The four gentlemen from Ateneo de Iloilo

By Noel Galon de Leon

Yesterday, January 27, 2026, I found myself interrupted in the most productive and unexpected way. While seated at my table in the faculty room of UP High School in Iloilo, four young men approached me with a purpose that was both academic and quietly ambitious. They were students from Ateneo de Iloilo, and they had come not merely to comply with a school requirement, but to conduct an interview that asked for thought, reflection, and honesty.

Their visit was part of their project for the subject 21st Century Literature from the Regions and the World, under the guidance of their literature teacher, Sir John Anthony Estolloso. On most days, I have learned to protect my time fiercely. Writing demands solitude, and lately I have preferred silence over conversation. Yet something in their seriousness, in the way they introduced themselves, convinced me that this encounter mattered.

I agreed to the interview not out of obligation, but out of recognition. Projects like these are not distractions from literary work; they are extensions of it. Literature does not survive by books alone. It survives through dialogue, through curiosity passed from one generation to another, through students who dare to ask writers what it means to write from where one stands.

One of the first things I noticed about these students from Ateneo de Iloilo was their ease with English. They spoke confidently, fluently, almost instinctively. It is a trait that immediately distinguishes them. In UP Visayas, we are trained to be more consciously aware of language politics, especially the importance of using Filipino within and beyond the classroom.

This contrast was not a flaw, nor was it a competition. It was simply an observation. Language reflects training, institutions, and histories. What mattered more to me was not the language they used, but the intelligence with which they used it, and the respect they showed toward literature written in other tongues.

The four students were Aris Kenshin Jagna-an, Josh Benjamin Lapitan, Jacob Michael Gregory Nolasco, and Cris Brandon Kwe. Names worth remembering, not because they interviewed me, but because they reminded me that curiosity is still alive among students, even in an age dominated by algorithms and distraction.

What truly impressed me was the quality of their questions. They did not ask the predictable or superficial. They were not content with knowing what I write or how long I have been writing. They wanted to understand the creative process as a lived experience, shaped by place, language, and personal history.

More importantly, they asked about the role of literature in my life, not only as a profession, but as a personal and ethical commitment. They were interested in what it means to be a writer from Western Visayas, writing from the margins of national attention, and often from the margins of the dominant language.

Faced with such questions, I felt a responsibility to respond with depth. It would have been embarrassing, even dishonest, to offer them recycled answers. An interview like this deserves something new, something earned. So I answered carefully, aware that my words might shape how they see literature beyond textbooks.

This was not the first time I had been interviewed by students from Ateneo de Iloilo. If memory serves me right, this was already the third year that their projects had brought them to me. On one occasion in the past, I even invited them to sit in my Creative Writing class before the interview began.

That moment allowed them to meet my students from UP Visayas, creating an informal but meaningful exchange between two academic cultures. These encounters have always mattered to me. Speaking with students who are genuinely interested in creative writing is not exhausting; it is renewing.

After the interview, I caught myself thinking that more teachers should do what Sir John Anthony does. He does not limit literature to authors found in anthologies published in Manila or abroad. He introduces his students to living, local writers, people who are still struggling, questioning, and producing work within the region.

In doing so, he gives students a chance to see literature as something alive and nearby, not distant and untouchable. At the same time, he gives writers like me the rare opportunity to feel the pulse of the present. We get to hear what young readers want, what they value, and how they imagine the future of literature.

For a writer from the region who writes in his own language, literature is not merely self expression. It is an act of cultural preservation and resistance. Writing in one’s mother tongue affirms that local experiences are worthy of art, analysis, and memory.

Literature becomes a space where the region speaks back to the center. It challenges the idea that intelligence, beauty, and relevance only exist in dominant languages. For writers like me, language is not just a medium. It is a responsibility to the community that shaped us.

At the same time, literature educates the writer as much as it educates the reader. Writing forces us to examine our own assumptions, our privileges, and our silences. It teaches humility by reminding us that every story is partial, and every voice exists among many others.

Interviewing regional writers is crucial precisely because it humanizes literature. Students see that writers are not abstract names in footnotes, but people embedded in real social conditions. This interaction breaks the illusion that literary excellence is imported.

More than recognition, these interviews help build a living reading community. A community where writers, readers, and students talk to each other, argue with each other, and learn from each other. Literature thrives when it is discussed, questioned, and even challenged.

When students engage with regional writers, they also learn to value diversity within the nation. They begin to see that Philippine literature is not singular, but plural, composed of many languages, rhythms, and worldviews.

However, regional writers today face serious challenges, especially those who choose to write in their own language. There is limited publishing support, minimal distribution, and often a lack of institutional recognition.

Writing in a local language can feel like shouting into a void, especially when national and global markets prioritize English. Yet abandoning one’s language comes at a cost that is cultural, emotional, and historical.

Another challenge lies in readership. Many young readers are trained to admire foreign texts while remaining unfamiliar with stories written in their own communities. This is not their fault; it is the result of an education system that often overlooks the regions.

There is also the constant pressure to translate oneself, to justify why writing in a regional language still matters. This pressure can be exhausting, but it also sharpens the writer’s political and artistic clarity.

Despite these challenges, encounters like the one I had yesterday offer hope. They suggest that students are ready to listen, to question, and to rethink what literature is and where it comes from.

I left the interview genuinely happy, not because I was the subject of attention, but because I witnessed critical thinking in action. The questions these students asked were proof that literature still has a future in Iloilo City.

Their curiosity suggested that the next generation may not be satisfied with surface level narratives. They want depth, context, and meaning. They want literature that speaks to their realities.

If this is the kind of engagement that literature inspires among students today, then perhaps our fears about its decline are premature. Perhaps literature is not dying, but quietly transforming.

Teachers like Sir John Anthony play a crucial role in this transformation. By bridging classrooms and communities, they ensure that literature remains relevant and grounded.

Writers, on the other hand, must remain open to these conversations. Isolation may protect our time, but dialogue renews our purpose. Literature is, after all, a shared endeavor.

As I reflected on that afternoon, I felt reassured. With students like these four gentlemen from Ateneo de Iloilo, the future of literature in our region does not look bleak. It looks thoughtful, critical, and alive.