The Queer Echoes in Kulintang

When I first began my deep dive into kulintang—a pre-colonial musical tradition of the Southern Philippines—I was in for a deep sound. I was searching for resonance, for connection, for truth beneath the layers of colonization, silence, and diaspora. As a Filipina and a cultural artist living in the U.S., this practice became a bridge to ancestry and a compass for identity. But what I didn’t expect, or perhaps didn’t have the words for at the time, was how many of those keeping this tradition alive were queer.

Throughout my immersive travels to kulintang communities in the Philippines—places like Maguindanao, Tawi-Tawi, Marawi—I began to notice a consistent and powerful presence behind the gongs: womxn and queer folk. In village gatherings, rituals, and living room jam sessions, it was not unusual to see a non-binary or effeminate person confidently navigating the rhythms of the kulintang, danag, agong, and dabakan. They commanded the music with grace, power, and poise. And yet, as I returned to North America and observed how kulintang has evolved here over the decades, something felt… different.

In the Filipinx/o/a diaspora, especially in earlier waves of kulintang sirvival, many of the prominent faces were male. My own husband—Papa Gongs himself—is a cis-hetero man and a dedicated ally. But he too noticed that most kulintang practitioners in North America were also male, often performing in traditional cultural troupes where women danced and men played. This binary approach felt limiting, especially when we knew, from direct experience, that the roots were far more fluid.

Where did the queer people go in these narratives? Why did their presence, so undeniable in the homeland, feel erased or overlooked here?

As I began building House of Gongs and co-creating spaces like Gongster’s Paradise and Uni at Ugat, these questions stayed with me. Over the last five editions of our festival, I’ve witnessed a quiet but powerful emergence: more womxn and queer practitioners claiming space behind the gongs. Some arrived shyly, unsure if there was a place for them. Others radiated unapologetically from the start, bringing rhythm and presence—healing, grounding, transformative.

Many of our master teachers—elders who hold vast knowledge—are queer, though it’s rarely stated aloud. In conversations and lessons, there’s a sense of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” not from shame, but from a complex mix of survival, cultural respectability, and internalized silence—echoes of Islamization, colonization, Catholic moralities, and systemic imperialism all at once. This silence has shaped how queerness shows up in the practice. It’s there, but rarely named.

Historically, two-spirited or gender-nonconforming individuals held significant spiritual and communal roles in many Indigenous societies across the world, including those in the Philippines. They were seen as mediators between worlds—carriers of balance, intuition, and insight. Colonial influence flattened this nuance into binaries, casting queerness as anomaly instead of ancestry.

I grew up in a strong allyship with my queer siblings, and it’s always struck me as problematic that their presence in these traditions goes unrecognized. Queer people have always been there. Their softness is not weakness; it is a strength that harmonizes with the intensity of the gongs. Their strength is not domination; it is a holding, a channeling of spirit, of story, of sound.

It’s vital that self-actualization is part of the practice. Because kulintang, at its core it is music, yes, but it is also identity work. It is an ancestral memory. It is bodywork. When we step behind the gongs, we’re not playing notes—we’re speaking words, affirming our place in a lineage. And for our queer practitioners, that affirmation is radical.

We continue to build inclusive spaces in the House of Gongs. We uplift queer stories in our programming, festivals, and community convenings. Because visibility matters. Because healing happens not only in the music but in the courage to be seen fully.

Kulintang is meant to be inclusive. It was always about relation, harmony, and honoring. And in these moments—when I watch a queer youth strike their first gong note with trembling hands and find confidence in their rhythm—I feel the ancestors rejoice.

To all the queerster gongsters out there: you are loved. You are seen. You are the echo and the future of this living tradition. Thank you for showing up, for claiming your space, for playing not just with technique, but with truth.

May the gongs be with you, always.