spaces that speak

BY Kethelle I. Sajonia

On payday, many of our teachers do not celebrate. They brace themselves. Before they can think of groceries, school supplies for their own children, or even a modest meal out with family, the deductions have already done their work. Loans from government lending agencies, cooperatives, rural banks, private lenders, and salary loan apps slice through their pay like a blade through paper. By the time the numbers settle, some teachers take home nothing. Literally nothing. A few even end up owing more than what they earned.

This is not a new story in Mindanao. But it is one we keep failing to tell loudly enough.

The typical public school teacher in the Philippines earns somewhere between fifteen thousand and forty thousand pesos a month, depending on their salary grade. It sounds manageable until you account for the reality of their lives: aging parents, children in college, houses that still need finishing, medical emergencies that arrive without warning, and a cost of living that has not slowed down despite wages that barely move. The salary is never quite enough. And so they borrow.

Borrowing, in itself, is not the problem. The problem is what happens after. Many teachers fall into a cycle that financial advocates have long described as debt trapping. A teacher takes out one loan to pay off another. The interest on the second loan accumulates faster than expected. A penalty is tacked on for a late payment. Then another loan is taken to cover the penalty. And on it goes, spinning deeper and deeper, until the original amount borrowed becomes a small fraction of what is now owed.

Talk to any teacher in a public school in Davao, in Tagum, in Digos, in Mati, and you will hear a version of the same story. “Wala na akong take-home pay.” There is nothing left. The money is consumed even before it arrives in their hands. They have become, in the cruelest sense of the phrase, working poor. People who show up every single day to shape the next generation, but who cannot afford to eat a decent lunch.

We must be honest about who preys on this vulnerability. Some lending institutions, fully aware that teachers have fixed and guaranteed incomes, aggressively market loan products to them. The pitch is always easy: fast approval, no collateral, just your salary. What is buried in the fine print are the compounding interest rates and penalty clauses that turn a thirty-thousand-peso loan into a hundred-thousand-peso nightmare within two years. Salary loan apps on smartphones have made this even more accessible and, therefore, even more dangerous. A teacher can now fall deeper into debt from the comfort of a classroom during a free period.

What compounds the tragedy is the silence around it. Financial distress carries shame in Filipino culture. A teacher who cannot manage their own money feels they have failed not just themselves but the image of competence and respectability that comes with the profession. So they suffer quietly. They do not tell their principals. They do not tell their colleagues. They smile in front of thirty students and go home to a household where dinner is uncertain.

This silence is something institutions have consistently failed to break. The Department of Education has financial literacy programs on paper. Cooperatives exist and some are genuinely helpful. But the structural conditions that push teachers toward predatory lenders in the first place have not been seriously addressed. Wages have not kept pace with inflation. The process for legitimate emergency loans from GSIS and other agencies remains slow and bureaucratic. When a teacher needs ten thousand pesos now to pay for a child’s hospitalization, they are not going to wait two months for a government loan to process. They will call the lending agent who picks up on the first ring.

There is also a policy failure worth naming directly. The Salary Standardization Law has been revised several times, and each revision promises meaningful increases. But the gap between teacher salaries and the actual cost of dignified living in Philippine cities continues to widen. A teacher is expected to attend seminars, buy their own teaching materials, and sometimes even contribute to classroom repairs out of pocket. They give and give to a system that has not given back enough.

What, then, should be done? Several things, and none of them are impossible.

First, the government must impose stricter regulations on lending institutions and salary loan applications that target teachers and other government employees. Interest rate caps and clear penalty limits are not radical ideas. They are consumer protections that civilized societies put in place to protect their most essential workers.

Second, DepEd and local government units must establish fast-access emergency financial assistance programs that compete with predatory lenders on speed and accessibility. A teacher in financial crisis needs a real alternative, not a pamphlet.

Third, schools must create spaces where teachers can seek financial guidance without shame. Counseling services and peer support structures should be as available as professional development seminars.

And finally, we as a society must stop pretending that paying teachers poorly is acceptable as long as we call them heroes on Teacher’s Day. Heroism does not pay electricity bills. Gratitude does not cancel interest. If we genuinely believe that teachers are the foundation of national progress, then we must pay them as if we mean it.

A teacher who is drowning in debt cannot fully surface for their students. A mind preoccupied with survival cannot be fully present in a classroom. The crisis of indebted teachers is not just a personal tragedy. It is a public education crisis wearing a very private face.

We owe it to them to look at it directly, and to act.

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Kethelle I. Sajonia is a college instructor at the University of Southeastern Philippines, Mintal Campus. She is currently in the final phase of her Doctor of Communication degree at the University of the Philippines. Her research interests include inclusivity, education, communication, and social development. She actively engages in scholarly research and community-based initiatives that advocate for inclusive and transformative communication practices.

By Kethelle I. Sajonia

WALK THROUGH any public market today, and you will hear the same quiet refrain. “Mahal na gyud.” Prices have climbed so steadily that the phrase has become part of everyday conversation. Rice, once the most reliable staple, now stretches household budgets. Cooking oil, vegetables, and fish follow the same upward path. At the pump, fuel prices rise and fall, but rarely low enough to bring lasting relief. For many Filipinos, the economy is no longer an abstract discussion. It is felt in every meal skipped, every expense postponed, and every decision weighed against limited income.

The government continues to present economic indicators that suggest stability and growth. Reports cite expanding output, improving investment flows, and efforts to control inflation. These are important signals. They matter in international markets and policy circles. But for ordinary Filipinos, the measure of an economy is simpler. Can we afford to eat well? Can we pay our bills without fear? Can we move through daily life without constant financial anxiety?

Right now, for many, the answer is no.

The most pressing concern is the gap between rising costs and stagnant income. Minimum wage earners, small vendors, transport workers, and even salaried employees feel the strain. A few pesos added to the price of rice or fuel may seem minor on paper, but for families living paycheck to paycheck, these increases accumulate quickly.

Fuel prices affect everything. When diesel rises, transport costs increase. When transport costs increase, goods become more expensive. The price of food on the table reflects not only farming and production, but also the cost of getting those goods from province to city, from farm to market.

This chain reaction places the burden on consumers, especially those who already have the least capacity to absorb it.

Rice as a national indicator

Rice has always been more than a commodity in the Philippines. It is a symbol of security. When rice prices rise, it sends a signal that something is not working.

The government has attempted various interventions, from price caps to import adjustments. These efforts are meant to stabilize supply and ease pressure on consumers. However, these measures also come with consequences. Farmers worry about their livelihood when cheaper imports flood the market. Traders adjust prices based on supply uncertainties. Consumers remain caught in the middle.

The challenge is not only about making rice affordable. It is about balancing affordability with sustainability for local producers. Without a long-term strategy that strengthens local agriculture, the cycle of dependence and vulnerability continues.

Fuel and the cost of movement

Fuel is another pressure point that touches nearly every sector. Jeepney drivers, delivery riders, and transport operators feel its impact first. Their earnings shrink as fuel costs rise, forcing them to increase fares or extend working hours just to maintain income.

For commuters, this means higher daily expenses. For businesses, it means increased operational costs. For households, it means less money for other essentials.

The government has introduced fuel subsidies in certain periods to ease the burden on transport workers. These are helpful but temporary. The deeper issue lies in how dependent the economy remains on fluctuating global fuel prices and how limited alternative systems are.

Government response and public perception

The government faces a difficult balancing act. It must manage inflation, maintain investor confidence, and address immediate public needs. Policies such as targeted subsidies, monitoring of prices, and import regulation aim to stabilize conditions.

But policy effectiveness is not measured only by intention. It is measured by impact.

Public perception reflects a growing frustration. Many Filipinos feel that responses are either too slow or too short-term. Announcements of economic improvement often feel disconnected from lived reality. This gap between official statements and everyday experience weakens trust.

Communication matters here. When people do not feel the benefits of policy, they begin to question whether those policies are working at all.

To understand the economy, one must listen to everyday stories.

A mother in the market choosing between protein and vegetables because she cannot afford both. A jeepney driver calculating if his earnings will cover fuel and still leave something for his family. A student skipping meals to save money for school expenses. A worker taking on extra jobs because one income is no longer enough.

These are not isolated experiences. They are shared realities.

The economy is not only about numbers. It is about people navigating survival within systems that are supposed to support them.

The current economic strain is not caused by a single factor. It is shaped by global pressures, supply chain disruptions, local production challenges, and policy limitations.

Agricultural productivity remains inconsistent. Infrastructure gaps affect distribution. Dependence on imports creates vulnerability to external shocks. Wage growth struggles to keep pace with inflation.

Addressing these issues requires long-term planning. Short-term relief can ease immediate pain, but without structural reform, the same problems return.

Economic management must move beyond reactive measures. It must focus on strengthening local production, especially in agriculture. Supporting farmers with resources, technology, and fair pricing systems can reduce dependence on imports.

Investment in transport and energy alternatives can reduce vulnerability to fuel price fluctuations. Expanding social protection programs can cushion the most vulnerable sectors during economic shocks.

Equally important is communication. The government must speak clearly, honestly, and consistently about economic conditions. People are more willing to endure difficulty when they understand the plan and trust the process.

Our public spaces must reflect economic truth, not just optimism. It is not enough to celebrate growth figures if families continue to struggle. It is not enough to announce policies if their effects are not felt.

The strength of an economy is measured not by its reports, but by the well-being of its people.

Filipinos are resilient. They have always found ways to adapt, to stretch resources, to support one another. But resilience should not be mistaken for acceptance. Struggle should not become normal.

As the country moves forward, the challenge is clear. Economic policies must translate into real relief. Growth must be inclusive. Stability must be felt, not just reported.

Because at the end of the day, the true measure of governance is simple. It is whether ordinary Filipinos can live with dignity, security, and hope.

And right now, that is the question that remains unanswered.

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Kethelle I. Sajonia is a college instructor at the University of Southeastern Philippines, Mintal Campus. She is currently in the final phase of her Doctor of Communication degree at the University of the Philippines. Her research interests include inclusivity, education, communication, and social development. She actively engages in scholarly research and community-based initiatives that advocate for inclusive and transformative communication practices.