Filipino speculative fiction steps into the global light
Filipino author and advocate Dean Francis Alfar believes it’s time the country caught up to the imaginative worlds its writers have long been envisioning.
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Filipino author and advocate Dean Francis Alfar believes it’s time the country caught up to the imaginative worlds its writers have long been envisioning.
‘A FIELD Guide to the Roads of Manila.’
‘SALAMANCA.’
‘STARS in Jars.’
‘NEW Philippine Speculative Fiction.’
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While realism has shaped Philippine literature for decades, speculative fiction has always been present, connecting with readers both locally and worldwide.
Filipino author and advocate Dean Francis Alfar believes it’s time the country caught up to the imaginative worlds its writers have long been envisioning.
“Speculative fiction is the literature of the imagination,” he told DAILY TRIBUNE at the Singapore Writers Festival, describing the umbrella that shelters fantasy, science fiction, horror and everything strange in between. “The only limits are your imagination.”
From tales of aliens landing in Cebu to rivers in Davao cracking open into gateways to the underworld, the genre allows Filipino writers to stretch reality as far as their stories demand — often while grounding them in the everyday textures of local life.
In the Philippines, that imagination has long included stories whispered by firelight — tales of aswang, engkanto, multo — even if they weren’t always written down.
But it wasn’t always easy to convince the local literary scene that these stories mattered.
“When I began, realism was the dominant mode,” he recalled. At the time, the expectation was that Filipino literature should confront poverty, oppression, or the trials of domestic life. “Prominent writers would ask me, ‘How does this help the Filipino people?’ And it hurts to be asked that.”
His answer, then and now, was simple: That speculative fiction offers both wonder and hope.
“Escape is not a bad thing,” he said. “Some people are shackled by poverty for generations. Why take away their ability to imagine someplace better?”
Roots older than realism
Alfar argues that speculative storytelling has always been encoded in the national psyche. He said, “If you go to any province at night, they’ll tell you stories — horror, legends. That’s part of it. We simply write it down.”
Today, the cultural tide has shifted. Speculative fiction is being taught in schools, embraced by younger readers, and increasingly recognized by international platforms. Alfar’s own works, first rejected locally, found early homes abroad, appearing in anthologies beside literary giants like Gabriel García Márquez, Neil Gaiman and Stephen King.
For him, those moments were more than personal wins. “It became an advocacy,” he said. “If I could do it — a brown-skinned writer from an archipelago — then other Filipinos could too.”
Regional stage, new
kind of visibility
Fresh from the Frankfurt Book Fair, where the Philippines served as guest of honor for the first time in the fair’s 70-year history, the author arrived in Singapore energized.
“These events are crucial,” he said. “They show the global audience how Filipinos write, think, love, hope, and fear.”
In Singapore, he noted how the culture openly embraces speculative thinking, even encouraging students to write 200-word stories imagining alternate versions of their city.
“For them, imagining tomorrow is part of how they live,” he said. “I want the region to see how Filipinos imagine tomorrow, too.”
Speculative fiction as social lens
For Filipino writers, the genre offers more than escapism. It becomes a vessel for political commentary, social critique and emotional truth, which often softens the edges of difficult conversations.
“You can write a horror story about an ogre terrorizing a village, but it’s actually about a president,” he said. “Or write about OFWs through elves. You can provoke empathy without being too on the nose.”
He emphasizes that speculative fiction’s power lies in its ability to make readers feel — fear, wonder, grief, hope — all while speaking about realities they recognize.
Despite growing interest, structural hurdles persist. Books in Manila now range from P500 to P1,000, a steep price for many readers. “Who can afford multiple books?” he asked.
Alfar emphasized the need for better libraries, more accessible publishing models and digital platforms that can bring Filipino stories to broader audiences.
“We know what needs to be done,” he said. “Now we need to implement.”
For students and emerging writers, his message is simple: “Stories matter. And if stories matter, you matter — because you are the main character of your own story.”
He believes that understanding this can foster empathy, patience and generosity. “You don’t know everyone’s story,” he said. “It pays to read, to listen — but most of all, to write.”
Alfar envisions a future for Filipino speculative fiction where stories born in Cebu, Manila, or Davao mingle seamlessly with tales of aliens touching down on Luneta or mythical creatures reemerging in the Pasig River after a typhoon.
“We are not without hope,” he said. “We have very good writers. All we need now is to make
space for them.”
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