14/08/2026
LITERARY | ๐๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ซ๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ง๐
๐ฃ๐บ ๐๐บ๐ป๐ข ๐๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ข๐ต๐ข
๐๐๐ฉ ๐ค๐ช๐ง ๐ฅ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ ๐ง๐๐ข๐๐ข๐๐๐ง๐๐, ๐๐ค๐ง ๐๐ฉ ๐๐จ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ค๐ง ๐ฉ๐ค ๐ค๐ช๐ง ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐จ๐ฉ๐ง๐ฎโ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ค๐ฃ๐ ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ค๐ฃ ๐๐๐ง๐ฉ๐ ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ ๐ฉ๐ง๐ช๐ก๐ฎ ๐๐๐ก๐ก ๐ค๐ช๐ง ๐ค๐ฌ๐ฃ: ๐ค๐ช๐ง ๐๐ฃ๐๐ค๐ข๐๐ฉ๐๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ฉ๐๐ฉ๐ฎ.
Thousands of years ago, before our lands were littered with buildings and smoking vehicles, the original stewards of the Earth marked their roots in the soil, sang with all the voices of the mountains, and painted with all the colors of the wind. Before the great divide and conquer, there stood our humble yet proud ancestors. Now, what remains are but a fraction of who we used to be: the living bearers of knowledge and the bridge to our slowly forgotten identitesโthe Indigenous People.
For these communities, the Earth is not a mere commodity to be sold, bought, or bartered; it is the portrait of their existence, the very canvas they breathe life into. To them, every whispering leaf, every rugged stone, and every mountain peak is a sacred relative with a piece of their soul in it.They do not just live on Earth, they live with it.
To step into these ancestral soils is to step into the past, to weave our histories together, and to paint the lives that birthed the present. For without history, the present cannot exist, and without the present, our future fades into jaded obscurity.
Now, we live on lands that continue to dry itself for our existenceโlands that flourish and prosper so we can stand on the very ground we take for granted. We bleed the seas and empty the rivers, drinking from waters we pollute with our indifference.
๐ช๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ป๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ป ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ฎ๐บ๐ฒ ๐น๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ๐ ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ด๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ ๐น๐ถ๐ณ๐ฒ, ๐ด๐ฒ๐ ๐๐๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ผ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ป๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐๐ต ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ฒ? ๐ช๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ป๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ป ๐๐ฒ ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ป๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ๐น๐ฒ ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐๐ฟ ๐ต๐ถ๐๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ ๐๐ถ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ป ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ถ๐ฟ ๐ฏ๐น๐ผ๐ผ๐ฑ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐๐ผ ๐ณ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ถ๐ฟ ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฐ๐ฒ๐๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐น ๐ต๐ผ๐บ๐ฒ๐?
The answer is simple: in burying the Earth beneath our waste, we are only digging our own graves. In denying these people their homes, we deny ourselves of our identities. It is a devastating simple truth, but ultimately the hardest to swallow.
If there is one thing we can learn from the people of the mountains and of the seas, it is that humanity is not separate from nature. We, the people, its steward, do not stand above nature, but complete it. Then why should we fight and abuse nature when we are one with the greens of the forests and one with the blues of the oceans?
To turn our backs on this oneness, is to deny the history that makes us Filipinos. From the ancestral highlands of the Cordilleras to the mystic, rolling hills of the Eskaya in Bohol, our identity is written in the very contours of the land. These indigenous groups continue to fight their battles their own ways: by weaving their stories through the threads of their fabrics, by engraving their legends to the pots and jars they shape, and by guarding the ancient forests and sacred waters that have sustained them for generations.
Much like our indigenous brothers and sisters, we, too, have a responsibility to fulfillโto stand with them, to fight unjust policies, and to protect the land that marked our very existence as Filipinos. ๐๐ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ผ๐ผ๐๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ฐ๐ผ๐บ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป ๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐ด๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฒ๐ฑ; ๐๐ฒ ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐บ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ป ๐ผ๐๐ฟ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ฒ๐, ๐๐ฒ ๐๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ถ๐ป ๐ผ๐๐ฟ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ฒ๐, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ฒ ๐ต๐ผ๐ป๐ผ๐ฟ ๐ผ๐๐ฟ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ฒ๐.
โ๐๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ต๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ-๐ด๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฅ, ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ด๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ท๐ฐ๐ช๐ค๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ด. ๐๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ต ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ญ๐ญ, ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ช๐ด ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ต๐ฉ ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ญ; ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ต ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ.โ
โ Pocahontas
Cartoon by Sophia Gudes
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