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Nostalgia: Moving Forward from Yolanda

When the monster typhoon Haiyan, locally known as Yolanda, hit Central Philippines, it left in its wake unimaginable destruction of property and human life—as well as an admirable outpouring of generosity and solidarity from all walks of life that proves that, through the devastation, the human spirit is battered but not broken.

At 6:30am, Wednesday, 12 November 2013. It is a typical beautiful warm sunny day in the Philippines. The light is spectacular and the skies are a brilliant blue with wisps of clouds across its expanse. There is a cool, refreshing breeze. It seems like another perfect day, but it isn’t. Less that 60km north of where I sit at my desk at home is devastation. On Friday, 8 November, with winds of over 335kph, Typhoon Haiyan, known locally as Typhoon Yolanda left a wide swath of destruction across the Central Philippines including Northern Cebu. In too many areas, towns and cities were ravaged and 80% of all homes were destroyed. People are desperate. They’ve lost their homes, their families, their friends and their livelihoods. Where were you on Friday, 8 December 2013?

7:10am, 8 November 2013. Metro Cebu is quiet. I was up early. I tried to stay in bed to get as much rest as possible before the storm but couldn’t. I was restless. In three hours or so, “Yolanda” was supposed to be at its closest to the City. At home everything was battened down and protected to the best of our abilities. We hopefully had enough water, batteries and food to weather any storm. A couple of days before at the supermarkets, it was funny to see shopping carts laden with water, canned goods, batteries and then funnily, piled with chips, cookies and junk food. People were obviously hunkering down for the long haul. But junk food? I had to ask myself if these guys knew something I didn’t.

By 10:00am, the wind began to blow and the familiar feeling of unease began to set in. Cebu had just been through a terrible earthquake that left Bohol seriously damaged and everyone collectively anxious after thousands of aftershocks. A few short weeks later we sat waiting for another monster to hit Cebu: “Yolanda”, the strongest typhoon in human history. I tried to convince myself that there was no point worrying. According to the latest weather reports, Metro Cebu was going to be spared and we were protected, and our larders were stocked.

Little did we in the City know that, as we sat nervous but dry, vast areas of our country where the monster typhoon had passed and was passing, the relentless wind literally screamed like a horde of banshees, forming the rain into unending, painful horizontal sheets of needle-like spikes. It was effortlessly destroying homes and buildings, toppling trees, and sending debris flying and careening dangerously. Little did we know that a storm surge five to seven meters high was wreaking havoc and misery across wide areas of the Central Philippines killing thousands of people and destroying even more homes and peoples lives. On the morning of 8 November we were naturally worried about ourselves, but completely clueless to the epic human tragedy that was quickly unfolding.

Today, it is still unimaginable and near impossible to understand what it was like to live through the worst day of fear in the lives of millions, and millions of Filipinos. Till today, it is still very difficult to imagine and comprehend the tragedy that followed in the desperate hours and days immediately after super-typhoon “Yolanda”. And unless it has happened to you, it is still impossible to appreciate what it is to be a homeless refugee sleeping on the streets, sitting in the sun, bereft of family, food and water, surrounded by the ruins of your home.

My heart breaks every time I see the news. The tales of suffering are endless.

5:12pm, Saturday, 16 November 2013. I received a text from my friend, economist and professor, Perry Fajardo. It read, “I am very disturbed these days by these people that have done nothing but criticize the relief operation. It hurts the thousands who are sacrificing everything to help.”

Perry’s sentiment is correct. There is a fine line between expressing frustration, as many of us did, and unending criticism for political opportunism. While there is a yawning chasm between sincerity and the ‘pretension of assistance for political gain,’ the time for action is now. “Eastern Samar is gone” read a recent headline of The Philippine Star, underlining the urgent need to coalesce, to link our arms in support of millions of Filipinos instead of indulging in shallow political games.

11:06pm, 16 November 2013. From a Facebook friend Ronna Mae O’Connell: “Hi Dondi, I was informed that Bantayan Island needs relief badly. Please ask info from Alex Badayos and Felipe Tariman.”

I am sure everyone is getting calls, messages and texts like these constantly. The need is great. My first reaction was to jump and start hollering for help but after a moment of reflection, I decided to try to find out who was organizing to help Bantayan – to see if they were already in action. They were. Bantayan Island was wrecked and is one of dozens in dire need of assistance. All across Visayas, South Luzon and Northern Palawan are islands, islets, villages and settlements that need urgent assistance. Even the one-time leper colony of Culion is in dire need of relief and medical care. We all need to keep this kind of information flowing so we can help make sure no one gets left behind.

While I have never in my life seen this sheer scale of suffering in the Philippines, I have also never seen this sheer scale of profound outpouring of generosity, and the willingness and determination to help in whatever way possible. I shouldn’t be surprised. It is the heart of the Filipino and in the hearts of the friends of Filipinos.

Today, on social media and on the local and foreign news, there are expressions and stories of personal initiatives of concern and care even as inspiring tales of individual and civic heroism are emerging. All over Cebu, all over the Philippines, pockets of friends, employees, foreign residents, neighbors, classmates, government and social workers, businessmen, and even tourists are working hand in hand to help in whichever way they can. Foreign-based Filipinos are organizing, and ordinary people in many countries are donating what they can to help, even those with little or no particular affinity for the Philippines. In most cases, these generous souls weren’t asked to help. They just asked how they could help – and they did and they are helping – just as so many Filipinos are helping, even at the sacrifice of their finances, family, school and work time, and even their businesses.

Make no mistake. It may take only weeks or months to rebuild homes, but it will take years to replace lost livelihoods and to heal hearts torn apart by loss. Our relief work will not end in a few weeks, or even in a few months. We will have to stay focused and continue helping our brothers and sisters rebuild their lives, even as the sense of urgency wanes, and even when the next hot news story hits the headlines. We must never forget Yolanda – not only for the sake of those who suffered, but for the sake of those who survived and still live in the peril of more catastrophes – as we all do.

Nor can we neglect the Boholanos who are still rebuilding their lives after the terrible earthquake. They still need you.

Yolanda has left her profound footprint on the Philippines. In all likelihood she will not be the last super-storm to bludgeon its way through our country. I shudder to think of what will happen if another angry typhoon follows on heels of Yolanda. In today’s world of mutated weather, as certain as an angry woman’s slap, another Yolanda, Ruping, Dading, Ondoy or Pepang will come. We can no longer be ill-prepared and we only have to look at how many other countries prepare for and respond to disasters: the USA, Fukushima in Japan, and even in India in 2012, where 800,000 people were forcibly evacuated following a major typhoon warning. The storm hit and only a handful of lives were lost. Seventeen years earlier a similar typhoon hit the same area of India and 10,000 people died. They learned. They prepared. They lived.

Time is short, and the waters may rise again.

Professor Perry, I have been guilty of being critical, constructively I hope, because like many others I can’t help but think, in the clarity of hindsight, that more could have been done before the typhoon, when the red light warnings were flashing, and immediately after when it became crystal clear that Yolanda wreaked immeasurable havoc. We can and should do the post-mortems later – after this growing human catastrophe is averted. And hopefully, just hopefully, this painful lesson will help our country leapfrog from spastic adolescence to deeper political and social maturity as we put aside petty political differences in the interest of the common good of all Filipinos – once and for all. This was a humanly expensive and painful lesson that must never, ever happen again.

If anyone would like to assist, there are three ways to help: the first is to volunteer time. There are many companies, organizations, and private initiatives that collect, organize and distribute relief goods. If you live abroad, come to Cebu in the Philippines and help in these relief operations. Or send your kids. We will look after them. It will be a great human experience and we can point people in the right direction and put them in contact with the right organizations, formal or informal. The second is to donate funds. The expenses are enormous. The third is to hope and keep the Philippines and those who were affected close to your hearts, in your thoughts and if you pray, in your prayers.

The Filipino is a wonderful resilient person and I have no doubt that even now as I sit at my desk, in the face of immense hardship and suffering, the Filipinos affected by this disaster will once again begin to smile and hope – and sing – as they always do. Bangon Pilipinas!

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Arts & Culture

Kundiman–A Collaboration Between Charles Lahti and Francis Dravigny at the Qube Gallery

by Oj Hofer

“Collaboration is like carbonation for fresh ideas “-Anonymous

Kundiman—drawn from the Filipino tradition of lyrical love songs marked by longing, devotion, and emotional depth—unfolded not merely as an exhibition but as a dialogue between two artists whose practices, though formally distinct, share a common goal: that creation is never singular, never complete, and never entirely one’s own. The word itself carries weight. In the Philippine cultural imagination, kundiman is not passive sentiment but a mode of endurance—a way of loving what one cannot fully possess, of honoring what exceeds one’s grasp—and to name an exhibition after it is to make a claim about the nature of making itself: that art, like the song, is an act of devotion directed toward something larger than the maker’s intention. It is a form that does not declare but lingers; not spectacle, but the quieter and more demanding thing called intimacy.

The collaboration between Charles Lahti and Francis Dravigny operates at what might be called the threshold of language—the place where gesture becomes structure and structure, over time, turns into meaning. Their working relationship is less a merger of two styles than a negotiation between two modes of listening: one drawn to the decisive mark, the other to the patient accumulation of woven form. Lahti’s mark-making is grounded, deliberate, and unambiguous in its commitment to presence; his lines carry the quality of breath, each stroke an event rather than a flourish. Observers familiar with East Asian ink traditions will recognize this sensibility immediately, for in Zen ink practice and Japanese calligraphy, the practitioner does not decide what to draw so much as prepare the conditions under which something may reveal itself—the mark that emerges from this discipline is not decorative but testimonial, evidence of a moment of full attention. Lahti’s work operates within this logic even when the cultural references are Western, and what anchors it is not style but stance: an ethical relation to the act of making that distinguishes genuine presence from the mere performance of spontaneity, a distinction far rarer in contemporary visual art than it ought to be.

“The line is not drawn but revealed—through stillness, breath, and a quality of awareness that the discipline of reduction alone makes possible.”

Dravigny’s woven interventions introduce a different, though deeply complementary, temporality. Where Lahti works in the decisive instant, Dravigny works in accumulation—the slow building-up of material over time—and his use of abacá, a fiber indigenous to the Philippine archipelago, is not incidental. Abacá carries its own history: long harvested by hand, traded across colonial networks, woven into ropes and sails, and more recently reclaimed as a medium of cultural expression, so that to bring it into an art context is to activate this history without necessarily declaring it. In Dravigny’s hands, textile transcends its usual function as background or support and becomes instead an act of preservation—a material archive that holds within its weave the gestures of another artist. This concept, which the exhibition implicitly explores, speaks to something the atelier tradition has long understood: that a work of art may pass through multiple bodies and multiple intentions and still emerge with coherence, provided each maker brings to the passage not assertion but responsiveness, the capacity to receive another’s action and carry it forward without erasing it. Dravigny’s woven interventions propose a similar ethic, made visible rather than concealed.

What Kundiman ultimately stages is not the product of collaboration but its conditions: the particular quality of attention required when one artist’s gesture enters the field of another’s practice, and the willingness to wait that such attention demands. The Japanese aesthetic tradition names this interval ma—the generative pause, the charged space in which meaning gathers before it resolves into form—and the exhibition’s restraint is precisely its argument. There is no excess, no spectacle, no rhetorical gesture toward significance, only a sustained attentiveness to process that runs counter to the dominant logic of contemporary exhibition-making, in which legibility is prized and impact must be immediate. Kundiman refuses this, trusting the viewer to do the work of attending, and in this refusal it finds its deepest kinship with Zen aesthetics: the discipline of reduction, the clarity of intention, the respect for what is essential over what is merely present.

“What Kundiman proposes is more radical than most exhibitions dare: that the self, in the act of making, becomes temporarily permeable—open to the gesture, the material logic, the devotion of another.”

The concept of interbeing—rooted in Buddhist philosophy and carrying the understanding that nothing arises independently, that every form is the result of conditions and every maker is in part made by what they make—finds in this exhibition its material proof. What was created here does not belong to one hand alone. It emerges in the space between, where gesture is received, transformed, and returned; where material listens and form responds and meaning unfolds not as conclusion but as continuation. The exhibition ends. The dialogue does not. This is the space between hands: where making becomes meeting, and where interbeing quietly, insistently gives rise to form.

Charles Lahti with his latest works—layering print with bandana textiles to create tactile, hybrid surfaces where image, pattern, and material converge.

Francis Dravigny in his Cebu studio—transforming abacá and found materials into layered, sculptural weavings.

A wall of interbeing—where weave, gesture, and form dissolve into quiet harmony and non-duality.

A flat surface transformed into a quiet weave—drawing the eye inward, where structure softens into stillness and resonates with Zen practice.

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Arts & Culture

Kundiman After Dark: Traditional 19th Century Filipino Musical Genre Continues to Inspire

by Kingsley Medalla

The Kundiman is a traditional 19th-century Tagalog musical genre that served as a profound source of inspiration for many sophisticated, classically trained artists. The name is derived from the Tagalog phrase “kung hindi man,” literally translating to “if it were not so.” These musical pieces were often performed as poignant love songs characterized by smooth, flowing melodies containing emotional depth. Originating as a serenade in poetic Tagalog lyrics, it features a minor-to-major key progression expressing longing, devotion, patriotism, and a yearning for freedom.

Sine Pop, a boutique theater in a 1948 post-war heritage house located in Cubao, Quezon City, serves as a charming venue for cultural events and intimate performances with a small ensemble. Recently hosting Kundiman After Dark, a recital honoring the legacy of Nicanor Abelardo (1893–1934), a highly esteemed Filipino composer and pianist hailed as the “father of the sonata form in the Philippines” and a master of the art of the Kundiman. Carlson Chan, founder of Sine Pop, clarifies their unique model: the performances are open to the public and are, as such, complimentary, as its primary focus is to promote the performing artists per se.

The performances featured beloved Kundiman classics including Mutya ng Pasig (1926), Naku… Kenkoy (1930), and a personal favorite, Bituing Marikit (1926). These musical pieces were brought to life through the solo acts and live vocals of tenor Erwin Lumauag, Japanese violinist Shiho Takashima (who has since made the Philippines her permanent residence), and the renowned composer, pedagogue, and pianist Augusto Espino.

“Nasaan Ka Irog,” written in 1923, drew inspiration from a romantic tale shared by Nicanor Abelardo’s friend, who went overseas leaving behind his beloved in the Philippines. Years after, this man eventually became a doctor and, upon his return, discovered that the love of his life had been married to someone else. He also learned that the letters he had sent were never delivered to her, as they were kept by the doctor’s family, secretly away from her. A classic case of unrequited love. Kundiman serves as the heart and soul and the pinnacle of Filipino musical artistry.

Violinist Shiho Takashima and pianist Augusto Espino

Tenor Erwin Lumauag

Art patrons; Pacita Agoncillo Sode, Marilou Khan Magsaysay, Patricia Cepeda-Sison and this writer Kingsley Medalle

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Arts & Culture

Art Beat: Scenes From the Manila Art Fair 2026

photography by Doro Barandino

“Art is unpredictable and goes in different directions. I have no idea. I would rather live the present moment.” —Bencab, National artist of the Philippines.

Vinta by Protegeri, collaboration art piece by Leeroy New, Solenn Heuseff and Vito Selma

Q&A with interior decorator and jewellery designer Doro Barandino

Which of the participating art galleries had the most unified and exciting theme?
Leon Gallery had the most amazingly put-together collection. Though the gallery engaged various artists, the overall visual effect felt like one unified theme. Leon Gallery used a sack-like cloth (most likely raw linen) as the background for the booth, and it brought the collection together. It had an old-world feel in a chaotic setting.

Who were the artists that were the most visually engaging?
The works of Carlo Tanseco were definitely my favorite. The artist used an eye chart (Snellen chart) as the background for the image of Dr. Jose Rizal giving us the middle finger—such an “in your face” message. The concept of our national hero as a modern-day provocateur was a wake-up call to everyone. Very subversive and underground material. I was also attracted to the works of Japanese artist Tadashi Kogure; they’re very architectural.

Was the choice of venue and its layout helpful in engaging the whole art vibe?
What I noticed was that the masters like Juan Luna, Fernando Amorsolo, and Fernando Zóbel still attracted the most viewers at the art fair. People are naturally drawn to their masterful strokes and historical significance, or perhaps these artworks are not readily accessible for public viewing. Or maybe those booths that carried the masters’ works were strategically positioned right after the registrar.

The choice of venue at Center One was a good move—it created a total art vibe. Manila Art Fair remains the premier art fair in the country today, showcasing the finest modern and contemporary art while offering curated projects and immersive installations.

The Standard by Thai artist Pitchapa at the Triangular durational, performance art.

Bato Bato sa Langit by Filipino artist Carlo Tanseco

Stocking Proportions Menumpuk Proporsi by Indonesian artist Labadiou Piko

Untitled by Indonesian artist Yunizar

Filipiny, wool tapestry by national artist of the Philippines,Federico Aguilar Alcuaz.

Untitled by German artist Valentin Elias Renner

Interior decorator and jewellery designer Doro Barandino is also a regular contributor for zee.ph

 

 

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