16/08/2026
𝐄𝐝𝐮-𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐇-𝐢𝐨𝐧
𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘱𝘵.
There is something cruel about a classroom. Not the fluorescent lights. Not the chairs that creak beneath tired bodies. Not even the exams that make you question every decision that brought you there. It is the fact that a classroom teaches you to imagine a world larger than the one you were given—while the world outside keeps reminding you to stay in your place.
I used to think education was a door. You study. You work hard. You graduate. You get a degree. You get a job. You become somebody. That was the story. Simple. Beautiful. Almost believable. But somewhere between the first tuition increase and the last peso left in a parent's wallet, I began to wonder: What if education was never really a door? What if, for many of us, it was a tollgate? And what if the price of passing through it kept rising?
Every morning, thousands of students walk into schools carrying things no professor can see. A mother who skipped breakfast so her child could eat. A father who worked another shift. A sibling who gave up something they wanted. A student who calculated the remaining balance in their account before buying lunch. A young person who says, "I'm okay." because saying "I can't afford this anymore" feels too heavy.
We enter the classroom carrying notebooks. But we also carry sacrifice. We carry expectations. We carry debts. We carry the silent prayer of families who have placed their hopes inside a diploma. And then the bell rings. The professor begins. And for a few hours, we are allowed to forget.
We discuss history. Political theory. Literature. Science. The architecture of society. We learn about freedom. We learn about equality. We learn that every human being possesses dignity. And then class ends. We step outside. And the first thing the world asks is: "How much can you pay?"
There is a strange language spoken in modern education. It does not sound like the language of learning. It sounds like business. Efficiency. Competitiveness. Human capital. Employability. Productivity. Market demand. Words that turn students into investments. Degrees into commodities. Universities into corporations. And knowledge—into something that must justify its existence by producing profit.
We are told to choose practical courses. To become employable. To build our résumés. To acquire skills. To compete. To network. To brand ourselves. To sell ourselves. And slowly, almost imperceptibly. The student is no longer asked, "What kind of person do you want to become?" but instead, "What can you offer the market?"
That is the quiet violence. Not a fist. Not a gun. Not a scream. But a question repeated so many times that you eventually begin to ask it of yourself.
Am I useful enough? Am I productive enough? Is my degree worth anything? Will I get hired? Will I earn enough? Will I succeed? And beneath all those questions is the most terrifying one: "What happens if I fail?"
Because under a system that treats education as an individual investment, failure becomes personal. If you cannot afford school—you were not hardworking enough. If you graduate and cannot find a job—you did not build enough skills. If you are drowning in debt—you should have planned better. If you cannot compete—someone else simply wanted it more. The system disappears. And suddenly, you are the problem.
But education was never supposed to be merely a ladder for individuals to climb. Education is a mirror. It is where a society looks at itself and asks: Who are we? What do we value? Who gets to dream? Who gets to speak? Whose history is remembered? Whose suffering is ignored? Who gets a seat in the classroom? Who gets left outside?
Because when education becomes something only those who can afford it can fully access, we do not simply create expensive schools. We create an expensive future. And when knowledge becomes a privilege, ignorance becomes politically convenient.
A society that teaches its young people to obey but not to question will produce workers. A society that teaches its young people to question will produce citizens. And perhaps that is why education has always been dangerous. Because the moment a student raises their hand and asks, "Why?" something begins to move.
Why is tuition increasing? Why are classrooms overcrowded? Why are teachers underpaid? Why does a university boast about excellence while students struggle to eat? Why do we celebrate rankings while ignoring those who cannot even enter the race? Why are students expected to shoulder the burden of an economy they did not create? Why is poverty treated as an individual's failure instead of a structural condition? Why are we taught that the market is inevitable—as if markets were gods, as if policies were weather, as if inequality simply fell from the sky?
The most dangerous thing a classroom can produce is not a perfect student. It is a student who refuses to stop asking questions.
I think of the students sitting in lecture halls right now. Some of them are brilliant. Some are exhausted. Some are pretending to understand because they are too ashamed to admit they are lost. Some are working part-time. Some are quietly considering dropping out. Some are terrified of disappointing their parents. Some are studying because they genuinely love what they are learning. Some are studying because they were told this was the only way out. And some—some have already forgotten why they began.
They have become machines. Wake up. Commute. Class. Requirement. Deadline. Exam. Sleep. Repeat. A human being reduced to a schedule. A dream reduced to a résumé. A childhood reduced to preparation for employment.
And we call that success.
But I refuse to believe that education exists merely to manufacture workers for an economy. I refuse to believe that the worth of philosophy is measured by its salary. That the worth of literature is measured by its employability. That the worth of history is measured by its profitability. That the worth of an artist is measured by their income. That the worth of a teacher is measured by how cheaply they can be paid. That the worth of a student is measured by their grades. That the worth of a human being can ever be reduced to their economic output.
We are more than our productivity. We are more than our transcripts. More than our résumés. More than our degrees. More than our future salaries. We are people. And education should help us become fully human—not merely more marketable.
Perhaps that is what an educational struggle really is. Not simply a fight over tuition. Not simply a debate over policies. Not simply a political argument between people who agree and people who disagree. It is a fight over something much deeper: What is a human life for?
Is a child educated so they can eventually sell their labor? Or so they can understand the world well enough to transform it? Is knowledge a commodity? Or a common inheritance? Is the university a factory? Or a sanctuary for thought? Should education train us to survive the world as it is—or give us the courage to imagine what it could become?
I do not want an education that merely teaches me how to fit into the machine. I want an education that lets me examine the machine. I want to know who built it. Who benefits from it. Who is crushed beneath it. Who keeps it running. And whether we are brave enough to build something better.
Because perhaps the greatest lesson education can give us is not an answer. Perhaps it is the courage to recognize when the question itself is wrong.
Maybe the question is not: "How do I succeed within this system?" Maybe it is: "What kind of system deserves to inherit our future?"
So when they tell us education is an investment, I will ask: Investment for whom? When they tell us competition makes us stronger, I will ask: Stronger together—or stronger against one another? When they tell us the market decides, I will ask: Since when did the market become more important than the human being? And when they tell us that this is simply how the world works, I will remember: The world was made by people. Which means people can remake it.
Maybe that is why the figures in the poster stand with their fists raised. Not because a raised fist is beautiful. It isn't. It is a hand that has stopped begging. A hand that says: Enough.
Enough with classrooms that become battlegrounds for survival. Enough with students treated as customers. Enough with teachers treated as expenses. Enough with families forced to sacrifice everything for the right to learn. Enough with an education system that asks the poor to pay the highest price for the promise of a better life. Enough with being told that our dreams must first prove their profitability.
And if I am asked what I want from education, I do not want a cheaper version of the same machine. I want something more radical.
I want a classroom where the child of a farmer can sit beside the child of a CEO, and neither feels lesser. I want teachers who can teach without wondering how they will survive. I want students who can study without wondering whether their family can survive. I want universities that produce not only professionals, but thinkers, artists, scientists, writers, organizers, dreamers, citizens.
People who can look at a broken world and say: This is not inevitable. People who can look at injustice and say: This is not normal. People who can look at one another and say: Your future matters as much as mine.
Because education is not supposed to teach us how to become better commodities. It is supposed to teach us how to become better human beings.
And maybe that is the real offense. Not the one launched against education—but the one education can launch against ignorance. Against apathy. Against exploitation. Against the idea that poverty is destiny. Against the belief that nothing can change. Against the quiet voice that tells a young person: "This is just how things are."
No. It is not. It has never been. And it does not have to remain this way.
So tomorrow, when the bell rings, walk into your classroom differently. Bring your books. Bring your pens. Bring your unfinished assignments. Bring your exhaustion. Bring your dreams. But also bring your questions. Bring the voice you were taught to silence. Bring the courage to look beyond the lesson plan.
Because somewhere between the blackboard and the doorway, between the textbook and the world, between what we are taught and what we choose to believe, there is a small, dangerous possibility: that we might learn enough to change everything.
And if education truly belongs to the people, then let us make it worthy of them.
Not a privilege. Not a product. Not a price tag. Not a ladder for the lucky few. But a light. A weapon against ignorance. A language for the voiceless. A home for curiosity. A bridge between generations.
A promise that no child should have to be rich to dream.
Because the classroom should never ask, "What can you afford?" before it asks, "What can you become?"
And perhaps, in the end, that is the question worth fighting for.
Not how much education costs. But how much of our humanity are we willing to lose if we let education become something only the market can afford?
—
Literary by: Cheard Segundino
Layout by: Joshua Vercide
