In the aftermath of a typhoon, the world does not fall silent—it crackles with broken houses, the windy breeze gently passing through after the ravaging winds. What once was a peaceful neighborhood was destroyed by a devastating calamity, leaving families raking through the remaining pieces of their belongings, struggling to put themselves back together. And yet, despite the wreckage, an announcement—cold and unbothered—breaks through the aftermath of a disaster: Asynchronous classes today.
Notebooks lie heavy with rainwater, their pages wrinkled and no longer usable. Modules are smudged and blurred beyond clarity. And in the middle of this storm, their thoughts are stuck between choosing survival and school—one clinging to their families, and the other drowning in tasks that are continuously piling up despite their situation. Every activity feels less like learning and more like a tightening grip, the kind of pressure that can’t be easily shaken off.
But behind the cracked walls and the remains of the house they built, students sit in desperation, unsure of what to prioritize. Their homes were just torn down by the harsh storms. Their parents are busy salvaging what can still be saved, and instead of having to just worry about getting themselves back up, another burden is forced into their hands—a new task, an activity, a deadline. All while they’re struggling to piece themselves together.
They want to pass.
They want to comply.
They want to prove that they are dedicated to their future.
But how can they do that when the world around them is collapsing? Students are forced to sit between two worlds: one about their education, and another of survival, their trembling hands bleed as they try to hold onto both. The storm is not only outside—though not seen, inside their mind are their thoughts—a storm of their own. Thoughts tangled with fear, confusion, desperation, and a desire for survival, even as the world around them crumbles.
The mind cannot open itself to learning when the body is still piecing itself back together.
In times like this, learning should be measured not by compliance but compassion. Real education should prioritize not just the academic performance but also the well-being of their students. The cries of the students will eventually drown the quiet hum of a system that never stopped to listen. It’s time to recognize that during calamities, what students need is safety—not additional activities, announcements, and deadlines that pretend everything is normal while their students are facing natural disasters.
Students are treated like fragile machines, as if they patiently wait for the next command. They're expected to comply without complaints, even if they’re going through difficult circumstances, as if learning can continue unaffected by demolished homes, flooded streets and exhausted minds.
Once the storm settles, the pages may dry, structures may be rebuilt—but you can never restore what was taken from the hearts that had to weather it.
