Dignity in daily struggles

By Herman M. Lagon

As part of my GCED Online Course with UNESCO-APCEIU, under the guidance of Dr. Jeff Plantilla, I have been wrestling with a simple but heavy question: What do international human rights standards really mean for ordinary lives? The six-week online course is not about quoting dignitaries or keeping track of dates. It involves being aware of the places — the barangay hall, the jeepney stop, and the packed classroom — where justice, fairness, and dignity are upheld or not. To me, it has felt more like holding up a mirror to the stories of my own community than like studying an academic subject.

The idea that everyone could live in freedom and equality was embodied in the 1948 adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). Even after 77 years, that hope still seems promising on paper, but it remains out of reach for many of us. Rights are not theories; they are the boundary between hopelessness and dignity for the jeepney driver negotiating for justice, the OFW suffering in a foreign country, or the child crammed into a desk intended for one. They spell the difference between survival and a life lived with dignity.

Every human rights treaty can be read as a response to a wound: racism, torture, exploitation, or discrimination. The Philippines has signed many of these, including those protecting children’s rights, defending women’s dignity, and tackling statelessness. But some wounds remain unaddressed. We have not ratified the treaty against enforced disappearances, despite the scars left by martial law and the families still waiting for loved ones to come home. Ratifying it would not erase the past, but it would honor the plea of those who continue to live with absence.

On paper, the UDHR looks even and fair. Article 23 guarantees just working conditions. Despite the distance, loneliness, and occasional mistreatment they face, millions of Pinoys are still looking for work overseas and sending money that supports our economy. Meanwhile, according to the 2022 FLEMMS, one in four children still struggles to learn even the most basic skills of reading and writing, despite Article 26 of the UDHR guaranteeing the right to education. These are not cold statistics. They are parents holding on to the hope that education can still lead to a better future, teachers crafting lessons out of discarded materials, and young eyes staring at blackboards filled with blurred words.

Some say human rights are foreign inventions, but history proves otherwise. The UDHR was not born from one culture alone. India’s Hansa Mehta, Lebanon’s Charles Malik, and China’s Peng Chun Chang made sure the document spoke for all humanity — insisting that it name “human beings,” not just “men.” It was, from the beginning, a collective promise. That reminder matters here at home. Rights are not foreign ideas. They live in the Tumandok (Panay-Bukidnon) communities of Calinog, Janiuay, and Lambunao, Iloilo, defending their ancestral lands; in women demanding safety from violence; and in every child who dreams of finishing school. These are not borrowed struggles. They are ours.

But rights are fragile when governments fail to protect them. International law reminds states to respect rights by not violating them, to protect people from outside harm, and to fulfill those rights by building real systems of dignity. That means detention cells that are not death traps, relief goods that reach typhoon victims before photo opportunities, and classrooms that are not left to rot. Our Commission on Human Rights, with all its flaws, is a bridge between paper promises and lived realities. Strengthening it is not about politics. It is about people.

Activist Eleanor Roosevelt was right: Rights start “in small places, close to home.” In the barangay hall where women seek safety and maternal health. In the jeepney queue where drivers demand lower boundary rates and fairer traffic enforcement. In the classroom where respect and just grades are every student’s rights. When they disappear here, they disappear everywhere. But when we keep them alive here, the world gains hope.

The course has also reminded me that rights walk hand in hand with responsibility. Freedom of speech does not give anyone license to spread hate. The right to property does not excuse the destruction of mangroves or rivers. In our culture of bayanihan, we see this balance clearly. When the waters rise, neighbors lift one another. When schools closed, parents turned homes into classrooms. These are not claims of entitlement but acts of dignity.

Around the world, courage makes rights real. The GCED Online Course case studies introduced us to a woman in Jordan checking prisons, an Afghan defender standing against threats, and an Ethiopian teacher who was once forced into marriage and now guides girls. We see the same here: fisherfolk protecting their municipal waters, health workers climbing mountains to hold vaccination drives, and teachers walking for hours to provide children with supplementary tutorials. Human rights live in these everyday acts.

Seventy-seven years on, the UDHR’s promise is still young. The challenge for us is whether we leave it as a classroom lesson or use it as a bridge to tomorrow. Rights are not ornaments; they are anchors. They begin in small places, close to home.

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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 that employ him or with which he is affiliated.