A paradox lies at the heart of Metro Manila. While a language audit suggests the metropolis is home to at least 217 languages, some of the country’s Indigenous and regional languages are fading.

As a member of the Karay-a ethnolinguistic group, I know what disappears when a language weakens. Words are lost, along with songs, rituals, humor, ecological knowledge, family histories, and unique ways of seeing the world. When a language falls silent, an archive burns without smoke.

This is not only a cultural emergency; it is a democratic one.

Democracy depends on citizens understanding what is done in their name. Journalism helps people evaluate leaders, follow public spending, prepare for disasters, defend their rights, and join debate. Information is not genuinely public when it is available only in languages many citizens do not fully command.

The Philippines, home to roughly 117 million people, hosts around 175 living Indigenous languages, dozens of which are endangered. Yet Filipino and English dominate education, government, and mass media. From classrooms to courtrooms, these languages determine who can participate confidently and who must struggle through unfamiliar vocabulary.

This imbalance sends a message: Local languages belong at home, while the languages of power belong in public life.

That message carries consequences. A farmer may hear about a new agricultural policy without understanding its technical terms. An Indigenous community may receive news about mining or land disputes in a language that fails to express its relationship with the land. During typhoons, health emergencies, or elections, unclear information becomes dangerous, leading people toward rumors or misleading social media posts.

Bridging the democratic gap

Journalism in local languages helps close this democratic gap. It does more than translate reports produced in Manila word for word; it allows journalists to ask different questions, recognize local priorities, and explain national events through community experience. Reports in Cebuano, Hiligaynon, Bikol, Waray, Ilocano, Kapampangan, or Kinaray-a carry meanings and concerns that disappear in a standardised national version.

This conviction led to the founding of Paraluman News. Access to information should not depend on whether someone speaks the language of institutions, elites, or major newsrooms. Journalism must enter communities, listen carefully, and communicate in ways people recognise as their own.

Young Filipinos are often treated merely as consumers of technology, but they can become reporters, translators, editors, community historians, and media innovators. They move across languages, platforms, and cultural spaces, understanding how a story travels from a barangay conversation to a group chat, a podcast, or a national debate.

With training, trust, and resources, young people can lead the revival of local language journalism. They can record the stories of elders, produce news videos in regional languages, build digital archives, and explain public policy in forms their communities can use.

Strengthening public trust

Metro Manila reveals both the promise and peril of multilingual life. In markets, schools, and online spaces, Kapampangan, Pangasinan, Chavacano, Hokkien, Taglish, and many other languages meet and evolve. Migration creates pressure to abandon the mother tongue, while regional accents are mocked as provincial, forcing speakers to flatten their speech to sound acceptable.

Newsrooms can reinforce this hierarchy or challenge it. They should invest in reporters, editors, broadcasters, and community correspondents who work in local and Indigenous languages as part of daily public interest journalism, rather than an occasional heritage feature. Community radio, regional newspapers, podcasts, and digital channels deserve sustained support, while universities must train multilingual journalists.

Supporting local language journalism is an investment in informed citizenship, public trust, and equal participation. A democracy cannot claim to include everyone while requiring millions of people to leave their strongest language at the door.

On World News Day (September 28), the right to know includes the right to understand. Journalism fulfills its democratic purpose only when people can hear the truth, question power, and imagine their future in a language that feels like their own.

This article is shared to mark World News Day, a worldwide campaign highlighting the essential role of journalism in providing facts and clarity. This opinion piece was commissioned as part of the World News Day campaign, a worldwide campaign highlighting the essential role of journalism in providing facts and clarity.

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