Redeeming the Sound: When Music Leads Us Back to Identity — Part 1

When a People's Music Begins to Fade

By Star Maglajos

Elingan Jana

In a small, humble, almost worn-out hut in Tawi-Tawi, we met an 89-year-old man named Elingan Jana.

He is said to be the last known maker of traditional musical instruments in the province of Tawi-Tawi.

The Evergreen Missions Team, together with our friends from MSU Tawi-Tawi, came to meet him, listen to his stories, and watch him perform the traditional music of his people.

For me, it was more than a cultural visit.

It felt like an encounter with something that needed to be remembered.

Something that needed to be redeemed.

Something that needed to be passed on.

Because traditional music is more than sound.

It carries identity.

The Sound of a People

Elingan loves to tell stories.

He would begin talking about one thing, then suddenly jump to another before finishing the first. His eyes were old, but his smile was bright.

His wife patiently helped us understand some of what he was saying. Then she handed him his old violin.

There were other instruments inside their home, but they were old and missing parts. There was also an unfinished Gabbang. The only instrument that could still be played was the violin.

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Among the Tausug and Sama communities, this instrument—commonly called biola, biyula, or biula—is used in their musical tradition. Although it is not indigenous to the region, it has become part of the traditional musical expression of Sulu.

His violin was old, but you could tell that he had treasured it. He had cared for it through the years, even replacing some of its parts when necessary.

Then he began to play.

I was fascinated.

At 89 years old, he could still hold the instrument and bring music out of it.

I had my phone camera ready because I wanted to capture the moment.

But somewhere in the middle of the piece, he shifted into another melody.

Then another.

Then he stopped.

He couldn't remember what came next.

His wife explained that Elingan has Alzheimer's disease, which has affected his memory—including his ability to remember the music he once knew so well.

But his memory is not the only thing that has changed.

Elingan can no longer make traditional instruments as he once did.

His body has become weak with age, and physical injuries he sustained over the years have permanently limited his ability to work with his hands and do the careful, demanding craftsmanship required to make these instruments.

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The knowledge is still in him.

The stories are still in him.

The memories of the instruments are still there.

But his body can no longer do what it once could.

And now even the music he carries in his memory is becoming harder for him to retrieve.

He tried again.

One note was wrong.

He stopped.

He thought.

Then tried again.

He would remember a little, play a little, stop, and try again.

Then he looked at us and smiled.

It was almost as if he was saying,

"I'm sorry. Let me try again."

I was still holding my phone, recording him.

Then our eyes met.

My tears fell.

I stopped recording and quietly turned away.

Not because the music wasn't beautiful.

But because I suddenly realized what that moment represented.

Here was a man who had carried the traditional music and craftsmanship of his people for decades.

He had made the instruments.

He had played them.

He had carried their sound.

And now, because of age, physical limitations, injuries, and the gradual loss of memory, he could no longer pass on everything he once knew in the same way.

The knowledge was sitting in front of us—but the window to pass it on was becoming smaller.

And I found myself wondering:

What happens to a people's sound when the people who carry it are no longer able to carry it?

What happens when the last person who knows how to make an instrument can no longer make it?

What happens when the last musician who knows the melodies begins to forget them?

What happens when there is no younger generation ready to receive what the older generation has carried?

That is why this moment with Elingan felt so significant to me.

It wasn't simply a beautiful encounter with an elderly musician.

It was a reminder of the urgency of redeeming traditional sound and instruments while there is still someone who can tell us how they were made, how they were played, and what they mean to the people who created them.

When Sound Disappears, Identity Can Fade

I have seen this before.

I am from the Ovu Manobo tribe of North Cotabato, and years ago I sat with some of our elders to talk about our traditional music and instruments.

I remember a Datu who was also one of the last people to know how to make and play our traditional instruments.

He wept.

The younger Ovu Manobos were no longer learning the music.

He knew that when their generation was gone, no one might be left who knew how to make the instruments or play the traditional songs.

His tears were not simply about music.

They were about identity.

Because music tells a people:

This is who we are.

This is where we came from.

This is what our ancestors carried.

This is how our people expressed joy, sorrow, celebration, grief, faith, community, and memory.

When that sound disappears, something deeper can disappear with it.

That conversation compelled us to respond.

In July 2023, One Voice Magazine, EthnoArts Philippines, The Revival Generation, and Manobisa National High School in Magpet came together to organize an EthnoArts Workshop centered on the theme “Ini Kos Konamin Tanong Buwis,” meaning “This is Our Land.”

It was a two-week gathering that brought young Ovu Manobos together with elders to learn about their identity, culture, and especially their traditional music.

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Photo courtesy of One Voice Magazine. Used with permission.

The elders carried the knowledge.

The younger generation carried the future.

We wanted to create a bridge between the two.

Less than a year after that workshop, four of those elders passed away.

Four people who carried pieces of our cultural memory were gone.

But something had changed.

There were now young people who knew how to play the instruments they had learned from their elders.

Someone was continuing the melody of our tribe's legacy.

That experience has stayed with me.

So when I met Elingan in Tawi-Tawi, I immediately saw the urgency.

We cannot wait until the last musician is gone before we decide that the music matters.

We cannot wait until the last instrument disappears before we begin asking how it was made.

We cannot wait until the last elder is gone before we start listening.

The time to redeem the sound is while there is still someone who can teach us.

And perhaps that is why God allowed us to meet Elingan.

Perhaps his story is not simply a story about something being lost.

Perhaps it is an invitation to help a new generation recover something precious.

There is still a sound to redeem.

There are still instruments to rediscover.

There are still elders to listen to.

And there are still young people who can carry the sound forward.

This is only the beginning of the story.

In Part 2, I want to share why we believe redeeming traditional instruments is more than cultural preservation—and how a traditional instrument can become a bridge to identity, relationship, and ultimately the Gospel.