Sugidanon epics and the global stage

By Noel Galon de Leon

I’m boycotting the Frankfurt Book Fair for personal reasons, but that isn’t my focus here. What matters more is the presence of the Sugidanon epics at this global event and whether their display truly deepens our understanding and appreciation of narratives rooted in our own traditions, especially those from Western Visayas. The Sugidanon epics of the Panay Bukidnon people embody the richness of Philippine cultural heritage. Yet whenever they appear on international stages like Frankfurt, an uneasy question arises: who are these stories really for?

The fair may project an image of cultural pride and recognition, but beneath the polished exhibitions and applause lies a more complex struggle between preserving cultural identity and navigating the global literary market. The Sugidanon was not born under spotlights or in glass cases; it was born in the mountains, carried by the voices of the Panay Bukidnon people, alive in their chants and collective memory. When these oral traditions are translated, printed, and circulated through international publishing networks, something profound and unsettling occurs—a subtle act of cultural possession that reshapes how we experience and claim our own stories.

Foreign audiences may indeed find the Sugidanon Epics fascinating because of their distinctive portrayal of indigenous life and myth. These are not merely stories of heroism; they are worlds of moral imagination, spirituality, and collective memory. In an age where decolonizing literature and uplifting indigenous voices have become global academic priorities, the Sugidanon fits the mold of what scholars and publishers now call “authentic non-Western narratives.” For anthropologists and literary scholars, the epics represent valuable material for understanding oral traditions and precolonial cosmologies. To them, translating and publishing these works might appear as an act of preservation and inclusion within the world’s literary canon.

However, this kind of attention deserves to be questioned. Is it genuine cultural respect, or merely another form of modern cultural appropriation disguised as appreciation? The truth is that many international publishers operate within an economic framework. They see the Sugidanon not as a living tradition but as an exotic product with limited commercial potential. The original language, Kinaray-a, is largely inaccessible to most readers, and even the English or Filipino translations often sound academic, technical, and emotionally detached from the oral power of the chants. As a result, the Sugidanon often ends up shelved in university libraries—referenced by scholars, yes, but unknown to the young Filipinos who should be its rightful inheritors.

The real problem, therefore, may not be the lack of foreign interest but the lack of local engagement. Many Filipinos have never heard of the Sugidanon Epics, and those who wish to read them often cannot afford to do so because of the high cost and limited distribution of published versions. While we proudly display these works at international book fairs, we fail to make them available to the very communities that birthed them. If students in Panay Bukidnon have not read these stories, why are we so eager to sell them in Frankfurt? This contradiction reveals a troubling truth: we sometimes crave foreign validation more than we pursue cultural understanding at home.

After events like the Frankfurt Book Fair, we must reassess our priorities. It is not enough to show the world that the Philippines possesses this kind of literature. We must ensure that it becomes a living part of our national consciousness. The books must be made more affordable so that young readers can access them. Schools should include the Sugidanon in their literature, history, and cultural studies curricula—not merely as texts to be analyzed, but as traditions to be performed, experienced, and passed on. The epic chanters who have preserved these stories for generations never intended to achieve international fame. Their purpose was to keep the wisdom and spirit of their people alive. We must respect that intention instead of repackaging their voices to fit the demands of a global literary market.

The Sugidanon should not be treated as a museum artifact displayed for admiration abroad. It is a living narrative of Filipino identity that must continue to be sung, not just read. If we allow foreign fascination to outweigh local understanding, we risk losing the very soul of our heritage. The greatest tragedy would be for the Sugidanon to be known by Western academics while remaining unknown to Filipino children.

In the end, the true success of the Sugidanon does not depend on the number of copies sold in Frankfurt but on the number of young Filipinos who read, understand, and feel its spirit. Indigenous literature should not be a commodity to be traded but a legacy to be shared. Before we offer it to the world, we must first root it deeply in our own soil, teach it in our classrooms, and pass it down within our families. If we cannot nurture our own epic within our own nation, then the world’s recognition means little. The real essence of the Sugidanon is not measured by applause from abroad but by the heartbeat of the people from whom it was born.