Several weeks ago, I wrote in this space about the violence that had invaded our schools.

I spoke of the need for vigilance, stronger safeguards, and for parents, teachers, and communities to close ranks so the places where our children learn would remain sanctuaries of hope rather than scenes of horror. I ended that piece with a quiet, almost desperate hope: that the tragedy we had just witnessed would be the last of its kind.

I was wrong.

Just last week, on the morning of August 18, gunfire once again shattered the calm of a junior high school in Zamboanga City. Based on reports, a student brought firearms onto the campus, opened fire, killed a fellow student, and then turned the weapon on himself.

In the aftermath, lives were cut short. Families were broken. An entire school community was left reeling in shock and sorrow.

Just two days later, on Aug. 20, during a teacher’s surprise bag inspection at a high school in Cebu, a Magnum revolver was discovered inside the bag of a 14-year-old student. It appears the unloaded firearm had been taken from the family home without permission. The incident is a stark reminder that the danger remains real and present.

People ask: how many more close calls and the consequent grief must we endure?

I can only imagine the depth of that grief—the crushing weight that now rests on the shoulders of parents who will never again hear their child’s laughter, families whose future has been forever altered, friends whose shared memories have turned into aching voids, and communities that must now gather to console one another while searching for answers.

The loss of a child is a wound unlike any other. It cuts into the very core of who we are.

I know.

Fourteen years ago this month, our youngest child died inside her mother’s womb, succumbing to umbilical cord entanglement. In that quiet, private sorrow, we lost a child we had already begun to love and dream about. The emptiness that followed was profound—a silence that no words could fill, a longing that time alone could not completely erase.

Though our experience was different in circumstance, the grief of losing a child, even one we never held in our arms, taught me something enduring: that a parent’s heart breaks in a way few others can fully understand.

Our hearts go out to every mother and father in Zamboanga City who now carries that same unbearable weight, and to all who stand beside them in their pain.

At the heart of these tragedies lies a brutal truth: guns, when mishandled, will continue to give us more grief. It is a failure of secure storage, of parental oversight, of school security protocols, and of a culture that sometimes treats guns with casual familiarity rather than the deadly seriousness they deserve.

Many are now asking: do we have sufficient gun control in the Philippines? On paper, our laws—particularly Republic Act 10591, the Comprehensive Firearms and Ammunition Regulation Act—appear reasonably strict. Licensing requires clearances, psychiatric evaluation, drug testing, and safety training. Carrying firearms outside the home is tightly restricted.

Yet repeated tragedies in our schools show these safeguards are not enough in practice. Too many firearms remain “loose.” Too many owners fail to store their weapons securely. And current rules often fall short in holding licensed owners fully accountable when their guns end up in the hands of minors or unauthorized persons.

The prevailing view today is that stronger measures are needed—clearer criminal liability for irresponsible owners, stricter storage requirements, tighter controls on loose firearms, and uncompromising enforcement.

In this regard, I fully support the call of Interior and Local Government Secretary Jonvic Remulla for stricter penalties for irresponsibility on the part of gun owners.

What we now face is a national challenge that requires national resolve.

We cannot bring back the children we lost. But we can honor them by refusing to accept that this will happen again.

Guns mishandled will give us more grief—unless we decide, collectively and urgently, that enough is enough.

Let us turn this grief into resolve, so that the next time we talk about schools, it will be to celebrate their safety rather than to mourn another preventable loss.

The classrooms of our nation must remain places of learning, not of fear. That is the least we owe the young lives we have already lost—and the many more we are still privileged to protect.

And perhaps fittingly, as I write about the responsibility we carry to protect the lives entrusted to us, I am reminded of my father, former Rizal Governor Ito Ynares, who celebrates his 80th birthday today.

Dad, your life has been defined by service, compassion, and a deep commitment to our people. May God continue to bless you with good health and many more years to guide, inspire, and serve.

Happy 80th birthday, Papa. We love you.