By Noel Galon de Leon

I am currently attending Room to Read’s Aklat Lunduyan: National Training of Community Librarians in Bacolod City as one of the facilitators. Yet, despite being invited to facilitate sessions, I find myself learning just as much from the stories shared by my fellow facilitators and, more importantly, by the community librarians who have come from different regions of the Philippines.

For the past few days, I have been listening to stories that rarely receive public attention. These are stories of librarians carrying boxes of books on motorcycles to reach remote barangays. Stories of reading volunteers transforming vacant rooms into children’s libraries. Stories of librarians stretching meager budgets to purchase new books, organize storytelling activities, and keep library doors open despite limited support from local governments. They are stories of persistence, creativity, and an unwavering belief that every Filipino child deserves access to books.

These conversations have led me to reflect on a question that is both simple and urgent: How well are our community libraries responding to the needs of Filipino children?

The answer is both inspiring and unsettling.

Across the Philippines, there is no shortage of passionate community librarians. In many municipalities and barangays, they are among the most dedicated literacy workers, quietly nurturing a love for reading despite limited resources. They understand that reading is more than teaching children to recognize words. It cultivates imagination, develops empathy, sharpens critical thinking, and empowers children to envision possibilities beyond the realities of poverty and inequality.

Yet passion alone cannot sustain a library.

Many community libraries continue to operate with outdated collections, inadequate facilities, and almost nonexistent programming budgets. Some depend almost entirely on book donations, regardless of whether the books are culturally relevant or appropriate for young Filipino readers. Others have shelves dominated by foreign titles while offering very few books in Filipino or in regional languages such as Hiligaynon, Cebuano, Waray, Ilokano, Kapampangan, Tausug, or Kinaray-a. For many children, finding stories that reflect their own communities, languages, and identities remains a challenge.

This raises an important question: Are we merely providing books, or are we truly building readers?

There is a significant difference between the two. A room filled with books does not automatically become a thriving library. Likewise, a child surrounded by books does not necessarily become a reader. Reading flourishes when children encounter stories that resonate with their lives, when they feel welcomed in a space that encourages curiosity, and when caring adults guide them toward discovering the joy of books.

This is where community librarians become indispensable.

Throughout this training, I have met librarians who organize storytelling festivals, parent-child reading sessions, mobile libraries, reading camps, creative writing workshops, and book clubs. Some travel by boat to island communities. Others bring books to indigenous learners in upland villages or conduct reading sessions under trees because there is no permanent library building. Many of these initiatives exist not because sufficient funding is available, but because librarians refuse to allow children’s opportunities to be limited by circumstance.

These librarians are far more than custodians of books. They are educators, storytellers, literacy advocates, cultural workers, mentors, and community organizers. Yet despite the importance of their work, they often receive little recognition in national conversations about education. When we discuss educational reform, we frequently focus on classrooms, teachers, infrastructure, and learning assessments. Community libraries—and the people who sustain them—are too often left out of the conversation.

Another lesson that has emerged from this gathering is that community libraries must evolve alongside the changing realities of childhood. Today’s Filipino children are growing up in a world shaped by smartphones, artificial intelligence, social media, misinformation, climate uncertainty, and rapidly changing technologies. Libraries cannot afford to remain silent rooms where books simply gather dust. They must become dynamic learning spaces where children read, create, question, collaborate, and develop the skills necessary to navigate an increasingly complex world.

This transformation also requires rethinking what belongs on our library shelves. Children deserve books that reflect their own experiences. A child from Antique should discover stories rooted in their rivers, mountains, and traditions. A child in Basilan should encounter books that celebrate the richness of their culture rather than reinforce stereotypes. A child in Batanes should recognize their landscapes and heritage in the stories they read. Literature becomes meaningful when children see themselves not only as readers but also as characters, storytellers, and future authors.

Community libraries should likewise become centers of local culture. Beyond books, they can preserve oral traditions, local histories, folk songs, indigenous knowledge, and community memories. In doing so, libraries become living cultural institutions rather than passive repositories of printed materials.

One of the most valuable lessons I continue to learn from Room to Read is that literacy is never built by books alone. Literacy grows through relationships—between librarians and children, parents and schools, authors and readers, local governments and communities. Donating books is important, but it is only the beginning. Sustainable literacy requires long-term investment in people, training, partnerships, and community ownership.

As I continue participating in this national training in Bacolod City, I leave each session with a renewed appreciation for community librarians. They may not stand in front of classrooms every day, but they quietly shape children’s lives in ways that often go unnoticed. Every story they read aloud, every hesitant reader they encourage, every family they welcome into the library, and every child they inspire to borrow just one more book contributes to building a more literate and compassionate society.

Perhaps the future of Philippine education depends not only on what happens inside our schools but also on what happens inside our community libraries. If we genuinely believe that every Filipino child deserves quality education, then we must also believe that every Filipino child deserves access to a vibrant community library—one filled with relevant books, led by well-trained librarians, supported by local governments, and embraced by the community it serves.

The question, then, is no longer whether community libraries matter. They undoubtedly do.

The more pressing question is whether we, as a nation, are prepared to invest in them with the same urgency that we invest in classrooms. Because every time a child walks into a community library, opens a book, and discovers a new way of understanding the world, that library is doing far more than lending a book.

It is helping shape the future of the Philippines.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and professor at the University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at UP High School in Iloilo. He is also the secretary of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.