By Herman M. Lagon
From the first episode of “Pulang Araw,” I already knew I would write about it. Watching it in full 110 episodes just this April only confirmed what I had long felt: this series is not just a period drama; it is a poetic time machine, a history lesson woven into the lives of complex, tender, and flawed characters who feel just like our own family members. While many historical dramas try to impress with grandeur, this one disarms with intimacy. It does not yell its message, but it makes you listen, reflect, and remember.
Set during the Japanese occupation, the series walks us through wartime Philippines not with textbooks but with trembling hands, cracked voices, and wounded hearts. GMA’s commitment to authenticity is evident from the get-go. From the nuanced costume design to the eerily accurate CGI renderings of 1940s Manila, the show does not just recreate an era—it resurrects it. More than that, it honors those whose stories were almost erased. The sweat and sincerity behind the scenes, from the painstakingly researched scripts by Suzette Doctolero to Dominic Zapata’s deliberate direction, feel like an offering to our collective memory.
And it is in memory where the series finds its power. As a teacher who constantly wrestles with how to make history real to young people, I found in “Pulang Araw” the kind of emotional anchor that textbooks often lack. Watching Adelina, Teresita, Eduardo, and Hiroshi wrestle with love, identity, loyalty, and betrayal amid bombings and blackouts felt almost too close to home. These were not just characters; they were representations of our moral choices, whether in war or peacetime. Even Hiroshi, the Japanese soldier caught between empire and empathy, becomes a study of the human cost of allegiance.
What elevates the series is its historical context and cultural depth. The way vaudeville was used—both as escapism and resistance—was genius. Bodabil (vaudeville), often dismissed as lighthearted entertainment, symbolizes Filipino resilience. It reminds us that art does not just mirror society; it defies despair. Barbie Forteza and Sanya Lopez, as Adelina and Teresita respectively, portray this beautifully. In the middle of chaos, their performances capture that paradox only Filipinos seem to carry so well: laughing while crying, performing while in pain, dancing while burning.
Still, for all its emotional brilliance, the show also makes a quietly subversive statement about the love of country. This is not the kind of patriotism tied to grand speeches or waving flags. It is in Eduardo choosing to fight in the mountains rather than be used by either side. It is in Teresita finding the courage to break free from her family’s expectations. It is in Adelina struggling to reconcile the boy she loves with the uniform he wears. “Pulang Araw” teaches us that loving the country sometimes means being conflicted, even broken, but never indifferent.
Critics may nitpick its pacing or point to the occasional anachronism, but to dismiss the show for these is to miss its soul. What it lacks in perfection, it makes up for in purpose. Watching it reminded me of something director Dominic Zapata once said: that their job was not just to create entertainment but to honor the dead. And honor, it did. Every story arc, every teardrop, every whispered Tagalog line over the hum of danger was a tribute not only to those who lived through war but to those of us still trying to understand its legacy.
There is also something striking about the timing of this series. In an age when truth is constantly under siege, and historical revisionism is dressed up as “alternate facts,” a show like “Pulang Araw” becomes more than entertainment—it becomes an act of resistance. It tells young Pinoys: This happened. This hurt. This mattered. And you owe it to those who came before you to remember.
More than that, it subtly asks: What would you have done? And perhaps more importantly: What are you doing now? Because the battles may look different today—against corruption, misinformation, apathy—but they are no less real. The red sun still rises, and we are still asked to choose.
When the final credits rolled, I found myself sitting still, not out of sadness, but out of reverence. It has been said that history is not about the past but about how we live with it. Pulang Araw does not just retell history; it shows us how to carry it, gently and urgently, into the now. For educators, artists, and ordinary Filipinos who wonder how to instill love of country in a distracted generation, this show gives us one possible answer: tell better stories. Stories that are messy, humane, and brave. Stories that, like those who inspire them, refuse to be forgotten.
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