Tag:

impulses

Why no noon breaks matter

by Contributor January 26, 2026

written by Contributor

THERE is a quiet kind of joy in ticking off a full list of government errands in one afternoon. Not because it happens often, but because when it does, it feels like a miracle. No fixer needed. No dramatic sighs. Just systems that actually work—like when government offices stick to the “No Noon Break” policy, not just in signage but in spirit.

For those of us who live in the city, this policy is helpful. For many others, especially those from far-flung barangays, it is everything. Picture a public school teacher from Antique who wakes up before sunrise to catch the lone trip to Iloilo City just to renew her PRC license. A closed window at lunchtime is not just an hour lost. It is an added burden, another absence from class, and sometimes another day’s meal spent on fare. Multiply that by thousands—farmers needing permits, market vendors needing clearances, retirees claiming benefits—and you start to grasp the cost of a closed counter.

That is why the No Noon Break rule exists. As part of the Anti-Red Tape Authority’s push under RA 11032, the law simply asks that offices serving the public do not all take lunch at the same time. Someone must stay behind to help those waiting. It is not revolutionary, but it is humane. And it costs almost nothing to do right.

But as always, implementation makes or breaks policy. There are offices—like the PRC in Iloilo—that prove it works. My recent license renewal took just 15 minutes. No confusion, no cold stares, no “balik-balik bukas.” Just clear signages, helpful staff, and an online system that worked. That kind of service sticks with you because it is so rare, yet so simple. On the other hand, many agencies still treat the policy as wall art. Actress Saab Magalona once shared being told to come back at 2 p.m. despite arriving at noon—proof that a posted clock means little if nobody’s at the desk.

But when offices get it right, it feels like the future. I once finished a cedula, barangay clearance, court and police documents, and several school certifications in one smooth round. Even during lunch hour, staff worked in shifts. They were not skipping meals—they just planned better. And that is what good governance looks like: not superhero efforts, just responsible scheduling.

Of course, service workers deserve fair breaks. The point is not to stretch people too thin but to create flexible systems that serve everyone. Agencies like Customs and the PNP have adopted staggered shifts. One group eats early, the other late. Nobody goes hungry, and no client goes unheard. It is not about pushing staff harder—it is about pushing leadership to think smarter.

More than anything, this is about empathy. Think of the lola from Guimaras who ferries to the city just to file an SSS claim. Or the single mom from Calinog who spends her last coin on fare, only to be told, “Lunch break, balik ka na lang.” These are not rare cases—they are daily stories. For many, each document represents time lost, income missed, or dignity frayed. Cutting off service at noon is not just a pause. It is a barrier.

This is what ARTA tried to change. Yet in the 2016 CSC Report Card Survey, only 12.6% of government offices were rated “excellent.” Over 11% failed outright. But some are stepping up. The SSS and BIR now implement “no cut-off, no noon break” rules after surprise ARTA checks. The law might not be perfect, but it sets the bar. The rest is up to leadership and culture.

Even the PNP needed a reminder. In Batangas and Crame, lunch breaks used to mean empty desks. After complaints, they were called out. Because yes, even the ones meant to enforce law must follow it. No one is exempt from serving with compassion.

But let us be clear: there is hope. My 15-minute PRC story and full-day eight-office sprint prove change is not fantasy—it is happening. These should not be flukes. They should be models. Because real service is not about speed alone. It is also about tone. A smile at the counter. A guard who explains clearly. A staff who listens instead of dismisses. These build trust faster than any tarpaulin or speech.

To those drafting policies—this is not about skipping lunch. It is about skipping excuses. Do not stretch people thinner. Stretch creativity. Build shifts. Build empathy. And to the civil servant reading this while on break: your work matters. But so does the time of the tricycle driver waiting outside your window. True public service respects both.

In the end, this policy is not really about lunchtime. It is about fairness. It is about making sure that those who come from the farthest, wait the longest, and sacrifice the most, are not turned away by a clock. True service shows up even when it is inconvenient.

If this story had a face, it would be the clerk who chose to stay so a tired father could finish his child’s birth certificate. Or the officer who helped a farmer complete his business permit without attitude or delay. These are the ones who remind us: service is not a favor. It is a promise. And in this country that has waited too long, a small act of presence can go a very long way.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

January 26, 2026 0 comments

Opinion

My 3 years of State U life

by Contributor January 8, 2026

written by Contributor

I WAS given just a weekend to rest after retiring from Ateneo de Iloilo. My body welcomed it; my mind refused to. The calendar cleared, yet instead of relief, I felt oddly misplaced. Almost right away, I found myself starting anew at Iloilo State College of Fisheries (ISCOF), now Iloilo State University of Fisheries Science and Technology (ISUFST), in mid-2022.

The pandemic was receding, though its residue lingered in classrooms and routines. I arrived in the fields of Brgy. Tiwi, Barotac Nuevo already aware that institutions are never perfect—only beautiful and broken at once. Three years later, ISUFST celebrates its universityhood, and I mark my third year here as well.

The first surprises were not grand. It was the air, for one, the kind of fresh air that makes you realize how much daily traffic noise becomes part of your bloodstream for 47 years. It was the absence of the city’s constant hurry, and the small mercy of being able to arrive somewhere without feeling like you fought your way there. Then came the prices of everyday things, which still feel kinder compared to the usual city squeeze.

But the real hook was human: the easy smiles, the warm greetings, the unforced helpfulness. In ISUFST, you meet students who carry both ambition and constraint in the same backpack. Many come from families that stretch small incomes like thread. And in classrooms and meetings, I found that many colleagues and students quietly ask the same questions I do—about fairness, access, power, and who systems are really built for.

Those conversations are rarely loud, but they are honest, turning teaching from mere instruction into shared reckoning. Students keep showing up, trying again, and reminding you how much potential can grow even without the comfort of full resources. It helps that many here understand education is never neutral—it always carries consequences, especially for the poor, the unseen, and those who come next.

I do not romanticize this. ISUFST, like any state university, has cracks. Processes can overwhelm purpose. Urgency can drown in procedure. Some still mistake visibility for value, and traditional ways of guarding space die hard. Transition does not clean the slate; it rearranges it. Some people adapt. Others dig in.

Still, those imperfections common to all SUCs were not enough to cancel the grace of being here. If anything, they made the experience more honest. I came from six years in the media and 21 years in Ateneo, and that season gave me a sturdy set of instincts: ask why before asking how, keep the work grounded in formation, and take excellence seriously without turning it into arrogance. That past did not make me superior; it simply gave me a lens. This chapter has taught me to stay present without assuming it must last forever.

In ISUFST, the lens had to adjust. I could not expect the same systems, the same culture, the same rhythm. I had to learn new ways of doing things, and more importantly, new ways of being patient without becoming numb. In the middle of that adjustment, I felt what I can only describe as a steady hand nudging me forward. Not thunder, not drama, just a quiet sense that I was being placed where I needed to learn something and serve others again.

That adjustment was eased by something I did not expect: familiar faces. Former colleagues from Ateneo, schoolmates from La Salle, DOST scholar-peers from WVSU, and fellow alumni from UP now walk the same corridors with me in ISUFST. We rarely talk about the past, but a shared sense of rigor, care, and conscience quietly carries over. It feels less like starting over and more like continuing a conversation.

I have come to appreciate the practical blessings of government service, without pretending it is perfect. Job stability matters in an economy where even good professionals can feel easily replaced. Benefits matter not as privilege, but as quiet protection for families who also grow sick and old. There are bonuses and trainings, yes, but what stays with me more is the culture of public service—people who keep showing up, staying late for students, doing research and extension work, and pushing for quality even when resources are thin.

That culture is never abstract. It is shaped, slowly and often quietly, by leadership that knows when to step in and when to trust people to do their work. I am grateful for the steadiness of ISUFST under President Nordy D. Siason Jr., not because everything is perfect, but because there has been room to work, to try, to correct, to innovate, to find ways, and to serve without constant noise. In an institution where transitions can harden into turf wars—shaped by entrenched attachments and habits that have outlived their usefulness—that kind of space matters more than speeches.

My roles have been both a gift and a test. Being Director of the Public Affairs, Marketing, and Media Communications Office (PAMMCO) and chief information officer (CIO) means you are paid to notice, to listen, and to tell stories responsibly. It also means you are constantly walking a line: celebrate what deserves celebration, not echo it blindly. Write with pride, but never at the cost of truth. I value the job because it sits at the intersection of my odd mix: math, physics, counseling, journalism, and creative work.

Some days, I teach calculus and physics, do formation work, wrestle with research, and join wellness conversations in communities—then write about a student who is the first in their family to reach college. It has also meant allowing small pauses—eat-outs, night-outs, movie binges, short travels, moments of reset, and continued self-learning—so the work does not empty the person doing it. It is a rare arrangement, and I do not take it for granted. It feels like a season of being allowed to be fully myself, even while still learning how government systems breathe.

It helps that ISUFST knows who it is. As the country’s first and only fisheries university, its work naturally leans toward integrity and social justice, especially in communities where science meets survival—coastal livelihoods, food security, climate risk, and sustainability. Its 68-year history gives it weight, and its university status was earned through grit, compliance, and patience.

Even the logo feels right to me: a fish carrying science, technology, and care for the future, a quiet sign that the institution is willing to evolve, even when change is untidy. The past three years have been busy in the best way—compliance, accreditation, rankings, and the daily work of proving that a university can be grounded and globally relevant. Awards are not the soul of education, but they are mirrors. And when a university serving mostly marginalized families earns recognition, it gently pushes back against the worn-down belief that excellence only lives in louder, city campuses.

Even so, I keep my gratitude prudent. I have learned that appreciation does not mean pretending everything is fine. It means naming what is good without denying what is broken. Some days, the paperwork, the politics, or the confusion of seniority with wisdom can wear you down. But you also learn you are not trapped. Life moves doors on its own terms. I do not know what comes next, but I know these three years were a gift—a productive season that kept pulling me back to justice and equity, even in ordinary tests.

As ISUFST marks its third year as a university, I find myself grateful for the grace of staying present. Not famous, not flawless—just present. For the people who lightened the work, the students who gave it meaning, and the unseen hand that placed me here when I thought my best work might be behind me, I remain thankful. Whatever chapter comes next, the lesson stays the same: serve where you are planted, speak truth with care, and stay open to the next tide.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.

January 8, 2026 0 comments

Opinion

Teachers’ boundaries in 2026

by Contributor January 7, 2026

written by Contributor

TEACHING did not suddenly become difficult in 2026. It has been quietly heavy for years, but this year feels different because the weight is finally being named. The posts circulating on social media about what teachers must avoid struck a nerve, not because they were radical, but because they sounded familiar. They described ordinary days: late-night checking, borrowed time from family dinners, the reflex to say yes even when the body is already tired.

Many teachers read those lists and nodded. Some felt relief. Others felt exposed. I did too. I offer this as a fellow teacher, not an exception. I need these reminders myself, because I also slip—sometimes unknowingly, sometimes willfully—until the consequences have already caught up.

These reminders show how teaching has grown heavier over time. It is no longer just about knowing the lesson or managing students. It now involves emotional labor, paperwork, and social expectations that never quite pause. Studies abroad have long warned about burnout when workload is high, and control is low, and local surveys tell the same story in schools, especially where paperwork competes with preparation. That is why teacher well-being matters so much. A tired teacher can still stand in front of a class. A depleted one finds it hard to stay patient, creative, and caring.

Saying yes to everything is one habit many teachers struggle to break. Filipino culture often praises self-sacrifice, so extra work feels like a duty. Another committee, another message after hours—it feels harmless. But boundaries are not selfish. They bring clarity. I still fail at this, replying to or sending messages after work and telling myself it will be quick. It rarely is.

Overload also becomes easy to normalize. When everyone is exhausted, being tired feels normal. Teachers joke about surviving on coffee and little sleep, as if that were a strength. But constant fatigue damages health and dulls empathy. Teaching needs presence, not just endurance.

Comparison works quietly. It shows up when we measure ourselves against colleagues who publish more or seem to do everything well. But classrooms, students, and life seasons differ. Our teachers carry multiple roles at work and at home. Growth is personal and uneven. Remembering this does not end insecurity, but it makes it manageable.

Professional growth is often postponed just to survive. When tasks pile up, learning feels like a luxury. Yet stagnation slowly drains joy. Growth does not always require seminars. It can mean reading, observing, or admitting not knowing and learning with students. In my experience, those moments bring teaching back to life.

Social media adds another layer. A careless post can travel far beyond its context. Our digital footprint has become part of our professional identity. Guarding it is not fear-based—it is thoughtful. Many teachers, myself included, have learned or at least are trying to learn to pause before sharing.

These reminders also say something about voice. Teachers are often trained—explicitly or not—to keep quiet, avoid friction, and endure policies they know could be better. Silence feels safe. But thoughtful advocacy is part of the job. Speaking up does not mean shouting. It means choosing the right moment, grounding concerns in evidence, and having the courage to be clear.

One reminder stays especially close to home: before the role came the person. Teaching takes much from us, but it should not take everything. We often value family, relationships, and being present. When work pushes these aside for too long, something human wears thin. I struggle with this too. Balance is uneven, and some weeks fail. What matters is noticing when work begins to crowd out life.

Another quiet fear surfaces here—the fear of not mattering. In systems driven by metrics, it is easy to feel invisible. But teaching still shapes lives in small, steady ways. Each careful explanation, each respectful correction, each word of encouragement leaves a mark. We may not see it immediately, but it stays.

2026 is not a demand to do more. It is an invitation to do better by doing what is sustainable. Teaching deserves protection, not because teachers are fragile, but because the work is human. These reminders are not rules to obey, but mirrors to check ourselves against. I need them as much as anyone. Perhaps that honesty is where dignity begins: teaching with commitment, living with balance, and choosing not to disappear in the process.

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January 7, 2026 0 comments

Opinion

The unwritten code

by Contributor December 17, 2025

written by Contributor

WE LIVE in a world quietly guided by invisible rules—those unspoken cues we’re never formally taught, yet somehow instinctively follow. They don’t show up in manuals or school syllabi, but they shape our days just the same. These quiet norms make life a little less awkward, a little more respectful. In a world often loud and messy, they offer a kind of soft structure—a shared rhythm to keep us moving together.

Picture this: you’re in a packed elevator, and someone reaches across to press the button for your floor. You nod, smile, maybe say, “Salamat.” It’s a quick, quiet exchange—but in that moment, there’s grace. It’s not just politeness; it’s connection. In our culture, saying thank you isn’t just about manners—it’s about acknowledging effort, no matter how small. It says, “I see you, and what you did matters.”

Complimenting someone’s appearance is another tricky but meaningful dance. We’ve all hesitated—wanting to say something nice but unsure how it’ll come across. In Filipino culture, we’re often taught: if it’s not kind or sincere, better to say nothing. But when you mean it, a simple “Gwapa ka subong” (You look lovely today) can change someone’s whole mood. It doesn’t take much to uplift.

Now, let’s talk about lines. Whether you’re at a bank, a bakery, or just craving Jollibee, everyone knows—cutting the line is a major no-no. The queue is sacred. It’s where we’re all equals, no matter what. So when someone breaks that flow, a calm “Excuse me, ikaw ang sunod” is more than enough. No need for drama—just a gentle reminder that fairness matters.

Then there’s personal space. We all value it, even if we don’t always admit it. Whether it’s someone peeking at your phone on the jeep, hovering too close at work, or sharing private messages from a chat they weren’t even part of—boundaries get crossed. Respecting space, whether digital or physical, isn’t being cold. It’s being considerate.

At work, it gets even trickier. We blur the lines between colleague and confidant. But just because someone laughs at your weekend stories doesn’t mean they want every detail. Oversharing can be exhausting. Save the deep dives for barkada nights or safe spaces. In the workplace, less can truly be more.

And public transport? It’s where character shows. When an elderly person, pregnant woman, or someone juggling a child steps in—no questions, no hesitation—you give up your seat. You just do. It’s a quiet kindness we Filipinos know by heart. No signs needed. It’s how we honor dignity without words.

Interrupting someone is another habit we underestimate. We do it when we’re excited or in a rush—but it often sends the wrong message: “What I have to say is more important.” Letting others finish is more than polite. It’s a reflection of pakikipagkapwa—our deep value of seeing and respecting others as fellow humans.

Returning borrowed things might seem minor—a pen, a book, a charger. But doing it promptly and in good shape tells the other person, “I didn’t forget you.” These small acts build trust. They show character.

And yes, even in public restrooms, there are rules. Flush. Aim well. Keep it clean. No one needs to post a sign to remind us. Respecting shared spaces isn’t fussy—it’s basic decency. It’s about making things better for the person who comes after.

These unwritten codes won’t earn you medals, but they matter. They’re not about being perfect—they’re about being present. About noticing. About doing small things that ripple into something bigger. Holding the door. Saying thanks. Returning what you borrowed. Giving someone space. These aren’t grand gestures—but they’re what keep communities kind.

So the next time you’re in a crowded jeep, a long line, or a tense conversation, pause. Look around. Maybe hold that door, offer that seat, or let someone finish their thought. You don’t need a manual to do the right thing. Most of the time, you just need a little awareness—and a lot of heart.

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December 17, 2025 0 comments

Opinion

Bending without breaking the law

by Contributor December 11, 2025

written by Contributor

SOME lessons arrive quietly. I remember a fisherman from Carles, Manong Nardo, his palms rough as old rope. After Yolanda flattened the coast, he gathered planks that the sea had tossed onto the shore. Those boards could not be traced to anyone; they were wreckage in a landscape of loss. When responders saw him picking them up, there was no shouting, no lecture—only tired eyes recognizing a tired man. The law was clear, but life had been clearer. They allowed him to rebuild because storms do not come with receipts.

We grow up believing laws are anchors of order. Yet hunger and crisis test theories the way wind tests houses. What happened that day was not defiance—it was compassion choosing relevance. The law did not bend because someone felt entitled. It bent because survival demanded space to breathe.

That same tension echoed recently in the Senate when Senator Erwin Tulfo said, “Sometimes you have to bend the law.” Many understood his point as frustration over stolen public funds, especially in flood-prone communities. Others heard danger—because in this country, bending rules has saved the poor on one hand and shielded the powerful on the other.

Laws were not carved to replace humanity but to reflect it. From ancient principles of equity to modern restorative justice, societies have long recognized that punishment without proportion becomes harm. When the law humiliates more than it heals or protects only those who already sit above it, something is broken that no technicality can patch.

Daily life proves this. A mother arriving at the ER without cash but with a burning child is not a criminal. A jeepney driver caught between schedules and storms is not a threat to the State. A student selling bibingka to fund modules should not be treated like a smuggler. These moments are not loopholes; they are complexity wearing a face.

But here is the caution. Bending the law for those with little power is mercy. Bending it for those with influence is manipulation. We have witnessed the televised denials, the notarized explanations, and the well-lit press conferences. That is why the discussion on restitution struck a nerve. When Senator Rodante Marcoleta insisted that those seeking witness protection, like the Discayas, need not return any alleged stolen money, the public balked. Ordinary families return mismatched change and borrowed tools without lawyers or cameras. If accountability is heavy, why should it fall only on shoulders already burdened?

The test is simple: Does the flexibility lift the struggling or cushion the comfortable? If it shelters the corrupt, it is not compassion—it is convenience wrapped in legal language.

The most polished laws will fail if they abandon common sense. Rules that block a thirsty child from crossing a broken boundary after a typhoon may be lawful, but are not right. Rules that punish the farmer selling vegetables beside his land while large-scale anomalies are debated like theories only breed resentment. The question is not only what the law says but whether the result honors dignity.

Teachers know this well. We give second chances not because standards disappear, but because context speaks. A learner who walked kilometers under the heat sits differently from one driven to school. Extension is not favoritism; it is fairness recognizing uneven starting lines.

Years later, I met two of Manong Nardo’s children—grown, working, steady. “Kung ginpunish pa si Tatay, basi indi ko nakapadayon eskwela,” one said. A single moment of mercy skipped the family past years of delay. Had the law been rigid that day, the government might have claimed victory, but society would have carried the cost.

The law should protect people, not corner them. It must be firm, but not brittle; clear, but not cold. The blindfold of justice symbolizes neutrality, not numbness. A nation cannot preach discipline solely downward while negotiation happens upward.

We do not resent the law—we resent when it forgets us. We resent when technicalities become shields, when apologies cost nothing, when consequences belong only to those without connections. The true power of the law is trust, not fear.

In the end, bending the law toward survival and dignity is not rebellion—it is responsibility. Laws are tools, not trophies. They must walk with people, not ahead of them. Life bends us daily. The least the law can do is bend just enough to remain human.

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Doc H calls himself a ”student of and for life” and, like many others, wants a life-giving, why-driven world dedicated to social justice and happiness. His views may not reflect those of his employers or associates.

December 11, 2025 0 comments

Opinion

When tired press advisers still stay

by Contributor December 9, 2025

written by Contributor

EVERY gathering of school paper advisers has that one line that reveals more truth than any keynote speech. It usually comes from someone at the back, half-laughing, half-exhaling: “Sir, kapoy na, pero go lang.” People chuckle, but the room understands. It is the kind of tiredness that isn’t loud—just honest. And before we talk about leads and headlines, styles and structures, ethics and deadlines, we have to name this first: advisers are exhausted, and yet, they choose to stay.

That line surfaced again during the 16th Gusting Conference with campus paper advisers from Panay, Negros, and Cebu—held this November 30 at the University of San Agustin, against the backdrop of the Trillion-Peso March 2.0. The no-filter sharing in the room felt heavy and honest, but it also showed the shared tiredness and fire that brought basic ed and college advisers together.

It’s easy to praise that kind of dedication, sometimes too easy. Campus advisers wear a dozen hats and work in the cracks of their day—fixing layouts at dawn, editing drafts between classes, training kids on Saturdays. And now, as if the old tasks weren’t enough, advisers also have to navigate AI tools, fast-moving digital platforms, fake news, and tech rules that change quicker than school policies. It’s one more layer—both a burden and a chance—as advisers help students tell human stories in an age that often rewards speed over sense. But many stay because they’ve lived this life before. The newsroom shaped them, the craft still thrills them, and helping young writers grow feels like something they’re meant to do.

But exhaustion, when carried year after year, changes you. It dulls the thrill that once kept advisers awake with pride. It turns creativity into something you rationalize. It turns passion into something you must protect before it fully burns out. Staying starts to mean navigating unclear policies, shrinking budgets, and school cultures that expect miracles from “ghost” publication offices with broken tools, outdated equipment, or no equipment at all. Still, advisers persist—not for trophies, not for photo-ops, not for the clout, but for the students who trust them and the calling it represents.

For some advisers, staying becomes a quiet rebellion. They teach real journalism even when superficial content is easier. They choose accuracy over popularity, truth over convenience, depth over applause. These gestures aren’t dramatic; they happen in small rooms after dismissal, in chat groups buzzing at midnight, in the careful red marks on a shaky first draft. It is in those small, private moments where the soul of campus journalism is shaped.

Schools are not built by trophies or glossy pages. They’re built by the teacher who prints mock-ups from their own pocket, the mentor who shields a reporter, the adviser who whispers, “Your voice matters.” They grow through quiet wins—a paragraph finally right, an adviser still showing up, a newsroom where students feel safe, a contest win that whispers, none of this was wasted.

But we also need to say what many advisers hesitate to admit: supporting a school paper is not the same as surviving it. Staying should not mean martyrdom. It should not mean normalizing burnout, nor treating advisers as endlessly available. If staying is to matter, it needs real support—clear workload credits, fair incentives, working equipment, and school leaders who value the process, not just the output.

Because campus journalism is not a hobby—it’s a public service. It is not just output–it is quiet but powerful values formation. And when young reporters ask hard questions about lived injustices, bullying, corruption, or misinformation, praising them is the easy part. The harder part is creating systems that protect them and empower advisers to guide them safely. Advisers stand at the fragile intersection between developing student voices and shielding them from a complicated world that isn’t always kind to truth and justice.

And yet, year after year, student publications survive—not because policy is strong, but because advisers—side by side with equally driven editors and staff—refuse to give in to cynicism. Hope takes many forms. Sometimes it is a shy writer learning to craft a straight news lead. Sometimes it is a frustrated broadcaster rewriting a shaky script. Sometimes it is an adviser whispering, “Go at your own pace; your story matters,” even when everything around them says time is running out. Sometimes it’s the content creator fixing a post for the tenth time, the social media admin refreshing the page with a nervous heart, the cartoonist turning a campus ache into satire, the columnist shaping a messy thought into something true, or the photographer crouching in corners just to capture honesty.

All these small acts of courage add up. They become the backbone of future journalists—and future citizens.

Which brings us back to that quiet line: “Kapoy na, pero go lang.” It was never a complaint. It was a compass, reminding advisers that the future of journalism is built slowly—through fairness, clear critical thinking, and the steady shaping of young storytellers

As we move forward, may we honor tired advisers not with applause alone, but with concrete support. A school proves its character not in celebrations, but in how it stands with its people when the workload grows heavy. Staying is noble—but only when the educational institution, the structure, and the community stay with their advisers, too.

***

December 9, 2025 0 comments

Opinion

How P500 became a punchline

by Contributor December 6, 2025

written by Contributor

THERE is something oddly familiar about the uproar over the proposed ₱500 Noche Buena budget.

By Herman M. Lagon

There is something oddly familiar about the uproar over the proposed ₱500 Noche Buena budget.

Not the warm kind of familiar—like your mother’s handwritten spaghetti recipe or the way your father slices ham too thick. It’s the other kind. The kind you feel when an official says something so wildly out of touch it sounds like a recycled punchline from the golden age of cringe memes.

When the Department of Trade and Industry suggested that a family could pull off a “basic” Christmas Eve meal with ₱500, the country’s collective eyebrow rose so high it nearly hit the ozone layer. Teachers checking test papers shook their heads. Vendors in La Paz Market laughed—half amusement, half exhaustion. Even accounting students muttered, “Ma’am, hindi talaga kaya.”

It became a national bonding moment through disbelief.

And no, the backlash wasn’t because Filipinos wanted lavish feasts. Filipinos are experts in stretching budgets; we’ve been doing inflation gymnastics long before inflation became a dinner-table term. The problem was that the statement seemed detached from any real household’s experience. As if someone confused a Google Sheet with an actual grocery cart.

Economists from the Ibon Foundation even called it “obviously false” and “government propaganda” (Africa, 2025). Facebook comments were harsher. One teacher wrote, “Spaghetti daw for ₱78—siguro kung noodles lang at dasal.” Another asked whether DTI used prices from a universe where onions cost fifty centavos and Christmas ham grew beside pechay.

Many laughed, but the sting was real.

Noche Buena is not just a meal. It’s a ritual—an anchor families cling to in a year full of uncertainties. Parents save for ham not because it’s luxurious, but because it lets them tell their children, “Kahit papaano, nandito tayo.” Reduce that to a spreadsheet puzzle and the harm isn’t in missing ingredients. It’s in the dismissed dignity.

What made the ₱500 claim sting more was how it echoed a long-time pattern: framing hardship as a technique problem rather than a structural one. Government messaging often praises “resilience” and “resourcefulness,” as if creativity can compensate for low wages and unstable markets. Families are told to stretch, adjust, endure—while institutions speak of affordability in abstract terms.

This year, that tone fell flat. It felt dismissive—like someone saying “Kaya yan” without even looking at your wallet.

Online reactions exposed that disconnect. “Saang planeta?” became a national tagline. People suggested the grocery list was made in Middle Earth, Mars, or “DTI Universe”—where inflation apparently goes on holiday. A Jaro vendor said she laughed at the announcement, then stopped laughing when she realized she still needed to buy cooking oil. A jeepney driver quipped, “Kung ₱500 Noche Buena, baka kami na ang magiging regalo.”

The humor was sharp, but the frustration beneath it was sharper.

Teachers felt it deeply. They see students arriving hungry because families are rationing food for the week. They hear stories of parents skipping meals so children can have recess snacks. So when someone says ₱500 is “enough,” educators hear the message behind the message: hardship is normal, dignity is optional, and families should be grateful for the bare minimum.

It runs counter to everything teachers try to model—empathy, reflection, and respect for lived realities.

The witty jabs on social media weren’t just comedy. They were political commentary dressed in humor. Someone proposed a “₱500 Noche Buena Challenge” for cabinet secretaries—no assistants, no preselected brands, no hidden catering trays. Another suggested a museum exhibit for outdated government price guides. People joked about hams the size of table tennis balls or onions priced like loose change.

Funny, yes. Petty, no.

These were ways of exposing what spreadsheets cannot measure: the mother waking at 3:30 a.m. to queue for cheaper fish in the talipapa, the father skipping merienda so his children can have fruit salad made with budget ingredients.

The government defended the estimate, saying it was only for “simple” households. But simplicity was not the issue. Mismatch was. Research shows that trust drops sharply when citizens sense leaders are speaking from insulated bubbles (Levi & Stoker, 2000). This episode reminded Filipinos of bigger issues—inequality, wage stagnation, unresolved budget controversies.

Even lawmakers called for wage increases instead of “imaginary grocery lists.” Teachers echoed the sentiment. They know a salary no longer stretches the way it used to. At some point, thriftiness stops being a virtue and becomes forced surrender.

By the time the debate peaked, the ₱500 controversy had revealed something much bigger. It showed how technical explanations can overshadow human needs. How policymaking often happens far from the lives it is supposed to touch. And how dignity should never be treated as a negotiable budget line.

A meaningful Christmas meal doesn’t need to be extravagant. But it should not be framed as a test of survival either.

Filipinos have never demanded excess—only fairness, empathy, and leaders who live in the same reality as the people they serve. The issue was never the price of ham. It was the price of pretending.

December 6, 2025 0 comments

Opinion

Party-list reform is long overdue

by Contributor December 5, 2025

written by Contributor

THERE are political questions that skim the surface, and there are those that land heavily because they mirror what many of us have long felt. After a coffee break with former co-teachers, a fellow educator quietly asked why the party-list system now feels like a reunion of familiar surnames rather than a home for neglected sectors. She said it lightly, but the tired half-smile on her face was something every teacher recognizes—the fatigue of explaining fairness to young people while the system itself refuses to practice it. Her question followed me on the ride home. The mechanism meant to lift the margins had slowly become a shortcut for people who were never truly on the edges.

When the party-list system was introduced, its promise was simple: widen the halls of power for those who rarely got a seat. Farmers, workers, fisherfolk, PWDs, women, senior citizens, youth, solo parents, LGBTQ++, indigenous peoples, caregivers, transport workers—those whose daily realities rarely reach the policy tables. It was supposed to be a political equalizer. Yet decades later, studies such as Kontra Daya’s 2025 report reveal that 86 of 156 accredited groups had ties to business interests or political clans. For teachers who try to instill civic ethics in their students, this number is not just concerning—it is disheartening.

The proof is scattered across past elections. DUMPER PTDA, supposedly for taxi drivers, ended up tied to a powerful provincial family. Agimat PL leaned on the Revilla name while claiming to represent workers. Duterte Youth spent years entangled in legal disputes over misrepresentation. Long before them, groups like 1-PACMAN raised eyebrows over corporate connections. These are not isolated scandals; they reveal what happens when weak rules meet strong incentives. Left unattended, loopholes do not stay small—they learn to grow.

Yet, in conversations with teachers, fisherfolk, student leaders, and health workers, the call is not to abolish the system. People still believe it can work—if we remove those who treat it as a backstage entrance to Congress. Public sentiment shows frustration, yes, but not resignation. Many say abolition risks muting the very voices the Constitution wanted to amplify. As one young organizer told me, the system is not broken; it has been borrowed by those who never needed it. What people want returned is ownership.

The loudest reform proposal is stricter screening. Communities now insist on actual proof of sectoral work, living membership, and advocacy that did not begin only when campaign materials were printed. It is similar to what teachers call authentic assessment: show your work, not just your slogan. A group with no grassroots presence is like a student who turns in a project without learning anything—impressive on the surface, hollow underneath.

Defining “marginalized” more clearly is another major demand. The Constitution left the term wide, which allowed bad-faith interpretations. People now ask for measurable criteria—income ranges, community vulnerability, occupational risks, cultural exclusion. One mother from an informal settlement in Jaro put it plainly during a community workshop: “Kun klaro sa layi kon sin-o kami, mas mahapos kami maprotektahan (If the law is clear about who we are, it becomes easier to protect us).” Clarity is not bureaucracy. It is respect.

Just as urgent is the public insistence that nominees must truly belong to the sectors they claim. This is not romanticism—it is common sense. A son of a farmer, my student, in Barotac Nuevo once told me he wanted representatives who knew the weight of a failed harvest, not just the vocabulary of one. His point mirrors what scholars like Hanna Pitkin, author of “The Concept of Representation,” argued decades ago: representation is strongest when lived experience and advocacy reinforce each other.

Transparency is another craving shared across communities. People want to know what their representatives filed, defended, or fought for. They want hearings attended, funds accounted for, and performance documented in ways ordinary people can understand. Groups like Mamamayang Liberal, Gabriela, ACT Teachers, Kabataan, Anakpawis, and Akbayan have offered visible legislative work, but others have become what teachers jokingly call “wallpaper congressmen”—present in designation, absent in contribution, suspect in corruption, and missing in execution. Democracy deserves more than placeholders.

Redundancy also frustrates voters. When five groups claim to speak for drivers or when multiple farmer blocs fight for the same votes, representation becomes splintered. Consolidation is not control; it is coherence. Teachers understand this intuitively. In class projects, we group students by common purpose because scattered voices rarely build something solid. Voters now seek the same logic in governance.

Even the framers of the Constitution, like Christian Monsod, have clarified that while the system was not meant to be exclusive to marginalized groups, it was always intended to deepen representation—not dilute it. The issue, he argues, is not the concept but the absence of firm anti-dynasty rules and poorly enforced guidelines. The Supreme Court’s Atong Paglaum decision widened eligibility, but it also created confusion that lawmakers never fully addressed. Reform—not demolition—is the remedy.

Senator Bam Aquino’s 2025 reform bill arrived at a time when the public was already articulating similar demands. The proposal—stronger screening, disqualification of nominees tied to incumbent officials, and community-vetted sectoral membership—echoes what many citizens have been calling for in consultations, classrooms, and barangay assemblies. Democracy strengthens not when everyone can run, but when those who do are genuinely rooted in the people they claim.

Where do we go from here? Reform requires political will, civic honesty, and patience. Teachers often tell students, “Show me your work, not your excuse.” Perhaps the same ethos must now guide policymakers. Representation must not be a theatrical role. It must be lived, demonstrated, checked, and renewed. If reforms succeed, faith in the system may finally grow again—not because it is perfect, but because it strives to be fair.

In the end, the party-list system does not need burial. It needs repair. It needs stronger filters, clearer rules, and representatives who approach public service the way good teachers approach their classrooms—with consistency, humility, and respect for the people before them. If citizens vote with both memory and conviction, the system can still fulfill its original purpose: opening the doors of Congress to those who were long kept waiting at the gate. That is the overhaul we owe to ourselves.

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December 5, 2025 0 comments