Healers of Siquijor

 Siquijor’s reputation as a “mystical island” long predates colonial maps.

From sea beds to mountaintops, mananambals work with what nature offers—and what instinct, faith, and inheritance have taught them.

On the island of Siquijor, in the central Philippines, healing is not an abstract idea—it’s a lived, daily practice. It happens quietly in mountain huts, along forest trails, in small rooms heavy with the scent of burning herbs. For centuries, the island’s mananambals—traditional folk healers—have treated physical, emotional, and spiritual ailments using knowledge passed down through generations. Theirs is a worldview where illness has many roots: some physiological, others personal, and still others supernatural.

While folk healing is practiced throughout the archipelago, it is in Siquijor where the tradition has remained most intact. “It just so happens that here, it’s still thriving,” says Luis Nathaniel Borongan, a staff member at the Siquijor Provincial Tourism Office and the current president of the island’s tour guide association. “We have over 300 healers across our six municipalities. Every barangay has one, sometimes more. They were once the community’s babaylans—the spiritual leaders before the arrival of the Spanish.”

Siquijor’s reputation as a “mystical island” long predates colonial maps. In the oral histories of locals, healers communicated with abyans—nature spirits or ancestral entities that offered guidance and knowledge, especially in the preparation of herbal remedies. “Imagine,” says Junel Tomaroy, a mananambal from San Juan, “people who couldn’t even read had perfect understanding of medicinal plants. Their prayers weren’t even in any known language. It's beyond human knowledge.”

In Siquijor, healing isn’t rushed. It’s gathered, whispered, prayed over.

Tomaroy began healing when he was 12. Now 45, he describes his practice as a blend of spiritual discernment and anatomical understanding. “The pulse tells us what’s wrong. Sometimes it hides, sometimes it shifts. You can go through a colonoscopy and find nothing wrong, but your pulse tells a different story.” One of the techniques he uses, du-du, is banned in hospitals and misunderstood by medical professionals. 

One of the most sacred times for healers is Holy Week. While many Filipinos observe the season with prayer and fasting, Siquijor’s healers retreat into the mountains for pangalap, the ritual gathering of herbs, stones, roots, and other ingredients for their medicinal oils and concoctions. But their search isn’t limited to the mountains; some of these materials are found near caves, cemeteries, and even underwater. “It starts on Holy Wednesday and culminates on Black Saturday,” says Borongan. “That’s when the island becomes alive with healing. You’ll see them mixing oils, drying leaves, praying.”

The beautiful view of Mt. Bandilaan

The timing is not coincidental. According to local belief, Black Saturday is when the earth’s energy is most potent, where the ends of the spiritual and physical world are at their closest. “That practice only started after the Spaniards came,” Borongan notes. “They tried to stamp it out, but the healers adapted. Now, you see a blend of Catholic prayers recited while grinding forest roots.”

This cultural syncretism is the backbone of modern-day Siquijor healing. The mystical no longer stands in opposition to organized faith; they coexist, though sometimes in an uneasy truce. But not all are comfortable with the island’s reputation. For decades, outsiders labeled Siquijor as “cursed,” its name uttered in whispers in nearby provinces. “There were stories,” Borongan says, “of people saying we were haunted, that we practiced black magic.”

This widespread infamy prompted a rebranding. The Siquijor government now markets the island as a destination for wellness, not witchcraft. “We focus on the healing now,” he says. “Not the dark arts. The Healing Island is our main brand—healing through nature, community, and tradition.” The annual Healing Festival is part of this effort, drawing young locals and curious tourists alike. For the government, the goal is twofold: preserve the tradition while making it more accessible—and palatable—to modern sensibilities.

Oils are mixed, pulses are read, and the unseen is just as important as the seen.

Still, despite the rising clamor, the healing practices in Siquijor come with their disclaimers. “We don’t claim to cure,” says Tomaroy. “We restore balance.” But science is beginning to catch up with folk knowledge. Many of the herbs used by mananambals—sambong, akapulko, lagundi—are now studied for their antibacterial, antifungal, and anti-inflammatory properties. Tomaroy cites plants like duguang kahoy, believed to help with blood disorders, and noog-noog, used for detoxification. Pahi-uli, which means “to restore,” is an herbal blend aimed at recovery for postpartum women or those recovering from spiritual afflictions.

“The names of the plants themselves carry knowledge,” he says. “Tulog-tulog for insomnia. Pahi-uling gatasan to help nursing mothers produce milk—when you press the stem, sap comes out like milk. That’s the wisdom our elders left us.”

A guided healing tour up Mount Bandilaan offers a glimpse into this shamanic world. The experience begins with a short hike into the hills, where guests are introduced to common plants used in traditional medicine. The healer explains each plant, its uses, and the prayers that accompany its preparation. A cleansing ritual with smoke and oil follows, concluding with a quiet blessing. It’s understated, almost anti-climactic. But for most visitors that seek sanctuary from the urban jungle, the silence itself turns out to be the most sought-after medicine.

Some people study healing. Others are born into it. Junel goes where most doctors don’t.

Tourism, however, has been a double-edged blade. “It used to be about helping,” Tomaroy says. “Now it’s also about income.” With more tourists come more vendors selling potions and amulets of dubious origin. “Not all are real. And that damages trust.”

Perhaps the greatest threat isn’t disbelief—it’s dilution. But for now, the mananambals continue in their work, steady and sure. In a world moving faster than ever, they remain rooted—in practice, in prayer, and to the land beneath their feet. 

Article by: Liway Espina

Photos by: Paolo Correa