By Danielle Bonior
As inevitable as steam escaping fissures from scorched ground, my friends and I gather once more. Huddled over a table over ice-cold coffee, we laugh, we cry, and vent. These moments are a release, a pressure valve turned just enough to stave off the eruption.
Our conversations wander like wind carrying vapor, but they always find their way back to the cracks in our day-to-day lives. Eyebag to eyebag, palm to hand, words to walls—these shared grievances seep through—impossible to contain, whispered in classrooms and exclaimed among familiar company.
Random injustices, we call them. The kind you brush off at first but find yourself dwelling on later. The kind you joke about until the laughter fades and you’re left with the sting. Small enough to be ignored but sharp enough to wound, they fester in our collective experience, slipping from one conversation to another like embers catching fire.
Today, I open our table to you. Listen to what was spilled:
Locked classrooms, open frustrations
“Our rooms at CBB and UH are always locked,” my second-year architecture friend began, her voice laced with irritation. “We have to fetch the keys from the guardhouse, and that takes 15 to 30 minutes—if they even respond. Once, we had to take a test in the CED quadrangle. Imagine sitting on stairs or the ground, trying to focus.”
She added, “They may have reasons for locking the rooms such as security, but shouldn’t our urgent academic needs matter? For a tuition of about sixty thousand pesos a semester—having access to our classrooms whenever we need should be the bare minimum.”
Outright rejection
From another friend came a compelling story, delivered with a mix of exhaustion and disbelief. This was about one of her GE courses: “We were tasked with a ‘mini-research’ project on topics relevant to our generation. I proposed something important and timely, on the country’s lack of quality, equitable education. But my teacher rejected it outright, with no explanation.”
She paused, frustration evident in her voice, “Of course, I asked, ‘What’s wrong with it, Ma’am? What do we need to change?’ She just looked at me, as if I’d asked the most absurd question imaginable. She assumed I already knew the answer, that I was only asking to annoy her.”
Weeks passed. Proposal after proposal was rejected without feedback. “Other sections of the same class, under the same teacher, moved forward; our section fell behind,” my friend lamented.
It was sad to see that in a communication class, it seems that the teacher had difficulty communicating proactive, productive feedback to help some students like my friend improve their proposal. Instead, “time was wasted on unnecessary rants and constant comparisons on how X class was better than ours,” my friend added.
Missing in action
A shared experience among my friends is the duress caused by teachers who, even with planned trips, do not inform their students of their absence. A column article about this was already written, but I believe it deserves space in this one. Many of us come from places more than 10 kilometers away from Dumaguete. Still, we try our best to arrive in school for our 7 a.m. classes.
So, imagine waking up at 5 or 5:30 a.m. to get to school at 7 a.m., only to find out that the teacher is missing. Some teachers message us thirty minutes before 7 a.m., when we are already on the bus on the way to Silliman.
In one class, we were preparing for a performance task set at 7 a.m. Thus we came, complete with costume and other necessities, only to be told that the teacher could not make it because s/he was out of town for a conference.
Fact #1: This was a conference, and therefore planned.
Fact #2: In the age of social media and emails, it is incomprehensible that the teacher could not inform us ahead of time.
Fact #3: This happened a week before the Finals, when we were all busy preparing for exams.
What lesson does this teach us?
Shifting promises
Then there was the story of shifting—a seemingly straightforward process turned into unnecessary inconvenience—and perhaps, drama.
In December, I asked if I could shift courses in the second semester. I was informed I could.
Come enrollment time, I waited outside the department secretary’s door for over an hour, during office hours. When she finally arrived, she asked for extra time to prepare, and we agreed. She didn’t invite us in, but after a while, we decided to approach her.
I stood before her desk and asked what was needed to shift. In a detached voice, she said that as long as my QPA was above 2.5 and I had the shifting form, I could proceed. I approached her table to ask for an updated prospectus, and saw that her eyes were glued on Facebook.
Days later, I returned with the completed form. By then, I had completed my exit interview, and clearance—going from one office to another, and even to the house of two signatories, to get their signatures. At that point, I had officially left my college.
With renewed excitement, I handed her the form, only to be told that I couldn’t shift. Apparently, the department had decided on Wednesday (January 8) that starting this semester, those who have not taken a basic prerequisite course could not be accepted. But shouldn’t this department decision be made before the enrollment period? I went to the department on Tuesday (January 7), during the second day of enrollment. Why was this decision made only after we have been told that it is okay to shift, and were informed of the requirements for shifting?
I’d wasted days and effort only to be met with no empathy, no apology—just an emotionless ‘no.’ The department head I had originally spoken to expressed his regret, but sadly, this does not erase the undue stress, the wasted energy, the disappointment.
Is it really random?
These stories echo beyond our table, whispered in hushed tones and passed on like secrets. The frustration is palpable, but so is the fear—fear of speaking out, of facing consequences, of being accused of stirring trouble. So we bite our tongues, suppressing the need to scream in favor of soft murmurs, hoping for change but expecting none.
These stories—of locked doors, indifferent teachers, and broken promises—may seem random at first. They appear as mere inconveniences, the kind we expect to brush off and endure. But when they recur, when they spread across countless conversations and linger in every classroom, can we still call them random?
Are we to accept them until they slowly weave themselves into the daily fabric of our lives?
These injustices, small as they may seem, are no less insidious. They erode our trust, our hope, and our voices. They remind us of larger systems where power silences truth, where complacency mutes accountability. They undermine what Silliman stands for: the Via, Veritas, and Vita.
The steam cannot be contained forever. It will find a way out, and when it does, it will demand to be reckoned with. Until then, we gather, we laugh, we cry, and we vent. And perhaps, one day, our whispers will become a roar.
