“Bakit ang mahal?”

It is a question I’ve heard many times when people see the price of a handwoven Philippine textile. And to be honest, I’ve said it myself: “Ang mahal!”

There are many times when I see a beautiful handwoven piece, admire its colors and craftsmanship, appreciate the story behind it, and still have to walk away because I simply cannot afford it.

But years of traveling to communities where traditional crafts are practiced have changed the way I look at that price. I have visited weaving communities in Mindanao, the Visayas and Luzon, sat beside weavers, watched threads being counted and arranged, and listened to stories of skills passed from one generation to another.

Some of these encounters have been with National Living Treasures, or Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan (GAMABA) awardees. Others have been with younger weavers continuing the work of those who came before them.

The textiles and techniques are different, but they have taught me the same thing: you cannot understand the value of a handwoven textile by looking at the finished piece alone.

Generations of knowledge

In Davao del Sur, I visited the Bagobo-Tagabawa community and saw the Inab’l weaving tradition up close. The community carries the legacy of Salinta Monon, the master weaver who received the GAMABA award in 1998 for her dedication to weaving and passing her skills to the next generation.

Monon died in 2009, but her knowledge continues through her granddaughter, Lovelove Monon, and other women weavers, including Estela Barra, her first student. During our visit, they demonstrated the Bagobo-Ikat or Inab’l textile process and the making of the Tangkulo headwear.

What I saw was the value of knowledge accumulated over generations. The finished textile may take hours to make, but the skill behind it took years, and in many cases generations, to learn.

Materials from the land

In South Cotabato, I encountered another textile tradition through the Blaan community and their tabih.

The Blaan use natural dyes made from endemic plants to create the colors of their textiles. During our visit, we watched weaving and embroidery inside the Gumne, a traditional Blaan house.

The tradition carries the legacy of Fu Yabing Masalon Dulo, a GAMABA awardee and master weaver and dyer credited with preserving Blaan mabal tabih ikat weaving and dyeing. Her grandson, Arthur Gulili, continues that work through a weaving center, the FUYA brand and a homestay.

The price of the textile also reflects what comes before the weaving: the materials, the preparation and the knowledge of how to turn what comes from the land into color and cloth.

Labor and precision

In Basilan, I saw just how much manual work can be hidden in a finished textile.

At a weaving center in Lamitan City, I met Ambalang Ausalin, or Apuh Ambalang, a Yakan tennun tapestry weaver and GAMABA awardee. Women and children at the center were working on colorful textiles with intricate designs.

The process begins with paghani, or warping, where threads are pulled and evenly placed through a bamboo comb. Pagpeneh follows, with the design created by counting loom threads and bundling vertical rows. Only then does magtennun, the actual weaving, begin on a backstrap tension loom.

Watching the process made me realize how much labor is hidden in the finished design. What looks like a pattern on the cloth is the result of careful counting, positioning and weaving.

A livelihood

In Abra, I visited Leila’s Loomweaving, also known as Mang Abel ti Abra, a cooperative composed mostly of mothers who are both weavers and farmers. The group preserves traditional handweaving techniques including Binakol, Kantarines and Tiniri.

We watched the women and their young apprentices weave, and we bought some of their handwoven creations.

The price pays for skilled labor. It can also help keep weaving viable as a livelihood, allowing artisans to continue practicing the craft instead of abandoning it.

More than a piece of cloth

My experiences have also shown me that these weaves carry the identity of the communities that created them and, in many cases, form part of our broader Filipino identity.

In Lake Sebu, I had the privilege of meeting Lang Dulay, the T’boli traditional weaver credited with preserving the T’nalak, a dyed abaca fabric. Visiting her workshop allowed me to see the person and knowledge behind a textile tradition I had previously known mainly through the finished cloth.

In Iloilo, I also became close to members of the Panay-Bukidnon community. I first met Federico Caballero, a Panay-Bukidnon epic chanter and GAMABA awardee, in Calinog. Years later, TREK, the volunteer organization I co-founded, returned to the community for an outreach, donating sewing machines, cloth and threads.

My connection with the community also gave me a deeper appreciation for panubok, the traditional embroidery of the Panay-Bukidnon. Keeping the craft alive is also about keeping the identity and traditions of the community alive.

This is what makes traditional textiles different from mass-produced fabric. They carry stories, practices and identities that have been passed down through generations.

Worth Every Thread

These are the things I now see when I look at a handwoven textile: the knowledge behind it, the materials, the labor, the livelihood it provides and the cultural identity it carries.

Like a painting or sculpture, a handwoven piece can be an expression of art, culture and identity, while also supporting the people who keep the tradition alive.

It is this appreciation for the people, skills and stories behind Philippine textiles that HABI: The Philippine Textile Council seeks to deepen through the Likhang HABI Market Fair.

Now on its 16th year, the fair returns to SPACE at One Ayala from October 9 to 11, 2026, with the theme “Worth Every Thread.” It brings together weavers, artisans, designers, makers and textile advocates to highlight the work and traditions behind Philippine textiles.

The fair will also feature Kwentong Kultura talks, documentary screenings and talkbacks, exhibits, workshops and weaving competitions.

For me, understanding what goes into each piece makes the question “Bakit ang mahal?” a little easier to answer.