25/07/2025
𝗠𝗮, 𝗣𝗮, 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝗠𝘆 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗩𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘀
Long before Mike Ivan Siga became the University Valedictorian of Mindanao State University Marawi Class of 2025, he had already decided who deserved the medal.
It wasn’t him.
It was them. His Ma and Pa.
The crowd was large. The applause was thunderous. But Mike’s voice, when he said those words, “Ma, Pa, you are my real valedictorians,” was quiet.
This was not your usual valedictory speech. There were no soaring ego trips or shiny narratives. Instead, there was a boy who planned his life through sticky notes. Who feared failure because it meant risking the future he dreamed not just for himself alone, but for the ones who raised him. The ones who never asked for anything in return.
And then came the fire.
December 2nd, 2024. 11 p.m.
While Mike was still on campus, his family’s home was going up in flames. He didn’t even get a phone call. He found out through a Facebook livestream.
Because his parents didn’t want him to worry.
Everything inside the house, such as memories, clothes, papers, and warmth, was gone. But somehow, his Ma and Pa held on to what mattered: his dream.
They never asked him to pause school. Not once did they say, “Anak, pahuway sa.” They didn’t let the fire reach the future he was building. Instead, tucking their own grief in the corners of borrowed homes, they continued by still making room for his ambition like it was furniture they could never lose.
Some people call that sacrifice.
But Mike called it love.
And so he stayed. He kept going. He tutored, survived on shared snacks, and saved whatever peso he could.
Because the truth is, every graduate has people behind them who will never walk onstage. People who skip meals so we don’t have to. Who take night shifts. Who miss birthdays. Who don’t know what “summa cm laude” even means but cry anyway when they hear it beside your name.
“𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗱𝗮𝗹,” 𝗠𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱, “𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗺𝗲.”
And when he said, “Ma, Pa, you are my valedictorians,” he was rewriting the whole idea of success.
That behind every medal is a hand that stirred coffee at 4 a.m., a back bent from hours in the field, and a heart that broke a hundred times in silence, just to make sure we’d never hear the sound.
He called them out. The tricycle drivers, kasambahays, farmers, and construction workers. He called them the real valedictorians. Because they are. Because they never needed the stage to be seen. But they deserve the world’s respect anyway.
And then, as if holding all of this weight wasn’t enough, Mike turned to something bigger.
He spoke of Mindanao. Of MSU. Of the kind of education that is not only confined inside the classrooms but also in brownouts, floods, and quiet prayers.
He reminded us that many of us didn’t get here because the road was paved. We got here because someone carried us through the mud.
And that some of us became our own parents. That not everyone had a Ma or Pa, but still showed up. And for them, he said, “You are miracles in motion.”
That line alone could’ve ended the speech.
But Mike had one more thing to say.
“𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄: 𝗔𝗻 𝗠𝗦𝗨𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.”
To say that someone from a burned-down home, raised by quiet love, powered by sticky notes and prayers, made it. Not only at the top, but also through the hardest parts.
Because Ma and Pa said, “Padayon lang, anak.”
And because he listened.
