Between Learning and Survival

Kanlaon Evacuees and the Return to School

There are moments in our nation’s history when human resilience is tested not by grand wars or monumental political shifts, but by the quiet, grinding challenges that come with living in a land shaped by fire and ash. The story of the evacuees displaced by Mount Kanlaon’s recent unrest is one such chapter—one that has unfolded under the shadow of an active volcano, and within the walls of our public schools.

As the school year resumes, thousands of evacuees in Negros Island who sought refuge from Kanlaon’s fury are now being moved out of classrooms and corridors. These spaces, which offered temporary safety, must now revert to their primary purpose: shaping the minds of the young.

But what happens when survival and education collide? When the sanctuary of a child fleeing volcanic ash must give way to the sanctuary of a child seeking to learn?

This is the delicate, painful balancing act now playing out across Negros Occidental and Negros Oriental.

The Volcano Awakens

Mount Kanlaon, that ancient sentinel that looms over Negros, has long been both a giver and taker. Its fertile slopes bless farmers with bountiful harvests, but its periodic rumbles remind everyone of nature’s unpredictable might.

On June 3, 2025, Kanlaon erupted with little warning. Lava fountains, pyroclastic density currents, and a massive ash plume forced thousands to flee. Entire communities were uprooted overnight. By dawn, public schools had become evacuation centers—buildings of learning transformed into barracks of survival.

In La Castellana, Bago, Moises Padilla, and other municipalities, families clutched what few belongings they could carry: a plastic bag of clothes, a sack of rice, a family portrait spared from the ash. They arrived at the schools tired, scared, but grateful to be alive.

Schools Become Shelters

The Department of Education (DepEd), along with local government units (LGUs) and the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD), acted swiftly. Classrooms were cleared to make room for mats and blankets. Blackboards became bulletin boards for relief announcements. School kitchens simmered with donated soup and porridge.

For weeks, these schools were islands of refuge. Yet as days turned to weeks, tension grew. With the new academic year about to begin, the dilemma became stark: where would the evacuees go?

People are anxious. The government’s decision to move evacuees out is driven by necessity, but its execution is proving to be as complex as the disaster itself.

The Push to Clear Classrooms

By mid-June, DepEd issued directives: schools must be ready for face-to-face classes. This meant that evacuation centers had to be vacated. Local officials, caught between humanitarian concern and logistical obligation, scrambled to comply.

Cleaning up after a volcanic eruption is no small feat. Classrooms filled with ash, mud, and debris had to be scrubbed and repaired. Desks and chairs, some of which served as makeshift beds, had to be restored. Teachers, many of whom were themselves affected by the eruption, pitched in to help.

Meanwhile, the evacuees were transferred to gymnasiums, barangay halls, covered courts, and in some cases, tent cities hastily set up in vacant lots. The move was often chaotic, sometimes heartbreaking.

Lives in Limbo

The transition out of the schools was not just a change of address; it was another reminder of the precariousness of the evacuees’ existence. In schools, at least there were concrete walls and roofs. In makeshift shelters, families faced exposure to the elements, limited privacy, and heightened vulnerability.

Aid workers on the ground report growing concerns over sanitation, access to clean water, and the mental health of evacuees. Children, in particular, show signs of trauma—from night terrors to withdrawal.

The Double Burden of Recovery

What sets this disaster apart is the dual recovery effort required. Authorities must now juggle two massive undertakings: the rehabilitation of educational facilities and the resettlement of displaced communities.

LGUs, meanwhile, with assistance from the national government and NGOs, are racing to identify safer, long-term housing sites for evacuees. But finding suitable land, securing funding, and building durable shelters take time—time that evacuees don’t have.

The Unseen Heroes

In the midst of all this, unsung heroes emerge. Teachers who, despite losing their own homes, return to school to prepare classrooms. Students who volunteer to clean debris. Farmers who share what little harvest they have with those who have none.

Barangay officials, often with minimal resources, do their best to ensure no one is left behind. Health workers tirelessly monitor for disease outbreaks in crowded shelters. Volunteers organize play groups to help traumatized children cope.

These acts of solidarity offer hope. They remind us that even as nature’s wrath tests our resolve, our shared humanity remains stronger.

The Bigger Questions

As the dust—both literal and metaphorical—settles, bigger questions linger. Why do we, year after year, face the same scenarios of schools doubling as evacuation centers? Where are the dedicated disaster shelters, the resilient housing, the pre-disaster planning that could prevent such displacements?

Experts argue that what we’re witnessing is not merely a failure of response, but a failure of foresight. Recommendations given are not new. They have been raised after every major disaster. Yet, implementation has been slow, hampered by budget constraints, political turnover, and sometimes, sheer inertia.

Moving Forward

For now, the focus remains on the immediate: get students back to class; keep evacuees safe; clear the ash; rebuild.

But as we move forward, we must not let the lessons of Kanlaon’s eruption fade like footprints in volcanic dust. We owe it to the children—both those returning to school and those still seeking home.

Because in the end, this is not just about classrooms or shelters. It is about dignity. About the right to learn, to live, to dream—no matter how often the earth shakes beneath our feet.

The road ahead is long. For the people of Negros, for the nation as a whole, the challenge is clear: to build not just back, but better.

And as we rebuild, may we finally heed the warnings of both science and history. Because the next time the ground trembles and the skies darken with ash, we must be ready—not just to survive, but to protect the futures of all who call this land home.