The World Wants Ube — Can the Philippines Still Grow Its Own?

By: Guillermo Sumbiling

The holidays have just passed — a season when Filipino families gather around tables filled with food, gratitude, and hope for a better year ahead. Social media once again overflowed with images of festive meals and desserts. Yet, quietly missing from many of those tables was a familiar Filipino treasure: ube — the deep-purple root crop that has long symbolized celebration, comfort, and identity.

Ube halaya, with its natural sweetness and unmistakable violet hue, has always held a special place in Filipino homes. But today, it is becoming increasingly scarce. Not because of fading demand, but because of a growing inability to produce enough of it.

I wrote about this concern last October in an article on the state of ube production in Aklan. More recently, The New York Times echoed the same alarm in its December 29, 2025 issue titled “The World Wants More Ube. Philippine Farmers Are Struggling to Keep Up.” What was once a humble local crop has now become a global flavor — often described as the “new matcha.” Yet the country that gave birth to ube is struggling to supply its own markets.

Ube is a crop endemic to the Philippines, shaped by our climate, terrain, and soil — much like cacao is to Côte d’Ivoire. Its distinct color, texture, and flavor are products of our tropical weather patterns, river systems, and generations of farmer knowledge. These are conditions that cannot be easily replicated elsewhere. And yet, paradoxically, other countries are now moving faster than us in developing large-scale production.

A few years ago, I personally tried growing ube in the riverbeds of Tigayon and in the upland areas of Bulabud and Sipac in Malinao, Aklan. The soil was promising and the community eager. But just as harvest season approached, heavy rains wiped out much of the crop — another reminder of how climate variability now defines farming realities. Beyond weather, propagation remains the greatest challenge. Ube requires healthy planting materials, yet limited harvests mean limited seed stock, trapping farmers in a cycle of scarcity.

I reached out to technical experts at Aklan State University, hoping that tissue culture or modern propagation could offer a solution. While interest existed, there was no clear or sustained program. I was later referred to Visayas State University, known for its work on root crops, but the search for a scalable solution remains unresolved.

Meanwhile, global demand continues to rise. Countries like Vietnam and China are already investing heavily in research, propagation, and commercialization. If this trajectory continues, we may soon find ourselves importing “ube” grown elsewhere — while our own farmers struggle to plant even a hectare.

This is not just an agricultural issue; it is a policy question.

If ube is truly part of our cultural and agricultural heritage, then it deserves deliberate investment — in research, seed banking, climate-resilient farming systems, and farmer support. It calls for stronger collaboration between state universities, the Department of Agriculture, local governments, and the private sector. Without this, we risk losing not only a crop, but an opportunity for inclusive rural development.

As we welcome 2026, this reflection is also a call to action. Food security is not only about rice or corn; it is about protecting what is uniquely ours. Ube is more than a flavor trend — it is a symbol of place, resilience, and potential.

If we fail to act now, others will define its future for us. If we act wisely, ube can once again grow where it belongs — in Philippine soil, nurtured by Filipino hands, feeding both our people and our economy.