Deep in the highlands of Lanao del Sur, seventy-year-old master weaver Bai Aminah Manding sits before a wooden loom that has been in her family for four generations. The pattern she is weaving — an intricate geometric design called okir — carries within it the cosmology of the Maranao people, a visual language that predates the Spanish colonial era by centuries.
For much of the twentieth century, this language was in danger of being lost. The disruptions of conflict, displacement, and the seductive pull of factory-made textiles had driven many young Maranao away from the loom. But something remarkable has happened in recent years: the ancient craft is coming back, and it's coming back with force.
"My granddaughter asked me to teach her," Manding says, smoothing a length of finished malong across her knee. "She told me she saw our patterns on a dress at a fashion show in Milan. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry."
The Milan moment she refers to was a collection by Filipino-American designer Mak Tumang, who collaborated with Maranao weavers to bring traditional T'nalak and malong fabrics to international runways. The collaboration was a turning point — it put a global spotlight on textiles that had previously been known only to collectors and anthropologists.
Since then, demand for authentic Mindanao weaves has surged. A growing network of NGOs, government agencies, and private social enterprises is working to connect weavers directly with global markets, cutting out middlemen and ensuring that artisans receive fair compensation for their extraordinary skill.
In Cotabato City, the Bangsamoro Weavers Collective now employs over 400 weavers across twelve municipalities. Each piece they produce takes between three days and three weeks to complete, depending on complexity, and sells for prices that reflect the labor and artistry involved. International buyers from Japan, South Korea, and Europe have become regular customers.
The revival is not without its tensions. Younger weavers are experimenting with contemporary color palettes and pattern combinations that traditionalists sometimes view with skepticism. But even the elders seem to recognize that adaptation is the price of survival.
"The patterns are sacred," says cultural heritage advocate Sitti Djalia Turabin-Hataman, who has spent two decades documenting Mindanao's textile traditions. "But the tradition has always evolved. Every generation adds something. That's how it stays alive."
