Read also: Locals fight back against growing Zionism in Siargao

MANILA — “Siargao now is being looked at like a party place, with a laidback lifestyle. But for me, it’s so much more than that”, said 27-year-old Maria Tokong, a proud Siargaonon in a Facebook post. “This island is my home, my whole life. We want to preserve our identity and culture while preparing the next generation to carry it forward. It’s the only home we have.”

Maria is a mother, musician, and community events organizer who works in local bars and establishments—spaces now central to the island’s nightlife. She grew up selling fish with her family and traces her roots to the Mamanwa, an Indigenous group whose traditions have faded over time. “Culturally, we’ve been reshaped,” she reflected. 

“There’s been so much Western influence, especially with tourism and migrants coming in. Our language is changing—kids speak English, Cebuano—it’s all mixed now. But the deeper, ancestral influence is still there. I came from Mamanwa. I want that to be recognized again.”

In early July, Maria found herself in the public eye after a Facebook post she wrote on July 4 went viral. In it, she voiced concern over what she described as the infiltration of Israeli businesses and communities in Siargao, raising questions about land ownership, cultural displacement, and the island’s future. The post drew both support and backlash, but for Maria, it was a wakeup call to how quickly the island’s identity is shifting. 

“Before all this, we were just a quiet island—we weren’t ready for this kind of attention. But we’re still here, and we’re trying to re-cultivate who we are for the next generation,” she said.

The government proudly touts its success in boosting tourism and attracting foreign investors to Siargao, framing it as a path to progress. But on the ground, the reality for many locals is far more complex. For some, tourism has indeed opened doors. “Tourism is giving opportunity, a better life—we’re able to visit school,” Maria said. 

Yet these gains are shadowed by deeper consequences. “The effects of the influx to communities is displacement. What is tourism if it’s not going to be controlled? Locals might be pushed away. Our identity should still be there, should be upheld,” she said.

Fishing remains the main source of livelihood for many, alongside work as tuk-tuk drivers, surfing instructors, and tour guides. Others have found income in tattoo shops or by renting out motorbikes. Still, even with the economic activities brought by tourism, daily survival remains a struggle. 

In Surigao del Norte—the province that includes Siargao—the daily minimum wage under the Regional Tripartite Wages and Productivity Board (RTWPB-CARAGA) is P435 for non-agricultural, service, retail, and manufacturing workers, effective May 1, 2024. This followed a two-phase increase from P415 in January. Domestic helpers now receive P6,000 per month, up from P5,000, starting January 2 this year. These are the prevailing rates for workers on the island, but Maria said it’s barely enough to keep up. “Basic salary is below minimum wage. I’m lucky that my income is enough—but the basic needs are not met by the majority.”

Siargaonons have always been resilient but resilience shouldn’t mean having to survive on what little is left after the tourists leave. As the cost of living continues to rise and land becomes increasingly commodified, locals are beginning to question who truly benefits from the island’s development. 

Maria, like many others, believes that what Siargaonons need is more than opportunity. They need the chance to build a life that sustains them—one that doesn’t depend entirely on the ebb and flow of tourism. 

“We can’t rely on tourism forever,” she said. (AMU, RVO)