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In the Name of the Trees
In the name of the trees,
I retrieve us from hurt and sickness.
Four generations of women named after trees refuse to be cut down: Banaba, Narra, Pili and Dao. Between the Philippines and Australia, these hardwood women defy their colonial inheritance and try to heal. Their rifts are deep, their heartbreaks more wounding. They tell stories to hide, evade, or make truth bearable.
But trees remember.
They do not lie.
Knowing is resistance.
I retrieve us from hurt and sickness.
Four generations of women named after trees refuse to be cut down: Banaba, Narra, Pili and Dao. Between the Philippines and Australia, these hardwood women defy their colonial inheritance and try to heal. Their rifts are deep, their heartbreaks more wounding. They tell stories to hide, evade, or make truth bearable.
But trees remember.
They do not lie.
Knowing is resistance.
171 pages, Paperback
First published November 4, 2025
8 people are currently reading
77 people want to read
About the author
Merlinda Bobis
19 books109 followersMerlinda Bobis is an award-winning contemporary Philippine-Australian writer who has had 4 novels, 6 poetry books and a collection of short stories published, and 10 dramatic works performed. For her, ‘Writing visits like grace. Its greatest gift is the comfort if not the joy of transformation. In an inspired moment, we almost believe that anguish can be made bearable and injustice can be overturned, because they can be named. And if we’re lucky, joy can even be multiplied a hundredfold, so we may have reserves in the cupboard for the lean times.’
Born in Tabaco in the Philippines province of Albay, Merlinda Bobis attended Bicol University High School then completed her B.A. at Aquinas University in Legazpi City. She holds post-graduate degrees from the University of Santo Tomas and University of Wollongong where she taught Creative Writing for 21 years. She now lives and writes on Ngunnawal land (Canberra, Australia).
Her literary awards include the 2016 Christina Stead Prize for Fiction NSW Premier's Literary Award for her novel 'Locust Girl. A Lovesong'; three Philippine National Books Awards (2016: 'Locust Girl', 2014: 'Fish-Hair Woman', 2000: 'White Turtle'); 2013 MUBA: 'Fish-Hair Woman'; 2000 Steele Rudd Award for the Best Published Collection of Australian Short Stories: 'White Turtle'; 2006 Philippine National Balagtas Award for her poetry and prose (in English, Filipino and Bikol); 1998 Prix Italia, 1998 Australian Writers' Guild Award and 1995 Ian Reed Radio Drama Prize for her play 'Rita's Lullaby'; three Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards in Literature Poetry Category (2016: Second prize, 1989: Second, 1987: First). Her poetry collection, 'Accidents of Composition' was Highly Commended for the 2018 ACT Book of the Year.
Born in Tabaco in the Philippines province of Albay, Merlinda Bobis attended Bicol University High School then completed her B.A. at Aquinas University in Legazpi City. She holds post-graduate degrees from the University of Santo Tomas and University of Wollongong where she taught Creative Writing for 21 years. She now lives and writes on Ngunnawal land (Canberra, Australia).
Her literary awards include the 2016 Christina Stead Prize for Fiction NSW Premier's Literary Award for her novel 'Locust Girl. A Lovesong'; three Philippine National Books Awards (2016: 'Locust Girl', 2014: 'Fish-Hair Woman', 2000: 'White Turtle'); 2013 MUBA: 'Fish-Hair Woman'; 2000 Steele Rudd Award for the Best Published Collection of Australian Short Stories: 'White Turtle'; 2006 Philippine National Balagtas Award for her poetry and prose (in English, Filipino and Bikol); 1998 Prix Italia, 1998 Australian Writers' Guild Award and 1995 Ian Reed Radio Drama Prize for her play 'Rita's Lullaby'; three Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards in Literature Poetry Category (2016: Second prize, 1989: Second, 1987: First). Her poetry collection, 'Accidents of Composition' was Highly Commended for the 2018 ACT Book of the Year.
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Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews
March 26, 2026
Heart-aching but also brave.
November 24, 2025
Banaba, narra, pili, dao. Trees and names.
Doesn’t quite reach the heights I expect it to, but nonetheless a beautifully told interwoven tale of women, trees, and history. There’s also a gentle, almost lulling, quality to Bobis' writing that makes me feel like I’m reading about home, even if I’m not from Bicol though I’d love to make that trip soon.
Doesn’t quite reach the heights I expect it to, but nonetheless a beautifully told interwoven tale of women, trees, and history. There’s also a gentle, almost lulling, quality to Bobis' writing that makes me feel like I’m reading about home, even if I’m not from Bicol though I’d love to make that trip soon.
March 25, 2026
You can also read my review here.
This is the first book I read from Merlinda Bobis but it’s definitely not going to be be the last!!
In The Name of The Trees is an intergenerational stories about four Filipina women named after trees: Banaba, Narra, Pili & Dao. The story opens with the family now living in Australia, far from their homeland in Bicol, Philippines. At the center of the story is a grandmother who is performing a healing ritual for her granddaughter after a devastating accident. What unfolds then is a story of recovery and a slow unraveling of memory about stories of migration, violence, and survival.
First of all, let me just say that when I finished this book my immediate thought was THIS. STORY. IS. SO. EPIC. I had some friends tell me that her other works are just as powerful & good, so I’m pretty excited to read them.
Her writing took some getting used to. It’s deeply lyrical, almost like poetry in motion. I was lost in the first few pages but by the second chapter, I found my footing. Once you settle into her rhythm, it becomes something else entirely. In this story, Bobis reaffirms us that memories isn’t linear, and nature, especially trees, holds truth in ways people sometimes cannot.
The women in the stories resisted in their own ways using whatever they have in a world that constantly diminishes them. Across different time periods, they endure colonization displacemtns and silence and yet, they choose survival and each other.
On top of that, they also have to deal with the struggles of the diaspora. What happens to people who are uprooted from where they were once planted? How do you carry your history when you are no longer on your own land??
“Tradition is bound with the present.”
This book also honors indigenous healing practices, the presence of faith healers and the use of plants and tress as medicine, practices that have long existed in our country, a country that was shaped by centuries of colonization.
Who are we without the women who came before us? We are our mothers, our grandmothers, and their grandmothers. This book feels like a meditation on that truth.
This is the first book I read from Merlinda Bobis but it’s definitely not going to be be the last!!
In The Name of The Trees is an intergenerational stories about four Filipina women named after trees: Banaba, Narra, Pili & Dao. The story opens with the family now living in Australia, far from their homeland in Bicol, Philippines. At the center of the story is a grandmother who is performing a healing ritual for her granddaughter after a devastating accident. What unfolds then is a story of recovery and a slow unraveling of memory about stories of migration, violence, and survival.
First of all, let me just say that when I finished this book my immediate thought was THIS. STORY. IS. SO. EPIC. I had some friends tell me that her other works are just as powerful & good, so I’m pretty excited to read them.
Her writing took some getting used to. It’s deeply lyrical, almost like poetry in motion. I was lost in the first few pages but by the second chapter, I found my footing. Once you settle into her rhythm, it becomes something else entirely. In this story, Bobis reaffirms us that memories isn’t linear, and nature, especially trees, holds truth in ways people sometimes cannot.
The women in the stories resisted in their own ways using whatever they have in a world that constantly diminishes them. Across different time periods, they endure colonization displacemtns and silence and yet, they choose survival and each other.
On top of that, they also have to deal with the struggles of the diaspora. What happens to people who are uprooted from where they were once planted? How do you carry your history when you are no longer on your own land??
“Tradition is bound with the present.”
This book also honors indigenous healing practices, the presence of faith healers and the use of plants and tress as medicine, practices that have long existed in our country, a country that was shaped by centuries of colonization.
Who are we without the women who came before us? We are our mothers, our grandmothers, and their grandmothers. This book feels like a meditation on that truth.
October 1, 2025
This book is a homecoming, hitting even closer to home with the smattering of Bikolnon across its pages and the familiar landscapes of Bikol, my mother’s land.
March 3, 2026
The land knows, it remembers--across oceans and continents--buhay siya; at dahil buhay siya, buhay tayo.
We may want earnestly to forget our roots, our stories, to fit a narrative that we think will be good for us, hindi lang tungkol sa sarili nating nakaraan, pero ng nakaraan ng ating mga ninuno.
We might want to rewrite our past just so that were able to bear our present burdens much lighter-- or forget entirely the ways of all the people that came before us, of their bravery and their choices that allowed our existence, just so we can fit into the narrative of our colonizers, who they want us to be for their benefit.
To which we really did. Most of us have forgotten our old ways of healing--the last "mananambal", our Cebuano word in Mindanao for "parabulong", in my city is dead with no descendants who understand the power of nature's healing. We do not care so much for our nature as we're all supposed to do, because we're so confined in our colonizer's way of living, where we slave under capital-driven institutions--all seeking gain, gain, gain.
Post-war, and in the aftermath of navigating our personal lives, we've lost so much of our original tales; we do not know the real Filipino self, and we do not know how to heal from all that.
The answer can be found in the name of the trees. Sa ngalan ng ating mga puno. This wonderful book showed me that healing is intrinsic. Four generations of strong women named after four strong Filipino trees, Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao, weakened by an accident forever changing their lives, can only truly heal if you start with the rot left inside, and that in our healing, and even in our way of living, we should look up to the trees, because there's so much they can teach us.
The nature of a tree truly is its philosophy. It's seed, then root, the trunk, then the branch, then the leaf, and the flower, then fruit, and then seed, and then root again. Without an ending. Even if we cut it. Always alive. Always remembering.
The only way we ever heal is if we remember. In remembering is acknowledging, in acknowledging we understand, in understanding we learn, and in learning we heal.
So we remember, remember, remember.
We may want earnestly to forget our roots, our stories, to fit a narrative that we think will be good for us, hindi lang tungkol sa sarili nating nakaraan, pero ng nakaraan ng ating mga ninuno.
We might want to rewrite our past just so that were able to bear our present burdens much lighter-- or forget entirely the ways of all the people that came before us, of their bravery and their choices that allowed our existence, just so we can fit into the narrative of our colonizers, who they want us to be for their benefit.
To which we really did. Most of us have forgotten our old ways of healing--the last "mananambal", our Cebuano word in Mindanao for "parabulong", in my city is dead with no descendants who understand the power of nature's healing. We do not care so much for our nature as we're all supposed to do, because we're so confined in our colonizer's way of living, where we slave under capital-driven institutions--all seeking gain, gain, gain.
Post-war, and in the aftermath of navigating our personal lives, we've lost so much of our original tales; we do not know the real Filipino self, and we do not know how to heal from all that.
The answer can be found in the name of the trees. Sa ngalan ng ating mga puno. This wonderful book showed me that healing is intrinsic. Four generations of strong women named after four strong Filipino trees, Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao, weakened by an accident forever changing their lives, can only truly heal if you start with the rot left inside, and that in our healing, and even in our way of living, we should look up to the trees, because there's so much they can teach us.
The nature of a tree truly is its philosophy. It's seed, then root, the trunk, then the branch, then the leaf, and the flower, then fruit, and then seed, and then root again. Without an ending. Even if we cut it. Always alive. Always remembering.
The only way we ever heal is if we remember. In remembering is acknowledging, in acknowledging we understand, in understanding we learn, and in learning we heal.
So we remember, remember, remember.
March 30, 2026
“What’s in a name?”
Aside from this question being popularized in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, it begs you to look deep into what your name stands for. Your name carries your identity. It can define who you are as a person or even represent your cultural background and family history. And that is exactly what names are in In the Name of Trees.
A story about four generations of women: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao, the book almost feels like a poetic reckoning with land, lineage, and memory. It is a rumination of the past intertwined with themes of grief and survival. It also shows what women do to protect their children, home, and future.
Through prose that’s spare yet almost lyrical, In the Name of Trees centers on how the trees in the story also bore witness not just to loss, but also in healing. They somehow helped the women resolve the problems that stemmed from their past through remembering the secrets they never dared speak of in the present. What struck me most about the book though is how the writer stitched together and used the stories of Banaba, Narra, and Pili in the Philippines and Australia to explore and underscore the colonial histories that shape the women’s legacies. How their identity were tangled in their inherited bloodlines, and how Narra’s stories which shaped Dao’s childhood and even helped in her healing can be an act of resistance.
So, for me, the book’s narrative felt like a song crooned in fragments, disjointed but tender and fierce in turns, like winds whistling through leaves. It made me think about the stories that we need to tell to set ourselves free.
Aside from this question being popularized in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, it begs you to look deep into what your name stands for. Your name carries your identity. It can define who you are as a person or even represent your cultural background and family history. And that is exactly what names are in In the Name of Trees.
A story about four generations of women: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao, the book almost feels like a poetic reckoning with land, lineage, and memory. It is a rumination of the past intertwined with themes of grief and survival. It also shows what women do to protect their children, home, and future.
Through prose that’s spare yet almost lyrical, In the Name of Trees centers on how the trees in the story also bore witness not just to loss, but also in healing. They somehow helped the women resolve the problems that stemmed from their past through remembering the secrets they never dared speak of in the present. What struck me most about the book though is how the writer stitched together and used the stories of Banaba, Narra, and Pili in the Philippines and Australia to explore and underscore the colonial histories that shape the women’s legacies. How their identity were tangled in their inherited bloodlines, and how Narra’s stories which shaped Dao’s childhood and even helped in her healing can be an act of resistance.
So, for me, the book’s narrative felt like a song crooned in fragments, disjointed but tender and fierce in turns, like winds whistling through leaves. It made me think about the stories that we need to tell to set ourselves free.
January 7, 2026
Four generations of women named after trees refuse to be cut down: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao. The story explores their roots, their healing prowess, and their love for storytelling.
I love this book! I love how it explores not just their cultural heritage, philippine history, their family tree (pun intended), and also different languages in the Philippines (especially Bicolano— my mother’s birthplace; that’s why I was able to understand most of the discussions here)
I love this book! I love how it explores not just their cultural heritage, philippine history, their family tree (pun intended), and also different languages in the Philippines (especially Bicolano— my mother’s birthplace; that’s why I was able to understand most of the discussions here)
January 5, 2026
‘In the name of the trees, I retrieve you from hurt and sickness.’
This story is woven around four generations of Filipina women. Each of the women is named after a hardwood tree: Banaba, Narra, Pili and Dao. Each has a story, and each story gradually unfolds.
The novel opens in Canberra, with seventeen-year-old Dao in bed watching her mother Pili and grandmother Narra argue just out of earshot. They seem to be planning a ritual. Dao, we learn, is partially paralysed following a car accident in which her father was killed. Narra tries to heal her granddaughter: there are rituals, stories, connections to the village of Iláwod where the story really begins. Language is both an enabler and a barrier to communication. Dao knows some Bikol, while Narra has little English. And I think, as I read, how important language is when describing experience and feeling. When Spanish is spoken, I am reminded of Spanish colonisation of the Philippines.
‘We don’t have men in our household. No father, brother, uncle, except in stories. And they’re all dead.'
I drift. The stories are intertwined not separate, and Banaba’s story holds my attention completely. Until I shift, through the experiences of Narra and Pili, through the definitions of the trees for which they are named. The stories Narra tells Dao are part history, part connection to country and culture, and part reconstruction of a painful past. Every time Bikol is used I struggle to understand. I recognise some Spanish but am only comfortable with English. A gentle reminder that language carries its own secrets.
I came to the end of the story well aware that I have not understood it all but thinking that this awareness is very much a part of the message.
A novel to revisit.
‘But trees remember. They do not lie. Knowing is resistance.’
Jennifer Cameron-Smith
This story is woven around four generations of Filipina women. Each of the women is named after a hardwood tree: Banaba, Narra, Pili and Dao. Each has a story, and each story gradually unfolds.
The novel opens in Canberra, with seventeen-year-old Dao in bed watching her mother Pili and grandmother Narra argue just out of earshot. They seem to be planning a ritual. Dao, we learn, is partially paralysed following a car accident in which her father was killed. Narra tries to heal her granddaughter: there are rituals, stories, connections to the village of Iláwod where the story really begins. Language is both an enabler and a barrier to communication. Dao knows some Bikol, while Narra has little English. And I think, as I read, how important language is when describing experience and feeling. When Spanish is spoken, I am reminded of Spanish colonisation of the Philippines.
‘We don’t have men in our household. No father, brother, uncle, except in stories. And they’re all dead.'
I drift. The stories are intertwined not separate, and Banaba’s story holds my attention completely. Until I shift, through the experiences of Narra and Pili, through the definitions of the trees for which they are named. The stories Narra tells Dao are part history, part connection to country and culture, and part reconstruction of a painful past. Every time Bikol is used I struggle to understand. I recognise some Spanish but am only comfortable with English. A gentle reminder that language carries its own secrets.
I came to the end of the story well aware that I have not understood it all but thinking that this awareness is very much a part of the message.
A novel to revisit.
‘But trees remember. They do not lie. Knowing is resistance.’
Jennifer Cameron-Smith
March 27, 2026
“Tapos, Lola — and then?”
Some stories aren’t simply told… they are carried, remembered, and passed gently from one generation to the next.
“In the Name of the Trees “ is a lyrical and deeply reflective novel that follows four generations of women: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao. Each named after a tree. Their lives are rooted in memory, migration, grief, and quiet resilience, stretching between the Philippines and Australia.
At the heart of the story is young Dao, recovering from a devastating accident that leaves not only her body wounded, but her family fractured. In an effort to help her heal, Lola Narra begins a ritual that reaches far beyond the present. What unfolds is a tender weaving of family stories, ancestral wounds, and the enduring strength passed down through generations of women.
Merlinda Bobis writes with such poetic tenderness that reading this book feels like listening to a story whispered beneath the shade of trees. It beautifully blends folklore, faith, and history, while exploring identity and the invisible threads that bind families together.
I didn’t understand the Bicolano dialect though I truly wish I did but it added a certain charm to the story. It felt like listening to a song in a language unfamiliar to you… and yet, you’re still moved by its melody. That’s exactly how it felt for me.
What stayed with me most is how the trees themselves become silent witnesses and holding memories of love, loss, and survival. Like roots beneath the soil, the past continues to nourish and shape the present.
It’s a short book, but its themes run deep. It gently asks you to slow down, to listen, and to let the story grow quietly within you.
I also loved how the presence of trees felt like a tribute to nature, an homage to something steady, grounding, and enduring.
Some stories aren’t simply told… they are carried, remembered, and passed gently from one generation to the next.
“In the Name of the Trees “ is a lyrical and deeply reflective novel that follows four generations of women: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao. Each named after a tree. Their lives are rooted in memory, migration, grief, and quiet resilience, stretching between the Philippines and Australia.
At the heart of the story is young Dao, recovering from a devastating accident that leaves not only her body wounded, but her family fractured. In an effort to help her heal, Lola Narra begins a ritual that reaches far beyond the present. What unfolds is a tender weaving of family stories, ancestral wounds, and the enduring strength passed down through generations of women.
Merlinda Bobis writes with such poetic tenderness that reading this book feels like listening to a story whispered beneath the shade of trees. It beautifully blends folklore, faith, and history, while exploring identity and the invisible threads that bind families together.
I didn’t understand the Bicolano dialect though I truly wish I did but it added a certain charm to the story. It felt like listening to a song in a language unfamiliar to you… and yet, you’re still moved by its melody. That’s exactly how it felt for me.
What stayed with me most is how the trees themselves become silent witnesses and holding memories of love, loss, and survival. Like roots beneath the soil, the past continues to nourish and shape the present.
It’s a short book, but its themes run deep. It gently asks you to slow down, to listen, and to let the story grow quietly within you.
I also loved how the presence of trees felt like a tribute to nature, an homage to something steady, grounding, and enduring.
Read
January 4, 2026I started this book in 2025 and finished it today, so I’m not quite sure if it counts as my first book of 2026.
I like the story, but I’m still unsure how I feel about the writing style. The book is only 163 pages, yet it is very heavy on description. It beautifully captures the Bikolano language, the scenery of Bikol, and the people, which really helps you visualize the setting and understand the connection between the trees and the characters. At the same time, while reading, I often felt lost because it seemed to just keep describing and describing. Some parts felt unnecessary, and I only fully understood the plot near the end of the book. I honestly think the story could have been clearer if a few sections were omitted.
That said, I’m not saying the book isn’t good, it is! I liked the story itself. More than anything, it’s a reminder that love is shown in many different ways, and that some stories are kept hidden because people believe silence will protect them. But sometimes, letting the story go and telling the truth is what truly sets us free and brings peace.
Overall, I appreciate the story and its message, even if the writing style didn’t fully work for me.
I like the story, but I’m still unsure how I feel about the writing style. The book is only 163 pages, yet it is very heavy on description. It beautifully captures the Bikolano language, the scenery of Bikol, and the people, which really helps you visualize the setting and understand the connection between the trees and the characters. At the same time, while reading, I often felt lost because it seemed to just keep describing and describing. Some parts felt unnecessary, and I only fully understood the plot near the end of the book. I honestly think the story could have been clearer if a few sections were omitted.
That said, I’m not saying the book isn’t good, it is! I liked the story itself. More than anything, it’s a reminder that love is shown in many different ways, and that some stories are kept hidden because people believe silence will protect them. But sometimes, letting the story go and telling the truth is what truly sets us free and brings peace.
Overall, I appreciate the story and its message, even if the writing style didn’t fully work for me.
April 3, 2026
"𝘚𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦? 𝘈𝘺, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺..."
📖 Synopsis:
Dao, Pili, Narra and Banaba are four women who have had to endure hardships from the Philippines to Australia. But like their names, all hardwood, they each show the grit needed to survive.
Through stories, memory and language, they weave a narrative about identity and family.
🌱 What I Thought:
When I started reading this, I thought it was a love letter to trees and language. Trees because of the character names, and tree information at the start of each chapter, and language because although this is mostly in English, Bikolano and Spanish are here too.
It took a long time for me to get used to the writing style, the Bikolano phrases and English right afterward. But at around 50% in, I got used to it and started to get into the story. The use of different languages in the book duplicated the feeling of the characters who had difficulty with one of the languages.
The storytelling is so layered. This is a small book, less than 200 pages, but it is so dense. After finishing it, I was wowed by some of the revelations and how the women's stories so closely related to trees. I can't say I understood everything, but I think I will on a reread.
Who should read this: People who like taking their time with a book. Readers who are up for a challenge. Readers who like reading about trees and what they represent.
Other quotes I like:
"Teach them god, but not Spanish. Bring them to the light when running their souls, but keep them in the dark when running their land." -- about the Spanish colonizers
"...birds, trees, and animals know more than we do. To live, they have to look and listen deeply... And because they know deeply, they take care deeply in order to survive."
"How you teach a foreign language is not only about language. It's also about land: the land that speaks it and the land where the students grew up, because it shaped their tongues, and ears, eyes, minds."
February 23, 2026
I don’t often gravitate towards local books so I'm making it a goal to read more of it this year. And Merlinda Bobis did not disappoint, her writing brought a sense of comfort and familiarity just by knowing that in this story I somehow belong. In the Name of the Trees follow the interwoven lives of 4 generations, all named after a tree: Banaba, Narra, Pili, and Dao. Each character perfectly embody their name’s origin and each is a reflection of Filipinos. From Banaba`s reslience and strong-willed character, Narra’s people-pleasing tendencies where the tree’s hardwood and strong ability is shown in different form, Pili’s attempt to run and forget her roots—hiding her truth even from the people she loves, and to Dao’s attempt to mend the cracks in their family, albeit unaware that it's about to reach its breaking point
I love how Merlinda wrote the complex family dynamics of Filipinos— how we find different languages to show love and affection. From our mother cooking our favorite meals after a disagreement to hiding secrets in attempt to absolve one another from pain. The story perfectly weaved our culture and how unknowingly Filipinos still carry the marks of our tragic history and how colonialism shape our decisions and choices.
I love how Merlinda wrote the complex family dynamics of Filipinos— how we find different languages to show love and affection. From our mother cooking our favorite meals after a disagreement to hiding secrets in attempt to absolve one another from pain. The story perfectly weaved our culture and how unknowingly Filipinos still carry the marks of our tragic history and how colonialism shape our decisions and choices.
March 13, 2026
This felt soft but wound up really strong. If it makes sense. It starts out slow, but every turn of the page seems to hit with an unexpected punch. Questions get answered as you continue on, because the crux of the issue stemmed from a complex interaction of actions set by different people from the past. The axe forgets, but the tree remembers, and so would their seedlings long after them.
Four different women, four different stories. But everything all comes down to one thing of the past, hidden behind half-truths and myths and folklore. Because every childhood fairy tale has a hint of truth to it. You just need to listen closely, else you'll miss it.
Four different women, four different stories. But everything all comes down to one thing of the past, hidden behind half-truths and myths and folklore. Because every childhood fairy tale has a hint of truth to it. You just need to listen closely, else you'll miss it.
November 16, 2025
A spiritual experience.
Ms. Merlin has a way with words and with knowing how to connect with her readers like a mother reading a book to her sleepy child. Safe, comforting, intimate, and inevitably leaves you with a sense of longing after you close a chapter. A personification of a warm hug after a long day. You feel the pain of the characters as if it were your own. She knows how to craft an extraordinary experience out of ordinary subjects. This has become one of my sentimental favorites. It has unexpectedly made my banaba flower tattoo more magical, spiritual, and personal to me.
Ms. Merlin has a way with words and with knowing how to connect with her readers like a mother reading a book to her sleepy child. Safe, comforting, intimate, and inevitably leaves you with a sense of longing after you close a chapter. A personification of a warm hug after a long day. You feel the pain of the characters as if it were your own. She knows how to craft an extraordinary experience out of ordinary subjects. This has become one of my sentimental favorites. It has unexpectedly made my banaba flower tattoo more magical, spiritual, and personal to me.
November 12, 2025
A rich cross-generational story about land ownership and family.
Just like the trees mentioned, their branches and roots weave in and out of the soil along with their histories.
Such warmth this book offers.
Just like the trees mentioned, their branches and roots weave in and out of the soil along with their histories.
Such warmth this book offers.
Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews