Habang Buhay Releases “PASSPORT” Music Video | The Divide Between Faith & Identity

Jul 30

Written by Vi-Linh Nguyen | July 30, 2025

Habang Buhay, the Austin-based Filipino American band we’ve explored before through their song Ghost, has released a new music video for their song Passport. This time, Mario Juguilon (KOUYA) and Fronrich Puno (PiiNG) present a more concrete story in this new visual telling. There’s a realistic base behind what the audience is given, so listeners can put themselves in the narrator’s shoes.

The approach to the vocals Fronrich Puno uses in this song contrasts with their previous music video release, Ghost. In Passport, a film by Adam Sigala, Puno adds texture to match the classic rock ambiance the instrumental provides. The pairing of instrumental and vocal work here evokes a nostalgia that almost calls out to a very masculine image of rock concerts—even with the irony that rock itself has a history of gender experimentation. It’s the rosy-colored lens of remembrance that paints the venues as masculine.

The lyrics dive into an unspoken relationship the narrator (in this case, the character Puno plays) has with a lost love. Even indirectly, the audience gains a deeper understanding of that relationship as the song progresses. Tragically, that understanding comes through the lens of religious trauma. I was not raised Catholic myself, but I’m familiar enough with some interpretations of the doctrines to know that this relationship was a same-sex relationship. There’s an emotional and mental struggle that oozes out of the lyrics throughout the song. I’ve struggled with coming out to myself for years, and I can only imagine the turmoil when compounded by a doctrine that calls you a mistake. Painting the kingdom of heaven as an exclusive club with a guest list is a poignant choice, effectively explaining to the audience and listeners alike the damage that blind faith can inflict.

Despite this imagery, there’s a sense that being locked out of this idyllic kingdom is worth it—even for a fleeting moment of blissful love with that special person, even if it didn’t last. Another element that ties together the auditory backdrop is the backing vocals. They are very reminiscent of gospel music, broadly speaking, which makes for a nice bow that ties back into the themes of religious trauma.

As for the video itself, we switch between four main settings: the dark void leading to the lit-up cross, the austere white bedroom, the altar, and the confession room. The audience begins with a silhouette of Fronrich Puno’s character, back turned to us, looking both ways before treading cautiously toward the lit-up cross. Then we get an immediate cut to the title card in a bright bedroom where Puno’s character is dressed in traditional masculine (and Western) church attire: a white collared shirt buttoned to the top, dark slacks, shoes, and a matching tie. The wardrobe shifts depending on the setting but maintains the white, clean imagery (with hints of gold) typically associated with Catholic symbolism.

Except for one of the aforementioned settings.

Puno’s character is bare-chested in the darkness as he walks toward the illuminated cross. Notably, the blue tint to this light is interrupted by something behind him that lights him in pink—almost as if forcing him to look back and away from the cross. The metaphor here is obvious enough when the audience is shown the Jesus-like silhouette, backlit in a near-holy way. The character’s inner turmoil lies between moving toward the salvation of the faith he was taught or the “forbidden” love that calls to him. His bare chest adds a vulnerability not seen in the other settings. The emotional connection feels raw and intimate. In contrast, the altar, bedroom, and confession room place a degree of distance between the audience and Puno’s character—until the climax.

At the climax, he rips open his shirt and tie, presumably out of the pent-up frustration between faith, identity, and blossoming sexuality. We’re then returned to that same bedroom, now cast in a warmer, softer, more natural light. Puno’s character is dressed in looser, more comfortable clothing. The religious statues are replaced with flowers. The traditionally masculine austerity is replaced with natural imagery. Simultaneously, in the dark tunnel, Puno’s emotional self (the bare-chested version) reaches the cross, which now appears dim. His expression—disappointed and resentful—says everything. Ultimately, he turns away from it and back toward the pink backlit silhouette we saw earlier.

The “holy” figure, draped in shadow and encircled in pink light—a modern gender-coded color—is finally revealed. The figure is another man. From the audience’s perspective, it’s easy to assume this is Puno’s character’s love, and that he has found the salvation he craved in that love.

Although I was neither raised Catholic nor am Filipino, the divide between faith, sexuality, and identity is one I strongly empathize with. The conversation around Asian American identity rarely intersects enough with sexuality and romantic attraction—no matter how hard many try to push for that dialogue. But it should intersect more. Culture is not set in stone, and humanity has always evolved and changed. That doesn’t mean abandoning the history that brought us to today—it means learning from it to improve the future for ourselves and our communities.

We can exist in queer and Asian-centered spaces. We are allowed to. Whether others try to stop us—or our own fears do—the conversation of identity and faith can blossom into a universal empathy that allows the human experience to thrive.
We just have to listen.