The last time I wore a Barong, part of the Philippines’ national dress, I was a child. Then three years ago, I happened across a boutique Barong store while shopping in one of Manila’s many malls. It was a rarity to find back home in Australia, so this was my chance to try one on. The hand woven fibres made from native Philippine red pineapple leaves, known as piña, draped stiffly over my shoulders in the hot changing room. The light-weight sheerness of the garment allowed my sweaty body to breathe. Elegant embroidery decorated the front, which looked silly against my holiday uniform of birkenstocks and running shorts. I felt equal parts ridiculous and special.
2018 marked the first time I had travelled to the Philippines on my own accord. I wasn’t dragged by my parents, nor was I there to attend a wedding or funeral. While I travelled for the food and the beaches, this trip correlated with a growing curiosity towards my Filipino identity. Glancing at my reflection wearing the near-opaque, long-sleeved formal shift, facilitated a sense of cultural connection – more than a pair of thongs, board shorts and a bintang singlet ever did.
While I travelled for the food and the beaches, this trip correlated with a growing curiosity towards my Filipino identity.
The Barong is an important marker of Filipino national identity, constructed from a blend of pre-colonial and Spanish-colonial era clothing. Typically worn by men, the Barong is reserved for formal occasions such as weddings and funerals, and acts as the counterpart for the effeminate or Filipiniana. The textiles are most commonly made out of silk, polyester and pineapple and banana leaves. The Barong is traditionally worn on top of an undershirt due to its sheer construction, with trousers and dress shoes. It’s characterised by elements such as buttons that travel half way down, slits on each side, embroidery and a lack of pockets.
While versions of the Barong have been worn since pre-colonisation, it was officially considered a national dress by then president Ferdinand Marcos in 1975. However, Ramon Magsaysay popularised the Barong in 1953 after being the first president to wear one at their inauguration. In a time where clothing was heavily influenced by the West, Magsaysay’s choice of attire symbolised a deliberate separation from the nation’s colonial past, instead returning to a sense of national identity and independence.
As a second-generation Filipino-Australian, the Barong initiates a means to cultural expression and connection.
To an extent, this reflects my own relationship between the traditional shirt and my sense of connection to the Philippines. As a second-generation Filipino-Australian, the Barong initiates a means to cultural expression and connection. A Barong on my body, walking on the streets of Sydney, embodies the reclamation of my roots and the resistance of colonialism.
In my present-day wardrobe, you can find two delicately placed Barongs hanging among various business and formal shirts. One was gifted to me by my parents, the same day I was to wear it during my brother’s wedding ceremony. The other, a lucky op-shop find. The one gifted by my parents was unconventional in its copper coloured threads – a fusion of polyester and silk. Golden embroidery delicately laced along the front, collar and cuffs, tracing geometric shapes along with leaves and vines.
In the summer of last year my brother married his wife, my sister-in-law, twice. As the bride was Lao-Australian, it was required that the couple have a customary Lao wedding ceremony. Due to my family’s Catholic up-bringing, they also married in a church the following week. The celebrants and parents on each side donned traditional Lao garments, which were beautiful, elegant, colourful and made out of silk. My other brother and I, however, wore Barongs for the ceremony to represent our side of the family’s heritage – signifying the marriage of cultures.
In a society where the impacts of assimilation influence the way in which migrants behave, eat, work, speak and dress, the Lao wedding ceremony created an environment that removed those pressures. It welcomed celebrants and guests to return to custom and tradition, to adorn their bodies with fabrics that connect them to their ancestors, and to reflect on the evolving nature of the Asian-Australian identity.
I wore a Barong to my last birthday, attempting to conjure those same feelings from the wedding. It was a rather informal celebration where I was joined by my family and partner at a trendy restaurant in Sydney’s Inner West. My family members appeared shocked and entertained by my choice of outfit. My brothers jokingly taunted me, just as I had anticipated. My lola and my parents seemed amused and proud, not quite used to the idea of a birthday Barong. It certainly garnered side-glances from the restaurant’s other patrons and employees. But what use is a beautiful Barong being chewed away by moths, waiting until someone dies or decides to tie the knot?
Martyn Reyes. Source: Supplied
Though I may have appeared slightly out of place, I deliberately wanted to pay tribute, embrace and participate in the cultural practice that I had otherwise neglected. I felt that by wearing the Barong, its meanings and histories were transposed onto my body — letting me reclaim my position as a second-generation Filipino living in Australia.
It had roughly been the same time I created an artwork interrogating the repercussions of colonialism on the passing down of language. I had also just finished writing an essay centering on my lola’s wisdom regarding Filipino mythology. It only seemed fitting to physically honour my culture as I did in my writing and artistic practice. To stand out, wearing a marker of my identity, opposed the very idea of assimilation – which was exactly what I wanted to achieve. I felt as precious as the native materials that fabricate the shirt and as powerful as my ancestors who donned the Barong before me.
