Balik Banlaw: Rekindling the Zestiness of Our Filipino Roots

If you’ve ever watched a Pride parade and felt something warm in your chest, like you’re witnessing not just joy but a quiet act of rebellion, then you already know what this story is about.

But it goes deeper than the rainbow flags and the roaring drag shows. This is not just about queerness. This is about remembering—or better yet, returning—to a time when fluidity was not feared, when gender was not weaponized, and when being different did not mean being less.

This is about us, Filipinos, and how we once embraced queerness not as a threat to order but as a celebration of life itself.

𝘒𝘢𝘺𝘢’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘭𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘰. Let’s rinse away the grime of shame, silence, and colonial residue—and remember who we’ve always been.

𝗕𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗖𝗮𝗺𝗲: 𝗪𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗪𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲

Before there were churches, laws, and textbooks that taught us to pick a side—𝘭𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘪 𝘬𝘢 𝘣𝘢 𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘦?—we were already whole. And we were free.

In pre-colonial Philippines, the divine wasn’t just male or female. It was both. It was fluid. One of the most beautiful examples is Lakapati (or Ikapati), the Tagalog deity of fertility and agriculture. Lakapati was described by early chroniclers as androgynous, intersex, or transgender; and yet revered, worshipped, fed offerings of yam and rice wrapped in banana leaves. People bowed their heads to Lakapati, seeking blessings for good harvests and good life.

Think about that: in the very land we now walk on, our ancestors knelt in prayer to a queer god.

There were also the babaylan, asog or bayoguin, and shamans who defied gender norms. Some were women, but others were assigned male at birth and took on traditionally feminine roles. They were regarded as healers, mediums, and community leaders. They didn’t “come out”—they were out, respected, even feared in power. There was no closet to step out of because the closet simply doesn’t exist.

How did we forget all this? How did we go from honoring our queerness to hiding it?

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗙𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱: 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗪𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗥𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻

When the Spanish arrived in the 1500s, they didn’t just conquer land, they conquered memory. They labeled the babaylan as witches. They burned down the sacred and called it sinful. They enforced a binary so strict it cut into people’s lives, their spirits, their very identities.

Under colonial rule, gender roles hardened like cement. The queer was not holy; it was heresy. They introduced terms like sodomite, abnormal, immoral. The richness of our gender expressions was reduced to stereotypes, mockery, and shame.

Our stories weren’t just silenced, they were replaced. 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘪 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘺. And for generations, we believed them.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗔𝗴𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗨𝘀 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

But even silence can’t last forever. In the late 20th century, something flickered back to life.

There was Roderick Paulate, who famously starred in Grandpa is Dead (2009), a beloved actor who brought effeminate, queer characters to the screen not as villains, but as comedic, loving, and fully human individuals. Shows and films gave us space to laugh with, not at, characters who didn’t fit the mold. Queerness became visible again, even if through layers of humor.

And then came Vice Ganda, loud and proud and impossible to ignore; hosting It’s Showtime, cracking punchlines, and holding a mirror to society with every joke. In their own way, these figures reclaimed what we had been told to bury.

Still, it wasn’t a full return—more like a peek behind the curtain. Queerness was welcome if it was funny, palatable, “family-friendly.” The layers of identity were flattened for prime time.

But even so, that visibility gave hope. It reminded us that the story isn’t over yet.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗼𝘅: 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁𝘀, 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀

Today, Pride Month in the Philippines is louder than ever. Malls host drag shows, cities wave rainbow flags, influencers post tributes with hashtags like #LoveWins. 

And it’s beautiful, a glimpse of the colorful future we want. But the paradox is glaring.

While drag queens sashay in commercials, the SOGIE Equality Bill—a simple promise of protection—remains frozen in Congress. Religious groups and conservative leaders still label LGBTQ+ identities as threats to Filipino values. Schools teach tolerance, not affirmation. And countless queer Filipinos still hide who they are from family dinners, job interviews, and barangay captains.

We cheer for queer art but often stay quiet about queer lives. We applaud the costume but look away from the struggle.

It’s like they’re only allowed to be seen if they stay on stage—not in the boardroom, not in the pulpit, not in law.

𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗜𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁

One of the biggest lies we’ve been told is that queerness is a Western concept; that being gay, trans, or gender non-conforming is something we imported like fast food or Netflix.

But history says otherwise.

Pride is not a Western invasion; it’s a Filipino return. 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘭𝘢𝘸 𝘪𝘵𝘰, 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘢.

Every rainbow worn in the streets of Manila is a defiance of the colonizers’ chains. Every drag performance is an echo of the babaylan’s ceremonies. Every queer story told is a thread reattached to the tapestry we were forced to rip apart.

Pride is ours. It always was.

𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗭𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝘀 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗟𝗼𝘀𝘁—𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗛𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻

So, why are we going backwards? Why do we still need to fight for what our ancestors already understood?

Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s control. Maybe it’s just forgetting.

But what Pride reminds us—what history screams if we’d only listen—is that we were zesty before. We were loud, colorful, complicated, queer. And we were proud.

This month, we don’t just march for rights. We march for remembrance. We speak not only for visibility, but for visibility that’s rooted in heritage. We remember that we are not broken—we are continuing a story paused by colonization, but never ended.

To be Filipino and queer is to inherit resilience, radiance, and rhythm. It is to be soft when the world demands hardness, to be bold when the world tries to shrink you.

Pride, for us, is not a rebellion against tradition. It is a return to it. So wash off the shame. Rinse away the doubt. Look in the mirror and remember: your queerness is not a new wave. It’s a tide that’s always been there, waiting for you to come back home.