A privilege to carry

For many of us, education isn’t just a right—it’s a lifeline, a means to lift us out of poverty.

Looking back on my childhood, I remember the rumble of thunder signaling the coming rain. Casseroles, pitchers, and tubs were placed beneath the holes on our roof, ready to catch the dripping water before the downpour began.

Half an hour later, my father would come rushing home, soaked from the rain. He’d happily open his black backpack filled with freshly harvested vegetables. Inside, my mother sat surrounded by children she tutored. And at the back of our house, my sisters tended to the “dalikan”—a traditional clay stove—carefully cooking rice for dinner.

“Saka na lang ‘pag may pera na tayo, ha?”

These words were imprinted in my consciousness whenever, as a child, I’d ask for toys I saw while walking in the mall. With childlike wonder, I kept asking myself, when will that time come? Kailan kaya kami magkakapera?

As the years went by, I began to understand why that phrase was said so often. I witnessed the quiet sacrifices made at home—the meals stretched thin, the extra tutoring sessions my mother took on, and the way my sisters scraped by week after week by taking part-time jobs in college—It became clear: no matter how hard we stretched, it was never enough.

Over time, my perspective shifted—from wishing for toys to making choices that kept food on our table. “Saka na lang ‘pag may pera na tayo.” Those words weren’t just spoken in my home; they were a reality for so many families like mine.

“Mag-aral kang mabuti.”

That is another statement that echoed throughout my elementary and high school years. It was always followed by “Para magkaroon ka ng magandang buhay.” And so, without question, I did. I studied well. But nothing could have prepared me for the larger problem I would encounter.

During my school years, I saw an education system that programmed students to compete with one another, chasing validation through high grades and prestigious titles—a difficult rat race to escape because getting caught up in it can degrade the value of education for learning’s sake.

But there is another harsh reality I witnessed: education is a completely different experience when you are underprivileged. We talk about education as a right in this country, but for many, it still feels like a privilege—one that comes with a price tag not everyone can afford.

There is no denying that a better quality of education goes to those who can afford it. No, I do not think this is unfair because I believe every parent understands the value of education. That is why they strive to give their children the best education they possibly can.

But what I am talking about are the struggles that come with simply trying to stay in school when you have little to no resources.

For many students like us, it is not just about having big dreams but also about calculating how to get there. It means fighting the fatigue of working part-time jobs while juggling to keep our grades up. It is the emotional and physical toll of simply trying to stay afloat.

And yet, despite it all, we persist. Because for those who come from less, education is not just an opportunity—it is a necessity. It is our one real shot at changing the course of our lives.

“Ito, sa ‘yo ‘to.”

For some reason, I vividly remember a night when my father had just sold his crops. The sound of coins clinking on the cold floor as we sat and counted them one by one. He started stacking the coins, smiling as he handed me my own stack: “Ito, sa ‘yo ‘to.” It is something I will never forget.

We all face different struggles, regardless of economic status. Yet this is a glimpse of a life shaped by being part of a certain demographic.

Poverty isn’t just something you see; it’s something you live, day in and day out. And when you live it, you see the world differently. You are forced to learn—to adapt. You learn how to find ways because you must. Because you are alive and your survival demands it. And no matter how many times you start from scratch, you will keep going, working toward a better life—someday.

This is why I’m here, studying at the university.

My father, who works under the scorching sun, pushing through heavy rains just to harvest enough for the week, taught me about perseverance.

My mother, teaching several children at once in the evenings, became the guiding light that taught me about dignity and resilience.

And the medals of my older sisters, hanging proudly above our woven bamboo door, aren’t just decorations—they are symbols of hope, of the future we all hold on to.

Every day I step into this university, I carry more than just my dreams—I carry the hopes and sacrifices of my family and everyone who has helped me get here.

This is not a burden—it is a privilege.

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Samantha Sheen R. Gambot, 21, is a student at the University of the Philippines Baguio.