Republic of the Philippines

Pasay City National Science High School

Schools Division Office - Pasay City

Community Feature of Daniel Jefferson Quintin Faith, culture, and community converge in Baclaran tonight at Christmas Eve. Near the church, stalls display religious wares that reflect the nation’s enduring devotion. Late-night vendors stay open, offering bargains that speak of resilience. Yet, amidst the energy, the question remains: can one navigate its lively chaos with vigilance intact?

Community Feature of Reisha Uy For many, the joy of Christmas is a privilege, not a given. At the Pasay City Public Market, this truth is evident. The cart pusher, hands red from the cold, labors to earn just enough to bring home a modest meal. Sellers, burdened by poverty, exchange goods with dreams of providing a better holiday for their families. These stories remind us that while Christmas is a time of joy for some, it remains a challenge for many. As we celebrate, let us also reflect on how we can extend compassion to those for whom this season is a struggle.

By: Chelsie Rain PalimaPublication: Nyasia Carim My throat stings as I breathe in the icy air of the winter, a cold lingering just a few breaths beyond the next. I could’ve sworn I heard my mother’s high-pitched voice, scolding me as a trickle of mucus dripped down my now red nose. I almost smiled at the memory, surely—she’d be wiping my nose right now, drawing out evidence of childish neglect left on it. Instead, I bring up my arm and use the sleeve of my sweater to wipe it, reminding me of what I’ve lost. When I was younger, relatives from both sides of my parents would gather at our place, drawn to its spacious warmth. There is some sort of tradition that runs in the family, where my mother, every Christmas Eve, would sit before the piano during dinner, her fingers dancing along the monochrome keys of the instrument. I would watch in awe as she did so. It was a silly dream of 5-year old me to become a pianist like she was. Maybe in a few years, I’d be the one playing before the piano during Christmas Eve dinner. I remember the way her face contorted in horror when I told her about it—screaming at me, saying that such a career won’t do me no good and that I should be more practical with my choices. Ever since then, I refused to speak with her when it concerns my passion and interests. Even so, I never stopped watching her. Even as the gap between us widened, I continued to watch her in my seat at the table during Christmas dinner. Even as I stopped involving her in my dreams, I still found myself being mesmerized as she struck each chord on the keyboard. Each drop of every note her fingers released clinging to the hearts of her audience—our family. I wanted to believe that in at least one of those notes— she was trying to speak to me or give me a message, one I was desperate to decode. Perhaps, it was her way of showing she still cared, speaking in a language that only the two of us can understand—music. As the clock continued to rotate, as the Christmas dinners kept on coming, the notes she released grew faint, fading into a whisper in stillness. Until there was nothing— it was in that  silence that I realized; the music had gone with her. It had been years since I’ve stepped foot in the house I grew up in. The place was dusty and dull. Dull as in nothing vibrant remained; the fireplace was burnt out, the plates and glasses still inside the cabinet, as though waiting for hands that would never come. There were no loud thuds of hurried footsteps from upstairs where me and my cousins would play chase. The air held no flavor of lola’s food that she would prepare before every Noche buena— Haunting me the most was the empty sound of the hallways, not a single sound of a piano. No melodies were threaded into the fabric of holidays glee and warmth. The instrument sat untouched, alone in the corner of the dining room. Its once-polished keys now dulled by a thin layer of dust, yellowing within time. I approached it slowly and carefully, as though fearing the fragile ambiance in my old home would shatter if I wasn’t too careful. I run my trembling fingers along the dusted keys, to which it responded—a ghost of its former voice, trembling like a sigh, as if it, too, remembered the songs it once carried and longed to sing them again. The note hung in the air for a while, until it dissolved with the memories that were made within the house. It reminded me once again of what I’ve lost. My mother would always play the same songs over and over again every year at Christmas dinner. But one night, it was different. As I watched  her unusually trembling hands dance over the keys. The melody was unfamiliar, rather carrying a heavier weight and a slower rhythm than the songs she would usually play. Had she composed this melody by herself? I remember looking around the dining room to watch the expressions of the people around the table, but they have not seemed to have noticed even the slightest bit of change. Her face remained stoic, like always, her heart deciphering notes our ears could not. It was as if she was trying to fight a battle only she could hear. My relatives applaud as the last note lingered in the air. My hands felt like they were stuck resting on my thighs, I couldn’t even smile as I watched her get up from the piano and join us to eat. I didn’t know that it would be the last time I would hear her play. I didn’t know it would be the last time I would feel Christmas as well. I now stand where she stood, my hands travelling across the same path hers did on the keys of the piano. I played much more clumsily compared to her that’s for certain—the notes stumbled, almost hesitant, as if the instrument was longing for its previous owner. I felt my fingers getting heavier the longer I played, but at the same time, so did the piano respond to me—as if remembering her touch through mine. I looked ahead at the dusty mirror across the room. I did not see my mother, I did not see myself right now either. I saw a little girl, laughing and giggling with her family around a dining table that was too familiar for me not to recognize. Sat in the air was the aroma of lola’s cooking, and in the background were hyper kids the same age as her. The scene in the mirror faded as I was once again staring into my reflection. I didn’t see my mother. I felt my fingers move on their continue reading : Where the Music Ends

By: Shaun Mustang JacintoGraphics: Caitlin Beatrice Mutas The Yuletide season in the Philippines begins as soon as the “ber months” arrive on our already marked calendars. Festive decorations start to grace the streets, houses, shopping malls, and the musically immortalized lyrics of José Mari Chan, “Whenever I see girls and boys selling lanterns on the street,” echoing everywhere. It would be an understatement to say that Christmas is a long-awaited holiday. For many, this season is characterized by family get-togethers, school or work Christmas parties, the devotional Simbang Gabi, and the simmering of bibingka and puto bumbong. All these joyful festivities are so deeply etched in our culture that it’s nearly impossible to separate Christmas from the Filipino spirit, no matter where they may be. Yet, for an Overseas Filipino Worker (OFW) separated from their loved ones, the so-called ‘most wonderful time of the year’ has a bittersweet weight, as connections are tempered by the distance that remains. Hence, to deviate from my usual columns, I dedicate this to my mother, who is part of the group of unsung heroes—the OFWs. They sacrifice way more than just their presence, often missing important milestones and events in their families’ lives to provide a better future for their loved ones. Christmas, for me, has always been a Russian roulette, wondering whether or not my mother could go home. For most part of my life, to be precise, almost 13 years already, she had been working abroad; the holidays were never quite the same. In some years, while the world around me was abuzzed with the excitement of sharing meals and presents, there was always an empty seat at the dining table that no amount of video calls or chats could mend. Her absence remains a constant reminder of the steep price we pay for the opportunities her sacrifices brought. An excruciating tradeoff that is only tainted by our distance apart. Albeit the early days that we were separated due to her being an OFW, those Skype or FaceTime calls were filled with her words of love and encouragement. As technology improved, of course, so did the modes of communication, which became our lifeline during special events like the holidays or even Mother’s Day. As a child of an OFW, you will never forget the fleeting moments where you gather your family around a small screen, an attempt to duplicate the warmth of a family celebration wherein you are all complete. My mother smiling through a pixelated video would ask about my day in school, laugh at my stories, and remind me of her care in spite of being hundreds of miles away. For transnational families like ours, Christmas is all about holding on to the bonds that matter. It was about me wearing my “big boy pants” and wearing rose-tinted glasses to find joy in the little things my mom did, like a simple video call or the well-known Balikbayan boxes. Little moments like these during this season of togetherness and family can sustain one’s drive to continue working overseas for their loved ones. Our modern world demands sacrifices, with OFWs trading time with their families and loved ones to provide from afar. Each of these transnational families cope with their absence. Every shared moment, whether in person or through virtually, embodies the true Christmas spirit of enduring love and connection alive across any barriers. Until then, I carry my mother’s love, knowing that no distance can dim the light of the Yuletide season. Come Christmas day, let’s honor the sacrifices made by those away from home and strengthen their love burning ever brightly in our spirits and hearts.

By: Liwie Jayne MendozaPublication: Rhian Tabuada Coming home from school is still as tiring as it sounds. You go there at rush hour so you hear the distant, loud horns of vehicles that constantly race each other to go to their respective destinations, drag yourself out of the crowd just to get to a jeepney, you know the drill — and it’s still the same situation going home, because it’s also rush hour the moment you’re dismissed. BEEEEP!!! Walking down the street to my home, I was greeted by the sound of a hurrying motorcycle behind me. Children playing divided themselves into groups that went to either the left or right side of the street to make way for the incoming vehicle. The children…they looked so…happy. So carefree. I wish I could be like them. I know I heard a video once, saying, “little children are told to go to bed, but don’t sleep– probably because they’re not bored of life yet“, and I’m a testimony of that. When I was still little, around the age of 3-6 years old, it was part of my daily schedule to go take a nap once the clock strikes two in the afternoon. But in reality, I just go upstairs, read my books, and come down at just the right time, acting like I had just woken up. And now, I’d do anything to get that daily dose of sleep instead of school work and busy schedules. These little children playing, they talked about drawings, how vivid they saw life as, and how they have all day to do the things they want. I used to be one of those children that loved life. I rushed to be a teenager. It’s not that I don’t like my life right now, it’s just.. exasperating, at most. I wish I never rushed to be at this age. I thought life would be all easy and a piece of cake when I reached this stage — turns out to be the opposite. I was so beautiful then. I was flawless, not a single mark of stress on my face. Scars were only physical and I didn’t care about what the world would say about me. I knew myself, and I was confident in myself. But now.. what now..? Worries and concern spelled all over my whole personality, scars exceeding physical and tormenting me even inside, to my mind, to my heart, and soul. I’m everyone’s mirror, copying their demeanors and behaviors. When I try to glance at my reflection, there’s nothing to see. What have I become? I reach my home, the laughs of the little children echoing inside my head, the picture of their smiles imprinted on my mind. The moment came to pass, but I didn’t know it would be so sudden. “They’ll grow up as well. They’ll have different experiences. They’ll get to know that life is fun… …with a mix of pain.” Life is still fun. I find my fun in my family, my friends, playing games from time to time, and relieving memories of my childhood. I feel old, but I’m not at all too far from them, right? I have my inner child, and she’s still playing within me. Telling me to rest, telling me to get to know myself first. I’m still a child too. I’m older than the others, and I have the body of an adult, but I’m still a child. I still enjoy life, despite its challenges. I still see the light from afar, in this dark tunnel. I’ll get out of these struggles. I’ll persevere – I’ll survive.  

Caption: Loren MangahasLayout: Leon Manlangit No woman should suffer in silence. Violence Against Women extends far beyond the physical, emotional and psychological wounds that can impact mental health. Survivors often face anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and overwhelming feelings of shame, fear, and isolation. These invisible scars can affect their ability to trust, form relationships, feel safe in the world, and prevent them from seeing their purpose. Yet, healing is possible, and their journey toward recovery deserves understanding and unwavering support By raising awareness, breaking the stigma, and creating environments of empathy and safety, we can help survivors reclaim their voices, rebuild their confidence, and find hope, comfort, and resilience Every step toward healing is a testament to their courage and strength, and as a society, we must stand united to end the cycle of violence and ensure no woman suffers in silence. In this fight, we, KALAKBAY, your KAAGAPAY