A beautiful public market, still ours?

By Herman M. Lagon

There is a certain hour in Iloilo Central Market when everything feels most real. Not during the speeches, not during the tours, but early—when the fish are still wet from travel and the vendors are just settling into their spaces. You hear it before you fully see it: the clatter of trays, the quick laughter, the soft “tagpila ni?” that begins a day’s worth of small negotiations. Nothing feels staged. Everything feels earned. This is not just where people buy. This is where people try to get by.

I grew up walking those narrow paths. Central Market was never something we visited formally—it was part of life. My UI classmates and I would pool coins for batchoy that somehow tasted better when you were slightly short of money. There was always someone who would grill the fish you bought from them, if you asked nicely. Prices were low, but more than that, people were kind in ways that did not need explaining. You learned early that a market is not just about goods. It is about relationships—who remembers you, who gives you a little extra, who trusts you to pay next time.

So when the redevelopment came, I did not know exactly how to feel. You could not deny the improvements. The place is cleaner now. Brighter. You do not have to step over puddles when it rains. The smell, while still familiar, no longer overwhelms. You can walk without squeezing past too many people. There is comfort in that. There is dignity in that. And it matters.

The P3-billion partnership with SM Prime changed more than the look of the place—it changed how the market works day to day. And it is not just Central Market. The same kind of redevelopment is reshaping Terminal Market, La Paz Market, and Jaro Market—quietly redefining how public markets across Iloilo are built, used, and experienced. Former Senator Frank Drilon even said that what Iloilo now has can stand beside markets in Europe. That is a big claim, but when you walk through the new spaces, you begin to understand what he meant. It feels organized. It feels thought out. It feels like someone finally took the everyday seriously.

But the story does not end there. It never does.

Outside the polished floors are people still trying to find where they fit. The issue of bolanteros is not just noise—it is real, and it is felt. Some lost their spots. Some were told to move, adjust, comply. And while order is important, so is livelihood. You begin to see that improvement, no matter how well-intended, always has a cost. The question is not whether change is good. The question is who carries its weight.

That tension has not gone unnoticed. Even groups like Bayan Muna Panay have raised concerns—not to reject development outright, but to question who it is really working for. They point out that beyond displacement, there is a deeper imbalance quietly taking shape—particularly in how revenues and benefits are shared in this kind of public-private partnership. When a public space begins to generate value that seems to lean more toward private gain, it naturally raises a harder question: is the market still truly ours, or just something we are allowed to move through?

At the ground level, this is not abstract. It is felt. The small vendors, the bolanteros—those who have long depended on these spaces—are the ones adjusting, absorbing, recalibrating. Cleaner aisles and organized stalls matter, yes. But so do secure space, fair access, and the simple dignity of being able to earn without being pushed aside. Development may improve the structure, but if it thins out the people who gave it life, something essential is lost—quietly, but unmistakably.

Even the Central Market itself carries that tension. It has been here since 1912. Long before most of us were born, it was already feeding families, shaping routines, holding stories. When parts of it were torn down and rebuilt, people did not just see construction. They saw memory being handled—carefully, yes, but still changed. You cannot rebuild history the same way you rebuild walls.

And yet, when you walk inside now, you realize something important has stayed. The dried fish still hangs the same way. The bugas, mais, baboy, and utan are still there, quietly waiting for buyers. Someone is still calling you “sir” or “ma’am” even if you are clearly not. You still hear the small jokes, the quick exchanges, the familiar rhythm of people who have done this for years. The structure changed. The spirit did not.

There is something quietly hopeful in that. Studies often show that markets thrive when they balance function and social life (Project for Public Spaces, 2003). Iloilo seems to be trying. It is not perfect, but you can see the effort. The rent has not pushed too many away. The space feels safer. Things make more sense. And still, the manner and culture—the human habits—are alive.

Look closely, and the market teaches. Math in every presyo. Ethics in every tawad. Resilience in people who return each day, no matter what. No lecture needed. It reminds you that learning is not always inside four walls.

So maybe the better way to look at all this is not to ask if the markets are better or worse. That feels too simple. What we are seeing is something in between—a place trying to move forward without losing itself. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it struggles. But it keeps going.

And perhaps that is what makes Iloilo’s markets worth affirming—not because they are perfect, but because they remain deeply, stubbornly human.

Because in the end, no matter how clean the tiles are or how wide the aisles become, a market is never just about design.

It is about people.

And as long as people continue to fill those spaces—with stories, with effort, with quiet hope—then the market, in all its noise and nuance, will always find its way back to life.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.