Gabriel Ibis

When something eases the predicament of the common people, it is called a “groundbreaking” idea, with the connotation being “eventful,” “beneficial,” and “useful.”


However, when these very ideas come into the whiffs of those who have never experienced the same hassle, it can seem absurd, domineering, and sometimes, downright tyrannical.

In San Fernando, the Department of Education announced that beginning this school year, no backpacks may be used upon entering school premises. While no rationale has been provided, a close inspection of the memorandum issued by the school division in San Fernando implies that the decision is for the ease of students while studying.

At first glance, such policies feel strange. After all, backpacks have long been a staple of the quintessential Filipino student—stuffed with notebooks, textbooks, and the occasional “unreturned” pen from a classmate. To tell students to abandon them is to challenge decades of normalized student culture.

And like all cultural shifts, it has been met with confusion, if not contempt.

But here’s the thing: institutions do not see things with rosy-tinted memories and nostalgia; they are bound by duty. And for schools, this duty is to decide what structures make learning safer, more effective, and more inclusive.

It is easy to dismiss the “no backpack policy” as arbitrary or excessive. But the truth is, many of these decisions stem from long-standing consultations, trials, and internal observations. These policies have been reviewed and scrutinized by people who are in the seat of power, usually teachers, supervisors, and other stakeholders who are aware of the implications of these memoranda.

Consider urban schools in city centers where overcrowding is a persistent problem. A backpack-laden hallway during dismissal can cause hazards, checks are prolonged and burdensome, and, of course, everything is a little bit more tedious.

Let’s not forget that what is “absurd” to the outsider is often a solution to a real, local problem. The policy may not make sense at first glance—but in the eyes of a teacher who’s seen students suffer back pain from overpacked bags or trip on cluttered spaces, the change is a preventive measure, not an imposition.

However, conducive learning is also subjective. While it may be beneficial for some to not bring their books and other learning materials to school, some might still prefer studying at home using printed, hard-copied paper. 

During the pandemic, 95% of students preferred studying through modules instead of the online setup. Why? Because students and families adjusted based on what was most accessible, most familiar, and most conducive to their needs. A similar logic can apply to bags, books, or binders.

However, what may lighten the burden for one may be an added weight of unnecessary policy for another. 

Policies, however well-intentioned, must be communicated to the communities and formed through consultation, not imposition. If policies really are for the benefit of students, then schools must be willing to explain their roots, accommodate exceptions, and adapt based on valid concerns.

Sometimes, even the best policies fail. Not because they were wrong, but because they were never explained.

But one thing is clear: schools do not exist to make students' lives harder. They exist to make learning possible. Whether that means phasing out backpacks or creating fair guidelines for choosing the “best” students, their mission remains rooted in the best interest of the country’s 27 million students.

Learners, too, are stakeholders. Their voices matter. Their habits matter. And most of all, their learning styles must never be reduced to compliance alone.

Policies should never just ask, “What’s easier to implement?” They must ask, “What empowers students to thrive?”

Only then can we call a policy truly groundbreaking—not because it’s different, but because it makes a difference.