21/08/2026
𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐃𝐎𝐌, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃
In today's headlines, news of school violence is becoming alarmingly frequent. These horrific events must not be treated as mere statistics or passing trends—𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻 𝘂𝗿𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁, 𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀. 🚨
Every student enters the classroom with unique emotional needs, mental challenges, and ways of processing the world. Recognizing these individual differences is critical, making proactive prevention and early intervention absolute necessities. 🚸
We invite you to read this article from 𝐕𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. Open your minds and reflect on the responsibility we share, because 𝙖 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜—𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚. 🏫
✍🏻: Charmel Nicole Cania | Associate Secretary
| 𝐀 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐞 𝐚 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞
By: Ayren Rhoiy C. Dudas | Editor-in-Chief
Illustration by: Madelin Ira Tongol
It was an ordinary kind of day, the rain had been falling for days.
Like many students, I found myself checking the phone every now and then, waiting for the announcement we had grown accustomed to after weeks of relentless rain.
Perhaps it would be another day spent at home. Another morning without rushing to class. Another afternoon of catching up on requirements—or simply enjoying an unexpected break.
Then, while waiting for the announcement, another notification appeared.
It was not about class suspensions.
It was news from Zamboanga. A devastating one.
𝗔𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹. 𝗔𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲 𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.
Suddenly, the rain outside seemed insignificant.
There are few places where we place as much trust in one another as we do in a school. Parents entrust their children to it. Students entrust their formative years to it. Teachers entrust their classrooms with the responsibility of shaping the next generation.
A school is supposed to be one of the safest places a young person can know. Its purpose extends beyond what can be written on a syllabus. It is a place where young minds are formed—where students learn not only what to know, but how to think, how to live with others, and who they want to become.
It’s where we 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 and cultivate not only knowledge but 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴—our discipline, our curiosity, our relationships, our sense of purpose. It is where a culture of learning is supposed to take root: a culture where students are encouraged to ask questions, make mistakes, and discover what they are capable of.
That trust is built upon a simple expectation: that students can learn without fear.
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗻𝘂𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿?
On 𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗲 𝟮𝟮, gunfire erupted inside 𝗦𝗮𝗻 𝗝𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗶𝗴𝗵 𝗦𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 in 𝗧𝗮𝗰𝗹𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗻 𝗖𝗶𝘁𝘆. Three students were killed and over 20 others were injured. The tragedy prompted 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.
Then, on 𝗔𝘂𝗴𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝟭𝟴, another school shooting struck 𝗭𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗼𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗮. A student at a school affiliated with 𝗔𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗼 𝗱𝗲 𝗭𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗼𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 allegedly opened fire, killing another student before taking his own life. Authorities are now investigating 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦.
𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙨𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙡𝙨. 𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨.
And suddenly, the question is no longer whether school shootings can happen here.
It is what we are going to do now that they have.
The instinct after a tragedy is understandable: tighten the gates, inspect bags, increase security personnel, restrict access, and remind students to remain vigilant. These measures matter. Schools must be places where students are physically protected, and institutions have a responsibility to examine every possible vulnerability in their campuses.
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀.
A locked gate may keep a weapon outside. It cannot, by itself, address the circumstances that allow violence to develop in the first place. A security guard may stop an intruder. A bag inspection may detect a firearm. But neither can replace a guidance counselor who notices a struggling student, a teacher who recognizes a warning sign, a parent who knows what their child is going through, or a system capable of responding before anger becomes violence.
This is not an argument against security.
It is an argument against believing that security is enough.
The Tacloban tragedy has also demonstrated how complicated the causes of school violence can be. Authorities have investigated different possible motives and warned against premature conclusions, while the Commission on Human Rights emphasized that the response must uphold the rights and dignity of the victims, their families, and the children involved in the incident.
That caution matters.
In the aftermath of every tragedy, the public wants an explanation. We look for someone or 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 to blame. 𝙒𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙.
But violence among young people rarely fits neatly into one explanation.
Bullying, family circumstances, access to fi****ms, social isolation, exposure to violent material, untreated distress, peer dynamics, and failures in supervision may all demand examination—but none should be declared the definitive explanation without evidence.
This is where we need to confront something that is often overlooked in conversations about school violence: 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀.
They think 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺.
They process emotions 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺.
They understand consequences 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺.
They experience rejection, humiliation, anger, fear, belonging, and conflict through a developing mind that is still learning how to regulate and understand those experiences.
That does not excuse violence.
It does, however, mean that if we genuinely want to prevent it, we must learn to understand the children we are trying to protect.
Understanding young people does not mean excusing them from accountability. It means making that accountability more effective because we understand what we are addressing.
𝗪𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱.
We do not need speculation. What we need is prevention.
And prevention begins long before a student walks through a school gate.
It begins with taking students seriously when they say they are being bullied. It begins with accessible guidance and psychosocial support. It begins with responsible firearm ownership and ensuring that weapons cannot fall into the hands of children. It begins with families, schools, communities, and government agencies recognizing that protecting children is a shared responsibility.
The government's own messaging following the Tacloban shooting has recognized this broader responsibility, emphasizing that school violence is not merely a security problem but a societal one requiring coordinated action from schools, families, communities, law enforcement, and government.
And perhaps that is the most important lesson we should carry from Tacloban to Zamboanga.
𝘼 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚.
We cannot wait for another classroom to become a crime scene before we decide that prevention matters.
The students who survived Tacloban had to return to the same school where their classmates were killed. When San Jose National High School eventually resumed face-to-face classes, authorities described the return as necessary to restore a sense of normalcy after a traumatic experience.
But normalcy cannot simply mean returning to class.
It must mean rebuilding the feeling that a classroom is safe.
For the student who now flinches at a sudden sound, normalcy may mean being given space to heal. For the teacher who witnessed violence, it may mean having access to support. For the parent who now hesitates before letting their child walk through the school gate, it may mean knowing that meaningful safeguards—not merely reassuring statements—are in place.
And for the students themselves, it should mean being heard.
The response to these tragedies must therefore be measured not only by how many guards stand at a gate, but by how effectively schools identify students in distress; how seriously reports of bullying and threats are handled; how securely fi****ms are stored; how quickly warning signs are addressed; and how much support is available after violence occurs.
We owe the victims more than condolences. We owe their families more than promises. And we owe every student who still walks into a classroom each morning more than hope that nothing will happen.
𝗦𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲—𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗲.
We should ask the difficult questions.
But we must never forget the people behind the headlines.
Sources in the comments.
