‘Rigat ti gapuna’
Poverty is the reason.
Hanggang saan aabot ang P20 mo? (How much can your P20 buy?)
It’s strange to remember when that question was a playful ad: would you spend P20 on ice cream or a small snack? Back then, P20 still meant something small, but certain. In 2026, the same question returns, heavier.
Ana kadi ti pagpatinggaan na? (What is the end of it?)
On weekdays before 4 a.m., people gather in front of the National Food Authority in Laoag. The line winds along the roadside like a silent plea. Rene, a 26-year-old public school teacher, passes by every morning. One day curiosity got the better of him, and he read the tarpaulin: “Available: P20 rice.” Since then, not a weekday passed without a line. Faces changed, hunger didn’t.
Rene watched at first. Then his life quietly shifted. He used to ride a motorcycle to work; rising fuel costs forced him to bike. He borrowed a bike, then returned it when his friend needed it more. Now he wakes up before 5 a.m., not to prepare lessons but to walk 8 kilometers to school.
Once his salary was enough: medicines for his mother, food on the table, college for his sister, fuel for a week. Now “enough” felt like a word from another life. Prices rose, salaries didn’t. Electric and water bills climbed. Medicines doubled. Basic goods—ice, eggs, cooking oil—became items to think twice about. Rene learned new budgeting: three meals to two, full groceries to “tingi-tingi,” small comforts to quiet sacrifices.
One Friday, he had work-from-home classes. Instead of staying at home, he decided to join the line. Alas tres pay laeng ti bigat, nakariingen (It was only 3 a.m., yet he was already awake). He packed an old tablet, a weak power bank, his phone, wore a jacket, took his mother’s PWD ID, and stepped into the cold dawn.
Alas tres ti parbangon?! Atiddog pilan! (3 a.m.? Already has a long line?) People wrapped in blankets, sitting on stools, standing with arms crossed. The smell of coffee. Someone passed pandesal. A child slept across two monobloc chairs. This was not just a line. It was a picture of the economy: construction workers with no steady jobs, vendors whose earnings barely covered capital, tricycle drivers choosing between fuel and food, and people like Rene: employed, supposedly “stable,” yet here.
The line had begun to welcome the middle class. Those who once said, “Kaya pay met (Still enough),” now whispered, “Haan met nga ummanayen (It’s not enough anymore).” He took his place at the end. Signal: nakapsot (weak)! Battery: 80 percent.
At 7:30 a.m., he logged in. Earphone in one ear, the other open to the murmur of the crowd. “Good morning, class,” he said softly. Students greeted him through flickering screens. Behind him, someone coughed. In front, a man adjusted a sack. The line moved slowly. He taught responsibility, dignity, perseverance. Yet he questioned, how do you teach stability in an unstable system? How do you explain hard work when even the hardworking are falling short?
Mid-session, his connection lagged; he raised his phone, searching for signal. “Sir, nawawala po kayo (Sir, your connection is wonky),” a student said. “Aguray la bassit, ubbing (Please wait for a moment),” he replied. Then an old voice rose, trembling, but loud enough for all: “Ay Apo! Rigat laeng ti gapuna nu apay ada tayo nangrugi ti alas tres ti parbangon kadetoy nga pila! (Lord! Poverty is the reason why we are here lining up!)” A hush followed. No one argued. Rigat. Poverty. Not laziness. Not ignorance. Not lack of effort. Just the weight of living when everything costs more than what you earn.
Rene looked around: a farmer with cracked hands, a mother cradling a child, an old man on a cane, a young worker scrolling job listings that demanded experience he didn’t have. And himself—a teacher, degree holder, employed, once “secured.” All standing in the same line for P20 rice. His class waited for five minutes.
“Sir?” a student called. He straightened, lifted his phone, and continued teaching. But something inside him had shifted. That day he learned what no lesson plan had taught: being poor is difficult; being low-income is exhausting; but being middle class and trying to hold everything together while slowly losing ground is its own quiet defeat.
You are expected to manage, endure, not fall. Yet every day feels like slipping. Hunger does not ask who you are. Need does not care about titles. In the end, everyone falls in line. And sometimes, even standing there at sunrise, doing everything right—working, teaching, sacrificing—it still does not feel enough.
—————-
Archie John Blas, 26, is a contractual state-university teacher based in Ilocos Norte. He lives with his mother, a stroke survivor, and his father, a tricycle driver, dreaming as he survives in this economy.
