One billion rising together

By Herman M. Lagon

The memo was simple: wear pink, assemble early, ride the van, and head to the Iloilo Freedom Grandstand for the One Billion Rising campaign. For many, it looked like just another school activity squeezed between quizzes and deadlines. But the words “one billion” stayed with me. It is not just a slogan. It is a number with faces. Global estimates say nearly one in three women will experience violence in her lifetime (UN Women, 2023). That number is too large to picture, yet too personal to ignore. So before joining my fellow teachers from ISUFST Friday morning, I did what teachers often do—I tried to understand what that number really means.

One billion is not only global. It is also local, if we listen. In the Philippines, data show that one in four ever-married women aged 15 to 49 has experienced some form of partner violence (PSA and ICF, 2018). Reports also show that one in five women has experienced emotional violence, and one in 20 has suffered sexual violence at some point in her life. And these are only the stories that reach the surveys and police desks. A fellow guidance counselor once told me that many never make it into any report—girlfriends afraid their schooling might be cut off, wives staying quiet for the children, students who think control is love. Violence does not always leave bruises. Sometimes it simply steals a person’s voice.

Statistics become real when we remember the lives behind them. The Epstein case showed how abuse can hide behind wealth and influence. Hundreds of young women and girls were caught in a system that people in power failed to confront. It was not just the wrongdoing of a wealthy man later exposed as a pedophile who ran a sex trafficking network (see “Jeffrey Epstein: Filthy Rich” documentary series on Netflix for more details). It exposed how violence can persist, even in wealthy or highly developed societies, when institutions turn away and victims are not believed. It reminds us that this struggle exists in every corner of society.

One Billion Rising began in 2012 through the V-Day movement of activist Eve Ensler. The message was unmistakable: one billion stories of violence are associated with one in three women. On Valentine’s Day that year, people in more than 200 countries took to the streets to dance and protest. As a reminder that this fight transcends national and generational boundaries, the campaign has since returned each February.

The campaign chose dance as its language. It sounds strange at first. Why dance when the issue is so serious? But the point is simple: survivors often feel disconnected from their bodies. Movement helps them reclaim dignity. It is not about perfect timing. It is about presence. A public dance becomes a visible refusal to stay silent.

This year’s theme, “Rise for Our Bodies, Our Earth, Our Future,” broadens the conversation. Violence is not an isolated problem. The same systems that exploit bodies also exploit land and labor. After disasters, women and girls face higher risks. In coastal communities, daily survival can mean daily vulnerability. Violence lives in the conditions people endure.

In the classroom, these stories surface quietly. A student who suddenly withdraws. A young woman drops a class because her boyfriend does not like it. A mother studies at night after work, still apologizing for being late. Teachers only see small pieces of these lives. We may not know the whole story, but we feel its weight. That is why joining One Billion Rising means more than attendance. It reminds us that education shapes dignity, respect, and our response to injustice.

I appreciated that the university went beyond sending a memo. It arranged transportation and offered service credits. It may seem like a small move, but it says something important: institutions choose their stand. When a school supports a campaign against violence, it tells students their dignity counts. In a time of rankings and outputs, it is refreshing to see compassion matter.

Some people ask if a single morning of dancing can change anything. It is a fair question. Social movements often look symbolic at first. But history shows change begins with visible acts—crowds gathering, voices refusing silence. The suffrage marches, EDSA, and candlelight vigils were not policy documents. They were people showing up. Change rarely arrives in one dramatic moment. It comes through many small, steady risings.

For me, the meaning of One Billion Rising is not only in the dance. It is in the quiet choices around it. The teacher who intervenes when a student is harassed. The father who teaches his son to respect women. The barangay worker who listens instead of dismissing a complaint as a “family matter.” The administrator who ensures that gender policies are real, not just posters. The grandstand dance is only the visible part. The real rising happens in everyday spaces—classrooms, offices, homes, and jeepneys.

So this Feb. 13, when I stand with my co-teachers in pink shirts under the Iloilo sun, I will probably miss a step or two. I always do. But that is not the real point. The point is presence—to be there, to be counted, to stand beside others who refuse to normalize violence. One billion sounds terrifying, yet it also shows how many voices can rise as one. If enough people choose dignity as something nonnegotiable, that number may begin to fall. Perhaps one day, February will feel less like protest and more like a gentle celebration of a world that has learned better.

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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.