There is something inherently magical about the Dusit Ballroom when it’s filled with the hum of shared history. Last June 29, we gathered for the 62nd annual Hijos de Davao ball. It’s one of those nights where time seems to fold in on itself — where the glittering gowns and the formal air meet the warm, lived-in comfort of stories passed down through generations.
From seashore picnics to ballroom elegance. It’s hard to imagine, looking at the grandeur of the ball today, that this all started with something much simpler, a group of friends, a stretch of coastline, and the melodic cadence of "Dinabaw" filling the air.
Back when Davao’s population was small enough to count the "movers and shakers" on two hands, a vow was made. The next generation promised to keep the spirit of Davao growing, to nurture the land that nurtured them. What began as informal seashore picnics eventually blossomed into an institution.
Following the war, as Davao began its rapid, vibrant boom and new families made this city their home, the Hijos de Davao celebration evolved. It moved into the iconic Apo View Hotel, and there, the traditions we cherish today were truly born.
The grace of the Rigodon de Honor, the poise of the Muses and their escorts — these weren’t just formalities; they were the heartbeat of a community anchoring itself to its roots.
I’ll admit, as someone who didn't grow up in the heart of Davao, I felt a bit like an observer at first. I remember being told my two cousins take their turns as Muses, shimmering with that specific Davao elegance.
My mother was the one who nudged me to attend these gatherings, and she was right. She knew that these events aren't just about fancy dresses or ballroom dancing. They are about the messy, beautiful, complicated web of kinship. You find yourself shaking hands with someone and realizing, “Wait, are we third cousins once removed? How exactly are we connected?”
Even when the exact lineage is a bit fuzzy, there is a profound sense of belonging. You see names you recognize — names that appear in the history books of this city — and you realize that you aren't just at a party; you are surrounded by the legacy of families who made a promise to the old Datus of Davao and Sulu to protect and cultivate this land.
As the night ended and the echoes of the Rigodon faded, I found myself thinking about that original vow. I may not be dancing the Rigodon every year, but I carry the weight and the joy of this city in my own way.
As a teacher, I use my voice and my talents to help shape the next generation, contributing to the development of the land I am proud to call home.
Families here have grown, sprawling across neighborhoods and professions, yet the spirit remains the same. Being an Hija of Davao isn't just a label of heritage. It’s a living, breathing responsibility.
“Paglaom” means hope in Mandaya. It is the hope of our ancestors that we make Davao into a great and prosperous city for those who live in it and for those who will one day be born to it. It is our hope that must be treasured.
The Hijos de Davao ball is a beautiful reminder that we are all part of a story that is much bigger than ourselves. And as long as we keep showing up, keep connecting with our "long-lost" relatives, and keep working for our home, that story will only get better.