The cost of losing our shared public spaces
In late 2022, after the long years of lockdowns, I went on a picnic date at Washington SyCip Park in Makati. We brought sandwiches, soda, and the excitement of finally seeing people again. We had barely settled on the grass when a security guard asked us to leave the manicured lawn.
Puzzled and upset, I wondered how a park in one of the country’s wealthiest business districts had no place for two people sitting on the grass with a sandwich.
Exposing a forgotten human need
For a brief period during the pandemic, onsite workers rediscovered the simple joy of being outdoors—taking breaks and eating packed lunches. It exposed a forgotten human need: the need for fresh air, quiet, and time outside without having to spend money.
But when everyone was asked (ordered) to return to offices and schools filled up again, that breathing room disappeared. BGC’s few public tables and benches overflowed. Today, people spend lunch breaks on mall staircases, fire exits, or food court corners. Some buy the cheapest coffee just to earn 30 minutes in a seat; others play mobile games sitting on the bangketa—if there is one.
This is neither normal nor dignified. Not everyone can afford parking fees in a mall just to get some steps in. Alone time, rest, and conversation should not become luxury activities.
And what about children? Do they still play outside—not on a tablet or in a paid indoor playground, but running, climbing, inventing games, getting bored, making friends outside school? In many neighborhoods, parents no longer know where that can happen safely. Public playgrounds are scarce, poorly maintained, fenced off, or simply absent.
A city that cannot offer children safe, free places to play is shrinking the very experiences that build independence, cooperation, and belonging. And let’s not even touch on the complete absence of pet-friendly public spaces.
Losing public spaces degrades quality of life
The loss of civic space affects every generation. Decades ago, the stretch of Luneta near the Quirino Grandstand was a place where senior citizens gathered for tai chi, aerobics, and morning exercise in a clean and serene, open setting. It was at a promenade in front of Manila Hotel, one of the city’s grandest landmarks.
But when I pass through that stretch now, I notice a cluttered eyesore of parked trucks, cars, and stalled beat-up vehicles. Ugly!
One place where I see a large concentration of senior citizens nowadays is actually on casino floors. While those places are air-conditioned to protect them from the heat, what possible enrichment activity can they do there besides having fun at the slots?
Losing public and third spaces degrades quality of life for every generation, erasing the rare places where children play, workers rest, and seniors remain visible without having to buy a ticket or order a drink.
A spot where community thrives
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg’s concept of “third places”—the spots between home and work where community thrives—was built on accessible, shared space.
But in Philippine cities lacking public infrastructure, people improvise: ordinary Filipinos gather at sari-sari stores, tricycle terminals, and street corners, while the affluent gather in private cafes and malls. This divide exposes a glaring social inequity where access to rest and community is determined by class and income bracket.
The problem isn’t a single conglomerate or national administration but decades of car-centric choices and policies: widened roads, narrowed sidewalks, and trees sacrificed for traffic flow.
And this isn’t an argument against business. On the contrary, small neighborhood enterprises—the six-table coffee shop, family bakery, or local barber—are among our most vital social institutions. They do more than generate revenue: they animate sidewalks, encourage walking, and provide the informal third places our cities failed to build publicly.
The goal isn’t a city without commerce, but one where community isn’t reserved only for those who can afford to keep spending.
Public spaces around the world
Other middle-income metropolises show that a different direction is possible, though not easy.
Seoul, South Korea spent decades expanding mass transit before projects like the Cheonggyecheon stream restoration transformed into a bustling civic space filled with pedestrians. Bogotá, Colombia integrated bus networks and bike lanes into broad public plazas and parks. Bangkok, Thailand connected its skywalks and canal-side promenades to transit lines, making neighborhood gathering spots accessible without a car.
None of these cities transformed overnight. Their experience shows that reliable public transit is the backbone of accessible public life, and that when governments build infrastructure around people rather than vehicles, shared spaces become easier to sustain.
Asking the bare minimum for a livable city
To the young people who feel angry that every gathering seems to require parting from their hard-earned cash, that every walk feels hostile, that nature or greenery keeps disappearing, and that public life keeps retreating behind exclusivity gates, parking lots, and paywalls: that rage is not unfounded. It is civic awareness and a demand for the basic things people deserve.
Asking for nature or greenery, public infrastructure, and reliable public transport is not asking for luxury; it is asking for the minimum conditions of a livable city.
You should not expect perfection within a single administration. What you should demand are better elected officials who will advocate for your rights and needs, uphold continuity in public service, and ensure that every new road, zoning decision, tax incentive, and redevelopment project is judged by whether it expands or shrinks space for ordinary human life.
We often measure cities by what moves through them—vehicles, deliveries, revenue. But a city should also be measured by what can remain within it: quality of life for everyone.
The goal is not simply to build a richer Metro Manila. It is to build one where every stage of life has a place in public life.
