Transit Dialog

30/05/2026

“𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦.”

𝗡𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝗙𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘆
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

Fakery survives because we need it. That sounds harsh. But let us be honest. Most of us have been fake at one time or another.

We smiled when we wanted to scream. We said “I’m fine” when our blood pressure was already simmering, and we posted a happy photo while the house was in turmoil.

Small fakery is social grease. It allows us to survive weddings, reunions, meetings, and the occasional “𝘬𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘬𝘢 𝘯𝘢?” from someone who does not really want a long answer.

Some fakery is harmless theater. A little politeness. A cute costume. A little “𝘱𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘢.” We are humans with wrinkles, debts, pride, and digestive problems.
We developed the need for fakery because real life became too heavy, too confusing, and too fast. In that kind of world, fakery becomes comfort food. It may be unhealthy, but it is easy to chew.

We also use fakery to simplify complexity. Real issues are messy. Nutrition is complicated. Governance is complicated. Climate change, education, poverty, and public health are all complicated.

We prefer instant, dramatic sound bites by villains and heroes, not complex explanations. Nuance does not trend, 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵 and ignorance do.

The danger begins when fakery stops protecting our feelings and small weaknesses and starts destroying the common good. That is the fakery we must fight.

Like when people use fakery to defend fanaticism. When we attach ourselves to a political camp, a leader, a religion, a lifestyle, or even a health belief, and never stop to ask: “Is this true or right?”

Or when we wield fakery to punish enemies. This is the ugliest part. Some people share falsehoods not because they fully believe them, but because it hurts someone they dislike. Fake news becomes emotional revenge. “𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘪𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘢.”

That is not politics, it’s moral vandalism.

Social media makes all this worse because it rewards performance. We do not only post what we believe. We post what makes us look brave, funny, righteous, patriotic, spiritual, wounded, or superior. 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪 𝘱𝘦𝘬𝘦.

The platform becomes a stage. The algorithm becomes the talent manager. The loudest actors get the spotlight.

This is why fakery spreads fast. It gives people belonging. It gives them drama. It gives them a role. Victim. Warrior. Prophet. Defender of the nation. Defender of the family.

Yes, a society can forgive small fakery. We can forgive the filtered selfie, the polite compliment, the campaign smile, the “five minutes away” text when the person has not yet taken a bath.

These are minor sins. Human, funny, sometimes necessary.

But we cannot tolerate fakery that poisons elections, destroys trust in medicine, weakens schools, excuses corruption, demonizes communities, or turns citizens into mobs.

That kind of fakery tears the social fabric. It makes people suspicious of truth and addicted to anger. It turns public life into a cheap teleserye where everyone is crying, shouting, and selling something.

The answer is not for us to become humorless truth police. Nobody wants an enforcer of reality walking around with a whistle.

The answer is to make truth more livable. More human. More patient. More shareable. More connected to daily life.

We must laugh at our small fakes because humility helps. But we must confront the big fakes, because society cannot live on a daily diet of deception.

A nation built on fakery may still have flags, slogans, influencers, and fireworks. But inside, it becomes hollow and 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘬.

So maybe our task is simple. Let us keep the harmless comedy of being human. But let us reject the dangerous fraud of public life.

29/05/2026

“𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴; 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺.”

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗮 𝗦𝗮 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗲𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘝𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘩 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘥

Grades don’t define you. It’s nothing but a bunch of numbers lined up on our report card. Well, in an ideal world, it doesn’t. But society uses it to determine what type of individual a student is — their intelligence, diligence, and their chances at success in later life.

Low grades signal intellectual deficiency. You’ll be the subject of mockery from your family. Meanwhile, a stellar 90s arrayed in tiny boxes is a sign of talent and hard work. You’ll be praised. You’ll be an example and a model to your siblings and cousins. You will be successful.

High grades are a potent source of validation and confidence. Because we crave that assurance, we are often willing to pay a steep price, usually at the expense of our mental health.

We willfully sacrifice our weekends and midnights, endlessly staring at reading materials and flogging our brains to digest every word, all to beget that glorious ninety-five. We tailor our projects with the meticulous care of a craftsman, voluntarily compromising our rest as long as the high score remains within reach.

However, this obsession causes a misalignment with the true purpose of education. More often than not, our aim diverges: we stop trying to learn and start trying to meet expected standards.

Our goal shifts from personal growth to performance — submitting work and acting in a manner that fits a specific mold. Sometimes, we find ourselves studying the teacher more than the lesson, searching for the specific keys to unlock their approval.

To say that teachers merely "compute" grades is a convenient oversimplification; in reality, their personal preferences often tip the scales. While this may not apply to every subject, we are increasingly drifting toward a culture where the grader matters more than the grade.

This well-accepted dynamic is breeding a generation of academic slaves. It has become a training mechanism for the corporate world, where the primary goal is to appease the master to ensure security and promotion.

We are being taught that to better our lives, we must snake around the whims of those above us. Ultimately, this setup does not cultivate complex minds; it manufactures servants. It does not breed visionaries. It stifles thinkers.

So, yes, grades matter. They’re genuine indicators of learning and are fundamental metrics in college and job applications, and bigger than that, a future we’re working toward.

If this kind of skewed motivation remains unchecked, education then becomes more about numbers than about the quality of learning and the substance of the people we become once we exit the walls of the classroom.

Grades aren’t just numbers; they have a big hand in the future we’re trying to pursue. But they aren’t the heartbeat of our journey. They should be a tool we use, not the reason we wake up, and certainly not the reason we deserve to be seen.

28/05/2026

27/05/2026

"𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯 20 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳."

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲
𝘉𝘺 𝘙𝘑 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘢

It’s when Santi brushes his fingers over the dust-covered cloth covering the mahogany sala set of that ruined house that he finally stops calling it home. The realization had actually begun earlier, when he had accosted a headphone-wearing stranger for the third time, trying to figure out the way back to this place.

They had looked at him with a confused expression as he dutifully recounted his memories of the house: that it was two floors tall, with a balcony overlooking the woods and a tall kalachuchi tree that seemed to bloom year-round.

What woods, the stranger asked as they gestured to the cracked cement sidewalk being repaired for the third time this month. The most vegetation the house had seen in two decades was the errant w**d in the pavement, which was gleefully plucked out by street kids who ran out of toys to play with; s**t, he used to be one of those kids.

Santi tried to convince this young stranger that this used to be all green and wild, with grass that scratched his shins and trees so large his mother would tell him they housed kapres. He would spend his days not picking w**ds, but the malunggay leaves off a neighbor’s tree to put in their chicken tinola for lunch.

He pointed to one such tree up ahead in the front yard of an abandoned house, branches wild and wilting in the April heat. The stranger laughs his memory off, telling him the homeowners’ association would get his ass for property damage.

“Why?” Santi asks, daring to step closer to the tree.

“‘Cause it’s their rules?”

“Rules?”

“Yeah. Law, rules, order, whatever. They’re killjoys.”

“Oh.” He touches one of the yellowing leaves. It falls to the ground. “We didn’t have any of those.”

“Oh yeah?”

“No. Everyone knew each other, so there was no need.”

“Ah. That’s why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you didn’t need the HOA.”

“So you guys need the HOA because you don’t know each other?”

“Pretty much.”

“So then… you guys know the HOA?”

The stranger laughs at him again, before simply walking away on the sun-beaten path.

He hadn’t thought of the house in 20 years, not until the executor of his father’s estate knocked on his apartment door. At that moment, he was huddled on the floor with his daughter, their sala littered with bits of paper from a school project. His wife had been the one to answer the door, insisting the two of them stay put and continue their 'bonding time.'

He was rarely home those days, as he was pulled from place to place by the demands of his construction job. He had told her that he was no good at doing art, but she pushed him regardless; their daughter took after her the most. She’d tell him what to do.

His little tyrant was ruthless in her pursuit of perfectionism, told him to cut this way and that, not in straight rectangles but jagged, rough edges that would simulate the bark of the trunk. She showed him how to arrange all the leaves, small fresh green ones at the ends of the branches, and older, wrinklier ones at the bases.

It was when he finally made a branch his daughter stuck onto her tree without any comments that his wife tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the open envelope. Inside was a notice of his father’s will being served. He read it over and over in the span of one long minute, his eyes stuck on the name in bold letters: Apolonio Benjamin C. Dela Peña. He knew it was a minute because that’s how long it usually took before his daughter started to get fussy.

“Papa, what’s on that that you stopped helping me with my tree?”

“Uh, nothing, sweetheart. Work stuff.”

“Work stuff? But you said you were done with work for the week!”

“Well, I am, but this is an emergency–”

“Emergency shmergency!” His daughter grabbed the paper from his hands with a loud rrrrrrip.

His wife responded before he did, scooped her up, and scolded her. Santi watched the torn notice drift down until the name settled quietly among the debris on the floor.

He went to the court with the taped-up notice in hand to claim his father’s will. Waiting on the benches outside the courtroom was a woman who looked entirely out of place: pale, polished, and dressed in a white pencil dress and a black cropped blazer. A cream clutch, studded with the same pearls that circled her neck, was gripped tight in her hands.

She winced slightly at his work jeans and scowling expression, but relaxed when he offered an awkward, apologetic smile. Not yet realizing the weight of her presence, he accepted her introduction — Suarez, she had said — and they began to talk, filling the heavy silence of the hallway.

“You know, it had never really occurred to me to make a will before getting the notice,” the lady said, as she fidgeted with the clasp on her clutch.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just figured that, well, 30 is just too young to die.”

“It is. Doesn’t mean it won’t come for you all the same.”

“That’s rather morbid.”

“Nah, it’s just how it is.” He stretched a little and went back to resting his weight on his knees. “Seen guys at the site die before they even reach our age. Stupid accidents, but death doesn’t care if it’s stupid or an accident.”

“Our age? You can’t possibly be…”

“Hah! Yeah, sun ages you badly, and gives you cancer and all that crap. But you look like the type to wear sunscreen, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Well, I think I should anyway, at least according to what you’ve said. I think I should worry more in general. But the wrinkles…”

“Y’know, our elders used to say wrinkles store wisdom.”

“That must be why you’re so sagely, then, Santi.”

“Oh, buzz off.”

They laugh, all the way into the courtroom, until the judge calls on them both to receive their father’s will. Santi can see the worry start to crease his half-sister’s pale face.

Santi could tell himself the realization began when he looked up the address on Google Street View, or when he found sepia-toned photos of his graduation with his mother. He could trace it back to the stage at high school commencement, where she had whispered apologies into his ear, or even further, to the afternoons he spent picking malunggay leaves just to escape his parents’ shouting.

But in reality, it began the day his father sat him on his lap and promised he’d only be away for a few months. That was when this house, filled with its cloth ghosts, stopped being home.

Home became something suspended in the yawning gaps where his father should have been — as effervescent as the smoke of the kapres long since driven out by nature's law; as fleeting as he and his mother once were.

Santi walks over to one of the ghosts by the window and draws its cloth away from it. Underneath, he finds a wooden drawer and a framed photo of his family on top of it, complete and smiling. There are cracks on the glass, and it’s been laid flat to prevent the shards from being scattered everywhere.

The thought of home occurs to him and continues to occur. He wraps it up in the cloth, knocks on the wood for good luck, leaves his keys, and locks the door behind him.

𝘙𝘑 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 2024 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 41𝘴𝘵 𝘎𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘥 𝘜𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘬𝘢, 𝘌𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘺.

25/05/2026

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗜𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗔𝗻 𝗘𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗟𝗮𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆
𝘉𝘺 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰 𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢

When I heard that DepEd would switch to a trimestral system, I laughed, bitterly knowing that whichever bureau pushed for that initiative had never made proper local and international benchmarking and just threw it into the “great bin of good ideas” that are common to any bureaucracy out there.

Indeed, as reported on national news outlets, there were zero consultations with schools in the Philippines that practice trimesters, whether it is at the preschool, primary, or secondary level (you would be surprised at the number of private and international schools that practice a different system other than the typical quarterly system).

Worse, there was no pilot testing conducted. Zero. The only good part about it was that they were transparent about this reality.

Here’s the not-so-fun part about suddenly moving to a trimestral system, based on what I have personally experienced about our country’s educational policies and processes: It will be painful for the tens of thousands of public schools in the Philippines.

You would have to adjust books, curricula, teaching styles, teaching tempo, extracurriculars, teacher training, evaluation design, and even educational technologies in order to even make it compatible for a trimestral system.

Will the pain be worth it, considering that our country is currently facing a national education emergency?

Are our public school students guinea pigs?

Is this the value that we show to Filipino minds and lives?

Is this how we treat the future of our nation?

Is this how we show and teach the value of being “makatao” to our future generations?

There are just so many questions at this point.

Our education system has a metric ton of problems already as it is — underfunded schools, chronic lack of classrooms, outdated textbooks and curricula, you name it. Do we really need to add one more problem?

In a normal atmosphere, turning schools into education laboratories is a worthwhile endeavor. As a matter of fact, nearly every university in the Philippines with an education faculty worth its salt has laboratory schools.

However, I strongly believe that now is not the time to pursue untested flights of fancy.

As a matter of fact, I think that everyone who is involved in education in the Philippines should look hard in the mirror and ask themselves this question.

Now’s the time to rebuild our country’s education system from the ground up. EDCOM 2 showed most of the things that the Philippines has to do moving forward; it’s a matter of applying them in the best way possible and fitting them to the contexts of education in our local communities.

It’s also not all doom and gloom out there. The government has already strictly mandated the reconstitution of public school libraries here in the country as of this year; as a result, there were hundreds of teachers and procurement officers who went to the Philippine Book Festival (PBF) at SM Megamall earlier in March to scope for books and reading materials.

Still, this doesn’t belie the fact that educational policies that affect tens of millions of Filipinos shouldn’t be done in a haphazard manner.

I don’t know about you, but I know for a fact that whatever mistakes we are committing in education right now will result in the suffering of millions of Filipinos down the line.

23/05/2026

“𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗗𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

We talk a lot about food, jobs, justice, health, education, and peace. 𝘋𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘵. These are not abstract issues. They decide whether a family eats, a child learns, a worker survives, a patient heals, and whether a country still has a future.

But there is one public good we often forget: 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆.

It sounds too soft. Too intellectual. Too “𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨-𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳.” When people are hungry, jobless, sick, or angry, clarity can sound like a luxury, like asking for a map while the house is burning.

But that is also the problem. After the fire, we need to know where it started, who was trapped inside, why they couldn’t get out, and why the firefighters couldn’t get there in time.

Without clarity, people do not become citizens. They become spectators of their own suffering. They feel the pain. But they cannot connect the causes. They cannot act.

We see prices rise. But we do not see how corruption, transport costs, weak agriculture, global shocks, and poor policy interact.

We see children struggle in school, but not the broken chain from nutrition, home stress, teacher overload, poor materials, bad governance, and low expectations.
We feel sick. But we are pulled between fear, miracle cures, influencer medicine, distrust of pharma, and medical jargon we cannot understand.

We know something is wrong. We ask questions. But the answers arrive as noise — news media noise, government noise, influencer noise. We only hear the loudest sources, but often loudness is just ignorance with a microphone.

RAND calls this condition “Truth Decay”: growing disagreement over facts, the blurring of fact and opinion, the rising influence of opinion over fact, and declining trust in respected sources of information. (https://www.rand.org/pubs/research_reports/RR2314.html)

We see this every day. A public issue becomes a shouting match. A scientific question becomes a tribal debate. A health discussion becomes a fight between “natural” and “medical,” as if the body cares about our vain slogans.

A political issue becomes a loyalty test. A school reform question becomes another round of blame. We are told to choose sides before we understand the issue. Once we choose a side, we are threatened by the other.

Every day, we are fed warnings. This food will kill you. This group will destroy the country. This medicine is poison. This leader is the only savior. This crisis is your enemy's fault. This scandal proves everything.

After a while, the mind no longer becomes alert. It becomes numb. At first, we wake up. Later, we sleep through it.

That is why clarity is not merely information. We already have too much of that. The World Health Organization has used the term “infodemic” to describe an overload of information, including false or misleading information, that causes confusion, mistrust, and harmful decisions. (https://www.who.int/news-room/spotlight/let-s-flatten-the-infodemic-curve)

What we need is 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. Clarity means we help people see what matters, what connects, what can be done, and what must wait. It does not mean making things simplistic. It means making complexity usable.

A clear society can argue better. It can disagree without becoming too angry. It can ask better questions. Why are prices high? What policies affect food supply? Which public funds are wasted? What can families do now?

That is citizenship.

Citizenship is not just voting or posting. It is not just being angry at the villain of the week. Citizenship is the ability to understand shared problems and act with others.
Without clarity, people remain alone with their suffering. They complain in private.

They rant online. They forward rumors. They wait for rescue. They watch the show.
And governance becomes exactly that: a show. The citizen becomes a spectator of illusions. 𝘒𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘸𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘰, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘱𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘰.

So media, schools, civil society, scientists, churches, businesses, and community leaders have a serious task. They must stop treating explanation as boring. They must make clarity attractive, practical, and humane.

That is not softness. That is strategy. Clarity is not above food, jobs, or justice: gutom is still gutom. But clarity is the bridge. It helps people see why food is scarce, why jobs are weak, why justice is delayed, and why the same old actors keep smiling from the stage.

We need clarity because when people finally understand what is happening to them, they stop being spectators and become citizens. They begin to stand up.

22/05/2026

“𝘐𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦?”

𝗛𝘂𝘀𝗵, 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗝𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗼
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘕. 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺

The pen in my hand often feels heavier than it should — like it carries not just ink, but consequence. Each word I write seems to echo louder than intended, as if the page itself is listening too closely, waiting to decide whether what I say is safe or dangerous.

I am a community and campus journalist, and I already know what it feels like to hesitate before writing the truth. I was taught that journalism is about facts, courage, and responsibility. Yet in reality, it is also about fear — fear of saying too much, fear of being misunderstood, and fear of becoming a target.

Press freedom, in theory, means that journalists can report without interference, suppression, or threats. But in practice, it often feels fragile. Even within school grounds, there are invisible boundaries.

Certain topics feel “too sensitive,” certain truths are quietly discouraged, and sometimes, silence is safer than honesty. When articles are edited not for clarity but to remove discomfort, that is already a form of suppression.

Outside campus, the situation is even more alarming. I have seen how journalists are red-tagged, labeled as enemies or threats without evidence, simply for doing their job. It sends a chilling message: 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵.

For someone like me, it raises a difficult question: If professionals with years of experience are treated this way, what more for young writers who are just learning to find their voice?

Threats against journalists are no longer distant stories. They are real, and they create a culture of fear. When journalists are harassed, intimidated, or worse, killed, it not only silences one person, it also weakens the entire system of truth-telling. It makes people second-guess facts, hold back important stories, and choose safety over integrity.

As a community and campus journalist, I feel this tension deeply. I want to write stories that matter — stories about student struggles, school policies, and issues that affect our community. But there is always a voice in the back of my mind asking, “Is this too much?” That question should not exist in a society that values press freedom.

Still, I continue to write. Because even in small ways, campus journalism is part of something bigger. It is where future journalists are shaped, where courage begins, and where truth first finds its voice. If we stay silent now, what kind of journalists will we become in the future?

Press freedom is not just a right for professionals, it belongs to all of us, even student writers. And while fear may exist, it should not win. Because without journalists — whether in newsrooms or classrooms — truth becomes easier to hide, and silence becomes the loudest voice of all.

And campus journalism is more than just a training ground, it is a vital part of our democracy’s defense. So, I refuse to let fear dictate my words. I will keep writing, because a community that is informed is a community that cannot be silenced.

𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘕. 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘌𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 (𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩) 𝘢𝘵 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘉𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘭 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦-𝘗𝘪𝘭𝘪. 𝘏𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩-𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢.

20/05/2026

“𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘴 — 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 '𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥' 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯.”

​𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗞𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀: 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗘𝗻𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗦𝗻𝗮𝗴𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗼 𝗗𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺
𝘉𝘺 𝘌𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘑𝘳.

One day, our professor in the Sociocultural Anthropology course discussed the economy and human conditions, delving into the issues of poverty and unemployment that have plagued the Philippines.

While the classroom was in the heat of discussion, our professor suggested that we listen to a famous song by 𝗦𝗮𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻 titled “𝘒𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘢𝘨𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘨𝘰,” and asked us to write a short analysis of the song’s message. I was not familiar with the song nor the band’s name, but for the sake of my grade, I listened to it and wrote the analysis our professor asked us to do.

I listened to the song on YouTube, a piece centered on economic struggle and environmental abuse. Its exotic rhythm and clear vocals work in tandem to reinforce the urgency of its message.

This is how we critique the music we hear: by weighing the melody, the vocals, and the way the song ultimately lifts our being. But what surprised me is that, just like the band Asin, this band is telling us a story of beauty turned to demise. After listening to the song, I began to draft my reflections, the contents of which I’ve expounded upon below.

​I remember when I was a child, I always saw young boys playing with their kites (saranggola) under the heat of the sun. The joy and laughter could be seen on their faces. Yet, many young children can testify that this experience, while exciting, is also disappointing in some ways because when the kite tries to soar, the sagging wires are there to catch the string and pull it back.

But our environmental concerns are far more complex than a kite string snagged in power lines. Through this song, I realized that ecological abuse causes more than just life-altering floods; it creates a deeper crisis of the spirit.

The greatest disaster depicted is how 'development' strips away our imagination. Much like children who no longer fly kites or find joy in the sea, we are losing our connection to the world. The progress promised by capitalism and the state is not true development, but its very undoing.

​“𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘬𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯”

​The song speaks to me as if saying: To build your dream, you destroy your home.

This realization makes more sense since the song also says: 𝘋𝘢𝘩𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰, 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘣𝘰𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘰.

​In social anthropology, we tackle what development really is; It is not solely based on numbers and GDP. Development is defined by results, not thesis titles or statistical formulas. Development includes a lower poverty rate, good infrastructure, quality education, and healthcare. Yet, even as the economy strengthens, the actual living conditions of the people continue to decline.

As lands are capitalized and resources are owned by the ruling class, the marginalized populations have nothing to earn but sweat and suffering, hunger, and a small amount of money. As disasters destroy homes and end lives, the government only hands out a little relief.

On the other side of this reality, the wealthy sleep soundly, shielded from the very dangers they create. This peace of mind is exactly what has been stolen from us — a security the elite brag about as if it were 'earned' rather than taken.

​I realized through the song that it is right to say that the development they promised steals our experience — the experience of good transportation, comfortable beds at hospitals, better books and rooms in our schools, and an easier, more convenient life.

Much like young boys straining to reclaim their kites from a web of wires, we struggle to win back a dignified life. One that is defined by healthy living, fresh air, and the pristine waters of our seas.

While economic figures may suggest that all is well, the reality is one of stagnation. Just as hollow promises can easily sway public belief, it is easy to claim the GDP is stable while the tangible results of that growth remain out of reach.

This might challenge some or provoke them. Some argue that it is a fair competition. But fairness should be measured through the equal distribution of wealth and access to basic services. It is an irony to say that it is fair while some suffer the consequences of greed and the desire for money.

It is time to ask the difficult questions. For many years, news headlines reported a “GDP increase,” but at the same time, those headlines were doubled by reports of malnourishment, increased mortality rates, and urban congestion.

If economic progress remains unfelt, even when national earnings reach record highs, we must ask: Where is the money going? Is it already lining the pockets of those robbing us of our future? When we look for someone to blame, is it the people who simply wish to see their kites soar, or is it those responsible for the tangled wires who have failed to do their jobs?

Who should be accountable for environmental abuses? Is it the people who are robbed of their connection to nature, or those who capitalize on it and exploit it at the expense of human happiness? The song is right in saying: “𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘢’𝘺 𝘬𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯, 𝘴𝘢 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯.”

𝘌𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘑𝘳. 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 21-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳-𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘌𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.