Salaysayen (2025)

31/10/2025

Iti daytoy nga Oktubre, rambakantayo ti 𝗯𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗶 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗮—panawen a mangpadayaw kadagiti espasio a mangpreserba iti pakasaritaan, kultura, ken panagparnuaytayo. Dagiti museo ken galeria ti mangipalubos kadatayo a mangsukimat kadagiti estoria a nangporma iti kinasiasinotayo kas maysa nga ili.

Alaentayo daytoy a gundaway a 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗸𝗮𝗿, 𝗮𝗴𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗼, 𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝘁𝗶 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗽𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗶 𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲 𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗮𝘄𝗶𝗱. Tunggal eksibit ket mangipalagip kadatayo no siasinotayo ken mangparegta kadatayo a mangtaginayon a sibibiag ti kulturatayo para kadagiti sumaganad a kaputotan. 🎨🏛️ 🎨🏛️

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𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘋𝘦𝘯𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘛𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘯
𝘗𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢

29/10/2025

Ti 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗡𝗼. 𝟴𝟯𝟳𝟭, a napasingkedan idi 1997, ket naawagan a “𝙄𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙨’ 𝙍𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝘼𝙘𝙩” (𝙄𝙋𝙍𝘼), ket linteg nga inaramid tapno maprotektaran ken maipateg dagiti Indigenous Peoples (IPs) kas kadagiti Indigenous Cultural Communities (ICCs) ti pagilian a Filipinas. Ti panggep ti IPRA ket tapno maamiris ken maipaay ti karbengan dagiti IPs nga agnanaed iti nadumaduma nga ili kas met a maikkanda iti bukodda a desision iti dagada, kultura, ken panagbiagda.
Iti daytoy a linteg, naipasngay ti 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗻 𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗣𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘀 (𝗡𝗖𝗜𝗣) a kas ahensia ti gobierno a mangipatumpal ken mangidadaulo iti amin a programa para kadagiti IPs. Ti NCIP ket isu ti katulonganda a mangipatungpal kadagiti Certificate of Ancestral Domain Title (CADT) ken Certificate of Ancestral Land Title (CALT), a mangpaneknek nga awan ti proyekto a madadael iti daga dagiti IPs, nga awan ti pammalubos ken naited a Free and Prior Informed Consent (FPIC).
Iti kabuuan, ti IPRA ket ti linteg a mangipateg iti karbengan dagiti Indigenous, bayat nga ti NCIP ket ti ahensia a mangipatumpal ken mangisuro iti daytoy a linteg. Babaen kadagitoy, agtultuloy ti panangsalaknib ken panangdayaw iti nadumaduma a kultura ken komunidad kasta met a mapreserbar iti kinatao, kultura, ken karbengan dagiti IPs.

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𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘩 𝘝𝘪𝘢 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘢 𝘚𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰
𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘰 𝘯𝘪 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰 𝘛. 𝘊𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦

28/10/2025

ᜈᜐ᜔ᜌᜓᜈᜎ᜔ ᜅ ᜀᜎ᜔ᜇᜏ᜔ ᜆᜒ ᜉᜈᜄ̟ᜌᜋᜈ̟ ᜃᜇᜄᜒᜆᜒ ᜃᜆᜓᜆᜓᜊᜓ
(𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗡𝗼. 𝟰𝟴𝟲, 𝘀. 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟯)

Tunggal Oktubre 29, sipapannakkel a rambakantayo ti 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙄𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘿𝙖𝙮. Agtaktakder a kas nabileg a simbolo Ti Indigenous Peoples Rights Act (R.A. No. 8371) ti panagkumit ti pagilian a mangitandudo ken mangsalaknib kadagiti karbengan dagiti Katutubo a kakabsattayo.

Daytoy a selebrasion ket saan laeng a basta lagip, no di ket maysa nga awis a mangpadayaw kadagiti di magatadan a kontribusionda, a mangsalaknib kadagiti kapuonanda a daga.

Kas estudiante a mangitantandudo iti panangipateg iti kultura, mabalintayo koma a pagpanpanunotan daytoy nga aldaw tapno makasursurotayo manipud iti nauneg a panagraem dagiti katutubotayo iti nakaparsuaan, komunidad, ken tawid.

Agtakdertayo a makikaykaysa kadakuada — a mangpreserba kadagiti tradisionda, mangsuporta kadagiti karbenganda, ken mangrambak iti nabaknang a kultura a mamagbalin iti Filipinas a pudno a maysa a langa.

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𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘕𝘦𝘭𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘺𝘦 𝘈. 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘫𝘰
𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘰 𝘯𝘪 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰 𝘛. 𝘊𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦

28/10/2025

Ti MMSU Advocates for Cultural Development, ket nagballigi ti panagangayna iti IP Day 2025 ita, Oktubre 28, 2025, kas maysa a napateg a gundaway a mangipakita iti kinapateg ti kultura dagiti Indigenous Peoples students kas puso ti panagdur-as ken panagkaykaysa.

Ti programa, nga agraman ti tema a"𝗪𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗖𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, 𝗘𝗻𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗙𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲: 𝗘𝗺𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝗕𝗲𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗦𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗗𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁," ket nagpakita iti napno a ragsak nga programa a nangrugi kadagiti pammalubos a seremonia.

Dagiti kangrunaan a paset ti aldaw ket nairaman ti maysa a Cultural Talk a napanagan iti "𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙄𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙄𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙈𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣 𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨." Kalpasan daytoy, naangay ti opisial a panangirugi ti Museum Exhibit ken ti IP Week Contest. Ti malem ket naituding iti panangipabuya ti promotional ken film viewing, a nagpatingga iti pormal a panangted kadagiti gunggona kadagiti nagballigi kadagiti nadumaduma a salip.

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𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢 𝘙𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘢 𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘳𝘪𝘹𝘪𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦
𝘙𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘪 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘚𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘯

25/10/2025

𝖨𝗇𝗒𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂 𝗠𝗠𝗦𝗨 𝗔𝗱𝘃𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗖𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗗𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 (𝗠𝗔𝗖𝗗) 𝗶𝘁𝗶 “𝗜𝗣𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘀: 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮 𝗶𝘁𝗶 𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗱𝗲 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗸𝗯𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗻” 𝗶𝗱𝗶 𝗢𝗸𝘁𝘂𝗯𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗸𝗮-𝟮𝟰, 𝘀𝗮𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗼𝘆 𝗠𝗠𝗦𝗨 𝗕𝗮𝘁𝗮𝗰 𝗖𝗮𝗺𝗽𝘂𝘀.

𝖣𝖺𝗒𝗍𝗈𝗒 𝗇𝗀𝖺 𝖺𝗄𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗍 i𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗎𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝗂 𝗠𝗿. 𝗝𝗮𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗔. 𝗠𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗴, 𝗠𝗔𝗖𝗗 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗉𝗇𝖺 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗌𝖺 𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖻𝖺𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌' (𝖨𝖯) 𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗇-𝖨𝖯 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖺𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗌𝖺. 𝖨𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗄𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝗂 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀 𝗍𝗂 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗎𝗌, 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗈 𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝖾𝗄𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖺, 𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗂 𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖺.

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𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂 𝖭𝖾𝗅𝗃𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖲𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗃𝗈
𝖱𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗂 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖵𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖱𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺, 𝖢𝖨𝖳 𝖱𝖾𝗉

25/10/2025

𝗟𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗰 𝗦𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗲: “𝗕𝘂𝗯𝗼𝗴” — 𝗖𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝗝𝗼𝗲
𝘈.𝘋. 𝘈𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯

“𝘗𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘸𝘢’𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯
𝘋𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘢 ’𝘬𝘪𝘯
𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘣𝘶𝘬𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯
𝘈𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘰𝘨 𝘱𝘢 𝘳𝘪𝘯”
“𝘋𝘢𝘩𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘸 𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯
𝘈𝘺𝘢𝘸 𝘬𝘰
𝘗𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘯𝘢 ’𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯
𝘈𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘬𝘰 𝘬𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯”

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀. “𝗕𝘂𝗯𝗼𝗴” 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀— 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝘂𝘁 𝗮 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘆.

You stand before it and the glass does not return one whole face. It returns pieces: scars you tried to bury, a cheekbone you avoid, an old bruise, a smile rehearsed so many times it hurts—forced so others wouldn’t worry.

Have you ever stared long enough that your reflection begins to dissolve? The eyes blur, the outline fades, until all that’s left is a single question: Who are you now? And the longer you look, the more you learn to look away—because sometimes, seeing yourself feels like digging through rubble, and what you uncover is too heavy to love.

You learned to look away because looking was an interrogation. You learned to measure yourself by other people’s lights until your own reflection looked dangerous. We forget that mirrors don’t only reflect light. They reflect wounds, regrets, the shadows we try to hide beneath laughter. And when the weight of insecurities grows heavier than the body carrying them, even looking becomes a battle.

The eyes blur, the edges fade, and all that’s left is the question that haunts the silence: “Am I still someone worth loving?”

There is a kind of exhaustion that sleep cannot fix—the kind that comes from standing in front of a mirror and realizing you don’t want to see yourself anymore. Not because the glass is broken, but because you are. And the reflection it gives back feels less like a face and more like a graveyard of “not enough.”

The lyrics say it simply: you are made of wounds; you are made of shards. But listening to it, the heart hears what the mouth won’t say — the slow, private exhaustion of being your own hardest judge.

We do not fear mirrors because they show truth. We fear them because they show what we do not know how to forgive. And, sometimes the hardest person to forgive, the hardest soul to embrace, is our own.

“Puro sugat at hiwa’ng aking paningin…”
When you look too closely, every scar becomes a map of failure. Every wrong turn, every judgment, every word once thrown at you gathers at the surface of your reflection. The eyes, meant to be windows to the soul, become windows to wounds. The mirror doesn’t lie, but it doesn’t heal either—it only throws back the shards you try so hard to hide.

“Sinubukan ko mang iwasan ang salamin, aking damdamin ay puro bubog pa rin…”
Avoidance doesn’t erase pain. Covering mirrors doesn’t stop the bleeding. Because bubog is not in the glass—it is in us. Shards of memory, of rejection, of voices that told us we weren’t enough. They stay lodged under the skin of our hearts. You can close your eyes, but you cannot un-feel what cut you.

“Dahil ayaw kong tumingin, pagod na ’kong tumingin, at makita ang hindi ko kayang mahalin.”
This is more than exhaustion—it is surrender. To look at oneself and see only what is unlovable is to live in a house where even the walls accuse you. But here lies the paradox: mirrors reflect, but they cannot define. A broken reflection does not mean a broken soul.

Here’s something I want to say to anyone who has ever hidden from their reflection: the shards are not the end. not every shard is meant to be thrown away. They are the vocabulary of repair. You can hold each fragment and trace the cut until it stops feeling like a crime and starts feeling like a map. Some pieces, when held with care, become pathways.

You don’t have to restore the entire mirror to see light again. Sometimes, it begins with holding just one shard gently—without anger, without shame.

A new word for this sea*on: salimbubog — (sa·lim·bu·bog)
n. the fragmented mirror of the self; the condition of recognizing yourself only in pieces, and learning—piece by piece—how to look back without breaking.

Use it when the mirror is loud, when the past is sharp, when the act of looking feels like a dare.

If one line must follow you out of this reading, let it be this:
“Build a window from your own shards—and learn to step through it. When you learn to walk barefoot across your own shards, that’s when you begin to live again.”

And before you go: ask yourself one honest question, in the quiet where the music still plays:
If I gather these pieces and set them purposefully, what will I choose to see back?

If you could pick up just one shard from your broken reflection, what would you finally tell the part of you that’s been hurting the longest? If you cannot love the person in the mirror, can you still believe that person is worth saving?

If all you see in the mirror are fragments, remember this: even shards can glisten. Even pain can refract beauty. Even you—especially you—can still be a vessel of light. you are not the sum of what hurt you. You are the hands that can rearrange the pieces.

Rest when you need to. Cry when the mirror stings. Then rise and try again. And when you are ready—hold just one piece with tenderness—gentle, brave, and a little more whole. Healing doesn’t mean wholeness at once. It means learning that even in fragments, you are still worthy of light.

So right now, if your heart whispers, “I hope I can love myself again,” let that be enough. Let that hope be your ember. Because maybe survival itself is already a form of love.

The mirror is not the judge. It is only the witness.
And maybe—just maybe—the day will come when the shards will no longer be wounds, but windows where light enters.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲. 𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲—𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲—𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀.

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Pubmat by Michaella Francine R. Crema

24/10/2025

𝐀𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐲𝐨 𝐊𝐚𝐝𝐢?

Kadagiti Ilokano, ti 𝗱𝗮𝗺𝗴𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘁𝗶 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗼𝗴 ket mabalin a mangipakita dagiti mapaspasamak iti masakbayan? Naggapu pay idi kadagiti daan a panawen ti pammati iti damgo, idi saan pay a naimpluensiaan ti pammati a Kristiano ti simbaan. Dagiti Ilokano mamati a ti damgo ket mabalin a balikas ti espiritu, panangipakaammo ti Apo, wenno panangyebkas ti panunot nga awan pay iti agdama a sumursurot.

Panggep iti panangipatarus ti damgo: ti damgo a maipanggep iti danum ket agpaay iti bendisyon, aywan, ken nadalos a panagbiag; ti tagainep ti uleg ket agpaay iti parikut, pagsina, wenno panangilin; ti tagainep ti pusa wenno a*o ket agpaay iti kaaway a maparparang; ken ti damgo maipanggep iti lamesa ken pagkaon ket pakakitaan iti bendisyon nga umay iti pamilya. Adda pay pammati nga no awan ti maipatarus a damgo, masapul a mangiparangarang iti kaabay tapno “di mapengdan” ti kararuwa iti dakes nga aramid.

Ipakitana ti kinaimbag ti panunot ti ilokano iti pammati iti damgo: panangipateg ti pammati, panag-aywan iti pamilya, ken panangngeg iti signos iti aglawlaw. Iti panunot ti Ilokano, ti damgo ket saan laeng a gundaway ti tagainep, no di ket dalan a mangipakita ti espiritu ken ti biag a naespirituan.

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Caption by: Gracelyn Joy
Pubmat: Alynna Domingo

22/10/2025

𝗠𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗲: 𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗔𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁
𝘉𝘺 𝘈.𝘋. 𝘈𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯

“𝘏𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘺, 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬. 𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺, 𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘰 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥.”

Five Feet Apart is a film about love restrained by distance, but to me, it has always felt like a mirror of grief. Because when COVID-19 came, I learned what it means to lose touch—not just physically, but eternally.

That line in Five Feet Apart lands like an ache you didn’t know you were carrying. It names a hunger so ordinary—so human—that when it is denied, the world rearranges itself around the absence. The movie speaks plainly: touch is language. It is grammar for our bodies. It teaches us how to feel safe, how to trust, how to know we are seen.

When my Uncle (Lolo) and my Great Grandma died during COVID, that grammar was stolen from us. They both passed away in Las Vegas. I wasn’t there. There were no last hugs, no gentle caress of their hands, no whispered goodbyes that could ease the weight. Only a cellphone screen. Only the flat glow of a TV during a virtual funeral.

I saw them through a screen: pixelated faces in a boxed frame, voices muffled by distance, eyes that did not quite reach me, hands I could not hold. I watched them lowered into the ground not with my hands reaching, but with my heart breaking. Their funerals became virtual rooms where people whispered condolences into tiny speakers and where air could not carry a proper goodbye.

My Great Grandma had warned, in those small family conversations, that maybe she would not come back. She spoke it like a weather report—possible, inevitable—and then the weather changed. She was right. Her very last words to us were in Ilocano—“mabisin nakon”—translated simply: “Gutom na ako.” Such an ordinary phrase, yet now it feels like a farewell, a hunger that could never be fed again.

And my uncle—he called me once, but I wasn’t able to answer. Instead, he sent me a message: “Masakit ako. Baka mamatay na ako. Hindi na kita makakausap.” His words were not just a message. They were a door closing I could not reopen. Those words were not just a goodbye—they were the cut that replayed in my chest over and over.

There are mornings when I wake up and the pillow still carries the memory of them—my Uncle (Lolo), my Great Grandma. The scent of absence lingers like thorns that never leave. When they died, something in me died too. Twice over. Once with him, once with her. And yet, I am still breathing. That’s the cruelty of grief—you continue, but you are never the same. You laugh, but you’re pretending. You smile, but your chest is hollow. You live, but part of you is buried with them. Because when you lose the people who are your everything—your safe place, your strength, your biggest supporters—it’s not just their lives that end. A part of yours is buried with them.

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗜 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀, 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽: 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁.

And so when I hear the words from Five Feet Apart, “Life’s too short to waste a second,” it no longer feels like a romantic warning. It feels like a eulogy, like a truth branded into me. Because I know now the weight of wasted seconds, of unsaid words, of touch withheld not by choice but by distance, disease, and fate.

If only I could turn back time, I would answer that call. I would book a flight. I would hold them tighter, even just once more. But regret has no hands to bring them back. Only memory does—and memory both saves and haunts me.

There are nights when the “what ifs” haunt me like broken glass. What if I answered the call? What if I was there in person? What if… These questions cut deep, and every time I cry, I don’t need to explain. Tears are proof enough. Maybe the bravest thing I’ve done is to let myself cry without shame.

There is a cruelty in grief when it arrives through glass. The screen shows us proof of life and proof of leaving, but it cannot translate the warmth of a hand, the press of a palm, the trembling of another person’s fingers as they try to say — without words — that you are not alone.

In those moments, the words from Five Feet Apart are not just poetic; they are electric truth: we need touch like we need breath. And when breath is rationed, touch becomes an impossible currency.

But there is another truth braided into this pain: absence sharpens what we took for granted. The inability to hold them teaches you what holding once meant. You begin to inventory small things: the callused ridge on Uncle’s (Lolo) thumb, the quiet way Great Grandma folded her hands, the cadence of their silences. Memory becomes a tender geography. You map them not with images on a screen but with the echo of where a hand used to rest. You hold funerals in your chest, light candles in the ribcage.

And here’s the paradox of grief: even when death takes them, love does not leave. Their warmth, their encouragement, their way of making me feel at home—it’s carved in me. And every tear I shed now is evidence that I loved them fiercely, and that they loved me back.

A line I will carry for the rest of my life:
“When they died, I died too—yet here I am, still breathing, learning how to live with a heart that beats in fragments. They left a silence so loud it could break me, but from that silence I still learn the shape of love.”

And if there’s one question that keeps me awake, it’s this:
If I could tell them one thing now, what would I finally say?

If Five Feet Apart asks us to touch when we can, my losses ask me to linger with the memory of touch—replace what I could not give with vows I can still keep. Call the ones you love. Say the things that tremble at the edge of your throat. Send your voice the way my uncle sent one last message. Touch with words if skin is forbidden. Touch with time. Touch with presence. Do not wait. Hold them longer than you think you need to. Because one day, the chance will vanish, and all you will hold are screens and silence.

And this is the line I want to leave you with, one that found me in the middle of late-night silence and would not leave:
“If you have hands to hold and minutes to spare, do not spend them waiting for certainty.”

So ask yourself: What single sentence, touch, or call would I regret not giving if tomorrow took away that chance?

Because life is shorter than we think. And touch—the warmth of hands, the closeness of presence—is the only inheritance we can give each other before it’s too late.

Maybe grief is just love with nowhere to go. So I write letters I will never send, light candles for them at night, whisper words into the air as if the wind could carry them across. Some days I fall apart, other days I manage to breathe—but both are valid. Healing isn’t linear.

To anyone reading this with tears in your own chest: you are not alone. And if love could survive their absence in me, maybe love can survive in you too.

Because maybe grief doesn’t end. But maybe it can be transformed—into rituals of memory, into quiet strength, into the courage to live in a world where they no longer exist, yet their love does. It lingers. In memory, in stories, in the way we live a little kinder because of them.

So, if you miss someone so deeply it hurts, let your tears remind you: you are still alive because of them. And perhaps, just perhaps, the part of you that died with them can also become the part of you that learns to love louder, braver, deeper.

𝗥𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿: 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗖𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘄. 𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗹. 𝗧𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵. 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗿, 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗳 𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱. 𝗟𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱—𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱. 𝗦𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲—𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆?

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Pubmat by Alynna Domingo

22/10/2025

𝗔𝗺𝗺𝗼𝘆𝗼 𝗸𝗮𝗱𝗶 𝘁𝗶 𝗸𝗮𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗮𝗻 𝗻𝗴𝗮 𝗲𝗽𝗶𝗸𝗼 𝘁𝗶 𝗜𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗼𝘀?

Napateg a tawid ti Ilocano nga agpatingga iti panagpateg ti kultura ken pammati ti Biag ni Lam-ang. Ipakita daytoy ti kinapigsa, panagserbi, ken ayat iti pamilya ken komunidad. Naggapu iti oral tradition idi pay pre-kolonyal a panawen, ket agingga ita ket agtultuloy a mangiparangarang iti kinaintrek ti Ilocano.

Sapay koma nga ti istoria ni Lam-ang ket agbalin nga inspirasyon kadatayo nga agpadayaw iti kina-Ilokano ken panagserbi iti ili.

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Caption by: Gracelyn Joy
Pubmat: Alynna Domingo

20/10/2025

𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗔𝗚𝗞𝗨𝗡𝗔 𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗟 | 𝗞𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗸 𝗗𝗮𝘆𝘁𝗼𝘆
𝘉𝘺 𝘏𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘭 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳

“𝗞𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗸 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘁𝗼𝘆” is an Ilocano term that directly translates to “𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀.” It embodies resilience, determination, and self-belief—the quiet kind of strength that surfaces when the world feels heavy and doubts begin to whisper. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘃𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲?

It’s been days—weeks, even—since the midterm exams, yet the pile of workloads shows no sign of thinning. If anything, it only grows taller. One exam after another, paper after paper. Juggling life, academics, and student organizations feels like walking a tightrope, each step demanding balance I barely have left.

And yet, amid the exhaustion, a thought hits me: do I even have the right to complain when others bear heavier burdens? Somewhere, a father shivers in the rain as he tills the soil for his family’s meal. A mother bites back her tears of longing as she cares for another family’s child abroad. A son catches his breath while carrying boxes of packed lunches, determined to keep his education afloat. And a daughter—perhaps like me—wipes away her tears in silence before facing yet another exam, all for the dream of making her parents proud.

We all live different lives, face different storms, and carry different weights, but in the end, we strive for the same thing—to endure. We are all, in one way or another, survivors of this intricate chaos we call “life”.

And so, “Kayak daytoy” becomes more than just a phrase. It becomes a mantra, a heartbeat, a quiet promise to ourselves that no matter how heavy it gets, we’ll keep going. 𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀, 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗴𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴—𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴, “𝗞𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗸 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘁𝗼𝘆,” 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁, 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗻.

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𝘗𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘈𝘭𝘺𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘋𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘰

20/10/2025

𝗔𝗴𝘆𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗮𝗺𝗶, 𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗥𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲, 𝗶𝘁𝗶 𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗺𝗼 𝗶𝘁𝗶 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗮-𝗜𝗹𝗼𝗸𝗮𝗻𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗮-𝗙𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗼!

Today, October 20, 2025, we honor the legacy of General Artemio Ricarte — the “Father of the Philippine Army” and a true symbol of loyalty and patriotism. His life reminds us that freedom is built upon courage, integrity, and unwavering love for our motherland.

As we commemorate his 159th birth anniversary, may we continue to uphold his ideals of discipline and devotion to the nation.

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Pubmat by Alynna Domingo

17/10/2025

𝗗𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗧𝗜 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗢 | Inyusuat ti Mariano Marcos State University Advocates for Cultural Development (MACD) iti pannakaituloy ti 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗔𝗹𝗹𝘂𝗸𝗼𝘆 𝗩𝗼𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗲 𝟮.𝟬, maysa nga institusional nga inisiatibo a mangitandudo iti kultural a pannakaammo, artistiko nga ebkas, ken partisipasion dagiti estudiante.

Babaen ti aktibo a pannakipasetda, intandudo manen ti MACD ti panangipateg iti kultura, ken addaan kaipapanan a pannakipaset iti uneg ti komunidad ti unibersidad.

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Caption by Denmark Tajon
Photos by Irish Jay Ravina

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