The secret life of Iloilo’s waters

By Noel Galon de Leon

When people talk about Iloilo City, the first things that usually come to mind are batchoy, old mansions, Dinagyang, coffee shops, and of course the endlessly photographed Iloilo River as if it were the only body of water in the city. Let us admit it, the Iloilo River has become a celebrity. It has the esplanade, the jogging crowd that looks like they inherited generational wealth, the prenup shoots, the aesthetic sunset photos with captions about “healing.” But while everyone is staring at the Iloilo River, there are many other waterways in the city that feel like supporting characters with no exposure even though they also shape the soul of Iloilo.

As I grow older, I realize that the Ilonggo relationship with water is strange and intimate. We are not simply “coastal people.” The entire history of Iloilo has literally been carried by rivers, creeks, gulfs, and straits. The city itself feels like one giant organism made of water. Sometimes I think the water is the true owner of the city and we are merely tenants living on borrowed land.

There is Iloilo Strait, which has long served as a silent witness to the history of Panay and Guimaras. Long before Instagram reels and drone shots existed, ships, products, traders, and regional gossip already passed through these waters. If the Iloilo Strait could speak, half of the prominent families in Western Visayas would probably be cancelled because it surely knows every secret about trade, politics, and inherited wealth. Whenever I stand by the shore and look at the strait, I wonder how many people crossed it to search for work, recover from heartbreak, or pretend they were “finding themselves” when they really just wanted a vacation in Guimaras.

Then there is Batiano River. It is not famous. It has no fanbase. No aesthetic branding. Yet the Batiano River feels like the quiet uncle in the family who rarely speaks but knows everything. In the past, it was important to fishing communities and to the old life of Molo and Villa. Today it often feels forgotten in public conversations. That is how urban development works in the Philippines. If something is not Instagrammable, it immediately becomes invisible.

The Jaro River is tied to Jaro, the district that still carries the aura of old elitism. Honestly, sometimes it feels like even the air in Jaro has old money energy. The Jaro River seems like a quiet extension of the district’s history. It witnessed the era of sugar wealth, churches, haciendero culture, and social climbing that still survives today in family reunions that resemble miniature political summits.

We should also not underestimate Aganan River and Tigum River because they remind us that water is not merely scenery. Water is survival. Water is politics. Water is infrastructure. People only remember the importance of rivers when floods arrive. Suddenly everyone becomes an environmentalist once slippers begin floating through the streets. The Tigum and Aganan river systems help provide water supply and flood control in Iloilo. But of course, in classic Filipino behavior, people are often more interested in ribbon cuttings than long term river rehabilitation.

There are also creeks such as Dungon Creek, Calajunan Creek, and Mambog Creek that are usually seen only as drainage canals or dirty esteros. But think about it. These creeks are silent evidence of uncontrolled urbanization. They are like the city’s diary. Every act of neglect, every piece of garbage thrown away carelessly, every example of poor planning eventually ends up there. If the Iloilo River is the beauty queen, these creeks are the exhausted production staff working without sleep.

Sometimes it is funny because cities in the Philippines love using the phrase “world class” while many esteros smell like an existential crisis. We want modern skylines yet we treat waterways as if they are invisible. The irony is that almost every great civilization in history began beside water. In Iloilo, creeks are often viewed merely as inconveniences until subdivisions begin flooding.

And of course there is Panay Gulf. Vast, quiet, and carrying an almost permanent existential mood. Whenever I look at the Panay Gulf, I am reminded of how small human beings really are compared to the sea. Fishing, trade, transportation, and the region’s livelihood have revolved around these waters for centuries. Yet it also reminds us that climate change is no longer a future problem. It is already here. While people remain busy taking aesthetic sunset photos, the water itself is slowly rising.

Sometimes I think the true autobiography of Iloilo is not written in books but in its rivers, creeks, and seas. Water holds the longest memory. It is older than politicians, malls, and trendy cafés. These waters simply continue flowing while the city changes around them. And perhaps one day, if we continue neglecting them, the water itself will become the final reminder of how arrogant human beings can be.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and professor at the University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at UP High School in Iloilo. He is also the Secretary of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.