A young writer sits on a monobloc chair, scribbling notes from a press conference. In front of her: a lagging laptop, government tabs, and a deadline that won’t wait. Unpaid and overlooked, she presses on. And in a country ranked among the most dangerous places for media workers, her pen might be the sharpest tool she owns—and the most fragile.
But how free is the Filipino press, really? And more importantly, how loud can the youth speak before they, too, are told to shut up?
Shaping scribes, shaping futures
At the core of every school publication is not just grammar or layout—it’s resistance. Campus press conferences (press cons), which many reduce to mere contests for medals and page layouts, are training grounds for courage. It is here that student writers first learn to fact-check a speech, challenge a school policy, or write about issues that even adults refuse to touch. They learn that journalism is more than documentation; it is dissent dressed in syntax.
These events—Division, Regional, even National Schools Press Conferences—are not just academic milestones. They are crucibles. In press cons, young writers are told to find the truth, even if it hides between conflicting statements. They debate ethical reporting, learn about media law, and often face quiet censorship. A rejected article, an erased editorial, a threatened adviser—these too are part of the curriculum, although no medal is awarded for surviving them.
It is through this process that student journalists begin to understand what journalism means in the Philippines: it is a promise to speak, even when it’s safer to stay silent.
What journalism is in a dangerous archipelago
“Just because you're a journalist, you are not exempted from assassination, if you're a son of a bitch.”
These were the words of the Former President Rodrigo Duterte on the very day of his inauguration in 2016—a declaration that felt less like a warning and more like a doctrine. In one line, the message was clear: in this country, press freedom has no guarantees. Truth-tellers are not only unwelcome; they are dispensable.
Let’s be honest: being a journalist in the Philippines isn’t just hard—it’s dangerous.
Since democracy was restored in 1986, at least 147 journalists have been murdered in the Philippines.
And the blood has not dried.
In the 2024 Reporters Without Borders (RSF) World Press Freedom Index, the Philippines ranked 134th out of 180 countries. It is not at the bottom of the barrel, but it is close enough to smell the rot. Journalists here navigate a landscape riddled with legal threats, red-tagging, harassment, and even digital surveillance. The stories they tell often come at the cost of their peace—or their lives.
Against this backdrop, the campus press operates not in isolation, but in parallel. Student journalists may not face bullets, but they face bans. Articles about school fees are spiked. Reports on admin misconduct disappear. Advisers are replaced. Publications are defunded. And still, the ink flows.
This is not just a reflection of censorship—but a mere preview
Youths who write are youths that resist
Campus journalism is not a side activity. It is the youngest voice of the people. While national headlines are shaped by media giants, it is student writers who report on unresolved sexual harassment cases in universities, questionable school policies, or poor infrastructure that never makes it to primetime news. Their audience may be smaller, but their impact is immediate.
The tragedy is that these voices are often dismissed. “Bata lang 'yan,” they say. Or worse: “May pinaparingan na naman.” Yet, the truth is this—if the youth stop writing, who will?
In many communities, campus journalists are the first to write about local injustices. They fill the gap where national media coverage thins out. They write for their peers, their teachers, their community—and more often than not, against the very systems meant to protect them.
It’s in the defiant editorial against tuition hikes. It’s in the photo essay of a flooded campus. It’s in the story of a classmate who dropped out because she couldn’t afford internet load. These are not just school assignments. They are archives of resistance.
And this resistance, no matter how young or raw, is necessary. Because democracy does not crumble all at once—it erodes slowly, in the silencing of the small.
There is no freedom without fear
Republic Act 11440, enacted in 2019, officially declared July 25 as National Campus Press Freedom Day. On paper, it is recognition. In reality, it is not enough.
Legal recognition does not guarantee safety. Laws are only as strong as their enforcement—and in many schools, press freedom is only upheld when it doesn’t inconvenience authority. Campus journalists are told to “write responsibly,” which often translates to “don’t write what makes us look bad.” But the truth has never asked for permission.
What young writers need is not just a law. They need resources: funding for school publications, protection for advisers, spaces for dialogue with administrators, and most of all, acknowledgment. A nation that fears its youth will never empower them—and a youth that is silenced cannot protect the truth.
Despite it all, they keep writing. Despite warnings, threats, and apathy, they publish. Because in the Philippines, to write is not just to inform—it is to remember. And to remember is an act of rebellion.
Every news article, editorial, and literary piece in a school paper is a refusal to forget. Forget that a journalist once disappeared for speaking out. Forget that a school official once used fear to silence dissent. Forget that a nation once gaslighted its people into calling dictatorship discipline.
Because until the day truth is no longer dangerous, the youth must never put their pens down.
But how free is the Filipino press, really? And more importantly, how loud can the youth speak before they, too, are told to shut up?
Shaping scribes, shaping futures
At the core of every school publication is not just grammar or layout—it’s resistance. Campus press conferences (press cons), which many reduce to mere contests for medals and page layouts, are training grounds for courage. It is here that student writers first learn to fact-check a speech, challenge a school policy, or write about issues that even adults refuse to touch. They learn that journalism is more than documentation; it is dissent dressed in syntax.
These events—Division, Regional, even National Schools Press Conferences—are not just academic milestones. They are crucibles. In press cons, young writers are told to find the truth, even if it hides between conflicting statements. They debate ethical reporting, learn about media law, and often face quiet censorship. A rejected article, an erased editorial, a threatened adviser—these too are part of the curriculum, although no medal is awarded for surviving them.
It is through this process that student journalists begin to understand what journalism means in the Philippines: it is a promise to speak, even when it’s safer to stay silent.
What journalism is in a dangerous archipelago
“Just because you're a journalist, you are not exempted from assassination, if you're a son of a bitch.”
These were the words of the Former President Rodrigo Duterte on the very day of his inauguration in 2016—a declaration that felt less like a warning and more like a doctrine. In one line, the message was clear: in this country, press freedom has no guarantees. Truth-tellers are not only unwelcome; they are dispensable.
Let’s be honest: being a journalist in the Philippines isn’t just hard—it’s dangerous.
Since democracy was restored in 1986, at least 147 journalists have been murdered in the Philippines.
And the blood has not dried.
In the 2024 Reporters Without Borders (RSF) World Press Freedom Index, the Philippines ranked 134th out of 180 countries. It is not at the bottom of the barrel, but it is close enough to smell the rot. Journalists here navigate a landscape riddled with legal threats, red-tagging, harassment, and even digital surveillance. The stories they tell often come at the cost of their peace—or their lives.
Against this backdrop, the campus press operates not in isolation, but in parallel. Student journalists may not face bullets, but they face bans. Articles about school fees are spiked. Reports on admin misconduct disappear. Advisers are replaced. Publications are defunded. And still, the ink flows.
This is not just a reflection of censorship—but a mere preview
Youths who write are youths that resist
Campus journalism is not a side activity. It is the youngest voice of the people. While national headlines are shaped by media giants, it is student writers who report on unresolved sexual harassment cases in universities, questionable school policies, or poor infrastructure that never makes it to primetime news. Their audience may be smaller, but their impact is immediate.
The tragedy is that these voices are often dismissed. “Bata lang 'yan,” they say. Or worse: “May pinaparingan na naman.” Yet, the truth is this—if the youth stop writing, who will?
In many communities, campus journalists are the first to write about local injustices. They fill the gap where national media coverage thins out. They write for their peers, their teachers, their community—and more often than not, against the very systems meant to protect them.
It’s in the defiant editorial against tuition hikes. It’s in the photo essay of a flooded campus. It’s in the story of a classmate who dropped out because she couldn’t afford internet load. These are not just school assignments. They are archives of resistance.
And this resistance, no matter how young or raw, is necessary. Because democracy does not crumble all at once—it erodes slowly, in the silencing of the small.
There is no freedom without fear
Republic Act 11440, enacted in 2019, officially declared July 25 as National Campus Press Freedom Day. On paper, it is recognition. In reality, it is not enough.
Legal recognition does not guarantee safety. Laws are only as strong as their enforcement—and in many schools, press freedom is only upheld when it doesn’t inconvenience authority. Campus journalists are told to “write responsibly,” which often translates to “don’t write what makes us look bad.” But the truth has never asked for permission.
What young writers need is not just a law. They need resources: funding for school publications, protection for advisers, spaces for dialogue with administrators, and most of all, acknowledgment. A nation that fears its youth will never empower them—and a youth that is silenced cannot protect the truth.
Despite it all, they keep writing. Despite warnings, threats, and apathy, they publish. Because in the Philippines, to write is not just to inform—it is to remember. And to remember is an act of rebellion.
Every news article, editorial, and literary piece in a school paper is a refusal to forget. Forget that a journalist once disappeared for speaking out. Forget that a school official once used fear to silence dissent. Forget that a nation once gaslighted its people into calling dictatorship discipline.
Because until the day truth is no longer dangerous, the youth must never put their pens down.
C
Written by Chel Amihan Nacabu-an, Insight PH
Chel Amihan Nacabu-an, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
