila mga gintudlo.
*Sundon ko gid hasta mapatay ko ang gintudlo nila which is to do my art authentic sa akon and do it outside the box, always and in all ways," suno naman kay Milagros.
Grade 6 lang si Gab sang ulihi sila nagkiritaay kag nakahambal "thank you" sa isa kag isa.
Apang magapabilin gid sa iya ang imahen niya nga kaupod si sir Julius habang ginakaptan ang tropeyo sang siya nagdaog siya sa Dinagyang painting contest nga mas dako pa sa iya.
Ang magapadayon
Kaleidoscope. Sa ini nga bagay ginlaragway ni Gab sina sir Julius kag ma'am Louelyn.
"When things are seemingly the way [they are], [when they] turn around, it is even more beautiful."
Ang ila paglakat kaupod ang ila nga bata nga si Amber may kasubo man nga dala apang magapadayon ang katahom nga ila ginbilin sa mga taliambong nga ila ginatudlo, mga leksion nga ila ginpabalon sa ila mga estudyante, kag ang ila gugma nga ginhatag sa tagsa tagsa ka estudyante nga ginkabig nila kaugalingon nga mga bata.
"I can see them everywhere, I can recall what they've done," para kay Gab, ini ang magapadayon bisan wala na sila.
Mitsa sang kabuhi
HANNAH MESHA CARTERA, STEVEN KEITH CATOTAL, KAG LAWRENCE CHRISTIAN MONTIAGUE
NIKOLAI RYZA ELAURIA
LARAGWAY GIKAN KAY JULIUS REYES dimensions 18
The dead still wait for the stories that the living have abandoned.
A culture built on selective remembrance has made the Philippine national memory structurally fragile. We raise monuments, publish commemorations, and inscribe names-but often only the ones that fit the narratives we prefer. Everything else is allowed to dissolve.
Few places reflect this more than the Iloilo Philippine-American Cemetery, where silence bears witness to both celebrated wars and erased defeats. Here, selective amnesia takes shape: a nation remembering only what suits it, abandoning everything that challenges its narrative.
Established in 1908, the Iloilo Philippine-American Cemetery on Commission Civil Street is one of the oldest American burial sites outside Manila. Buried here are Americans and Filipino-Americans who served during World War II, including Panay guerrilla resistance veterans.
While some died in the battle and were laid to rest in this cemetery, many of the graves tell only fragments of stories lost to time, with no birthdates, solely surnames, and only a cross.
Unlike other local cemeteries that bloom every November, here silence dominates. For PJ Arañador, a Filipino international lifestyle designer who first introduced this 'loneliest" cemetery in a Facebook post, the solitude offers grief that speaks as a "whisper rather than a wail," especially since his father rests here.
"The cemetery honors those whose sacrifice remains undocumented-proof that service to the country does not always come with legacy," Arañador stated.
The graveyard is also tied to one of Panay's wartime tragedies. On December 19, 1943, Japanese forces executed eleven American Baptist missionaries, the Hopevale Martyrs, who surrendered themselves to save
Filipino captives in Tapaz, Capiz. They now rest beside other American missionaries, 19 dimensions educators, and civilians who once served in Iloilo, including William Orison Valentine, founding principal of the Jaro Industrial School, now Central Philippine University. Yet with few remaining descendants or family ties to those buried here, its fading remembrance has grown all the more deafening.
However, Iloilo's forgotten graves are only a fragment of the nation's habit of leaving its own history untended.
According to the Philippine Registry of Cultural Property, the country has 10,783 tangible immovable cultural properties, yet hundreds are already classified as "endangered."
This tendency is neither recent nor accidental. Andres Bonifacio, Father of the Philippine Revolution, was laid to rest in Maragondon in 1897, where his grave remained unmarked for decades, historians still dispute whether the remains recovered are truly his. This uncertainty exposes a nation incapable of honoring its heroes.
Forgetting, therefore, can be deliberate as it exemplifies how history is written by those who choose what the nation must not remember. The Marcos Sr. regime deepened this practice, leaving scars not only on communities but on the nation's collective memory.
The weight of silence Remembrance is work. Memory is not automatic. It is a civic maintenance-no different from tending graves. Our collective ability to remember is a social responsibility that we cannot outsource to graveyards or monuments.
To walk in the silence of the cemetery is to confront what remains unclaimed in our collective memory-to actually feel the sting of absence where reverence should have lived. We must remember, even in whispers, so life can reclaim the stories that neglect tried to silence.
After all, a country that forgets itself is a country already buried.
STEVEN KEITH CATOTAL, JULLEA ALYZA POLARON, AND JOSEF HENRI TUMBAGAHAN
DANNA PAULEEN PEREZ dimensions 20
KUMANDER
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TIMOTHY JAMES SAMPANG & VERNA CRISSA VILLORENTETIMOTHY JAMES SAMPANG & VERNA CRISSA VILLORENTE
VERNA CRISSA VILLORENTEVERNA CRISSA VILLORENTE dimensions 22
Pan de Azucar was alive in a way most people feared to admit. The island held forces far older than any law or corporate capital that would claim jurisdiction over it.
When she grew older, this understanding never left her. It only grew sharper as the world became more extractive, violent, and hungry for what the sea and mountain could give.
So when in 2023, after the chaos brought by illegal mining operations, "Nanay Helen" saw a woman wearing a gold cloak, she did not panic nor question her sanity. Instead, she walked toward the apparition. And as she got close, the figure dissolved, as though light itself was simply shifting form. This was not the first time beings beyond the ordinary revealed themselves to Helen.
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She took her paddle, looked toward the east, and headed back to shore. Kumander still has a world to win.
Nanay Helen has spent almost her entire life on Pan de Azucar Island, one of the 16 outlying islets of Concepcion. Towering above it is Mount
Manaphag-a landmark that defines the island's skyline. Yet that same beauty has also drawn the gaze of corporate interests.
Mining firms soon turned their attention to the Valderrama deposit, a copper- and gold-rich mineral zone in the island's southern part. When plans for an open-pit mine surfaced, Nanay Helen was among the first to sound the alarm after learning about the operation from her son.
The Villar-owned TVI Resource Development Philippines Inc. was granted exploration rights-an undertaking that proved invasive. Drilling activities led to the clearing of mangroves, the flooding of seaweed farms, and reports of residents falling ill from arsenic exposure.
As tensions grew, the island's three barangays-Tambaliza, Macatunao, and Talotu-an-became divided. But Nanay Helen stood her ground, confronting a barangay captain who had signed the approval.
Her defiance caught the attention of the Her courage, like a single spark, ignited a prairie fire that burned through the plans of those who sought to exploit Pan de Azucar.
Nanay Helen's battles began long before the mining. For decades, destructive fishing practices have been invading the municipal waters. Sinsoro, trawl, and commercial fishing vessels entered without shame, robbing small fisherfolk of their livelihood and eroding marine ecosystems.
When she became president in 2011 of the Tambaliza Small Fisherfolks Association, she confronted these operations directly. This not only made her controversial, it made her a target. Some locals cursed her, called her troublemaker, and attempted to remove her from the position. Still, she continued.
From 22 members, the association grew to around 70, supported by multiple non-governmental organizations. They introduced Fish Wardens trained by the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources and the Local Government Unit, to patrol and protect the waters.
Nanay Helen grew up with nothing, yet had everything. Her family could not afford to send all the siblings to school. At 16, she set aside her dream of becoming a lawyer and left for Manila, working as a maid
Philippine National Police in Concepcion, and babysitter to help make who red-tagged her for leading protests against the mining project. She was called a "bruha" and other demeaning labels-simply because she chose to stand with her island.
ends meet.
But the city was no kinder to her. After years of enduring hardship, she was forced to return home to escape a man who had been stalking her with ill intent. It was then that the sea called-and Nanay Helen answered.
Little did she know, the sea that once gave her a livelihood on seaweeds would also give her purpose. As early as the 1990s, she began defending the environment and the rights of fisherfolk, laying the foundation for her lifelong fight for justice and community-centered development.
Nanay Helen continues to believe that beings exist in Pan de Azucar-guardians who make themselves visible when the island needs protection. To her, the gold-cloaked woman was a confirmation that they can recognize who among the living can be trusted. She protects the island, and in return, the island protects her.
Those in power may scorch forests, poison water, and write policies that erase entire communities with signatures and money. But they cannot kill the spirit of a woman whose love has become an instrument. Love that refuses erasure. Love that keeps fighting long after the flesh has collapsed and returned to salt and soil.
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When rain falls softly through the sun, I'll find you where the wild paths run.
Only then beneath the bright sky, May I call your heart only mine.
www
Deanna Clarice Diadio a Stay till the final raindrop falls, Before the fading daylight calls.
When sun dries the path where we stood, I'll wait where the rain once understood.
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Tsupernanays Tigbauan
Most would agree that being a mother is already a full-time job, but for some women, the path stretches farther than the walls of home. This holds true for Elsie Cirilio and Anabelle Sampiano, two of the growing number of women who drive electric bikes (e-bikes) in small towns like Tigbauan, Iloilo.
For them, every morning begins the same way. Ahead of the rest of the world, they are already in motion-boiling water, preparing food, and laying out uniforms. Their day starts not with rest but with responsibility, as their second life begins the moment their children step out for school. Then, they take to the road, steering e-bikes through busy streets and winding paths, turning wheels that keep their families moving forward.
They prove that love, when driven by necessity, can travel farther than any hardship ever will.
PHOTO COURTESY OF EMMA VIA PINTEREST
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Long before the rise of motor-powered, rechargeable e-bikes, 44-year-old Anabelle had been driving a traditional sikad for years-pedaling under the heat and rain to move passengers through the streets of her hometown.
The old-fashioned bicycle with a hand-welded sidecar has supported her family since 2016. She takes passengers from the market to their homes, from school to the next corner, wherever their coins can take them. Although fares were as small as ten pesos back then, each trip added up was enough for rice and something for the kids.
Anabelle's days begin before dawn, often as early as two in the morning, when the local fisherfolk come ashore after a night at sea. After washing dishes and preparing breakfast, she starts her journey, taking advantage of the bustling shoreline market filled with fresh seafood. Sacks of ice, banyeras of fish, and traders from nearby towns are her first passengers until five a.m.
"Gatinguha gid ako nga makabyahe para maka-provide sa balay," she shared.
When dawn fully breaks, Anabelle returns home to prepare her three children-the eldest now in tenth grade. After they leave for school, she puts on her hat, layers of clothing, and heads back to the streets
Years of saving enabled her family to upgrade from a sikad to their own e-bike, renting an extra battery to maximize daily earnings. She takes turns driving with her husband when he isn't fishing. From meager earnings before, they can now take home up to P500 on a good day.
For Anabelle, her children are her compass on the hardest days in a life built on sacrifice. She hopes to inspire them to keep striving, no matter how rough the road becomes.
"Kung makatapos ron gid man [sanda] kang pag-eskewela [nanda], sanda ron mangita ka balos sa amon [kag] kung paano nanda mapuslan ang gin pangabudlayan namon para makatapos sanda," she said.
A mother of four, Elsie has known both love and loss, having been widowed more than a decade ago. Since then, the 45-year-old has spent most of her life finding ways to provide for her family.
Elsie is no stranger to a life marked by struggle. She grew up in a household that barely made ends meet. Her dreams of a complete education remained out of reach, thus, never having the chance to go to college.
When her first husband suddenly died of a heart attack, Elsie was left to fend for herself and her children. She sold food along the streets, calling out to passersby as she carried baskets of snacks and rice meals.
A variety of day jobs helped put food on the table. On top of being a vendor, she also worked as a Barangay Health Worker, an agent for the small-town lottery, and even washed clothes for a living. That is why, when the offer came to rent an e-bike from a relative and become a driver, she immediately took it.
"Uso man tulad ang mga babayi nga driver kay siempre kong kaya kang mga lalaki, kaya man kang mga babayi kon ano nga obra," she said.
But even with the help that driving an e-bike brings to her daily expenses, the road is never without danger. Drivers like her often share narrow highways with speeding cars and trucks that barely leave room for smaller vehicles. One wrong move could mean disaster.
"Delikado man mag tabok-tabok ka bala haw, delikado gid amo ra indi gulpi lang magliko kay kasabayan mo mga trucks kag Ceres nga hanggod," she added.
Unlike cars, e-bikes offer no heavy frame for protection-just quick reflexes and courage. Still, she rides on, alert and steady.
Mothers like Anabelle and Elsie embody a kind of strength that no title or degree can define. Each day, they drive against exhaustion for love that asks for nothing in return, facing the streets with courage and returning home with not just their earnings, but stories of endurance.
Even in a society that too often limits women by their gender, these mothers prove that strength knows no bounds. They take on unconventional roles and break quiet barriers despite their calloused hands and long days.
Their stories are a testament to what mothers can do when love becomes their fuel, and family their destination.
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OATH
Sa Tigayon may panata ang isang tibak
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VERNA CRISSA VILLORENTE
Tigayon Hill is the highest point in Kalibo that used to be the secret sanctuary of Aklan's freedom fighters. Locals believe that the hill is enchanted.
Dito ko iiwan ang mga pangalan na tinangay mula sa aking dibdib, kasama ang mga dasal na hindi tinanggap ng langit.
Saksi ang burol na ito sa aking pagkapako at sa muling pagbangon ng noong tumangging yumuko.
Balang araw, Tigayon, kung sakaling makalimot ang bayan, ikaw nawa ang tumindig sa aking ngalan. Sabihin mong kahit nabasag ang puso, ang pag-ibig ay hindi ko isinuko.
Kapag dumating ang mga bagong binhi tangan ang bagong liwanag, iparamdam mo sa kanila ang tibok ng rebolusyon sa ilalim ng kanilang mga paaupang sa tuwing tatapak sila sa lupaing ito, maramdaman nilang hindi sila nag-iisa.
Dahil ang kalayaan ay hindi kailanman inilibing. Nananatili itong humihinga, sa pagitan ng mga bitak ng lupa sa piling ng mga ugat ng Balete, sa bawat alon ng Aklan.
Hanggang may lupa, may digma. Hanggang may dugo, may pag-ibig.
Hanggang may alaala, may masang sisibol muli.
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ORIGINS
We inherit the magic of what came before.
Design & layout by Justin Kyle Quinesio
Wardrobe by Niel Blancaver
Hair & makeup by James Bryan Almonia & Justine Tabalina dimensions 36
Photography by Bryan Rallos
Design & layout by Justin Kyle Quiesio
Wardrobe by Niel Blancay
Hair & makeup by James Bryan Almonia & Justine Tabalina
We live with the shadows it leaves behind.
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Magic has always existed, carved into the very hollows of Philippine society. Our mythology, beliefs, and way of life were shaped by our need to understand forces greater than ourselves—to find meaning in what we could not control, and power in what we could.
When powerful colonizers took our lands, our ancestors turned stones into weapons to defend what was theirs. They held on to their faith, their communities, and their will to resist. They knew that greed could conquer land, but never fully conquer a people who refused to bow.
This, too, holds true for Forum- Dimensions.
What we faced in our 86th year could, at times, feel like a curse. But while curses may be broken by spells, censorship has no remedy but press freedom. For our critical reports that reached beyond the University, for questioning traditions and institutions, we were witchhunted like the women of Salem— made to feel that speaking truth was itself an act of transgression.
Yet Salamangka was never meant to be about magic as something literal. It is about recognizing the magic that has always existed within us.
Our first instinct to resist is divination: to look beyond what is immediately seen, to question what we are told, and to seek what lies beneath. When our spaces are threatened, we defy and stand our ground. When anger takes hold, we turn it into action. When wounds remain, we seek ways to heal—not only ourselves, but the society that made those wounds possible.
This is the salamangka we inherit as Filipinos: shaped by centuries of struggle, erasure, and exploitation, yet continually finding ways to survive, resist, and hope.
The magic we create is neither distant nor mystical. It lives in how we speak, how we struggle, how we remember, and how we dare to imagine something better.
Magic is not pulled from thin air. It is forged by the same hands that clenched into fists, held pens, raised voices, and built a society that dares to dream. And when the time comes that our magic runs dry, we will still have one another to carry the line forward.
TIMOTHY JAMES SAMPANG
Features Editor
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