Around Valentine’s Day in Quezon City, as heart-shaped balloons bob above the crowd and pop songs drift across the plaza, dozens of same-sex couples stand hand in hand, waiting for their names to be called. Some are dressed in crisp barongs or flowing dresses, others in jeans and sneakers, a few nervously wiping their palms before exchanging rings. Cameras flash, city officials smile, and a short vow is read aloud. It is not a wedding—at least not in the eyes of Philippine law—but for the couples gathered at this annual LGBTQ commitment ceremony, it is a public declaration of love that feels radical, tender, and deeply Filipino.
These commitment ceremonies, most visibly hosted by the Quezon City local government, have become one of the most enduring and quietly powerful queer traditions in the Philippines. Held most on the occasion of the Lovers’ Day, they offer same-sex couples a chance to affirm their relationships in front of family, friends, and the state, even in a country where same-sex marriage and civil unions remain unrecognized. The events are symbolic rather than legal, but symbolism matters profoundly in a society where visibility itself can be an act of courage.
Quezon City, the country’s most populous city, has positioned itself as a pioneer in LGBTQ inclusion. Through its Gender and Development Council and strong local anti-discrimination ordinances, the city has hosted mass commitment ceremonies for LGBTQ couples for several years, drawing hundreds of participants. In recent editions, couples ranged from young partners together for just a few years to older pairs who have shared decades of buhay magkasama (shared life). The images of one such ceremony, published internationally, captured couples kissing, laughing, and wiping away tears beneath rainbow flags—a visual counterpoint to the Philippines’ otherwise conservative reputation.
To understand why these ceremonies resonate so strongly, one has to understand the tension at the heart of Filipino attitudes toward sexuality and family. The Philippines is often described as paradoxical: deeply Catholic, socially conservative, yet culturally familiar with gender diversity. Long before modern LGBTQ identities entered public discourse, figures such as the bakla—a Tagalog term often referring to effeminate gay men or gender-nonconforming males—were visible in entertainment, beauty salons, and everyday social life. Acceptance, however, has often been conditional: bakla could be funny, talented, or helpful, but romantic love and long-term partnership were expected to remain discreet.
Commitment ceremonies challenge that unspoken rule. They insist that queer love is not just tolerated but worthy of public recognition. For many couples, the ceremony is the first time their relationship is acknowledged by an authority figure, even symbolically. Participants often describe the moment as nakakaiyak (bringing tears) or nakakakilig (giving butterflies), especially when family members attend. In a culture where pamilya (family) approval carries immense weight, standing before parents or siblings and being introduced as a couple can feel as meaningful as a legal marriage certificate.
These ceremonies also function as gentle political statements. While national efforts to pass a comprehensive SOGIE (Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity and Expression) Equality Bill have repeatedly stalled in Congress, local governments like Quezon City have used their autonomy to create spaces of recognition. The ceremonies are not confrontational; there are no court challenges or legislative showdowns. Instead, they operate through what Filipinos often value most: pakikisama (social harmony) and malasakit (empathy). By framing the event as a celebration of love rather than a protest, organizers make it harder to dismiss.
The popularity of the ceremonies reflects broader shifts in Filipino society. Surveys over the past decade suggest growing acceptance of LGBTQ people, particularly among younger Filipinos and urban populations. Pride marches in Metro Manila now draw tens of thousands, and queer representation in media has expanded beyond caricature. Still, discrimination persists, especially in workplaces, schools, and religious settings. Many couples who attend commitment ceremonies speak openly about being unable to rent apartments together, list partners as hospital contacts, or access shared benefits—everyday reminders that their love exists in a legal gray zone.
That gray zone is precisely what makes the ceremonies emotionally charged. During the exchange of vows, couples often promise katapatan (faithfulness) and pag-aaruga (care), values deeply embedded in Filipino notions of partnership. Some vows explicitly reference the absence of legal protection, pledging to stand by each other kahit walang papel (even without papers). The applause that follows is not just for romance, but for resilience.
Similar ceremonies have appeared, on a smaller scale, in other Philippine cities and provinces, often organized by local LGBTQ groups rather than governments. In some cases, they are held discreetly, in community halls or private venues, reflecting local sensitivities. What distinguishes Quezon City’s events is their official backing: city seals, elected officials, and public funding. That official presence sends a message that queer citizens are not merely tolerated but valued constituents.
Critics, usually from conservative religious groups, argue that such ceremonies undermine traditional marriage. Organizers counter that no one’s marriage is threatened by allowing others to celebrate love. For many Filipinos watching from the sidelines, the ceremonies feel less like a moral battleground and more like a familiar Valentine’s ritual—flowers, promises, tears—just with different couples at the center.
In a country where change often comes slowly and sideways, LGBTQ commitment ceremonies represent a distinctly Filipino path toward equality. They do not replace the fight for legal recognition, but they sustain it, year after year, through visibility and shared emotion. As couples pose for photos, rings glinting under the afternoon sun, the message is simple yet quietly subversive: mahal namin ang isa’t isa (we love each other), and we are not going away.
I’ve attended more weddings than I can count, in hotel ballrooms, beachfront resorts, and once memorably under a leaky tent in the tropics. But few ceremonies have stayed with me the way those LGBTQ commitment ceremonies in lovely Quezon City have. Maybe it’s because everyone present knows exactly what this moment is and what it is not. There is no illusion here, no pretending that the law is suddenly on our side. And yet, the joy in the air is thick, stubborn, and deeply earned.
I went to support my queer bakla friends—some I’ve known for years, others I met through activism, late-night conversations, and shared frustrations about love in a society that still prefers us grateful and quiet. That morning, they were anything but quiet. They were radiant. Nervous. Teary. Proud. I saw hands trembling as rings were slipped on, shoulders straightening as names were called, and that particular smile that appears when someone feels seen, maybe for the first time, by something resembling authority.
Let’s be clear: these ceremonies are not marriages. No inheritance rights magically appear. No hospital forms suddenly make sense. No visas, no tax breaks, no joint adoption papers follow you home. And yet, dismissing these moments as “just symbolic” misses the point entirely. In a country where symbolism—ritual, family acknowledgment, public blessing—carries enormous emotional weight, this kind of recognition matters. It lands in the chest. It changes how people walk out of the room.
What struck me most was the presence of families. Mothers fixing collars. Sisters filming everything on their phones. A father awkwardly clapping, then clapping harder. For bakla who grew up learning to make themselves smaller to keep the peace, this mattered. It said: your love is not just tolerated in private corners; it can stand under daylight, with witnesses, applause, and a microphone.
Of course, there is always a bitter aftertaste. The speeches end, the photos are taken, and reality returns. The law still refuses to catch up. Politicians still stall. The same couples who just exchanged vows can still be fired, denied housing, or erased from official paperwork. Celebration and precarity coexist uncomfortably, and everyone knows it.
But here’s the thing Spicy Auntie has learned over the years: visibility is not the end goal, but it is fuel. These ceremonies don’t replace the fight for legal equality; they sustain it. They remind people why the fight exists in the first place. Love, after all, is not radical. What’s radical is insisting that it deserves dignity, even when the system disagrees.
As I hugged my friends afterward—mascara smudged, flowers wilting slightly in the heat—I felt something solid beneath the glitter and tears. Not false hope. Not resignation. Just resolve. They said yes anyway. And honestly? That’s how change usually starts.