We still walk into the classroom
There was a time when the greatest risk of being a teacher was burnout.
Today, that conversation feels painfully outdated.
Over the past few months, news reports of violence in Philippine schools have become disturbingly familiar—a teacher killed by a student, stabbings and shootings inside campuses, threats directed at educators, and conflicts that escalate far beyond what anyone would imagine could happen in a place built for learning. Each incident is different, but together they raise the same uncomfortable question:
When did schools stop feeling safe?
As teachers, we still walk into our classrooms every morning carrying lesson plans, attendance sheets, instructional materials, and whiteboard markers. But if we’re being honest, many of us also carry something we never expected to bring to work.
Fear.
Not the fear of classroom observations. Not deadlines. Not paperwork. Those have always been part of the profession. This is something else entirely. It is the realization that the classroom, which is once considered one of the safest spaces in any community, no longer feels immune to violence. And that should concern everyone, not just educators.
Teaching has always demanded patience. It asks us to manage different personalities, address difficult behaviors, adapt to changing policies, and extend grace even on days when we ourselves are running on empty. These are challenges we willingly accept because they come with the profession.
But nowhere in that unwritten contract did we agree that personal safety would become negotiable.
Some might argue that these incidents are isolated. Statistically, perhaps they are. But schools are and should be built on trust, not statistics.
It only takes one tragedy for every teacher to pause a little longer before entering the classroom. One incident is enough to make parents wonder whether their children are truly safe. One incident is enough to remind us that safety is something we often notice only after it has been taken away. Perhaps what worries me even more is the changing culture surrounding discipline.
Teachers today often find themselves walking a tightrope. Correct a student too firmly, and someone records half the interaction. Enforce school rules, and context disappears in favor of a viral post. Ask students to be accountable, and suddenly the conversation shifts from behavior to accusations against the teacher. Somewhere along the way, professional authority became something that constantly needs defending.
Let me be clear: this is not an argument against students.
In fact, most of my students remain exactly what they have always been—curious, respectful, funny, and full of potential. Many parents also continue to work alongside teachers, recognizing that education is a shared responsibility rather than a service they simply consume. The problem is not an entire generation.
The problem is a culture that has slowly blurred the line between guidance and oppression, correction and humiliation, accountability and abuse, respect and submission.
Ironically, society continues to call teaching a “noble profession.” It is. I have always believed it is. But we have become too comfortable using that phrase whenever teachers are expected to absorb another burden. Be patient. Be resilient. Be understanding. Be selfless.
Somehow, “noble” has become shorthand for “endure.”
Yet teachers continue to show up. Not because anyone requires us to. But because, despite everything, we still believe education changes lives.
Perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of the teaching profession is its optimism. Despite persistent institutional challenges, exhausting workloads, policies that often fail to reflect classroom realities, and headlines that increasingly cast a shadow over the profession, teachers continue to enter their classrooms each day with the conviction that learning remains possible.
I often think that this hope is what keeps schools alive. Still, hope should never replace safety.
Protecting schools requires more than security guards and CCTV cameras. It requires rebuilding a culture where respect is consistently taught at home, reinforced in school, acted with compassion, and reflected in public discourse.
After all, teachers are not asking to be placed on pedestals. We are simply asking to feel safe enough to do the work society entrusted to us.
Tomorrow, thousands of teachers across the country will once again unlock their classrooms, greet their students, begin another day of teaching, and deliver what is expected from us. We show up.
Like we always do.
The question is whether people, as a society, will finally do the same for us.
Because no educator should have to wonder whether the last bell of the day also means making it home.
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Jirah C. Dasalla, 29, is a senior high school teacher at Notre Dame of Dadiangas University in General Santos City.
