LOUIS, MISSOURI — When I was six years old, my mother sat me down one humid afternoon, her belly round with the promise of my soon-to-arrive baby brother. Braiding my hair, looked into my wide, expectant eyes, and said, “You are about to become a ‘manang.’” The word rolled off her tongue with reverence.
Manang—elder sister. A title of respect, a role steeped in responsibility. I remember straightening my spine, puffing out my tiny chest, already feeling the weight of my new position in the family. It was not just a word; it was a calling. It meant setting an example, looking after someone more vulnerable, and, above all, embodying a quiet strength.
For most of my life, manang meant precisely this: The guiding presence of an older sister, a matriarchal figure in the making. In the Ilocano and Ilonggo traditions of the Philippines, where I grew up, it was a term of both endearment and duty. My own childhood was shaped by manangs—those fiercely protective, endlessly loving women who stood as pillars in the family, dispensing wisdom as easily as they doled out spoonfuls of warm bas-uy.
So imagine my surprise when, many years later, in a remote village in Sarawak, Malaysia, I heard the word manang again, only to find that it carried a completely different meaning.
I had been wandering through Malaysia, drawn to its emerald jungles and mist-laced rivers, when I came across a local elder who was introduced to me as a manang. He was not an older sister, nor a matriarch, but a healer—a shaman, an intermediary between the physical and spiritual worlds. In the Iban tradition, a manang is someone who walks between realms, interpreting dreams, curing ailments, and guiding souls. Their wisdom is not only familial but cosmic, a force that binds together the seen and the unseen.
The revelation startled me. How could the same word mean two entirely different things? And yet, as I stood there, watching the manang perform a healing ritual, a slow recognition stirred within me. The two meanings were not so different after all.
Both versions of manang are guardians in their own right. Whether through whispered lullabies or sacred incantations, through midnight fevers soothed by cool hands or spirits pacified by ancestral rites, both are keepers of wisdom and protectors of life. A manang, whether in the Philippine archipelago or the heart of Borneo, is someone who holds things together—someone who steps into the breach and offers comfort, healing, and guidance.
I think back to my childhood, to the moment I became a manang myself. At first, it was a simple, earthly thing—helping my brother tie his shoelaces, walking him to school, shielding him from neighborhood bullies. But over time, it became something more. I was his compass, his first source of advice on love and heartbreak, his reminder that no matter where he went, someone was always rooting for him. I was, in a way, his healer—tending to the unseen bruises of life, the quiet aches of growing up.
That role of being a manang extended far beyond my family. In school, as a leader in the Student Government, I often found myself naturally stepping into the role of an older sister to my younger teammates—mentoring them, guiding them through challenges, and making sure they felt supported. I was the one they turned to when they needed advice, a pep talk before a big event, or simply a reassuring presence in the chaos of student life.
Later, in the workplace, I found myself playing that same role again. Whether in the boardroom or on the ground, I became a manang to my team—championing their ideas, helping them navigate difficult situations, and reminding them of their strengths when they doubted themselves. I realized that being a manang was not just about age or familial ties; it was about stepping up to be the steadying force in someone else’s journey. It was about leadership rooted in care.
And now, standing before the manang of Sarawak, I understood my title in a new light. To be a manang is to be someone who holds space for others, who channels something beyond themselves—be it love, wisdom, or an ancient connection to something greater. It is both a privilege and a lifelong responsibility.
Language is truly a funny thing. Words travel across borders, across centuries, carrying meanings that shift like river currents, evolving as they pass from one tongue to another. But sometimes, if you listen closely, you find that beneath the surface, they still whisper the same truth.
Perhaps all of us have a little bit of manang within us. Whether we heal with herbs or with hugs, with rituals or with reassurance, we are all called to be stewards of one another’s well-being. We are all, in some way, walking the delicate line between the physical and the spiritual, the past and the present, the self and the greater whole.
To my younger self—the six-year-old girl who once sat wide-eyed before her mother, learning for the first time what it meant to be a manang—I would say this: You are stepping into a lineage far older than you realize. Wear the name with pride.
And to the rest of us, wherever we may be—perhaps it’s time we all embraced our inner manang. The world could always use more healers, more guides, more elder sisters looking out for the ones who come after them.
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Author’s email: thedumalady@gmail.com
