The 38 Million-Peso Question: What’s In It for the Buyer of Solidaridad Bookstore?

Once you step inside, you’ll know for sure this is not your average bookstore. The scent of freshly printed pages mingles with the musty, magical scent of older ones. There are no “BookTok picks” or “Bestseller” labels here. Instead, you’ll find shelves packed with Filipiniana titles, art books on Filipino masters like Napoleon Abueva and Botong Francisco, and what I once assumed were glossy gossip rags—but turned out to be zines and journals diving into everything from Filipino pop culture to Marxism versus Capitalism. 

This is Solidaridad—and soon it may no longer be the same. 

Its selection of books cuts across a wide variety of genres, including political thought, poetry, recipes, and much more—no wonder its total inventory is close to 5,000 books (foreign titles included). But more than the size of its roster, the real strength of Solidaridad is in its curation—it doesn’t stock a book just because it’s trending or it’s a bestseller. When F. Sionil Jose was still alive, every title had to pass his careful, uncompromising standard of what a good read should be.

“He knows a good book when he reads it,” says his son, Antonio “Tonet” José, who now manages the store. “If it interests him and he thinks, magugustuhan at makakatulong ito sa iba, he’ll bring it in.” 

In its 60 years of existence, Solidaridad was never just a bookstore. Built on roughly a 77-square-meter land area, the Josés maximized the space by building vertically. The bookstore occupies the entire first floor, while the second floor is the shop’s administrative office. Most customers typically only visit the ground floor. They might sneak a peek into the offices if they look up, but all they’ll really see are a couple of desks and décor.

The most interesting and storied part of the property is the third floor. “If these walls could talk, ang daming kuwento dito,” says Tonet as we make our way to the building’s topmost level.

What looked like a modest waiting room was, in fact, something far more significant—a space where discourse and brilliant ideas once thrived. It served as the headquarters of the Philippine chapter of PEN—or Poets, Essayists, Novelists—an international organization of writers promoting freedom of expression and literature. The local chapter was founded by José in 1958.

PEN Philippines would often organize forums, meet-the-author events, seminars, and other pocket activities here. Some were attended by distinguished literary figures and intellectuals from all over. Think the likes of Claro M. Recto and Carlos P. Garcia, N.V.M. Gonzales and Edith Tiempo.

If it’s not clear yet, Solidaridad was more than a business. Or if you were to take Tonet's word for it, it wasn’t a business at all.

“Bookselling is not a money-making business,” he says. “My parents always hoped that the prices of books would be lower and that people would read more, that’s what keeps the shop going.”

The Joses really did walk the talk. Frankie and wife Teresita kept book prices affordable. Sure, there were titles that reached up to P12,000 or P15,000, but these were rare Filipiniana gems or were already out-of-print. For most of the books, they’re priced the same way the publishers priced them for retail— no markups.

The store made a modest commission of 30% on local trade sales—just enough for a little bit of profit, which often went to paying the staff and the general upkeep of the store. “If we didn’t own this building, we would not have lasted 10 years,” he says matter-of-factly. 

This is how the store kept afloat all these six decades. And while the family was okay with that, Tonet admits it’s harder and harder to keep going the same way. Time eventually catches up with everything.

News of the impending sale of this storied Manila fixture came as a shock to many. When the University of Sto. Tomas' Varsitarian newspaper broke the news, many expressed concern. But for the Jose family, selling Solidaridad has become a necessity.

Tonet is the one handling the day-to-day affairs of the shop, and at 75 years old, he knows it would be nice for the next generation of heirs to take over but that's not quite the case here.  "If I were a lot younger, I would keep running it, pero hindi, eh," he says. “After me, wala na. Ako lang nandito. All of my siblings, nieces, and nephews are living abroad."

But one thing was clear to Tonet from the start: “It was never an option to close completely,” he says.

After all, this was a place where memories were made—not just his own, like the memories of the time spent in the shop during their younger years, when they would be tasked with cleaning, mopping the floors, and wiping the surfaces after school and on weekends—but also those of readers.

Like the time a customer was quietly eyeing a book they couldn’t afford. A stranger noticed, asked “Magkano ’yan?” and paid for it on the spot.

How do you walk away from a place like that? 

Simple. Sometimes when you love something, as the cliche goes, you have to set it free. Rather than see the store close, fall into disarray, and eventually die with him, Tonet and his siblings made the hard and painful decision to sell Solidaridad and open the door to a whole new era for this beloved bookshop.

“My only hope is that whoever buys it can keep it for another 60 years. I could not want for more,” Tonet says.

While he hasn’t fully come to terms with the decision, selling is something Tonet and his siblings know in their hearts is the best thing for the family’s legacy.

Tonet declines to say who is acquiring the property, but he did mention something that patrons of Solidaridad would love to hear: “The prospective buyers are looking at really keeping the spirit of the place alive.”

The buyer, he adds, is a close family friend who is looking for ways to retain Solidaridad in its current form, from the ground-floor bookshop to his dad’s office on the third floor. 

The future remains uncertain for Solidaridad —for now, and fans will just have to wait and see. A new chapter awaits, one that could be written by another person, group, or family, but here’s hoping they keep it true to what it is and what it has always been: a singular place for books and the people who love them.