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The news is supposed to be the bridge between truth and the people — but what happens when that bridge is built in a language many cannot fully cross? In the Philippines, where the jeepney driver begins the day with a warm “Magandang umaga,” the market vendor calls out “Bili na kayo,” and barangay announcements resound in the mother tongue, it is ironic that much of the ‘most credible’ news arrives dressed in English, leaving countless Filipinos nodding politely while quietly failing to understand the news they cannot truly hear. We take pride in being a bilingual nation. Yet in reality, English in this country is more than a medium of communication — it is a marker of status. It has become the language of the “credible” and “educated,” a form of social currency that, consciously or not, draws a line between those who can readily process the news and those who struggle to understand it. The irony is hard to ignore: the news is meant to serve the masses. But if the “masses” require translation or interpretation, then the essence of timely, accessible journalism is already compromised. For many Filipinos, English is not a first language but an acquired skill tied to access to education, social class, and opportunity. The tricycle driver in rural areas, the farmers and fishermen, or the sari-sari store owner may not process “Senate probes anomalies in procurement contracts” as quickly as “Iniimbestigahan ng Senado ang iregularidad sa kontrata ng pamimili.” In journalism, where clarity and urgency are paramount, any delay in comprehension is a liability. Subtitles and Filipino translations do exist, but too often they appear as an afterthought — supplemental rather than central. News networks justify the dominance of English by citing “international standards,” which can sound like a polite admission that the goal is to appear credible to investors and an English-proficient elite, rather than to engage every Filipino equally. This dynamic undeniably hinders full comprehension. News is not merely about informing; it is about connecting. If the language of delivery alienates the very audience it serves, what you have is not journalism for the people — it’s journalism for the educated elite. Credibility is not built on the language you use; it’s built on truth, accuracy, and the courage to tell stories that matter. Imagine if credible news fully embraced the Filipino. The market vendor could grasp inflation updates instantly. The fisherman could follow climate change advisories without struggling through technical jargon. The ordinary citizen could join the national conversation not as a passive bystander, but as an informed participant. After all, if the truth is conveyed in a language the people cannot fully understand, its impact is diminished — and its power, lost. This is not to say that English has no place in our newsrooms. In today’s globalized society, being mulat — aware, proficient, and comfortable — in English is not merely an advantage; it is a necessity. English opens doors to international opportunities, helps us keep pace with global discourse, ensures we’re not left out of conversations that transcend borders, and allows the Philippines to communicate effectively with the wider world. The goal, therefore, is balance: to strengthen our use of Filipino as the primary language of mass communication while cultivating English proficiency to keep pace with a global audience. Perhaps the question should no longer be, “Is English more credible?” but rather, “Whose understanding are we prioritizing?” For the truth to be meaningful, it must be understood. In the end, whether news is delivered in the language of Rizal or Shakespeare, it should be received clearly, felt deeply, and acted upon decisively by every Filipino. In the end, for a nation to truly see itself, its stories must be told in a language that not only informs the mind but also resonates with the heart of its people — because when the language fails, the truth is lost in translation.