On “New” and On Restarting

While home in the province during this long vacation, I found myself repeatedly asking a simple question during conversations: What is the word for “new” in our native language? Almost everyone I asked gave the same answer—balu or balbalu. Examples came easily: balu an tawon—new year; balu an lubung or balbalu an lubung—new clothes.

That was also what I knew growing up in the province and learning my native language naturally. Yet at the back of my mind lingered the question: Is balu truly indigenous, or is it an adaptation of the Iloko baro or barbaro? As can be observed, tawon closely resembles the Iloko tawen and the Tagalog taon. These overlaps, of course, do not diminish the value of the word. It is very possible—if we consider certain theories of migration—that these words already existed before our ancestors finally settled in these mountains. If that is the case, then what we often refer to as “adaptation” may actually be evidence of shared linguistic ancestry.

It is difficult to imagine earlier communities having no word for “new,” given that many things become new from time to time, and that some things once nonexistent eventually emerge or are reinvented. Take, for instance, the Ifugao word lubung—or bulwati in some dialects—which means clothes, even when old photographs and historical accounts show that early Ifugao life knew little of what we now call clothing. This is a clear example of how a term emerges alongside transitions, when something new becomes part of a new state of life.

Another term that surfaces in the context of “new” is lugi (with emphasis on the second syllable), distinct from lúgi, which means being at a loss when the first syllable is stressed. This, too, finds its echo in the Iloko rugi. Perhaps these similarities are not coincidental, especially when we consider other shared words such as bale (house), which is balay in Iloko, and names of animals like manok, baka, baboy, and nuwang, which appear in both languages. If these are not traces of a common linguistic ancestry then they are footprints of contact and movement, or to common histories. For instance the word “watwat”, I have not heard of it in my hometown in my growing up years, but because of contact who regularly uses the word “watwat” it also becomes a common term here.

Interestingly, “new” in Ifugao is not limited to balu or balbalu. It also appears through other forms. The adverb hiya expresses freshness or immediacy: hiya hi naluto or hiyah’ naluto — newly cooked; hiya hi naiphod — newly made; hiyah’ nakalata — newly constructed road

The same sense also emerge through prefixes such as paka, paa, or pa’(depending on dialect), as in pakaluto, pa’luto, pakakapya, or pakakalata. The adverb and prefix can even be combined: hiyah’ pakaluto, hiyah’ pakakalata, and so on.

There are also particular contexts in which “new” is expressed. Take the new moon, for example. In Ifugao, the term is nakayang, used when the moon appears as a crescent after a period of no illumination. The last new moon was about two weeks ago, and by the time this piece reaches the newsstands, the moon will already be full—ongal nan bulan, the moon is big. In between lies a period of transition—of growth.

Incidentally, that period of growth coincides with a long vacation. In this part of the world, the moon is often associated with shifts in mood, intensification of emotion, or changes in rhythm and behavior. In the new year, there is always that people’s desire to “reset,” “renew,” or “restart”. In Ifugao, we say pabaluowon di nitaguwan—to renew one’s life—or ta munlugi bo—to begin again.

Many who had spent long years in the city finally returned to their nalpuwan—the place they came from. And where one comes from is, more deeply, the nunlugian di biyag—where life began. During this trip home from La Trinidad, the highways were filled with vehicles, probably travellers heading back to provinces and hometowns too. Some gas stations even ran out of fuel and had to turn cars away. These journeys—these so-called restarts and renewals—were probably for reunions, for homecomings to one’s alma mater, or simply for remembering to go home. The experience became a collective pause, a shared reset.

And maybe this is what “new” truly means. Whether or not we have a purely indigenous term for it, the idea lives deeply in the human heart. That is the capacity to allow life to begin again, to be grateful to what had been and to be hopeful to (more) good things to come.

So as we step into another new year (balu an tawon), may we carry with us the wisdom gathered from experiences, the courage to begin again when needed, and the grace to welcome what is yet to unfold.

Happy New Year—Maphod an Balun di Tawon!

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(This piece also appears on a column by the author in Northern Philippine Times, a weekly paper published in La Trinidad, Benguet. January 4, 2026)