STO. TOMAS, Davao del Norte — Excitement spread across the faces of the women inside the Correctional Institution for Women (CIW) as familiar faces finally stepped through the prison gates.
For years, they had seen them only through photographs and videos from New York, Paris, Milan, Bangkok, and other international fashion capitals where garments made from handwoven Musa fabric had been showcased on global runways.
On June 2, 2026, the runway came to them.
House of Musa-USA director Cindy Mac, California-based visual artist Marconi Calindas, and model advocates from the United States and Canada visited the correctional facility to meet the women whose hands had transformed fibers extracted from harvested banana pseudostems into handwoven textiles worn around the world.
Botanically, the fibers used in Musa fabric come from the banana plant's pseudostem, which most people know as the plant’s stem. Pseudostems of banana plants are the trunk-like structures formed by tightly wrapped leaf sheaths rather than a true woody trunk. Each pseudostem bears only one bunch of bananas before it is cut down after harvest. New shoots then emerge from the base of the plant to continue its life cycle, while the harvested pseudostem begins a second life as a source of natural fiber.
The guests were welcomed with songs, dances, and warm applause, briefly replacing the routine of prison life with celebration.
Standing before the women, House of Musa founder Joy Soo thanked the delegation, then turned to the weavers.
(We have so much to thank them for. They help provide your livelihood. What you have woven, they have shown to the world)," Soo said.
The room erupted in applause.
For the women, the visit affirmed something they had quietly known for years.
Their work had traveled farther than they ever had.
Work that restored purpose
In separate interviews with SunStar Davao, three women weavers reflected on what the banana-fiber livelihood meant to them beyond the income it provided.
For Princess, whose name has been changed to protect her identity, weaving offered something she had almost forgotten.
The opportunity to earn through her own hands.
Princess spent two years weaving Musa fabric before transferring to CIW's minimum-security unit, where she now works at Tadeco.
"Mapasalamaton gyud ko sa House of Musa ug kang Ma'am Joy. Naa koy income ug source of funds tong ga-weave pa ko — two years sad ko ato ga-weave. Karon nabalhin nako diri sa minimum security ug nagtrabaho na pud ko sa Tadeco (I'm truly grateful to House of Musa and to Ma'am Joy. While I was weaving, I had an income and a source of funds. I spent two years at the loom. Now I've transferred to the minimum-security unit and work at Tadeco)," Princess said.
The work was painstaking.
Banana fiber, extracted from harvested pseudostems left after the fruit is cut, is naturally coarse and uneven. Every strand requires patience and precision before it becomes handwoven cloth.
For Princess, however, the reward was never measured by the difficulty of the work.
It was measured by the dignity of earning an honest income.
A journey they never imagined
For Tess, among the pioneering weavers in the project, the livelihood became a source of pride.
She still remembers one particularly busy period when weaving orders poured in.
""Naa to'y time nga nakasuweldo mi'g sobra P30,000 sulod lang sa pila ka adlaw. Bisan pa'g gibahin-bahin namo, dako gihapon among nauli (There was a time we earned more than ₱30,000 in just a few days. Even after dividing the earnings among ourselves, our share was still substantial)," Tess recalled. "Lipay kaayo mi kay naa mi'y trabaho ug naa mi'y gibuhat (We were so happy because we had work and something meaningful to do)."
Yet what she treasures most cannot be counted in pesos.
(We're very proud of what we weave. Even if we haven't been to those places ourselves, our Musa fabric has. Knowing it has reached different countries fills us with pride),” Tess said.
Their names may never appear on fashion show programs.
But every international presentation carries something they recognize.
Their craftsmanship.
Whenever Soo returns to CIW for the monthly outreach activity, she brings stories about where the fabric has gone and the people who wore it.
For the women, those photographs and videos have become windows into places they may never see but somehow helped reach.
The gift of trust
If Tess spoke about pride, Mia spoke about trust.
She said the weaving project offered something many persons deprived of liberty struggle to regain.
Confidence.
"Fulfilling kaayo. Bisan kami dili makaadto sa ubang nasud, pero ang among gihabol nga Musa fabric nakaadto sa lain-laing lugar sa kalibutan. Nalipay kaayo mi ana (It's incredibly fulfilling. We may never get to visit those countries ourselves, but the Musa fabric we wove has reached different parts of the world. That makes us very happy)," Mia said.
She paused before describing what mattered most.
(We know it's difficult for people to trust people like us. Trust doesn't come easily. But Ma'am Joy believed in us. That made us believe in ourselves. That's why we always strive to do our best. We're proud not only of House of Musa but also that our handwoven Musa fabric represents the Philippines), she added.
For Mia, weaving became more than producing fabric.
It became proof that mistakes need not define the rest of a person's life.
Beyond the loom
Back inside CIW that afternoon, the celebration continued.
Mac thanked the women for the craftsmanship that made House of Musa's international presentations possible.
Calindas shared how being raised by a single mother shaped his admiration for women's resilience and strength.
The visitors listened.
They applauded.
They laughed and danced with the women.
Before leaving, they stopped at tables displaying products made through CIW's livelihood programs.
One by one, the model advocates selected handcrafted items to purchase.
The women watched quietly as the products disappeared from the display tables.
Their smiles said everything.
The items were not part of the Musa collection.
They were products created through the correctional facility's other livelihood initiatives.
Still, every purchase carried the same message.
Their skills mattered.
Their work was valued.
Their hands could still create something people would bring home.
Outside the prison walls, banana growers continued harvesting fruit across Davao del Norte. Inside CIW, another harvest quietly unfolded as discarded banana pseudostems found new purpose in the hands of women weavers.
Not only through the fabric woven on wooden looms.
But through the confidence restored, the dignity regained, and the lives slowly rewoven — one careful strand at a time. MLSA