Grade 11, Kidapawan City National High School

Grade 12, Kidapawan City National High School

There is no excuse—their coats could be unable to absorb water from the amount of rain poured onto them, or their tongues could scratch the roof of their mouths with not a single drop of saliva left to spit out. But as long as their pens are filled with ink, journalists will rattle their bones and reassemble their limbs to be heard among all the yells of the unjust.

With over 7,000 islands and a million reasons to go, lies a country full of rich politicians who give us every reason to say “no.” You can smell it from the way streets reek of a funky stench and see it from the way two Filipinos could go to the same neighborhood, but only one has a home. For those in higher power, Filipino lives could be something as white noise is to sleeping, as a tall building is to Manila—it is just there.

Through those who carry a camera, those who would rather choose truth even if there were a gun to their head, they are the ones who treat Filipinos as if they are art—something to be cared for. Because a hero is not someone you see on TV claiming they did something to change the dire state that the Philippines has become, but someone who does not feel the need to be recognized.

Journalists—the silenced loud, the major minority, the untold truth. With a brave face, they are able to utter the words that ordinary people could not utter in front of those with higher power. They drown in drainage-mixed floodwater and the blood of their peers who, too, would rather let themselves get buried before letting the untrue go out of its cage. There is truly no excuse; the world could end right now, and the last thing you would hear before going out is news that the world is ending, with a picture of the sun exploding in HD.

Yet even under the weight of stones and silence, the pen remains sharper than the barrel. It is not just a tool—it is a lifeline, a rebellion inked against erasure. Each word written is a seed planted, one that will grow long after the hand that penned it has turned cold. For every attempt to bury truth, it resurfaces like a stubborn root breaking through cracked concrete, reminding those in power that silence is never permanent—that ink seeps even into the deepest fractures of history.

For every headline carved in courage, for every photo framed in peril, there lies a sacrifice too heavy to ignore. They know that the stories they tell may cost them their tomorrow, yet they continue—because to abandon the truth is to abandon the people. Their ink is more than words on paper—it is blood, it is memory, it is a map toward a future where the rubble no longer buries the pen but lifts it higher, unshaken.

Write. Capture. Publish. That is the goal and the cycle our journalists have to live. When another journalist, simply working inside their home, is silenced by those who breathe lies—when it all comes crumbling down right beneath their feet, with an unfinished piece—you will find their pen under all the rubble.