Diwata and the Gaps in Our Stories

By Noel Galon de Leon

This may be labeled as a book review, but I prefer for my readers to see it as something more, a guide for crafting children’s stories that are both timely and culturally significant, narratives that do not merely entertain but actively contribute to the evolving literary scene of Iloilo. At its core, Diwata and the Dinagyang Festival (2024) is neither a deep exploration of the Dinagyang Festival nor an in-depth portrayal of the Ati people. Instead, it offers a broader lesson on kindness and the ways in which children learn to dream through the people they encounter. But a critical question lingers, did Diwata, the young protagonist, truly achieve her dream?

Written by Jenny Albinio, illustrated by George G. Rosales, and translated into Hiligaynon by Michael Caesar Tubal, this book stands as one of the newest additions to Western Visayan children’s literature. I managed to purchase the last available copy at Fully Booked in Iloilo, an unexpected find on an afternoon when I waited for the rain to subside before heading home. This serendipitous encounter, however, emphasizes a pressing reality, there remains a scarcity of Ilonggo writers dedicated to crafting literature for young Ilonggo readers.

That is precisely why I did not hesitate to pick up Albinio and Rosales’ work when I spotted it on the bookstore shelf. Albinio’s books are not easy to find, not only because they are produced in limited runs, but also because her publisher operates outside Iloilo, and she does not actively participate in the city’s book fairs. This absence from the local literary scene is worth noting, as it highlights the importance of community engagement. Writers do not create in isolation; they thrive through meaningful connections with fellow writers, readers, and cultural advocates. Being part of a literary community is more than just a networking opportunity, it is a way to remain attuned to the needs of our readers, to stay informed about the shifting currents of contemporary storytelling, and most importantly, to continuously learn from each other’s journeys. After all, the circle of writers here in Iloilo remains relatively small, and every effort to enrich it strengthens not just individual voices but the collective literary identity of the region.

Jenny Albinio’s Diwata and the Dinagyang Festival attempts to narrate the life of a young Ati child and establish a connection to the renowned Dinagyang Festival. However, this connection remains superficial, never fully integrated into the narrative’s flow. This is precisely why, from the outset, I asserted that the book is not truly about the Ati community or the Dinagyang Festival. Rather, it uses these cultural elements as a backdrop rather than as central forces shaping the protagonist’s journey.

The most glaring shortcoming of the book is its lack of in-depth research. There are no substantial references to the Ati people’s traditions or their historical ties to Dinagyang, elements that should have been integral in fostering respect and understanding among young readers. Over the years, Dinagyang has strayed from its original essence, a religious celebration honoring the Santo Niño and recognizing the cultural presence of our Ati brothers and sisters. The book does little to reclaim this history or offer a more nuanced perspective on how the festival, and by extension the Ati community, has evolved within contemporary society.

Instead, the story shifts its focus toward the kindness of strangers, unexpected individuals who extend help along one’s journey. While the narrative at first glance offers hope, particularly for young Indigenous children, it does so by positioning external benefactors as the primary source of salvation. In this case, a “balikbayan” emerges as the figure of hope, promising to assist the young protagonist. However, this portrayal is deeply problematic. It suggests that children like Diwata, and by extension their families, can only overcome hardship through the benevolence of outside forces rather than through their own capabilities.

This is a critical misstep in children’s literature. A well-crafted children’s story should empower its young readers, reinforcing the idea that they are not merely passive recipients of kindness but individuals with the agency to shape their own destinies. It is imperative to write with a child-centered sensibility, one that reflects how children think, feel, and navigate their world. In today’s reality, where young minds are constantly bombarded with challenges, both personal and societal, it is the role of literature to restore their confidence in themselves. Instead of reinforcing a savior narrative, children’s books should cultivate self-determination, resilience, and the belief that their talents and dreams are valid and achievable on their own terms.

One of the undeniable strengths of Diwata and the Dinagyang Festival lies in its illustrations. Beyond their vibrant colors, George G. Rosales’ illustrations follow a logical and engaging sequence, reinforcing the reader’s understanding of the narrative. In children’s literature, especially those that explore cultural themes, illustrations are not merely decorative elements; they serve as an essential narrative device. Rosales not only showcases his technical skill as an illustrator but also reveals a keen sense of visual storytelling, allowing young readers to grasp the emotional and cultural nuances of the story. His work elevates the book’s overall appeal, and I look forward to seeing more of his contributions to children’s literature in the future.

While the illustrations themselves are well-executed, the book’s layout presents certain challenges, particularly in the placement of text. Overlaying text directly onto illustrations, a design choice that was once common has largely fallen out of favor in contemporary children’s publishing. This approach often compromises readability, especially for young readers who are still developing their literacy skills. If the text cannot be seamlessly incorporated into the artwork itself, it should be allocated a dedicated space to ensure clarity without diminishing the visual impact of the illustrations.

In publishing children’s books, careful attention to layout is crucial to creating a cohesive reading experience. A well-designed book ensures that illustrations and text work in harmony, guiding the reader through the story with ease. In recent years, local presses have produced numerous well-crafted children’s books that serve as excellent models of effective design. Rosales, along with book designer Cindy Wong, would benefit from studying these examples to refine their approach in future projects. Strong storytelling in children’s literature is not just about the words or the pictures in isolation, it is about how both elements interact to create a fully immersive experience for the reader.

Tubal’s translation is a clear demonstration of the richness and adaptability of Hiligaynon as a language for children’s literature. His careful rendering of the text does more than merely convert words from one language to another; it breathes new life into the narrative, offering a reading experience that feels both familiar and refreshing. What makes his work particularly effective is his keen awareness of his audience, young readers encountering the story in their native tongue. The translation flows naturally, free from the rigidity that often plagues literal interpretations, making it an inviting and immersive read. More importantly, Tubal remains faithful to the essence of literary translation, ensuring that the text does not merely inform but leaves a lasting impact. In doing so, he does not simply translate a story, he recreates it, allowing young readers to experience it as though it were written in Hiligaynon from the very beginning.

There persists a misguided notion that writing for children is a simpler endeavor, as if young readers require less effort or intellectual rigor. On the contrary, children’s literature is one of the most demanding literary forms, requiring not only clarity and engagement but also a profound sense of responsibility. Even I, despite years of experience in writing and literary criticism, find crafting poetry and children’s stories particularly challenging. My first published book in 2015 is a proof to this difficulty, an early attempt that, in hindsight, had much room for refinement.

Research is not an optional component of storytelling; it is a fundamental necessity, especially when narratives engage with marginalized communities such as Indigenous Peoples (IPs). Writers like Albinio and even illustrators like Rosales must recognize that their work does not exist in a vacuum. Every artistic choice, from narrative framing to visual representation, carries weight. Superficial engagement with cultural themes is not only a disservice to literature but also a failure of ethical storytelling. It is not enough for IP communities to merely “see” themselves in stories; they deserve to be portrayed with accuracy, dignity, and depth. Anything less risks reinforcing misconceptions and diluting the richness of their lived experiences.

Thus, I pose this challenge, instead of merely appropriating IP narratives, why not take a more meaningful and transformative approach? If we truly care about representation, let us go beyond secondhand storytelling and empower IP communities to tell their own stories. Writers and illustrators with the means and platform should facilitate workshops, visit communities, and equip young IPs with the skills to write their own narratives and illustrate their own histories. That is where real literary justice begins, not in the act of speaking for them, but in ensuring they have the space and agency to speak for themselves.

Returning to the question I posed earlier, did Diwata truly achieve her dream? My answer is no. And that, perhaps, is the most poignant aspect of this story. The ending lingers in uncertainty, leaving readers with the unsettling realization that, for many Ati children, and for children in general, their dreams remain suspended in an ambiguous future, where hope is not always met with certainty.

This ambiguity is not necessarily a flaw in storytelling. In fact, it underscores a harsh reality, the future of marginalized communities, particularly the Ati, is often left hanging in a space of unresolved longing. Albinio’s decision to leave Diwata’s fate open-ended is a reflection of a larger social truth, one that does not provide easy resolutions or fairy-tale endings. While some may argue that children’s literature should offer a sense of closure and optimism, it is also the role of literature to provoke thought, to challenge, and to reflect the complexities of the world children must navigate.

The question then arises, if the author intended to highlight this uncertainty, was it done in a way that empowers young readers or simply leaves them with a quiet resignation? In writing stories for children, we must strike a delicate balance, acknowledging the difficulties they face while also reinforcing their agency, their capacity to dream, and their ability to shape their own futures. If a story closes with uncertainty, it must still leave behind a sense of possibility rather than mere helplessness. Diwata and the Dinagyang Festival raises important discussions on the narratives we tell our children and the futures we allow them to imagine.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.