Hearing a stranger speak my mother tongue feels like home

My ears perked up. I heard a young guy and his female friend conversing in Filipino. There was a liberation, that no one around them could understand what they were saying.

Maida at the Orient Express.

Perhaps, they too were delighted and surprised to see someone from their home country in this remote paradise destination. Source: Supplied

One afternoon when days seemed to melt into another in the middle of Melbourne’s lockdown, I walked down to the Yarra River. It was late in the afternoon, just before dusk. I was trying to soak up the last bit of daylight to lift up my sagging spirits. Then, my ears perked up. I heard a young guy and his female friend conversing in Filipino. Their conversation flowed smoothly, as they spoke in their mother tongue. There was a liberation, that no one around them could understand what they were saying.

They freely talked about work and then the touchy subject of rent. With no reservations, they shared how each one paid. I was tempted to say, “Uy, Pilipino din ako.” (I’m Filipino, too). But revealing my identity would have ruined the moment. For in that moment, they felt a certain privacy speaking in their mother tongue. While I didn’t excitedly join in a Filipino conversation, when travelling solo abroad, hearing people speak Filipino I would introduce myself and join in the conversation.
Maida on a lockdown walk in Melbourne.
Maida on a lockdown walk in Melbourne. Source: Supplied
Over 10 years ago, I found myself lost in the streets of Hong Kong. I had just finished a work interview and just desperately wanted to make it back to my hotel. Bubbling with excitement, a group of Filipinos laughing and talking caught my attention. Hearing my language spoken, I was relieved. I relaxed and asked in Filipino how to get to my hotel. After asking why I was in Hong Kong and where I was from in the Philippines, they pointed me to the right direction to get to my hotel. Before we parted they asked if I was the reporter on TV. I smiled and politely said, “No,” but still they insisted they get a photo with me. I obliged and posed with them for a few photos.
Bubbling with excitement, a group of Filipinos laughing and talking caught my attention. Hearing my language spoken, I was relieved.
Once, I was on a media trip to Redang, an island off the east coast of Malaysia. I walked by the beach with an international group of journalists. As we walked along the beach under the stars on that balmy night, a Filipino band played in one of the resorts. Serenading a small group of resort guests with a Filipino love song, my ears perked up to hear my language in a remote island destination in Malaysia. Then the unexpected happened. I impulsively shouted, “Pilipina din ako.” (I’m also a Filipina). They asked me to come join them on stage and sing with them. Perhaps, they too were delighted and surprised to see someone from their home country in this remote paradise destination. I boldly joined them on stage and sang a few lines from the song. I walked away feeling connected to them. No names or stories were shared. But in that very moment my mother tongue connected me with fellow Filipinos. Even if we were all far away from home, somehow we felt at home for a few minutes singing a ballad in Filipino.
Maida outside the Orient Express.
Maida outside the Orient Express. Source: Supplied
Hearing a Japanese person speak, or an Indonesian speak, or a Spanish person speak, I can identify the language, but my eyes and heart don’t perk up. I wonder what other cultures feel when they hear their mother tongue spoken when they are far away from home.

There is something disarming about hearing our mother tongue spoken abroad. It is familiar. The words, the tone, the intonation, and the emotions are all distinctly recognisable. Sometimes visual cues fail me. I may mistake a Thai or Indonesian for a Filipino. But once they open their mouths and I hear the language spoken, then I am certain. Without so many words spoken, my mother tongue instantly conveys, “Ako ay iyong kababayan (I am your countryman).”

It immediately sends the message that we may be strangers, but you and I share the same culture. We come from the same place. It is odd. In an instant, I suddenly I feel heard, seen and understood by a stranger. It is disarming how something so subtle can evoke so much feelings, heightened only when you find yourself abroad.

Maida Pineda is a freelance food and travel writer, and author of two books. Follow her on IG at or Facebook at .


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4 min read
Published 28 February 2022 10:20am
Updated 28 February 2022 4:36pm
By Maida Pineda

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