Online classes during class suspensions expose exactly who the system leaves behind

Shaunte Felicity Ong

For a country that is hit by an average of 20 tropical storms per year, weather conditions become unforgiving, and so does the education system. Flooding, landslides, and power outages are no foreign consequences for the Philippines. And above all, death becomes inevitable for many. It is flawed to think that nature claims lives or chooses to punish us annually from July to October, because disasters are preventable.

When systems and projects that are made to improve our quality of life continue to fail and proliferate, there’s no one else at the receiving end of bad decisions other than us, the ordinary Filipinos.

And it is those who run the country who fail to understand these impacts and impose the most inconsiderate policies that blur the line between safety and privilege.

Debunking the resiliency narrative

Situated in the Pacific Ring of Fire and Typhoon Belt, Filipinos are no rookies in conquering earthquakes and typhoons. We laugh in the face of calamities, and we smile even when the world gives us everything it’s got. 

We are known for our culture and identity of resiliency. But there should also be a threshold when resilience stops being admirable and starts becoming a reason for neglect.

The mountains of praise that Filipinos are being strong for continuing to stand after every storm, or for attending classes despite having to wade through blurred and dirty flood waters, or for pulling through online classes despite unstable internet connections, are manipulated to portray resiliency. But resilience should never be used to justify circumstances that require it in the first place.

For students, consequences of disasters do not end when the rain ceases or when the flood recedes. Classrooms are left damaged, learning materials may be destroyed, and electricity and internet connectivity may remain unavailable for days. This would mean missing a few classes, and for others, falling behind for an entire academic year. 

This is where education becomes inseparable from privilege. 

“Not all areas have the best coverage for a reliable internet service. So shifting it to online class would be like punching them in the face because their area already has bad service, what more in the rain,” shared Jano (alias),  a second-year college student from Taguig,  in an interview.

Some students are fortunate to have a stable internet connection and backup devices to attend virtual classes from a dry, air-conditioned room. But for others, there’s a need to borrow devices, search for spaces with sufficient cellular signals, and choose between attending classes and helping their family recover or remain safe during a calamity.

Comparing two contrasting situations lived at the same time while demanding commendable academic performance is nothing but inconsiderate and lacking empathy.

Education is believed to be the greatest equalizer, but how can education be equal if the conditions around it are not?

The problem was never about resiliency. It’s about the normalized demand to compel even the most vulnerable students to be resilient enough to survive systems that were never designed with them in mind. When resilience or “diskarte” becomes a requirement for education in times when lives are at stake, it ceases to be a right and becomes a burden instead.

When education becomes a privilege

When severe weather conditions threaten communities, suspending face-to-face classes becomes the most reasonable decision. Keeping students and teachers at home means prevention from exposure to hazards. But the decision to suspend classes does not automatically mean that learning can continue safely at home. 

No student should be made to risk their life just to attend class amid flooding, landslides, or dangerous weather conditions. But when LGUs or the national government call for a shift to alternative delivery modes, the responsibility of continuing education shifts from institutions to the students.

A class suspension was never meant to fulfill academic requirements in the comfort of one’s home. Although it is a benefit for some, class suspensions are made to prioritize health and prepare for emergency situations. 

Some students attend schools or universities that require them to travel daily or weekly, and this means that conditions differ. Aberline Tolentino, 20, a college student from Mapúa University, shared her sentiment, “Nag-suspend nga kasi may bagyo, paano yung mga nasa probinsya na mahina internet?” 

For some, shifting to online classes means opening a laptop and connecting to the internet. But for others, it means having to balance academic responsibilities with a real-time disaster. What is meant to ensure learning continuity becomes counterproductive when existing gaps are widened between students who have resources and those who do not.

Today, having a roof over one’s head is not the final measure for safety. 

When we suspend face-to-face classes, are we making education more accessible, or are we transferring the burden of continuity to students and their families?

The ability to continue learning during a calamity should never be dependent on how prepared a household is to deal with the consequences. The adoption of alternative delivery modes (ADM) undermines the difficulty of situations faced by those whose homes are entirely submerged, those dealing with power outages, those who have lost loved ones, and those who never had sufficient resources to begin with.

Class suspensions are not mere indicators of whether it’s safe to travel back to school. They should be about asking whether students are in a position to learn once they’re home. 

Inequality by failed systems

The disconnect between policymakers and the lives of those they govern worsens the failure of systems built by people who never had to face the consequences of decisions they make. 

How do we expect them to understand our lived realities when they are protected from conditions they ask us to endure?

They make decisions for a country they are disconnected from. Protected by privilege, they have the security and luxury that the majority do not possess: resources when crises strike, and homes in exclusive subdivisions, separated by gigantic walls that disconnect them from everyday life endured by the ordinary people.

For students with flooded homes, a class suspension never becomes a rest day. For those with no electricity, virtual classes become impossible. And for those who have lost everything, putting education before devastating losses makes it impossible to continue as if nothing happened.

Education is a constitutional right. But even then, it’s not enough for it to be accessible—it must also be accessible to the realities that Filipinos live. Policies cannot protect students if it only overlooks the situation that prevents learning in the first place.

If our politicians continue to prioritize political and self-interest over the realities of people who put them in office, who are these systems designed to protect?

The government has the people at its core. But that is not enough. It must listen to the rhythms of life, live with the consequences of every decision, and understand that not every Filipino has the same privilege.

Resilience is a strength chosen to be celebrated, and not a culture normalized to become a burden.