Classes suspended, again!?

By Herman M. Lagon

It was barely 4:30 a.m. when a rush of messages flooded my phone: “May klase kita, Sir?” From my time as a principal in a basic education school, up until now in college, this question has never gone out of fashion. And why would it? It encapsulates the unique, rain-soaked uncertainty of education in the Philippines—a country where a morning drizzle can shutter schools faster than a fire drill. In a place so used to typhoons, one might expect a clear, firm protocol. But as with many things, the reality is more fluid than the floodwaters that often spark the question.

The authority to suspend classes in the country, especially during weather disturbances, has long rested on the shoulders of local chief executives—governors and mayors who are, by law, empowered by Executive Order No. 66 (2012). This includes situations with no typhoon signal, such as when there’s flooding, landslides, earthquakes, volcanic smog, or heat-induced health risks. Sounds fair on paper, except when that paper is soggy with politics. Suspension decisions often mirror more than just meteorological data; they echo voter sentiment, pressure from parents, and, at times, the eagerness of mayors to trend on Facebook with their prompt declarations of “#WalangPasok.”

There is something culturally endearing but administratively chaotic in the way we respond to rainfall. Some treat class suspension like a race: the first LGU to announce gets digital applause, while those who wait for actual weather reports are accused of being negligent. Worse, some announcements come late—after students have already crossed knee-deep floodwaters just to go back home. In 2018, then-DILG Secretary Eduardo Año expressed frustration over “tulog-tulog” mayors who delayed declarations, putting students at risk. But the problem is not just about who declares first—it is about who should be declaring at all.

On paper, PAGASA’s warning system should trigger automatic suspensions: Signal No. 1 means no preschool, Signal No. 2 for elementary and high school, and Signal No. 3 covers even colleges. But over time, many LGUs have normalized suspending all classes even at Signal No. 1—or no signal at all. While well-intentioned, this is also prone to excess. In a country battling a full-blown learning crisis—DepEd Secretary Sonny Angara warned just recently about “severe” learning loss from frequent class disruptions—every unnecessary class cancellation chips away at what little instructional time we have left.

It is not uncommon to hear students, even in private schools with air-conditioned rooms and elevated buildings, cheering online whenever “walang pasok” trends on social media. That, in itself, is telling. Our culture has somehow trained young minds to equate mild rain with automatic retreat. While weather safety is non-negotiable, so is building grit. If kids no longer know how to sit through a class when it is merely drizzling or the atmosphere is a little humid, we are not just losing academic hours—we are losing the habit of resilience. The lesson should not always be evacuation. Sometimes, the lesson is to stay.

This is where the proposal to allow school heads to call the shots makes sense. In 2024, DepEd allowed principals to suspend in-person classes and shift to other modes during extreme heat or local hazards. It was a smart move—practical and based on the idea that schools face different situations. A coastal barangay prone to flooding should decide differently from a ridge-top school barely touched by a downpour. Centralized orders—whether from a city hall or even the DILG—should not override the judgment of those literally inside the classrooms.

And yet, the debate continues. Recently, Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla proposed centralizing all class suspension authority under the DILG, citing the need for prompt, coordinated decisions. President Marcos Jr. has reportedly remained open to the idea, pending further study. Remulla, a former governor, is not wrong in his concern. Coordination matters. But so does proximity, empowerment, decentralization, and context. Central command works best for nationwide emergencies, not for localized school decisions. It is one thing to suspend classes in flooded Mandaluyong; it is another to cancel a lecture in a dry and sunny Dumangas.

Even higher education institutions find themselves in a bind. A few years ago, University of the East resisted a class suspension order from then-Manila Mayor Isko Moreno, choosing to suspend only basic education levels. The mayor threatened to revoke the school’s permit. But CHED Memorandum Order No. 15 (s. 2012) clearly gives universities discretion to suspend classes depending on their own assessment. This also happened in Cebu and Iloilo. This tug-of-war between local executives and institutional autonomy reveals the tension between safety and sovereignty. When control becomes unclear, chaos—not rain—is what cancels learning.

What makes this worse is the illusion of make-up classes. In theory, every missed session should be recovered. In reality, these make-up days rarely match the value of lost instruction. Either students are absent, teachers are overstretched, or the makeup days fall on weekends, turning learning into a perfunctory exercise. The National Economic and Development Authority (NEDA) has long flagged how disruptions—both planned and spontaneous—drag national productivity. For education, the cost is even harder to quantify. It is not just about finishing the syllabus; it is about protecting the rhythm of learning.

But perhaps the most difficult truth is this: class suspensions have become a form of populist performance. Local officials sometimes weaponize them to appear protective, even if the data does not demand it. After all, it is easier to be blamed for being too cautious than for taking risks. This explains why even mild weather often triggers sweeping announcements. But when precaution becomes habitual, it risks turning safety into stagnation. It tells our students that discomfort—no matter how slight—is a valid excuse to stop learning.

If there is a way forward, it lies in refining—not removing—the system. Keep the structure but devolve finer judgment. Let PAGASA provide scientific baselines. Let LGUs coordinate for city-wide disasters. But let principals, especially those in the public sector who know the vulnerabilities of their campuses, make micro-decisions. This layered approach respects both science and context. It builds a culture of trust and responsibility, not dependency. It also trains students to see adversity not as a full stop, but as something to navigate thoughtfully.

This issue may appear mundane to some—a mere weather announcement. But in truth, it reflects the wider crisis of how we manage systems in the country. We over-centralize power and then complain when things fall through the cracks. We ask for quick decisions, yet we refuse to empower those closest to the ground. We want resilient learners, yet we coddle them with premature cancellations. The question of “Who gets to say walang pasok?” is not just a matter of logistics. It is a matter of mindset.

In schools, where even lunch breaks need planning, decisions should not be left to guesswork or social media clicks. The principals, the ones inside—who know the people and the place—are in the best position to decide, not those watching from afar. That kind of steady leadership is what keeps learning going, even when it rains.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.