The streets can be many things—a venue for birthday celebrations, late-night hangouts with friends, business transactions, and even chance encounters. They bear witness to the moments of joy, connection, and everyday life.

Yet, when burdens and emotions grow heavy, the streets take on another purpose: they become a takbuhan, both literally and figuratively.

A world on the run

In recent years, running has experienced both a global and local boom in popularity. Fun run and marathon registrations have surged, running communities and clubs have grown, and more people than ever are turning to the streets.

According to the New York Road Runners (NYRR), organizer of the New York City Marathon, the world’s most famous and largest marathon, applications for the 2026 race climbed to over 240,000. The figure marks a nearly 20% leap from the previous year’s record of more than 200,000 applications.

Meanwhile, in the Philippines, many Filipinos are also increasingly interested in the sport. The surge was driven by the COVID-19 pandemic, when lockdowns and restrictions on gyms, combined with health anxieties, made running one of the easiest ways to stay active.

Today, individuals, especially Gen Zs, are flourishing in their “running era,” with trends dominating social media platforms, such as get-ready-with-me (GRWM) videos, pre-run nutrition, athleticwear hauls, and, of course, running vlogs.

Beyond these trends, runners have also found a creative way to record their workouts. Fitness tracking applications like Strava have become a major part of the running culture. Users are showing off their routes artistically, whether it’s grabbing a beverage from a fridge or taking something out of a shoe.

While more and more people are lacing up, not everyone is chasing marathon medals or joining run clubs. Some are heading to the streets to simply search for a moment of peace amid the chaos of everyday life.

3km… 8km… A clearer mind

Running is one of the most accessible forms of exercise and offers many physical benefits. Just a few minutes each day could significantly strengthen the heart, improve sleep, and boost respiratory function.

More than that, the activity is a powerful tool for mental and emotional well-being. According to David Linden, Ph.D., a neuroscience professor at Johns Hopkins University, regular running improves working memory and focus, enhances task-switching, and elevates mood.

How it works is that it triggers the release of the brain’s natural “feel-good” chemicals, such as endorphins, serotonin, and dopamine, resulting in a euphoric feeling known as the “runner’s high.” Quite literally, it can feel like running away from the noise and weight of reality.

That holds true for Roselle Ochobillo, a 22-year-old journalism student, who has been running consistently for almost two years.

“Nung parang sobrang burned out na rin last year sa academics, and gusto ko na lang takasan din mismo, kasi nga hindi na ako nakakapag-isip nang maayos. So doon ako nag-try na tumakbo,” Roselle said.

For Roselle, her interest in running did not come naturally. At first, there was fear of simply stepping out into the streets alone, constantly worrying about what might happen along the way.

However, as a student-leader, an organization president, a writer, and a third-year college student, she juggles multiple responsibilities simultaneously. When problems pile up and everything becomes too much to handle, a break becomes inevitable.

“Kasi parang doon ko lang din talaga mas naramdaman yung emotion na gustong-gusto ko nang mailabas, na hindi ko nailalabas before kasi parang may humaharang. Then nung tumakbo ako, doon ko lang siya na ilabas mismo nang maayos,” she added.

Chasing p(e)ace

Growing older, graduating from school, and entering the workforce don’t automatically equip a person to handle every challenge with ease. Difficulties persist, and so does the need for a space to breathe.

Working eight hours a day in the central business district, Francis Angelo Fundal, an employee at a financial data company, sees running as a way to relieve personal problems and pressures in life.

He first got into the activity in September 2025, because of his desire to mask overwhelming emotions through physical exhaustion, hoping it would help him momentarily forget what was weighing on him.

“Everything I'm feeling, it's a lot for me to take in. So, in order for me to just escape at the moment, clear my thoughts about it, I just wanna feel like I'm free for a while from that burden, that feeling.” Francis shared.

One might assume that for someone who works mid-shift, five days a week, in the relentless pace of the city, weekends would be reserved for rest. But for Francis, they are for something else—a chance to clear his mind and step away from the demands of the present.

“So, during na tumatakbo ako, I'm [on] the verge of feeling na masakit, physically. But then at the end of that part, it's just so fulfilling. Napapaisip na lang ako na I went through those hardships. But now, natapos ko siya by doing it. Like, putting my mind into it, na kaya ko,” he expressed.

While running offers a release from daily stress and unwanted emotions, using it excessively as a primary coping mechanism carries significant risks. A study by Dr. Frode Stenseng of the Norwegian Institute of Science and Technology shows that it can trigger exercise dependence and lead to avoidance of proper emotional processing.

Knowing the psychological and physical limits of running is crucial in ensuring the sport remains a healthy and enjoyable outlet.

The (he)art of running

For Roselle and Francis, what began as a temporary escape has grown into a newfound passion—from breathless 3-kilometer and 5-kilometer runs to completing 13km and joining various running events.

Running in the streets has given them more than just a healthier body and a clearer mind; it has given them a broader perspective.

“Lalo na kapag tatakbo ako sa mga lugar na maraming [bata], may mga matatanda, yung mga tao sa street, yung mga natutulog. Parang doon ko mas naisip na… Hindi naman sa pang-i-invalidate sa sarili ko, kundi parang mas napo-process ko yung isip ko na hindi naman pala gano'n kalaki yung problema ko. Na parang hindi dapat ako nakukulong doon sa problema ko na ‘yon,” said Roselle.

“Coming from a homebody person, when I started running up until now… I realized that there's more to life. Like, hindi lang lahat ng umiikot sa buhay mo [ay] work. Hindi lang lahat [ng] umiikot sa buhay mo [ay] acads. Anything na makakapag-pressure sa'yo, there's more to life,” Francis remarked.

Like many people, both Roselle and Francis use fitness-tracking applications when running. Yet beyond documenting distances and routes, these apps have become a record of what they were carrying at that time, and a proof that they made it through.

“Parang yung record mismo yung nagpapatunay na nalalagpasan ko mismo yung mga problems na bitbit ko nung mga panahon na tumatakbo ako to let out my feelings or my emotions,” Roselle shared.

To some, comfort is found within walls with a roof overhead. But for many, being out in the open, taking in the scenery, and passing by moving cars and people becomes their escape.

The streets may not have all the answers, but they offer something that people quietly yet badly need: a takbuhan. Not a place to make physical or emotional realities of life disappear, but a space to gather enough strength to face them. ▼

Mikaelah Bianca Panopio is the Features Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is deeply interested in people, events, and the stories that shape them.

For years, athletes in the PUP College of Communication (COC) have represented the college in the University Intramurals (UI) with little more than determination and willingness to shoulder challenges on their own. But that reality may finally be changing.

Through Resolution No. 11, series of A.Y 2025-2026, the college formally established the COC Sports Federation, a body envisioned to unite sports organizations under a single umbrella, strengthen coordination among teams, and provide student-athletes with a stronger platform for representation and support.

Playing through limitations

According to captain Dionel of COC Manikang Pandigma, the college’s volleyball team, the announcement was a “relief” as they have spent years navigating concerns that went beyond competition itself.

From securing permits and practice schedules to finding resources for equipment and travel, many teams operated through improvised solutions and personal networks. For him, the creation of the federation sends a message that athletics deserves recognition.

“After years of feeling like kami-kaming Manika at ‘yong ibang athletes lang ‘yong magkakasama at nag-uusap-usap, hearing that the college was formalizing support felt like a signal that athletics will finally be treated as part of campus life, not an afterthought,” he said.

That feeling is shared by other student-athletes across the college. Among the most frequent concerns is access to training spaces. The challenge is particularly evident for the COC Cheering Squad, whose sport requires large practice areas to safely execute stunts, formations, and routines.

Cheering Squad team captain Prince Jeslie Galpo said that before the federation’s creation, they largely depended on their own efforts to organize training sessions and coordinate logistical concerns.

The situation became more complicated as the construction of the new Mass Communication Building reduced the number of available training spaces. Areas such as the car park, previously used by them, became inaccessible, leaving athletes to adapt to limited options.

“Talagang ‘yong effort kailangan nanggagaling sa organization namin… So kailangan talaga namin humanap ng place outside PUP para ma-conduct namin ‘yong regular trainings namin,” Galpo said.

Beyond facilities, funding remains a challenge for student-athletes. According to COC Sports Coordinator Desiree Angeline Rendon, the financial burden of preparation often falls on the students themselves.

Transportation, equipment, training needs, and other competition-related expenses are often shouldered by athletes, while donations serve only as occasional sources of assistance.

For teams like Manikang Pandigma, these limitations affect more than logistics. They influence recruitment, preparation, and long-term development.

“Personally, the federation is validation,” Dionel said.

The validation, he added, is symbolic, saying their early-morning practices, late-night training sessions, and sacrifices are finally recognized.

One Banner, Many Teams

Currently, the federation is being handled by the COC Student Council while awaiting proper accreditation. The federation has four working committees: Public Information and Communications, Logistics and Games Operations, Finance and Resource Generation, and Secretariat and Internal Affairs.

According to Sports Coordinator Desiree Angeline Rendon, establishing a sports federation had been among the priorities of the current council. Its purpose is to bring together the college’s sports organizations under a single structure.

“Para ma-unite ‘yong mga sports organizations sa loob ng college natin. Number one, mapapadali ‘yong communication in between us lalo na pagdating sa mga events and competitions, especially sa University Intramurals,” Rendon said.

For years, teams largely operated independently. While they managed to function, communication often became scattered, especially during preparations for university-wide competitions.

Rendon said that the federation seeks to streamline those processes while creating stronger connections among athletes across different sports. She also sees the federation as an avenue to amplify their advocacy.

“Mas madali kasi siyang ilapit sa admin kung mayroon nang mother organization talaga.”

Looking ahead, Rendon hopes the federation will serve its purpose by providing athletes with training spaces, systems that support their welfare, and resources that allow them to compete without shouldering every burden alone.

Rendon believes that supporting athletes means investing in representatives of both the college and the university. Admin support, she added, will help them reach their full potential as “champions.”

Student-athletes say the impact of the federation will ultimately depend on what comes next.

For Dionel, practical support remains a priority—from protected practice schedules and access to equipment to provisions for competition expenses.

“If the federation can lock these basics in, we’ll stop surviving and start building a sustainable, competitive program,” Dionel added. ▼

Piolo Cudal is the Community Editor of the 31st volume of iCommunicate, Kalyematopeya Magazine. He is a driven person with passion and commitment for storytelling.

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Despite the pouring rain, all hues of the spectrum illuminate the streets as the LGBTQIA+ community celebrates Pride.

Nearly 300,000 people converged at the University of the Philippines Diliman on June 27 for LoveL4ban 2026, transforming the campus into what organizers described as the largest Pride gathering in Asia. The festival stretched beyond the annual march, with Pride Expo, QueerCon, performances, community booths, and health initiatives occupying different corners of the Academic Oval.

The scale of this year’s celebration reflects the evolution of Pride in the Philippines.

What started as a demonstration has grown into a day-long convergence of advocacy, culture, commerce, and community. Yet amid new stages, festival grounds, and expanding programs, one element has remained unchanged: Pride still begins by taking the street.

First stone on the road

The relationship between Pride and public space predates festivals by decades.

Along New York City stands Stonewall Inn, a gay bar and recreational tavern. It was a typical bar, but it became a haven for the city’s homosexuals. As the founding member of the Gay Liberation Front and Stonewall patron Jerry Hoose described it, “The bar itself was a toilet, but it was a refuge, it was a temporary refuge from the street.”

Stonewall Inn operates without a valid license. This is because in the 1960s, the New York State Liquor Authority (NYSLA) systematically denied licenses to establishments that catered to the LGBTQIA+ patrons. As a result, the bar frequently faced police raids and arrests.

In the early morning of June 28, 1969, another police raid occurred at the bar. But this time, patrons of the gay bar resisted it. This set off several nights of demonstrations, with the streets surrounding the bar becoming the site where queer people collectively asserted their right to exist in public and flaunt their sexual identities without the threat of arrest.

These demonstrations are not the first time the queer community has fought back against gender-based oppression, but the particular riot became a turning point for the modern LGBTQIA+ rights movement in the US and in the world.

Pride taking over PH kalye

When the Philippines held its first Pride March in 1994 to mark the 25th anniversary of Stonewall, the act of marching carried the same significance.

Organized by the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC) and the Progressive Organization of Gays in the Philippines (Progay), the parade took the streets of Quezon City to call against the oppression of the LGBT people, as well as the implementation of the Value Added Tax and oil price hike. Also regarded as the first Pride March in Asia, it was attended by around 50 to 60 people.

It was simply not a commemoration of an uprising abroad but a public assertion that queer Filipinos also belonged in spaces historically marked by exclusion.

Despite the low media coverage at the time, the demonstration laid the foundation for the annual protest for LGBTQIA+ rights in the country.

‘Tuloy ang LoveLaban’

More than three decades later, LoveL4ban shows how that assertion has expanded rather than diminished. Before festivalgoers watched performances, browsed queer-owned businesses, or visited community organizations, they marched together through UP Diliman. The procession remained the event’s anchor even as Pride grew into a cultural festival encompassing art, education, healthcare, and independent enterprise.

This is also true for the smaller-venued, but equally important, Pride solidarity protests around the country. A demonstration, accompanied by drag performances, was held along Liwasang Bonifacio on June 26 amidst rain. A protest, led by the Eastern Visayas Pride Alliance, was also held at Libertad Freedom Park in Iloilo City, on June 27, bringing together progressive groups and members of the LGBTQIA+ community across the region.

These instances suggest that the street performs a role no stage can replace. Festivals create spaces for celebration, but streets create visibility. They place queer lives within the everyday landscape of the city, allowing Pride to exist not as a destination apart from public life but as part of it.

Every generation of Pride has returned to the street, even as the celebration has expanded around it. The route may differ—from the streets surrounding the Stonewall Inn to the roads of Quezon City and the Academic Oval of UP Diliman—but the objective of pride as a channel for people to gather, occupy shared space, and assert that queer lives belong there always remains.

LoveL4ban 2026 illustrated how Pride has evolved into a broad cultural gathering encompassing performances, community organizations, health initiatives, queer entrepreneurship, and educational spaces.

Yet before the festival could unfold, nearly 300,000 people walked together. As Pride Month draws to a close, that procession remains the movement’s most enduring tradition—not because it resists change, but because it continues to locate queer visibility where it has always mattered most: in the public spaces shared by everyone. ▼

Francesca Bacordo is the Culture Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. Between streets and side alleys—chasing stories, making her own route.

Jan Mike Cabangin is the Editor-in-Chief of Kalyematopeya, the 31st volume of iCommunicate.

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Before the city begins to hurry, its quietest residents are already awake.

An aspin, the country's native mixed-breed dog, lies beside a subdivision guardhouse, keeping silent company with the security guard who has likely shared countless shifts with it. Across the street, a lean calico-colored puspin stretches across the seat of a parked motorcycle before slipping underneath it as the morning sun grows warmer. Outside a neighborhood karinderya, another cat waits patiently, watching customers finish breakfast in hopes that a few morsels of fish or meat might make their way to the pavement.

Tomorrow, those same animals will likely be in the very same places.

Long before Philippine cities became crowded with concrete and traffic, dogs and cats already lived alongside Filipinos. Historians note that even before the arrival of Spanish colonizers, these animals served as hunters, protectors, and companions, guarding homes and accompanying their owners on journeys. Centuries later, they remain beside us. The difference is that many now survive without families to call their own.

The Philippine Animal Welfare Society (PAWS) estimates that around 13 million stray dogs roam the country, while a single unspayed female cat can give rise to an entire colony within a year. The numbers are staggering, but statistics alone cannot explain why stray animals continue to fill the nation's streets. They cannot tell the story of a dog abandoned after becoming inconvenient or of a kitten growing up beneath parked vehicles instead of inside a home.

Behind every stray animal is a story written not by the animal itself, but by human choices—and, sometimes, human failures.

When headlines fade

Throughout June, conversations about animals often find their way online. National Adopt a Cat Month encourages families to open their homes to rescued felines, while World Pet Memorial Day, observed every second Tuesday of the month, becomes a space to remember beloved companions that have crossed the rainbow bridge. Yet alongside these moments of celebration and remembrance are headlines that tell a different story: animals abandoned, abused, neglected, or left to suffer in overcrowded facilities.

Earlier this year, one such story unfolded in Valenzuela City. Reports on the alleged conditions inside the Lingunan Dog Pound drew widespread condemnation from animal welfare advocates and residents. Accounts from concerned citizens described overcrowded cages, inadequate food and water supplies, and animals allegedly forced to remain beside those that had already died. Images circulating online sparked anger and renewed calls for accountability.

But after the outrage came a more difficult question: What happens after the headlines fade?

Historical accounts show that fears of rabies during the Spanish colonial period led to the mass killing of dogs throughout Manila. During the nineteenth century, stretches of shoreline from Luneta to Tondo became burial grounds for animals killed in the name of public safety.

More than a century later, communities continue to wrestle with the same dilemma. Do we solve the problem by removing stray animals? Or do we solve the conditions that create them in the first place?

Not strays but community animals

For Reanna Teodosio, lead convenor of Valenzuelanos for Good Governance (V4GG), the answer begins with changing the way people see animals.

"I personally believe na 'yong stray animals, part sila ng community. Madalas silang nakikita as problem pero in reality, victim lang sila ng neglect and lack of proper animal welfare programs dito sa Philippines," Teodosio said.

If stray animals are viewed merely as problems, then the solution becomes catching them, removing them, and hoping they never return. But if they are recognized as members of the community—living beings whose lives have been shaped by human neglect—then the conversation shifts from elimination to responsibility.

That belief quietly took shape along Fatima Avenue in Barangay Marulas only weeks after the controversy.

On a Sunday afternoon in June, volunteers from V4GG and Biyaya Animal Care arrived along the road with humane traps in hand. The operation was part of the city's first Trap-Neuter-Vaccinate-Return (TNVR) initiative, a humane approach that safely traps community cats, has them spayed or neutered and vaccinated, then returns them to the exact places where they were found.

According to PAWS, TNVR remains the most effective long-term and humane approach to managing community cat populations because rather than relying on repeated impounding, it addresses the problem at its source while recognizing that these animals already have an established place within the communities they inhabit.

Before setting down a single trap, the volunteers first spoke with the people who knew the cats best.

Street sweepers pointed out the cats they fed every day. Some residents had grown attached to the roaming felines despite never keeping them indoors, recognizing them as familiar faces within the neighborhood. After volunteers explained the procedure, each caretaker signed a waiver, knowing the cats would be brought to Biyaya Animal Care for treatment before being returned.

For nearly an hour and a half, the team searched beside storefronts and residential houses. The 19 cats were brought to the clinic, where they underwent spay and neuter surgeries, recovery monitoring, and anti-rabies vaccination.

Days later, they returned—not simply to Fatima Avenue, but to the exact places where they had been found. The operation ended where it had begun, acknowledging that these streets were already home.

For Teodosio, that is why even the words people choose matter.

"Hindi natin inaalis 'yong stray sa community kasi hindi lang naman sila stray. Community cats sila."

Changing a single phrase changes the conversation. A stray is often seen as something to remove. A community cat, on the other hand, is recognized as a living creature that has quietly become part of the neighborhood.

One community at a time

The same philosophy of prevention over punishment can be found every Saturday at the Barangay Lawang Bato in Valenzuela.

By early morning, residents begin arriving with dogs on leashes and cats tucked inside carriers, forming a line that stretches outside the barangay hall. Since launching the weekly free anti-rabies vaccination and deworming program in 2024, the local government has accommodated around 60 pets every week, though the number often exceeds its target. Even residents from neighboring barangays are welcomed, while some vaccination drives are brought directly to different sitios to make veterinary services more accessible.

For veterinarian Dr. Joanne Torres, the program goes beyond administering vaccines. Every consultation becomes an opportunity to teach owners what responsible pet ownership looks like.

"Sa pagkakaroon ng ganitong proyekto, nabibigyan namin ng pagkakataon 'yong mga tao sa proper way ng pag-aalaga sa mga animal dahil ang pinu-push talaga namin ay responsible pet ownership. Hindi ka lang basta nag-aalaga ng aso at pusa."

Education, she believes, is just as important as treatment. Rabies remains fatal. Uncontrolled breeding continues to contribute to the growing number of stray animals. But both, she said, can be prevented long before they become larger community problems.

Among those waiting patiently that Saturday morning was Lavien Ledesma, carrying her puspin, Yonick.

She admitted that caring for him has become the part of her day she looks forward to most.

"Nakakawala ng pagod. 'Pag alam mong nasa trabaho ka, pag-uwi mo, siya agad ang inaasikaso," she shared.

The free veterinary services, she added, make responsible pet ownership easier for families like hers.

A few chairs away sat Girlie Del Rosario beside her dog, Goku. They have returned every year for the barangay's anti-rabies vaccination.

For Del Rosario, the visit is about protecting not only her pet but also the people around them.

"Malaking tulong itong free anti-rabies vaccination kasi proteksyon din sa'min saka sa ibang tao,” she said.

Caring for an animal, she believes, goes beyond providing food and shelter. Responsible pet ownership begins with the commitment to treat pets as part of the family.

"Hindi p’wedeng adopt lang. Hindi p’wedeng kukunin mo lang tapos hindi mo naman aalagaan. Kailangan alagaan mo saka mahalin mo na parang tao," she added.

Together, these stories point to the same idea: animal welfare does not begin only when an animal is rescued. It begins much earlier in the choices communities make to prevent abandonment, provide care, and recognize the animals already living among them.

As June draws to a close, animal welfare advocates hope the conversation does not end with hashtags, tribute posts, or awareness campaigns, but extends to the community animals that continue to share the country's streets every day.

For communities hoping to begin similar initiatives, Teodosio believes the first step is simply being willing to learn.

"Don't be afraid to ask questions kasi sa amin, maraming bagay kaming natututunan along the way because we ask for help from people who already know how TNVR works.”

“Start small, but start with intention kasi hindi naman kailangan na perfect agad. What matters is that you study the issue, you ask the right people, and coordinate properly," she added.

Tomorrow morning, the aspin will once again settle beside the guardhouse. The calico cat will climb onto the same parked motorcycle before retreating underneath it when the day grows warm. Another will wait outside the neighborhood karinderya, hopeful that someone might leave behind a few scraps of breakfast.

They will still be there, just as they have always been.

They may never cast a vote or speak a language people understand. But perhaps the measure of a community has never depended on who gets to be heard. Perhaps it is found in how we choose to care for those whose voices have always been carried instead by quiet meows, gentle barks, and the simple hope that someone, at last, is willing to listen. ▼

Maicah Rachel Eugenio is the Business Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is passionate about telling stories of communities and everyday people through humanized narratives and context-driven reporting.

They warned me of a land of fire,

A place where agony and nightmares reign,

A home for the damned and the wretched;

If I were to love you, heaven would turn away.

But there, I saw the misfits and outcasts,

The fearful, the unloved, and the no-good.

They stood with liberty and pride, their fears cast aside,

A fiery wasteland, home to hearts misunderstood.

If loving you condemns my soul

To walk through hell’s eternal flame,

Then let my being burn through

For a love that is painstakingly true.

Our voices would no longer whisper,

Our eyes would hold no shame;

In these burning streets, our love finds courage,

Your hand in mine, we’re no longer caged.

For what is heaven’s peace and light

Compared to a home in the dark with you?

Together with the misfits and the outcasts,

I’ll love freely beside you. ▼

Charlize Andrea Fortunado is the Social Media Manager of Kalyematopeya, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is dedicated to amplifying the voices of the masses and writing stories that matter.

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Remember the feeling of being in an abandoned building? Or in classrooms with broken chairs you need to clean during Brigada Eskwela? The unfinished train stations with millions of allocated public funds? The underpass in Lawton which gets easily flooded during the rainy season? The streets with flickering lights where you light a stick of cigarette after an 8-hour shift?

These are liminal spaces. The in-between experience of where you have been and not yet where you are going. It is neither the destination nor home but its middle ground.

For most of us, these are only meant to be passed through. But for some, these are homes they have no choice but to survive in.

The concept began with Arnold van Gennep’s study 'Les rites de passage' in 1909 where he described a liminal space as the in-between zone of ‘no longer had been’ and ‘had not yet become’. It was soon expanded by Victor Turner, seeing liminality as a space where social structure relaxed and rules were temporarily halted so something new could emerge.

An anonymous user on the internet popularized this phenomenon as an online urban legend, featuring a photo of an empty room with a mustard yellow wallpaper, a stained beige carpet, and harsh fluorescent lights. It was visualized as an endless and strangely familiar place without any human presence.

From a single image, it produced fictional myths, even a recent film about glitching out of reality and entering an infinite maze widely known as the ‘backrooms’.

This made the online world fascinated with the unknown fear of being trapped in a place they do not belong, where feeling lost is the only thing certain.

If backrooms give most people the chills, how about those who are stuck here?

Last year, a photo of a woman crawling out from a road drainage hole in Makati went viral. Authorities immediately tracked and gave her a bounty of P80,000 she can use to start a sari-sari store.

In hindsight, this seems like a quick response from the government. However, the photographer behind the viral photo discovered a community living in a creek when a man emerged from the culvert.

The creek next to the National Home Mortgage Finance Corporation became a home for at least 15 settlers, including the woman in the photo. Some of them have been living there due to residential displacement for a government project.

Similarly, clearing operations in Manila left families residing along the sidewalks in constant run from available streets to another. Quezon City overpasses and waiting sheds also serve as temporary shelter for communities.

If a liminal space is the transition where people pass through before arriving, then, for the urban poor sleeping beneath the culverts of Makati, sidewalks of Manila, and overpasses of Quezon City, transitions do not exist.

The "temporary" passages of society became their permanent survival sites. They knew liminality by being forced to live on creeks, street corners, gutters, waiting sheds, and public benches.

This is because social structures suspend them from experiencing permanence. They exist everywhere, yet belong nowhere.

Unlike those who have experienced stability, safety, and security, the homeless may not be able to feel the same terror when entering backrooms. For they have become accustomed to its familiarity.

This situation is not limited to those who are deprived of houses. It can also be argued that the Philippines is the backroom itself, and Filipinos have long been trapped here.

From centuries of Spanish colonization, land ownership among elites was institutionalized, leaving Filipinos with no economic autonomy. The American period introduced us to modernization where the nation's wealth is concentrated into the hands of landlords, political dynasties, and still, business elites.

Until today, these structures deny the country the sense of belongingness and certainty.

Farmers never transitioned to having their own agricultural lands. The working class remains in rags but never riches. The urban poor and Indigenous People continue to be displaced.

It birthed a nation that prioritizes selective development, abandoning not just spaces, but its very people.

Over the years, administrations have also repeatedly implemented clearing operations targeting informal settlers in the name of restoring “order” in urban spaces.

During the presidency of Rodrigo Duterte, these anti-obstruction campaigns led to aggressive displacement of thousands of Filipino families.

Under the Marcos Jr. regime, simultaneous fires in residential areas left communities homeless and with no proper relocating plans.

Their resolution is to hide the poor from sight. Sanitize and develop public spaces but leave the poverty untouched.

What is scarier than backrooms is how this very system vilifies the homeless. Their humanity was confined to labels such as 'snatchers,’ 'bad people,' 'hopeless,' and ‘addicts’.

They were seen as dependent on social programs when they demanded affordable and liveable housing units after being relocated. They are being told to get lost when asking for alms.

But in the middle of an economic crisis, have we weighed who can only afford to take up space?

The current minimum wage of workers in Metro Manila is less than P700 per day. An average apartment rental for a family amounts to P10,000 per month. In order to have a home, an individual must work for at least 15 days.

However, securing a job is far from easy. Above rent, food, transportation, electricity, and water bills all add to the financial burden.

More than physical places, a liminal space can also be the psychological state or feeling of finishing something, but not being able to begin again yet.

Like the period after graduation and before entering the world of employment, leaving a job and before finding another, emptying a house then filling up a new one, or being stuck in the middle of your parent's separation.

It can be the fleeting moments that our minds fail or refuse to vividly remember. Staying here can make us feel lost or confined in a boundless space.

This is why we cannot blame the homeless for not being able to abide by the law. They cannot be easily driven away because they have nowhere else to go.

They have always been stuck in both the physical aspect of liminality, as well as its emotional and psychological horror.

Even if we all Filipinos are living in the constant consequence of colonization, some of us are fortunate to have a place.

Being able to feel the liminality of a space means having the choice to flee and go where you want to be. It is important to acknowledge that privilege.

For until when do settlers continue to search for places they truly belong? Will the liminal spaces forever be the closest thing to be called their ‘home’?

After all, homelessness is never an individual problem. It is a human rights violation, a product of the government's centuries of failure to serve its people.

Giving them food, coins, and even bounty does not grant them the space they truly deserve. Being kind to them is also not enough.

It is time to reclaim the streets, displace those who abuse power, lock those who strip off the nation's resources to backrooms, and demolish the system that fails to shelter its own people. ▼

Shannia Cabuello is the Literary Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is most passionate in telling human rights stories through photos and literary pieces.

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Students, faculty members, employees and university officials aired competing views on the proposed National Polytechnic University (NPU) Bill during a town hall consultation at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines (PUP) on June 19.

While participants agreed that PUP faces a serious funding crisis, they differed on whether the proposed law would offer a lasting solution.

The forum, organized by the PUP College of Arts and Letters Student Council, examined the bill’s potential effects on public funding, fiscal autonomy, plantilla positions, commercialization, and privatization.

Student leaders warned that “without a clear guarantee of increased government funding,” the bill could push PUP to rely more heavily on income-generating projects, joint ventures, and private-sector partnerships.

University officials and some faculty members, on the other hand, said that NPU status could strengthen PUP’s position in seeking a larger budget, expanding personnel, and exercising greater administrative and academic autonomy.

The measure seeks to elevate PUP as the country’s National Polytechnic University. Similar versions of the bill were vetoed in 2019 by former President Rodrigo Duterte and again in 2025 by President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.

Fiscal autonomy

For student representatives, the main issue was whether NPU status would actually lead to sustained funding for PUP.

The proposal has returned to Congress after two presidential vetoes. Former President Rodrigo Duterte rejected an earlier version in 2019, citing the need to reassess PUP’s institutional performance. In July 2025, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. vetoed another version after the Palace said PUP had yet to comply with a required institutional assessment. The measure was refiled in 2026 through House Bills 6266 and 6870.

PUP Student Regent (SR) Troy Cabangon said the university has continued to face funding shortage despite submitting annual budget proposals. He said that PUP proposed a P12-billion budget for 2026 but received nearly P4 billion. For 2027, the university is seeking about P15.7 billion.

Cabangon said that fiscal autonomy without enough funding could compel PUP to rely more on commercialization.

“Ang otonomiya na walang sapat na pondo ay hindi otonomiya. Ito ay isang parusa,” he said.

He added that PUP should receive direct public funding rather than depend on private partnerships, loans, or business ventures.

PUP Sentral na Konseho ng Mag-aaral President JP Azusano also questioned whether the bill could ensure increased funding.

“[…] Hindi guaranteed na maibibigay o makakamtan natin ang mataas na budget sa pamantasan kung sakali man na maipasa ang National Polytechnic University Bill,” he stated.

He added that the government has a constitutional responsibility, as outlined by the 1987 Philippine Constitution Article XIV Section 5, to fund public education and should not require state universities to seek alternative sources to address operational needs.

Meanwhile, university officials said the bill could address some of the barriers in the budget process.

University Legal Council representative Atty. Joanne Liao said PUP is currently grouped with other state universities and colleges (SUCs) during budget deliberations. Under the proposed NPU charter, she said, the university could submit its own organizational structure and budget proposal based on its actual needs.

Officials said this could provide greater flexibility in requesting funds for facilities, campuses, student welfare, research, and staffing.

However, they acknowledged that “the bill would not automatically ensure approval of all budget requests.

Staffing and plantilla positions

Another issue raised during the forum was the shortage of permanent faculty and administrative positions.

Unyon ng mga Guro sa PUP (UGPUP) President Arlan Camba cited overcrowded classrooms, heavy teaching loads, administrative assignments, and continued reliance on part-time and contractual workers as concerns affecting employee welfare and the quality of instruction. He said these conditions affect employee welfare and the quality of instruction.

Liao also said the university remains significantly understaffed and requires additional faculty and administrative positions across its campuses.

“We are operating on a 25% manpower capacity. 25% lang ng actual na pangangailangan natin.”

She said the NPU Bill would allow PUP to propose a new academic and administrative structure with more plantilla items. More permanent positions, she added, could also increase funding for personnel services and maintenance and operating expenses, including repairs, facilities, and campus operations.

Officials said expanding plantilla positions could also reduce the need for faculty members to take on administrative work outside their teaching duties.

Student leaders agreed that PUP needs more teachers, staff, and permanent jobs. However, they stressed that the creation and funding of new plantilla positions would still need approval from the national government.

Cabangon underscored the university’s current staffing situation, saying, “Mayroon 3,423 empleyado ang pamantasan at 1,695 na mga empleyado nito ang part-time na guro at casual na kawanin o tinatayang nasa 50% ng mga empleyado nito ang contractual.”

Commercialization and privatization concerns

The strongest disagreement during the consultation involved joint ventures, outsourcing, public-private partnerships, and income-generating projects.

The student sector specifically pointed to Section 8(s) of House Bill 6266, which allows PUP to “enter into joint ventures with businesses and industries” after consultation with National Economic and Development Authority (NEDA) for the development and management of economic assets, with the proceeds intended to support the university. They also raised concerns over Section 8(x), which permits PUP, when deemed most advantageous, to outsource non-academic services such as health, food, building, grounds, and property maintenance.

Student representatives warned that these mechanisms could deepen commercialization and privatization within PUP. They raised concerns that outsourcing services such as food, health, and maintenance could lead to higher costs for students and weaker job security for workers.

They also argued that private-sector partnerships should not undermine PUP’s role as a public and people-oriented university.

College of Arts and Letters Student Council (CAL-SC) President John Christian Ancheta called for clearer protection in the bill.

“Dapat tiyakin na dapat anumang outsourcing arrangement ay hindi magreresulta sa pagbaba ng kalidad ng serbisyo, pagtaas ng gastos para sa mga mag-aaral at paglabag sa karapatan at seguridad sa trabaho ng mga manggagawa at kawani natin sa loob ng PUP,” he said.

Ancheta also called for consultations with students, faculty, employees, concessionaires, and other affected sectors before the university enters into joint ventures or outsourcing arrangements.

University officials responded that joint ventures and income-generating activities are not new powers introduced by the NPU Bill. They said that similar authority already exists under current education laws and university governance rules.

Student leaders agreed that PUP needs more teachers, staff, and permanent jobs. However, they stressed that the creation and funding of new plantilla positions would still need approval from the national government.

Cabangon underscored the university’s current staffing situation, saying, “Mayroon 3,423 empleyado ang pamantasan at 1,695 na mga empleyado nito ang part-time na guro at casual na kawanin o tinatayang nasa 50% ng mga empleyado nito ang contractual.”

Commercialization and privatization concerns

The strongest disagreement during the consultation involved joint ventures, outsourcing, public-private partnerships, and income-generating projects.

The student sector specifically pointed to Section 8(s) of House Bill 6266, which allows PUP to “enter into joint ventures with businesses and industries” after consultation with National Economic and Development Authority (NEDA) for the development and management of economic assets, with the proceeds intended to support the university. They also raised concerns over Section 8(x), which permits PUP, when deemed most advantageous, to outsource non-academic services such as health, food, building, grounds, and property maintenance.

Student representatives warned that these mechanisms could deepen commercialization and privatization within PUP. They raised concerns that outsourcing services such as food, health, and maintenance could lead to higher costs for students and weaker job security for workers.

They also argued that private-sector partnerships should not undermine PUP’s role as a public and people-oriented university.

College of Arts and Letters Student Council (CAL-SC) President John Christian Ancheta called for clearer protection in the bill.

“Dapat tiyakin na dapat anumang outsourcing arrangement ay hindi magreresulta sa pagbaba ng kalidad ng serbisyo, pagtaas ng gastos para sa mga mag-aaral at paglabag sa karapatan at seguridad sa trabaho ng mga manggagawa at kawani natin sa loob ng PUP,” he said.

Ancheta also called for consultations with students, faculty, employees, concessionaires, and other affected sectors before the university enters into joint ventures or outsourcing arrangements.

University officials responded that joint ventures and income-generating activities are not new powers introduced by the NPU Bill. They said that similar authority already exists under current education laws and university governance rules.

They cited campus stalls and toga rentals as examples of income-generating projects that can help support university operations without being automatically exploitative.

For the administration, the issue is not whether such arrangements exist, but how they are implemented and regulated.

Officials said that proposed joint ventures would still go through the PUP Board of Regents and government review processes. They also pointed to the presence of student, faculty, and alumni representatives on the board, along with the proposed inclusion of an administrative staff representative, as safeguards against policies that may harm stakeholders.

Calls for wider consultation

Participants also called for a broader and more inclusive consultation process before the bill moves forward.

Ancheta said many sectors that could be affected by the measure, including janitors, guards, concessionaires, and other campus workers, were still unaware of the bill and its possible effects.

He also urged the university to hold sector-specific consultations and roundtable discussions involving all affected groups. They also called for direct student and sectoral representation in any revisions to the proposed measure.

University officials said they were open to receiving comments and recommendations, particularly on provisions involving joint ventures, outsourcing and safeguards against commercialization.

Despite the disagreements, participants shared one point of consensus: PUP’s overcrowded classrooms, lack of facilities, staffing shortages and budget constraints need urgent action. ▼

Jaycel Dela Cruz is a member of Marketing Committee, Social Management Team, and serves in the Production Committee. She is passionate about telling the stories of ordinary people in ways that creates impact and connection.

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Before sunrise, malunggay pandesal vendors are already making their rounds through neighborhoods and busy streets. While many people are still preparing for work or school, these vendors are beginning their day, hoping to sell out their bread before noon.

At first glance, a cart selling malunggay pandesal may seem like a simple operation. Yet for many vendors, it serves as a primary source of income and a practical example of how small businesses survive within the informal economy.

For Luigi, 17, selling malunggay pandesal is more than just a source of income. Having lost both of his parents, he currently lives with his aunt and has been working since the age of 15 to support himself.

“Fifteen pa lang ako, nagtatrabaho na ako sa manukan, at magtatatlong buwan pa lang akong nagtitinda,” he said.

Ron, 34, followed a similar path. Formerly a sidecar driver, he started selling malunggay pandesal to help support his family's daily expenses and his children's education.

His operation is slightly larger, with daily sales reaching 400 to 500 pieces, which he sells for P5 each. He begins his day as early as 2 a.m. and usually finishes before noon.

While both earn a living through selling malunggay pandesal, their business arrangements differ. Luigi works under a supplier and receives a fixed monthly salary of around P5,000 without having to invest capital. Ron, on the other hand, operates more independently and relies on daily sales for income. He invests about P2,000 each day for his inventory and can earn as much as P2,500 when he sells out his stock.

Luigi was encouraged by a neighbor who was already in the business. The opportunity appealed to him because it required little to no capital. The cart and bread are provided by the supplier, allowing him to earn a living through sales without making an upfront investment.

Meanwhile, Ron took a more entrepreneurial route. In 2021, he invested in purchasing his own cart and began selling cheese donuts on the street. Eventually, the demand for malunggay pandesal increased, so he shifted his focus on it instead.

Part of the product’s appeal comes from its nutritional value. Malunggay (Moringa oleifera) is widely recognized in the Philippines as a nutrient-rich plant containing vitamins A and C, calcium, iron, and antioxidants. Because of these health benefits, malunggay has become a common ingredient in various food products, including bread.

The bread’s popularity to the masses, however, is not driven by its nutrition alone. Convenience plays a major role in attracting customers.

Maria, a 34-year-old office employee, buys malunggay pandesal three to four times a week before heading to work.

“Mas convenient. Nadadaanan ko na agad habang papunta sa sakayan kaya hindi na kailangan pang pumunta sa bakery,” she said.

For Carlo, a college student, the appeal lies in its affordability and accessibility.

“Mas mabilis at mas mura. Isang bili lang tapos makakakain na ako habang naglalakad papunta sa school,” he said.

Meanwhile, Rosa, a homemaker, values the freshness of the product and the convenience of having vendors come directly to residential areas.

“Lumalapit na mismo ang nagtitinda sa lugar namin kaya hindi ko na kailangang lumabas nang malayo,” she said.

The street itself is central to the business model. Unlike traditional bakeries, rolling vendors bring their products directly to consumers. This mobility allows them to reach office workers, students, and residents where demand already exists, reducing overhead costs while increasing accessibility.

Yet operating on the street comes with challenges. Ron said rising prices of flour, malunggay, and other ingredients have affected his profit margins.

“Kapag masama ang panahon, kaunti ang bumibili,” he added.

Luigi echoed the same concern, noting that competition and weather are among the biggest obstacles faced by street vendors.

Heavy rain, extreme heat, and storms often discourage customers from going outside, leading to slower business days. According to both vendors, sales are especially weak during typhoons or extended periods of bad weather.

Despite these challenges, malunggay pandesal carts continue to roll through Philippine streets each day. More than a means of selling bread, they represent a form of grassroots entrepreneurship powered by mobility, accessibility, and community trust.

For vendors like Luigi and Ron, every route traveled offers another opportunity to earn a living. In every piece of bread sold, they demonstrate how the street remains not only a pathway for people, but also a space where livelihoods are built and sustained.

Jericho Quito serves as the Chief Photojournalist of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the iCommunicate’s 31st volume. A multimedia storyteller—capturing stories one frame at a time.

Claim: A Facebook post claims that under ⁠Republic Act No. 9344, also known as Juvenile Justice Law, anyone who is 15 years old and below is automatically exempt from criminal liability, meaning minors involved in recent violent crimes will face no legal consequences.

Rating: FALSE

Why we fact checked this: Following a tragic shooting incident at San Jose National High School in Tacloban City, social media posts began spreading misinformation about the ⁠Juvenile Justice and Welfare Act of 2006. These posts claim that the young age of the suspects grants them an automatic escape from the law. We are fact-checking this claim to clear up public confusion and stop the spread of false legal claims regarding the accountability of youth offenders.

Facts: The claim that 15-year-old offenders are automatically exempt from criminal liability is false. According to Republic Act No. 9344, as amended by ⁠Republic Act No. 10630, there is a clear distinction for minors who are exactly 15 years old. While children under 15 are fully exempt from criminal prosecution, a minor who is above 15 but below 18 years old can be held criminally liable if the prosecution proves they acted with discernment.

Discernment refers to a child’s capacity to understand the difference between right and wrong and the consequences of their actions. If a 15-year-old is proven to have acted with discernment, they will not simply walk free. Instead, they will undergo formal criminal proceedings through the Juvenile Justice and Welfare system.

This legal truth directly applies to the recent school shooting at San Jose National High School in Tacloban City involving two students, aged 14 and 15, who opened fire inside classrooms. Senator Francis Pangilinan, the author of the law, publicly clarified that the minor suspects cannot simply be released. The 15-year-old shooter will face standard criminal evaluation regarding discernment. Meanwhile, the 14-year-old shooter, though legally exempt from criminal trial due to age, must still face mandatory, long-term institutionalized reform and intervention programs.

Furthermore, the law explicitly states that no minor is ever exempt from civil liability. Depending on the circumstances of the case and applicable laws, the parents or legal guardians of the suspects may still be held responsible for damages and other civic obligations arising from the incident. ▼

For further reading:

• 3 dead, 13 injured in school shooting in Tacloban

• ⁠Juvenile Justice and Welfare Council (JJWC) FAQs

Jane Andes is the Social Media and Tech Head of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. A street-rooted writer shaping digital stories.

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Sinisimulan natin ang araw sa kaniya-kaniyangparaan. Mayroong dahan-dahang nagluluto ng agahan upang hindi maistorbo ang natutulog pang mga kamag-anak. Mayroon din namang dali-daling kumikilos upang hindi mahuli sa pagpasok ng trabaho. Habang ang iba, mataimtim na nagpapasalamat sa panibagong araw na kumpleto ang kaniyang pamilya.

Iba-iba tayo ng istilo ng pagbangon, pero sa paglabas natin sa ating pintuan, pamilyar na panlasa ang bumabati at nagpapasigla sa ating mga araw.

Tulad ng mainit-init at manamis-namis na tasa ng taho. Swak na swak na pampagising ang bawat higop ng kumikinang na arnibal, at tila mainit na haplos sa likod ang bawat lunok ng pinalambot na tokwa. Sabayan mo pa ng perpektong pagkakaluto ng nagtatalbugang mga sago. Tila buo na ang araw natin gamit lamang ang isang baso.

Pagdating naman ng pagkainit-init na tanghali kung saan tagaktak ang pawis at kay lagkit na ng damit, nariyan ang isang perpektong panghimagas na handang pawiin ang pagod at stress sa gitna ng nakalulusaw na panahon — ang paborito nating ice scramble.

Kay sarap lasapin ng kulay rosas na ginayat na yelo habang naglalaro ang lasa ng malambot na mini mallows, malutong na sprinkles, at nakakakikilig na tamis ng tsokolateng syrup. Bawat subo nito ay agarang presko, tila binabalik ka sa pagkabata, sa panahong nilalagyan ng bimpo ang ‘yong likuran matapos ang matinding laro ng piko at tumbang preso. At sa pagsimot ng baso, puno na uli ang iyong baterya, handa na muling harapin ang kabuuan ng araw anuman ang aberya.

Ngunit sa likod ng bawat salok ng taho at bawat gayat ng yelo ng ice scramble ay mga tatay na maagang bumabangon upang ihanda ang mga sangkap nito para sa’yo.

Ilan sila sa mga haligi ng kani-kanilang tahanan na kumakayod para sa kanilang pamilya. Pero sa pag-apak nila sa labas ng kanilang tahanan, sila ay nagiging haligi sa buhay kalsada.

Matamis na pampagising

Sa isang tahanan, mayroong gumigising ng alas-kwatro ng umaga upang pumunta sa pabrika kung saan pinipiga ang tokwa, tinitimpla ang minatamis, at pinakukuluan ang sago.

Bago pumatak ang alas-syete ng umaga, nagsisimula na ang kaniyang pagbaybay sa ruta ng Hollycross, Quezon City habang isinisigaw ang matamis na pampagising: “Taho!”

Ganyan ang nakagawiang araw-araw ni Aniano “Arning” Oraño sa loob ng limang dekada niyang hanapbuhay bilang mantataho.

“Singko-diyes [pesos] pa nga lang ‘yong bilihan ng taho, mantataho na ako,” sambit ni Mang Arning.

Pero tulad ng iba pang trabaho, hindi naging madali ang kaniyang simula. Marami nang mantataho bago pa siya nagsimula. At bilang bago sa industriya, kinailangan niyang humanap ng ruta na bukas sa malayang kumpetisyon at hindi sa nanggigitgit na labanan.

“Minsan, maraming nagagalit na mga kapwa nagtitinda rin. Kasi kinukumpentensiya ko raw sila. Sisitahin, paaalisin ako, kaya ako umaalis,” kwento ni Mang Arning.

Nabaybay na niya ang iba’t ibang ruta—mula Blumentritt hanggang Taguig, Balintawak hanggang Fairview. Ito ay sa kagustuhan niyang makapaghanapbuhay nang matiwasay. Sa kabutihang palad, malugod siyang tinanggap ng mga mantataho sa Quezon City, rason kung bakit dito na siya nagtagal.

Ngunit hindi lamang kapwa mantataho ang naging panganib sa ruta ni Mang Arning. Dahil sa buhay kalsada, iba’t ibang klase ng tao ang makahaharap mo.\

Pait ng buhay kalsada

Isang hapon sa Talipapa, sugat sa mata at posibleng pagkabulag ang inabot ni Mang Arning nang siya’y itulak ng isang barker ng jeep. Mula sa isang simpleng “biruan” na umabot sa pagkainit ng ulo ng nasabing barker, sinalo ng sahig ang mukha ni Mang Arning kung saan tumama sa bakal ang kanan niyang mata.

“Sampung araw ako sa ospital. Sampung araw din akong ‘di nakapagbenta,” pagbabahagi ni Mang Arning.

Malaki ang kinailangang bayaran ni Mang Arning sa ospital, kaya’t hindi na siya nag-abala pang magsampa ng kaso. Ang tanging hiling na lamang niya no’n ay mapabilis ang paggaling ng kaniyang mata. Kung kaya’t laking tuwa niya nang sabihin ng doktor na maaari na siyang bumalik sa pagbebenta.

“Kahit umuulan, bumabagyo, nagtitinda ako. Para lang magalaw-galaw ‘yong katawan ko,” ani Mang Arning. “Ito ‘yong hinahanap ng katawan ko eh, ito na kasi ‘yong linya ko,” dagdag pa niya.

Ngunit hindi rito natatapos ang mga pagsubok na kinahaharap ng mantataho. Dahil sa patuloy na pagtaas ng presyo ng mga bilihin, maging ang paboritong minatamis ng mga Pilipino ay hindi ligtas.

Kung noon ay nasa halagang P150 ang isang malaking balde ng pinalambot na tokwa, ngayon ay pumapalo na sa P700 ang isang maliit na balde. Nangangahulugang dapat maabot ni Mang Arning ang boundary na P1,400 upang malinis na matumbasan ang kaniyang puhunan.

Kung tutuusin, mas malaki lang nang kaunti ang kita ni Mang Arning sa minimum wage ng NCR na P695.

“Ang kita ko, P700. Okay na ‘yon. Buhay na mga anak ko no’n. ‘Pag medyo may gana-gana pa nga, minsan ay may dala kong tokwa. Para madagdagan ‘yong kita ko,” ibinihagi ni Mang Arning.

Sa kabila ng mahaba at baku-bakong baybayin, natikman na niya ang pinakamatamis na tagumpay: ang mapagtapos ng pag-aaral ang huli at pangatlo niyang anak. Hindi ito naging madali dahil sunod-sunod silang nagkolehiyo, kaya’t sabay-sabay ang bayarin sa eskwela. Gayunpaman, hindi nagpatinag si Mang Arning.

“Konting tiyaga lang naman. Araw, tanghali, at hapon magtitinda ako para triple ang kita,” nakangiti niyang sambit.

Sa paningin ng isang nagmamahal na ama, walang nakakatakot na ruta, malayong lakarin, o mabigat na bitbitin, maitaguyod lang ang pamilya.

Alat ng sakripisyo

Sa kalsada naman ng Sta. Mesa, Maynila, matatagpuan ang special ice scramble ng 62-anyos na si Noel de Guzman. Sinimulan niya ito labintatlong taon na ang nakalipas, at kasalukuyang may dalawang sangay sa Bulacan at Marikina na pinapatakbo ng kaniyang mga anak.

Bago niya napalago ang kaniyang ice scramble business, hindi naging madali ang byahe ni Mang Noel papunta rito.

“Lahat ng klase ng trabaho pinasok ko,” ani Mang Noel. “Gumawa ako ng gamot [sa loob ng] pitong taon, nagtrabaho ako sa computer school, pitong taon. Five years ako sa abroad. Then after no’n, puro business naman,” dagdag niya.

Pinili niyang kumayod nang kumayod at mag-ipon upang mabigyan ng komportableng buhay ang kaniyang mga anak—buhay na ‘di hawig sa kaniyang karanasan.

“Binuhay kami ng mother ko sa paglalaba. Na-experience din namin na amo niya, amo rin namin. ‘Yong pinaglalaban niya, pinaglilinisan namin ng bahay, which is maglilinis ka ng napakalaking bahay, sampung piso lang.”

Ang kwentong ito ay ibinabahagi niya sa kaniyang mga anak hindi para maliitin ang naging trabaho ng kaniyang ina o para ikahiya ang karanasan niya noong bata, kundi para ipakita na malayo ang mararating ng pagtatrabaho nang marangal at pagpili ng hanapbuhay na tunay mong kinagagalakan.

Sarap ng patuloy na paghaligi

Ngayong may kaniya-kaniya nang pamilya at hanapbuhay ang mga anak nina Arning at Noel, marahil masasabing “graduate” na rin sila sa larangan ng pagtaguyod ng kanilang pamilya.

Gayunpaman, naniniwala silang hindi dito nagtatapos ang gampanin ng isang haligi ng tahanan. Hangga’t may oras pa silang makipamuhay kasama ang kanilang asawa, mga anak, at apo, patuloy silang susuporta, hahaligi, at magmamahal sa kanilang pamilya.

Gaya ng kalsadang hindi tumitigil ang mga ruta, nakahanap din ng landas labas sa tahanan sina Mang Arning at Mang Noel. Dahil kahit na matayog nang nakatayo ang kanilang tahanan, patuloy pa rin ang kanilang paghahanapbuhay.

Pero sa pagkakataong ito, para naman sa kanilang sarili at sa komunidad na bumuo sa kanila—kasama ang kanilang mga suki ng limang dekada at mga bagong mamimili na patuloy na hinahanap-hanap ang kanilang matamis at makulay na pagmamahal.

Dahil hindi tulad ng mga panghimagas na ibinebenta nila sa mga kalsada, hindi mapapanis ang serbisyong itinatag mula sa pagmamahal at karangalan ng isang haligi ng kalsada.▼

Si Ghilieah Valeska Tabbada ay ang Multimedia Production Head ng Kalyematopeya Magazine, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Pinakahilig niyang kumuha ng mga bidyeo bilang tala ng mga memoryang kabalik-balik.

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Sa gitna ng krisis pang-ekonomiya, higit lalong natutuon ang atensyon ng karamihan sa mga Pilipino sa kung paano kikita. Madalas, ang bawat paggising ay para na lang magsilbi. Dito, mas dinig ang ingay ng makina at busina, ang reklamo ng mga kliyente sa trabaho, sigaw ng mga barker, at yapak ng mga paang pinipilit maitawid ang buong araw.

Naisasantabi ang pagdamdam at pagkanta. Nagiging huli ang pagpapahayag at nawawala ang espasyo para makinig at mapakinggan. Sa ganitong kalagayan din nauuwi sa katahimikan at pagkimkim ang mga manggagawa, mag-aaral, at mamamayan.

Nitong Hunyo 6 sa UP Sunken Garden, pinangunahan ng Panday Sining-Kamuning ang pagbabahagi ng mga sangkap sa paglikha ng musika. Layon nitong palawigin ang diskusyon patungkol sa kung saan ba dapat nanggagaling ang tunog ng sining, paano ito magiging matunog, at kung saan ito dapat patungo.

Mula sa talakayang revolutionary aesthetic, pagsulat ng kanta, at music theory, panandaliang naging lunsaran ng musika ang kalsada.

Sangkap 1: Kalsada

Bilang isang musikero, danas ni Shirley Encarnacion mula sa Panday Sining-Kamuning ang hirap sa paglikha. Para sa kanya, musika ang paraan para ipahayag at palayain ang sarili mula sa mga personal na epekto ng mapaglimitang sistema.

“Sa panahon ngayon, nasaan ba ang mga music at art na nakikita natin? Madalas nala-lock up sila sa mga museum na may bayad o kaya kailangang may ID,” ani Encarnacion. Gaya ng mga museong aksesable lang sa iilan, ang mga gig place din ay hindi lubusang tumutugon sa kanilang pangangailangan.

“Kahit sa pang-araw-araw, kailangan din ng oras para mag-dedicate na pumunta sa isang lugar, ‘yong walang gagawin para magtrabaho, at mag-a-appreciate lang ng art. So, ‘yong mga nakaka-attain lang nito, mga may kaya. And hindi natin gusto ‘yon. ‘Yong art, dapat para siya sa lahat,” dagdag niya.

Ika ni Encarnacion, marami ang naghahangad na matuto kung paanong gumuhit, magsulat, magpinta, sumayaw, at kumanta, pero hindi nagiging sapat ang interes dahil sa kakulangan sa edukasyon, kagamitan, at oras.

“Hindi problema na hindi sila marunong. Hindi ito skill issue kundi oras, pera, at pagod talaga,” aniya.

Hindi matatapatan ng kagustuhan lang ang pangangailangan para sa libreng espasyo o studio, aksesableng mga kursong pangsining, maging ang oras para pagtuunan ito. Higit sa mga problema sa paglikha, maraming sining din ang nakaimbak lang sa mga espasyong iilan lang ang maaari at kayang kumonsumo.

Kaya upang maging para ito sa lahat, nagsasagawa ng mga inisyatiba ang organisasyon sa pinakamura at madaling paraan–gamitin ang kalye.

“Nakita na nating sa Sunken Garden, maraming dumaraan. Kahit sino puwedeng pumasok, kahit sino puwedeng pumunta,” ika ni Encarnacion.

Sa pamamagitan ng isang picnic, tinipon nila ang mga may interes sa musika at sinubukang pagyabungin pa ito, hindi lang sa aspetong teknikal, maging sa paglikhang nakaugat sa pakikibaka.

Sangkap 2: Pakikibaka

“Mahirap na music-music lang. Siyempre, kinakailangang mamulat sila mismo sa labas ng kanilang mga ganap sa buhay,” sabi ni Encarnacion.

Dagdag pa niya, mahalagang ang mga mag-aaral na lumahok ay hindi lamang makulong sa apat na sulok ng silid-aralan. Gayundin, ang mga nagtatrabaho ay hindi lang dapat mag-isang lagpasan ang kanilang mga pinagdaraanan.

Sa diskusyong revolutionary aesthetics, ipinaliwanag ng Panday Sining ang mahalagang papel ng kalsada sa paglikha ng musika. Dito nagmumula ang mga kuwento, dahilan para ito rin ang dapat patunguhan ng sining.

Noong ika-19 siglo, sinimulan ni Victor Cousin, isang pilosopo mula sa France, ang pilosopiyang “art for art’s sake.” Dito, ang tanging layunin ng sining ay ang taglay nitong kagandahan, hiwalay sa anumang moral, politikal, at kapakinabangang konteksto nito sa lipunan.

“Mahirap kumanta para sa loved one mo kung mahirap bumili ng pagkain. Mahirap iwasan ang krisis dahil ang kagustuhan mo ay kagustuhan din ng iba,” pagbabahagi ng Panday Sining. Kinontra nila ang pilosopiya ni Cousin at idiniing ang sining, palagi’t kailanman, ay politikal.

“Art must serve politics. Politics must serve the people,” anila. Imbes na “art for art’s sake,” dapat ito’y para sa pagpapalaganap ng ideolohiya, pagpapakilos, at paghubog sa kamalayan ng mga tao.

Sa tulong ng pakikinig sa kalsada at paglikha mula rito, magkakaroon ng unawaan at ugnayan mula sa mga magkakaibang pinagmulan. Dahil sa mga kwentong kalye, madaling maiintindihan ang dahilan sa likod ng panawagang pataasin ang sahod, gawing libre ang edukasyon, o gawing abot-kaya ang mga bilihin. Dito rin magmumula ang pagkakaisa ng mga tunog sa kalsada.

“Dapat ang nililikha ring sining ay nakaalis sa kaisipang kolonyal at binabawi ang kulturang winasak noon,” anila. Dapat din daw na taliwas ito sa pyudal na kultura, kung saan may makapangyarihang namamayagpag dahil sa pang-aalipin sa iba.

Higit pa sa paglikha, mahalaga ring mapalaganap at mapasikat ito upang labanan ang mga propagandang puro ‘ganda’ lang lalo’t ginagawa nitong malabnaw ang danas ng masa.

Sa pamamagitan ng mga progresibong sining, maiiwasan ang “displacement” o “alienation” ng mga Pilipino mula sa sariling karanasan at kultura.

Sangkap 3: Pakikipamuhay

Sa komposisyon ng musika, pinangunahan ni Ian Quiruz, isang singer at songwriter, ang pagtuturo kung paano isulat ang mga kwento sa kalsada. Gaya ng nabanggit sa talakayan, hinuhugot ni Quiruz ang tema at konsepto ng kanyang mga kanta mula sa karanasan ng iba.

“Lahat ng mga sinulat ko, wala talaga roong dedication pero may ilan doong alam ko na noon pa. Inihahalintulad ko ang paraan ko ng pagsulat sa pakikipamuhay,” aniya.

Ayon sa kanya, ito ang pinakamataas na antas ng pagsusuri lalo’t ‘firsthand’ na makukuha ang impormasyon. Ang pakikipamuhay rin ang paraan niya upang magkwento, hindi man niya personal na naranasan ang isang sitwasyon.

Bukod sa pagbisita sa mga komunidad o pakikipagkuwentuhan, maaari rin daw kumuha ng inspirasyon mula sa ibang porma ng sining gaya ng mga pelikula, libro, at kahit pagsisiyasat sa internet.

Itinuro rin niyang ilagay ang sarili sa sitwasyon upang maunawaang lubos ang isang bagay at may patunguhan ito kapag isinulat.

Sa pagbabahagi ng kanyang proseso sa paglikha, tinalakay niya ang ‘konsepto’ o ang tumutukoy sa nais mong iparating, at ang ‘tema’ o ang paraan kung paano mo ito ipaparating.

Sa kanyang kantang “tindahan ng mga alaala,” sinubukan niyang sagutin kung “Paano nga ba aalalahanin ang isang bagay kung hindi ito photographed?” Dito, ginamit niya ang pag-alala bilang konsepto at tindahan naman bilang tema.

Hindi man niya direktang naramdaman ang mawalan ng isang alaga, naisama ito sa kanta sa pamamagitan ng panonood ng mga pelikula. Sa parehong paraan, wala man sa isip niya noon ang pagkanta, pagsulat ang naging daan niya tungong musika.

“Kung nagsusulat ka, mga tula man ‘yan o balita, pwede mong subukang lagyan ng tono kahit pa pakiramdam mo hindi maganda ang boses mo,” panghihikayat niya sa mga manunulat.

Sangkap 4: Pagpapalaya

Sa huli, kailangang pakinggan ang mga damdamin para maging matunog ang isang awit.

Ayon kay Gian Micah, isang busker at speaker para sa music theory, marami ang hirap sa teorya dahil sa matematikal nitong aspeto. Ngunit pagpapaliwanag niya, ito ay isang kagamitan para pangalanan ang mga bagay na nagagawa natin sa musika.

“Ang music theory ang basic structure ng music. Dito mo malalaman kung ano ang mga chord at chord progressions, kung ano ang mga hindi pasok at pasok,” aniya.

Sa paglikha ng kanta, mahalaga para kay Micah na maisalin ang mga salita at damdamin sa tunog na pumupukaw ng emosyon. Ang teorya ng musika ang basehan para mabago ang mensahe ng isang awit sa pamamagitan lang ng tunog, masaya man o hindi ang liriko nito.

Gayunpaman, idinagdag niya ring ito ay pangunahing istruktura lamang. Sa oras na matutuhan ang payak nitong konteksto, madali na lamang itong mababali. Sa huli, malaya pa rin ang isang musikerong laruin ang paglikha, basta nasiyahan ito sa proseso.

Dahil higit sa lahat, kalayaan dapat ang tunguhin ng mga nilikha’t malilikha pa ng mga masining.

Itinuro ng workshop na hindi sagabal ang ingay ng kalsada. Pilit mang maubos ang mga libre at aksesableng espasyo, may mga organisasyong gaya ng Panday Sining na tutungo rito para duminig ng mga kinimkim at magturo kung paano babasagin ang katahimikan.

Ang nagkakaisang pakikibaka at pakikipamuhay sa mga dumaraan sa kalsada ang magbibigay ng harmoniya sa palaban at mapagpalayang tunog ng sining at musika.

Si Shannia Cabuello ang Patnugot ng Pampanitikan ng Kalyematopeya Magazine, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Pinakahilig niya ang pagkukuwento ng karapatang pantao sa pagkuha ng litrato at pagsulat ng panitikan.

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Every evening, as rush hour fades and commuters return home, another group quietly steps onto the streets they have just left behind. Armed with brooms, dustpans, and steady routines, street sweepers begin their shift,collecting tons of waste the city generated throughout the day.

According to a Manila Bulletin report, an estimated 60,000 metric tons of solid waste are produced daily across the Philippines, with Metro Manila accounting for more than 10,000 tons. Despite the existence of the Ecological Solid Waste Management Act of 2000 (Republic Act No. 9003), waste management remains a persistent urban challenge.

As of 2022, the Metropolitan Manila Development Authority (MMDA) deployed around 1,245 street sweepers to maintain over 1,160 kilometers of major roads—an immense responsibility shared by a limited workforce.

Beyond these figures are workers whose shifts begin as the city’s bustling rhythm slows down.

The work begins

As the afternoon congestion fades and the streets grow less crowded, street sweepers Gemma Jayoma and Mercy Dalida enter the scene. From 3 in the afternoon to 11 at night, they walk along roads and sidewalks, collecting the remnants of a full day’s activity.

While most people spend their evenings resting after a long day’s work, they stay out on the streets, moving steadily along highways and intersections.

Jayoma, 58, has worked as a street sweeper for almost a decade. She took on the job after struggling to find better employment opportunities.

“Dahil hindi naman po kami nakapagtapos, kaya nag-apply na lang po kami sa magwawalis. Total, ano naman po na hanapbuhay yun,” Jayoma said.

The job has allowed her to support her children and grandchildren, though she remains under a job order arrangement with a monthly income of around ₱12,000.

Dalida, also 58, has been in the same line of work for nine years. Her income helps sustain her household, while her husband works as an electrician. Like Jayoma, she remains under a contractual arrangement rather than holding a regular employment status.

Beyond cleaning

Although often seen as simple labor, street sweeping involves handling with a wide range of waste scattered across public roads—plastic bottles, food containers, fallen branches, and sometimes, even dead animals.

Without sanitation workers, waste would quickly accumulate, clog drainage systems, and worsen flooding during heavy rains.

For Jayoma, the importance of their work becomes most evident when imagining its absence.

“Babahain tayo lalo ‘pag umulan,” she said.

Dalida shares the same sentiment. For them, cleanliness is not an abstract concept but a condition maintained daily through physical labor that often goes unnoticed.

Their experiences highlight a deeper reality: environmental laws depend not only on policy enforcement but also on the consistent labor of workers on the ground.

A continuous cycle

Among the most persistent challenges they face is not only the volume of waste but also how quickly it returns after cleaning it.

Both Jayoma and Dalida observed that littering remains common.

“Kalilinis namin, tapos tapon lang nang tapon,” Jayoma said.

This cycle underscores one of the major challenges in fully implementing RA 9003. While waste management systems and policies exist, their effectiveness ultimately depends on public discipline and cooperation.

Without behavioral change, even consistent cleanup efforts struggle to keep pace with daily waste generation.

Through heat, rain, and uncertainty

Street sweeping continues regardless of weather conditions. Extreme heat, sudden rain, and strong winds make the job even more physically demanding, often scattering waste just as it is being collected.

However, beyond environmental challenges lies another obstacle—employment insecurity.

Both Jayoma and Dalida work under job order arrangements, earning around ₱12,000 per month. Unlike regular government employees, they do not receive full benefits such as GSIS, PhilHealth, and Pag-IBIG coverage available to permanent staff.

After nearly a decade of service, both still hope for regularization. For them, it would mean stability, security, and access to full government benefits. But for now, their contracts are renewed annually, leaving their future uncertain.

Behind the clean streets

Discussions on waste management often focus on policies, infrastructure, and government systems. However, on the ground, it is workers who make these systems function.

For Jayoma and Dalida, street sweeping is not just a job but a daily routine shaped by long hours, physical effort, and quiet service to the public.

By the time residents walk through clean sidewalks the next morning, the labor that made it possible has already disappeared from view.

Yet as night falls and the city prepares for another cycle of movement and activity, they return to their posts—sweeping, collecting, and maintaining order one street at a time.▼

Aries Altavano is the Marketing Head of Kalyematopeya, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. A driven marketer focused on forging sponsorships and ensuring vision becomes possible through collaboration and support.

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buwan ng hunyo.

habang binabaybay ng sinasakyan kong bus ang kahabaan ng fairview, isang lalaking naka-polo ang tumayo sa gitna at nagsalita, “gusto niyo bang maligtas?”

ang tinutukoy niya ay pagkaligtas mula sa dagat-dagatang apoy, isang lugar kung saan umano mapupunta ang mga makasalanang tao matapos nilang pumanaw. tanging pagdurusa lamang daw ang nasa lugar na ito, at walang espasyo ang anumang uri ng kagalakan.

sinabi rin niya, ito raw ang destinasyon ng mga bading, dahil isang malaking kasalanan umano ang magmahal sa kapareho niya ng kasarian.

natapos na siya sa kaniyang pangangaral, ngunit patuloy na naglaro sa aking isipan ang kaniyang mga sinabi:

kung gayon, malamang sa dagat-dagatang apoy, mangangamba ang isang tao tuwing lalabas siya ng kalsada. mapaglaro kasi siya sa kaniyang kasuotan. mahilig siya sa makulay na disenyo at minsan may burloloy pa. panigurado, may pagkakataong makakarinig siya ng mga bulungan at panlilisik ng mata sa kaniyang daraanan.

iiwasan niya rin siguro ang mga kantong maraming nakatambay na kalalakihan. dahil kung mamalasin siya ay machong uri ng lalaki ang makakadaupang palad niya. mapipilitan siyang maging katulad nila — patriyarkal, matigas, at hindi nagpapakita ng emosyon. dahil kung hindi, kekuwestyunin nila ang kaniyang pagkalalaki. ang mas malala, maaari siyang makaranas ulit ng pang-aabuso.

masasanay rin siguro siyang tuklasin ang kaniyang lungsod mag-isa — maglibot sa iba’t ibang museo nang mag-isa. tumambay sa parke habang nagpipinta gamit ang akwarela nang mag-isa. bumili ng vanilla latte at cinnamon roll sa kapehan nang mag-isa. bumiyahe pauwi nang mag-isa. bagaman nais niya rin ng may makakasama, lagi siyang mauunahan ng bitbit niyang takot na makipagkaibigan. hindi niya kasi alam kung sino sa mga makasasalamuha niya ang papayuhan ulit siya na magdasal na lamang, at kung sino naman ang totoong yayakap sa kaniya — o kung mayroon pa nga ba?

sa dagat-dagatang apoy, iiwasan niya pa rin siguro ang kaniyang mga kamag-anak na laging may espekulasyon tungkol sa kaniyang kasarian. hindi niya papansinin ang mga ito kapag may bading na karakter sa telebisyon lalo’y mababaling sa kaniya ang mga tanong at panunukso. pagpapawisan siya ng malamig, oo, ngunit mananahimik lamang siya. hindi niya kasi alam kung saang lansangan siya pupulutin kung sakaling patulan niya ang mga iyon at aminin niyang hindi nga siya kasingtigas gaya ng kanilang inaasahan.

at marahil, sa dagat-dagatang apoy, mahihirapan siyang sabihin sa’yong mahal na mahal ka niya. matagal na. isa kasing malaking tanong sa kaniya kung insulto rin kaya sa 'yo ang pag-ibig mula sa kapareho mo ng kasarian?

“para ho!” sambit ko.

huh.

uh.

oh.

mali ang naka-polo sa bus.

hindi sa dagat-dagatang apoy ang destinasyon ko.

dahil ngayon pa lang…

nandito na ‘ko. ▼

Isinulat sa ilalim ng ngalang Jerry N. Tan, isang sagisag-panulat ng isang patnugot ng Kalyematopeya Magazine, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate.

Si Randzmar Longcop ay isang contributing illustrator ng Kalyematopeya Magazine, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Siya ang nasa likod ng mga likha ni Monokromatiko.

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“Lupa at Buhay, hindi Giyera!”

Isa ito sa mga anti-imperyalismong panawagan kontra Pax Silica, ang inisiyatiba ng Estados Unidos sa Pilipinas na inanunsiyo nitong Abril 16.

Bilang paggunita sa ika-128 na Araw ng Kalayaan noong Hunyo 12, nagmartsa ang ilang progresibong grupo mula sa T.M. Kalaw Avenue patungo sana ng US Embassy. Bagaman hindi sila nakalusot sa mga barikadang hinarang ng kapulisan lagpas ng kalye Ma. Orosa, nagpatuloy pa rin ang kanilang programa sa kalsada.

Pax Silica at mga agam-agam

Kabilang sa mga naging panawagan sa kilos-protesta ay ang pagsupil sa Pax Silica—isang alyansang pinamumunuan ng Estados Unidos na naglalayong matiyak ang mga supply chain para sa Artificial Intelligence (AI) technologies, semiconductors, at kritikal na mineral para sa mga kaalyado nitong bansa. Ang mga mineral tulad ng nickel, tanso, chromite, cobalt, at silicon ay raw materials na ginagamit sa paggawa ng advanced electronics gaya ng semiconductors, computer chips, and batteries.

Kabilang sa orihinal na miyembro nito ay ang mga bansang US, Japan, South Korea, Singapore, United Kingdom, Israel, United Arab Emirates, at Australia, habang sumunod naman ang Finland, Sweden, Qatar, at India.

Layunin ng proyekto na tapatan ang bansang Tsina sa dominasyon nito sa suplay ng critical minerals. Sa kasalukuyan, nangunguna ang Tsina sa pag-produce ng critical minerals ng mundo—99% ng gallium sa mundo at 44% ng refined copper noong 2024. Nag-aangkat at nag-iinvest din ito ng resources mula sa ibang bansa tulad ng Indonesia at Democratic Republic of Congo.

Sa ilalim ng alyansang ito, bubuo ng isang proseso na hindi nakadepende sa Tsina—mula pagmimina hanggang refining ng critical minerals. At bilang bahagi nito, planong magtayo ng isang AI-native industrial hub sa bansa sa isang 1,619-hectare site sa New Clark City sa Capas, Tarlac.

Naunang napabalita ang hiling ng US na isailalim sa hurisdiksyon ng batas nito ang AI hub na ito at bigyan ng diplomatic immunity ang mga dayuhang staff, na kalauna’y tinanggihan naman ng Pilipinas.

“It will be treated as a regular business development contract. No special treatment to be accorded to the US,” pahayag ni Joshua Bingcang, pangulo at chief executive ng Bases Conversion and Development Authority (BCDA).

Sa kabila nito, nananatili pa rin ang agam-agam sa tunay na epekto ng inisyatibo sa ating bansa. Ayon kay Liza Maza, pangulo ng MAKABAYAN coalition, ang proyekto ay isang “sell-out ng ating soberanya” at tanging ang dayuhan lamang ang magbebenepisyo rito.

“[Pax Silica initiative] requires economic domination, political domination, cultural domination, [and] military domination, [...] kaya lubos nating tinututulan ito,” sabi niya sa isang panayam ng Kalyematopeya Magazine.

Maaaring magbukas ng oportunidad para sa trabaho ang Pax Silica ngunit idiniin ni Maza na hindi ito magandang implikasyon para sa ating bayan.

“Ang magiging pasahod dito sa Pax Silica [ay] mababa. Kaya nga gusto [ng mga dayuhang bansa] dito eh, para mapagsamantalahan nila ang mababang lakas-paggawa,” paliwanag niya.

Tinukoy rin ni Maza ang banta nito sa mga maralitang naninirahan malapit sa planong AI hub.

“Madi-displace talaga iyong mga magsasaka, iyong mga indigenous people, mga community kung saan pagtatayuan nitong location ng Pax Silica,” aniya.

Bagong porma ng lumang sistema

Bagamat bago pa lang ang Pax Silica, ang porma ng sistemang ito ay hindi na bago para sa ilan.

Ayon kay Amirah “Mek” Lidasan, co-chairperson ng Sandugo Movement of Moro and Indigenous Peoples for Self-Determination, kahalintulad umano ng proyektong ito ang Balikatan Exercises na ginagawa ng sandatahang lakas ng Pilipinas at Amerika.

“So reminiscent talaga siya ng US base ng Subic at saka Clark,” aniya sa isang panayam ng Kalyematopeya Magazine. “Sila (mga katutubo) rin ‘yong mga nahirapan kasi they were displaced. At hanggang sa ngayon, kinakaharap nila ‘yang diaspora, ng mga katutubo, ng mga katutubong Aeta,” saad ni Lidasan.

Banta ang Pax Silica sa labis na pagsasamantala sa likas na yamang tinataglay ng bansa dahil nangangailangan ito ng critical minerals.

Bilang taga-Maguindanao, pamilyar si Lidasan sa presensya ng mga Amerikano sa kanilang lugar. Ayon sa kaniya, nakapagtala sila ng ilang human rights at international humanitarian law violations sangkot ang mga dayuhan.

“Ang mga sinasabing lugar na mayroong EDCA (Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement) site, nagba-Balikatan Exercises sila. Gumagawa sila ng plunder doon sa ating mga minerals—itong lahat basically naka-spread all over the Philippines, making us one big base ng US dito sa Asia-Pacific,” dagdag niya.

Masama ang epekto ng Balikatan sa kalikasan ayon sa eksperto, at ang bantang ito ay nakikita rin sa Pax Silica. Nauna nang tinukoy ng Amerika na mayaman ang bansa sa reserba ng nickel, tanso, chromite, at cobalt—mga mineral na mahalaga sa global supply chains. At ayon kay Lidasan, ang mga reserba na ito ay madalas nakikita sa mga komunidad ng mga katutubo tulad sa Agusan, Tawi-tawi, at Surigao.

“Talagang sa mga areas ‘yan ng mga katutubo, Bangsamoro, at iba pang mamamayan sa Mindanao ang tatamaan sa paghahanap ng mga critical minerals. At ang sabi ko nga, hindi lang critical minerals, [pati] energy. Eh nasa aming lugar ang energy reserves like oil at saka natural gas,” paliwanag pa ni Lidasan.

Tunay na Kalayaan

Ang higit pang banta ng Pax Silica ay sa kapayapaan ng bansa. Ayon kay Maza, importante ang lokasyon ng bansa para sa Amerika dahil malapit ito sa kalaban nitong Tsina.

“Napakaimportante na lubusang makontrol ng US itong ating bansa. At kasama sa kanyang iskema itong pagtatayo ng Pax Silica dito sa kalupaan mismo natin,” ani Maza.

At dahil sa presensyang ito ng Amerika sa bansa, maaari tayong maipit sa mga alitan nito sa ibang bansa ayon naman kay Lidasan.

“Because this is a base at nakita natin ang ginagawa ng mga kaaway ng US doon sa mga lugar—sa mga bansa na hinayaan nilang magkaroon ng base militar ang US government—ay talagang alam natin it would also affect us. Magiging vulnerable tayo,” pangamba ni Lidasan.

Ang Pax Silica, kahalintulad ng Balikatan Exercises, ay nagsisilbi lamang sa interes ng mga dayuhang bansa, at naisasantabi ang kapakanan ng ating bayan.

Kung kaya’t panawagan ng progresibong sektor ang tunay na kalayaan ng Pilipinas—kalayaan mula sa mga imperyalistang polisiya at inisyatibo ng mga dayuhan na nagbabanta lamang sa kalikasan, kaligtasan, at kalayaan ng ating bansa. ▼

— With reports from Mary Rose Maligmat

Si Jan Mike Cabangin ang Punong Patnugot ng Kalyematopeya Magazine, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate.

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Life is constantly moving—fast, even—carrying people through the same daily routines without pause: home, school or work, and back again. Amid the crowded trains, long jeepney rides, sweltering heat, and heavy traffic, rest often feels like another destination commuters have to chase.

Tucked in between the noise of the cities are “third places,” social spots outside of home (first place) and workplace (second place). Coined by American sociologist Ray Oldenburg, the term “third place” refers to an informal, public site for relaxation and socialization. For students chasing deadlines and employees caught in rush hour, these spaces offer a break from life’s relentless rhythm.

In a country where getting somewhere can be as draining as the week itself, knowing how to reach these places matters just as much as discovering them.

Around Metro Manila

Cubao Expo

A melting pot of creatives and eats, Cubao Expo is a vibrant area that houses a variety of unique shops, restaurants, cafes, bars, and art spaces. The U-shaped complex exudes a nostalgic ambiance and a sense of familiarity, perfect for catching up with friends, finding new collectibles, or simply unwinding after a long day. From vintage stores and tattoo studios to art galleries and live performances, visitors can experience a dynamic mix of art, culture, and community in one place.

Cubao Expo is open daily from 8:00 AM to 12:00 AM, located at 3 General Romulo Avenue, Araneta City, Cubao, Quezon City, 1109 Metro Manila.

How to get there:

• Via LRT-2 or MRT-3: Take the train to Araneta–Cubao Station.

• From LRT-2, exit through the north side and walk along Aurora Blvd. to General Romulo Avenue. From there, walk until you reach the complex’s entrance. The train ride to Araneta-Cubao station ranges from 3 to 25 minutes, depending on your origin. Meanwhile, the walk to Cubao Expo takes about 6 minutes.

• From MRT-3, head towards the Araneta City complex and walk through Gateway Mall until you reach the General Roxas Ave exit. From there, walk straight, then turn right onto General Romulo Ave; you will find the entrance. Depending on your starting point, the train ride ranges from 3 to 22 minutes. To get to Cubao Expo, expect a 10-minute walk.

• Via Bus: Many buses passing through EDSA, Aurora Boulevard, and Araneta Avenue stop near the area. Alight at the Cubao area, and from there it’s a short walk to the complex. The travel time takes anywhere from 15 minutes to over 1.5 hours.

• Via Jeepney: Look for jeepneys with signage “Cubao Ali Mall” or “EDSA Cubao” routes; they will drop you off near the area. The commute is about 10 to 45 minutes, depending on your starting point.

La Mesa Eco Park, Quezon City

An environmental hub in the heart of Quezon City, La Mesa Eco Park spans 33 hectares and is surrounded by lush flora, trails, small animals, and ponds. Its natural landscape is a perfect escape for those looking to step away from the city’s bustle without going far. Visitors can also enjoy a wide range of outdoor activities, including cycling, nature walks, paintball games, rappelling, wall climbing, and archery tag. The entrance is free for Quezon City citizens, while non-QC residents must pay P20.

La Mesa Eco Park operates from Tuesday to Sunday, 7:00 AM to 4:00 PM, and is located in La Mesa Watershed, Brgy. Greater Lagro, District V, Quezon City.

How to get there: Ride any bus or UV Express going to SM Fairview and get off at Pearl Drive. Landmarks of Pearl Drive include an overpass and a nearby gas station. From there, take the tricycle going to La Mesa Eco Park. The trip takes more or less an hour, depending on where you start.

Cinematheque Centre Manila

For cinephiles, Cinematheque Centre Manila is a film haven housing independent and classic movies, as well as award-winning international motion pictures. The 80-seat microcinema is equipped with a 2K DCP-capable laser projector and Dolby Atmos sound, delivering a comfortable and immersive cinematic experience for visitors. Admission fee is P150 and is on a walk-in, first-come, first-served basis.

Located in the Philippine Film Heritage Building in Intramuros, Manila, Cinematheque posts its screening schedule on its social media platforms.

How to get there: Ride the LRT-1 and get off at the Central Terminal station. Then, walk to the Manila City Hall underpass and exit to the side near the Intramuros Roundtable. Landmarks include a circular green island with statues. From there, enter the Intramuros gate at General Luna St. Turn left at Muralla St., passing by Baluarte de San Diego. Then turn right onto Sta Lucia St., and you’ll reach the Cinematheque Centre Manila. The walk takes 10 to 15 minutes.

Quezon City Public Library

With its air-conditioned interior and internet access, Quezon City Public Library is a go-to space for people seeking a quiet and comfortable place to study, read, and work. It has 3 floors, including a lobby, the main library, and a cafeteria. Compared to usual libraries, the place is well-equipped with computers, a wide range of periodicals, history materials, and e-government services, making it a conducive place for learning and public use, including children.

Quezon City Public Library is located in Gate 3, City Hall Compound, Quezon City. Entrance is free, and it is open from Monday to Friday, 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM, and on Saturdays, 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM.

How to get there: Ride anything going to Quezon City Hall, Litex, Fairview, or Lagro. Get off at the City Hall, and you can easily locate the library. You can also ask security personnel and other staff for help to avoid misdirection. Depending on your starting point, commute time is 30 to 45 minutes.

Greenbelt Park, Makati

Nestled in the Greenbelt complex, Greenbelt Park is a sizable urban garden with lush greenery, serene landscaping, and koi-filled ponds. Surrounded by interconnected malls lined with numerous shops and restaurants, the park serves as a quiet respite from long walks, crowded stores, and dining sprees. Nearby, visitors can also attend a mass at the modern, open-air Sto. Niño de Paz Greenbelt Chapel.

Greenbelt Park is located along Greenbelt Drive and Makati Avenue, Ayala Center, Makati City. The complex is open daily from Monday to Sunday at 11:00 AM to 9:00PM.

How to get there: Ride the MRT-3 and get off at Ayala Station. You can walk through the interconnected malls for a more comfortable route, passing SM Makati, Glorietta, and The Landmark to Greenbelt via a footbridge. From there, take the escalator down, and you will reach the park. Depending on your starting point, the train ride can take anywhere from two to 30 minutes. Meanwhile, from Ayala station, it’s about a 10- to 15-minute walk to get to the park.

Outside Metro Manila

Tagaytay Picnic Grove

Boasting scenic hilltop views of Taal Lake and Taal Volcano, Tagaytay Picnic Grove is an excellent place for a family gathering, hangout with the barkada, quality time with your loved one, or even a solo date. Paired with Tagaytay’s fresh, cool climate, the space offers a relaxing escape from the city’s heat. Visitors can also enjoy a picnic in the grassy field, dine at nearby restaurants, and partake in activities such as ziplining, riding the Ferris wheel, and kite flying. Entrance fees are P75 for regular visitors, P50 for senior citizens and PWDs, and free for children below four years old. Rides and activities are paid separately, ranging from P150 to P400.

Tagaytay Picnic Grove is located along Tagaytay-Calamba Road, Barangay Sungay South, Tagaytay City, Cavite. It is open daily from 6:00 AM to 10:00 PM.

How to get there: Ride buses bound to Tagaytay or Nasugbu in terminals like PITX, Pasay Rotonda, near Sogo Hotel, or at the Alabang South Station. Get off at Olivarez Terminal, then take a jeepney to People’s Park in the Sky, or ride a tricycle directly there. The estimated commute time ranges from 2 hours 30 minutes to 3 hours. A landmark of Tagytay Picnic Grove is the tall Ferris Wheel.

Pinto Art Museum, Antipolo

In the highlands of Antipolo lies a premier contemporary art museum and an exhibition space called Pinto Art Museum. The open-air galleries are enclosed within Santorini-inspired villas, surrounded by lush botanical gardens. Inside is a diverse, well-curated collection of artworks by emerging local and international artists, including paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media installations. The complex also features an in-house restaurant, Cafe Rizal, where visitors can enjoy a drink or a meal while taking in the stunning surroundings.

Pinto Art Museum is located at #1 Sierra Madre Street, Grand Heights Subdivision, Antipolo, Rizal. It is open from Tuesday to Sunday, 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM. Entrance fees are P250 for adults, P200 for senior citizens and PWDs, and free for children below three years old.

How to get there:

• Via LRT-2: Alight at the Antipolo Station. From there, take a jeepney bound for Antipolo Church or City Proper, and ride a tricycle to Grand Heights Subdivision, where Pinto Art Museum is located. The commute time is about 45 minutes.

• Via Jeep or UV Express: From Shaw Boulevard, Marikina, or Cubao, ride a jeep or UV heading to Antipolo. Alight at the landmarks such as Antipolo Church, Robinsons Antipolo, or Ynares Center. There, you can take a tricycle directly to the Pinto Art Museum. It takes an hour to an hour and a half to get there.

Hinulugang Taktak Nature & Adventure Park, Antipolo

For people who find comfort in the sight of marinescape, Hinulugang Taktak is the nearest natural waterfall in the busy metro. The stunning falls, embraced by lush foliage, is one of Antipolo’s iconic landmarks. Beyond sightseeing, visitors can also enjoy amenities, such as a spiderweb course, a swimming pool, and rappelling. Entrance and access to all activities are free.

Hinulugang Taktak Nature & Adventure Park is located along Daang Bakal Rd., Sitio Taktak, Brgy. De La Paz, Antipolo, Rizal. It is open from Tuesday to Sunday, 7:00 AM to 4:00 PM.

How to get there:

• Via Cubao: At the Araneta Center Jeepney Terminal, board one bound for Antipolo City proper. Alight at Antipolo Cathedral and ride a tricycle to take you directly to Hinulugang Taktak. Expect a 45 minute to one-hour commute.

• Via LRT-2: Alight at Antipolo Station and take a jeepney to Antipolo Shopwise. Get off at Antipolo Cathedral, and from there, you can take a tricycle to Hinulugang Taktak. The estimated travel time is more or less 30 minutes.

Nuvali Park, Laguna

Nuvali Park is an extensive venue for leisure and relaxation, spanning over 60 hectares. The wide space features a man-made lake with koi fish, rich greenery, and walking and biking trails. An excellent blend of nature and urban life, visitors can exercise, take in the scenery, and enjoy activities like cycling and paddling across the lake. The park is open to everyone for free.

It is located in Nuvali Boulevard, Don Jose, Santa Rosa, Laguna, and is open daily from 8:30 AM to 10:00 PM.

How to get there: From One Ayala Terminal or South Station Alabang, ride a bus bound for Balibago Complex, Sta Rosa. Alight at Coca-Cola after Sta Rosa exit. From there, you can take a tricycle or an e-jeep to Nuvali Park. The commute takes 45 minutes to an hour.

Burnham Park, Baguio

For those seeking a true escape from the bustling and sweltering city, Burnham Park is the place to be. Situated in the heart of Baguio, the place is beloved by many for its engaging environment, cool climate, and numerous fun attractions. Spanning 32.84 hectares, the park features 12 areas where visitors can enjoy a variety of activities, including sightseeing, biking, paddling, and exploring food stalls.

Burnham Park is located along Harrison Road, Baguio City. The entrance is free, but specific activities within the park have separate fees.

How to get there: In Cubao, there are bus lines such as Victory Liner and Genesis Joybus that head to Baguio City. Estimated travel duration is 4 to 5 hours. Upon arriving at the Baguio terminal, you can reach the park in 15 to 20 minutes on foot or by taking a taxi for a quicker trip.

Finding Your Pause

The route from home to school or work and back is one that’s already known to many like the back of their hand, whether by choice or necessity. The exact stop, the fare, and the long wait in between—these routines are so deeply ingrained in people’s minds that there is often little room to break away from them. Yet sometimes, despite the brain’s tendency toward habit and familiarity, the heart still longs to pause and take a different direction.

In today’s reality, staying at home does not always guarantee rest, especially amid scorching weather or an environment that is not conducive to relaxation. This is where “third places” come in, the spaces of escape and quiet in between routines and the city’s constant movement. Expanding and strengthening third places should be a necessity and not merely an option. Because after all, a much-needed rest begins with knowing where to go. ▼

Mikaelah Bianca Panopio is the Features Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is deeply interested in people, events, and the stories that shape them.

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As the summer heat begins to soften and May draws to a close, many Filipino streets transform into something more than pathways of daily life. Roads usually occupied by tricycles, vendors, and children playing tag become stages adorned with flowers, arches, and lights. Residents gather outside their homes, plastic chairs line the sidewalks, and familiar faces emerge from behind gates. For a few hours, the street belongs to Santacruzan.

Then, just as quickly as it arrives, it is gone.

The queens return home. The flowers begin to wilt. Decorations are taken down one by one. By the next morning, the streets look almost the same as they did before.

A Queen Across Generations

For Letecia, 61, those memories stretch back decades.

In her hometown, she became a familiar face in local pageants, beginning at age 17. Whenever Santacruzan season arrived, she was often among the first people offered the role of Reina Elena.

She vividly remembers the first time she accepted the role. Although she was already accustomed to pageants and public events, the Santacruzan carried a different meaning. It was not about competition or titles. It was about faith, tradition, and community.

“Masaya, kasi ramdam mo ‘yung saya ng mga tao kapag nakikita na kaming lumalakad. Parang bukod sa fiesta ng kada purok, isa rin ‘to sa nakakapag sama-sama ng tao,” she recalled.

Letecia remembers how eagerly people prepared for and anticipated the celebration.

“Dati kasi talagang pinaghahandaan ‘yan. Inaabangan talaga ng mga tao.”

Walking as Reina Elena, Letecia would often look out and see families gathered outside their homes, waiting for the procession to pass. It was a familiar sight that, for her, captured the spirit of the Santacruzan.

Different Crowns, Same Tradition

More than five decades later, Ayessa, 13, is creating memories of the same tradition.

While Letecia recalls the tradition from decades ago, Ayessa represents a younger generation that continues to embrace it.

She first joined as an angel, later portrayed a reina, and this year became one of the Tres Marias. Each role brought her closer to understanding the tradition and its significance to her faith.

“Honestly, it’s been special for me since in the month of May, we get to pray for Mama Mary.” she shared.

What stands out the most for her is the cooperation behind the celebration. Families support their reinas, church members prepare flowers and decorations, and volunteers help organize the procession.

Ayessa even remembers how different each celebration can be. In one Santacruzan held in their province, participants wore only sashes. In their barangay celebration this year, she carried an arch as part of the procession. Though the presentation varies, the excitement is just the same.

Having portrayed different figures over the years, she hopes people look beyond the gowns and photographs. Every reina, she believes, represents a story that deserves to be understood.

“As for me, I enjoyed it a lot and I got to know other Reinas kasi usually hindi mo alam kung anong ginawa nila in the past. People only see them on the streets walking but do they really know what they portray?” she said.

Streets That Remember

For many Filipinos, some of the earliest memories of community life are tied to the Santacruzan.

The distant sound of a marching band drawing closer, and the sight of flower-covered arches and reinas in colorful gowns approaches. Children point excitedly toward the passing queens. Neighbors exchange greetings. Families watch together. Some admire the view, while others simply enjoy the feeling of being part of something familiar.

For a brief moment, everyday life waits.

And that is where the nostalgia lies.

Not only in the crowns, the flowers, or the procession itself, but in the way the Santacruzan brings people together and turns ordinary streets into spaces of shared memory.

Long after the final reina has passed and the music has faded into the distance, the streets return to their ordinary rhythm.

But the memories remain.

For Letecia, they are memories that have endured for more than half a century. For Ayessa, they are memories only beginning to take shape.

Yet both are connected by the same procession, the same streets, and the same tradition that continues to return every May.

Mary Grace Cortez serves as the Sales Head of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is passionate about listening to the voices of the masses and using writing and speech as tools to represent them.

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Growing up, my world was a deck of cards constantly shuffled by a hand I couldn’t control. We moved from town to town so often that the word tahanan eventually lost its weight, floating away like exhaust smoke into the humid air.

To me, four walls and a roof were just temporary containers. It is a place to unpack taped-up balikbayan boxes, not places to find peace. In fact, on the nights when our own “house” felt suffocatingly loud, when the walls seemed to vibrate with unspoken familial tensions, I found solace in pure, unadulterated motion.

I would walk out onto the random, unfamiliar sidewalks of whatever new place we were currently renting in. Those midnight pavements, lit by the amber glow of streetlights and the faint, rhythmic hum of a distant tindahan, became my first real sanctuaries.

When a sudden heavy sheet of Manila rain started to fall, slapping against the hot asphalt, I wouldn’t immediately run for cover. I’d stand there, letting the downpour wash away the noise of a home that didn’t feel like one. With that, I learned early on to map my sanity along the curbs of strange streets.

When I finally became a university student, my map expanded, and the frantic, pulsing energy of Sta. Mesa took me in. The streets didn’t care that I didn’t have deep roots there; they claimed me anyway.

Every random corner of Pureza, Anonas, Teresa, and V. Mapa became a silent witness to my survival. Above us, the constant, metallic screech of the LRT-2 train on the tracks became a reminder that everyone in this city was going somewhere, even if I was just wandering. Those roads held the literal and figurative weight of my overstuffed backpack, my gipit moments when I was down to my last twenty pesos, and my quiet academic anxieties.

These roads saw the student in me running under a shared umbrella after a moving jeepney, catching the scent of fried tokneneng and smoke in the heavy afternoon air, or sitting by a plastic carinderia table in front of the College of Engineering building just to feel a sense of place. It wrapped me in its beautiful, chaotic noise making me feel like I belonged to a collective struggle, even when I felt utterly hollow inside.

As the years pressed on, different versions of me began to leave footprints across the asphalt of the metro.

On the historic, battle-worn pavement of Recto and Mendiola, a fiercer, more observant version of me was born. I was there with a press badge pinned to my chest and a camera strap digging into my shoulder—a student journalist trying to document history as it unfolded.

But the line between a journalist and an activist always blurred on those roads. Even as I adjusted my lens and scribbled notes with trembling hands, swallowing the metallic taste of rain, sweat, and smoke under a gray sky, my heart beat to the exact same rhythm as the marching crowds. That pavement held my press deadlines, my anger, and my shared conviction. It was a home built not out of comfort, but out of resistance. The exact place where my desire to tell the truth became my way of fighting.

But the softest, most painfully nostalgic parts of me belong to the roads of Quezon City. That is where the version of me with my friends lives. It holds the ultimate kaladkarin version who would drop everything for a very spontaneous gala.

I can still taste the cold, bitter Korean alcohol from those nights when we didn’t care about tomorrow, sitting flat on the concrete curb of a dim parking lot, swapping stories until our chests felt lighter.

On some days, under the heavy canopy of old acacia trees near the Sunken Garden, we would stroll without a destination, letting the cool night air wash over us. The headlights of passing cars would momentarily illuminate our faces through the dark, catching the exact moments we realized we were safe in each other’s presence.

There was a quiet magic in those tambay nights, a fleeting sense of peace I had spent my entire childhood searching for.

Yet, even in the middle of a laughing crowd, a quiet ache always hummed beneath the surface, as persistent as the rumble of the MRT passing over EDSA.

For someone who grew up without a fixed anchor, every beautiful night carries the ghost of an ending. As my friends laughed around me, I would often find myself looking down at the wet road, watching the neon signs of Cubao bleed into the puddles, wondering how long this specific sanctuary would last before the cards were shuffled again.

I spent so many years romanticizing the pavement, convincing myself that being a nomad was a gift, because it was easier than admitting how badly I wanted a place to stay. I looked for pieces of myself in the train stations, the humid air of Recto, and the university gates, constantly yearning for a permanent roof over my soul.

Looking back, I realize my identity is a mosaic built from the very kalsada that held me when I had nowhere else to go. Every stretch of cracked concrete has claimed a version of who I used to be, leaving me scattered across the transit lines of this city.

The academic running through the rain in Sta. Mesa belongs to Teresa; the fierce storyteller with the ink-stained press notebook belongs to Mendiola; the wide-eyed friend laughing on a curb belongs to the dim lights of Cubao. They all found a home, but they found them in pieces, anchored to different zip codes.

People always say that all roads lead to home, like there is one final place where we all fit perfectly.

But what do you do when you are broken into pieces by the map of this city? If all those different roads were a real home to every version of me, then where do I actually belong?

For the longest time, I thought home had to be permanent. Maybe that is why I kept searching for it in every city I passed through, hoping one place would finally make me stay.

But perhaps my home was never waiting at the end of the road. Perhaps it was the road itself.

It lived in the midnight walks through unfamiliar streets, in the screeching rails above Sta. Mesa, in the rain-soaked pavements of Mendiola, and in the dim Cubao sidewalks where laughter echoed past midnight.

Every kalsada I’ve been to carried every version of me when I could not carry myself alone.

So now, standing under the fluorescent lights of another terminal, listening to the engines of the last jeepney fade into the Manila night, the question no longer feels as heavy.

If all roads lead to home, then maybe I have already been there all along.▼

Jane Andes is the Social Media and Tech Head of Kalyematopeya, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. A street-rooted writer shaping digital stories.

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MANILA – “Kaya lang ‘yan nag-busking kasi ‘yon ‘yong pinakamadaling paraan for them. Maglapag ka lang d’yan ng guitar case, or kahit nga cap, and then people will just give money.”

Singer-songwriter Angela Ken said this is one of the most common misconceptions she hears about busking.

“Hindi siya gano’n kadali,” she said.

From a distance, busking can seem simple enough: a performer in a public space, a voice carrying through open air, a crowd that briefly gathers before moving on. But on sidewalks, mall atriums, bazaars, and train stations, busking rarely feels simple.

Busking stretches beyond music into dance, comedy, magic, visual art, and storytelling. Long before curated playlists and algorithm-driven feeds dictated what people listened to, busking already existed as one of the oldest ways of making art public.

For artists like Angela Ken, Geiko, and student busker Princes Duque, busking is not separate from their careers or creative lives. It is part of how they reconnect with music when it starts feeling distant again.

Some arrive with millions of streams and audiences built online. Others are still trying to build theirs, one performance at a time. But all of them eventually end up in the same place: face-to-face with people who did not click play, but stopped to listen.

From viral screens to busking stages

In 2020, during the height of the pandemic, short-form videos became one of the fastest ways for music to travel. For Angela, that space was TikTok.

Her covers and original songs circulated widely online, eventually leading to a breakout moment in 2021 with “Ako Naman Muna.” The self-love anthem, written during a period of isolation and uncertainty, has since surpassed 75 million streams on Spotify. Today, Angela has more than 1.7 million monthly listeners on the said streaming platform.

But even as her digital reach expanded, Angela found herself searching for something more grounded.

Her first EP, “Panahon,” developed over two years since 2024, became less about simply releasing music and more about creating spaces where songs could exist beyond screens.

“I want everything to be personal. I want it to be intimate,” she said.

For Angela, busking became a way of closing the distance between artist and listener.

“Everyone wants to achieve greater heights pero ang maganda kasi ro’n, kasama mo ‘yong community sa paglago,” she added.

That idea later evolved into busking tours supported by mall venues and audio brand partnerships.

If Angela’s path moved from viral reach back into physical spaces, Geiko’s story began in a quieter corner of the internet years earlier.

In 2017, long before “Sol at Luna” became a widely shared OPM staple online, Geiko was posting art in Facebook groups from Dagupan, Pangasinan. Using the same artist name she still carries today, she uploaded drawings, covers, and experimental videos that mixed music with visual art.

Her videos slowly gained traction, eventually helping her build more than 237,000 YouTube subscribers and over 400,000 monthly Spotify listeners.

But the song that would later define her rise online was never meant for an audience.

“Sol at Luna,” now one of her most recognized tracks with four million views on YouTube, began as something deeply personal.

“It wasn’t for the purpose of sharing to anybody,” she said. “I wanted to communicate kasi at the time, hindi ko masabi sa kan’ya ‘yong nararamdaman ko. So parang dinaan ko lang din sa song.”

But even as her audience grew online, Geiko said those early years were driven more by creativity than career.

“Rawness of creativity,” she described it. “Wala pang work satisfaction feeling yet.”

By 2021, she had begun navigating collaborations and industry opportunities that felt far removed from the art groups where she first uploaded covers and drawings. The shift overwhelmed her at times.

In 2022, she returned to school and considered stepping away from music entirely. But music kept pulling her back.

Around that same year, she met fellow musicians in Dagupan, including members of the band Pastel Sky, who encouraged her to perform live and try busking.

Her first busking session happened in 2023, outside a convenience store near the University of Santo Tomas.

Soon, gigs in Manila and nearby cities like Baguio followed. The artist who once communicated through edited videos was now performing in crowded streets and unfamiliar venues where connection had to happen instantly.

“I was seeing more possibilities for things to happen. Mas naging in person na, and I learned din kung paano maging mas out there through them,” she said.

For both Angela and Geiko, the timelines differ. One rose during the pandemic streaming boom. The other slowly built an audience through online art communities years before virality arrived.

But both eventually arrived at the same realization: after the streams and the screens, music still finds its way back to the street.

And in busking, that return becomes visible.

The cost of being heard

Behind the spontaneity often associated with busking, music is also labor.

Public performances may look effortless from the outside, but for many artists, performing comes with negotiations, costs, unstable schedules, creative exhaustion, and the constant pressure to keep showing up.

For Geiko, the cost of being heard began long before busking entered the picture.

In 2018, just as her online audience was beginning to grow through covers and original songs, she signed a contract connected to YouTube management while still a minor.

Many of the opportunities tied to the agreement were centered in Manila—difficult to access for a young artist based in Dagupan. Looking back, she described the experience as a lesson in how easily young creators can enter agreements they do not yet fully understand.

The disappointment slowly affected her relationship with creating.

After “Sol at Luna” gained traction online, her uploads became less frequent. Between graduating senior high school, personal changes, and returning to school in 2022, music became harder to sustain emotionally and professionally.

A separate management experience in 2022 only deepened her caution toward contracts and verbal agreements.

“Doon ko rin nalaman na anything related to money, it has to be on paper,” she said. “Kasi verbal agreements aren’t solid enough.”

By then, she was also beginning to understand how demanding independent artistry can be. Beyond songwriting and performance came negotiations, logistics, collaborations, audience management, and financial decisions happening alongside school responsibilities.

Even in live spaces, the work remained unpredictable. Earnings from gigs fluctuate depending on schedules and opportunities. She has a base rate of around 10,000 pesos per performance for solo sets, alongside income from commissions, cover requests, and other creative work. For her, busking is less about income and more about connection.

Still, she continues to return to live performance despite the exhaustion it brings.

“There’s drain in traveling, there’s drain in doing things kapag hindi pa ako nakakatulog,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel too heavy kasi I do this with people I love.”

For Angela Ken, the cost of being heard takes a different form.

Despite reaching millions of listeners online, she said visibility does not erase self-doubt.

“Wala namang perpektong artist, wala ring perpektong tao,” she said. “There are times na even you as a person, you’re gonna doubt yourself if you’re doing it right, or if they hear and see what you want them to see.”

Those doubts became part of the long process behind her EP “Panahon.” Along the way came delays, revisions, and songs that were eventually removed from the final tracklist.

She said artists eventually learn they cannot control how their work is received, no matter how personal it is.

“You cannot please everyone,” she said. “Kung ma-appreciate nila ‘yon, thank you. Kung hindi, maybe you’re not the artist for them.”

That pressure extends into live spaces as well, where visibility becomes immediate and unavoidable.

Unlike Angela and Geiko, student busker Princes Duque experiences busking less as artistic visibility and more as necessity.

The second-year Bachelor of Public Administration student began busking in February to help fund her education and support her family amid rising costs of living.

Through the organization Streetlight Serenade, she learned how buskers navigate permits, partnerships, and performance arrangements across malls, bazaars, and public spaces such as Intramuros and Ayala Malls.

Some performances operate through formal agreements with establishments, while others require letters of intent that function as short-term partnerships lasting from one to six months.

The work itself is physically demanding.

Depending on her class schedule, Princes performs up to four times a week, with sessions lasting at least three hours. On stronger days, a single set can earn around 1,500 pesos before deductions and shared earnings.

But expenses quickly cut into what remains.

Transportation alone can range from 50 to 100 pesos for nearby gigs, while farther venues—such as a recent engagement in Valenzuela City—can cost her group as much as 1,200 pesos roundtrip.

Conditions are also unpredictable. Heat drains energy, cold affects the voice, and crowds add pressure, especially for newcomers still adjusting to being watched and recorded in public.

“Yong feeling na parang kang kinakaawaan, ‘yan ‘yong pinaka-struggle lalo na ‘pag baguhan ka,” Princes admitted.

For her, busking remains her primary source of income, which goes to school allowances, transportation, food, books, and printing needs.

To maximize earnings, buskers often perform in multiple locations a day.

“Ang pinakamaganda na lang na gawin din is kumuha ng maraming spot,” she said. “‘Yon nga lang, kalaban mo na mismo ‘yong pagod mo at ‘yong boses.”

At one point, she and fellow buskers reportedly earned around 15,000 pesos from a 13-hour stretch of performances.

Still, she continues.

One stage, different realities

Despite their different backgrounds and motivations, Angela, Geiko, and Princes share one thing in common: they see music as a way of connecting with people.

For Angela, busking helps reduce the distance between artist and audience while building a stronger sense of community among listeners who relate to her music. She also emphasized the importance of the people who supported her growth as an artist.

“I'm always taking these opportunities for those people na—hindi naman kasi lahat tayo may access—like financially stable. So we need to also consider those people,” Angela expressed.

She added that every performance matters, especially in busking spaces where listeners may unexpectedly relate to her music or find comfort in it.

Geiko, meanwhile, sees busking as something deeply personal, a space where she can move beyond fear and isolation while expressing emotions that listeners may also relate to.

Before music, she described herself as someone who struggled to approach people directly. Performing gradually changed that.

“Syempre this career, in a sense, it's a very social kind of career. So [busking] does help,” Geiko narrated.

Meanwhile, Princes sees busking not only as a livelihood but also as an emotional exchange.

“Parang through this, we want people na huwag matakot o mahiyang kumanta sa public. Kaya madalas din open ‘yong mic namin para sa mga gustong makikanta. Open kami for request as long as alam namin,” Princes explained.

During one performance near Dr. Santos Station in Parañaque, she recalled singing “My Heart Will Go On” when a woman approached her afterward asking for a hug.

The listener later shared that the song reminded her of her child who had passed away.

“That’s one of the reasons kung bakit nagpapatuloy ako,” Princes said. “Somewhere, there’s people na nakikinig sa’yo silently; nagsu-support sa'yo silently.”

Experiences like these continue to shape how buskers understand the work that they do.

While public perception sometimes reduces busking to “easy money” or begging, performers describe it instead as labor requiring preparation, consistency, communication skills, and emotional presence.

Beyond tips and guitar cases

Busking today exists within a broader creative economy that remains both visible and unstable.

Data cited by the National Research Council of the Philippines in 2024 revealed that the music sector contributed 18.1 billion pesos, equivalent to 8.8% of the country’s 1.72 trillion pesos gross value-added in 2023. For many music workers, however, monthly earnings can still hover around 20,000 pesos, depending on the season and how often gigs come in.

Yet many independent artists and buskers still operate without long-term financial stability, formal protections, or consistent institutional support.

In the absence of clear national guidelines, busking in the Philippines still exists in a legal gray area. Because performances for tips can sometimes fall under the Anti-Mendicancy Law of 1978 and local ordinances, some local governments have attempted to regulate busking instead.

Recent cases, including the arrest of a 68-year-old harmonica player in Cebu, have drawn attention to how easily street performance can be misread under existing rules meant to regulate mendicancy.

In Cebu, buskers are required to secure a special permit before performing in public spaces. In Baguio, proposed regulations include designated performance zones, volume limits, and time restrictions of one to two hours per location to prevent overcrowding and disruption in public areas.

With limited protection and uneven regulation, many rely on fragmented income sources: gigs, sponsorships, commissions, and merchandise.

Organizations such as Streetlight Serenade and communities supporting busking events have also emerged as informal infrastructures helping performers secure venues, equipment, and safer performance opportunities.

At the same time, artists continue navigating an industry increasingly shaped by digital saturation and rapidly evolving technologies.

For Princes, this includes concerns over the growing presence of AI-generated music and how it may affect appreciation for live artistry.

“Huwag natin kalimutan na ‘yong artistry is unti-unti nang namamatay lalo na’t lumalaganap na ngayon ‘yong mga kantang AI,” Princes said.

“We seek for people na mag-support pa rin sa mga local busker, sa mga local artist,” she added.

Despite instability, exhaustion, and uncertainty, artists continue to return to public spaces—not only for exposure or income, but because busking remains one of the few spaces where performance happens in the moment, shared between performer and passerby.

“Music is everywhere,” Angela stated. “Artists should be everywhere as well.”

▼

Maicah Rachel Eugenio is the Business Editor of Kalyematopeya Magazine, the 31st volume of iCommunicate. She is passionate about telling stories of communities and everyday people through humanized narratives and context-driven reporting.

Aaron Ernest Cruz is the News Editor of iCommunicate 31st volume, Kalyematopeya. He is passionate about human rights journalism and in-depth reporting.

Nagmamadaling mga yapak, busina ng mga sasakyan, hikayat ng mga tindera, at mga usapang namumutawi sa gilid ng kalsada—iyan ang mga ingay na sasalubong sa iyong pandinig sa gitna ng lansangan. Kung ang mga tindera ay nanghahalina gamit ang mababang presyo at magandang produkto, “beep beep” naman ang tunog mula sa siga ng lansangan na nag-aanyaya ng mga pasahero.

Marahil ay pamilyar na ang bawat Pilipino sa itsura ng jeepney—mahaba, mababa ang bubong, may dalawang magkatapat na upuan, at kadalasa’y may nakatutuwang larawan na ipininta sa magkabilang gilid nito. Ngunit hindi lamang disenyo ng jeep ang naging bahagi ng pagkakakilanlan nito, kundi pati ang mga tunog na kasama sa bawat pasada.

Mula sa matinis na busina, sigaw ng barker, ugong ng tambutso, hanggang sa speaker na nagpapatugtog ng musika, nabubuo ang maingay ngunit buhay na kultura ng jeepney sa lansangan.

Tunog ng jeepney

Ang busina ay nagsisilbing tanda ng presensya at galaw ng jeepney sa kalsada. Sa bawat “beep beep,” ipinapaalala ang walang tigil na daloy ng buhay sa lungsod. Para naman sa mga drayber, mahalagang bahagi rin ito ng kaligtasan sa biyahe, ayon sa mga drayber.

“Kapag may tatawid o may biglang liliko, kailangan mo talagang bumusina para maalarma sila. Lalo na kapag may batang tatawid o matanda,” paliwanag ni Tatay Leo, 56, isang jeepney drayber.

Bukod sa busina, isa rin sa mga madaling makilala sa kalye ay ang sigaw ng mga barker. Sila ang nagsisilbing gabay ng mga pasahero at tagapag-ayos ng pila. Sa init, usok, at siksikan ng biyahe, araw-araw nilang isinisigaw ang mga ruta upang makahikayat ng mga pasahero.

Para kay Bert, 40, at barker nang 21 taon, hindi madali ang pagiging dispatcher. Napasok siya sa trabaho dahil dati ring drayber ang kaniyang ama at pinalitan lamang niya ang kaniyang pinsan bilang barker.

“Mahirap din magpuno ng mga pasahero. Minsan may mga pasaherong nagagalit kasi puno na raw pero isinisiksik pa rin,” ani Bert.

Mahalagang mapuno ang jeep dahil dito rin nanggagaling ang kanilang kita. Kung kaya’t bahagi ng kanilang trabaho ang tiyaking may sapat na pasahero sa bawat biyahe.

Dagdag pa niya, mahalaga ang papel ng mga barker upang maging maayos ang biyahe at matiyak na nakababayad nang tama ang mga pasahero.

“May iba kasing pasahero na hindi nagbabayad kaya kami rin ang naniningil sa loob,” saad ni Bert.

Bukod sa mga ito, maging ang musika mula sa speaker ng jeep ay naging bahagi na rin ng pagkakalinlan nito. Para sa ilang drayber, nagbibigay ito ng aliw at personalidad sa bawat biyahe.

“May mga mahilig kasi sa music. Para hindi antok o tense sa biyahe,” bahagi ni Tatay Leo.

Kasabay ng mga tunog na ito ang malakas na ugong ng makina at tambutso ng tradisyunal na jeepney. Dahil sa kalumaan ng mga makina nito, matindi ang usok at ingay na inilalabas ng sasakyan na ito. Sa kabila nito, naging bahagi na ito ng pamilyar na eksena at tunog ng lansangan sa Pilipinas—isang imaheng agad na nakikilala bilang bahagi ng kulturang Pilipino.

Para kay JR Marucon, 57, at halos tatlong dekada nang jeepney drayber, bahagi na ng pagkakakilanlan ng bansa ang jeepney. “Mausok man, natural lang ’yan dahil sa kalumaan. Iyan ang jeep, maingay at mausok,”

Sa likod ng iba’t ibang tunog ng mga jeepney ang mabigat na katotohanan pinapasan ng bawat drayber sa bawat pasada—mga pasaning minsa’y bumubusal sa ingay ng siga ng kalye.

Pagtaas ng krudo, pagbigat ng pasada

Kasabay ng ugong ng makina ay ang kalansing ng barya—tunog na simbolo ng araw-araw na kabuhayan ng mga drayber at barker.

“Ang bawat kalansing ng barya na natatanggap namin ay mahalaga, [dahil] dito kami nabubuhay,” wika ni Bert.

Sa patuloy na pagtaas ng presyo ng produktong petrolyo, mas bumibigat ang bawat pasada para sa mga drayber. Kung kaya’t nagkakaroon ng pagtataas sa halaga ng pamasahe upang gumaan ang mga pasaning ito.

Ayon sa tala ng The Urban Roamer, umaabot lamang sa 0.05 hanggang 0.20 centavos ang pamasahe sa jeep noong dekada ‘60, ngunit unti-unti itong tumaas sa paglipas ng panahon. Umakyat ito sa limang piso sa katapusan ng dekada ’90, naging anim na piso sa unang bahagi ng taong 2000, at ngayon ay pumapatak na ito sa 13 pesos kada pasahero.

“Noong una talagang kapit lang kami. Wala kaming ibang pagkakakitaan kaya dasal-dasal na lang,” kuwento ni JR. “Yung ten liters dati nasa limang daan lang. Tapos naging mahigit isang libo na. Kaya yung kinikita, napupunta lang sa krudo.”

Ayon naman kay Tatay Leo, may mga panahong halos wala na silang maiuwing kita sa kanilang pamilya. “Almost triple na yung krudo. Minsan 200 o 300 pesos na lang maiuuwi.”

Batay sa ulat ng Department of Energy (DOE), tumaas ang presyo ng langis sa pandaigdigang merkado dahil sa tensyon sa pagitan ng Estados Unidos at Iran—mga hamon sa suplay mula sa Russia, Kazakhstan, at Libya, at mataas na demand para sa enerhiya dulot ng malamig na panahon sa Northern Hemisphere.

Hindi lamang mga drayber ang naapektuhan kundi pati na rin ang mga barker na nakaasa ang kita sa pasada. Sa tuwing hindi nakababiyahe ang mga drayber dahil sa pagmahal ng diesel, nawawalan din sila ng hanapbuhay.

Dahil dito, mas lalo pang bumibigat ang araw-araw na operasyon ng mga drayber, kasabay ng mga pagbabagong kinakaharap ng sektor ng pampublikong transportasyon.

Pangmasang transportasyon at hamon ng panahon

Sa gitna ng patuloy na pag-usad ng bansa, unti-unting nagbabago ang mukha ng pampublikong transportasyon. Ang dating pamilyar na anyo ng tradisyunal na jeepney ay unti-unting hinahamon ng modernisasyon na layong baguhin ang sistema ng pagbiyahe sa mga lansangan.

Taong 2017 nang simulan ang Public Utility Vehicle Modernization Program (PUVMP), isang inisyatibo ng pamahalaan na unti-unting imodernisa ang mga pampublikong sasakyan, kabilang na ang tradisyunal na jeepney. Layunin nitong palitan ang mga lumang jeep upang mabawasan ang emisyon ng usok at mapabuti ang kaligtasan sa kalsada.

Ngunit para sa ilang drayber at operator, hindi biro ang gastusin sa modernisasyon. Pumapatak lamang sa 250,000 hanggang 700,000 pesos ang tradisyunal na jeep, samantalang umaabot sa 650,000 hanggang 1,000,000 pesos ang modernisadong e-jeepney.

Hinihikayat din ng programa ang mga drayber at operator na sumali sa mga kooperatiba o korporasyon bilang bahagi ng konsolidasyon. Ngunit marami ang tutol dito dahil kinakailangan nilang sumali sa isang kooperatiba o organisasyon na may hindi bababa sa 15 sasakyan upang makakuha ng prangkisa. Ayon sa maliliit na operator, wala silang sapat na pondo upang mapunan ito dahil umaabot umano sa P475,000 kada buwan ang hulog para sa 15 modernized e-jeep.

Dagdag pa nila, tanging malalaking korporasyon lamang ang may kakayahang sumunod sa mahal na modernisasyon, at kapag nabigo ang mga kooperatiba, maaaring mapunta ang kanilang mga prangkisa sa malalaking kumpanya.

Patuloy ang biyahe

Sa kabila ng mga hamon ng modernisasyon at patuloy na pagtaas ng krudo, nananatiling buhay ang jeepney sa kamalayan at araw-araw na karanasan ng mga Pilipino—hindi lamang bilang sasakyan, kundi bilang bahagi ng kulturang humuhubog sa ritmo ng lansangan.

Bilang isang pampublikong transportasyon na natatangi sa Pilipinas, ang jeep ang nagsilbing pangunahing sasakyan ng masa sa abot-kayang pamasahe.

Mula madaling-araw hanggang gabi, hindi nawawala ang mga jeepney sa kalsada. Ito ang sinasakyan ng mga estudyanteng papasok sa paaralan, mga manggagawang nagmamadali papunta sa trabaho, at mga ordinaryong mamamayan.

Ngunit hindi lamang transportasyon ang jeepney kundi bahagi rin ng galaw ng lungsod. Sa bawat hinto nito sa kanto, pagsingit sa trapiko, at pag-arangkada sa lansangan, kasabay nitong umiikot ang araw-araw na buhay ng milyun-milyong Pilipino.

Sa gitna ng busina, sigaw ng barker, ugong ng makina, at kalansing ng barya, nananatiling bahagi ang jeepney ng ritmo ng lungsod—isang tunog na matagal nang kaakibat ng araw-araw na biyahe at buhay ng masa.

Kahit may mga lubak sa biyahe nito, patuloy na naghahari sa lansangan ang ingay ng jeepney—isang paalala na ang buhay sa lansangan ay hindi tumitigil.

Si Charlize Andrea Fortunado ang Social Media Manager ng Kalyematopeya, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Nakatuon siya sa pagpapalaganap ng tinig ng masa at sa pagsusulat ng mga kuwentong mahalaga sa sambayanan.

Si Rejina Mae Aniano ang Social Media Manager ng Kalyematopeya, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Mahilig siyang makinig sa tinig ng masa at magpahayag ng mga kwentong may kabuluhan.

May mga taong handang makipag-unahan at makipagbalyahan para lang makaupo sa tabi ng bintana. Na para bang may premyo na hindi kayang ibigay ng aisle seat o ng "standing ovation" sa gitna ng maalog na biyahe dahil sa bitak ng kalsada. Ako rin naman. Kapag may bakanteng upuan sa tabi ng bintana, parang napapaluwag nito ang aking paghinga.

Siguro kasi sa bintana lang nagiging katiis-tiis ang biyahe. Kapag doon ako nakaupo, parang may kahati sa pagod. Tulad ng mga posteng nakalinya, mga taong mala-zombie apocalypse mahabol lang ang pampasaherong sasakyan, at ang langit na unti-unting kumukupas kasabay ng pagbagal ng trapiko. Habang abala ang lahat sa cellphone o tulog na nakasandal sa balikat ng katabi, ako ay may sariling pelikulang pinapanood. Wala mang malinaw na kwento pero sapat para hindi ko maramdaman kung gaano kabigat ang loob ko.

Sa tuwing bumabiyahe, default sa akin ang window seat dahil gusto kong makakita ng mas magandang bagay kaysa sa totoong nagyayari sa loob ng sasakyan (o sa buhay ko). Dahil sa loob, pawis, dikitan, at sari-saring amoy ng pabango ang naghahalo-halo. Nakakasulasok. Parang bawat hinto rin ng bus, may dagdag na pagod na sumasampa. Kaya sa bintana ako madalas nakatingin dahil may madaraanang simpleng dapithapon na pansamantalang magpapagaan sa pakiramdam ko.

Pero minsan, may barung-barong rin na tanaw. Minsan tambak na basura sa ilog na halos hindi na gumagalaw ang tubig. Minsan may mga batang naglalaro sa tabi ng kalsadang puno ng alikabok. At ang mga nagkalat na tarpaulin ng mga politikong nakangiting pinag-iingat ka sa biyahe kahit hindi ligtas at may bahid ng kahirapan ang lugar. Bawat kanto, may mukha ng kandidatong paulit-ulit na nangangako ng maayos na transportasyon, disenteng trabaho, at murang bilihin, pero heto pa rin kami. Palagi pa ring siksikan sa bus, nakikipag-unahan sa oras, at halos makipagpalitan na ng mukha para lang makauwi bago ang hatinggabi. Madalas akong mapaisip kung ilang eleksyon na ba ang lumipas pero pareho pa rin ang trapik, pareho pa rin ang lubak sa daan at pareho pa rin ang pagod naming mga araw-araw bumabiyahe para mabuhay.

Sa umaandar na bus ko napagtatantong mas mabilis pang dumaan ang pangako kaysa pagbabago. Sumakto pa talaga sa kurbadang daan kaya nagsimula na rin akong mahilo.

Wala na. Balewala lahat kapag nagsimulang umikot ang sikmura ko. 'Yong hilo na dahan-dahang umaakyat mula sa tiyan hanggang lalamunan. Tinatago ko agad ang mukha ko sa kurtina, habang nakadikit ang noo ko sa malamig na salamin ng bintana. Kada kabig ni Manong ay siya ring paghinga ko nang malalim. Kada pikit ng mata, umiikot lang din lalo ang pakiramdam. Pati na rin ang isip—sa parehong rutang araw-araw kong binabagtas na parang wala namang pinupuntahang bago. Nakakahilo rin palang kahit marami ang mukhang nadadaanan, walang kahit isa ang mamukhaan. May maingay pang kundoktor, mausok na tambutso, at trapik na parang walang katapusan.

At higit sa lahat, nakakasukang maghanap ng magandang tanawin para lang makatakas sa reyalidad nang panandalian.

Hanggang sa dumilim sa labas. Unti-unti nang nawawala ang tanawin sa bintana at sarili ko na lang ang nakikita ko sa salamin. Doon ko naisip na baka kaya ako nahuhumaling sa “view” dahil mas madaling tumingin sa malayo kaysa titigan kung ano talaga ang nasa harap ko. Dahil sa dilim, wala nang natitirang tanawin para takasan.

At siguro, 'yon din talaga ang premyo sa window seat. Hindi ang makita ang pinakamagandang tanawin, kundi ang mahuli ang sarili mong repleksyon sa salamin. Dahil sa dulo ng biyahe, kapag wala nang makitang iba sa labas, sarili rin ang pupukaw ng aking pansin.

Dahil sa totoo lang, wala rin naman akong pinagkaiba sa mga dinaraanan ko. Tulad ng magagandang dapithapon, may mga bahagi rin akong minsan nasisinagan ng magandang liwanag. At tulad ng sistemikong kalagayan ng bawat kalye, may mga bahagi rin akong magulo at pilit na itinatago.

Parehong umiiral.

Parehong dapat tanawin. ▼

Si Piolo Cudal ang Patnugot ng Komunidad ng Kalyematopeya, ang ika-31 tomo ng iCommunicate. Nagsusumikap siya nang may pananagutan sa pagkukuwento.