NYX MARTINEZ revisits the legendary Lang Dulay, a dreamweaver whose tapestries give life to the heritage of the indigenous T’boli tribe of Mindanao.
It is dusk on the banks of Lake Sebu in South Cotabato. A small group of journalists awaits the arrival of an old woman named Lang Dulay, the famous T’boli dreamweaver. She has accepted our request to meet in her traditional longhouse—a nearly bare home with slats for windows, coco-lumber mats, and no electricity. The only ornament inside is a long weaving loom, where she sits every day, deftly crafting the designs she has dreamt about in the night, when it is said that the Spirit of Abaca, Fu Dalu, speaks to her of intricate patterns.
Soon, a hunched figure appears, climbing slowly, steadily up a ladder that leads to the threshold of her home. Before formally greeting us, Lang Dulay first changes into her traditional T’boli costume: a long-sleeved shirt with bold designs, a long, checkered skirt, and a heavy brass belt with tiny bells to accessorize. Then she sits down near a window, her gentle face supple yet strong. There is a soft smile on her upturned lips, and the headdress she wears frames a countenance hardly marked by wrinkles.
“She’s more than 90 years old,” says Oyog, our T’boli guide, translator and a teacher in SIKAT (School of Indigenous Knowledge and Traditions). “T’bolis don’t celebrate their birthdays. There are many T’boli weavers, but she is one of the oldest. She is considered a Bo-I; this means a respected woman in the community. Sometimes, she even settles cases in the village.”
The trip to see Lang Dulay was part of the Bonamine Basta Pinas campaign with the Department of Tourism. We ask if it’s okay to take the old woman’s picture. “Yes, as long as you show her the pictures afterwards,” Oyog replies. “She likes to see.”
The Lonon Falls are a group of seven waterfalls in Lake Sebu.
I first met Lang Dulay during a documentary shoot with Living Asia Channel four years ago. Back then, she had showed me how to work the hemp fibers between her loom, how the bold colors of red, black and white were used in the traditional T’nalak weave, how her name was woven into each of her designs, artfully displayed like a signature near the hem, and how the native cowry shell was used to polish to perfection the “Grade A” weaves.
“I was taught weaving by my mother,” Lang Dulay narrates, the lilt of her tongue strong in the T’boli dialect. Its rhythm resounds like something foreign to our ears, and Oyog is quick to translate each word.
“I started dreaming of the designs when I was 12 years old. My mother only knew a few designs. But I kept on dreaming, so I wove even more… And I never forget my dreams.”
“But in your dreams,” I ask, “What do you see? The actual designs like they are here? Or is it more a feeling of what you want to create?”
Lang Dulay holds up one of her precious three-meter cloths, which is on sale for Php1,000/meter. It has taken her four long months to complete.
“This pattern, for example, represents the bubbles of the sea, and here—the shield of a warrior. Whatever I see in my dreams is what inspires me,” she says.
Although abaca weaving is an art form familiar all over the world, the geometrical T’nalak designs of the Philippine T’boli people represent their traditions and beliefs. Even the colors are significant: red for bravery, commitment and love, and black for their struggles as an indigenous tribe. The cloth is woven into wall hangings, clothes, bags or wallets. The accessories and jewelry of the T’boli tribe, often made from horse hair, seeds and beads, are also red, black and white.
“The T’nalak is one of the identities of the Tboli people,” Oyog interjects. “Its value is very high in our communities. In the old days, it wasn’t just a pretty cloth. It was used to cover the bride and also as a dowry, in exchange for cattle.”
The finesse of Lang Dulay’s craft has earned her the title of “National Living Treasure,” an award which used to be given only to National Folk Artists of the Philippines. Her works occupy a space in the National Museum. With her title came Php100,000, plus pension.
By now, any sunlight is gone, and all I can see of Lang Dulay is a dark silhouette, and the silvery outline of her aged body sitting quite still, like a fading remnant of the past. She has one last admonition for the younger folk whom she hopes will be the wisdom-keepers, the ones to continue the heritage she has kept all her life.
“I want to tell the young people: Don’t stop weaving. Besides giving economic growth, it’s a skill we need to preserve. Don’t let it die.”
It is here that I realize that the dreams of Lang Dulay are not just for the sake of her cloth, but for the sake of her people, her children’s children—this legacy that must be lived from generation to generation.
