From March 11 to 14, the Harlequin Theatre Guild (HTG) bared their souls at the Natividad Fajardo-Rosario Gonzalez Auditorium for DuLa Salle 2k25: Tawong Lipod, an annual showcase of craft, courage, and storytelling.
Across four acts, the production drew from the works of DLSU Department of Literature Professor Dr. Jazmin Llana, transforming passages from Mga Dasô – Stories of Martial Law in Bikol: Diary into a resonant theatrical experience. Named after the Bicolano term for unseen spirits of the wind, Tawong Lipod honored the lives and art dedicated to change, unnamed yet ever-present. By tracing memories of resistance from the 1970s to the present, the production grounded every scene in the culture, humanity, and beating heart of Bicol.
Silenced songs and haunted streets
The first act, Paraluman, wasted no time in establishing the production’s emotional and political backbone. It opened under the sheen of stardom, introducing Manila’s rising sweetheart, young singer Kristine Diaz. While her voice carried the allure of fame, it also bore the weight of the era. Set against the suffocating backdrop of Martial Law, the act juxtaposed celebrity glitz with political restraint, situating Kristine within a media landscape that weaponized distraction.
While the nation unraveled in unrest, beloved and marketable Kristine became a potent symbol of controlled expression, her performances curated, her words sanitized, and her art stripped of overt dissent.
Kristine is in stark contrast to her sister, Laura Diaz. The siblings from Bicol moved to Manila in pursuit of better tomorrows, bound by blood yet divided by dreams. While Kristine was the face of a state-sanctioned dream, student journalist and activist Laura embodied the refusal to stay silent. Tensions between them ignited when Laura adapted Kristine’s song, Alalahanin, into a rallying cry of uprising, inadvertently putting her celebrity sister at risk. The tragedy culminated in Laura’s sudden disappearance, forcing Kristine to a visceral realization: her sheltered safety was merely a form of complicity. Finally, Kristine reclaimed her voice, breaking free of her gilded cage and singing for the silenced, ensuring Laura’s legacy lived on. Paraluman posed the audience a difficult question: What is the role of the artist in a time of crisis?
If Paraluman explored repression through subtlety, Asuang confronted it head-on. The act plunged the audience into the raw, riotous energy of a protest. Still set in the 1980s, the act followed Mariel Mendoza as she desperately searched for her missing friends—activists who, like many during their time, had been taken. The act drew powerful parallels between folklore and reality: the mythical aswang becoming a metaphor for the faceless forces responsible for these abductions. In a society gripped by fear, it is easier to blame monsters than men—because against a monster, one does not expect humanity.
Mariel’s brother, Hector, emerged as both protector and paradox. Though he initially embodies resistance, his eventual betrayal reveals how fear corrodes conviction, especially during the Martial Law era. This redefined the term aswang as Hector was not a monster in the traditional sense but one in the eyes of those he betrayed.
As the act concluded, Mariel delivered a statement that haunted the silence of the auditorium: “Mas nakakatakot ang halimaw na binuo sa takot.” Asuang is a grim reminder that oppression’s most insidious victory is not just silencing the brave, but strumming them into instruments of fear.
(The scariest monsters are those born from fear.)
All that memory holds
The stage transformed as a mystical tree rises at its center, draped with garments of the disappeared—each piece a quiet testament to lives lost and stories unfinished. This set the ground for the third act, Lihim ng Pag-uwi, which chronicled Lorena and her youth cultural troupe, Dapog. While the troupe yielded its artistry as protest, Lorena carried a private burden: the spirit Ayi, a dwelling presence under the tree whom only she could perceive, and as Lorena listened to Ayi’s whispers, the truth of those garments began to unfurl.
Among those in Dapog was Rique, restless and fervent, possessed by a devotion to the cause larger than what the stage could hold. When he joined the struggle in Manila, he left the troupe behind, never to return. His departure broached the question that would haunt the rest of Dapog: was it enough to create, to perform, and to resist through art alone, or did the moment call them to follow him into the streets?
The troupe wrestled with the weight of rebellion and arrived at a hard-won epiphany—to create was already to resist, and that every defiant story was its own act of rebellion. Lihim ng Pag-uwi closed with Rique cloaked in white, silenced beneath the cloth, but his ringing bravery refused to be buried beneath greed and impunity. Lihim ng Pag-uwi served as a requiem for the unsung, honoring those who never made it home.
Written by Ezequiel San Miguel, the last act Paaram carved the crossroads between leaving and reclaiming. The story spiraled into a deeply personal confrontation with guilt and unfinished duty, where the pull of activism reverberated in every attempt to move on. In its intensity, Paaram revealed how the call to action persists, unapologetic and insistent. Culminating the production, this act demanded a profound reflection on what it means to remain steadfast in one’s convictions, even when the path is steeped in sacrifice.
As the curtains closed on DuLa Salle 2k25: Tawod ng Lipod, the applause gave way to a lingering stillness that asked audiences to sit with the stories they had witnessed.
As Neil Azul, who played Vicki and Evan, emphasized, “At sa larangan ng sining, ang tawong lipod ay hindi lamang mito. Sila ang mga artista, manunulat, lider, at aktibista na inaalay ang kanilang likha para sa pagbabago,” highlighting history that refuses to be forgotten and championing the powerful tradition of opposition through art. The hardship and courage depicted onstage echo from past to present, reminding us that the fight against injustice continues in many forms and figures.
(In the realm of art, the tawong lipod is not merely a myth. They are the artists, writers, leaders, and activists who dedicate their creations to change.)
In an era of obscured truths and rewritten stories, Tawong Lipod stands as both a memorial and a form of resistance, proving that the unseen continues to shape who we are, who we choose to become, and how we confront the challenges of the present.
