The rumble of the train filled the air as passengers crowded into the carriage. It was an ordinary day on the LRT: bags pressed against each other, voices mixing with the sharp beeps of the doors, and commuters clutching their belongings tightly. In one corner sat Julian Valleser Tacbad, his shoulders weighed down not just by a large backpack and an eco bag, but by a disability that no one could see.
Julian was born with a congenital cataract. Though surgery gave him partial sight, it left his vision blurry, with an eye grade of 1,150. Legally recognized as a person with disability (PWD), he carries with him not only his bag but also the label of someone who qualifies for the very seat he was occupying: the priority seat.
Yet that day, irony unfolded in plain sight. When an elderly woman entered the train, she pointed toward the label above Julian’s seat and said, “Kuya, priority,” her eyes narrowing as if demanding him to stand. A middle-aged man followed with a comment to his companion: “Priority, oh,” both of them glancing at Julian with the same expectation that he would give up his spot for someone who, in their eyes, deserved it more.
Julian calmly explained that he is, in fact, a PWD. But instead of recognition, he was met with dismissal. The older woman said that if his disability was “just” a visual one, then it didn’t count. Her words pierced with a kind of irony sharper than any blade: that blindness—or even the shadow of it—was somehow not enough to qualify as disabled.
Julian chose silence. He simply recorded the exchange on video, both to show his parents and to raise awareness online. In that clip, what becomes clear is not just the prejudice against an invisible disability, but the bigger blind spot of society: the tendency to judge only what the eyes can see.
And here lies the cruel twist—on a seat designed for those with disabilities, a young man with blurred vision was told he did not belong. The irony is as stark as it is painful. The label that was supposed to protect him became the very reason strangers demanded his removal.
Invisible disabilities like Julian’s often fall through the cracks of public empathy. We look at people and assume they are “normal” simply because their struggles aren’t visible. Yet disability does not always wear a cane, a wheelchair, or a hearing aid. Sometimes, it hides behind thick eyeglasses, or in Julian’s case, in eyes that will never fully see.
This is the blind spot we must confront—not in Julian’s vision, but in ours as a society. To recognize only the disabilities that are obvious is to deny the dignity of countless others who live with hidden conditions. True inclusivity begins when compassion replaces assumption, and when we remember that priority is not about who looks deserving, but about who truly needs it.
Until then, Julian’s story remains a quiet testimony: that sometimes, the people with the clearest sight are not the ones with perfect eyes, but those who know what it feels like to be unseen.
Via Jossa Yvonne Z. Bolivar, Insight PH
Julian was born with a congenital cataract. Though surgery gave him partial sight, it left his vision blurry, with an eye grade of 1,150. Legally recognized as a person with disability (PWD), he carries with him not only his bag but also the label of someone who qualifies for the very seat he was occupying: the priority seat.
Yet that day, irony unfolded in plain sight. When an elderly woman entered the train, she pointed toward the label above Julian’s seat and said, “Kuya, priority,” her eyes narrowing as if demanding him to stand. A middle-aged man followed with a comment to his companion: “Priority, oh,” both of them glancing at Julian with the same expectation that he would give up his spot for someone who, in their eyes, deserved it more.
Julian calmly explained that he is, in fact, a PWD. But instead of recognition, he was met with dismissal. The older woman said that if his disability was “just” a visual one, then it didn’t count. Her words pierced with a kind of irony sharper than any blade: that blindness—or even the shadow of it—was somehow not enough to qualify as disabled.
Julian chose silence. He simply recorded the exchange on video, both to show his parents and to raise awareness online. In that clip, what becomes clear is not just the prejudice against an invisible disability, but the bigger blind spot of society: the tendency to judge only what the eyes can see.
And here lies the cruel twist—on a seat designed for those with disabilities, a young man with blurred vision was told he did not belong. The irony is as stark as it is painful. The label that was supposed to protect him became the very reason strangers demanded his removal.
Invisible disabilities like Julian’s often fall through the cracks of public empathy. We look at people and assume they are “normal” simply because their struggles aren’t visible. Yet disability does not always wear a cane, a wheelchair, or a hearing aid. Sometimes, it hides behind thick eyeglasses, or in Julian’s case, in eyes that will never fully see.
This is the blind spot we must confront—not in Julian’s vision, but in ours as a society. To recognize only the disabilities that are obvious is to deny the dignity of countless others who live with hidden conditions. True inclusivity begins when compassion replaces assumption, and when we remember that priority is not about who looks deserving, but about who truly needs it.
Until then, Julian’s story remains a quiet testimony: that sometimes, the people with the clearest sight are not the ones with perfect eyes, but those who know what it feels like to be unseen.
Via Jossa Yvonne Z. Bolivar, Insight PH
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Written by Jossa Yvonne Z. Bolivar, Insight PH
Jossa Yvonne Z. Bolivar, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
