Search Results

Cebu City is wrapped in plastic. Lingering for years, clogging waterways, crowding landfills, and finding its way back into our communities, with a vengeance. The Mayor said it, in an article on Business Mirror dated February 21, 2026, Cebu City is facing a garbage crisis. In a city where sari-sari stores, takeout culture, and daily convenience often mean single-use plastics, the question is no longer whether Cebu produces plastic waste, it’s what we choose to do about it in our own barangays. But what if we stopped looking at plastic as instant trash and started seeing it as a local design opportunity? The Tangram Project by Cebu Making Space begins with a simple but radical idea: what if plastic waste didn’t leave the community as trash, but stayed and returned as something useful? Barangay Level Collaboration Waste management is often discussed at the city or national scale. But real change begins closer to home: in our own barangays. The Tangram Project demonstrates that meaningful environmental action doesn’t always require massive infrastructure. Sometimes, it starts with something as simple as collecting plastic bottle caps. Working closely with Barangay Kamputhaw, Cebu Making Space piloted a grassroots recycling initiative that transforms discarded plastic caps into colorful tangram sets for public daycare children, specifically Little Angels Child Development Center as the pilot beneficiary. Instead of sending plastic to landfills, the community participates in a circular process by collecting, cleaning, shredding, molding, and re-forming waste into educational tools. This hyperlocal model shifts the narrative that plastic is no longer just a disposal problem. It can become a shared resource. Transforming Waste to Learning Opportunities The tangrams produced through the project are distributed to children aged 4–7 at the barangay daycare center. Through hands-on play, they form animals, houses, boats, and familiar community scenes. This strengthens the kids' spatial reasoning and creativity using materials that once cluttered their surroundings. It’s a powerful metaphor. The same plastic that contributes to environmental problem can also be the solution that builds imagination and learning when placed in the right system. More importantly, the initiative keeps value within the community. The raw material is locally sourced waste. The labor and design thinking are community-driven. The beneficiaries are local children. This closes the loop not just materially, but socially. Designing for the Community At its core, The Tangram Project is about care, for both people and place. By hosting workshops that involve parents, youth volunteers, educators, and barangay leaders, Cebu Making Space demonstrates how civic spaces can function as community innovation hubs. Solutions are not imposed from outside but are co-created by those who live the reality every day. The project reframes recycling from a chore into a creative, participatory act. Residents see tangible outcomes of their waste segregation efforts. Children witness active environmental efforts. The barangay hall becomes not just an administrative office, but a design hub. More importantly, the project reframes responsibility. Instead of waiting for large-scale systems to solve Cebu’s plastic crisis, it asks: What can one barangay do? Small Systems, Big Shifts Cebu City’s plastic consumption will not disappear overnight. But barangay-level initiatives like The Tangram Project show that systemic change can start small, strategic, and replicable. When communities rethink consumption patterns within their own streets and puroks, they build cultures of accountability. When waste is seen as material for re-creation rather than disposal, circular thinking becomes embedded in daily life. The Tangram Project is not only about making toys. It is about redesigning our relationship with plastic. It is about proving that sustainability becomes powerful when it begins at home, in our own barangays, with our own hands. By focusing on barangay-scale innovation, The Tangram Project shows that sustainability doesn’t always start with policy reform or high-tech infrastructure. It can start with a table, a shredder, a 3D printed mold, and a room full of neighbors willing to rethink habits together. Photo credits to Cebu Making Space.

In the words of the late, great Teddy Co, “If Philippine Cinema is to become a dynamic social force, it can only do so by diversifying the kinds of films that it churns out. One is to move away from the congested city and look to the provinces in search of fresh new images.”  For its 15th year, the Binisaya Film Festival took that to heart, projecting this manifesto in neon Comic Sans over every screen and surface. Fans of the Binisaya movement are familiar with this flavor by now. From an impromptu karaoke session inside a movie theater to an online program entitled Saksaksinagol, Binisaya has never been one to shy away from irreverence.  Photo from Binisaya  Archives\ Here, there are no sacred cows. Playful takes on religion? This is a safe space. In “Walk with Jesus” by Redh Honoridez, a woman down on her luck finds the Son of God in the strangest of circumstances. Miko Buan Acuña likewise summons the second coming of Christ in “Maryosep” . In Ligaya Villablanca's "Padung Langit si Inday Opil” , a tragic heroine goes on a multilingual acid trip through an interfaith afterlife. The 24-hour Shootout “Diring Dapita” was an interschool omnibus film on the seven deadly sins. It ended with Lust, the winning entry from the University of San Carlos called Team O-Team with members: Simon “Batman” Tabaloc, Jose Andy Sales, Johannes Tejero, Xod Plania, Adrei Dulay, and their Coach and Instructor Kris Villarino. They tackled prevalent Gen-Z feelings of male loneliness and hugot in this surprisingly sensitive, mature and thoughtful film. Festival Director Daniell Aballe-de los Reyes adds, "The Shootout hybrid was something new so of course there were so many challenges but it was fun to see these young filmmakers flesh out their ideas, even with the limited time. It was a really great exercise in technique and storytelling". Photo from Binisaya  Archives Photo from Binisaya  Archives Two Mindanawon shorts were thematic sisters in spirit as female rage revenge fantasies: “Sa Ilalum sa Balabal sa Alitaptap” by actress-director Juvy Clarito and “When the Sun Sets Over Davao” by Adrian William Lo. The latter, a period piece that won the Audience Choice award, was ballsy in its portrayal of the Visayan settler in Mindanao. Yes, the Cebuano speaker is mocked in the capital and “imperial Manila” is the go-to enemy around these parts. But just as Cebu’s scene may seem quaint compared to NCR, next to a province like Leyte, that underdog dynamic flips. The meta-documentary “Asa Ang Mga Salida sa Leyte?” was fashioned into being because of filmic FOMO, of neighbors having it better. Co-directors Linus Masandag and Lebron Ponce ruminate on their region’s cinema, from the decaying theaters to the departure of local talent who seek greener pastures.  What then becomes of those with nowhere else to go? In Stephen Kelly Mahusay’s “dangpanan” , the city offers no safe haven to its most vulnerable denizens. In the surrealist sociopolitical critique that won Binisaya Best Short, the displaced are fed lies and cast aside, made to offer what little they have to get by. Binisaya Horizons Best Film Brownout Capital treads similar ground. In this documentary by Pabelle Manikan, we are transported to a rural outpost in Palawan that routinely experiences power outages. The neglect of a community, the negligence of authorities—these themes are unfortunately an archipelago-wide phenomenon.   Stills from Stephen Kelly's film "dangpanan"      Where programming is concerned, Binisaya is as inclusive as it is expansive. Filmmaker and curator Aiess Alonso was the pioneer who selected the first batch of Asian Shorts in 2014. Three years later, the 2017 call for submissions went global. This year’s Binisaya World was stacked with all-stars like Singaporean directing duo Lam Li Shuen and Mark Chua. They marked their festival comeback with “The Inescapable Desire of Roots” , a bizarre body horror short shot on 16mm and Super 8 film. Another returnee was Whammy Alcazaren who brought the heat with “Water Sports”, a climate change banger that won this year’s Binisaya World Best Film. Alcazaren’s “Bold Eagle” also won the same category in 2023. This plurality of perspectives didn’t just manifest in the selection of films, but also the curation of special guests for a panel talk. It began with representatives from the Film Development Council sharing their assistance programs and production grants, along with open calls for applications. From the film student to the industry practitioner, the message was loud and clear: aid exists for local filmmakers.  Director and screenwriter Arvin Belarmino’s origin story was one that some members of the audience must have resonated with. Cavite-born Belarmino used to major in Information Technology. His version of film school wasn’t conducted via classroom instruction—he honed his craft from being on set, collaborating with friends. This eventually led to his first official foray into filmmaking with Kyel (2015) . He has since built a body of work running the gamut from gritty neorealism to experimental absurdism. Hist latest short Agapito (2025) , co-directed with Kyla Romero, is a family drama doing the rounds at prestigious film festivals such as Cannes and Toronto. From there, we went behind the byline with a film critic. Jason Tan Liwag knows what the average reader is looking for with a review. Those three-out-of-five stars, thumbs up and down are seen to serve a utilitarian purpose: Is it worth the ticket expense and time? Liwag makes a case for criticism that isn’t reduced to mere consumer guide. To write about film is record-keeping. It is a conscious act of defiance against forgetting.  One of the topics touched on in the talkback was the artist's relationship with rest. The panel was transparent about their grindset. From pitching sessions to premieres, there's barely any breathing room between projects. The optional break is frequently opted out of. Regional filmmakers operate on island time, running on different Circadian rhythms. As a result, our calendars look different. We don’t have all-access passes to the same infrastructure and opportunities. In a city still cinematheque-less as of writing, there are barriers to (re)entry. And so it goes, those long bouts of inactivity in between spurts of productivity.  This is best illustrated with Binisaya’s closing film, "Pinikas" by Cris Fuego. From its pre-pandemic shoot to post-production, Pinikas took six years in total. While it would be easy to pin the delay on Fuego’s status as an engineer based overseas, distance was not the real culprit. It was a matter of finances—or the lack thereof. Life imitated art for the people behind Pinikas whose money troubles mirrored the protagonists in Pintuyan. However, the fate of Pinikas the film had a happier ending. Cast plus crew pulled through. The success story of this self-funded, self-distributed independent film shall continue.  Stills from Pinikas' official FB page This struggle is one that Binisaya as a whole knows well. Historically barebones and bootstrapped, its 15th edition was considerably much more boujee than previous iterations. The bigger budget was made apparent in the booking of a mall cineplex for four days of physical screenings and the free accommodation for out-of-town finalists. And so the spilling of tea, the sharing of beef, that summer camp camaraderie at those nightly afterparties were made a lot less insular.  What’s in store for Binisaya at 16? They always keep us guessing. Perhaps that is what brings people back for more, year in and year out. For the found family of orphans and outcasts who belong in Binisaya , rest easy. Home will always be here.  Photo from Binisaya  Archives Shout out to Binisaya Founder Keith Deligero, Festival Director Danielle Aballe-de los Reyes and members Idden de los Reyes, Remton Zuasola, Atty. Grace Lopez, and Darcy Arguedo.

When you envision the streets of Cebu, you might think of skyscrapers and sprawling malls, busy jeepney routes, and sidewalks. But tucked between these familiar landmarks are overlooked spaces like blank walls, underpasses, and alleyways, which may be mundane concrete works, but for some, they claim as their canvas. For Snafu , a Fine Arts student from the University of the Philippines Cebu and a member of The Realest Writers   (TRW), a group of Cebu-based graffiti artists and street writers, an empty wall means a potential work in the making, where urban spaces we pass by can hold more than paint, but a story to represent artistic identity. If you see a graffiti piece covering an entire wall anywhere in Cebu, featuring a skull with hands acting as its teeth and a sun on its head, you might be looking at one of Snafu’s works. This signature symbol reflects the idea that while death may be inevitable, we can make the most of our time by looking forward to better days ahead with hope in our hearts. “ Ang akong character nga gi-imbento kay mahug man jud siya’g reminder sa atoang mortality. Naay kahumanan tanan, pero ganahan sad ko magpakita nga muhatag kog hope ba. Mao na akoang character naa jud nay kalabira ug adlaw, kana, although para mucontrast sha sa symbol nga kalabera, ang adlaw maoy muhatag hope gali, ” said Snafu. [My signature character is meant to remind us of our mortality. Everything eventually comes to an end, but I also want to convey a sense of hope. That’s why my character always features a skull and a sun. The skull represents life’s end, and the sun symbolizes the hope that shines beyond it.] Inspired by local artists like Soika, he hopes to continue the legacy of Cebu street art by proving that its presence never truly fades. To achieve this, he leads a crew of street artists, mentoring newer members and aspiring artists to help shape and grow their collective. ZiJack, a member of the TRW, shared that Snafu was his mentor and the reason why he fell in love with street art. He believes that Snafu’s passion to create and inspire others goes beyond painting walls; he cultivates a strong sense of community. “ Usa na siya sa akoang maestro kay usa sad siyas magtudlo nako sa pagtira diri sa kadalanan ,” ZiJack explained. “ Makaingon jud ko na nindot gyud ni tawhana gyud mutira, basta padayon ra gyud siya sa kung unsa iyang tripping ron, naa ra gyud ko permi sa iyang kilid gyud, di na ma-wa .” [He’s one of my mentors because he’s the one who taught me how to paint street walls. I can confidently say that he’s a talented artist, and I hope he continues doing what he loves. I’ll always be by his side, supporting him every step of the way.] Snafu’s commitment to passing these values on to more artists has become a defining part of his work, ensuring that Cebu’s street art will thrive long into the future. While leading his own team, Snafu also balances life as a Fine Arts major. He shared that he initially wanted to enter UP Cebu because he hoped to show that street art, too, deserves a place in the academic landscape.  However, Snafu emphasizes that the discipline required for schoolwork is very different from that of street art. While academic work is grounded in theory and structured learning, street art demands hands-on practice, where the artist must learn mostly through personal experience. “Ang sa skwelahan man gud nga mga gama kay mostly practice pa siya nya gibahid sad mo sa ilang pamaagi. Lahi sad siya sa kining amoang pamaagi sad nga. Kasagaran gyud sa akong mga nailhan nga street artists, grafitti writers kay self-taught gyud siya tanan,” he said. [The work we do in school is mostly practice, and you’re also guided by the professors’ methods. It’s really different from our own way of creatings works in street art. Most of the street artists and graffiti writers I know are completely self-taught.] Much like his aspiration to establish a place for street art within the academe, Snafu also recognizes the need for greater public understanding that graffiti is, in fact, a legitimate and meaningful form of art. TiilxBabaxKamot: Collab with ESKAPO x SNAFU x KOMPOZTIKA Graffiti might be celebrated in big cities around the world, but in Cebu, most people still see it as an eyesore. Snafu and his crew often face suspicious stares and discouragement whenever they’re out on the streets. He shared that a lot of Filipinos think graffiti is just vandalism. “Di man jud suportado and art diri jud sa Pinas. Daghan artists, pero di namo mafeel ba. Kuwang pajud ang art spaces, so natural, mangita jud mi among space, mangita jud mig lugar kung asa mi makaexpress sa among ganahan kay wala. Minus man, minus man ang suporta jud,” he added. [Art really isn’t supported much here in the Philippines. There are plenty of artists, but you hardly feel it because there just aren’t enough art spaces. So naturally, we have to find our own spaces, we have to look for places where we can freely express what we want because there’s really none. The support is just so lacking.] Despite this, Snafu is determined to shift perceptions. He believes that by continuing to create street art, even without widespread support or recognition, they can gradually create a more inclusive and accepting view of their works. “Kuwang sad gyud ug suporta atong gobyerno sa arts… sa akoang mga gama o agi, naningkamot jud ko na maka-inspire sa uban na nindot sad ug dili ra vandal ang tag sa ato pakato, naa sad gyud ug nindot sa mata ug na’y unod,” he emphasized. [Our government really lacks support for the arts... In my work, I truly strive to inspire others and show that what we do is more than just vandalism, and that what we create can also be visually pleasing and have real substance.] He acknowledges that not everyone may appreciate their craft, but he sees street art as his way of giving back to his community and shaping the identity that colors the streets of Cebu. The next time you see graffiti art in the streets of Cebu, think of Snafu and the many artists like him, those who dedicate their time and passion to transforming blank walls into powerful stories. Now, the walls can speak and are brought to life by artists like Snafu, who give them a voice. Beyond the spray paint and bold colors lies a message of resilience, creativity, and community, proving that street art is more than mere vandalism. It’s a voice for the city and its people, a reminder that art can thrive in even the most unexpected places. Photos taken from Snafu's Official Facebook Page and this writer's archives.