Before Texts and Timelines, There Was Harana — Slow, Sincere, and Unforgettable
- Cyberwatch UNLTD
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
Back in the day, one of the most beautiful parts of courtship in the Philippines was the tradition of harana — when a man would stand beneath a woman’s window and serenade her under the night sky.
Born, raised and lived half of my life in the Philippines, I find myself missing this tradition deeply, even though I never truly got the chance to take part in it myself.
Part of what draws me to harana is that I’ve always loved music — so hearing someone pour their feelings into a song, especially in such a gentle and vulnerable way, touches something deep in me. I remember experiencing this not as the one being serenaded (I’m a guy, after all), but as a young boy, overhearing it — and even then, it stirred something in my heart. It wasn’t always directed at someone in my family. Sometimes, a neighbor would be serenaded, and the sound of love songs drifting through the quiet night air felt almost magical. There was a kind of hush that would fall over everything — as if the whole world paused to listen.
The songs themselves were part of the magic. Traditionally, harana was sung in kundiman — those classic, poetic Filipino love songs full of longing and metaphor. But when I had the chance to experience harana in its later years, the music had started to evolve. The songs were no longer just the old Tagalog ballads, but also the tender English love songs at that time — contemporary songs that had their own softness and sincerity. And that evolution made harana feel even more personal to me — like the tradition had adapted to the times, but still held onto its soul. It was no longer just a cultural relic; it was real, and it spoke the language of the present.
One memory stands out clearly. My sister came home one summer, already married by then, but she brought along her sister-in-law — who was still single. We were living in a small town, and while not everyone knew each other, word must have somehow spread quickly that someone new (and eligible) was in the neighborhood.
One night, long after we’d all gone to bed, music suddenly began floating in through the windows — soft, earnest, and full of feeling. A guy had come to sing outside the house. I didn’t even know who he was, and maybe the girl he was singing for didn’t either — but somehow, that didn’t matter.
I lay in bed, half-awake, just listening. The world outside was quiet, and the music seemed to glow in that silence. And here’s the thing — I wasn’t the one being serenaded. I wasn’t even the intended audience. I was just a boy overhearing it from across the house. And still, it made me feel something beautiful. Something warm. Something that stayed with me.
So sometimes I wonder: if it felt that good for me, someone on the sidelines — how much more powerful must it have been for the girl it was meant for? Or for other girls growing up with that kind of romance as a real possibility? The sincerity, the courage, the sweetness of it all. Harana was never just about the song — it was about the kind of love that wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable.
Maybe another reason harana sits so close to my heart is that it brings me back to my father — who I lost when I was very young. I didn’t get to know him deeply, but the things that stuck in my memory — the ones that really stayed — are his guitar, his voice, and the way he sang with others in our home. He wasn’t the type to sit me down and teach me songs or talk about music, but I remember the sound of those sessions. There would always be people around — clients, friends — as part of his work. He was managing a business, and entertaining people was part of the job.
There was always food in the house — pulutan, my mom would usually say — not necessarily prepared for us as a family, but for the guests. And yes, I remember him always getting drunk. As a child, I just accepted it as part of the daily rhythm of our house. Only later did I realize it was tied to the nature of his work. But what I remember most clearly — and fondly — is the singing.
Even when the drinking and entertaining became routine, the music was always something else. My dad led the way — playing guitar, singing, and doing harmonies with the others. They sang in beautiful harmony, and he was always at the center of it, guiding the rhythm and mood with his guitar. That sound, that feeling — it left an imprint on me. It’s a memory that feels warm, alive, and deeply personal.
And maybe that’s why harana means more to me than just a courtship ritual. It's not just about romance; it's about the way music lived in my home, in my childhood, in my dad. Every time I hear love songs from that era, I’m taken back — not just to the night air of a provincial town, but to the sound of my dad's guitar.
And while harana is often translated into English as “serenade,” the truth is that there’s no perfect equivalent. Other cultures have their own romantic gestures, of course — and serenading exists in Western history too, particularly in Europe. But it was never quite the same. In the West, a serenade might appear in a Shakespearean play, a love song in a musical, or as a one-time gesture. It wasn’t a shared, consistent, deeply rooted tradition in everyday life.
On the other hand, the uniquely Filipino harana was woven into our cultural fabric. It followed an unspoken rhythm: the late-night timing, the acoustic guitar, the humble posture of a man singing outside a woman’s home, unsure if she would even open the window. It carried with it not only music, but humility, risk, and hope — all performed in public, and yet deeply intimate. It was a love that sang, but also waited to be heard.
Today, it feels like harana is gone — or at least, fading. By the time I was old enough to express love in that way, the tradition had already become rare, especially in the city where I eventually moved. If you serenade someone now, it might be seen as cringey or over-the-top — like people don’t quite know how to respond to that kind of open-hearted sincerity anymore.
Love these days feels faster. More casual. Sometimes even transactional. Of course, I can still play guitar and sing for someone I love — and I have. And sometimes she sings along, and that's beautiful too. But it’s different. It’s more immediate, less ceremonial. It doesn’t carry the same quiet courage — the risk and vulnerability — that came with standing in the dark, offering your heart through song, not knowing if the girl would come to the window or not.
I think what I feel is a kind of quiet grief for harana — not just as a tradition, but as a lost expression of love. A kind of love that had dignity, softness, and patience.
I was lucky enough to witness it before it disappeared. And I’ll always carry that sound with me.
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