Small Lights in a Difficult Year

During a recent class observation, I listened as a teacher discussed the Japanese invasion of the Philippines in 1941. The detail that stayed with me was painfully simple: Filipinos were preparing for Christmas when bombs fell on Manila, hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor. As an ally of the United States, the country was drawn into a war that turned what should have been a season of warmth into one of fear. Christmas came, but it arrived in darkness.

That moment led me back to the Christmas message of Carlos P. Romulo, written while he was serving as president of the United Nations General Assembly. Reflecting on what he himself called the “dark Christmas” of 1941, Romulo recalled a people celebrating under blackout conditions, when “the lights of freedom, of decency, of justice and peace” seemed to be going out across the world. His reflection did not romanticize suffering. Rather than writing from comfort, he wrote from memory of invasion, of loss, and of people forced to rediscover resolve while surrounded by ruin. What struck me most was his insistence that peace is not passive. From loss and peril, he observed, was born a “mighty resolve” to ensure that peace would never again be taken for granted, even if the world had to be rebuilt to make it lasting. Romulo’s words suggest that dignity survives not because suffering ends, but because people decide it must.

That darkness feels close to home today, especially here in Cebu. A strong earthquake shook homes, schools, and livelihoods, followed by a destructive typhoon that left communities flooded and families displaced. In some neighborhoods, classrooms reopened with mud still clinging to their floors, while households salvaged what they could from waterlogged rooms. These calamities did not arrive in isolation; they were layered onto existing frustrations: long-delayed infrastructure projects, flood-control projects that collapsed despite repeated assurances, and a government seemingly overwhelmed by its own contradictions. Even the holidays became contentious, with public assurances that a ₱500 budget could somehow sustain a noche buena for Filipino families. For many, this claim felt less like reassurance and more like a reminder of how distant policy conversations can be from lived reality. As the year drew to a close, these made reflection unavoidable.

It has been frustrating to be a Filipino in this economy. Every peso is measured against necessity, every expense weighed against uncertainty, and every promise from those in power met with learned caution. Survival often feels like a personal responsibility rather than a shared national effort, and resilience is repeatedly demanded without being adequately supported. What settles in is not anger alone, but a quiet exhaustion—the kind that comes from enduring without assurance that help will arrive when it is needed. This is the kind of exhaustion that accumulates over a year, not in a single moment.

Against this backdrop of loss and uncertainty, our school chose to shine light. Last November, Christmas bonuses were released early to help teachers recover from the typhoon’s aftermath. The mandated 13th-month pay followed in December, and during the institutional Christmas party, the administration surprised us with an additional monetary gift. It was a thoughtful gesture, and in difficult times, thoughtfulness matters. This care did not erase larger systemic failures, but it stood as a reminder that institutions are shaped by decisions, by people who choose responsiveness over delay, and care over convenience. In a year marked by so much absence, this presence mattered.

Moments like this inevitably shape how I understand the history I teach. I have been a Grade 5 Social Studies teacher for two years, explaining to pupils the 3Gs of the Spanish colonizers: god, gold, and glory. This year, however, quietly offered me a different set of 3Gs: gratification, in knowing our work is valued; goodness, shown through timely generosity; and grace, found in institutions that still choose to care. I have seen this grace echoed beyond the classroom: neighbors helping clean flooded homes, teachers sharing what little they had, families giving despite scarcity. These were not grand gestures, but steady ones that carry people through an unrelenting year.

Only then does the lesson become clear: like Romulo’s dark Christmas, ours is shaped by hardship, but it is also defined by the resolve to keep decency, solidarity, and hope alive, even when the world feels unsteady. Grace, I am learning, is not merely something we receive in moments of relief. It is something we practice when circumstances tempt us to harden instead. As the year ends and another begins, this is the resolve worth carrying forward.

To appreciate Christmas to the full, one must know how it feels to be deprived of its blessings. — Carlos P. Romulo