Former Kadayawan sa Davao Festival Director Richard Dian Vilar posted this on his Facebook page last week: “So has street dancing already been transformed into something that is no longer really dancing but a combination of calisthenics, running, choreographed movements with props, loud, monotonous music, shouting, and dramatic gestures?”
Richard has moved back to his hometown, Butuan City, and currently heads the Tourism and Cultural Development Division there. He has more than four decades of cultural work experience as part of the award-winning Kaliwat Performing Arts Collective. He is a multi-hyphenate — an actor, singer, dancer, choreographer, director, storyteller, playwright, and set and costume designer. He was recognized in 2024 for his Outstanding Cultural Work in Theater and Storytelling.
His post articulated what I was grappling with while watching the Indak-Indak sa Kadalanan showdown last August 16, 2026 at the open field along the Coastal Road. He has put his finger on the most delicate and dangerous fault line running through modern cultural festivals — the relentless pressure to trade authenticity for spectacle.
Is our beloved Kadayawan starting to drift away from its soul?
Before anyone gets defensive — and I truly mean this as a friendly conversation, not an attack — let’s just pause and reflect.
If you have watched the Indak-Indak over the past few years, you have probably noticed something shifting. The costumes are shinier. The choreography is more athletic. The production value is through the roof. And in many ways, that is amazing. Who does not love a good show?
But somewhere along the way, we might have traded depth for dazzle. And if we are not careful, we could lose the very heart of what makes Kadayawan special.
Picture this: an elderly Bagobo woman sits on a plastic chair by the roadside, watching the street dance competition. She is the granddaughter of a datu. Her grandmother taught her the sacred steps — the slow, grounded movements that tell the story of how the first rice was planted, how the eagle was honored, how the harvest was blessed. She watches the young performers now, and she does not recognize the dance. There are backflips. There are splits. There are human pyramids and dizzying spins. The music is pounding and modern. The crowd is roaring with applause.
But where is the story? Where is the prayer?
I am not saying we should freeze Kadayawan in time. Culture is living; it breathes and changes. The young people who dance today want to feel excited, and they want to impress the audience. That is natural. But we have to ask ourselves: why has the dance become so acrobatic? The answer is simple — and a little uncomfortable.
The competition has become an arms race. Local government units and schools pour hundreds of thousands of pesos into their contingents. They hire professional choreographers who may have never spoken to a tribal elder. These choreographers are judged on “visual impact” and “degree of difficulty,” so, of course, they will pack the routine with flips and stunts. It is what wins trophies.
But trophies were never the point. The point was thanksgiving. The point was passing down stories that would otherwise be forgotten. When a dance becomes an Olympic sport, the story becomes secondary. And when the story is secondary, the culture fades. The indigenous participants, who dance the authentic steps handed down for generations, often cannot compete with trained gymnasts. They become background noise in their own celebration.
Is that what Kadayawan should be?
There will always be defenders of the spectacle. You have probably heard the arguments: “Culture must evolve! The youth will only engage if it’s exciting! We cannot dance the same steps forever!”
I agree with the spirit of that. But let’s be honest about what is happening. The acrobatic moves are not organic evolution — they are external impositions. They are driven by competition, funding, and personal ambition, not by the community’s own creative growth.
Evolution respects roots. Erosion just digs them up.
I want to be clear: I am all for innovation. I also do not think organizers and choreographers have bad intentions. I know everyone loves Kadayawan and wants it to succeed. But love sometimes needs a gentle nudge in the right direction.
So here are some thoughts for a healthier, more meaningful celebration.
First, let’s rethink the judging. What if we weighted the scores heavily toward cultural accuracy and tribal consultation? What if every contingent was required to work directly with recognized cultural bearers — elders who can vouch that the movements, costumes, and music tell the correct story? What if we penalized anachronistic acrobatics that serve no narrative purpose? This would not kill creativity; it would channel it toward something more meaningful.
Second, let’s invest in documentation and education. Our universities and cultural institutions should partner with the city government to create a living archive of the authentic dances. Film the elders. Record the chants. Transcribe the stories. This archive can serve as the gold standard for any future choreographer — a source of inspiration, not a prison.
Third, let’s bring the elders to the center of the stage again. Not as props, but as co-creators. Give them real roles in the planning, the rehearsals, and the judging. When they speak, we listen. Their wisdom is irreplaceable, their presence reminds us why we celebrate in the first place.
Fourth, let’s fund cultural integrity. The city government should allocate specific budgets for cultural preservation — stipends for tribal elders, scholarships for young indigenous dancers, and grants for research into authentic dance forms. When we invest in authenticity, we make it easier for contingents to prioritize substance over spectacle.
Kadayawan is one of the best things about Davao. It draws tourists, boosts businesses, and gives us a sense of identity that is uniquely Mindanawon. But its true value is not economic — it is spiritual and social. It is the thread that weaves our diverse communities into a single fabric. If we lose the authenticity, we lose the magic.
So let us have this conversation openly, kindly, and constructively. Let us ask ourselves: Are we celebrating the harvest, or are we just throwing a big party? Are we honoring our ancestors, or are we entertaining tourists? Are we building unity, or are we just putting on a show?
I believe we can do both — celebrate and honor, entertain and educate. But it takes intention. It takes humility. And it takes a collective commitment to put culture above competition.
Kadayawan belongs to all of us — but especially to the cultural communities whose traditions gave it life. Let us dance with them, not over them. Their voices should guide the festival. Their stories should be the headline. Let us remember that the best performance is not the one with the most flips, but the one that makes the elders nod with pride.
