Writing as World-Building: Imagining Post-Neoliberal Futures Through Storytelling

Neoliberalism has long been sold to us as the “only way forward.” For decades, it promised prosperity through free markets, privatization, and global competition. But across the world—and here in the Philippines—we are seeing its cracks widen. From insecure jobs to climate disasters, from the erosion of public services to the cultural weight of hyper-individualism, neoliberalism is showing itself not as the end of history, but as a system in crisis.

Neoliberalism in Crisis

In the economy, we see workers hustling multiple jobs just to stay afloat, while billionaires hoard unprecedented wealth. Contractualization and the continued dependence on overseas workers as “band-aid solutions” leave Filipino families separated while the domestic labor force remains insecure.

In the environment, neoliberal growth logic means endless extraction—mines carved out of ancestral lands, logging concessions handed to foreign corporations, rivers and seas polluted to feed global supply chains. Each typhoon and flood reminds us of the cost.

Public goods have also been turned into commodities. Schools underfunded, tuition rising, healthcare becoming a privilege. The pandemic made painfully clear how fragile our safety nets really are.

And culturally, we are told that failure is personal. If you can’t “grind” or “hustle” enough, it’s on you—not the system. Meanwhile, global brands dominate our imagination, while grassroots creativity struggles unless packaged for consumption.

Alternatives Emerging

But alongside these crises, alternatives are being imagined—and practiced.

We see solidarity in jeepney drivers banding together against phaseouts, teachers forming unions, farmers sustaining cooperatives. During the pandemic, mutual aid networks filled the gaps the state refused to.

We see eco-conscious practices rooted in indigenous wisdom: community-led reforestation, Lumad schools that integrate culture and environment, and campaigns against destructive mining. Globally, movements like degrowth and eco-socialism challenge the idea of infinite growth.

We see the rise of digital commons: open-source platforms, creative commons publishing, indie zines—communities sharing knowledge outside of corporate monopolies.

And most powerfully, we see the re-politicization of youth. Students demanding tuition justice, young climate activists mobilizing, queer and feminist collectives creating alternative cultural spaces. There is no shortage of visions for a different future.

Storytelling as World-Building

This is where storytelling enters—not as entertainment alone, but as a practice of world-building. Speculative fiction has long asked: what if the rules were different? Octavia Butler imagined cooperative survival in apocalyptic landscapes; Ursula Le Guin envisioned anarchist societies where solidarity replaced profit. Closer to home, Victor Ocampo and Isabel Yap explore Filipino futures shaped not by inevitability but by choice, crisis, and care.

Children’s tales, too, carry this power. A story about forests, rivers, or workers’ struggles can plant the seed that our world is fragile, but also transformable. Through them, children learn that community care and ecological balance are as important as ambition.

Community narratives—the jeepney driver’s story, the farmer’s testimony, the local myth retold—reclaim suppressed histories and show us that alternatives are not abstract. They already exist in practice, waiting to be amplified.

Toward Post-Neoliberal Imagination

To write is to imagine otherwise. When neoliberalism tells us there is no alternative, stories insist that there is. In the Philippines and across the Global South, storytelling is not escapism—it is resistance. By publishing these voices, by circulating tales of solidarity and survival, we help shape a cultural memory that refuses to accept neoliberalism as destiny.

Because the worlds we write, tell, and share are not just fantasy—they are rehearsals for futures already trying to be born.