A Wind of Tradition

Like a thief in the night that disturbs my deep sleep, Modernization is slowly eradicating the things that make the Filipinos unique. Like a wave of the havoc that turns my dreams into nightmares, We're slowly turning our back on our cultural heritage, and we're not even aware.

Reviving traditional arts and crafts like Philippine weaving It is like a mistful dew of morn that defines a fresh beginning! Colorful indigenous fabric and threads that show so much creativity, Paired with our contemporary styles, ideas, and artistry.

All these ravishing patterns handmade by our very own Filipino weavers, Gives me unspeakable splendor that paints a rainbow in my vast gloomy heavens. Just like the harmonious music played by the fairies in daffodils, Festive displays of indigenous tapestry, beads, and even grass are now seen in modern styles and designs!

Combining tradition and modernity through the art of indigenous weaving, Brings ethnic colors and patterns into the spotlight and obviates Filipino heritage from fading. Incorporating traditional Filipino weaves with our modern-day clothing, Is an act of honor and respect to our tradition that we are showing.

Christine Joelle Diaz

Hawla

Mayflor Fernandez

She appeared like the sun. Incomparable in beauty— her fair skin shone like silken stars, ebony-black hair parted in loose waves to reveal a stoic face behind the ethereal persona. The figure was dressed in red. The collar, cuffs, and hem of her clothing richly embroidered by deft fingers. Delicate pieces of thread adorned her bosom, creating mandalas of flowers stitched with care and intricacy. Symmetrical shapes of exquisite thread can be seen in her blouse's sleeves, while geometric patterns lined the structure of her skirt. A crown of coins was secured in her forehead; the same coins hang from her neck and wrists, the clinking sounds echoing faintly with each delicate movement. And a black veil, made with transparent material, shielded her face away from further scrutiny.

With slow, measured steps, she began to walk to the center of the room. Her dainty feet produced a slight creak, and her hands clasping a light scarf that swayed slightly with each step. A crowd, young and old, sat mesmerized by her quiet grace. Her long arms were elegantly raised , an image of a bird soaring freely appeared in her mind. Rosa sighed wistfully and began to dance.

_____

A hut stood isolated from the others.

Within the wooden framework, there lived a princess or, as the locals would say— a Binukot. No common man has been permitted to look at the said chosen ones, let alone touch them, for death awaits those who cross such boundaries. Frail creatures secluded, veiled, and hidden from the outside world. They lived under the roof of their quaint kingdoms. Taught to weave and flourish amongst their tradition of dance, the oral lore and passing of their epics, and subdued to raise their value to possible suitors. Elders spoke of their significance, the path they must take, conserve their culture, and carry on their traditions from one generation to another. They were royalty, almost second to divine saints. Despite such reverence, the spoken tales of love, of longing, and the adventure they impart only serves to remind them of the truth, the reality of their situation— for they may never walk with their own two feet to discover it for themselves.

Sunlight pierced through the windows, casting the trees; the sound of twittering birds coalesced with the dreamy sweep of the wind. The wind brought a gentle breeze that began to rock the hanging cot in which Rosa lay. The little rays of sunshine left kisses of warmth on her cheek, and she began to shift, her feet dangling from the cot, her eyes starting to flutter open. It was a peaceful morning. Rosa tried to stand, her unused feet began to wobble with the effort, and she peeked through the gaps from the bamboo windows. Outside, the clash of nature and man brought a cacophony of noises that made her grin with excitement. She always wanted to leave the four walls of her room. The same bare walls got a sense of unease. She felt trapped. Her eyes caught a flutter of movement outside the window. Two birds perched atop a low branch, a series of chirps erupted from their little beaks. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine herself out there. Enjoying the soft breeze, dancing freely, hair unbound, and hands