Why the city must take the book seriously

By Noel Galon de Leon

Every November, the country observes the Philippine Book Development Month. It sounds noble enough, but in practice, it often slips by unnoticed, like a footnote in the cultural calendar. Book fairs happen in Manila, a few universities hold talks, and then everything fades back to the usual noise. Yet if there is any city that should pay attention to this celebration and make something truly meaningful out of it, it is Iloilo City. Iloilo is not just a city of heritage facades and culinary pride. It is a city full of stories, with old libraries, teachers who still correct essays by hand, poets who write late into the night, and young artists who dream of being heard beyond their communities. It is also a city whose government has begun to publish books about its culture and history. That alone is something worth applauding, but also worth questioning. What does it mean for a local government to publish books? What responsibility comes with it? And why, if we already have the means to print and distribute, does it still feel like reading and writing are treated as hobbies instead of civic duties?

Iloilo City loves to call itself the heart of the Philippines, and maybe it is. But a heart, to stay alive, must keep pumping ideas, not just slogans and events. The city can host grand festivals that attract tourists by the thousands. It can decorate streets with lights and heritage logos. But when it comes to literature, it often grows timid, as if writing and reading were activities too quiet to deserve investment. This attitude must change. Publishing a book should not be treated as a vanity project or as another cultural souvenir. It is an act of documentation, of self-definition, of asserting who we are and how we think.

There are many Ilonggo writers who write tirelessly with little to no support. Most of them publish their own books or depend on small independent presses that barely break even. Many have stories that reveal how this city breathes, sweats, and loves, but these stories hardly reach the public. The city government has the power to change that. If it can fund massive festivals and public artworks, it can surely support the creative ecosystem that gives the city its soul. It can organize city-wide reading programs, create a local publishing grant for Ilonggo writers, or even establish a literary center that nurtures new voices in both Hiligaynon and English. It can help schools and barangay libraries stock local books, not just the usual textbooks.

The idea of celebrating the book should not stop at the ceremonial level. A true celebration requires engagement, conversation, and a bit of discomfort. It means asking who gets published and who remains unheard. It means checking if the books released by the city are inclusive, well-edited, and intellectually honest, or if they exist only to praise the administration. The book is not a trophy. It is a living record that demands accountability. When a government publishes, it participates in shaping public memory. That is a serious responsibility, not a public relations opportunity.

Books are also dangerous in the best possible way. They challenge us to think harder, to disagree, to imagine beyond what is convenient. That is precisely why the local government should encourage them. A city that reads is a city that argues, reflects, and refines itself. It becomes harder to manipulate, easier to inspire. Every time we encourage people to read and write, we strengthen democracy itself.

If Iloilo truly believes it is a cultural city, then it must start treating literature as part of its urban identity, not as a decorative afterthought. It must give space to its poets, novelists, historians, and essayists who have been doing cultural work long before hashtags made it fashionable. The government must stop being shy about investing in intellect. The next time November comes, instead of posting a polite “Happy Book Month” greeting, the city could organize readings in public plazas, invite schoolchildren to meet authors, host translation workshops, and bring books into communities where reading has become a luxury.

Iloilo is already a story. But a story only lives when it is told, retold, and read. A city that writes about itself is a city that believes in its own future. It remembers not only its old churches and ancestral houses but also the thoughts, questions, and emotions of its people. A book, in the hands of a child in Jaro or a vendor in Mandurriao, is a declaration that knowledge belongs to everyone.

The challenge for the local government is not to produce more books for display but to cultivate a genuine reading public. It is not to build monuments, but to build minds. It is not to repeat the same historical narratives, but to invite new interpretations. If Iloilo can do that, if it can take the Philippine Book Development Month as a call to action rather than a token celebration, then it will not just be a city of beautiful architecture and polite smiles. It will be a city of thinkers, of readers, of people who know that progress begins in the imagination.

The book, after all, is not just paper and ink. It is the city itself—its memory, its ambition, its voice. And maybe what Iloilo needs most right now is not another slogan, but a mirror made of words.