Every tragedy involving children leaves behind a painful silence — the kind filled not only with grief, but with difficult questions.
The recent Tacloban school shooting is one of those moments.
It unsettles us not only because violence entered a place meant for learning, but because of the possibility that children themselves became instruments of that violence. Schools are among the first communities children encounter outside their homes. They are where young people learn trust, friendship, empathy, cooperation, responsibility, and citizenship.
When violence erupts inside such a space, it is not only a security incident. It is a social warning.
While the Philippines has experienced various forms of violence affecting schools, the Tacloban tragedy stands out as an exceptionally rare case involving young learners allegedly carrying out a deadly shooting within a basic education setting.
That distinction matters.
Because the most important question is not only: How did a weapon enter the school? The deeper and more difficult questions are: What happened long before that moment? What experiences, emotions, relationships, and institutional gaps accumulated until violence became imaginable?
The immediate instinct after tragedy is understandable. We search for responsibility. We ask who failed to intervene. We demand consequences. And rightly so.
Accountability matters. Investigation matters. Safety protocols matter.
But if our response begins and ends with punishment, stricter rules, higher fences, and more surveillance, we risk strengthening the walls of our schools while failing to understand the struggles happening within them.
Because violence rarely begins with the final violent act. It often grows quietly — through isolation, humiliation, unresolved conflict, untreated trauma, family struggles, bullying, and emotional pain that remains invisible until it erupts.
Schools need intelligence — but a different kind
Yes, schools need better intelligence. But in education, the most important intelligence is not merely surveillance intelligence. It is human intelligence.
It is the capacity of teachers, parents, classmates, counselors, and communities to recognize when a child is slowly changing — becoming withdrawn, angry, fearful, disconnected, or overwhelmed.
A truly safe school does not only know whether a student entered the campus. It knows whether that student still feels seen inside it. A school should not merely record attendance. It should cultivate belonging.
The crisis of bullying and belonging
This challenge is not theoretical.
Long before the Tacloban tragedy, warning signs were already present. International assessments have shown that many Filipino learners struggle not only academically but also socially and emotionally.
The 2022 Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) reported that around 43% of Filipino girls and 53% of Filipino boys experienced bullying acts at least a few times a month — more than double the average reported across many developed education systems.
Earlier PISA findings also placed the Philippines among countries with some of the highest reported rates of school bullying, with around 65% of Filipino learners reporting experiences of bullying at least a few times monthly.
Behind these numbers are real children.
A child repeatedly humiliated.
A child afraid to enter the classroom.
A child eating alone.
A child carrying anger nobody understands.
A child learning that silence feels safer than asking for help.
Of course, we must be clear: The overwhelming majority of children who experience hardship, bullying, or emotional pain will never commit violence. Suffering does not automatically create harm. But every tragedy involving young people forces us to examine whether our institutions are strong enough to notice suffering before it becomes a crisis.
The missing infrastructure of care
This is where the larger problem becomes visible. The Philippines does not simply have a discipline problem — it has a care infrastructure problem.
According to the Second Congressional Commission on Education (EDCOM II), only around 2,000 guidance counselors serve nearly 28 million learners in the public school system. That translates to roughly one guidance counselor for every 14,000 students.
Think about what that means. One person expected to recognize thousands of individual struggles, thousands of family situations, thousands of conflicts, anxieties, fears, and silent cries for help.
That is not a counseling system. That is an impossible expectation.
Meanwhile, many guidance counseling positions remain unfilled even as schools confront increasingly complex realities: bullying, online harassment, abuse, family instability, anxiety, depression, and the broader mental health challenges facing young people today.
We often tell children: “Speak up.” “Ask for help.” “Do not suffer alone.”
But a painful question follows: Who exactly is waiting to listen?
Teachers cannot replace an entire support system
For generations, Filipino teachers have carried far more than the responsibility of instruction.
They teach lessons.
They manage classrooms.
They mentor.
They mediate conflicts.
They comfort.
They protect.
They become second parents.
And increasingly, society expects them to become counselors, social workers, psychologists, and crisis responders as well. All this while handling overcrowded classes, administrative work, limited resources, and growing demands on their time.
But even the most dedicated teacher cannot compensate for an entire missing system Individual compassion cannot replace institutional support.
Teachers can care. But care must also be organized. Care must be funded. Care must be built.
From schools that control to schools that care
The answer is not to choose between discipline and compassion. Children need both. Rules without care create fear. Care without accountability creates confusion.
The goal must be schools where responsibility and empathy reinforce each other.
Safe schools require:
- teachers with enough time and support to truly know their learners;
- accessible counselors and mental health professionals;
- effective anti-bullying programs that go beyond slogans and compliance reports;
- families that remain emotionally present;
- classmates empowered to support one another;
- communities that recognize raising children as a shared responsibility.
Because security can stop a weapon from entering a classroom.
But good education must aspire to something deeper: To help prevent a child from ever reaching the point of wanting to bring one.
The lesson of Tacloban should not be that every child is a potential threat. It should remind us that every child carries a story.
Some carry dreams.
Some carry fears.
Some carry wounds they cannot yet explain.
Some carry burdens adults never thought to ask about.
A humane education system must learn to recognize them all.
The future of school safety cannot simply be about building higher walls, tighter gates, and stronger locks. It must also be about building stronger relationships, deeper trust, and better systems of care.
Because the goal is not merely to build schools that watch every child. The goal is to build schools that truly see every child. – Rappler.com
Louie Checa Montemar is an associate professor of sociology at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines, where he previously served as chairperson of the Department of Sociology and Anthropology. A political science graduate of the University of the Philippines Diliman, he continues to engage in research, public policy discussions, and civic advocacy.
