During my residency at Project Space Pilipinas earlier this year, I was able to interview some pandan weavers who were incredibly generous—not just in sharing their stories, but in passing down knowledge honed over generations.They taught me how they soften fibers, how they weave with precision, how they innovate within a tradition. But beneath the beauty of their craft is a livelihood marked by struggle.
Many weavers began young, born into poverty and tradition. Many said they wouldn’t choose this work if they had other options. Most juggle multiple forms of work—running sari-sari stores and ironing clothes—because weaving alone doesn't sustain them. This kind of informal, piece-rate work done at home—often by women—is considered sub-contractual labor. It’s common across the Philippines, not just in traditional crafts but also in urban poor communities where women peel garlic or sew notebook. They’re paid per piece, and it’s often something they do while doing other unpaid domestic care work.
Working in isolation without unions or protections makes them vulnerable. . Like the weavers I met in the Visayas, many shared stories of being underpaid—or not paid at all—but continuing to work with the same clients because they lack market access. They sell a bayong for 30PHP; clients resell it for 55PHP. An experienced weaver can make 9-10 a day. Do the math—it’s barely enough for baon.
During this experience, I learned the phrase I learned the phrase “Isang kahig, isang tuka” (one scratch, one peck)—a way of life that many of the weavers identified with that is defined by daily survival, scraping by, often linked to chickens scratching the ground for food.
Weaving is deeply tied to the land—not just culturally, but literally, through the raw materials. When people don’t have land to grow food or gather materials, they must sell their labor instead. As a diasporic Filipino, this hit hard. It's at the root of why so many of us are out here, abroad. If you can’t make a dignified living at home, you’re forced to migrate—to cities, then overseas.
It begs the question: what is local production without genuine land reform?
Many weavers began young, born into poverty and tradition. Many said they wouldn’t choose this work if they had other options. Most juggle multiple forms of work—running sari-sari stores and ironing clothes—because weaving alone doesn't sustain them. This kind of informal, piece-rate work done at home—often by women—is considered sub-contractual labor. It’s common across the Philippines, not just in traditional crafts but also in urban poor communities where women peel garlic or sew notebook. They’re paid per piece, and it’s often something they do while doing other unpaid domestic care work.
Working in isolation without unions or protections makes them vulnerable. . Like the weavers I met in the Visayas, many shared stories of being underpaid—or not paid at all—but continuing to work with the same clients because they lack market access. They sell a bayong for 30PHP; clients resell it for 55PHP. An experienced weaver can make 9-10 a day. Do the math—it’s barely enough for baon.
During this experience, I learned the phrase I learned the phrase “Isang kahig, isang tuka” (one scratch, one peck)—a way of life that many of the weavers identified with that is defined by daily survival, scraping by, often linked to chickens scratching the ground for food.
Weaving is deeply tied to the land—not just culturally, but literally, through the raw materials. When people don’t have land to grow food or gather materials, they must sell their labor instead. As a diasporic Filipino, this hit hard. It's at the root of why so many of us are out here, abroad. If you can’t make a dignified living at home, you’re forced to migrate—to cities, then overseas.
It begs the question: what is local production without genuine land reform?
