Author / The Science Net

by The Science Net

Unhidden Horrors

By Samuelle Jagonio || Illustration by Mavi Hipe

There was a knock at the door.

I remember it clearly—the way it cut through the faint hum of Bandila news playing on our old TV. I was tucked in bed, pretending to be asleep while my daddy-lo watched the evening news. That was our quiet ritual before sleep: me, half-awake under the blanket; him, half-listening to the anchors’ tired voices, sighing every now and then like the world had just disappointed him again.

Then came the second knock—louder, faster, almost desperate.

Daddy-lo, half-asleep and still in his worn sando, shuffled towards the noise, grumbling to himself. When he pulled the door open, what greeted him was not a poor, innocent neighbor in need of help, but the cool midnight air and the smell of rain-soaked soil. No one was there. Only the hiss of wind through the trees and the faint licking of a burning flame in the distance.

Then came the yelling, the trembling of the ground as neighbors rushed down the muddy road clutching their children and trudging their belongings. “The hospital,” one cried, catching the bewildered look on my lolo’s face, “It’s burning!” The sky still rumbled from the storm that had passed hours before, and the air lingered with the smell of ash, salt, and something else—something foul that clung to the air.

By dawn, the ashes had settled. Some swore it was the work of a sigben, a creature said to linger by the dead and dying, and what better place to feed on the scent of suffering than in a hospital? Others whispered of curses, of the storm as a sign that something evil had been unleashed upon us all.

The truth, however, was more mundane, more monstrous in its simplicity: the hospital was built on lies and cheap cement—hollow blocks and hollow promises held up a structure meant to heal. Corners were cut, funds disappeared, and years later, people still chose to believe in creatures rather than corruption. The sigben and other mythical creatures became the scapegoat for every tragedy, while the true monster—one with a name, an office, and a practiced smile—walked free among us. After all, it’s easier to fear a myth than to confront a man in a suit.

Now, a decade of silence later, the true horror has stepped into the light. The culprit, a well-loved politician with a polished smile—now in even more polished handcuffs—was arrested for pocketing the funds meant for the hospital, the community’s foundation. The city buzzed with disbelief, as if the truth itself was yet another ghost story.

This Halloween, we’re reminded that the real horror isn’t hiding in haunted houses but in the seats of our government. They smile for cameras, suck the blood of public funds, and vanish into the night when accountability comes knocking. The sigben of today wear ostentatious, thickly-labeled perfume instead of the creature’s stench, but their odor is just as nauseating—they reek of greed, deceit, and apathy. At least the mythical beast had the shame to hide between its hind legs; our leaders, it seems, do not. The true horrors don’t come out only at night—they clock in at nine, swear oaths at noon, and sign budgets at three. And we, the people, too often look away, choosing silence over confrontation, comfort over courage.

Until now. 

There is a knock on the door. 

The same hollow sound, patient this time. No longer a warning, but an invitation: a chance to open the door and see the truth standing there unmasked. The monsters we fear are born not out of superstition but of our silence, and the real horror is what we allow to thrive when we pretend to look away.

by The Science Net

Student Loans

By Roj Faelnar || Illustration by Denine Latoja

The first thing Pisay hands you isn’t a textbook—it’s a title, heavy and gilded.

Iskolar ng bayan. 

It sounds sweet, patriotic, noble even. But with that title comes a jarring realization that you study on borrowed time, borrowed money, and borrowed faith pulled from fields, offices, sari-sari stores, and jeepney routes. 

It’s a strange kind of pride, knowing that you are quite literally being paid to be educated with the pooled chips of Filipino taxpayers. But pride has its twin—pressure. Pressure that gnaws at the back of your mind when grades slip lower than expected. Pressure that makes you hear past your teacher’s comments and into the echo of calloused hands that could have used the money spent on your education elsewhere. The tindera who counted coins at the palengke, the pedicab driver who wrestled through EDSA traffic, the OFW who sent remittances home only to be clipped by tax. Instead, their collective sacrifice amounted to your mistake on problem number three.

Pressure in Pisay isn’t a mood. It’s a roommate. It sits with you during 1 A.M. cram sessions, whispering: Someone else could’ve taken this slot, don’t be someone who wastes it. It walks with you across campus, reminding you that taxpayers are betting on your brain. It stares at you through your grades, every mark heavy with meaning.

To others, it’s a gift; to us, it’s a weight we can’t admit without sounding ungrateful. Officials call it a scholarship. Accountants call it public investment. I think of it as a debt, a gamble—a constant IOU tucked into every quiz paper, every lab report, every late-night light switch flipped on. With every assignment demanding an ROI in invisible ink: The nation gives, we must repay. Not later, not someday— now. With grades, with discipline, with the stubborn promise that we will not squander the sacrifices of millions.

So every time you scribble down an answer you know is wrong, it feels as if you’re wasting someone’s overtime pay. Every careless mistake on a test feels like a jeepney ride that went nowhere. Every late project is a wasted sack of rice from a farmer’s field. It’s not just failing—it’s an imagined headline: “Taxpayer-funded student fails biology quiz.”

It presses on your chest at night, when you wonder if you’re good enough, or if you’re just an expensive mistake, begging the question: Am I worth what they’ve given me?

The answer isn’t in medals or averages. It’s in the silent moments when you choose not to fold. It’s in the way you learn to respect the work that built this privilege, the labor of people who may never see your name but believe in the possibility it carries.

Because here’s the thing: we’re still kids. Yes, Pisay kids, but kids nonetheless. Not horses bred to race, or poker hands waiting to pay out, no, just teenagers who forget assignments, mess up equations, room-hop in the dorms, and sometimes bomb tests so badly all we can do is laugh about it. And that’s okay. It has to be okay. Nobody sane expects perfection from students still stumbling their way into who they’ll become. What’s expected is that we pull ourselves out of whatever hole we bury ourselves in, put on our uniforms, sling our bags over our shoulders and show up again anyway.

The weight of sacrifice behind our education doesn’t make Pisay scholars flawless. Far from it. What makes the experience human is precisely the stumble—the late nights where nothing seems to stick, the exams that undo weeks of review, the creeping thought that you are an impostor in a place designed for the exceptional. But perhaps that too, is part of the lesson: the nation isn’t asking you to ace every exam. It’s asking you to endure, to grow, to turn pressure into persistence.

Still, the fear never fully goes away. Even victories feel fleeting, because tomorrow’s exam waits, tomorrow’s deadline looms, and tomorrow’s stakes increase exponentially. Pressure doesn’t end—it evolves. But maybe that’s the hidden gift: pressure never lets you get complacent. It keeps you reaching, stretching, demanding more from yourself than you thought you could give.

As an iskolar ng bayan, the weight we carry is complicated. There’s a heaviness of always feeling the need to prove ourselves worthy of an education built on sacrifice. Then, there’s the messy reality of stumbling along the way, of effort ending in failure. The weight reminds us that we are tethered to something bigger, something shared. The scholarship is itself a kind of loan – not measured merely in pesos, but in trust. And yet, it is also the most rewarding debt one could bear, because it is the nation that entrusted it to you. Every stumble, then, is not disqualification, but test: proof that even faltering steps can still be toward service. Rising despite, or precisely because of it, is payment, however small, to the nation that taught you not just how to think, but why to matter.

by The Science Net

Ever and Again

By Zoe Quibranza || Graphics by Rei Alinsub

Do you think the cracked pavements of the EDSA streets remember the footsteps of those who marched on them long ago?

Fifty-three years have passed since Proclamation No. 1081 – Marcos Sr.’s Martial Law – and yet the rain falls as if to remind us that the ground is still soaked in the blood and fear of those years. Over the span of a little less than 14 years, an estimated 70,000 of the Marcoses’ political enemies were imprisoned and over 3,200 found themselves deprived of a peaceful departure, all under the dictatorial powers of Ferdinand Marcos Sr. ‘s regime. But it seems that numbers cannot hold the shriek of a mother who never found her son nor catch the rattle of a typewriter seized from a silenced newspaper office. They cannot explain how the family that the Filipino people took decades to repel was able to return in power and be greeted with open arms by descendants of the people who resisted them in the first place.

However, in spite of many history books that deem the martial law era as the country’s “golden age”, the Marcoses fail to understand that history does not like to be twisted, and it will not favor those who attempt to wring it of truth. This Sunday, the ghosts return, not as a whisper of a digital material posted online, but as footsteps once more. Two of them, in fact: Baha sa Luneta: Aksyon na Laban sa Korapsyon at nine in the morning, and the Trillion-Peso March at EDSA by mid-afternoon. Supported by at least 200 organizations composed of church groups, student organizations and labor unions, the rally shows signs of great promise for active reform within the government.

This time, they will come not in yellow, the color on our flag that’s supposed to symbolize freedom, democracy and sovereignty, nor will it be red, the supposed color of patriotism and the willingness of the Filipino to shed blood for the country. No, they will come in black, the color of defiance, sorrow and anger. One could not help but to think of how sick and tired we are of the streets to be painted in the literal absence of color. Like we are absolutely drained– of our time, sweat and resources– by those of the privileged and in power.

President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. now sits on the same mountain of rot that has weighed on this country for decades. He may bark “Mahiya naman kayo [You should be ashamed]” to perfume himself with the scent of justice that the Filipinos yearn to grasp, but shaming the corrupt does not make heads turn away from glaring back at him. The investigations into ghost projects and phantom flood walls only flared when he ordered them, which makes you wonder if these “discoveries” are anything more than old favors finally falling out of fashion, or if the ghosts were already feeding the very politicians now pretending to hunt them.

The symmetry is brutal. In 1972, Martial Law was justified as a way to keep order; today, corruption in flood control and public works is excused as “just politics.” Then and now, power collects in a few hands while ordinary Filipinos drown—sometimes in cellars, sometimes in knee-deep street water. Forgetting is the bridge between those two eras. Forgetting is the permission slip. Forgetting is why another Marcos can look the camera dead in the eye and tell the public to be ashamed, as though the shame were ours.

To the Marcos administration, I would like to commend you for at least attempting to reframe the indignity and shame that must come with corruption; though I have no clue of what is to happen when the Filipino inevitably choose to take matters into their own hands–as it should have been. And though it may look like they have gained the public’s trust, history has always proven itself cyclical; and should a spark inevitably be ignited, as with other nations that refused to endure empty promises, it is impossible to know whose heads will roll.

Recently, the world has seen a fallen government in Nepal, a weakened parliament in France, and a gruesome chain of protests in Indonesia. In the age of social media, we have been privileged to witness secondhand how the people of these nations have stood their ground, reclaiming the power that was meant to be theirs from the beginning, power once betrothed to their leaders but betrayed in its keeping. And now, as the Filipino people attempt to follow this path, it becomes a formidable reminder that, while some have forgotten, there are still many who refuse to succumb to the outbreak of controlled dementia that numbs only the memory of cruelty and tyranny.

The tyrants’ attempts to remove their bloodstained legacy from our nation’s history will never cease; but as long as the people cry “never again,” they can never be raised upon the pedestal of saints. So when you see the black tide of protest moving through Luneta and along EDSA, do not look away. Do not comfort yourself with the lie that this is just another weekend rally, just another bout of bad weather. Look into the flood and you will see a mirror: the soldiers who raided homes in 1972, the billions siphoned off in 2025, the same families fattening on taxes while warning us not to make trouble.

Be angry. Be unafraid of that anger. Let it move through you like a current through a live wire. Anger is a memory refusing to die. Anger is the sound of doors not yet kicked in, of a people who still remember the taste of freedom. March if you can and speak if you cannot march. Refuse the slow drowning of silence. Because the cycle ends only when we end it. “Never again” is not a phrase uttered by legends in history books; it is a command for the living, and it is up to us whether or not we choose to immortalize the memories of our ancestors before they are forgotten. Only then can history never be forgotten ever and again.

by The Science Net

Who Gets to Sail

By Jazie Rangga || Illustration by Jen Abasola

“And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt.”

These words, drawn from ancient scripture, echo in a modern Philippines where every storm exposes the rot. When the rains come, rivers overflow, roads transform into canals, and lives are once again paused because the State has failed to deliver what was promised. Yet, on glowing phone screens, another kind of flood surges forth — a flood of excess, of wealth so casually flaunted that it mocks the suffering outside.

This is not wealth born of innovation or industry. It is wealth siphoned from contracts signed in the people’s name, from taxes scraped off their paychecks, from flood control projects that failed to hold back the waters. And at the center of this scandal stands not only Claudine Co, with her surplus of paid happiness, but the dynasty that enables her indulgence: her father, former Ako Bicol Rep. Christopher Co and uncle, Albay Rep. Elizaldy “Zaldy” Co. Businessmen turned politicians, whose construction business entitled them to become one of the supercontractors for the Department of Public Works and Highway (DPWH).

These men are not strangers to the public purse. The public was promised safety from swollen rivers and submerged neighborhoods, yet what came instead were unfinished projects, recycled allocations, and suspiciously repeated bidding patterns. And while the waters continued to rise, what rose alongside them were images on social media — snapshots of luxury handbags, private jets, and shopping trips abroad, symbols of excess seemingly built on the very projects that failed the people. Claudine Co’s life of ease plays out in high-definition on TikTok and Instagram, a silent indictment of promises unkept.

The backlash was swift. Every image of a G-Wagon, every Instagram reel of a private flight became a mirror of the suffering of Filipinos left to swim through broken systems. The anger was not directed only at one woman but at what she symbolized: the unholy marriage of public money and private indulgence.

But the Ark of privilege has room for many. Sarah Dicaya, Gela Alonte, Jammy Cruz, Mark Allen Arevalo — companions, fellow influencers and other tasked contractors — appear in the same orbit, sharing in the spectacle of indulgence. Their images, too, become symbols of a deeper truth: while the poor are left clinging to rooftops during storms, the well-connected float together, insulated, immune.

This is not new. One cannot help but remember how the Marcoses, whose ill-gotten wealth is still being litigated decades after Martial Law, once threw lavish parties in Malacañang while Filipinos lined up for rice during an economic collapse. How Joseph Estrada built his mansions and stashed millions in bank accounts while claiming to be a “man of the masses.” How the Revillas became poster children of the pork barrel scam, with Janet Napoles orchestrating ghost projects while senators smiled for cameras. How Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was linked to padded government deals while hospitals lacked basic medicine. The Dutertes, meanwhile, now face Senate scrutiny over confidential funds that vanished into bureaucratic shadows.

The cycle is so entrenched that it has numbed the public. Every scandal becomes “just another.” Every revelation is met with a shrug. This resignation is perhaps the most dangerous consequence of all. When betrayal becomes expected, accountability dies.

Claudine Co’s scandal is different only in its immediacy. Unlike offshore accounts and shadowy Senate hearings of past decades, her family’s excess is broadcast in real time, visible to millions. Every post, every story, every video becomes a mirror of Filipino suffering — taxes deducted from paychecks, excise duties on fuel, billions earmarked for flood prevention — all funneled into a lifestyle so alien it feels untouchable.

The anger is righteous. It is not envy nor the crab mentality critics invoke to dismiss public outrage. Ordinary people endure hardship and pay faithfully, yet those tasked with their protection treat public funds as inheritance. Every rainy season exposes betrayal: Marikina residents stacking furniture on second floors, Cavite residents waiting for makeshift boats, Albay farmers losing crops and homes. Billions poured into flood control remain invisible in their protective effect and still, the Co family’s fortune grows.

This pattern is unbroken. Every scandal — Estrada, Revilla, Arroyo, Marcos, Duterte, Co — reinforces the same lesson: public service is a performance, accountability optional, and the people’s trust expendable. Each scandal numbs the citizenry further, until resignation becomes the default. Yet the Claudine Co episode cuts differently because it is personal, immediate, and impossible to ignore. It exposes a fundamental imbalance: those who give everything are the ones left behind, while those born into privilege remain untouchable.

The legal defense that Claudine holds no office is irrelevant. Republic Act 6713, the Code of Conduct for Public Officials, extends moral and ethical expectations to family members, making her proximity to power complicit. To flaunt wealth derived directly or indirectly from government contracts is a violation of public trust, a slap in the face of every Filipino who funds those projects. Investigations, lifestyle checks, and televised hearings cannot erase the deeper truth: the system itself facilitates this betrayal.

The Filipino cannot afford complacency. This is about more than one influencer. It is about whether taxes serve protection or indulgence, whether infrastructure serves the people or dynastic wealth, whether leadership is an obligation or a birthright. Claudine Co’s life of luxury is a lens revealing the nation’s enduring failure: a government that prioritizes the comfort of the few over the survival of the many.

There is a quiet irony in the Bible; that when Noah built the Ark, it was to save the innocent from the flood that washes the world of sin. Today, in the Philippines, the floods still come but it is now the righteous that are left to sink.

Until accountability becomes real, until public projects serve the public, every jet that takes off and every luxury car that rolls out of a gated driveway will remain a reminder of betrayal. Each rainy season, as they let the waters rise again, the nation will only be reminded who truly bears the cost of privilege: the ordinary Filipino. Claudine Co is not just an influencer. She is the gleaming Ark of her dynasty — a vessel for privilege built on the people’s sacrifice. And until that vessel is dismantled, the floods will keep returning, and it will always be the ordinary Filipino who drowns.

by The Science Net

Pisay-EVC ends year with Paskorus ‘24

By Claire Orejola || Photo by Poimen Agnila

Philippine Science High School – Eastern Visayas Campus (PSHS-EVC) celebrated Paskorus 2024 with the theme “Maribhong, Marisyo, Malamrag” at the PSHS-EVC gymnasium on December 19, providing the students with the opportunity to showcase their performances and the many hours they had spent practicing for the different contests.

The program started at 8:00 A.M. with a prayer, singing of the National Anthem, and the opening remarks by SSD Chief Dennis A. Juabot.

After Juabot’s speech, a recap video of practice sessions was shown, and the judges were introduced before the contest began.

The year’s Paskoruswas divided into several contests: Straight Singing and Choreographed Singing for Categories A & B, and a Musical Play for Category C.

The contestants, grouped into House X (Minokawa), House Y (Bakunawa), and House Z (Arimaonga), gave their best in their performances, showing great effort in what they had worked hard to create.

After all the performances, certificates were given to the judges, and the winners were announced. 

In Straight Singing Category A, House Z took first place, House X took second, and House Y won third. For Straight Singing Category B, House Z took first, while Houses X and Y took second and third, respectively.

In Choreographed Singing Category A, House X took first place, House Z took second place, and House Y came third. For Choreographed Singing Cat. B, House Z won first place, while Houses X and Y, won second second and third, respectively. 

Meanwhile, in the Musical Play, House Z won first, followed by House X in second, and House Y in third.

“As a freshie, being part of this year’s Paskorus competition was such a memorable experience. Winning with the team made it even more special, and I’m so grateful for the support of our seniors. Their guidance brought out the best in us. Congrats Minokawa!” Samantha Romero, a member of House X which placed 1st in the Choreographed Singing Category A, said.

Paskorus 2024 is an annual event of PSHS-EVC meant to spread holiday cheer and showcase the talents of scholars.

by The Science Net

Kanlaon eruption displaces thousands

By Josh Aseo || Photo by Inquirer.net

Over 87,000 civilians were displaced after the eruption of Mount Kanlaon in the Negros Islands at approximately 3:03 p.m. on December 9, 2024.

“The eruption produced a voluminous plume that rapidly rose to 3,000 meters above the vent and drifted west-southwest. Pyroclastic density currents or PDCs descended the slopes on the general southeastern edifice based on IP and thermal camera monitors,” said the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology (PHIVOLCS).

PHIVOLCS later issued an evacuation warning to civilians living within a 6 km radius of the volcano’s summit and warned of the possible continued eruption in the coming days.

In a follow-up statement on December 10, the Office of Civil Defense reported the successful evacuation of 2,880 families, or around 9,400 individuals from the municipalities of Bago, Pontevedra, La Castellana, and La Carlota.

PHIVOLCS raised the alert level of Kanlaon from Level 1 to Level 2 on June 3 due to an explosive eruption in the summit vent resulting in the evacuation of 4,752 individuals and a damage of over ₱151 million to the agriculture sector. The alert level was then raised to Level 3 after the eruption on December 9.

The latest eruption made history as the first ever magmatic eruption in over 100 years with the last recorded magmatic eruption happening in 1902.

by The Science Net

They’re Human Too

By Zachary Tan || Graphics by Elijah Hembra

It’s 7 PM. I’ve just been reminded that my group has got a Social Science presentation tomorrow on the Cold War, and zero progress has been made. So, in a fit of dire necessity, I boot up YouTube and rewatch the Oversimplified video on it to get a feel for what to even put in the rushed PowerPoint our group is making. Yet, the next day, after a few words on the Iron Curtain and some criticism of the Soviet economy, the presentation finishes rather smoothly. Once again, pop history comes to my rescue.

In one way or another, pop history, or historiography aimed at the general public, has most definitely influenced not only people’s understanding of our past but has seeped its way into our education systems to both its benefit and detriment as we can see from landmark events to motivational heroes. 

It is undoubted that pop history is a perfect entrypoint to further your understanding and appreciation for all that has come before us to mold our world into what it is today. The creation of pop history for widespread understanding is in of itself a skill to boil down complicated matters into simple concepts without ignoring the nuance of it all. When it’s done well, pop history can be the pinnacle of ‘edutainment’ as I myself can attest to. 

During the pandemic, I entered the rabbit hole of history YouTube and discovered wondrous creators such as that of Historia Civilis which managed to hook me into a story from millenia ago while not compromising historical integrity. However, with each Historia Civilis, there lies tens more which are unable to meet the important need for truth and nuance in pop history. This is as one of the great perils in pop history lies in the fact that it compiles the past into neat boxes with clear delineations to create a clean and simple story for the general public. However, real life is far more complicated than a simple black and white or good and bad. This is true even with our national heroes, Jose Rizal and Andrés Bonifacio, the faces transcending time from our statues to our currency.

When we think of Rizal and Bonifacio, they often feel like they are diametrically opposed. Rizal comes from the rich ilustrado class wherein he was educated in the best schools the Philippines had to offer and used the power of the pen to push for the Philippines’ autonomy. Meanwhile, Bonifacio was born working class, unable to finish formal education, and helped found the Katipunan, the foremost armed force in fighting for an independent Philippines. The only thing uniting these two men were their love for their country and their hope for a better Philippines. 

These are the ideas cemented into our minds from when we were young through the media we consume and even occasionally our schools. This is as we often get tunnel visioned into these figures’ ‘greatest contributions’ while ignoring the fact that they are multifaceted human beings. Rizal, as much as he was an advocate for nonviolent resistance, was a pragmatic individual. With this, according to accounts from his time such as that of Pio Valenzuela, nearing the end of his life, Rizal believed that assuming no other means were viable and the resistance was ready enough, a violent revolution would be favorable. On the other hand, Bonifacio was by no means some sort of brutal warmonger only out for Spanish heads. Rather, he had even been a member of Rizal’s own reformist organization La Liga Filipina which aimed to push for internal change within the Philippines under Spanish rule.

However, despite this seemingly glaring gray area with their respective beliefs, both these great men have generally been reduced to simple pacifism or violence. I myself find it difficult to remember a time in which I was taught anything more complicated about their lives beyond their simple attributes and somewhat irrelevant fun facts. In fact, this does not only just apply to Rizal and Bonifacio, but a whole host of other people, events, and entire eras when the topic is as complicated as history is. However, this issue does not necessarily come from our educators, it is a matter of how we as a whole approach the idea of teaching history and the usage of pop history. 

We already know in our daily lives that people or rather the human experience as a whole is such a complicated subject with multiple sides and complicated moralities. Why can we not extend this to those who have come before, the somewhat deified figures of our past still remain to be people after all, no matter how dead they may be. Engaging stories and nuance under pop history are not mutually exclusive. Oftentimes, the most engaging stories are those containing fully fleshed out characters without clear lines of evil and good, and history is no exception. This is why the utmost care must be taken when speaking about these complicated issues and larger-than-life individuals which affect who we are today. After all, these names on our textbooks had personalities, hopes, and loved ones as well like all human beings do.

by The Science Net

Victory in Full Stroke

By Anthony Urmeneta || Graphics by Akhou Uribe

In a thrilling finale at the 2024 International Canoe Federation Dragon Boat World Championships, Sherylou Vermug, a paddler from Tacloban City, along with the Philippine team blasted through the competition, paddling past Canada to cap a first-place finish in the Master 40+ Women’s 2000m race at Puerto Princesa Baywalk on November 3, 2024. 

“The most memorable part was when we raced the 2000m category,” said Vermug, reflecting on the high-stakes race. “It’s my first time to race such a long distance, it was intense, and we got gold.”

The athlete got her start in dragon boat racing in 2018, when a college friend invited her to join the Waraybugsay Dragon Boat crew. Nearly five years later, she has become a key member of the team.

For her, the key to success in the sport lies in teamwork and mutual support among the athletes. “Dragon boat is a team sport,” she said. “We encourage one another to reach our full potential during the competition and always give our best.”

The 2000-meter race, held on the final day of competition, pushed both Vermug and her team to their physical and mental limits, but they stayed focused and crossed the finish line together.

The victory was palpable for the dragon boat racer, who wasted no time in expressing her gratitude to those who made it possible. “Of course, I am always thankful to God Almighty for the strength and good health. To my family, for their full support, understanding, and love. Our coach, Ronald Tan, who shares his knowledge with us, believes in us, and pushes us to do our best during training and in the competition. Walang Hanggang Pasasalamat, Coach.”

The success of their team highlights a growing interest in the sport, both locally and beyond. With dragon boat racing on the rise, Vermug hopes more young people will be inspired to join, seeing it as a way to build strength and forge lasting friendships.

“As a paddler, I am very happy to see that dragon boat racing is starting to gain popularity in our community,” the athlete shared. “It would help a lot if youngsters find an interest in the sport. It can build strength, boost confidence, and help them make more friends at the same time.”

As for Vermug, this victory is just the beginning. Looking to the future, she is focused on continuing her personal growth and pushing her team toward even greater success. “Many races will come in the future, but not all will be victorious,” she said. “So continue to train properly and never think you’re better than your teammates, because everyone is important in the boat.”

by The Science Net

Wings Outstretched

By Chad Cervantes and Zac Faraon || Graphics by Ashkinaz Canonoy

With struggle in every breath and desperation in every step, they tried to make one final effort to retrieve the ball and hold out for a miracle of their own. As the opposing team dealt their final blow, the ball flew through the air, securing their win. It was as if for a moment in time, the world slowed down. All was lost. The team’s chance to place—gone in a blink. The entire field fell silent. Then, with a single shriek of a whistle, the spell was broken, snapping the team back into reality.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

The first bell echoed through the halls of the campus while packs of rapid footsteps rushed to their classrooms. Many of them carried two bags: one filled with notes, and the other with gear. Burdened by the crushing weight of academic responsibilities, they unpacked their belongings from one bag while mentally preparing themselves for the day ahead. 

Period after period, they remained ever anxious for the sound that would signal their release. Then, it finally came, the familiar sound that promised freedom. With a single ring of a bell, they sprung to life while hurriedly sprinting to the field with their second bag in tow—sun shining and wind brushing through their hair.

The halls were eventually left empty and rooms fell silent – but the football field remained as lively as ever. The wind howled across the field, carrying the sound of the game, only interrupted by occasional shouts from the sidelines. Cleats dug into the grass as players ran across the field, kicking up dirt along the way.

They were merely a bunch of Pisay scholars, and yet, each one of them had a spark deep inside of them – a fierce desire to bring honor to their school while doing what they loved the most, a sport to rival all sports, football. That spark would then set fire to a blaze that would spread across the school engulfing its entirety in an interest unmatched. As each new person caught wind of this, other scholars sharing the same fiery passion were drawn in, each one lending their own flame to the ever-increasing firestorm. Without any elder to light their way in their journey, they realized the only way to soar above the clouds was to grow their own wings and teach themselves to fly. Together, they had formed a flock, one with shared dreams, unyielding determination, and most important, a united love for one thing, football. Every time they entered the pitch, they trained themselves to grow in both body, mind, and spirit – the field had finally become their home. 

Two months of training with muddy cleats and torn jerseys passed by in a flash. Yet suddenly, the days of gung ho training and simple lessons came to a stop. An invitation to compete in the annual Bethel’s Cup presented itself to them—this was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to let slip away. The outside world was blissfully unaware as to who the team was yet, and so, they wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.  With this, a flame of ambition ignited within them as their eyes were set on the prize—bringing home the gold and making a name for themselves on the field. 

Stepping through the gates of the Bethel for the first time, anticipation filled their bodies from the feet to the very tops of their heads. This mixed with a hint of uneasiness, would etch the moment into their memories forever. Yet, match after match while facing formidable opponents and even greater odds, they pushed forward with grit and teamwork. Reaching the final hurdle, the final match, that would decide their shot at achieving glory. 

As the captains shook hands, loud cheers filled the air, surging around them and fueling their excitement. They huddled up with arms embracing one another, reminded of how far they had come from the humble beginnings just a few months ago. They shouted their chant and jogged to their formations. It was time to lock in. One. Last. Time. As the referee blew his whistle, the match had begun with a rapid exchange of passes and steals. Shot after shot, clear after clear, and goal after goal went across the field, the crowd entranced in the hypnotic movement from side to side.

Time slowly ticked by as every move became crucial. Joined by the pounding of their hearts, the crowd’s cheers turned into a deafening roar. Each player pushed far past exhaustion, exerting themselves to their very limits and even further beyond, fueled by pure willpower and the dream that had carried them all this far, together. 

With struggle in every breath and desperation in every step, they tried to make one final effort to retrieve the ball and hold out for a miracle of their own.  As the clock ran down, a final surge forward from their opponents, a precise pass, and an unstoppable strike sealed their fate. The attempt to bridge the gap between victory and defeat became hopeless.

Prrrrt! Prrrrt! Prrrrt!

The final whistle was blown. Cheers erupted from the far side of the football field. However, on the other, the sound reminded them that their journey was far from over. 

Despite having no place to stand on the podium, the team held their heads high. They had forged a lasting bond and experienced the thrill of competing with people they could now call friends, the bestest of friends in fact. The weeks they spent training, strategizing, and simply having fun with one another were moments that figures of wins or losses just couldn’t show.

With or without the prized medal to bring back home, football united them as a team, and more importantly, as a family, which came together out of nothing to form what they have now. This match ignited the torch that would light the road ahead, the beginning of the Falcons’ rise to their own namesake—one that would resonate beyond the field.

by The Science Net

An Open Letter to Grief

By Poimen Agnila || Illustration by Zenas Agnila

Dear Grief,

I’ve met you once or twice before. Though, it was in books or movies, where I could turn back a few pages or rewind a few minutes, and things would return to how they were. Within these stories, there would be some sort of foreshadowing—events leading up to a character’s passing that would have made sense in hindsight. Inside these fictional worlds, death was nothing but a narrative tool, something I could escape by closing the book or pausing the movie. 

Turns out, that’s not how it works in real life. 

I met you again almost three months ago; it was the real you this time. You arrived through a Messenger call the night before a life-defining examination. Every college admissions Facebook page had advised me to get a good night’s rest on the eve of the test, but how could I when the shock was still pulsing through my veins?

Grief, I grew to hate you. You came uninvited in the form of a faded-out word written on the Speech Lab whiteboard—a remnant of the handwriting that has brought many stories to life. You lingered inside the 11-C classroom, flooding it with memories of an English research class I swear had only happened yesterday. You haunted the hallway outside the publication office; I walked its length to relive conversations that now exist only in memory. In these spaces, you weren’t just Grief but also Regret, Frustration, Fear, Anger, and Hopelessness. 

No matter how often I told you to leave, you’d come knocking on my door, begging to come inside. So, I ignored you in my attempt to seem strong and composed. I pretended it didn’t hurt when I first heard someone refer to him in the past tense. I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat when I had to leaf through photos for a tribute. I blinked back the tears and put on a brave face when you barged through the door on the days when I felt like I could keep it together.

Exhausted at having to constantly lock you out, I decided to let you in. And only after sitting with you through quiet moments of mourning did you reveal who you also were—Love. 

You held my hand as I cried over moments when this love played in the background: unwinding in a public park in Abuyog after a grueling contest day, peeling freshly harvested Indian mangoes inside the PEHM faculty room, and having a late-night talk about dreams and what it takes to achieve them. You sat with me as I realized that all the pain I felt was just the patience, kindness, and acceptance I received but never got to thank. All the times you interrupted my life were just you trying to help me remember that there is Grief because there is Love; we only suffer so much because we’ve been given the amazing opportunity to have known someone so incredible. 

As long as I’ll live, I’ll carry you with me. There will be days when you will feel like Grief and some when you will feel like Love. But either way, you are proof of what once was here, and for that, I am forever grateful. I may not be able to rewind the seconds or flip back the pages, but I take great comfort in knowing that, in this story, I had once been a fortunate recipient of a love that did not know how to give up. 

Grief, for the longest time, I had been ashamed of you. I kept looking forward to the day I would no longer feel the ache that his absence left, but thank you for reassuring me that being sad is nothing to be embarrassed about. Missing someone so much to the point of pain is proof that I had a person worth loving in the first place. The loss does not make the love any less real; if anything, it only amplifies it.

My words are a little too late for the person I’ve lost, so I write this in the hope that you stay with me, Grief. I will open the door when you come knocking because the pain that you bring is also a reminder of the life that once shaped mine. I will welcome you like an old friend because that is exactly what you are, for I understand now that you are just Love in a different form—something that stays even when everything’s gone away.

With all my heart,

Poimen