FEATURE | The Space Between What Public Spaces Say About Whose Lives Matter

You can really tell who a country values by who gets to sit down—and in the Philippines, it is all too visible.

On one side, the public is pampered.

In malls like SM Mall of Asia, the corridors are air-conditioned and polished, while security guards nod at visitors as they pass. Cafés sell drinks for upwards of ₱200—a sum equivalent to nearly a quarter of the daily wage for some workers in the province. Sidewalks are lined with neatly arranged potted plants, and public benches in nearby parks offer shade and space for families. Fountains bubble gently, and children run across manicured lawns under the supervision of park staff.

In private schools, classrooms are equipped with state of the art facilities for both academic and accommodation purposes. From whiteboards paired with a smart TV, and computers, to fully stocked laboratories. Libraries hold hundreds of new titles, and events like science fairs, art exhibits, and monthly sports tournaments keep students engaged outside the classroom. Spacious hallways and curated courtyards, providing swift and seamless function.

These are spaces built for lingering, lounging, existing without loss. These are spaces where comfort is expected, not earned. These are spaces where even the noise is curated—soft classical music in hallways, rich laughter in cafés, the faint hum of air-conditioning masking the outside chaos.

Here, time is measured in seconds spent spending, not in struggles spent surviving.

On the other, the public is persistent.

In contrast, markets in barangays consist of a row of carinderias under a corrugated roof that bends with the storm. Plastic tables wobble on uneven dirt floors, while narrow streets are crowded with vendors calling out to passersby. Children navigate between sacks of rice and motorcycles, dodging canals as they go. Local parks offer little more than cracked curbs or flat stones for seating, and few shaded areas exist for families to rest.

In public schools, classrooms are overcrowded, with more students than desks. Roofs leak during the rainy season, and cracked walls are an expected sight. Libraries often consist of a few shelves of old books from the ‘90s, and a single computer is shared among dozens of students. School events are rare, and supplies like paper and chalk are limited. Students sit on dusty floors, navigate muddy courtyards, and sometimes pay part of their tuition themselves—but they continue to attend classes and participate in activities, making the most of what little is available.

These are spaces patched together for resilience, endurance, and existing despite loss. These are spaces where discomfort is expected, even guaranteed. These are spaces where the noise is uncontrolled—the roar of motorcycles echoing through the streets, children shouting across rocky paths, elderly women selling sampaguitas along the roadside, the wind whipping gravel through open stalls and broken sidewalks.

And between us lies the space that shows everything: the line hiding in plain sight between whose comfort is assured each day and whose comfort is a world away.

If these spaces reflect whose lives matter, then we are biased—silent for millions of our own people. It is only fair to close the distance between what is expected in one part of our country and what is denied in another. To design sidewalks that all can walk safely and securely, to invest in parks that all children can enjoy, to promote education wherein all can enter without compromise, and spaces where comfort and dignity are not privileges, but rights.

No Filipino should ever learn, live, or wait in a world where comfort is measured not by need, but by wealth. Erase the lines that divide us, to reclaim public spaces for all, and to build a nation where every life is valued equally, from city plaza to mountain path.

If we cannot all sit in comfort, then we cannot all call ourselves equal.