Sung Into Being: A Literary Analysis of HuniNay

Prologue - Arimaonga


Many of our ancient myths reflect anxieties faced by our elders, and in the case of “Arimaonga,” it tackles the age-old fear of the danger the world poses against a vulnerable, pregnant woman and her unborn child. Its title is taken from a mythical Meranaw beast, the arimao, to which the play depicts as strongly resembling a fearsome, giant lion. Eclipses, as told in stories, were explained as the arimao devouring the moon. 


The tale takes place in a fantastical, olden Meranaw society. A heavily pregnant woman dances on the stage, her steps still light and whimsical. The forest, represented by still dancers, was doused in soft moonlight glow. The world at present seemed safe and normal for the soon-to-be-mother—until the light switches. The world turns red. The forest comes alive. The music sheds its slow pace, becomes frantic, and induces the dancers into a state of hypnotic hysteria as the mother dodges a world now strangely hostile towards her and her baby. She rushes home, chased by people caught in the throes of harmonic insanity. Eventually, she finds her husband, a datu dressed in gold and wielding a sword steadily, and there is a moment of relief as the mother finds reprieve in her partner’s protection. Then, she suddenly cries out, falling into labor. Miraculously, the birth is kind to both the woman and her now-born child, and the baby is swaddled in soft red. The surrounding people coo and look on curiously, momentarily pacified.


Suddenly, there is silence. The beast prowls in. It is a horrifying thing—not just in its grotesque visage but in the way it pointedly pursues the mother and child, ignoring the whirl of people dancing in its path. Even as the husband hides his wife away in a house, the arimao still lingers—the chase turning almost comical as the house itself, too, tries to dodge the beast by lifting the woman away from its reach while the husband battles outside. The end is signified by the return of the white moonlight, and the failed arimao stalks away. 

The “Arimaonga” is a fantastic allegory for the dangers faced by two kinds of the most vulnerable people in society. While there is nothing quite like a mythical beast in our world, the play showcases the influence of the community during a mother’s pregnancy. The stress of a confusing, hostile environment indicates the first signs of danger and eventually pushes the mother into sudden labor. Meanwhile, the father takes an active role in the mother and child’s protection as he battles, yet it is only with the assistance of people in his community who faithfully shield the vulnerable pair that they continually remain out of the arimao’s reach.

Payapang Daigdig


There are songs that carry not just melody, but history. “Payapang Daigdig” belongs to that kind of music—the kind that’s written in the ashes of war, when the world had to learn how to breathe again. Felipe de Leon composed it in 1946, standing atop the ruins of Manila, and it has since lived on as the country’s own hymn of peace. It turns to the stars as the dainty, eternal witnesses to human suffering and resilience.


On stage, the piece unfolds with the grace of reconciliation. Two groups enter—the men clothed in all white, the women draped in a wash of colors—and together they dance. At first glance, the staging might suggest contrast with the stark simplicity of white against the vitality of hues. Yet the movement made it clear that this was not a dance of opposition, but of weaving. Each step flowing and intertwined, as if reminding us that peace is not found in uniformity, but in harmony. They are two halves of a fragile promise, that after devastation, peace will need both emptiness and abundance.


There was no attempt to dramatize destruction, no rubble or fire recreated for spectacle. Instead, the dancers embody what comes after: the long, slow work of stitching communities back together. White became clarity, an emptiness cleared of violence, while the colors offered life’s return, a blossoming after devastation. Together, they show that peace is never the absence of difference, but the choice to move side by side in mutual rhythm.


As the carol filled the gymnasium, one could almost feel its origin pressing at the edges of the performance, the quietness of Christmas night after war, the fragile hope of stars flickering above a ruined city. Yet the stage refused to stay in mourning. It lifted that memory and turned it into peace not as stillness, but as movement, as community, as the courage to begin again.


Perhaps that is why the performance stays with us. It does not let us sit back comfortably, but asks us: what does it mean to inhabit a “peaceful world” after having known violence? Is peace only the absence of war, or is it an active practice—a choreography we must commit to daily, with all our colors, all our silences, and all our scars? In that moment, the answer takes form not in words but in motion. Peace is not a final state. It is a dance, ever vulnerable, and ever possible.

Bata Alimahi

We often underestimate the influence of our upbringing. A mother’s touch is not merely felt by her child, but it trickles down her bloodline, shaping generations through love and pain. “Bata Alimahi” is a Cebuano lullaby that approximately translates to “foster the child.” The song itself speaks of the struggles a married woman faces with her responsibilities as a new parent and a caretaker of the house. A mother stands ragged in front of a table. Her movements are frantic and erratic—she would be cleaning the table for a second before scooping up her bundled child, just to set it down again. This repeats: pick up, put down, pick up, put down. Exhausted, she ends up lying down on the table to take a short nap, a temporary reprieve from her duties. A sweet silence passes before the music booms—a death knell of her already shortened peace. The woman is frantic once again, trying to catch up on chores, yet torn on whether to carry her baby with her or not. Up, down, up, down. She fists her hair and grabs the bundle, running off to the left of the stage before stopping and staring at the infant in her hands, half-crazed. She shakes it, again and again and again. The mother only stops when the anger passes, and only anguish is left.


She goes back to doing her chores. While there is no appearance of her husband at all in the play, his presence is suffocating nonetheless. She spirals; her mental state plummets further with the sudden appearance of two demonic figures dressed in all black, wearing monstrous masks. The entities never stray too far from the mother and child, dancing with her as if they were her extra limbs. They would playfully tug at her, covering her eyes and distracting her away from her child. While not initially aggressive, the two beings became more sinister as they enacted their will on the world. It crescendos once they set their target on the bundled infant. Despite their hold on the woman, she batters them away, even as they bear down on her back and tear at the swaddle. She breaks away from them and runs, only to be chased and tormented. Even with the fear, pain, and confusion muddying her mind, the mother only clutches her child tightly as the two demons close in. Then, the music heightens as a figure rushes in from backstage—not like a hero, a knight in gleaming armor. The figure held no gleaming sword, nor was it a man acting as a savior. No. Instead, the figure wore a duster dress with their hair in a mother’s bun. The two demons scatter at the appearance of the grandmother, who stands tall above her child; her grown, poor child, lost to demons both in her heart and mind, yet is now found in the embrace of her own mother. “Bata Alimahi” showcases the desperate, enduring love of imperfect mothers, who, despite it all, just want to embrace their children and protect them from the world.

Ili-Ili Tulog Anay


The hush of a lullaby often carries more than just the promise of sleep; it bears the weight of waiting, of absence, of the thousand little wounds that children are too young to name. “Ili-Ili Tulog Anay,” a traditional Hiligaynon lullaby, dawns not only as a gentle plea for slumber but as a mirror of longing, of a child held in arms that are not their mother’s, while love is purchased somewhere beyond reach.


On stage, the child lies on the floor, vulnerable. Then a woman appears—whether mother, guardian, or caregiver remains uncertain—and gathers him into her lap.  The ambiguity of her role is telling. Is she the mother, or is she someone filling in while the mother tended to necessities? That uncertainty reflects the reality of many Filipino families, where caregiving is often a collective act—lola, tita, even older siblings carrying the burden when mothers must work.


Across the corner, three figures gather, their attention drawn to a screen where families reunite—mothers clutching children, tears flooding faces, the raw collision of time, distance, and yearning. It is here that the lullaby fractured into something larger than the domestic. Ili-Ili Tulog Anay stops being just about one child waiting for his mother to return from the market. It becomes about all children waiting. Waiting for a parent to come home from labor overseas. Waiting for the missing to return. Waiting for love to arrive in flesh and not just in promise. The refrain—Ili-ili tulog anay, wala diri imong nanay, kadto tienda bakal papay—takes on a heavier tone. A mother gone to buy bread becomes every mother gone in pursuit of survival, every parent absent for reasons both ordinary and unbearable. Bread is no longer just sustenance; it is sacrifice, the unspoken bargain of love exchanged for distance.


What devastates most in this performance is its mundanity. A lap, a song, a promise of return. And yet, layered beneath, is a grief that never sleeps. For how many children have been lulled to rest with words that mask an emptiness? How many have closed their eyes not knowing if the absent figure will return at all? In the silence between notes, the lullaby reminds us that childhood is threaded with absences too heavy for children to carry, yet they carry them anyway. They learn to fall asleep in borrowed arms. They learn to make peace with the promise that Nanay will come back soon, even if “soon” stretches into years.  


And as the scene fades, one truth remains. Lullabies are not always promises of comfort. Sometimes, they are prayers whispered into the hollow of our longing, the fragile hope that love, however far away, will always find its way back home.

Caturog na Nonoy


When a mother buries a child, the pain is like no other. How does one come to terms with the grief? Do they ever? “Caturog na Nonoy” is a Bicolano lullaby, roughly meaning “go to sleep now, Nonoy,” with soothing lyrics that wish for the child’s peaceful slumber.


The play opens with a boy in all white, still playing with his toy cars despite his nearing bedtime. His mother, exasperated yet equally fond, begins the dance to try to urge her son to sleep. Despite her best efforts, she is roped into a playful sequence, the paired dancers in sync as the son childishly evades his mother’s pull to his bed, while the mother does not force him to sleep. Instead, she indulges him, their white matching clothes akin to the face of the moon during the slow night. Their dance is a playful push and pull—synchronous and close as with any mother and child. Despite their conflicting interests, they do not stray far from each other.


The tone is offset when they are torn apart. When the child reaches for his mother but meets empty air, and when the mother stretches her arms but embraces empty space, the dancers can only look at each other in disbelief—as if the natural order of things had been so suddenly turned upside down. They do not stop trying, however. They encircle and lunge at each other, their movements slowly becoming desperate. Why can they not hold each other? Their once synchronized dancing becomes disjointed, but no less graceful. No matter how much they try, they cannot hold each other, destined to miss each time. The music turns mournful as suddenly the boy falls, and it is the only time the mother is able to hold him in a long, long time. She cradles him like a child again because she can do nothing else but wish him a peaceful sleep.


“Caturog na Nanonoy” displays a painful dichotomy between life and death, alongside the confusing, grief-driven denial in the in-between, experienced by the mourning parties left behind. Who has the crueler fate: the one whose passing came too early, or the one who never expected it to? Oftentimes, there is no answer, but to sit with the presence of death and wish it kindly, anyway.

Da Coconut Nut

If lullabies often cradle us in softness, “Da Coconut Nut” jolts us awake with laughter. Presented as a lighthearted ode to the coconut and its many uses, the piece sways between humor, family dynamics, and cheeky social commentary.


The stage opens with a woman, offering drinks to the audience before launching into a mock-demonstration of making buko juice, her movements deliberately over-the-top. When she calls her son, what unfolds is not the hushed tenderness of most lullabies, but a rowdy exchange of teasing, discipline, and play. The sudden threat of discipline (“the belt” making its appearance), the boy’s cheeky rebellion, and their back-and-forth antics carried the humor recognizable to anyone who has lived in a Filipino household—messy, loud, imperfect, yet filled with affection.


And yet, the staging did not settle in domestic comedy alone. The boy, after helping his mother, later offered drinks to the people around him, only to take advantage of their collapse and steal their money until they turned on him in retaliation. This sudden twist gave the performance an almost satirical edge, poking fun at greed and mischief, perhaps even hinting at the consequences of exploitation. Laughter filled the air, but it was laughter tinged with recognition, a reminder of how comedy often exaggerates the truths we inaudibly live with.

In the end, “Da Coconut Nut” was less a lullaby for sleeping and more a lullaby for remembering the absurd, the joyful, and the imperfect human exchanges that make life bearable. It celebrates the coconut not just as fruit, but as metaphor for resourcefulness, sustenance, and yes, mischief. Its humor refreshed the audience the way a cold glass of buko juice does on a hot day—inviting us to rest in the relief of laughter.

Iliganon nga Buotan

The ode “Iliganon nga Buotan” or “The Good Iliganon,” a folk song arranged by the founder of the MSU-IIT Octava Choral Society, Francisco A. Englis, promotes the genial nature of Iliganons, alongside the city’s history and cultural richness. From its time as a mere military base to the sprawling land of multicultural people and arts, the continuing development of Iligan is thoroughly celebrated in this song. Dances of different tribes, such as the Meranaw, the Tausug, and the Higaonon, come together in a colorful whirlwind. It is a celebration of the city’s cultural richness and ancient past, embracing its sprawling, diverse roots as the City of Waterfalls.


Here, the metaphor of rivers and bodies of water becomes more than a metaphor—it is a heritage. As interconnected rivers from all over the island reach Iligan’s own geographical waters, the concept of links and bonds becomes a point of pride and joy for the Iliganon. As the song itself posits, the Iliganon are encompassed by diverse communities, united in their shared land. Here, we gain a unique perspective: finding companionship within each other, no matter how different our appearances may be. Here, blood, like our waters, does not matter because of where it comes from, but where it ultimately leads—to each other.


Tungas Kay Ta Sampaw


“Tungas Kay Ta Sampaw” carries the cadence of action. This Manobo Kinamigin piece, meaning “over the hill we go,” is not merely a lullaby for children but a melody that once accompanied the steady climb of bodies up the earth’s slopes. It is a song of work, of persistence, of turning exhaustion into music so that both children and weary workers might endure.


On stage, the performance honors this dual nature, both a cradle song and a work chant. The rhythm of the piece mimics the rise and fall of footsteps trudging up a hill, a reminder of the backbreaking realities of field labor. Yet within this weight, there is lightness. The lullaby’s tune smoothed the edges of hardship, transforming toil into something almost playful, almost tender. In this way, the song whispers that even in labor, love finds its way.


Watching it unfold, one cannot help but imagine generations of mothers, fathers, siblings, and kin humming this very tune while bent under the sun, carrying baskets, tools, or children. The lullaby’s strength is not in promising escape, but in insisting that hardship can be shared, lightened, and softened by song. It lulls not just the child, but the spirit of the worker, granting them the courage to keep climbing.


Projected through choral voices, “Tungas Kay Ta Sampaw” became more than a reenactment of tradition but a call to remember the resilience of those who came before us, their ability to carve music out of burden, to hum beauty into the everyday, to cradle both child and laborer with the same tune. In its rising and falling notes, we hear not just the ascent up a hill, but the ascent of a people who have always known that survival requires both strength and song.

Anak


In this rendition of Freddie Aguilar’s renowned “Anak,” the enduring love a mother carries manifests as joy, grief, and indignation, as she watches her child grow curious, then foolish, and eventually, regretful. At first, the music’s soft harmonies contrast against the struggle of childbirth, as the dancers portray a couple witnessing their daughter’s arrival in the world. The daughter’s steps are not unlike those of a fawn—she trips, stumbles, and falls, yet her parents catch her, drawing her into their arms and carrying her. For most of the daughter’s portrayed childhood, even her feet rarely ever touch the ground. She is continually cradled in her mother’s arms and settled on her father’s shoulders, the two happy to become the pillars of their daughter’s world until she grows brave enough to dance on her own. Eventually, she does learn to do so, yet her parents’ love is still steady. Even when she becomes a teenager, her parents still carry her; the dances never without the opportunity for them to lift their child upwards.


Still, as a child weans off her mother’s essence, so must a child wean from her parents’ continual embrace. The daughter’s steps and dances become more confident, more independent, choosing to break away from her parents’ attempts at embracing her. Unbeknownst to the family, the daughter would eventually experience her last embrace in a long time, as she breaks away and runs to where her parents could not follow. She does not look back. Grief morphs into confusion as the daughter is next seen surrounded by overzealous men who dote and are sweet on her. The girl is captured by their attention, and the visage of her parents seems so far away. Yet, once she is alone with them, the predatory nature of the two accompanying men becomes clear. She is struck, beaten, and then assaulted. The world turns a bloody red in her fear and pain, and she is not let go until their satisfaction is reached. The once graceful girl, deer-like in her steps and dances, can only manage to crawl away alone. Later, her anger and regret could only find one target: herself. Alone, she stows in self-hatred, ripping at her hair and screaming in sorrow. Yet, despite her despair, she is found by her mother—her mother, who had felt the depths of grief and betrayal, runs to her daughter’s prone form without a moment of hesitation. The mother, now surely aged by years without her child, struggles and trembles, but still manages to cradle her daughter, as she once did many, many dances ago. Here, forgiveness was never asked for, but perhaps it was never needed in the first place. For a love as all-encompassing as a mother’s will always be given again and again.

Sa Ugoy ng Duyan


There are songs that don’t merely echo in the ear; they press down on the ribs until the heart remembers what it once tried to forget. “Sa Ugoy ng Duyan” is one of them. On stage, the child begins by playing with an airplane. An image of flight, of distance, of movement away. Flight is the dream of the young: to go farther, to climb higher, to chase the horizon. But in his hands, the airplane is no escape. It circles back, over and over, to the same empty cradle, the same hollow embrace.


The mannequin of a woman appears, rigid and faceless, and yet instantly we know it is mother—or rather, the memory of her. He holds it as if it could soften, as if the wood could breathe, as if the cloth could hum a lullaby. And isn’t that what grief teaches us? To cradle ghosts as though they were still flesh? To whisper to shadows because silence feels unbearable? The rebellion that follows is almost inevitable. How can one love a figure that cannot answer back, that cannot cradle, that cannot sing? Still, he returns, grasping the arm as though one limb could replace the whole. Yearning makes us foolish like that; we cling even to fragments, half-shadows, silhouettes. We learn to live with pieces. Fragments become whole when the heart insists. And the boy insists.


The dance that follows is almost too tender to watch—a pas de deux with absence, a waltz with grief disguised as affection. And then, the laying of the mannequin under the table, followed by his own collapse above it. The gesture is haunting, as if creating a resting place, a fragile boundary between the living and the memory of the gone. When the flower is placed upon the table, it shifts the moment to a soft offering, a surrender. It is mourning, yes, but also acceptance, the child’s way of saying that love remains, even as life insists on moving forward.


And perhaps that is why “Sa Ugoy ng Duyan” pierces so deeply. Because every one of us carries within them a version of this longing—for a mother long gone, for a parent unreachable, for the embrace that time, distance, or death has stolen. Watching the boy grieve is to remember our own vigils, the times we slept beside an empty space, clutching memory as if it could hum us back to sleep. The song whispers to us that childhood is fleeting, but longing is eternal. And in the soft swing of its melody, we realize that we never truly outgrow the cradle; we only learn to miss it more deeply, more desperately, as we age.

Pagbabalik


To return is to walk into a world that has changed without you. The “before” we tend to cherish is long lost, and we are left to scramble for what we know has transformed but are willing to relearn. The song “Pagbabalik,” a Tagalog kundiman whose themes are often both romantic and patriotic, plays with an overlay of Douglas MacArthur’s famous line: “I have returned.”


In the play, a group of Filipinos stands in a city newly freed from Japanese control. They are cautious, unsure of what the new age brings, but begin to find themselves within the rubble, dancing, recovering, and singing in unison. Despite the evident joy in her surroundings, one dancer strays from the choreography. Her expression is searching, yearning—as if still waiting for someone to come back.


A soldier walks onto the stage, still in his military uniform and holding his knapsack. He returns to a world utterly changed, but he walks forward in search of something—someone. Despite his appearance as a war veteran, the world does not pity or slow down for him; the crowd starts a paired dance sequence, and he can only dodge awkwardly. Eventually, he brings out a picture, asking the crowd for someone, yet he gets no solid track. As he stands a length away from the crowd, he makes eye contact with a lone dancer. He surges towards her, but the crowd disperses, making the pair lose each other. Again and again, the pair tries to reach for each other, with the soldier at one point holding a lone flower from a bouquet. Utterly confused by the movements of the mob, both begin to walk backwards in an attempt to spot the other, walking and walking until their backs bump. It is a reunion of joy and relief, the soldier returns home to one who has not forgotten him, and the woman finds the fulfillment of her unchanging devotion.


“Pagbabalik” portrays the bittersweet nature of a homecoming, wherein the world seems unmatched to how you have changed, and the world has changed in ways you have stagnated. Nevertheless, it is worth finding a place within it until you can finally stand to walk alongside the tides of time.

Eä


“Eä” speaks of presence, of the tender fullness found in the ordinary moments of living. Composed by Meshaq Dangel, this contemporary ethno-pop piece borrows its name from Tolkien’s Elvish, meaning simply “to be.” And truly, this performance is about nothing more and nothing less than the quiet miracle of being—to be with, to be held, to be together.


The screen fills with scenes of mothers and children in their most unremarkable, yet most precious encounters: a mother folding packed lunches with care, a child learning, stumbling, and learning again under her guidance, laughter spilling across the room, hands guiding smaller hands, a gaze that affirms, “I see you, I am here.” There are no grand declarations here, no cinematic spectacle to overawe. What we are shown are the moments that so often pass unnoticed, yet form the threads that stitch a life whole.


On stage, performers danced freely, unbound by strict choreography. Their bodies sway and turn as though mirroring the spontaneity of the memories projected above. The freedom of movement mirrored the freedom of being; the very thing the song’s title signifies. It was a reminder that not all acts of love must be translated into sacrifice or suffering. Sometimes, love is simply the privilege of being present, of lingering in the warmth of another’s company. What is remarkable about Eä is its refusal to overcomplicate. While lullabies often carry the ache of distance or the exhaustion of endurance, Eä returns us to the ground, reminding us of what is already within reach. To exist alongside one another. To grow, to guide, to nurture, to share. To be.


The performance leaves no heavy wound but an afterglow—the kind that makes you think of your own mother’s hand brushing the hair from your face, or the laughter you shared with her over something small and forgettable. Eä asks us to stay. To savor what is here now, before it slips into memory. The song fulfills the promise of its name. To be is not just an existence—it is an act of love, a celebration of presence, a commitment to live fully in the fleeting ordinariness of our days. In this sense, Eä is not a lullaby for sleep, but a hymn for living, a reminder that in the unadorned moment of the everyday, we find our most enduring cradle.


Written by Ma. Brejette Jan Cometa and Fatmah Caryl Said
Proofread by Fame Orong and Andrea Ross Sedero
Photos by Charlize Carvajal and Aiyeesha Abah
Photo Edit by Aiyeesha Abah