<![CDATA[HaluHalo Journal - Blog]]>Tue, 13 Jan 2026 01:42:35 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Meet the Filipino teens working to make quality education accessible | Interview by Bella Majam, Prose Editor]]>Sat, 10 Aug 2024 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/meet-the-filipino-teens-working-to-make-quality-education-accessibleAral Kabataan aims to help public elementary school students to get into a top high school of their choice.

​“Thank you so much mga ate at kuya ng Aral Kabataan! Marami naman natutunan ang aming mga anak at nag enjoy sila.” (“Thank you so much, kids of Aral Kabataan! Our children learned and enjoyed so much.”)

The caption appears on a Facebook post for the group’s awarding ceremony. There are no graduation caps or plastic trophies. Instead, teenagers in plain white shirts line in front of a black board, standing side-by-side with an elementary-aged student.
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Aral Kabataan volunteers during the ‘awarding’ (taken from Aral Kabataan’s Facebook page)
Established in July 2024, Aral Kabataan is a youth organization which aims to help public elementary school students get into a top high school of their choice. Though Aral Kabataan’s teachers are students themselves—all 11 volunteers are incoming tenth graders—the organization boasts an impressive volunteer roster. AK members are composed of students from competitive high schools like Philippine Science High School, University of the Philippines’ Rural High School, and Pedro Guevara Memorial National High School.

HaluHalo Journal spoke through email to AK founder Hana Arevalo to learn more about the group’s formation, values, and insight for aspiring student-leaders. Follow Aral Kabataan at this link. 
1. Can you tell us a bit about how Aral Kabataan came to be?

Alright, this is a funny story, actually. The idea behind Aral Kabataan came about in my head when my friends and I were chatting with one another on Discord. It was a "spur of the moment" kind of thing, you know? Like any other student with her friends, I messaged them about the things in my head, and at some point- it all heated up. As if a bunch of microscopic particles were colliding inside my brain, a path towards Aral Kabataan gradually formed. At first, it really was just a random idea; something to fill up the space. However, now that I think about it, I no longer think of it as completely "random."

You see, at least here in UP Rural, our teacher has us watch these documentaries about daily Filipino struggles. Some of these videos would be about children, which really made me realize how little I know of the world and how privileged I was to even be studying in an amazing science high school. Perhaps the ideas behind Aral Kabataan began in a subconscious manner — a whisper, if I may, for me to give back some of my luck to those who may not have the same.

And so, behind the biggest forefront of a random Discord chat, perhaps the origin of Aral Kabataan began with my teacher and the amazing, hard-working people of our country who I've watched through a TV screen.

2. How were plans for Aral Kabataan set into motion? Did you face any challenges in recruiting students or reaching out to venue organizers?

The plans for Aral Kabataan took us 6 months, at least. I won't forget the challenges we've faced, especially since at some point I've wanted to give up on making Aral Kabataan true. Perhaps if you've read my personal statement on FB, you'd know that some of our struggles included the fact we were losing members. If I recall correctly, we were supposed to be 15. However, at some point people left, and we were left with 11. In addition to this, module deadlines and proposal approvals were often finished late, which forced me to readjust our schedules more and cut down on requirements. And of course, alongside Aral Kabataan's ongoing struggles, all of my members and I had our own personal struggles, including mental health and academic burdens. We each also had outside extracurriculars, which made it harder to keep up with Aral Kabataan. Overall, however, I'm just really glad that we were able to go past our limits to make AK true. It still surprises me how AK survived this long, and I attribute most of these successes to my friends/volunteers who helped me and one another to get through this.

3. Describe a typical Aral Kabataan workshop. What subjects do the students learn? How are volunteers divided for classroom tasks?

​A typical AK workshop looks like this: envision yourself inside the usual, public elementary school. Here, you will meet wonderful and curious Grade-5 children who all have funny and amazing stories to tell when you walk by the door. Most of the time, there will be 4 teachers and 2-3 on-site volunteers to help manage the children and make sure the class goes by smoothly. For each day, the children learn Science, Math, and English (Abstract lectures are only on Tuesdays and Thursdays).
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Founder Hana Arevalo teaches a Science workshop (taken from Aral Kabataan’s Facebook page)
4. You are a scholar at the University of the Philippines Rural High School (UPRHS). How do you think starting Aral Kabataan has affected you as a learner? What do you think the students have been able to teach the volunteers?

Personally, as a student of UPRHS, I think AK was my eye-opener to see what "service towards my community" looks like. While of course in school I have my own "quasi-community" responsibilities, AK was very different and a lot more enlightening in terms of experience. As a UP learner who must uphold both codes of "Honor and Excellence" and "Service," AK has changed me a lot and has helped me understand the true meaning behind UP's second code. Beyond just saying you understand something, I think it's very important that a student actually "practices" what they know. Therefore, with the existence of AK, I believe I've learned a good lot as both an individual and scholar of UP Rural.

As for what we've learned from our g5 students, I think a lot of these are related to perspectives. As a volunteer/tutor, being with children made me and my fellow volunteers see once more how they view the world, you know? It's quite nostalgic, yet still seemingly new to see how these children viewed our world. We were met with a wave of empathy, love, patience, and even childishness when spending time with them. But overall, I think the greatest thing we learned from them was how to appreciate the present time and how age is not a barrier to making great memories and connections. The children made us see how far we were into the growing process and why it's important to talk to different kinds of people despite their background and age.
“Being with children made me and my fellow volunteers see once more how they view the world, you know?
A student draws one of the Aral Kabataan volunteers (taken from Aral Kabataan’s Facebook page)
5. What’s your advice for Filipino teens who’d like to start a student-led initiative of their own?

My advice: Don't give up. As cliche it really is, by the end of the day — we really cannot give up. Making change will always be a struggle, and it will never be easier. However, here's the thing: that's the truth. In a world where everything can go badly, we cannot give up. We mustn't. And so, to all Filipino teens who wish to start student-led initiatives, start now and don't give up. If you feel like the burden is too heavy, find others who share the same vision as you. Can't find anyone? Convince them. Be your own change. You must embody change in order to start great things. Even if it's hard, even if it seems easier to let it all go — remember the reason why you want to make an impact and use that as your rock to shoulder the responsibility. But of course, make sure you never forget that student-led initiatives aren't an individual endeavor. It takes more than one person to make the dream work, so always learn to communicate and ask for help when needed. By the end of it all, always just smile. Student-led initiatives aren't supposed to make anyone sad, right? So enjoy the process as well! You can do it, and don't let your age or background determine whether or not you can't.
]]><![CDATA[The Phoenix's Rocks | By Syahna Maryam, 19]]>Thu, 29 Feb 2024 03:07:18 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/the-phoenixs-rocks-by-syahna-maryam-19Grief is powerful beyond belief. I have spent sixteen years thinking of my mother as a ghostless figure, nostalgic for a memory I can’t remember. She passed away when I was 3. She had me and what she was shaking hands with: cervical cancer. Levitating through the darkest of times, I figured that I have never really thought about her, or sitting in front of our display of her photos and take a moment of remembering. I think everything about her is the question of the ages.

You are not an Indonesian descendant if you haven’t heard of Malin Kundang. Malin is a young man raised by his single mother. He grows up being a successful skipper of a nobility class. However, he forget about where he comes from, and inevitably his mother. She thunderously curses him into a rock; a road-block to the boats working under his supervision, delivering golds. It is like a Phoenix’s death as it burns to ashes, and only a mother’s tear can tender the magic of love.

Now that I grow up without any slight view of a mother figure, I have a fear that lingers: What if a spot in my heart hardens like a rock as the time goes by?

My name is Syahna. It is a thoughtfully given name by my mother. If you travel through Arhamaic beginnings, it means The Deep Sea. It also means Freedom in Navajo, Beautiful in Yiddish, and The Celestial Red Rose in Mongolia. I have, or had, not spoken any conversation I remember with her. I couldn’t speak a single language when she was there. She was not my home. This name I obtain was the only inheritance at one point. Years pass, and I’ve only known her from stories. I own an unique relationship with my mother where things escalate from different perspectives and I always have had to ponder which is true and which is not.
I suppose it’s different when you have deceased parents, because people are always going to tell you that you can keep them in your heart. In memories, where they are supposed to be. You won’t understand what it means, and you will live inside the fear of entirely losing them if you go against what you know about them. My aunts told me I was walking around the cemetery, telling my relatives that my mother was only asleep when she was buried, and the fundamental knowledge of death I gained as I turned older thrilled me to my spines.

She’s left dozens of clothes for me and my two older sisters to wear. Her coats are always too tight for my shoulders, her dresses are awkward tablecloths with my height, her hair claws hurt my waves. It is none of her knitted blanket warms me. In the cold, my skin burns, be one with the thin air; of Phoenix’s ashes, ill of a broken heart.

Our family has been planting some jasmine trees on the soil in where she is now buried. It is blossoming as of today, along with the coldness of the rain. Probably it’s her rejuvenating as she finally filtrates within me. Maybe the ash of the thin air, the tears of a Phoenix, have awaken her in ways that I need to bolden my skin, fiery in turmoil, through the cold atmosphere of people and fond memories.

Her grave used so hilly when I was much younger. Now, I only need a ten-minute walk. As it is steep, there are many rocks in the way. I look at them, and think, what if they are a collection of deaths that Phoenix encounters, and hardens by fond memories?​
]]><![CDATA[Barbie is The Perfect Metaphor | Stuti Jain, 13]]>Fri, 02 Feb 2024 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/barbie-is-the-perfect-metaphor-stuti-jain-13​A cultural icon far before a name at a theater, the word Barbie has grown to embody far more than just a toy. A personification of societal expectation, the relationship between her and America’s youth has been endlessly scrutinized: a relationship not just explored but masterfully dissected in Margot Robbie’s film: The Barbie Movie. Despite its controversial subject, the movie manages to do what so many attempted feminist films could not: simultaneously entertain and persuade its audience. For all of its glitzy, glamorous visual appeal, this movie embellishes but never once takes its eyes of its purpose: to deliver a strong, almost satirical statement about gender roles and constraints.

This movie succeeds where others failed because of the fact that it achieved its effect so slyly, in a way that neither came off argumentative nor political. Yet somehow, it managed it to be both, prompting a far overdue discussion regarding the concept of the patriarchy. The uniqueness of the approach- perfectionism- could be noted, rightfully so. But more importantly, Barbie captivates its audience throughout its statement, perfectly utilizing the idealized appeal of the doll to hold your attention.. and when Gloria's well known speech begins, you might also hold your breath. While it can (and probably has been) argued that the movie does nothing more than glamorize an already idealized lifestyle, I would argue that the romanticized scenery: the beautiful beach and cheerful dolls, had the opposite effect.

Hear me out. Rather than burden the filmmakers with the baggage of such a controversial past, the writers employed the previous image of Barbie, turning it into a lens through which the myth of the American dream could be viewed. As Barbie ́s character develops, her initial grief at theloss of Barbieland shifts to consciousness about the place she once loved so much. She acknowledges that while the circumstances she enjoyed suited some, it did not dismiss the fact that her goals were unachievable in her  ̈perfect ̈ life. In fact, it could be argued that this was the main conflict of the film. Her impatience grows, with her finally admitting, "I want to be a part of the people that make meaning, not the thing that is made." As the conclusion unfolds, viewers will leave with visible relief, themselves feeling the solace Barbie is shown to find. Despite the rougher edges of the elements, Barbie should be viewed not as the dolls successor but a satirical method of commentary- the irony of which is neither overdone not understated.
Stuti Jain is a student at Forest Park Middle School. She enjoys writing and art.
]]><![CDATA[Slow Down | By Arwa Zaman, 16]]>Sun, 14 Jan 2024 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/slow-down-by-arwa-zaman-16          ​“Pause. Take a deep breath. What are you trying to say?”
          Great. Now I have to start again.
I’ve had a stutter all my life. Initially, my parents thought I could grow it out, as it was a common speech developmental issue, but the problem began to rise when I would stumble upon simple vowels and consonants like “a”, “w”, and “r” and outpassed the growth stage where stuttering was considered normal in society. It only went downhill from that point. Some days, I would stutter on my name. All the heat would rush to my face and I acted like I was in a battle of not maintaining eye contact with that person. Sometimes, people would copy my stutters and say “Just don’t stutter” as if it was something I could control. Presenting in front of a class was pure mortification. I would always speak fast. My brain ran faster than my mouth and when I tried to catch up, I would be stopped. The two hemispheres in my brain were imbalanced. Anytime anyone heard me stuttering, they would somehow immediately become an expert in speech impediment and provide unwanted advice.
          But all that didn’t faze me even a bit as much as my parents. I was a disgrace to them. A stain of steel in their white linen clothes. I was ruining the seemingly perfect image of my parents. I had been overweight since birth. I had yellow teeth. I had broad shoulders and I laughed loud obnoxiously. I spread my legs when I sat down. I raised my hand in Biology before the questions were even asked. I struggled with spelling simple Bengali words, my mother tongue. My English skills were barely intermediate. Whereas my father spoke Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, and Bengali fluently. His shirts were ironed the night before. He only wore white and black socks. My mother made sure to raise her pinky finger when sipping a cup of chai. She put her hand to her mouth when she laughed. Creases were nonexistent in my mother’s wardrobe.
          We were a first-generation immigrant Muslim family from Bangladesh. We moved to America in 2020 on March 9th on the last flight from Bangladesh to the United States before the lockdown. My father was a well-known businessman in Bangladesh. He wanted me and my older brother to continue his legacy. Unlike my brother who found himself reading economic books and shadowing my father, I gravitated towards those Youtube videos like “Day in the Life of a Dermatologist” or shows like Grey's Anatomy. Medical professionals were considered low social workers in Bangladesh who were likely infected with various diseases. My father had OCD and having a daughter who was already more of a nuisance engage in such tasks and bringing viral infections home was probably what hell looked like for him. Nonetheless, we were living well, we were happy. However, my mother longed for a better life, she wanted quality education for her children and reunite with my grandma, who was fighting breast cancer here in Virginia. And so when the VISA letter came, we swiftly embarked on this journey, clueless of the gloominess it would bring us.
          My stuttering got worse here. I started speaking faster. My father’s words against me got harsher. I was a stupid person in his eyes who couldn’t speak well. Eventually, my voice got smaller and quieter because I felt like an utter embarrassment. I would keep to myself all the time and only spoke when asked to. Honestly, I didn’t know if I should have been starving myself to lose weight or working on my English skills. I didn’t know how to change me. Who even was I? What did I desire?
          Every day I felt like I was trapped in a black hole. During the day, I would practice talking to myself to reduce stutters. At night, I would be laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking and thinking. Not any solutions, just thinking. It was during these days when I was feeling hopeless that I met Matcha. That’s right. Matcha, the green powder that’s in every aesthetic Pinterest board. Growing up, I witnessed chai as the only caffeinated beverage commonly consumed in Bangladesh. So imagine my surprise when I tasted the bitter jagged earthiness in my Venti Iced Matcha Latte from Starbucks. I immediately made a sour face. The next time I tried it in a Kung Fu Tea shop, it didn’t taste as bad as I remembered. So, I impulsively bought Matcha from Amazon and tried it at home. This time, I added honey and vanilla extract. It helped ease the taste of matcha but it wasn’t the most delicious drink I ever made. I knew I could do better. So I read articles and watched videos on Matcha and learned that Matcha was first consumed in Japan before it got to America. It was best consumed with plant-based milk like oat milk. I practiced making matcha every day and I learned a lot from Matcha. Matcha tasted better in slow small sips, tasting the earth in a drink. Matcha was proud, always sticking out with its bright green color and unmistakable taste. And the best part was Matcha wasn’t ashamed of it. Loud and proud, for sure. Matcha taught me that it’s okay to be unique and that I can be proud of it. Just as I took slow sips of my Iced Matcha and appreciated the rich taste of it, I began pausing between my speeches, and slowly my stutter became less evident. It’s not completely gone, but I don’t mind it. It’s a part of me. Just as Matcha became loved in America, I too began improving my English, spending time with family, and reading more and more biology books. Recently, I presented my research on South Asian Women’s Health at a conference and realized I hadn’t stuttered once. When I first tried Matcha, I was the quietest I had ever been, but now that they served their original, intended purpose, I have never been louder.
Arwa Zaman is a 16-year-old published researcher about South Asian Health with NASA and UVA. She founded Henna Health which has helped 100+ South Asians, fundraised 100k for pad poverty, and more. She is a Bangladeshi Muslim with a stutter and she wants to spread love. In her free time, she paints, plants pretty flowers, or binge-watches Pretty Little Liars. And, oh, she absolutely loves matcha. 
]]><![CDATA[Interview with Justin Cruzana, Poetry Editor]]>Sat, 25 Nov 2023 19:47:01 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/interview-with-justin-cruzana-poetry-editor1. You are a poetry editor for HaluHalo Journal and a graduate of literature from the University of Santo Tomas. How has writing played a role in your life? What initially drew you to poetry? 
When I was an undergrad in literature, I came from a background primarily founded on fiction. Going into the academe, I had initially thought I would formulate my bachelor’s dissertation on fiction, too. It wasn’t until I met my friend Eli, who at the time empathized with my reservations with poetry and its many forms, introduced me to poetry written by Filipinos. They sent me a list of readings containing, mostly, a poem or two per writer. Because I loved Eli, I read all of them, and I encountered and experienced the poems the way one might peel open and eat fruit. It turns out I really loved poetry, and to echo something John Green said in the debut video of Ours Poetica, many of us have loved poetry for a long time, we just didn’t know it yet.

Poetry, fiction, and the literary essay all share the same literary tools, and the deeper you are in reading the more you realize the boundaries between them are thin. It was poetry that moved me the most because of the bizarre and sometimes obscure forms you find them in. My first encounter with poetry is through the form of exam sheets and prayers, poems with lines that reappear and disappear. I’m always excited about poetry because of how deeply it can be contained within itself: the pronouns shift metaphysically, you can put yourself in the footprint of the persona and the apostrophe, often the addressee or the “you”, can be anyone you want it to be.

2. How has your relationship with writing evolved over the years?
It was mostly a journey of scribbling prose on the back of notebooks and word files until I made a decision to take poetry seriously in university. I used to not make such a big deal of writing, and in most cases I think this relationship of neutrality with writing is echoed with everyone else. When I was in undergrad I realized how deeply underread I was, and in an attempt to remedy this I read insatiably. I wasn’t thinking about writing at all, but I kept bouncing between books and, later on, would start repeating phrases or sentences I made in my head. In a way I think this is also writing. So I was writing while washing dishes or cleaning or running. In front of the screen, that’s when I started laying out the words in my head. I think writing is a response to the different literatures you’ve encountered, and I think it’s healthy to read more than to write.


3. What authors have influenced your writing?
The writer Eli primarily introduced me to was Conchitina Cruz, also known as Chingbee, who’s very popular in the local literary scene. Chingbee’s recognition with writers, readers, and students is, I think, mainly because of how much she challenges the status quo. She’s written against the clutches of the neoliberal academe and the local publishing industry, and advocated and wrote in support of the alternative methods of (re)producing and circulating art. I know you’re not supposed to hold real people on pedestals, but my friends and I take her words as sacred. She helps us challenge and problematize the Filipino quotidian. She has four books, and three of them are available online for free. “elsewhere held and lingered”, her second book, was the first collection of poetry I finished.

When I started writing poetry, I had to chew on a lot of literature to find my voice. I think I have mine, but I’m still trying to see if it has other pitches. I read a lot of Mark Anthony Cayanan, Frank O’ Hara, Anne Sexton, Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Ada Limon, Cole Swensen, Ilya Kaminsky, Robin Coste Lewis, and others. It’s a big list of influences, I think. A lot of contemporary American poetry is circulated and therefore easily accessible than others, but I try to get my hands on as many writers as I can, and I read them the soonest that I’m available.

4. What does poetry mean to you as a queer, Filipino poet? How do you define your work in the canon of Filipino literature? 
I love poetry and always gravitate towards it because it can be anything you want it to be. Poetry is so deeply embedded in our quotidian, and it comes in the form of graffiti, pop song lyric, prayers, et cetera. It is also deeply liberating because it cannot, inherently, have any monetary value, therefore cannot be colonized by the vitriols of capitalism.

I love discussions of queerness, both in art and in the webs of the theory and the academe, but also in my poetry, while it is present, it isn’t completely defined or limited by it. The canon of the queer Filipino will always be developing, and I owe a lot of my writing autonomy to it, too. From J. Neil Garcia I realized just how much queer people like to write about mythology—sometimes playfully utilizing the lyric poetry and adding anachronisms to make the myth, often Greek, more relatable to their “I”. From Jose Garcia Villa I admire the sage-like vision of his aphorisms. I think it’s a little premature to say where I stand with the work I want to make in the canon of English Filipino poetry. I’ve gotten really interested in cultural texts and cultural studies in my country, and I want to see where I go from there. Wherever I might end up going, though, I’m carrying all the lessons from the writers I read.

5. What do you look for in a submission?
All of the submissions I’ve been given the permission to edit are read by me at least three times before I start laying out comments / suggestions. I try to be more inquisitive about how the elements of the poetry are laid out—why the form, why the manner of speaking (syntax), why say this word when this word makes more sense sonically (diction)—so as to not trouble another’s voice with mine. Intention is always key, I think, which is why I take long for each poem. I love my job as a poetry editor, so despite the length of time I take per poem, I edit pretty quickly because I read and devour as much as I can.

I reflected on a lot of the poems I gave the green light to, and I’d say I really love the technique behind them. I recall giving the go signal to three poems, each different from one another in terms of theme, syntax, and form. I was surprised when I realized this, but also relieved by the diversity. I was worried I’d be giving my editors poetry that are all artistically unified. I really look for technique and craft aspects, poems that, despite my repeated readings, make me go “mmm” or “oh!” out loud. I get excited at poems that have a lot of craft planned behind them, like unifying themes and images, strategic digressions, and so on.

When someone submits their work to a literary journal, it can feel overwhelming. That’s how I felt when I first started submitting poetry. I was worried editors might dislike it or brush them off, and I made sure, going forward from my days of submissions, to never do that, to trust the poems and the person behind them. I take seriously all the craft elements and techniques and, when I feel like a poem is ready, when it has that essence of existence, I give the green light, I say this poem works and succeeds.
Justin Andrew Cruzana is a graduate of Literature at the University of Santo Tomas. His works have appeared in Alien Magazine, MudRoom, Cordite, Voice & Verse Poetry, TLDTD, and others. He lives in Metro Manila​.
]]><![CDATA[Op-Ed: Bringing Writing and Identity | Anica Beth, 17]]>Wed, 15 Nov 2023 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/op-ed-bringing-writing-and-identity-anica-beth-17If you asked my twelve year old self what I was, I would respond: a writer. A self-proclaimed poet, I wrote elaborate letters in Homemade Apple pt. 14 to my parents, and I created a home-produced newspaper that was “cleverly” titled after my own name. My poems ranged widely, focusing on teachers and carrots, love and broken families, and even a twisted interpretation of what I believed would happen in a zombie apocalypse. But I was a writer first and foremost; a voracious reader, I believed firmly in the power of written word because of the very impact it had on me.

Of course, if you didn’t accept that answer, or looked at me puzzlingly, I would admit that yes, I was also Filipino. At twelve, all of my closest friends were Filipino, and I danced to line dances with my Filipino titas and ate sticky sweet bibingka with my Lola Taling. To me, my writing and my culture were two separate, sacred spaces. Filipino culture could never intrude upon my writing; it was too familiar, and like Helmholtz in “Brave New World,” I wanted to research, to explore, to be intrigued. I wanted to write as if the world was undefined and limitless.

Now, at seventeen, I am more confined–or at least, that is what my twelve year old self would say. Frustrated by the lack of representation in writing, I choose to suffuse my culture into my writing, to use my words as a vehicle to express the beauty of the Philippines. I have found so much joy in writing about my Filipino identity, in brushing tender memories and even sweeter traditions, but I have also encountered a profound hesitation, and a questioning, of my Filipino roots. 

Writing competitions like Scholastic prompt–or even exacerbate–this hesitation. Is it right to use your culture as currency? Is it right to write about your heritage–to speak on it, as if expertly–if you are Filipino-American? When the hyphen, more often than not, defines you? These are questions I ponder as I write. On one hand, I believe in the power of representation, in providing inspiration to others through thoughtful representation. On the other hand, I do not feel comfortable labeling myself an expert, but that is exactly what writing does: written works inherently establish a sense of ethos and authority for the writer, an assumed authenticity. 

Writing competitions often foster a stifling, over-competitive environment, where works are judged as superior or inferior, and in cases where many written works focus on race, it becomes difficult to separate ethnicity from the writing competition itself. In this case, I begin to assign a value to my work–is this work better because it is more Filipino? Am I using my ethnicity to win? Is ethnicity, then, the focal point, not the language?

It is in times like these that I wish to revert to the black-and-white of childhood writing, without contemplating or addressing the issues of racial writing. But writing is used as a medium to express ideas, and for me, a medium to spotlight undervoiced issues and transform society on a structural level. Storytelling will always be about relaying a compelling story, which in turn relies on compelling language and a compelling story is often found in stories of race, because those are experiences that truly, actively, authentically shape who we are. Because those stories, even if fantastical, are all the more real.

I am a writer. But I am also Filipino–Filipino with a hyphen, attached to American. This identity translates
into a scrawling mass on paper, but I am, simply, me.  My identity is one that cannot be confined by standard grammatical or writing conventions, and I treasure every aspect of it–from the crunchy lechon to the long, gaping nights as I stare at a blinking cursor on my screen. That is why I choose, in spite of everything, to share it. ​
Writing under a pseudonym, Anica Beth​ loves to read, paint, and bake. She is a high school student living in New York City. 
]]><![CDATA[Interview with Bella Majam, Prose Editor]]>Sun, 05 Nov 2023 00:56:07 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/interview-with-bella-majam-prose-editor1. You are a prose writer for HaluHalo Journal. How has writing played a role in your life? Why prose writing?
Like most writers, I began as a reader. I particularly loved Dork Diaries as a child, which would inspire me to begin writing through my own journals. As a scholar of creative writing at the Philippine High School for the Arts, writing and literature are a staple not just of my hobbies, but also my responsibilities as a student. Four out of seven days of the week, we write, read, and workshop with both fellow teens and writing mentors from all over the country. I don’t think it’d be an exaggeration to say writing is intertwined with my life.
        Though I’ve dabbled in songwriting and poetry before, prose writing remains the companion I return to over and over again. Maybe it’s the way I was raised to view the former two, but prose has always been less intimidating for me. Writing prose didn’t require as much scrutiny of form or rhyme. Prose left me free to explore without the pressures of conforming to what I’d been taught it should be because prose, as a whole, is so broad. Though she was referring to nonfiction, this quote from Annie Dillard sums it up best: “prose can also carry meaning in its structures and, like poetry, can tolerate all sorts of figurative language, as well as alliteration and even rhyme...it can handle discursive ideas and plain information as well as character and story. It can do everything.”
        Regardless of where we end up, we need to start somewhere. For most, that will be prose. And whether or not we stay with prose, its variety is what has always made it welcoming to anyone and everyone to me, wherever they may be in their writing.

2. You are a queer teenage writer living in the Philippines. Does your identity affect your work? If so, how?
I feel like it would be disingenuous to say it didn’t. Even if I tried my best to divorce my identity from my writing—which I have no interest in doing—it is inevitable that it will be read through a socio-political context. As a writer from the Philippines, the fact that I write is already something that spotlights my identity. In a society and literary canon which has silenced queer, Filipina voices, to speak is itself an act of resistance.
       Additionally, it’s important to acknowledge how identity has shaped my ability to write in the first place. In the Philippines, fluency is a luxury, and as an English-language writer, I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for the economic privilege that enabled me to pursue writing. My privilege has influenced my work as much as my marginalization has. Whether it’s bigotry from fellow Filipinos when I write about queerness, or being heralded as the be-all, end-all perspective on Philippine society by foreign readers, a marginalized identity forces me to confront a myriad of challenges beyond the page. However, writing openly has also helped me find a community of writers and readers who appreciate the joy of creation despite our struggles. I wouldn't have it any other way.

3. Your writing often touches on themes of sexual assault, gender, and sexuality. What do you hope to convey to your reader? What do you hope to accomplish through your writing?
Trauma robs us of language. It can be through institutional silencing from prevailing power structures, or the silence that follows when we try to speak, or write, about our experience. The inability to make sense of what we’ve been through leads us to believe we are the only ones which struggle with the remnants of the experience, oftentimes—as in my case—breeding shame. I have always believed in visibility being the antidote to shame. Through visibility in media, literature, or art, we find others who understand the depth of our feelings, who can tell us this happened. This is happening. This is real. Visibility fosters the community we need to feel safe in voicing our stories.
        This is what I seek to offer readers. I hope that someone out there is able to recognize their pain, their silence, and whatever else it is they cannot name yet in my writing. And whether or not they choose to become writers themselves, I hope to be one of many authors that will bring them closer to that needed community.
​
4. As an editor, what do you look for in a piece of writing?
Anything that showcases a great deal of vulnerability. As writers—especially as marginalized writers—we’re often pressured to share our trauma in the name of art, but I believe vulnerability doesn’t have to come from a place of confession. To me, vulnerability is standing behind your personal voice. What is something that you need to say, whether that be through fiction, CNF, or poetry? Even if it has been said before, why do you choose to write about it? I am drawn to pieces that answer these questions. That, to me, is artistic vulnerability.

5. BONUS: Would you say you are more of a paper clip or a stapler?
Stapler!
Bella Majam is a sixteen-year-old writer from Manila. Raised on a diet of fairy tales and family stories, her writing focuses on women’s relationships to grief, memory, and myth. She is currently a student at the Philippine High School for the Arts. You can follow her @beelaurr on Instagram. ​
]]><![CDATA[Siopao | By Hannah Sophia Gonzaga, 18]]>Thu, 28 Sep 2023 00:14:19 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/siopao-by-hannah-sophia-gonzaga-18I’ve never seen something so beautiful.
Round and pale, steaming hot.
Show me what you are, and I’ll show you what I’m not.
With so much inside, show me what you hide
To your laws I’ll abide.
And I’ll tear down my pride
Pretty, pretty girl
With round cheeks and fair skin
With so much you hold within
Siopao, I call you
I like how that sounds.
Steamed buns just like you,
Pretty and round
With hidden treasures at your core
Siopao, and so much more.

​Description: Siopao is a widely popular snack here in the Philippines and is a sort of Philippine twist to baozi. It is a steamed bun with some sort of filling, usually pork.
Hannah Sophia Gonzaga is an aspiring writer from the Philippines. She has been writing since she was 10 and also sings, acts, and plays guitar.
]]><![CDATA[What Defines Me | By Kyra Allyson, 17]]>Wed, 06 Sep 2023 03:33:36 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/what-defines-me-by-kyra-allyson-17The blazing sun began its descent, casting a golden hue across the bustling city of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, painting the skies with a multitudeof reds and oranges. It was in this vibrant metropolis that my story unfolded—a tale of resilience, faith, and personal growth. At the tender age of fourteen, I found myself navigating the labyrinthine corridors of life, battling the shadows of racial remarks, judgment on my appearance, and the weight of academic stress. As a born-again Christian, my heart was steadfast in my faith, finding solace and strength in my relationship with Christ. However, the world around me seemed determined to challenge my resolve. The echoing hallways of my high school became breeding grounds for toxic friendships and unkind words, whispered and shouted in ignorance.

The day began like any other, with the cacophony of voices and the scent of freshly brewed tea filling our cosy home. My parents, hardworking individuals, had always instilled in me the importance of education and excellence. Their dreams for my future were etched deeply in their eyes, and I carried their aspirations upon my shoulders. But they soon morphed into burdens that plagued my heart. I slowly crumbled from academic stress that loomed over me like a relentless shadow. The expectations of my parents, who longed for me to excel in my studies, became an unbearable weight on my shoulders. Every grade I earned, and every test I took, was scrutinised with unwavering intensity. The fear of disappointing them, of falling short of their dreams, suffocated my spirit.

But amidst the pressure to excel academically, I found myself struggling with the weight of my own insecurities. Racial remarks whispered in my ear like venomous serpents, seeping into the crevices of my self-esteem. But the attacks didn't stop at my ethnicity. My weight became a target for cruel jabs, words that seeped into my thoughts like venom. I battled against the relentless pressures to conform to society's warped ideals of beauty, as whispers of "fat" and "ugly" echoed through my mind. I felt the harsh sting of judgment on my weight and the presence of arm and leg hair that defied societal beauty standards. My self-esteem withered like a fragile flower in a scorching desert, wilting under the weight of those hurtful words.

The lunch break was a moment of respite from the classroom battles. However, even within the hallowed halls of our school's cafeteria, I found myself longing for acceptance, yearning to be seen beyond the superficial façade of my appearance. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the air, but within the symphony of voices, I felt the weight of judgment pressing against my spirit. Within this suffocating atmosphere, toxic friendships festered like wounds that refused to heal. I was surrounded by individuals who took delight in tearing me down, ridiculing my faith, and belittling my dreams. Their words became poison, seeping into my consciousness and breeding doubt within my heart. I craved true companionship, for friendships that would uplift and inspire me.

Amidst the storm that raged around me, I found refuge in the unwavering embrace of my relationship with Christ. In the quiet moments, I poured my heart out in prayer, seeking strength, guidance, and the courage to rise above the hurtful words and toxic environments that engulfed me. I clung to the promises of His Word, finding solace in His love that saw beyond my flaws and imperfections. As the days turned into weeks, a glimmer of hope pierced through the darkness. I encountered a group of true friends who accepted me for who I was, embracing my faith and standing beside me through thick and thin. With their support, I began to rebuild the shattered fragments of my self-esteem and regain the confidence that had been stolen by years of torment.

With newfound confidence and a support system that lifted me higher, I faced the challenges of academic stress head-on. The harsh whispers and sneering glances that once plagued my existence became distant echoes, mere remnants of a past that no longer defined me. I learned to prioritise self-care, balancing my  studies with moments of reflection and prayer. As I leaned on Christ, I discovered a wellspring of wisdom that guided me through the labyrinth of examinations and expectations. As my friendships flourished, I found the strength to confront the toxic elements in my life. I severed ties with those who sought to diminish my worth, realising that I deserved relationships that celebrated my uniqueness and encouraged me to grow. In shedding these toxic connections, I opened up space for the seeds of self-love and authenticity to take root and blossom.

My parents, witnessing my transformation, began to see the radiance that emanated from within. They rejoiced in my newfound confidence, realising that my success was not solely defined by academic accolades, but by the contentment and joy that radiated from my spirit. Their dreams for me merged with my own aspirations, creating a shared vision of a future where my faith and purpose intertwined.

Armed with a newfound resilience and the knowledge that I was deeply loved by Christ, I pressed forward, determined to prove to myself and to the world that my worth extended far beyond grades and achievements. With each step, I embraced my heritage and my faith, unapologetically weaving them into the tapestry of my life. The racial slurs that once haunted me became mere echoes, powerless against the strength that flowed through me. I recognised the beauty of my melanin-kissed skin, the elegance in my curves, and the unique attributes that made me who I was.

Through it all, my relationship with Christ served as an unyielding anchor. He whispered words of encouragement, reminding me that I was fearfully and wonderfully made. He lifted me up when I stumbled, wiped away my tears, and breathed life into my shattered dreams. I now live as a resilient soul who understands the transformative power of love, both human and divine. I walk with purpose, knowing that my worth is not defined by the judgments of others, but by the depth of my character and the love that radiates from my heart. In Christ, I have found my true source of strength, and with Him by my side, I will continue to navigate life's challenges, knowing that I am never alone.
Kyra Allyson is a 17-year-old Malaysian who enjoys reading thriller books an an occasional pinch of romance while also possessing a discrete love for writing descriptives. She uses writing as an output for her creativity. Other interests of hers comprise K-pop, binging K-dramas and anime, as well as playing Genshin Impact. 
]]><![CDATA[Alienation From My Culture | By Sophia Bernabe, 16]]>Thu, 10 Aug 2023 14:33:42 GMThttps://www.haluhalojournal.com/blog/alienation-from-my-culture-by-sophia-bernabe-16          I hate the sound “nga.” The most basic of principles within Tagalog, and I have never learned how to say it. Out of all of the twenty-six letters, the language rearranged them to this, creating my veritable hatred for it. The frustration of never connecting with your culture over a single sound. One of the first words you learn to pronounce as a child growing up in the Philippines. I did not get that. I never got it. Am I separated from my culture if I cannot even begin to say my real middle name? This spiraling of unknowing leaves me miles away. My identity is unfinished. I have been made unfinished. If I were a book and you were to open mine, you would see a myriad of blank pages. My alienation from my own culture leaves me with streaks of red. If an alien were ever to look upon the earth, they would want to participate with the other beings but feel left out. This situation was left to me, to wonder and dream about, but never complete.
          ​The constant reminders from family and friends of “Do you speak Tagalog? Can you understand it?” If someone were to ask me if I was bilingual, again, my answer would be unfinished. Sometimes I answer with “one and a half,” as understanding and being able to read a little bit is not equivalent to speaking and writing. Never complete. Daily reminders of me falling short of the expectation. I question if the people to blame are my parents for never fully teaching me, or myself. Why should I apologize for not understanding my cultural language? Nobody apologized for never teaching me. Instead of blaming the situation on the rain, it brings me comfort in tricking the brain that there is someone else at fault. I’ve been drowning in these foreign words, feeling lonely.
          As I got older I unconsciously distanced myself away from teleserye shows and cultural events, like debuts. Growing up I found these shows and movies brought me comfort and I wanted so badly to celebrate my eighteenth birthday with a debut and to visit the Philippines for the first time. I was done spending lost time wondering and focused more on distractions. I filled my schedule up with activities, where my days were filled to the brim with Taekwondo, Kumon, drums, guitar, and swimming, alongside schoolwork. I learned that piling on work was not healthy, but I still put a barrier up to wall the difficulties away. A reversed emotional education made me forget how to smile. No longer did I remember how other things can pull at the tendrils of my heartstrings. These distractions were perfect for someone who preferred having no free time, but although it seemed like it was a match made in heaven, I was chained down to earth.
          I reached a breaking point over quarantine, as all of my distractive activities were put on hold. Due to this, time spent with my Lola (grandmother) proliferated. She doesn’t speak English as well as my parents do, so it was refreshing hearing a familiar sound I grew up around. I helped her pass the citizenship exam, studying with her as much as I could, and in turn, she would just talk to me. My curiosity reached its peak and I began asking my entire family how they grew up. My dad told me of his three sisters, when he fell off of a roof one time, and how he would bring a single piece of paper to school and survive years off of that. Learning about their personal lives made me not only feel closer to them, but also to my cultural region. Instead of distancing myself even further as I had originally planned, I filled the language barrier with a new sound and I learned to stop chasing away “nga” and embrace the meaning of words presented to me. These newfound realizations allowed me to apply their meanings to my own life. Where before I practically did not know how to genuinely be happy, I saw the wondrous fresh start of “ngiti” (smile) and “tadhana” (destiny). My reality showed its true colors. Words with difficult translations sparked interest in me. I saw myself in these words. You cannot understand them without deep-rooted knowledge and understanding of the language and culture, similar to how my insides were painted red and my outsides were discreetly clothed with after-school activities, reading, and schoolwork. There is a difficult matter in understanding another person, especially with concealed red insides.
          My name is Sophia Bernabe, and I learned the true journey of the color red. Viewing the world in this color because of anger is not entirely true. Anger may provide depth, showing where these unfinished pages fold and get wrinkly. There is this beauty to anger. There is beauty in recognizing that red is the color of humans. It is in our blood. When we laugh so hard our stomach hurts, our faces turn red. When we kiss too hard, our lips are streaked with red. When we hold onto others too hard, these marks turn red. When we love too hard, there is this excess of red that is left on our hearts and souls. Red is human nature. I am not an alien to my culture, I am a Filipina human being that tries every day to get to know it.
Sophia Bernabe is a Filipino-American writer from Fontana, California. Through her writing, she aims to amplify diverse heritages, ensuring that every country has a chance to tell their story.
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