14/02/2026
I was walking along Lacao Street when the pounding of drums and the roar of young voices spilled out from the grandstand of Palawan National School (PNS).
The noise was impossible to ignore, rhythmic, joyful, alive, as I made my way toward Rizal Avenue.
Students in bright, colorful costumes rushed toward the school gate, their faces lit with excitement and nervous energy.
It was PNS Foundation Day. Every student, from every level, was expected to perform at the open field. It was one of those days meant to celebrate youth, unity, and pride.
When I reached Rizal Avenue and stopped in front of a fast-food restaurant to wait for my ride, I noticed a Grade 7 student from PNS standing nearby. He was still in his school uniform. He, too, was waiting.
That caught my attention.
While everyone else was hurrying inside the campus, costumes swaying, drums echoing, he stood there, apart from the celebration.
Curious, I asked him why he wasn’t inside the school when it was clearly time for their Foundation Day performance.
In a shy, almost apologetic voice, he answered, “Wala kasi akong pambayad sa Foundation Day.”
The words hit harder than the drums.
How could this be? A public school. A public celebration. And yet, there was a fee. I didn’t understand it, but I knew, deep in my bones, that something about it was wrong.
I asked how much is the fee, “P150,” he said softly.
His shoulders were slumped, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if he had already accepted that this was his place for the day, outside the fence, outside the noise, outside the joy.
He didn’t complain. He didn’t explain further. He didn’t ask for help.
But I knew.
I knew he wanted to be there, on that open field, under the sun, moving in rhythm with his classmates, feeling seen, feeling included.
He was required to perform, just like everyone else. Yet here he was, excluded not by choice, not by effort, but by ₱150 he could not give.
I didn’t ask another question.
Because sometimes, the silence says everything.
Behind us, the drums grew louder. The cheers rose higher. Inside the school, a celebration was unfolding.
But right there on the sidewalk, in front of a fast-food restaurant, stood a student quietly learning a painful lesson far too early, that even in places meant to be equal, poverty can still bar the gate.
And as my ride arrived, one thought refused to leave me:
If a student can be made to feel this small on a day meant to make him proud, then the celebration inside the grandstand is incomplete, no matter how loud the drums beat.
