By Anjelika Gentugaya

By Reign Querido

It’s dark. So very dark. 

Metal bars. Full of them, stacked to the brim, used as scaffolds. 

There’s a thump. That retched thump. A beat felt through the heart. A drum beat echoed in the theater.

A tune. Plucked on the strings of a guitar. Characters lined up on the sides of the seats. Singing at the top of their lungs.

Then comes the red. That’s what hugs their faces. A bright, illuminating light, so red and so vivid. A light that engulfed Tanghalang Pagsanghan. A light manifesting the trial of a pity — a trial of what is seen to be an act of rebellion.

Rebellion or simply solicitude? That’s the dilemma, isn’t it? To be or not to be, undermine the system or succumb to it, care for the child or abandon its existence — Be like Mang Serapio or condemn him for his virtuous sins. 

Very much so, Dulaang Sibol becomes a reflection of the very dilemma one would face. With five shows adorning Tanghalang Pagsanghan this March 21, 27, and 28, “Ang Paglilitis ni Mang Serapio” covers what we believe to be the enigma of the society we live in. Mang Serapio, blinded not only literally but also by the circumstances forced upon him, becomes a figure shaped by a prosecution long before he is given a chance to defend himself. As the curtain closes, what really encapsulated this whole play? 

Solitude Within the Script

Sat somewhere in the plethora of places found in Ateneo de Manila University, Paul Dumol wrote what today would be known as one of the first Philippine modernist plays. A satirical but tragic, “Ang Paglilitis ni Mang Serapio” walks on the streets of injustice and exploitation. In a world controlled by the Federation, beggars who are seen as unholy are punished likewise. The Judge stands atop, and the crippled stay below. And in this place, at age 17, Dumol created the idea of Mang Serapio, a seemingly innocent beggar taken for trial by the Federation due to his immoral sin: taking care of a child named Sol.

Sol, Sol, Sol. A three-letter name spoken in ranges of whispers and shouts not only by Mang Serapio himself but by the two interrogaters named Una at Ikalawang Tagapagtanong as well. Sol, Sol, Sol. A child spied and gossiped about by the three infamous Witnesses. Sol, Sol, Sol. A child deemed as a misuse of funds, a child deemed as nothing but a crime by the Judge himself. Mang Serapio is then stuck in the predicament — relinquishing the past of his dead wife and alive child, or retaining his dignity and standing tall? As the story unfolds, Dumol’s play puts a stop to this trouble, because lo and behold, Sol, Mang Serapio’s pride and demise, is revealed to be a doll. 

A doll, something that is enough to blind him. A doll, something so unholy to the Federation. A doll, something that, amidst all, stayed in the arms of Mang Serapio. As the play ends and the cast bows, the audience is left to wonder over the unsettling image of how this very oppression cracks open to the very society one lives in. In the end, one is left to also wonder what Dulaang Sibol comes to be, what it stands for, and what it truly is behind the curtains. 

The Call to Come Back 

But really, one doesn’t have to peek behind the velvet curtains of what to be is the production of the whole play. Ali Figueroa, an alumnus of Batch 1994 and who played the Judge, revealed after the show just how many alumni cast members graced the stage. With alternating casts for every show and a production team ranging from 9th graders to seniors, now and then, Dulaang Sibol members have all come as one to make this production possible.

“Actually, this has been an ongoing discussion ever since I graduated from ASHS,” Kaiser Cortina, an alumnus of not only Batch 2024 but also a consistent Dulaang Sibol member, shared. What seems to be a two-year discussion of the play with an alumni cast finally came to life. The question then lies, why do they come back for this play? Is it because of the story? The production? The costumes? Or perhaps, the lesson within it? “Ever since we staged Serapio in 2023, I fell in love with the play and its message. The text being a passion play relevant to our society, while having been used as a form of protest during the Marcos Regime always drew me close to it,” Cortina voiced out. Their returns, just like Cortina’s, really aren’t just for the stage, because with every dialogue, there’s always a truth demanded to be told – the truth they came back for. 

This very truth in theatre is also what drew Gail Majomoc, an alumnus from Batch 2024, in. Not only does she miss theatre itself, but she also wants to be of service in the foundation of turning the show into an annual play every Lenten season. One of the things that also made this truth so easy to come back to is that it allowed her to work with the newer batches and how tight-knit the community is — a gathering of friends, so to speak. “They’re all so amazing and passionate in everything they do. And kahit ilang batch na ‘yung dumaan, marami na ring nagbago sa loob ng Sibol, pero ramdam mo pa ring they’re not just members of a highschool org — they’re a group of friends.”  A mix of alumni, a couple of graduating students, and junior high pupils, this very group is what made these alumni come back. Without its relevancy and connection, Sibol and the play itself wouldn’t be the same. That’s what makes the production great — their passion, their willingness to be part of it once again, and just how fitting it is to real life. 

Bringing Serapio to Life

With hectic schedules and an even more hectic rehearsal schedule, this production wasn’t given the most time to be rehearsed. Table and character work was limited, so the characterization built by one’s fervor was done on their own time. Cortina, who played Mang Serapio, focused on lending his body to the character, giving way to the jarring acts of the interrogators. “I found that Serapio was definitely way older than I am, and thus has had much experience in life than I have…I spent hours shifting and morphing my body and face to create a character that felt jaded, disheveled, and weak in an attempt to make the reveal so much more absurd.” Even with the absurdity of the act itself, this is what he found to be the most difficult. Why? Because that very absurdity he wanted to reveal is love. A love that is so ludicrous that it’s hard to find in the moments we lived in, a love that is so excessive that Cortina found a bit of difficulty in raising his stakes as an actor in order to deserve the climax of the play. That itself shows how much passion there really is to bring Serapio to life. 

With alternating cast members, another actor brought Serapio to life. Hugo Ducusin, a grade 12 student graduating this year, finds the act of understanding to be the most challenging. With first impressions of Mang Serapio as mentally ill and a pitiful victim, Ducusin saw Serapio’s oppression as the center. However, in his words, Mang Serapio has always been a passion play at its core, and so, the character warps into another version. “In our version, Serapio’s choice to love in the face of hopelessness and oppression cracks the foundation of the Federasyon. That is why we liken him to Jesus; his story becomes one of victory and hope.” Serapio’s pitiful arc is what makes it difficult to mirror oneself to the hardships of a character that is different from what we normally see. With this, Ducusin sees this as their job to— “Make our audience experience and understand the world of the play in which we inhabit.” To feel what Mang Serapio feels, to see the love, to share a story of victory, that is what Ducusin wants the audience to experience.

A stage actor, with a purpose to bring the story not just to life but to embed their understanding of the very character they narrate, is what truly makes a production come alive. Majomoc, taking the role of the Unang Tagapagtanong, feels the heavy weight of the interrogator’s character. As she embodies what seems to be nothing but a heartless robe, she sees her own reflection as otherwise. “I’d argue, she actually believed in Serapio. Pero, wala sa kaniya ‘yung lakas at pribilehiyo to break free from the system dahil she worked hard to get there na, eh. She’s next na to Hukom,” She pondered. This argument is what made it challenging for her because this role is a box full of paradoxes. Unang Tagapagtanong is powerful, yes, but powerless in the moments covered by her sleeves. This is where Majomoc’s artistry comes in — to fight the right balance; not too weak nor too strong. “Kailangang katakutan ka kapag nasa paglilitis ka, pero kapag umalis na lahat ng tao, katulad mo lang din sila — nagmamahal lang din.” That is, to her, the framework of her character. Amidst the facade, there is still love.

Dulaang Sibol at its Core

The question then lies again, why do they come back for this play? Is it because of the story? The production? The costumes? The lesson? Or perhaps, the very people who complete Dulaang Sibol? Much like the audience who continues to sit on the folded seats of the theater, Dulaang Sibol will always come back because, quite frankly, that is their home. As the Sibol’s founder, Mr. Onofre “Pagsi” Pagsanghan, once said, “I find theatre to be an outstandingly humanizing experience.” That very humaneness of being in theater is Dulaang Sibol at its core.

Much like Cortina, who was a member since 7th grade, he spent all his high school years hearing “Stage left!” and sitting in the front during mass. These learning and crafting taught him to become who he is today. Stories like “Ang Paglilitis ni Mang Serapio,” who taught him how love can be the most liberating act we can do, molded him greatly into the person he stands to be. That’s what makes Sibol truly wonderful. “I will forever be grateful for my time in that organization. Besides this, Jesus Christ always loved children and Sibol has always been the place where Sibolistas can come back and shroud themselves in the vigor and wonder of youth.” It’s a home that they will never truly outgrow — a home they can always run back into. 

Nevertheless, graduating this year does not mean that he is graduating in the home of Sibol because even with a toga on, you’re never really out of this community. Between the stage lights and wooden floor, Ducusin can never really get Sibol out of his life. “That’s why the judge’s line—’Kamatayan lamang ang makapagliligtas sa iyo kapag sumali ka sa federasyong ito’ — is always so funny to me, because as a Sibolista, it’s true.” This is also one of the reasons why the play represents the very essence of Sibol. “We often call it the ‘most Sibol’ play, because it is the best representation (in our repertoire) of the Sibolista ideal: to love life and love others recklessly,” Ducusin added. Dulaang Sibol, at its core, is too special for its members to let go fully. An organization like no other will always be a home. 

Dark? No. It’s brighter than ever. 

Metal bars. The scaffolds are still scattered. 

That thump stopped. Everyone is standing. Their hands are up in the air.

A tune. A tune plays again, calloused fingers playing the guitar.

The red light. Or is it still red? It’s blue, a bit purple in its edges. But no matter how bright it is, it never illuminates in the actors’ faces. Their faces are full of pride and joy.

Rebellion? No. A dilemma? An oppression, more like. That’s how “Ang Paglilitis ni Mang Serapio” ended. The actors bowing, the production signing off. Even then, the play tells us one thing: to love. To love recklessly, even with uncertainty. To love absurdly, even when it’s liberating. Much like Dulaang Sibol, which, for 70 years, has honed the passion of every actor and has become a home for love. Like Mang Serapio in the eyes of his defiance, Sibol teaches its members and audience that love, in all its contradictions, is worth choosing over and over again. That alone is our trial, to love, despite everything.