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The Nation Builder - CTU Main Campus Press, M. J Cuenco Avenue, Cebu City (2026)

30/09/2026

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 | In celebration of World Tourism Day, the students of the Bachelor of Science in Tourism Management (BSTM) gathered today, September 30, at the CebuTech Gymnatorium, for a lively and memorable celebration.

The event showcased the students’ talents, creativity, and passion for tourism through exciting Dance Palabas performances filled with energy, culture, and entertainment. It also featured the much-awaited Mr. and Ms. Tourism 2026, highlighting confidence, talent, personality, and the spirit of future tourism professionals. | via Isiah Jade Ligas, Photos by Airic Magbanua and Mae Belia

30/09/2026

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 | Students from the Bachelor of Arts in Literature (BAL) and Bachelor of Arts in English and Language (BAEL) programs come together for an orientation today, September 30, at the CTU-Main Tennis Court, as the Department of English and Language Studies introduces the programs, faculty, and opportunities through discussions and alumni success stories.

The orientation features discussions on the BAL and BAEL programs, an open question-and-answer session, and the recognition of participants. | via Kristine Auman

30/09/2026

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

Living in the Aftershocks

Nostalgia is a bitter companion in Northern Cebu.

The highway is bumpier, mapped with cracks and sinkholes winding through San Remigio. In Bogo City, liturgies that were once held safely inside the Archdiocesan Shrine are now offered beneath open skies, where church bells ring dull with rust. The children of Tabogon have almost forgotten what it felt like to let their feet kiss the bridge connecting Paseo to the open sea—now forced to take the long detour just to reach the other side.

Life was not meant to look like this.

There used to be safe places that houses could call “home.”

There used to be churches that had stood longer than all the prayers spoken inside them.

There used to be bridges that brought one life closer to another.

Now, residents are left to wonder whether everything truly happened for a reason or whether they must learn to live with what was left behind.

Exactly 365 days ago, the country was hit by a devastating 6.9-magnitude earthquake, its epicenter located approximately 19 kilometers northeast of Bogo City, offshore Northern Cebu. At 9:59 p.m., the earthquake struck at a depth of five kilometers, with ground shaking reaching destructive levels. Thousands of families were left scattered, bound to memories of homes that no longer existed—shattered in a single breath.

Nothing was ever quite the same.

To this day, the earthquake lingers in memories of nights spent in the cold dark—minds kept half-awake, straining to listen for the next tremor.

“Big sounds scare me now, especially the most abrupt ones,” says Mary Gold Flores, a teacher at Liki National High School in Sogod, Cebu.

The passage of time has done little to soothe the wounds left by the aftershocks. For many, they carry it with them—a memory that refuses to be eroded no matter how long the hours drag on.

“It has been a year since I experienced the most terrifying and unexpected event in my life, and it left marks that still make that incident feel vivid,” she further expresses.

As the days stretch and bleed into one another, neighborhoods slowly limp back to life. Roads are patched, bridges reconnected, pathways repaved. Yet beneath the fresh concrete, the fault lines carved by fear refuse to leave the affected residents.

Recovery has split the towns in two: for some, it is a matter of pushing forward despite what they endured; for others, it remains a distant point still waiting to be reached.

Across public schools in the northern municipalities, the marks of that night remain visible. Classrooms once bright with color are now off-limits, changing the routines of children.

“As a teacher in a school that was greatly affected by the earthquake, adjusting has been really hard for me. What makes it harder is witnessing how our students are also doing their best to adjust to something that seems beyond their control,” Flores reflects.

A year later, the memories have refused to stay silent. Residents still speak of the homes that once stood, the places where they gathered, and the lives they celebrated before the world shifted beneath them. The past refuses to leave, lingering in every conversation about what used to be.

When a life carefully built over decades collapses in a single minute, no one can be blamed for retreating into memory—the only place where home remains whole.

The tremors continue, new storms roll in across the coast, and time moves forward without waiting for anyone to catch their breath. Work must still be done, children must still make their way to school, and families must continue carving out a life amid the uncertainty.

Still, the people continue to hold on.

Healing arrives in increments through the rebuilding of what was lost and the decision to keep moving forward. They hope for the day when the places called home will feel like home again. Until then, they keep finding their footing in a scene that feels both familiar and new.

September 30 is no longer just another date on the calendar for Cebuanos in the affected communities. It has become a remnant of loss—a day to honor the lives that never saw the morning after and the worlds that shifted in the dark.

The memories remain, bound forever to the stories of those who survived and continue to live.

---
Written by Angel Mae Flores
Edited by Rhian Javier
Visuals by Dan Sugarol

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29/09/2026

𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍

A Promise For a Brighter Future

Education stands as the foundation of every nation. It cultivates young minds and citizens to be capable and prepared to serve the country. It is more than just an institution—it is the very bridge toward national progress and productivity.

But what good is the foundation if it is not given the support necessary to stand—or worse, if it is gradually stripped of the resources it needs to strengthen it?

This pressing concern becomes clear amid the country’s continuing struggle to improve educational outcomes. Although the Philippines had improved substantially from 2022 to 2025, as assessed by the Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), it remained below the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) average. The Philippines scored 373 in Science, compared with the OECD average of 482; 371 in Mathematics, compared with 463; and 367 in Reading, compared with 461.

This signifies the urgent need to support educational institutions and the education system. Yet, this need is met with a decision that risks limiting their capacity to provide quality education at a time when greater support is needed, not less.

State Universities and Colleges (SUCs) act as a gateway for underprivileged Filipino students to access quality education regardless of their financial status. However, instead of strengthening this support, the proposed 2027 National Expenditure Program (NEP) would reduce the funding of 49 out of the country’s 113 SUCs.

The proposed budget cut is due to 2026 non-recurring expenditures—expenses that are not necessarily expected to occur every year, such as research projects or locally funded projects. The 2027 budget reflects a new allocation based on the government’s priorities and expected expenditures for that fiscal year.

However, even if the reduction does not mean overall education spending has dropped, it still poses serious risks to affected institutions.

Among the affected institutions, the University of the Philippines (UP) System faces the largest proposed reduction, at nearly ₱2.95 billion. The reduction could directly affect funding for the Philippine General Hospital (PGH), the country’s premier government tertiary medical facility.

Meanwhile, the proposed budget reduction for the Philippine Normal University (PNU) could affect its capacity as the country’s premier teacher-training institution.

These figures show that the proposed reductions extend across several major public universities rather than affecting only one institution.

With the evident educational crisis in the country and the proposed reduction in substantial funding that could critically affect these institutions, can a country expect a bright future when its endeavors lack the support and essential resources needed to strengthen the learning competencies of its students?

The problem doesn’t automatically lie with the funds’ reprioritization; rather, it lies in reducing the proposed allocations for these educational institutions while they are already facing an education crisis. If education truly is a national priority, it must be nurtured to its utmost potential—not undermined.

Reducing the funds these institutions receive directly affects their capacity to provide quality education and mold capable students, as they rely heavily on government funding to sustain their operations. With fewer resources, they may struggle to adjust to what has been lost, placing additional pressure on their facilities, programs, and services.

Cutting these institutions’ funds means cutting the ties that enable them to reach deserving Filipino students. When those ties weaken, their aspirations are delayed and their futures are placed on hold, leaving the risk that one may be left behind.

These institutions cannot be expected to do more with less. They cannot sustainably improve the quality of education they provide without adequate and consistent support. A brighter future cannot be built on promises alone; it requires concrete initiatives, decisive action, and sustained investment—support that should strengthen education, not be taken away from it.

Financial support may not directly solve the crisis, but with proper project allocation and transparent implementation, it can help institutions address funding concerns in infrastructure and facilities, sustain employee productivity through fair incentives, and meet students’ essential needs.

Education is not merely an investment for an individual student; it is an investment for the country’s future. It cannot be treated as an afterthought or a budgetary convenience.

A brighter future is built through decisive choices, strengthened by investments, and sustained by actions.

If we are to promise the next generation a better tomorrow, then we must first give them the education they deserve today.

---
Written by Laurence Cabanig

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29/09/2026

𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

‘Forgotten Island’: What It Means to Forget

Filipinos have a short memory.

It is easy to forgive and forget when there are cracks in our bravado, and we do it all the time—in our electoral cycles, as we push the same last names into seats of power, or in how easily we abandon yesterday’s stories when something newer and shinier captures our attention, discarding them for the next bright distraction. We suffer from our self-inflicted amnesia, a collective resistance to recollecting what has once done us harm.

But memory is no ephemeral novelty.

And the Filipinos of the past once knew this by heart. Our ancestors wove our history into textiles and pottery; each strand of the tapestry harkens back to the echoes of long-forgotten narratives. They engraved their traditions into bamboo, leaving behind evidence of records, laws, and poetry. The body itself was made to remember, carving the skin with adornments that recorded identity, status, and achievements. Entire generations were immortalized into song and dance, passing down the stories through oral tradition and rituals.

We once knew what it meant to forget. We preserved our memory, keeping our culture and traditions in physical materials meant to be discovered along the line, or keeping them alive through stories passed from mouth to ear, shared and retold across time.

DreamWorks’ "Forgotten Island" is a meditation on remembering. Told through the story of childhood best friends Josephine “Jo” Yuson and Raissa Molina, it asks a question that has long echoed in the chambers of our social periphery: who do we become when we forget?

Polar opposites in every way, Jo and Raissa are two ends of the spectrum, yet their diverging points only serve to bring them closer. Intelligent and academically driven, Raissa is on the fast track to a university in the United States, a fact she struggles to tell her chaotic, artistic counterpart, Jo. Having been closely stitched together for almost all their lives, the pair are threatened by separation—one that dares to put an ocean between them. On the night of Raissa’s departure, they stumble upon the fantastical world they have been dreaming of since they were children: Nakali. When they awaken with no recollection of the last 12 hours, they are swept into an adventure to retrace their steps across the island, encountering mythical creatures from Philippine folklore.

Forgotten Island is as vivid as the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘴 that flutter in the wind when the festivals roll around, or as bright as the lyrics crawling across the screen of a karaoke machine. With an animation style that draws inspiration from the Tagalog-dubbed anime that played on our televisions, it becomes a technicolor of our shared summer childhoods that collide with the universal themes of friendship, remembrance, and community.

Little pieces of Filipino culture are scattered throughout the film, going beyond the myths that take center stage. Although valid criticism can be drawn from the main characters’ Western-accented English while the minor characters speak with a heavy Filipino accent, it is still an earnest celebration of Filipino identity—one that celebrates the potential for these narratives to be carried beyond our shores.

The explosion of Forgotten Island marks a bold leap in Filipino storytelling, daring to brute-force space for Filipino stories in global cinema. It is powered by Filipino creatives, animators, and writers coming together to celebrate a culture that has survived colonization, shifting regimes, and the relentless passage of time.

The film strips away the superficial caricatures that persist in the global imagination to reveal the nuance in our realities. The wild world of Nakali thus becomes a monument to our eternal paradox—a nation carved out of once solitary islands, each as distinct as the last, yet bound by shared heartaches, victories, and joys.

If the power of memory is everlasting, then our stories should be too.

In remembering who we are, we must give room for our legacies to be preserved beyond structures, stone, or crumbling towers that will eventually be toppled.

For people who so often forget, the film repeats what many of us have been saying all along: to remember is to endure.

It is a lesson our ancestors taught us, and it is one that Forgotten Island seeks to reiterate. Even the smallest moments carry a power of their own. What, then, of lifetimes shaped by a shared identity?

---
Written by Jafia Verdida
Edited by Rhian Javier
Visuals by Corine Madeline Lingaolingao

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29/09/2026

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋

Fair Play Should Include The Press

When the whistle blows, the crowd erupts. The game begins, and the struggle has only just begun, but past the sidelines, student journalists are fighting a different kind of battle. While athletes race across the court and the crowds cheer from the stands, they chase stories that extend beyond the final score.

Yet, while athletes are given the space to compete, the campus press is often left struggling for access, information, and recognition. If Intramurals is meant to be a celebration of integrity and fair play, then perhaps that fairness should extend to those tasked with telling the story.

Throughout KADILAAB 2026, systemic shortcomings hinder the campus press’s ability to provide the timely, comprehensive coverage the student body deserves. From proper scheduling to reasonable access to information, the working conditions for student journalists have been far from sufficient. They are left scrambling to track down event schedules, only to find last-minute changes made without prior notice that leave the press little time to adjust. Communication, too, remains a persistent concern. They are often left out of crucial conversations and left in silence when vital information is being circulated—the very information that serves as a foundation for accurate and responsible reporting.

How can the press be expected to tell the story of KADILAAB when it is repeatedly being left out of the narrative?

Further complications arise in the very arena where fair play is expected to prevail. During sports matches, coaches and tournament managers sometimes refuse to provide the press with official results, dismiss requests to verify information gathered firsthand by student journalists, or even turn them away when they attempt to cover the games. Such practices do not merely inconvenience the student press; they obstruct its duty to report accurately and keep the school community informed. If student journalists are expected to tell the story of KADILAAB, they must first be given a fair opportunity to witness, verify, and report it.

If the campus press is expected to provide comprehensive coverage, they should also be provided with reasonable access, information, and proper communication.

The work of student journalists yields little to no reward or recognition from the general public. But that isn’t the point of this service; this service is a product of the commitment to truth. However, just because it is freely given doesn’t mean it is any less deserving of respect. Voluntary doesn’t mean it lacks value. The absence of compensation should never be used as the catch-all justification to dismiss the effort, sweat, and dedication poured into the work.

This isn’t to say that the press is seeking praise or applause for every story reported or every deadline met. It is not asking to be placed among the rafters of champions, or be hailed above the athletes, coaches, or organizers, nor is it demanding special treatment. What it is asking for is far simpler: respect for the work it does, reasonable access to the information it needs, and, most importantly, cooperation.

Is it too much to ask for that same spirit of collaboration that KADILAAB itself seeks to foster? A timely response, a confirmed result, or even a simple effort to keep student journalists in the loop can be what separates incomplete coverage from responsible journalism. The campus press doesn’t need celebration; it asks to be heard and met halfway.

If KADILAAB is a celebration of teamwork, then it should extend beyond the playing field. If sportsmanship means giving others a fair chance, then the press serves that same courtesy.

KADILAAB 2026 should not be remembered only for its champions, scores, and trophies, but also for the stories that persevere long after the final whistle.

Let the press in—not as an afterthought, nor an inconvenience, but as an essential part of the story. When the last medals are handed out, the courts have long emptied, and the cheers have faded into silence, their stories should not. Let the press do its job—not silenced by closed doors or withheld by barriers that should have never been there in the first place—and it will make sure no story is left untold.

---
Cartoon by Mary Louise Lagahit

29/09/2026

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋

Swallowing the Storm

Paracetamol is the universal, instinctive remedy for the aftermath of exertion.

A tablet is popped from its blister pack, swallowed with water, and the problem is supposedly solved. During the recent Intramurals, this reactive approach to student health was put on full display.

Amidst the noise, the cheers, and the fierce competition of events like the Amazing Race, heavy rain set in. Yet, the games continued.

Students competing against the clock were forced to navigate not just the challenges of the event, but the tangible hazards of severe weather. Driven by departmental expectations and an ingrained sports culture that romanticizes “pushing through,” participants endured the unsafe conditions.

This endurance should not be applauded; it should be scrutinized.

When stepping away from a dangerous environment is viewed as a weakness rather than a necessary safety measure, institutions fail their students. We expect athletes to swallow their discomfort and fear of failure. Consequently, they are expected to swallow the weather, too.

The aftermath is highly predictable.

When bodies inevitably break down or fall ill, the institutional response is metaphorically and literally a paracetamol. It is a convenient crutch, quieting the symptoms long enough for organizers to pretend the root problem does not exist.

But taking medicine does not erase the reality of the hazard.

A flooded campus ground is objectively dangerous. A thunderstorm is an empirical risk. Established sports-safety guidelines dictate the immediate suspension of outdoor activities during heavy downpours, mandating that participants seek safe shelter until the threat passes.

Choosing to bypass these basic safety protocols to maintain a schedule borders on administrative negligence.

We must stop equating the willingness to endure unsafe conditions with athletic dedication.

When the intramurals end, the banners are taken down, and the scoreboards are turned off, it is the students whose bodies pay the price for institutional oversight. True accountability requires a shift from reactive treatment to proactive prevention. It demands the strict, uncompromising enforcement of weather-related event suspensions.

If our culture is going to change, the intervention must happen before the whistle blows, not after the medicine is taken.

We must ask organizers a direct question every time a game is allowed to continue through a storm: What exactly are you protecting—the spirit of the competition, or merely the convenience of the itinerary?

The rain will inevitably return for the next intramurals. The administration must be willing to stop the game before the conditions stop a student.

---
Cartoon by Emila Ligan

29/09/2026

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐍

Looking Down to Step Up

“Why are we building rockets when we haven't even solved poverty?”

It is a question the Philippine space program cannot simply brush aside.

For a country where families continue to struggle with rising costs, farmers face increasingly destructive disasters, and many communities remain without reliable connectivity, spending public resources on satellites, rockets, and space infrastructure can understandably appear misplaced.

But perhaps the problem is not that we are looking toward space.

Perhaps it is that we are looking at the wrong thing when we do.

The Philippine space program should not be measured by how far our rockets travel or how impressive our satellites look in orbit. It should be measured by what they can do for the people who remain on the ground.

Space is not an escape from our problems. Used properly, it can be another tool to confront them.

Consider agriculture and disaster response.

The Philippines is one of the countries most exposed to typhoons, flooding, drought, and other climate-related hazards. When disaster strikes, decision-makers need accurate information quickly. Satellite-based Earth observation can provide valuable data for assessing damage, monitoring agricultural areas, mapping changes in the environment, and supporting disaster response.

The planned Multispectral Unit for Land Assessment (MULA) satellite is an example of this direction.

With Filipino engineers involved in its development, the project represents more than another object being sent into orbit. It represents an effort to strengthen the country's own capacity to observe its territory and generate information that can be used here at home.

That matters.

A satellite does not rescue a flooded family by itself. It does not harvest a farmer's rice. But the information it provides can help authorities determine where assistance is needed, how extensive the damage is, and how resources should be deployed.

The satellite is in space. Its purpose is on the ground.

The same principle applies to connectivity.

For millions of Filipinos, internet access is no longer merely a convenience. Education, employment, government services, communication, and business increasingly depend on it. Yet geographical isolation continues to leave communities disconnected.

Projects such as SIKLAB demonstrate how aerospace technology can be directed toward understanding these problems.

A locally assembled sounding rocket carrying technology for studying cellular signal coverage is not an exercise in reaching the stars. It is an attempt to understand conditions much closer to home.

If we know where the dead zones are, we are in a better position to determine where infrastructure needs to go.

Then there is our maritime territory.

The Philippines is an archipelago surrounded by waters that sustain entire communities. But monitoring such an enormous maritime area cannot depend on patrol vessels alone. Satellite-based observation and tracking technologies can supplement maritime surveillance, helping authorities monitor vessel activity and identify possible illegal, unreported, and unregulated fishing.

For a Filipino fisher whose livelihood depends on those waters, this is not some abstract benefit of space technology.

It is about protecting a source of food and income.

And then there is the economic argument.

A Philippine space industry could create opportunities far beyond government agencies and research laboratories. Earth observation, telecommunications, satellite manufacturing, launch services, and related technologies can create demand for engineers, scientists, technicians, researchers, and manufacturers.

The country's proximity to the equator also gives it potential advantages for certain launch activities.

The proposed development of a spaceport in Cagayan could therefore open doors to investment and high-technology industries.

But we should not romanticize this opportunity.

A spaceport will not automatically transform the Philippine economy. A satellite will not automatically end poverty. A rocket launch will not automatically create prosperity.

These projects require competent institutions, sustained funding, regulation, technical expertise, transparency, and—most importantly—a clear commitment to public benefit.

That is precisely why the space program deserves scrutiny, not dismissal.

The answer to poverty is not to abandon technological development. Nor should space become an excuse to neglect the immediate needs of Filipinos.

The government must be capable of doing both: addressing today's problems while building the capabilities needed for tomorrow.

We should demand that every peso invested in space have a purpose beyond prestige. We should ask whether projects strengthen national capability, create opportunities for Filipino scientists and engineers, improve public services, and produce information that communities can actually use.

Because the Philippine space program should never be about proving that we can reach the sky.

It should be about proving that what we build in the sky can make life better on the ground.

The rockets and satellites may point upward. But the reason for building them should always point back to us.

To our farmers. To our fishermen. To communities facing disasters. To students waiting for connectivity. To Filipino scientists and engineers who deserve the opportunity to build here at home.

If that is what our space program becomes, then perhaps the question is no longer, “Why are we spending money on space when we have poverty?”

Perhaps the better question is:

“How can we make space technology work harder for the people who need it most?”

---
Written by Denis Magno Jr.

Like, follow, and stay tuned to NB's social media pages for more CTU-Main updates: https://www.instagram.com/thenationbuilder.ctumcofficial/

28/09/2026

𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐘 | Cebu City launches free rides amid transport strike

Cebu City Government is to deploy free ride buses going South and North routes as an initiative for the anticipated transport strike on September 29, 2026.

As announced by the Cebu City Mayor Nestor Archival, free ride schedules and locations are as follows, 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m.- onwards.

📍Bulacao - City Hall (vice versa)
📍Guadalupe - City Hall (vice versa)
📍Talamban - City Hall (vice versa)
📍Lahug - City Hall (vice versa)

Meanwhile, Cebu Technological University (CTU) Main Campus has yet to release any official announcements with regards to the alternate learning modality.

Please be guided, Technologists! | via Ariane Bernardo

28/09/2026

𝐋𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑 | This House Waits For You

I have a fantasy that you are still here.

In every corner, I see the imprints of your touch—in the kitchen where you once wrapped your arms around me, on the floorboards that creaked under your step, and by the window where the light fell upon your silhouette.

If I squint, I still find it there among the dust and cobwebs of things we abandon in time.

Our phantoms watch me wait by the door for the sound of your keys rattling. Do you think they’re embarrassed?

The truth is, it is hard for me to walk inside a cold apartment that keeps craving your warmth.

I made a home from the curve of your smile. I created rooms dedicated to your eyes. In each one, I walk through with the memory of your leaving—a departure that still cuts me.

The sound of a closing door echoes when there’s only silence to greet it.

But I hope you shortly find what you long for.

If these brick walls no longer hold what you want, I linger to take care of this sacred altar we once shared, now a relic of the past.

I’ll keep this place safe for you.

This house will be here if you ever walk by this street again and remember the cats we never got, the children we will never meet, and even the boy I am not meant to become.

And perhaps, a day will come when I will realize that all of these were merely a contract lease—an agreement with an expiration date. Maybe we were supposed to be just each other’s apartments, needed only momentarily only for us to eventually go back to our old homes.

Nonetheless, I have to finally sit with the truth that you are not meant to stay here—that this apartment and its frigid corners have become a prison of our memories.

And I hope that I, too, will find what I truly long for: a place that I can call my home, a person I’ll never fear to call my own.

---
Words by bluelily, cornelia street
Edited by Charme Daño
Illustration by Emila Ligan

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