‘Pugon’

 

by

Joanna G. Barbacena

|September 7, 2026

Perhaps one of the most ironic things I always heard from my mama when I was a child was, “Huwag kang maglalaro ng apoy” (“Don’t play with fire”). It was ironic because she never let me go near fire, but it was also what kept our household running as we relied on a wood-fired oven, or as we call it in Filipino, “pugon.”

Pugon is a traditional oven in the Philippines that uses wood or charcoal as a fuel. It works by burning these materials to produce heat for cooking and needs regular attention to keep the fire going.

My family had every reason to fear fire. My brother bears scars on his back from a fire-related accident. Yet because our resources were limited, we had little choice but to rely on the wood-fired oven. Charcoal and old newspapers were far cheaper than cooking gas.

Every morning, mama would light the pugon and boil water in a century-old kettle whose bottom had grown thick with soot, ash, and sometimes a little oil. I never told her that the aroma of burning wood and ash had become my alarm clock. There was no sound—just the smell, strong enough to creep into our house and fill my senses. Before I even realized it, morning had already arrived. By the time I woke up, there would already be hot water waiting for me to use for my bath.

I don’t know what was in that hot water that seemed to cure every illness in the province. If you had a sore throat, you drank hot water. If you felt dizzy, you drank hot water. If you had just woken up, you drank hot water. Even before taking an early-morning bath, you were expected to drink hot water first. So, my mama would boil two batches every morning. One for drinking and another for my bath. It was a simple routine, repeated day after day, but it carried a quiet kind of care that I only learned to appreciate much later.

Because she had to be at work by 7 a.m., she made sure everything was prepared before I left for school. Since we relied on the pugon, which was not the easiest thing to light, she would cook all the meals we needed for the day, which more often than not were the same meals we would eat throughout the day, and sometimes for two days in a row.

I remember coming home one afternoon, tired and hungry. There was nothing much to eat except a bread that had been hanging in the kitchen for nearly a week. Then I spotted two packs of pancit canton and an egg.

The moment I saw them, I felt a wave of weariness. Cooking meant lighting the pugon myself, right? So, there were the charcoal, old newspapers, and a box of matches, as if they were silently waiting to be picked up.

Still anxious, I began the familiar ritual. I arranged the charcoal, tucked the paper beneath it, and struck a match. To my relief, the fire caught. Soon enough, I had cooked the pancit canton and fried the egg. I ate with the satisfaction that only a hungry person can truly understand. More than that, I felt proud. I had done it on my own.

Afraid that my mama would get angry, I never told her about it. Yet I found myself using it whenever hunger struck. I would light the fire and cook whatever I could.

Before long, my mother began allowing me to tend the pugon, guiding and watching over me—sometimes scared, but most of the time, she was just caring.

Back then, my skills were limited to boiling water and frying eggs, as she still did not want me spending too much time near the fire. Even so, each meal I prepared felt like a small victory against the fear that had once kept me away from it, and it was all because my mama trusted me with it.

Those memories remain so vivid that every time I cook adobo or sinigang on my own-purchased induction cooker now, I am reminded of the smell of the wood-fired oven that once woke me up every morning.

But now, the memory feels different. No more long wait for the water to boil. No sharp smell of burning wood. Little to no lingering fear of fire. But this also means mama is no longer beside me to guide or watch over me.

Convenience has replaced ritual. Independence grew slowly, day by day. And this reminds me of how quietly life changes with time, and how far we have come.

Today, I live in a cozy apartment in Manila. I still cook whenever I am hungry. Now, when I tell my mama about the meals I make, she simply smiles on the other end of the line and says, “Maaram ka na magluto” (“You already know how to cook”).

But looking back, I realize that the goal was never really about purchasing the induction cooker on my own. It was about turning the trust and guidance my mama gave me in front of that pugon into independence, and learning to stand on my own.

So, when she turned that fear of fire into trust, I realized it was now my call to turn that trust into my own strength.  

With love and compassion, Ma’am

 

by Zarrel Gel Noza

|September 2, 2026

Five years ago, I received one of the most life-changing offers of my life—to teach. Little did I know it would also be a season of learning. Seeing some of my first students post their graduation photos, I realized that one of the biggest lessons I had in the past years was how far love and compassion in our classrooms could go.

When I started, my teaching philosophy was to be the teacher I needed when I was a student, to build the learning environment where I would thrive if I were the learner. So, it has always been my goal to build a classroom where my students would feel safe to learn and to be themselves. More than mastering my lessons, my number one goal has been to create a classroom that students would want to enter and stay in, to deliver lessons that they would desire to take in. More than wanting my students to learn, my higher objective is for them to want to learn first.

But I am not writing this to brag about being the “coolest teacher ever.” I am far from that. I am writing this to encourage my fellow educators to let love and compassion lead the way we teach.  

One of the things I have noticed in my classes is high attendance rates, as well as high participation rates in class. When students feel safe and comfortable in their classes, they go to class—not just because of the attendance policy but because they actually want to learn. They also participate more because they see the class as a safe space to ask questions, to share their thoughts, to admit that there are a lot of things that they still need to know.

A welcoming environment also encourages feedback, a very powerful learning strategy. When our students view us positively, it becomes easier for them to absorb constructive feedback and sometimes, even to ask for more. It allows them to see that our comments and evaluations are coming from a place of concern and support.

Another observation is my students’ openness to come and be vulnerable around me. This allows me to understand the factors affecting their class performance, as well as find ways on how to help them. As educators, we know that our students’ learning is affected by many internal and external factors. Late submissions don’t necessarily equate to irresponsibility. Low scores don’t necessarily reflect incompetence. Multiple times, I have experienced students approaching me after class or messaging me in the wee hours, to share about their struggles and explain the things that are making their learning more challenging than usual.

Knowing this allows me to consider their situation even in the smallest class decisions—deadlines, learning modalities, class requirements, and activities. It doesn’t necessarily mean we need to make it easier for them, but for learning to be effective, the environment must be conducive, and this means being tailored to the actual needs and situations of our students.

But creating a nurturing learning environment doesn’t mean giving our students anything they want. We do not want to raise a generation of brats. But this is about creating a space where our students will grow because they know they can and that they are meant to do so. This is about making learning more enjoyable and effective for them.

I am sure that not all educators will agree with me on this. It won’t be surprising, especially if many of us grew up in learning environments that forced us to thrive under pressure, and we’ve seen it work for us. But if tough love, whether from our parents, guardians, teachers or mentors, worked for us, it does not necessarily mean it would work for this generation. If you think it worked for you somehow, it does not mean it did not wound you in some other way. If it has been somehow effective yet still scarring for us and for the several generations before us, maybe our role is not to keep up with the cycle, but to break it.

I have witnessed people break down—not just for days but for years—just to please the people who are supposed to mentor and nurture them. I have seen friends who lost sight of their amazing potential just because others made them doubt themselves and what they can do. I have seen peers who got stuck just because the world discouraged them from taking the chance, because the world made them believe they cannot make it. You cannot expect people to function better after you break them.

Meanwhile, I thrived the most under the tutelage of the kindest, most supportive, most approachable instructors and bosses. And when I look back, though I admire their technical expertise and extensive knowledge in their field, what I remember the most is how they treated me, how they willingly answered my questions, how they believed I could do more and enabled me to do so.

So, let’s imagine a classroom—no, actually, a society where our educators raise the next leaders of our society with love and compassion, encouraging these future leaders to do the same. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful place to live in?  

The line between two lives

by Aly Acosta

August 26, 2026

We’re familiar with the stories of queer people who are closeted and those who are out, those with little to no support and those with an abundance of it. We don’t always hear from those living in the middle. For example—I am queer and I am out to literally everyone except my family.

Lately, my family keeps talking about the queer community at dinner. As in most Filipino households, any “bakla” can be a point of discussion at any given moment. I’m just glad it hasn’t been me this past 24 years.

I remember my mother saying, “There’s no problem with being gay, but I might not be able to take it if it were my child.” She said this, triggered when she saw a sapphic couple in line at Gateway Food Express, as I sat across from her at the dinner table—her daughter in high school, who was closeted only to them and who actually had a girlfriend at the time. Honestly, 10/10 experience, very relatable.   

Despite this, I have no reason to resent my family about my being gay, aside from the casual homophobia Gen Xers tend to have. They’re not really the type of Catholics to spread hate speech or condone hate crimes on Facebook, just the type to say,

“Handsome, but too bad he’s gay.” It’s actually a privilege to behave the way I do (very obviously gay) and only have my parents think I’m quirky and creative instead of throwing me out on the streets or verbally abusing me until I’m scared straight. It’s a privilege to have siblings who have my back, who knew from the get-go, and chose to laugh at my predicament with me instead of at me.

I remember when I tried to casually mention to my sister that I was queer. We went to the very first Harry Styles concert here in Manila, and I told her, “You know, Ate, I am supposed to ‘come out’ to you today.” She only said, “I’ve known for a long time,” and we laughed it off as we sang our hearts out to Harry’s “Sign of the Times.”

Coming out to my friends went a little differently. The very second I stepped into high school, I made it known to my classmates that I am, in fact, bisexual. It was the first and only time I “formally” came out to anyone. Now, I just let my whole me speak for itself. With my collection of Converse shoes, the obligatory emo phase, and being a Top 1-percent listener of Chappell Roan—it doesn’t exactly take an advanced “gaydar” to clock me.

I was less conspicuous back then, but that didn’t matter. I actually like to think that I was a pioneer of the LGBTQ+ community in my high school, encouraging my other gay classmates to embrace their gayness and become a beacon of the gay agenda in our hallways. We decorated our rooms inside and out with rainbows, featured the queer members of the class on the walls (some of whom I personally guided out of their shells), and screamed about pride and gay rights as we slowly radicalized ourselves into the socially-aware young queer adults that we are now.

Despite this, and many years from then, I am still not out to my family. That’s the kicker, isn’t it? It’s so easy to shout to the rest of the world “I’m queer!” but it’s the hardest thing to even whisper it to the ones closest to me.

In a perfect world, my family wouldn’t bat an eye if I were to ever bring a girlfriend home. Perhaps they would even celebrate knowing their kid isn’t going to end up a “matandang dalaga” (old maid) after all. In reality, I remember the time my grandmother rejoiced when her daughter “finally” broke off her 10-year relationship with a woman because she wouldn’t be a lesbian anymore. I remember that and forgive myself a little for fumbling my own romantic relationships.

So, to anyone struggling with being in the middle—my semi-closeted friends, here’s my sage advice: have support where you need it from people willing to give it. Your family will support you any way they can, your friends can be there for everything else. To my family, I am a good Catholic daughter who’s just a bit quirky. To my friends, I am the equivalent of whoever threw the first rock at Stonewall.

This essay is not me coming out, and it’s certainly not me encouraging anyone to come out before they’re ready. It’s a tough line to walk down, being in between two lives at all times. But if that’s the price to pay for safety, it’s one worth paying. Not everyone would understand this choice, but for those who do, I hope you find comfort knowing you’re not alone. I’m with you.

Besides, it’s not like I’m hiding anything anyway! My family knows half the truth, while my friends know the other. Together, they know the whole, authentic me. Having a community to share my life with is a triumph enough; having two is a blessing.