Why I don’t bid goodbye in Filipino

I cannot say goodbye to you in Filipino because I fear it will be the last time we see each other again.

Growing up hearing superstitions, I have grown accustomed to never saying goodbye using the national language. Mysticism has alarmed my community about the power the word “paalam” could conjure. Its semantics used to carry the unembellished formality announcing one’s departure, but the sociolinguistics of the vernacular caused its meaning to shift from common courtesy to a premonition of death.

While the term paalam is derived from “alam,” which translates to “know,” it evolved from its original concept as Filipinos began associating the word with “goodbye.” By adding prefixes and suffixes to the root word, a multitude of words related to passing information emerged: adding the prefix “ka-” and suffix “-an” resulted in the word “kaalaman” (knowledge) while supplying the prefix “ipina-” transformed it into “ipinaalam” (have informed), among other derivatives. Meanwhile, “magpapaalam” means “to ask for permission,” and, oddly enough, “magpaalam” means “to say goodbye.” Perhaps it is the whole spiel of “your time has come” that influenced the meaning, deviating from scholarly and sagacious to somber and desolate.

I first grasped the word’s allusion to death and finality when I had to give a eulogy at my Lola’s passing. After her surgical procedure, my brothers and I battled with our PSPs in the visitors’ area outside the ICU, waiting for news about her recovery from cancer surgery. When Ma and Pa returned from a meeting with the doctors, they had weary faces that made my brothers pause the game. We listened to them explain that Lola’s health circled the drain as her body went into a coma. My dad asked me to go with him as the doctors believed the grandchildren should have a chance to say goodbye. “Magpaalam ka na sa Lola mo (Say goodbye to your grandmother),” he said.

That experience reshaped how I viewed the word, extending far beyond the hospital room.

To some minds familiar with this superstition, evoking the word paalam strikes fear in parents.

I tested this once.

“Ma, paalam!” I shouted before stepping out the door.

My mom’s right slipper flew at my back. It didn’t hurt, but it did leave a faint stain on my white oversized shirt, and I had to change my top at the last minute. My ride hummed in front of our house, and I worried that I had made the driver wait after my last-minute wardrobe change. After I wore a different shirt, I passed by my mom, who grew more flustered upon seeing my smirk as I dropped her slipper closer to her feet. I opened the door, and she called me before I stepped out.

“Huwag ka na magsasalita ng ganiyan, ah!” she reminded me not to test death. I had to lose the smile, or she might forbid me from going out. I apologized and said, “Ba-bye.”

Once I buckled my seatbelt, I saw her standing on the walkway of our house with her arms crossed. I gave my mom a compelling reason to knock some sense into me with her slippers after I tried to poke fun at fate. I had my words serve as “I am leaving” in a facade to annoy my mom, and she did not appreciate my humor. Her ears must have interpreted my courtesy as “This is the last time you will see me alive.”

The shift in meaning of paalam made it incompatible with daily conversations, and Filipinos resorted to borrowing the English word “bye” as a safe word. You can hear “ba-bye”—an informal variation of the word “goodbye”—at the end of most social interactions. When a hangout among millennials and Gen Zs ends, you might see them taking turns giving each other besos and elongating “bye” as if they were texting the word and pressing the letter E multiple times—”Byeeeeeee.”

It’s baffling how borrowing a word from a different language became the panacea for dissipating our qualms. It’s as if the English word “goodbye” promises that you will see each other again. I feel comforted when other people empathize with my concerns about words. For others to harbor fear over the power of speech, as I do, is visceral and reveals the depth of affection we have for one another.

Thankfully, language is adaptable and we can redefine the meaning of words. For instance, “sibat” has become slang for announcing one’s departure. I have a routine when saying goodbye to friends: besos for the ladies, bro-hugs for the guys, and I declare my exit after all my rituals: “Sibat na ako.”

I can explain my skepticism about the power the word paalam holds, but it would be futile. After all, love is infamous for defying rational thinking. And despite reason and intellect, I acknowledge the inexplicable forces scholars and scientists have yet to scrutinize. I can laugh at any other superstition, but I draw the line at evoking a spell that could jeopardize the safety of the people I genuinely care for.

And that is why I will always find another way to bid adieu—but never with paalam.

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Chris Ceguerra, 24, is a reporter based in San Francisco Bay Area, California-based reporter.