EVERY August, the streets burst with color — the beat of drums, the swirl of dances, the echo of traditions centuries old. But behind the spectacle lies a quieter, longer fight: keeping heritage alive in a fast-changing world.
For many indigenous and Moro youth, preserving tradition is more than wearing cultural attire or joining festivals. It’s confronting stereotypes, passing down skills, and ensuring their identity is more than just a performance for an audience.
Framed by the folds of her hijab, Maranao advocate Muslima Limpao moves with a quiet confidence that challenges long-held stereotypes about Muslim women.
“Some see the hijab and think it’s a sign of silence. For me, it’s a strength reminder of who I am and the voice I carry for my people,” she said.
Muslima knows prejudice still lingers, with some assuming Maranao women are limited in education or self-expression. Through her workshops and leadership roles, she proves tradition can empower, not restrict.
“When I work with youth, I want them to see that our culture is not a cage. It’s our identity — and it’s our strength,” she added.
From the Maguindanaon community, designer and former Hiyas sa Kadayawan winner Nurainie Ampatuan transforms weaving traditions into modern fashion. Rather than relying on existing workshops, she researches, learns, and teaches the art of inaul and malong weaving herself.
“When I design, I’m not just making clothes, I’m continuing a legacy. Each weave, each color has meaning. I grew up watching my mother fold and unfold the malong for weddings, dances, and even daily chores. It was never just fabric; it was part of our life’s rhythm.” Nurainie said.
For Nurainie, teaching weaving is not about creating garments alone, but passing on the stories embedded in every thread.
The steady drumbeats and chants of the Ata tribe live on through Jovie Otaho, 19, who performs and teaches dances and songs learned from her elders. Making these relevant to today’s youth — drawn to modern entertainment — is a challenge she embraces.
“Some think these songs are outdated, but they speak of love, respect, and unity — things that will never fade,” she said.
Sama artist Shuaib C. Pawai, 18, brings the swaying grace of the Lillal Lugu dance to new audiences. He doesn’t just perform — he explains each movement’s meaning, helping people see the stories behind the steps.
“Dance speaks even when words fail. When people see our steps and hear our music, I explain that they’re not just for show, they tell the stories of our seas, our faith, and our way of life,” she said.
Sheirelle U. Anino, Deputy Mayor for the Bagobo Tagabawa, knows that when the youth drift from tradition, it’s often not rejection — it’s a lack of exposure.
“It’s not that they don’t care; they just haven’t been given the chance to experience it,” she said. She organizes workshops, performances, and heritage programs that make tradition feel alive and relevant.
Different in language, art, and custom, yet united in purpose, these young cultural bearers prove tradition is not a relic to be displayed once a year — it’s something lived, taught, and defended every day.
As Muslima put it: “If we don’t keep telling our own stories, someone else will — and they might not get it right.”
Long after the parades fade and costumes are packed away, the work continues — in weaving rooms, dance rehearsals, classrooms, and conversations between elders and the next generation. These quiet efforts may not draw crowds, but they shape how history is remembered.
In their hands, heritage is not just preserved — it evolves, adapts, and finds new life. As long as they keep telling their stories in fabric, movement, song, and action, the heart of their culture will keep beating for generations to come. AJA