The measure of inclusion

By Herman M. Lagon

National Teachers’ Month, observed from Sept. 5 to Oct. 5, usually brings familiar tributes: flowers, handwritten notes, social media greetings and photographs of teachers dressed for the occasion. Those gestures matter. But for teachers dealing with learners with disabilities, appreciation should be more than one month of acclaim. Their labor is generally quieter, harder and less apparent. This work happens in classrooms where progress may include a youngster making eye contact for the first time, following a routine, saying a first word or remaining through an entire lesson without anxiety.

I know this as a father, as well as an educator and guidance counselor. My daughter, Psyche Mae, has been a teacher of learners with special needs in the U.S. for the past three years, following seven years of teaching preschool pupils at Ateneo de Iloilo. Through her, I have witnessed how much of this labor takes place outside lesson plans. This entails understanding the child’s language, seeing what causes anxiety or irritation, changing schedules and finding an alternative when the usual approach does not work. Some days bring breakthroughs. Others merely require patience.

I appreciate the intention behind calling SPED teachers heroes, but I sometimes wish we would do less celebrating and more supporting. These teachers should not have to carry the weight of inclusion on their own. They should not have to choose between buying materials, finding therapists or creating solutions that a functioning system ought to provide. What they need are more people beside them, not higher expectations placed upon them.

That is the hope behind Republic Act No. 11650. The Inclusive Education Act envisions schools where learners with disabilities are identified early, properly supported and given the opportunities they deserve through programs designed for their unique needs. The law is needed, and its goal is clear. However, four of the 10 operational guidelines required for its full implementation remained pending, while two others had been only partially issued as of July 2026. Also lacking were a complete framework for Individualized Education Programs, alternative and transition curricula, an interagency referral system and incentives for private-sector engagement.

This delay is not simply administrative. Every missing guideline eventually lands on the desk of a teacher or at the feet of a family. It becomes a parent unsure where to have a child assessed, a school head uncertain about how an Inclusive Learning Resource Center should operate or a regular classroom teacher trying to support a learner without adequate training. It becomes another school year in which a child is physically present in class but not fully included in learning.

The numbers should unsettle us. EDCOM 2 reported that only about 391,000 learners with disabilities were enrolled in public schools in school year 2024–2025 — roughly 8 percent of the estimated 5.1 million Filipino children with disabilities. Among those already enrolled, 60 percent had no access to a special needs education program, SPED center, Inclusive Learning Resource Center or SNED teacher in their school. Only 32 percent were in schools with a dedicated SNED teacher.

That means many learners are “included” mainly in the geographic sense: They have entered the school gate and found a seat in a regular classroom. But a seat is not yet support. Placement is not the same as participation. Inclusion without assessment, individualized instruction, trained personnel or therapy can become little more than mainstreaming by default. According to EDCOM 2, inclusion is not simply about opening classroom doors. It also means providing the support that allows learners with disabilities to truly belong.

I think of one teacher I met in a rural school in Iloilo. She patiently worked with a child who became anxious whenever the classroom got too loud. There was no therapist, no teaching assistant and no dedicated space to help the child regain calm. What kept the class going was not a complete system but one teacher’s quiet commitment to keep showing up every day. It was moving to witness. It was also unfair.

We should not build an education system that survives only because teachers are willing to compensate for everything it lacks. Compassion may help a teacher through the day, but compassion cannot replace a speech therapist. Dedication cannot substitute for proper assessment. Creativity cannot endlessly cover for missing assistive devices, overcrowded rooms or an absent multidisciplinary team. RA 11650 envisions Inclusive Learning Resource Centers staffed not only by educators but also by professionals such as developmental pediatricians, occupational therapists, speech therapists and psychologists. The shortage of these specialists remains one of the law’s most difficult implementation barriers.

During her undergraduate internship at a public school, my daughter sometimes spent her own money or lent devices so learners could access visual and audio materials more easily. She did not make a ceremony of it. Teachers rarely do. They see a need and try to meet it. But every time a teacher privately fills a public gap, we should feel both gratitude and discomfort. Gratitude, because someone cared enough to act. Discomfort, because the learner’s access depended on one person’s wallet and goodwill.

The pandemic exposed how unequal learning had always been. Imagine a child with a communication delay trying to learn through a small phone screen or a learner with a visual impairment using materials that were never meant to be accessible. Parents suddenly became teachers, therapists and IT support while struggling to make ends meet. What was lost was more than classroom time. Many children also lost routines, therapies and hard-earned progress.

That is why inclusion is about more than having a SPED program. It asks whether schools are willing to change so every child can truly belong — not the other way around.

We already know it can be done. Schools like Batino Elementary School in Quezon City show that with trained teachers, accessible facilities, therapy spaces and the right support, learners with disabilities thrive. Just as important, their classmates learn empathy, patience and respect by growing up together.

But schools like Batino should be the rule, not the exception. Their success proves that inclusion works when it is backed by people, resources and commitment.

And that responsibility cannot fall on SPED teachers alone.

More general education teachers now welcome learners with disabilities into their classrooms. Their willingness is inspiring, but goodwill is not enough. Teachers also need training, specialist support and practical resources if inclusion is to move beyond policy and become an everyday reality.

The same principle applies beyond schools.

Families cannot carry the responsibility alone. Neither can local governments, health professionals or social workers. Genuine inclusion demands cooperation. It requires the Department of Education to complete the remaining operational guidelines under the Inclusive Education Act. It requires the Department of Health to strengthen assessment and intervention services. It requires local government units to invest their Special Education Funds in Inclusive Learning Resource Centers, assistive technology and early intervention programs. It also requires communities to reject stigma and choose understanding over labels.

There is hope. Across the country, teachers, communities, civic groups and local governments are exploring methods to make inclusion work. Every trained teacher, every assistive device shared, every parent support group established and every accessible classroom built takes us closer to the promise of Republic Act No. 11650.

But it is not laws alone that affect lives. Every law ultimately finds its meaning inside a classroom.

It is found in a teacher patiently repeating an instruction until a learner finally understands; in a parent who refuses to give up after another difficult assessment; in classmates who instinctively make room for a child who learns differently; and in school leaders who choose to invest scarce resources in accessibility because they know that equity sometimes means giving different learners different kinds of support.

This is where my daughter’s experience often comes back to me.

She has shared stories of learners whose victories might seem ordinary to others but felt extraordinary to their families. They include a child who finally asked for help instead of shutting down and another who confidently joined a group activity after months of hesitation. These moments rarely make headlines. They do not appear in national statistics. Yet they are the reason many SPED teachers quietly return to work each morning.

As a guidance counselor, I have always believed that education is, at its heart, about seeing the person before the performance. That belief echoes the Ignatian principle of cura personalis — care for the whole person. It reminds us that every learner carries strengths waiting to be discovered and challenges deserving of compassion. Labels may describe needs, but they should never define potential.

National Teachers’ Month should therefore be more than a season of gratitude. It should also be a season of accountability.

If we truly value inclusion, then we must invest in it. We must fast-track the implementation of Republic Act No. 11650. We must complete the long-delayed operational guidelines. We must establish more Inclusive Learning Resource Centers, strengthen early identification systems, expand teacher preparation, increase the number of SPED and SNED teachers, provide multidisciplinary support and ensure that no child is denied education simply because help arrived too late — or never arrived at all.

The measure of an education system is not how well it serves those who learn most easily. It is how faithfully it stands beside those who need it most.

Real inclusion does not begin with a policy, a ribbon-cutting ceremony or another well-meaning slogan. It begins when every Filipino child, regardless of ability, walks into school knowing that there is a place prepared for them, that teachers are ready to understand them and that a community is willing to help them flourish.

That is the kind of classroom worth building. And that is the kind of nation worth becoming.

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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 that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.