Filipinos from the regions often flock to Metro Manila in pursuit of better opportunities. But beyond the challenge of living far from home, they often find themselves treated as outsiders in their own country. For those from far-flung provinces, their distinct languages, expressions, and cultural nuances set them apart and not always in ways that are welcomed.
Those from Visayas and Mindanao, in particular, often face ridicule as their distinct dialects and expressions are frequently diminished, reinforcing stereotypes that oversimplify the identity of the Bisaya.
Zamboanga native Qash Musa (II, ABLIM-CW) points to the Luzon-centric narratives that dominate mainstream media. She explains, “They don’t have any other sources [about Mindanaoan culture] unless they studied it in school. So it’s their preconceived notions that come first.” Qash is only one of many who know that when stereotypes take precedence, the only play is to give in and follow suit.
Mimicking difference
In Manila’s bustling sprawl, non-Tagalog speakers are persistently confronted by lingering prejudices that confine their multifaceted identity within narrow, predefined labels. “Bisaya ka kasi” is an echoing dig heard by Josza Bolivar (II, AB-POM), an Ormocanon now studying in Manila. She chooses not to engage with these remarks to avoid being labeled as “KJ” or a killjoy. This silence, however, only invites more ridicule and leaves her vulnerable to a more relentless barrage of jabs, labeling her as “uncivilized” and “uncultured.”
(It’s because you’re Bisaya.)
Persistent stereotypes not only marginalize Bisayas as a group but also actively constrain individual identities. Jozsa lays out, “It just [feels] a little demeaning that they would laugh about it,” whenever she intuitively slips adverbs in like “lagi,” or speaks in a distinct Bisaya tone. It’s the small things like these that emphasize Josza’s feelings of unbelongingness, especially when it happens so much so that her identity becomes a punchline.
These subtle differences force her to shy away from using her natural expressions in casual conversations. Whenever Jozsa speaks Tagalog, she inevitably draws unwanted attention to her accent, leaving her painfully self-conscious. “There’s just this unspoken pressure to blend in,” she confides, exasperated by her inability to fully express herself in Bisaya—the language where her emotions come alive.
Similarly, Qash asserts, “You have to adjust to an extent [for] them,” referring to her moderated, softer accent and matching the nuance of her friends’ humor. The shared pressure to adapt is so pervasive that even at home, family members caution that letting one’s natural traits show might come off as hostility. As Kuya Joel Sindo, a family driver from Butuan, recalls that he was once advised, “Iwan mo sa probinsya imong mga ugali mo na masama,” suggesting he tuck away a part of himself deemed “too strong” for local acceptance.
(Leave your bad behavior from the province behind.)
Tapping into open lines
While navigating Manila’s contradictions and collisions, adaptation can take on many forms. This is heavily dependent on what one struggles with during the adjustment period. Qash, in particular, recalls mimicking Manileño Tagalog: “Tagalog people speak in a very soft way. ‘Pag sa Mindanao, parang tatak [na] very matigas (ang pagbigkas).”
(In Mindanao, our signature pronunciation is very hard.)
Meanwhile, the challenge for Kuya Joel is more fundamental. Having moved to Manila knowing little Tagalog and English, he practices the former day by day, gaining the skill through exposure. Fortunately, he is unafraid to strike up a conversation with everyone he meets, flashing an easygoing smile as he speaks broken Tagalog peppered with Cebuano. With unfamiliar words, he simply asks for clarification: “Ingnon man nako’g ‘Unsay Tagalog sa…’ Ako ra iingon. Mangutana man gyud ko.”
(I just tell them, ‘What’s the Tagalog of…’ I just say it. I’m not hesitant to ask.)
Interactions become muddled due to the language barrier, but in his eyes, every miscommunication is an opportunity to improve his grasp of the language. And in turn, he is eager to teach others his mother tongue, in response to the common question of “Ano ‘yung Bisaya ng…?”
(What’s the Bisaya of…?)
This mutual exchange transforms awkward interactions into moments of shared discovery, responding to the alienation that non-Tagalog speakers experience in Manila. While Filipino languages can differ vastly from one another, they ultimately share similar roots. Qash has come to enjoy teaching her friends Tausug and Chavacano, finding the many ways certain words’ meanings “overlap between languages.”
Embracing one’s identity creates a safe space for others to do the same. For Qash, finding fellow Mindanaoans in DLSU has allowed her to be more comfortable in her own skin: “You realize, ‘Oh, it’s okay that I sound like this,’” she says of her accent.
With the sheer size and density of Metro Manila, meeting someone of the same background can feel like meeting a fellow Filipino in a foreign land. It is a pleasant surprise, followed by palpable relief. As Kuya Joel puts it: “Ah, kababayan man diay ni!” Collective identity, then, is grounded in more than just shared language—it is solidarity and kinship, especially amid the unfamiliar.
(Ah, you’re my townmate!)
Keeping in touch
Though assimilation may promise acceptance, it is also a double-edged sword. As regional voices are pushed to the margins, the fear of losing one’s heritage cuts deep. Over time, words once spoken fluently can feel strange on the tongue, slipping from memory. It is for this reason that both Qash and Jozsa make an active effort to practice their native languages whenever they can.
“I try to remind myself that where I came from is just as valuable as where I am now,” Jozsa says. For her, the pressure of fitting in is nothing compared to the pain of losing such an integral part of herself.
But Kuya Joel reminds us that where you’re from is an unshakable part of who you are, even as you adapt to new surroundings. “‘Pag Bisaya ka, taga-probinsya ka, ‘di gyud na mawala. Naa gyud na perminte.”
(If you’re Bisaya, or from the province, that will never be truly lost. It will always remain with you.)
This article was published in The LaSallian‘s June 2025 issue. To read more, visit bit.ly/TLSJune2025.
