“You made me believe there’s still hope for us, for ‘Pinas.”

This was one of the comments I got for a story I wrote about how polarized the Philippines has been – down to the smallest, but most fundamental, unit of society: the family. Since the 2016 elections happened, people have been either labeled as “DDS” (Diehard Duterte Supporters) or “dilawan,” an ally of the Liberal Party or the Aquino political clan.

The story I wrote then was not a news report, as I was wont to do, as I’ve been expected to do – having been a journalist for 14 years now. It was, instead, a fictional story, a young adult book about millennials – Filipina students and a Korean one – who were compelled by sociopolitcal circumstances to realize the difference between the families we are born into and the family we choose.

Getting this comment was invigorating on so many levels, especially as I chose to foray into literature to explore other ways the written word could serve as a bridge in this divided world.

The decision to try literary writing came amid an increasing level of distrust towards the mainstream media and journalism in particular. In a post-truth era, where authoritarians cast doubt on the credibility of the media, depicting them as an enemy and part of the establishment which populists supposedly vow to change, it has become harder and more challenging to connect to the public.

Must Read

Trust in news from social media decreases, ABS-CBN reach tumbles in 2021 Reuters study

It’s easy to be dismissed as anti-Duterte and be called dilawan even when the news report you have written has all the facts, is placed within context, and contains the side of the parties concerned, the government included. 

But journalists, amid this saddening, alarming backdrop, continue to report, verify information, and fulfill its duty as a watchdog. The vigilance of journalism and the courage of people who work in the industry as a whole – from the interns to the researcher to the cameraman to the producer, reporter, fact-checker, editor – have never been as pronounced and inspiring as it is now. 

Going the literary route is thus me trying to further learn and unearth how its ability to speak to people can complement journalism’s goal to hold the people in power accountable. 

In my book Dito, sa Purple House, I wrote about young people who have been castigated by their families for being critical of some of the practices of elected officials, for questioning the prevailing misconceptions about what it means to be a “proper” Pinay, and for being part of the LGBTQ+ community.

Some who’ve read the book said the story resonated with them as they were able to relate to the characters and their experiences – most especially the feeling of not being understood by their families and being judged by their loved ones because of what they believe in.

This fictional story tried to touch on the language, the songs, the humor, and the aspirations of young Filipinos. From this attempt at relatability emerged a most welcomed space for reception, discernment, and yes, that now elusive connection to an audience which has been increasingly taught that democracy, facts, and human rights don’t matter and are actually antithetical to the government’s pursuit of peace and order and overall success. 

And from this came that comment: You made me believe there’s still hope for us, for ‘Pinas.

It made me believe then that there’s still hope for truth, too, as relayed in different ways, in different forms, by the power of the pen. – Rappler.com

Dito, Sa Purple House can be purchased through Ukiyoto Philippines, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Shopee.