Localization and the lives it shapes

By Herman M. Lagon

There are gatherings you expect to be routine, and then there are moments that quietly remind you why local work matters. The Policy Forum on the Localization of Women’s and Children’s Policies at Richmonde Hotel, Iloilo City, November 20, was one of those moments. I arrived with my slides and notes, carrying that mix of curiosity and responsibility familiar to teachers and public servants. Whatever we discussed in that room would eventually shape how families, students, and barangay workers live their everyday realities. By late morning, the stories had already moved past acronyms—women struggling with limited reproductive health options, social workers stretched thin, barangay health workers carrying heavy mental health needs, and youth advocates seeing the same gaps repeat across towns. It became clear early on that policies only matter when they finally reach the households that need them.

That idea—policies taking root in real communities—guides the work of the De La Salle University Jesse M. Robredo Institute of Governance (DLSU-JRIG) and Iloilo State University of Fisheries Science and Technology (ISUFST) through the Localization of Women’s and Children’s Policies Project. The terms may sound technical, but the idea is simple. Policies are like seeds: they grow only when the soil is right, the conditions make sense, and the people caring for them understand the local terrain. Iloilo, with its coastal towns, upland barangays, and fast-changing inland communities, shows how different those terrains can be. As JRIG Director Dr. Francisco Magno noted, no single national strategy can fully capture the real-life complexity of issues like VAWC, reproductive health, teenage pregnancy, gender rights, tourism, DRRM, mental health, or even the role of universities—especially when viewed through a gender lens.

As researchers presented findings from 42 municipalities and Passi City, the room wrestled with two truths: Iloilo has made real progress, yet large gaps remain. Yes, 93 percent of LGUs have GAD Codes and Children’s Welfare Ordinances, but deeper discussion revealed uneven implementation, weak data, and fragile frontline services. The World Bank reminded us in 2024 that gender policies succeed not because laws exist, but because systems support them. I thought of rural teachers handling guidance work alone, social workers juggling endless cases, and barangay leaders trying their best with limited tools. This is where localization matters—not in theory but in daily life. It determines whether a policy stays on paper or becomes real help for a girl facing harassment, a boy battling quiet anxiety, or a mother stretched thin by care work and survival.

My task that morning was to present the mental health findings with my research partner Ms. Danela Dagdag under the leadership of Dr. Magno. Standing before LGU and frontline leaders, I felt the weight of what the numbers represented. Iloilo’s shortage of municipal-level mental health ordinances is not a small oversight—it signals how vulnerabilities widen when programs depend on personalities instead of systems. Without ordinances, training fades, budgets shrink, and Barangay Health Workers (BHWs) carry the burden with little support. A WHO review in 2023 warned that systems built around personalities eventually break down. We see that locally: some towns progress because they have committed mayors and MHOs, while others slide backward after one election. During the forum, someone remarked that this is why “resilience” has become both a badge and a quiet burden—people adjust because the systems don’t.

This led to conversations about collaboration and consistent data. Anyone who has attended LGU meetings knows the familiar refrain: health officers lack manpower, social workers face unmanageable loads, and barangay leaders want clearer direction. UNICEF’s 2022 report showed how siloed systems slow down child protection work, and Iloilo mirrors that pattern. Mental health data varies widely. Some towns use notebooks; others keep scattered spreadsheets. Suicide data is incomplete. Referral histories disappear during staff transitions. Panelists didn’t idealize technology—they pushed for practical, privacy-respecting systems integrated into PHIE and tailored to rural realities. Localization must work with what communities actually have, not what we imagine they have.

The discussion on BHWs resonated the most. They are often the first to hear someone’s whispered fear or late-night cry for help, yet they take on this work with minimal honoraria, limited training, and heavy emotional stress. Tay and colleagues wrote in The Lancet Regional Health–Western Pacific (2021) that community health workers in low-resource settings experience high burnout when expected to handle mental health tasks without strong support. That is true in many Iloilo barangays. Some BHWs walk long distances to visit families; others quietly absorb trauma without spaces to process it. When this was discussed, the room fell silent. The conversation stopped being about frameworks and became about the people holding the system together with their bare hands. Localization, in this sense, becomes a matter of justice.

The reflections of leaders throughout the day added depth. Iloilo Provincial Administrator Raul Bañas spoke of teen centers and literacy reforms. Senator Risa Hontiveros reminded everyone that national laws reach their full impact only when LGUs take them seriously. Academic leaders echoed the same message: effective governance is not about romanticizing local autonomy but about grounding national goals in lived experience. Localization is paying attention—looking closely, listening deeply, and adapting programs to culture, context, and community rhythms.

The lessons extend far beyond women and children. Businesses thrive when they understand community behavior. Teachers teach better when lessons reflect local lives. Disaster teams respond more effectively when protocols fit actual terrain. Even neuroscience offers a metaphor. One speaker noted that the magnocellular pathway helps the brain understand where things are—a reminder that context shapes clarity. Policies behave the same way. They make sense only when anchored in the right place.

Throughout the day, I kept returning to one truth: progress often happens in small, consistent actions after the forum ends—a counselor checking on a troubled student, a barangay worker updating a referral form, a mayor approving a mental health ordinance, a teacher adjusting a lesson for mountain learners. Localization rarely announces itself. It shows up in quiet acts rooted in empathy, courage, and accountability. It is a habit of attention and care.

When the forum ended, I felt reassured. The room was filled with people of different roles and perspectives, but all shared a sincere desire to improve the systems shaping daily life. They left with sharper questions and deeper commitment. That may be localization’s real gift. It reminds us that national issues do not exist in abstracts—they live in barangays, classrooms, shoreline communities, and busy homes. Women and children do not live in policy documents. They live in real places with real needs. When policies finally meet them where they are, dignity becomes possible. That is why localization matters. It brings the nation’s promises closer to those who have waited longest.

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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.