Diasporic & Planetary Perspectives in “Tawid Dagat”

2026/01/06 Views：743

Dreams of an Acacia (2024). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwang

By｜Eldrick Yuji Los Baños｜cultural worker

Introduction

On October 18, 1587, the Spanish ship Nuestra Señora de Buena Esperanza landed in Morro Bay, located in today’s California, after a months-long journey across the Pacific Ocean. Among the crew members sent to explore the coast were eight “Indios Luzones”—“indio” referring to the indigenous peoples of the Philippines, then a colony of Spain—in what is regarded as the arrival of the first Filipinos in the United States, marking the beginning of the long history of the Filipino diaspora in North America.

　　　Today, the global Filipino diaspora adds up to 10.2 million people, or 11% of the total population of the Philippines, across 200 countries. The large number of Filipinos living and working abroad can be traced back to the country’s labor export program, instituted in 1974 under dictator Ferdinand Marcos Sr. as a temporary solution to domestic unemployment and foreign exchange deficits during the turbulent period of martial law. Migration has since become a staple of the Philippine economy, with millions of Filipino migrant workers remitting billions of US dollars every year; in return, the Philippine government has hailed them the “bagong bayani,” the nation’s “new heroes”. While this title acknowledges their economic importance, it risks glossing over the realities of extortion, labor abuse, and human trafficking experienced by Filipino migrants, especially women, in their host countries, as well as the impact of migration on families and communities back home. The difficult choice faced by breadwinners between staying with their families or going overseas to provide for them is summed up in a popular saying among overseas Filipino workers (OFWs): “homesick versus dollar.”

　　　The complexity of the migrant experience is at the heart of Tawid Dagat, a solo exhibition by US-born Filipina artist Nicolei Buendia Gupit (b. 1990) at the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts (KMFA). Born in Los Angeles—a four-hour drive from Morro Bay—to a Filipino immigrant family, Gupit spent her childhood in the Philippines and the United States before majoring in Studio Art at Williams College and later earning an MFA from Michigan State University. Her cross-cultural background largely informs her practice, in which she investigates her family’s transnational histories to uncover the broader forces of global capitalism, colonialism, and anthropogenic climate change at play. This article examines selected works from Tawid Dagat (“to cross the sea” in Filipino or Tagalog [1 ]) along two major themes that are encapsulated in the title’s component words: the histories and violence of migration (“tawid”) and humanity’s relationship with water (“dagat”), which intersect in two new installations from her recent residency at Kaohsiung’s Pier-2 Art Center. The fifteen representative pieces in the exhibition embody distinctive features of Gupit’s artmaking, particularly its diasporic and planetary perspectives; its story-based ethnographic approach with subjects in the Philippines and abroad, including her own family members; and its evocative use of a range of media that spans sculpture, papermaking, installation, and video.

“Tawid”: Paper and the Violence of Migration

Weaving Tides (2025) embodies a meeting of two artisanal traditions: Gupit’s trademark papermaking, and fishing net weaving, once practiced by the artist’s grandfather and other fisherfolk in Rosario, Cavite. Due to industrialization and the family’s emigration to the United States, the ancestral craft was forgotten; this triptych is the artist’s attempt to revive it after the disruption of diaspora. Here, her woven nets are embedded between layers of handmade paper, granting viewers glimpses without revealing the whole product. We may interpret this choice of presentation, as Elizabeth Larison does, as a physical “safeguarding” of the craft “from the risk of being forgotten,” but the semi-concealment also implies an incomplete transmission of the weaving tradition. [2] Instead of being handed down the practice from her elders, the artist must learn to weave these nets by herself, and can only do so partially. Are the nets being protected, as Larison imagines, or being stifled?

Detail of Weaving Tides (2025). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwang

　　　This severance of younger generations from cultural traditions is one aspect of what may be described as the violence of migration, which includes the physical separation from one’s family, community, and place of origin—and, by extension, their culture, language, and history—and the resulting psychological impact on their sense of identity and belonging. Such violence is rendered visible in much of Gupit’s oeuvre as she probes her own family’s migration to the United States in the 1970s and its personal, long-term consequences through her art. We see this most clearly in the other paper-based pieces in Tawid Dagat: the wall-bound Dreams of an Acacia, Mourning the Loss of a Family Tree and Mother Crossings, and the installation We Gather, We Remember, We Make an Offering (all 2024). This suite of works was first presented in Mother/land, a previous solo exhibition at Metro Manila’s Altro Mondo Creative Space, through which the artist sought to counter romanticized views within the Philippines of life abroad and share the “severe loss, grief, sacrifice, and tragedy” that overseas Filipinos are subjected to.[3]
　　　Gupit inscribes violence in these works through her choice of handmade paper as a medium. Far from romantic, the uneven, tattered quality of the paper suggests the emotional turbulence and fragmentation that occur in the wake of migration. While mostly beige, the paper surface yields patches of color in the form of embedded lottery tickets, associating the act of migrating with a gamble, and possibly drawing from the life of the artist’s mother, who purchased lotto tickets every week for three decades as a symbolic gesture of hope. In some works, black-and-white photocopies of photographs and identity documents from Gupit’s own family—in which she herself appears as a child—also emerge through the pulp. The artist has compared her papermaking to an “archeological dig,” “excavating” her family’s history through layers of sediment-like paper. Yet, as in archeology, parts of the past are lost and distorted: the photocopied images, already poor copies of the original photographs, appear crumpled, and the words are obscured and hard to read.
　　　Motifs of trees and dining tables across the same works portray families in diaspora as fractured and dispersed wholes, broadly recognizable as units but ultimately broken. Gaps between the paper elements in the compositions of Mother Crossings and We Gather generate a tension between the unity of the overall forms, supported by the fact that the individual pieces visibly fit into each other, and the reality of their internal separation. Visualizing the dysfunction of families and communities separated by migration, the moribund tree in Mourning the Loss bears no leaves or flowers, while a single branch hangs listlessly to the ground. In Dreams of an Acacia, on the other hand, Gupit paints an Acacia confusa tree in full leaf, its trunk growing out of a bangka or a traditional Filipino outrigger boat—reviving not only her family tree but also an acacia that, according to oral histories, once stood near her family’s home in Rosario. (Incidentally, this species of acacia is native to both the Philippines and Taiwan.) Just as the tree was chopped down and used to build a boat, migration exacts the high price of the migrant’s former life.

Detail of We Gather, We Remember, We Make an Offering (2024). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwan

　　　The sole installation among the paper-based works, We Gather continues Gupit’s 2022 Pamilya (“Family”) series, first exhibited at the MSU Broad Art Museum in East Lansing, which also engages with transnational family histories through a dining table setting. As in Pamilya, the work in Tawid Dagat stages a group meal using papier-mâché casts of dinner plates and vegetables grown in the Philippines, including chayote and bitter gourd, along with a figurine of the Virgin Mary as a nod to the country’s Catholic majority. Yet if the former series is animated by video projections of food, audio from interviews with relatives, and vibrant color palettes, the latter is lifeless and somber, resembling the aftermath of a fire through the ash-like coating on the vegetables. Gray branches strewn across the table tie the installation back to Gupit’s tree motif; like the acacia in Mourning the Loss, this dinner table, split apart by migration, can no longer carry out its original purpose of gathering the family.

“Dagat”: Water and Planetary Aesthetics

While references to sea pervade the exhibition, the works housed in a separate section highlight the self-contradictory capacities of water as an agent of creation and destruction. Originally presented in 2023 at Art Fair Philippines, an ensemble of three pieces in the first of two rooms employs water as subject and medium, if not a co-creator, of art. For Not All Rivers Flow Into the Sea (2023), Gupit collected water from Laguna de Bay and the Molawin River, located southeast of Metro Manila, which was then dyed and frozen in molds of plastic water bottles. The time-lapse video work records the pigmented ice from above as it melts haphazardly onto paper, leaving ghostly streaks and patches. The same process also yields the twelve paintings in Residues of Water (2023), onto which spectral water bottles and jugs are layered via image transfer. In the center of the room, clear, bottle-shaped resin sculptures gather on an illuminated plinth that accentuates their contents: plastic bags, loose wires and nails, and a self-referential bottle cap. Despite being materially absent from this work, water plays a role in the making of In the Age of Abundant Scarcity (2023) since these waste materials were sourced from polluted rivers.

Residues of Water (top) and In the Age of Abundant Scarcity (both 2023). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwang

　　　By involving water in the production of these pieces, Gupit encourages viewers to adopt the perspective of water and recognize its agency outside its commodification. In doing so, the artist utilizes what Susan Ballard terms “planetary aesthetics,” whose goal is to “challenge fixed concepts of nature” that place humanity at the top of a planetary hierarchy and “point to new ways of understanding the planet. [4] Gupit’s use of natural water and river-sourced debris in her artmaking also exemplifies Donna Haraway’s concept of natureculture, in which nature and (human) culture are not separate categories of being but “bonded in significant otherness. [5] From the water-based works to the enclosing gallery walls, painted in the blue of water jugs found throughout the Philippines, this section of Tawid Dagat reminds us of the reciprocal relationship between humanity and water: as water sustains human life, human activities leave an impact on water, demonstrated in the array of refuse in Abundant Scarcity.

　　　The other video works in this section of the exhibition also express planetary aesthetics through footage of water in its many forms (seas, rivers, rain, and tap water) in which humans are notably absent. This aquacentric gaze minimizes the presence of humans by showing them at a distance, out of focus, or dwarfed by nature around them; even as the voices of interviewees play throughout, their names and faces are never shown on screen. Shot from a pseudo-first-person perspective, I Unravel the Seas (2025) looks out onto the shore of Manila Bay as the artist’s disembodied hands unweave a fishing net. (As indicated by the direction of the crashing waves, Gupit filmed herself weaving the net and reversed the footage.) The concept of natureculture arises again as the artist stages a performance of net weaving, a cultural practice, with the water of Manila Bay as her audience; more importantly, this cultural practice originates from, and is therefore emblematic of, humanity’s relationship with fish and the sea at large.

Frame from I Unravel the Seas (2025). Image courtesy of the artist.

　　　Over the sounds of waves, we hear the voices of individuals who work at Cavite’s Pandawan Fish Port as they recount how their lives have changed over the years due to climate change: fish populations have decreased, leading to higher prices, and fewer people are buying fish in favor of more affordable chicken meat; as one woman puts it, “The sea isn’t like before.” The reversed nature of the video reflects these speakers’ regret over changing circumstances and wistful recollections of former abundance, as if wishing for the past to come back. As the net disappears before our eyes, the backward flow of time paradoxically points toward a potential future if the climate crisis continues unaddressed: the end of fisherfolk’s livelihoods and ways of life, symbolized by the obliterated net. The work’s presentation on a small wall-mounted screen at eye level with a single pair of headphones, along with its extended point-of-view shot of Gupit’s hands, encourages the individual viewer to enter the artist and her world—and, if we read the video as an omen for Cavite’s fisherfolk, the viewer is consequently implicated in the fishing net’s destruction as Gupit’s hands become their own.
　　　Playing in a separate room, Submerged Stories Surface (2022) deals with the realities of water access in the upland town of Alfonso, Cavite. While I Unravel the Seas adopts the point of view of the artist by the shore, the camera (and microphone) here thoroughly identifies with water. The video opens with a close-up of water filling what is presumably a plastic bucket or basin, accompanied by the sounds of a dripping faucet, which fades into another close-up of a flowing stream, its agitated surface scrambling the reflected light. (This sequence establishes the two main sources of water for Alfonso residents, the state-operated tank and the river.) At times, the camera goes underwater: a wordless thirty-second shot looks up underneath a running tap, as if the lens is being washed or drowned; later, we watch a pebbled riverbed, first as the camera speeds through the stream, and then from stationary positions as aquatic plants and natural detritus follow the water’s brisk flow. The blue filter applied to the video, again reminiscent of common water jugs, portrays a world in which water access is so crucial that it literally colors our vision.
　　　Through her interviews with the people of Alfonso, Gupit examines the paradox at the center of her climate-related works: while the typhoon-prone Philippines regularly experiences torrential rain and floods, 40 million Filipinos lack access to safe and clean water as of 2024. (In the artist’s words, there is “too much water, but never enough water.”) The interviewees in Submerged Stories point out how the community’s water, sourced from an underground spring, turns muddy after the rain, and when typhoons hit the region, their access to electricity gets cut off, preventing water from flowing uphill to their home. Gupit represents this disparity in the final moments of the video, which cuts from rain falling to the last drops of a faucet as the water gradually stops flowing; the camera lingers on the still water before fading out—not to black, but to blue. As with I Unravel the Seas, this work ends by insinuating an undesirable future (i.e. a halted water supply) unless we take its message seriously: as one interviewee declares, “We need to take care of the rivers. Because there will be a time when we can't take water from anywhere else.”

Frame from Typhoon Survivors (2021). Image courtesy of the artist.

　　　If Submerged Stories captures the “never enough water” aspect of Gupit’s aphorism, her 2021 video Typhoon Survivors represents “too much water” as it tackles the arrival and aftermath of Typhoon Yolanda, known internationally as Haiyan, in November 2013. Recognized as one of the strongest typhoons ever recorded, Yolanda caused 6,300 deaths and displaced four million people within the Philippines, particularly in the hardest-hit region of Eastern Visayas. The video pairs the spoken narratives of three women who experienced the typhoon firsthand with footage of water, in the forms of seawater and rain, as it comes into contact with seaside shacks and urban streets. Gupit’s inclusion of women subjects is noteworthy, given that girls and women faced “disproportionate levels of violence” in the wake of Yolanda, which intensified previously existing gender inequalities in Eastern Visayas. [6]

　　　From its opening shot of litter floating on the sea, Typhoon Survivors makes connections between climate change, exemplified by the devastating typhoon, and the careless treatment of waste already explored in Abundant Scarcity. One speaker remarks how urban waste is “still the number one issue” when floods occur in cities, while another recognizes the unequal impact of climate change on the Philippines despite it not ranking “among the first contributors of waste and global warming” in the world. Gupit emphasizes the vulnerability of the Philippines to typhoon damage through long takes of coastal houses: as the first interviewee describes how her neighbors lost their roofs to Yolanda’s winds, we see huts with flimsy wooden coverings and corrugated iron roofs right next to low seawalls. In a later sequence by the beach, a large cluster of palm trees—actual casualties of Yolanda—is seen through the windows of a derelict house, showing that nature suffers alongside humanity from anthropogenic climate change. As it closes, the video returns to the opening image of floating trash, reminding us of the intertwined fates of humanity and nature and of our responsibilities toward the planet.

“Tawid Dagat”: Filipino Communities in Taiwan

Installed at the far end of the main gallery, the two works produced during Gupit’s residency at the Pier-2 Art Center earlier this year are a culmination not only of the exhibition but of the artist’s practice so far. The mixed-media installations baka sakali and swerte (both 2025) employ media and artmaking techniques from past projects and embody the same concerns of migration, water, and the (dis)continuity of familial and cultural ties across borders, now adapted to a Taiwanese context. A continuation of Gupit’s self-education in net weaving from Weaving Tides, baka sakali (roughly translated, “perhaps” or “just in case”) consists of a large blue fishing net, suspended at one end from the ceiling, and a projected video of the artist making the net in front of a shifting background. With the exception of her spotlighted hands, Gupit is shown in silhouette before a video of flowing water and the sounds of a windy sea.

　　　Such maritime imagery is interrupted, however, by the voice of a woman speaking, in a mix of Filipino and English, about her daughter’s recognition as an honors student at school. While not explicitly identified in the video, the speaker is Gupit’s mother, Lerma Buendia, talking about the artist herself. Buendia goes on to relate her feelings about her daughter’s desire to attend college outside Los Angeles, where they lived at the time, despite the family’s lack of financial means: “She found a sponsor […] I was proud— I was so proud… Even if I was worried: she was in a different place, studying with many other students…” (translation mine). (It is interesting to note how Gupit, by moving to a different part of the United States, mirrors her mother’s decision to migrate to California a few decades prior.) As we watch and listen, the background behind the still-weaving artist begins to show close-ups of lottery scratchcards bought in Taiwan, along with the sound of heavy scratching, before switching to footage of nets and sea foam floating on water surfaces; at one point, Buendia’s face briefly appears.

Installation view of baka sakali (2025). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwang

　　　In baka sakali, we therefore see a fusion of the major themes and motifs of Tawid Dagat as images of the sea intersect with family histories of migration. As in the paper-based works discussed above, migration is compared to scratching lottery tickets or casting nets at sea, both acts of hope without guarantees of success. The incorporation of Buendia’s oral history also replicates the ethnographic style used in the exhibition’s other water-related video pieces, especially given the visual absence of the speaker. Even the sense of diasporic fragmentation, created by the physical gaps in works like Mother Crossings, resurfaces in the frenetic, non-logical editing of footage and the accompanying oral history. At times, the audio track skips over words and repeats earlier fragments out of order; combined with an eerie reverb effect and the overlaid sounds of water and lottery ticket scratching, the resulting experience disorients viewers and prevents them from receiving the whole story, not unlike how family histories and cultures are distorted and forgotten in diaspora. As viewers walk along the installation, moreover, they may notice a softly lit bamboo shuttle at the end of the fishing net, as if left behind in the middle of weaving. We are tempted to ask: will the artist return to complete the net, or has she finally abandoned this cultural tradition? Are we, the audience, being asked to pick the shuttle up and finish the job?

　　　Migrant histories are also the focus of swerte (“luck” or “lucky”), a two-part installation that draws from Gupit’s engagement with Filipino migrants in Kaohsiung and Taipei. In an illuminated corner of the hall, an open suitcase stands behind a scattered assortment of colorful air-dry clay sculptures in the form of everyday items, including sneakers, baseball caps, pill bottles, and passports. On an adjacent wall, six sentences in Filipino, each in a different handwritten typeface, express the goals, desires, and feelings of Gupit’s interviewees as they make a living in Taiwan. Visitors who understand Filipino may note the ambivalence within the texts: some speakers see their life abroad as the key to career and financial success, while others reveal the difficulty of being away from their families and the need for “inner strength” (“tibay ng loob”). “It gets worse when I am far from my child,” reads the final sentence, “[so] I need a strong heart to fight the sadness”.

Installation view of swerte (2025). Photo: Tsu-Han Hwang

　　　The production and presentation of swerte resembles Gupit’s earlier work Migrant Belonging(s), exhibited at spazioSERRA in Milan, Italy in 2023. For both installations, the artist conducted interviews with local immigrants and asked them to share objects that they brought from their home countries when they first relocated. Whereas some hinted at a more personal or sentimental value, such as the back massager brought by one respondent in Taiwan as a reminder of her late grandmother, most items shared by interviewees were utilitarian in nature, reflecting the demand on travelers to narrow their possessions down to the essentials, or only what their luggage can carry. To the artist, the ordinary nature of these objects was an opportunity to present these immigrants’ experiences as universal and relatable, since items like clothes and medicine can be recognized by anyone. Nonetheless, what is exhibited in the final installations are not the things themselves but clay replicas that, like Gupit’s leafless trees and shattered dining tables, can no longer carry out their original function. In their new forms, these objects are also entirely painted in monochrome, erasing any nuances they used to have—another outcome of the fissive violence of migration.

　　　Curiously, both the audio track in baka sakali and the sentences in swerte do not come with translations in English or Mandarin Chinese, the two languages used by the host museum. Visitors who do not know Filipino must therefore work to understand the works in their entirety by using translator apps or asking others who are familiar with the language. This “refusal to conform,” as Gupit describes it, is the mirror image of what newly arrived migrants experience in countries where they do not speak the majority language; what usually happens to Filipino migrants in Taiwan, if they do not already know Chinese, now happens to Kaohsiung’s museumgoers who are denied access to these works’ full contexts. On the other hand, the use of Filipino enables the formation of a unique community centered around these works, consisting of the artist’s unnamed interviewees and Filipino-speaking viewers who can understand and relate to them. It signals to the city’s Filipino migrant community that they also have a place at KMFA, even if this is limited for now to the basement gallery.

Local and Global Resonances

Taiwan has formally welcomed migrant workers from the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries since 1992, when the Employment Service Act opened the labor market to foreign contract workers. Over 150,000 Filipinos call the country home, yet how much does the Taiwanese public know about them? In its exploration of migrant narratives, Tawid Dagat offers an opportunity for Kaohsiung audiences to better understand the motivations and concerns of the Filipino community in Taiwan and their country of origin. The exhibition may be read within the context of a wave of exhibitions connected to Southeast Asian migrants in Taiwanese state museums over the past decade. An outcome of President Tsai Ing-wen’s 2016 New Southbound Policy (NSP), this museological effort aims to “reinvent awareness of a regional community and shared interests” between Taiwan and Southeast Asia by providing platforms for migrants to share their stories and cultures with the Taiwanese public. [7] Notable contributions to this trend include the 2017 show The New Tai-ker: Southeast Asian Immigrants and Migrant Workers in Taiwan at the National Museum of Taiwan History (NMTH) in Tainan and SUNDAY: Contemporary Art on Migrant Workers in Taiwan at the Tainan Art Museum (TAM), which closed in May 2025.

　　　Additionally, Gupit’s ethnographic approach in works like swerte has parallels in projects by Taiwanese artists that feature Southeast Asian migrants as both subjects and collaborators. We need not go outside KMFA to find examples: the concurrent exhibition Ocean in Us: Southern Visions of Women Artists features Songs of the Migrant Workers of Kaohsiung Harbor (2018) by Charwei Tsai and the Song of Asian Foreign Brides in Taiwan series (2009/2020) by Lulu Shur-tzy Hou. However, Gupit’s Filipino identity potentially allows her to see the Philippines and the Filipino migrant communities of Taiwan as an insider (i.e. an emic approach), as opposed to Taiwanese artists working on the same topics from the outside. Her use of Filipino in interviews, for instance, may generate greater trust and understanding between the artist and Filipino-speaking subjects, yielding insights that non-Filipino artists may miss due to a lack of linguistic or cultural knowledge.

Songs of the Migrant Workers of Kaohsiung Harbor by Charwei Tsai (2018). Image courtesy of KMFA.

　　　The exhibition’s discourse on water and climate change in the Philippines should also resonate with audiences in Taiwan, a fellow island nation that is prone to typhoons. In some cases, the same typhoon hits both countries, making the intensification of natural hazards due to climate change, as explored in Typhoon Survivors, a shared concern. The recent Typhoon Ragasa (known in the Philippines as Nando) is a case in point: the storm caused floods and landslides this past September—only days after the exhibition opening—in northern Luzon in the Philippines and Hualien in eastern Taiwan, resulting in at least twenty-four deaths in both countries. Several climate science groups have since contended that Ragasa’s rapid intensification could be ascribed to anthropogenic global warming, which raises ocean temperatures. Like the subjects of Submerged Stories Surface, Taiwan faces water insecurity in the form of seasonal droughts, particularly in the south, that affect both agriculture and the semiconductor industry. Climate change has only exacerbated water scarcity on the island, giving rise to the 2021 drought period—the worst in almost sixty years. With their use of planetary aesthetics, Gupit’s water-related works prompt Taiwanese museumgoers to reflect on the water they use and the impact of human-induced climate change on worsening typhoons, which has become a reality on both sides of the Luzon Strait.

　　　On the surface, the themes and issues surveyed in Tawid Dagat may seem unrelated: what do migrant experiences have to do with polluted water? Through her interdisciplinary body of work, Gupit reminds us that migration and climate change are, in fact, intimately bound. A rapidly warming planet can lead to economic instability, which we see in I Unravel the Seas, while catastrophic typhoons wreak havoc on housing and infrastructure, as narrated in Submerged Stories Surface and Typhoon Survivors; climate disasters can also spark a “slow-burn effect” of difficult conditions like domestic abuse, disrupted education, and breakdowns in family relationships. [8] Just as the economic and political turmoil of the 1970s motivated Gupit’s family to leave the Philippines, circumstances like these impel affected communities to relocate internally or migrate overseas, where new challenges—including the violence of migration—often await. To echo Filipino activist Mitzi Jonelle Tan, “climate justice cannot be separated from migrant justice.”[9]

Notes

[1] Filipino, the national language of the Philippines, is a standardized version of the Tagalog language of Luzon, the largest island in the archipelago. While the national language is occasionally referred to as Tagalog in popular speech, this article uses the official name Filipino.

[2] “phantom charges: 2025 National Members Exhibition,” A.I.R. Gallery, accessed October 30, 2025, https://www.airgallery.org/exhibitions/phantom-charges.

[3] Kimberly Salhay, “A Tapestry of Tales and Travails,” PhilSTAR L!fe, November 16, 2024, https://philstarlife.com/geeky/354241-tapestry-tales-travails.

[4] Susan Ballard, Art and Nature in the Anthropocene (Routledge, 2021), 9.

[5] Donna Jeanne Haraway, The Companion Species Manifesto (Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003), 15.

[6] Huong Thu Nguyen, “Gendered Vulnerabilities in Times of Natural Disasters: Male-To-Female Violence in the Philippines in the Aftermath of Super Typhoon Haiyan,” Violence against Women 25, no. 4 (March 2019): 422, https://doi.org/10.1177/1077801218790701.

[7] Alan H. Yang, “Strategic Appraisal of Taiwan’s New People-Centered Southbound Policy: The 4Rs Approach,” Prospect Journal, no. 18 (October 2017): 18.

[8] Chris Weeks, “The ‘Slow‐Burn Effect’ of Human Trafficking Following Disaster,” Disasters 49, no. 3 (July 2025): 16–7, https://doi.org/10.1111/disa.12685.

[9] Mitzi Jonelle Tan, “Climate Justice Cannot Be Separated from Migrant Justice,” Missing Perspectives, July 24, 2024, https://missingperspectives.com/posts/migrant-climate-justice/.

Diasporic & Planetary Perspectives in “Tawid Dagat”

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