In Rappler’s town hall, Dumaguete shows up for truth, youth, and accountability

DUMAGUETE CITY, Philippines – Dark clouds hung low over Dumaguete City on Thursday, February 5. Storm warnings flashed across phones all morning. Classes were suspended, but offices remained open, as word spread that Tropical Storm Basyang (Penha) may make landfall in the Negros Island Region the next day.

Though the storm was not yet upon the city, light rain had begun to fall. It would have been reasonable, practical, even, to stay home.

But people showed up anyway.

They made their way to Silliman University for Rappler’s #CorruptionWatch town hall, stepping into Silliman Hall with umbrellas and hair still damp from light rain. The room wasn’t grand. No stage lights. No spectacle. Just rows of chairs slowly filling with community leaders, student organizers, faculty, and a few government officials who chose conversation over caution.

The town hall panelists were composed of Dumaguete City Councilor Renz Macion; engineer Greg Uymatiao Jr, chairperson of the Negros Oriental Business Development Foundation; Monsignor Christian Durango, vicar general of the Diocese of Dumaguete; Shamah Bulangis, co-founder of the Visayas LBQ Network and Girls Congress; and Karl James Villarmea, co-convenor of anti-corruption group Singgit Katilingban.

A middle-aged professional slipped into a seat, company ID still hanging from his neck. A group of students huddled together, whispering about an upcoming exam. An elderly man adjusted his cap before sitting down beside a college undergraduate. Volunteers introduced themselves to first-time attendees, who admitted they weren’t sure what to expect — only that something in them said they should be there.

Outside, the sky darkened. Inside, the room grew warmer.

The forum itself was unadorned. No dramatic declarations. No political grandstanding. Just people speaking plainly about public money, about trust, about what accountability should look like in a city that prides itself on being thoughtful and close-knit.

But as the conversation unfolded, it became clear this wasn’t just about corruption. It was about generations trying to understand each other.

Channeling youth energy

The presence of Gen Z and millennial students was impossible to miss. They were alert, leaning forward, phones occasionally out to take notes. There was urgency in their looks — impatience, even — but also hope. No one doubted their passion. The real question, raised more than once, was what to do with it.

“How do we channel that energy?” lawyer Golda Benjamin asked during the open forum. Gender rights activist and panelist Shamah Bulangis, in response, also asked: how do we keep it from burning out before it becomes real change?

Older participants nodded. Some must have recalled their own days of activism, when organizing meant hand-lettered posters and long in-person meetings. Obviously, there was no hostility in the exchange. Instead, there was something gentler — an attempt to bridge.

The older generation must have wondered how to mentor without overpowering, while the younger asked how to lead without being abandoned. Beneath it all was a shared recognition: youth engagement cannot run on praise alone. It requires funding, institutional support, safe spaces to meet, grants for student initiatives, and logistical backing for community projects. Energy, everyone seemed to agree, must be protected, not drained for optics.

And then, a history instructor from St. Paul University Dumaguete, Penn Larena, said what many were thinking: gatherings like this are “rare.”

Several attendees remarked how unusual it felt to sit in a room where students, professionals, and officials could speak directly to each other without hostility, without theatrics. It seemed Dumagueteños “don’t get this often.” Many were used to having it online or “one-sided.” One junior high school faculty member from Don Bosco, Jara Carballo, viewed the town hall as “a pause button” — a space where people could actually listen across generations instead of arguing in comment sections.

In a city often labeled as laid-back, even sleepy, that afternoon revealed something else: a quiet hunger for real dialogue — not performative outrage, not carefully staged applause, just conversation — imperfect, sometimes uncomfortable, but honest.

Connection more than content

During her opening address, Silliman University president Betty McCann captured why Rappler had come. Journalism, she said, is not only about reporting events but about empowering people with facts, context, and courage.

She posed questions that hung in the air long after she finished speaking: How do we discern truth? How do we participate responsibly? How do we hold leaders and ourselves accountable while staying respectful and hopeful?

By then, the wind outside had grown louder.

Inside, something steadier had formed. Students stayed in their seats. Elders listened closely. People who had never spoken to each other before exchanged thoughts as neighbors, not opponents.

As Basyang edged closer, Dumagueteños chose presence over comfort. They chose to talk about corruption, yes, but also about burnout, mentorship, funding, and the responsibility of supporting the very youth so often praised in speeches yet rarely resourced.

Inside the hall, a different kind of force took shape: a community trying, however imperfectly, to meet each other halfway.

In the end, love for a city did not look dramatic. It looked like damp umbrellas by the door. Like IDs still hanging from necks. Like students and seniors sharing a row. Like people taking their seats and deciding that the conversation was worth staying for. – Rappler.com

Gemma Minda Iso is a Rappler civic engagement volunteer, or Mover, in Dumaguete City, and currently writes a column for the Dumaguete Metro Post. She is also a functional art creator who dabbles with driftwood and co-manages an organization dedicated to preserving and celebrating culture and the arts.