Ponslig ExceLead

15/03/2026

Bow and Arrow
Advance or Retreat in the Middle East Affects Siquijor

The first autobiography I read when I was younger was by Gen. Moshe Dayan.
That book introduced me to the struggle of Israel for statehood, and I learned that Gen Carlos P. Romulo broke the tie of the UN decision to grant state status to Israel in 1948. This decision was allegedly under the threat of the Americans to withdraw all assistance to the Philippines if the country votes otherwise. Retreat was not an option of our country then.
The story of the Gen. Moshe Dayan revolved around World War II and the different wars with Arab were not actually about him but on how the “art of retreat” was mastered by the Israelites.
In the earlier part of this reflection, we examined history through the experiences of Israeli leaders such as Moshe Dayan and David Ben-Gurion, and the strategic lesson that sometimes retreat can be a path toward survival and future advance. Today, however, the situation unfolding in the Middle East invites a different kind of reflection—not merely on strategy, but on consequences.
The continuing tensions between Israel and Iran, along with the broader conflict that has involved militant groups such as Hamas and Hezbollah, have raised serious concerns among governments around the world. If the confrontation continues for a prolonged period—or worse, escalates into a wider regional war—the implications will extend far beyond the Middle East.
Countries like the Philippines, located thousands of kilometers away, will not be immune from the ripple effects. In an increasingly interconnected global economy, conflict in one region can easily disrupt economic stability, security, and food systems in another.
Three areas deserve particular attention: the economy, national security, and food security.
First, the economic impact. The Middle East remains one of the world’s most important sources of oil and energy supply. Any prolonged conflict involving Iran—a major energy producer—could disrupt shipping lanes and oil production in the region. Even the perception of instability is enough to push global oil prices upward.
For the Philippines, which imports most of its fuel requirements, higher oil prices translate quickly into higher transportation costs, increased electricity prices, and rising costs of goods. Inflation becomes harder to control. Public transportation fares may increase. Small businesses feel the pressure. Farmers pay more for fuel and fertilizers.
In short, global conflict could quietly appear in the daily lives of ordinary Filipinos through the prices they pay in the market and at the gas station.
Yet the impact becomes even more pronounced in smaller and more geographically isolated areas.
Take the case of Siquijor, a beautiful but resource-limited island province. Diesel fuel is now more than P100 a liter in the island.
Almost everything consumed in the island—from fuel and construction materials to many food items—is transported from other parts of the country.
The island has already experienced how fragile such dependence can be. When a strong typhoon disrupted sea travel and prevented a fuel shipment from reaching the local electric cooperative, the island suffered a prolonged blackout. Without the delivery of oil needed to run generators, electricity simply stopped.
That experience offers a glimpse of what global disruptions might mean for small islands. If international conflict pushes fuel prices higher or interrupts shipping routes, the cost of transporting goods to islands like Siquijor will inevitably rise. Electricity generation, which depends heavily on imported fuel, could become more expensive or even unstable if supply chains are disrupted.
For communities that rely on steady transport of goods from the mainland, the vulnerability is real.
Second, the security implications. The Philippines has long maintained strong relations with countries in the Middle East, not only diplomatically but also through the presence of thousands of Filipino workers. Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) in the region are pillars of the Philippine economy through the remittances they send home.
Should the conflict widen or destabilize neighboring countries, the safety of Filipino workers could become a serious concern. The government might once again face the difficult task of evacuation and repatriation, as it has done in previous crises in the region. Unemployment in our country can worsen. Social problems like crimes may also rise.
At the same time, geopolitical tensions tend to reshape global alliances and defense priorities. As great powers respond to instability in the Middle East, security dynamics in other regions—including the Indo-Pacific—could shift. For a country like the Philippines, which already navigates complex security concerns in its own neighborhood, global instability adds another layer of strategic uncertainty.
Third, the issue of food security. Many people do not immediately associate Middle East conflicts with food supply. Yet global agriculture is deeply connected to geopolitics.
The world has already experienced how conflict can disrupt food systems. The Russian invasion of Ukraine, for example, significantly affected global grain markets because Ukraine and Russia are among the world’s largest exporters of wheat and fertilizer.
The conflict made the Strait of Hormuz an unstable and dangerous passage for trade.
For a country like the Philippines that imports significant portions of wheat, fertilizers, and other agricultural inputs, these disruptions could translate into higher food prices. Rice production costs could increase. Bread and other staple foods could become more expensive.
The transportation among Asian and ASEAN countries from which we import capital goods, rice and other cereals may become too expensive or worst rice may not be available as they would protect their own people from hunger.
For island communities like Siquijor, the effect could be even more immediate. Food products arriving from Negros Oriental, Cebu, and other nearby provinces depend on regular sea transport. Higher fuel prices mean higher freight costs. And higher freight costs inevitably mean higher food prices in local markets.
In such circumstances, even basic commodities become more expensive for island households.
History reminds us that war is rarely confined to the battlefield. Its consequences travel through trade routes, financial markets, and food systems. A missile fired thousands of kilometers away may eventually affect the price of rice in a Philippine market—or the price of diesel that powers the generators of a small island electric cooperative.
For ordinary citizens, the lesson may be simpler but equally profound. The stability we enjoy in our daily lives often depends on forces far beyond our borders. Global peace and stability are not abstract diplomatic ideals—they are conditions that sustain economic growth, food security, and social well-being.
The strategic reflections of leaders like Dayan remind us that in times of conflict, nations must constantly evaluate when to advance and when to retreat.
But for the rest of the world, including the Philippines—and especially small island communities like Siquijor—the deeper hope remains that wisdom will prevail before the cycle of escalation continues.
Because in the end, the greatest victory for humanity is not victory in war, but the preservation of peace.

11/03/2026

Bow and Arrow
RCDS: Fellowship Beyond Service

Last February 28 to March 1, 2026, the Rotary Club of Dumaguete South (RCDS) stepped away from meeting rooms and service sites and gathered instead under the cool mountain sky of Victoria’s Mountainview in Sitio Linogan, San Miguel, Tanjay City. What unfolded over those two days was more than a camping trip—it was a beautiful reminder of what fellowship truly means.
The much-anticipated Camping Fellowship was made possible through the dedicated efforts of the spouses of the Club officers. Their thoughtful planning and hands-on preparation ensured that every detail—from logistics to games to meals—came together seamlessly. Organizing an overnight activity for around 14 couples and about 20 energetic children is no small feat, yet the event flowed with ease, warmth, and joyful spontaneity.
Upon arrival Saturday afternoon, members and families immediately rolled up their sleeves to assemble their own tents. There was laughter in the air as poles were sorted out, instructions were debated, and friendly help was extended from one family to another. What could have been a simple task became an early bonding moment—an exercise in teamwork that set the tone for the entire weekend.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the mountain revealed its magic. From our vantage point, we were treated to a breathtaking overlooking view of the shimmering lights of Bais City and Tanjay City. The sparkling landscape below, framed by the cool darkness of the mountains, felt almost surreal. The crisp, fresh air embraced everyone gently, and the weather cooperated perfectly, making the evening both comfortable and inviting.
Dinner that night was a delightful spread lovingly prepared by our gracious host. Sharing a meal outdoors, surrounded by nature and good company, added a simple but profound pleasure to the experience. There is something about eating together in the open air that breaks down barriers and deepens connections.
The evening’s program was lively and full of energy. The organizers facilitated fun, engaging games that had everyone participating—especially the children, whose laughter echoed across the campsite. Their excitement was contagious. Watching them run, play, and bond reminded us of how important it is to create spaces where families can grow together.
A hired entertainer was also around to provide music.
Soon after, the bonfire was lit. Flames danced against the cool night, casting a warm glow on smiling faces. Around that circle of light, stories were shared, jokes were exchanged, and quiet conversations unfolded. Rotarians enjoyed meaningful discussions over light drinks to ease the mountain chill. The Anns, meanwhile, enthusiastically took over the karaoke microphone, filling the night with music and heartfelt performances. Song after song carried through the hills, blending with the crackling of firewood and bursts of laughter.
Time seemed to slow down. In a world often rushed and scheduled, the mountain offered a pause. Most of us finally turned in around 3:00 AM, tired but content. Even then, cameras and phones remained busy, capturing smiles, candid moments, and group shots that will surely resurface in future club gatherings with fond nostalgia.
Dawn arrived quietly yet magnificently. As the first light stretched across the horizon, we were greeted by a golden sunrise spilling over the mountain ridges. It was a peaceful and refreshing sight—a gentle reminder of renewal and gratitude. Many stood silently, coffee in hand, simply absorbing the beauty before them.
Breakfast once again brought everyone together. Our host prepared a comforting and generous meal that was especially welcome after the previous night’s festivities. Conversations continued effortlessly, punctuated by children’s chatter and the occasional retelling of humorous moments from the evening before.
By mid-morning, some members took a short walk to a nearby river. The crystal-clear water was inviting and refreshingly cold, perfectly balanced by the warmth of the sun overhead. Feet dipped in the flowing stream, laughter returned, and for a while, we were simply individuals enjoying nature’s gift. It was a simple experience—no grand program, no formalities—yet deeply memorable.
The fellowship officially concluded Sunday afternoon, but its impact will linger far longer. Beyond the structured programs and the scenic views, what truly made the weekend special was the strengthening of bonds. Rotary is known for service—feeding programs, medical missions, educational assistance, and community projects. Yet moments like these remind us that fellowship is equally essential.
Service draws us together with a shared purpose. Fellowship sustains us.
When Rotarians and their families gather outside formal settings, barriers soften. Titles and responsibilities fade into the background. We see one another not only as officers or committee chairs but as spouses, parents, and friends. Children who rarely meet outside events build their own friendships. Spouses who support Rotary work behind the scenes find their own space to connect and celebrate.
In many ways, the Camping Fellowship was a microcosm of what Rotary represents at its best: unity, shared joy, and enduring relationships. The mountain setting amplified these values, stripping away distractions and allowing genuine connection to flourish.
As we packed up our tents and descended back to the routines of daily life, there was a shared sentiment among us: this is an experience worth repeating. The laughter, the songs, the sunrise, the river, the shared meals—each moment wove together into a tapestry of memories that will strengthen our club long after the tents have been folded away.
Moments like these remind us that Rotary is not only about what we give to the community, but also about how we nurture one another. Under the mountain sky of Sitio Linogan, fellowship came alive in its purest form—simple, sincere, and deeply human.
And indeed, it is a memory we will treasure for years to come.

01/03/2026

Bow and Arrow
Healthcare, Hospitals, and Politics

In Central Visayas, the difference between life and death can sometimes depend not only on medical skill, but on political structure.
Consider four public hospitals: the Vicente Sotto Memorial Medical Center (VSMMC) in Cebu, Gov. Celestino Gallares Memorial Hospital (GCGMH) in Bohol, the Negros Oriental Provincial Hospital, and the Siquijor Provincial Hospital. All serve the same region. All treat Filipinos who depend largely on public healthcare. Yet their capacities, facilities, and depth of specialization differ significantly.
T he reason is not simply geography. It is governance.
VSMMC in Cebu and GCGMH in Bohol are managed by the Department of Health (DOH). Meanwhile, the provincial hospitals of Negros Oriental and Siquijor are operated by their respective provincial governments. That administrative distinction—national versus local control—has profound consequences for funding, equipment, staffing, and ultimately, patient care.
At the apex of the region’s public healthcare system stands Vicente Sotto. It is a Level III hospital and a recognized referral center for Central Visayas. It houses subspecialists in cardiology, neurosurgery, oncology, infectious disease, and other complex fields. It maintains advanced diagnostic tools such as MRI and CT scan machines, intensive care units, and specialty surgical services. It runs residency training programs that attract physicians seeking specialization.
This level of capability is not accidental. As a DOH-retained hospital, VSMMC benefits from direct national funding, larger capital outlays, and access to nationally created plantilla positions for specialists. It is structurally positioned to grow into a regional medical hub.
Gov. Celestino Gallares Memorial Hospital in Bohol, also under DOH management, has been undergoing significant modernization. Its new hospital complex reflects national government investment. Its specialty services are expanding, and it increasingly functions as Bohol’s referral center. While it may not yet match Vicente Sotto in subspecialty depth, its trajectory shows how national backing can accelerate institutional development.
Contrast this with provincially managed hospitals.
Negros Oriental Provincial Hospital provides competent general medical services—internal medicine, surgery, pediatrics, obstetrics, and gynecology. It serves as the backbone of healthcare delivery in the province. Yet its ability to acquire high-end equipment or recruit subspecialists depends heavily on the provincial government’s fiscal capacity and political priorities.
Siquijor Provincial Hospital, serving a smaller island province, fulfills a vital role in primary and secondary care. However, complex cases are often referred to Dumaguete or Cebu. The constraints are not necessarily due to lack of dedication or competence among its doctors. Rather, they reflect resource ceilings inherent in smaller local government units.
Herein lies the core issue: political decisions shape healthcare infrastructure.
When a hospital is managed by the DOH, it is plugged directly into the national budget. Capital expenditures for major equipment—MRI machines, specialized laboratories, intensive care units—can be funded through congressional appropriations and national health programs. National salary grades may also make it easier to recruit and retain specialists.
But national management has trade-offs. Bureaucratic layers can slow procurement. Decision-making may be centralized. Hospitals often experience heavy patient congestion because they serve wide catchment areas. Administrative processes are less flexible.
On the other hand, provincially managed hospitals may enjoy quicker local decision-making. Governors and provincial boards can respond more rapidly to emerging local needs. Programs may align closely with local health priorities. Yet local autonomy comes with financial limits. If a province has a constrained revenue base, hospital upgrades may lag. Equipment procurement may be delayed. Recruiting subspecialists becomes difficult when compensation packages cannot compete with larger centers.
The result is a multi-tiered healthcare landscape.
Patients in Cebu have access to a full-fledged tertiary referral center. Boholanos are beginning to benefit from expanded DOH-backed modernization. Meanwhile, residents of Siquijor and parts of Negros Oriental may face referrals across seas or provincial borders for advanced care.
This disparity is not merely administrative—it is political.
Decisions about whether a hospital remains under DOH control or devolves to provincial management are shaped by negotiations between national and local officials. Budget allocations are influenced by legislative priorities. Infrastructure projects often intersect with political capital. In an election cycle, hospital construction may become a visible symbol of governance performance.
Yet healthcare should not depend on political winds.
Under the Universal Health Care (UHC) framework, the Philippines aims to create integrated health systems that reduce fragmentation. Ideally, whether a hospital is nationally or locally managed should matter less than whether patients receive timely, high-quality care. But in practice, management structure continues to influence service capacity.
A DOH-managed hospital tends to become a magnet for specialists and advanced equipment. A provincial hospital, however well-run, may struggle to match that level without sustained financial backing. The gap can widen over time.
The challenge for policymakers is to balance autonomy with equity. National retention can elevate standards, but it risks centralization and congestion. Devolution promotes local ownership, but may widen disparities between wealthier and poorer provinces.
For Bohol, the DOH management of Gov. Celestino Gallares Memorial Hospital offers strategic advantage. It positions the province to reduce dependency on Cebu for complex cases. For Cebu, Vicente Sotto’s national stature reinforces its role as regional apex hospital. For Negros Oriental and Siquijor, sustained provincial investment—and strong collaboration with national agencies—will be crucial to upgrading services without sacrificing responsiveness.
Ultimately, the quality of hospital services depends not only on the skill of doctors or the dedication of nurses. It depends on policy choices: who controls the budget, who sets the priorities, and who ensures long-term institutional development beyond political cycles.
Healthcare governance is more than administrative structure. It is a reflection of political will.
If political leaders treat hospitals as instruments of sustained public investment rather than short-term projects, service quality improves. When health policy is insulated from narrow interests and guided by equity, facilities modernize, specialists are retained, and patients benefit.
In the end, governance is not abstract. It determines whether a patient in Siquijor must travel across waters for advanced diagnostics, whether a Boholano can receive complex treatment at home, and whether a Cebu hospital can sustain its role as a regional lifeline.
Politics, in this case, is not separate from healthcare.
It is embedded in every hospital bed, every operating room, and every life saved.

23/02/2026

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15/02/2026

Bow and Arrow
Blackout: Siquijor’s Painful Return to the Past

Times have indeed changed since I left Lazi more than four decades ago—but in some painful ways, they have also come full circle.
As a child, daily life demanded endurance. We walked narrow pathways to school every day—three kilometers in grade school, five in high school—over hills and valleys, crossing the same stream three to five times. In the early mornings, our clothes would be soaked by dew from shrubs lining the path; in the afternoons, the journey was the same, minus the dew but no less tiring. There were no water pumps then. Bathing meant drawing water from a deep well or going down to the stream. Electricity was almost nonexistent, except for a few well-to-do families in the town center served by a Chinese businessman who owned a generator. At night, we relied on flashlights, gas lamps, kerosene lamps, or even sulo—dried coconut leaves lit as makeshift torches to light the way.
Life was hard, but it was honest. We expected little, and so we endured much.
Fast forward to today. Siquijor now has an electric cooperative, modern homes, cellphones, hospitals with power-operated equipment, and a tourism-driven economy. Electricity is no longer a luxury. In an island province like Siquijor, it is the backbone of public safety, economic activity, health services, education, communication, and basic human dignity. And yet, during the recent threat of Typhoon Basyang, we were forced—once again—back to the basics.
The island-wide power outage caused by the suspension of boat trips exposed a deeply troubling reality: the Siquijor Electric Cooperative had no fuel to run its generators. When crude oil could not be delivered due to rough seas, power generation shut down completely. This was not an act of nature. Weather disturbances are routine in the Philippines. Sea travel interruptions during typhoon threats are foreseeable. What is unacceptable is the absence of contingency fuel reserves in an island province that should know better.
This was not an isolated incident. It was the latest manifestation of long-standing weaknesses in planning, leadership, and accountability. Any electric utility operating in an island setting should maintain adequate buffer fuel stocks precisely for moments when resupply becomes impossible. Typhoons are now monitored a week before landfall. That this failure has happened before only confirms that lessons were not learned and reforms were never institutionalized.
The consequences go far beyond inconvenience. Power outages place lives at risk, particularly in hospitals. Dialysis patients are among the most vulnerable. Some residents of Siquijor depend on regular dialysis sessions to survive. During blackouts, dialysis machines cannot operate. Worse, patients cannot be transferred to hospitals in neighboring provinces when the seas are rough. They are effectively trapped—cut off from electricity and from treatment.
Children in incubators face equally grave danger. Incubators require stable power to maintain life-sustaining conditions for premature and critically ill infants. Even brief interruptions can have irreversible consequences. While hospitals may have backup generators, these too depend on fuel. When fuel supply is uncertain, medical staff are forced into impossible choices: ration power, delay procedures, or gamble on equipment that may fail at any moment. In fact, it was reported that the hospital allegedly ran out of fuel as well.
Beyond dialysis and neonatal care, outages disrupt operating rooms, laboratories, vaccine refrigeration, oxygen systems, and electronic medical records. Health workers are pushed into crisis mode not by natural disasters themselves, but by preventable failures in utility management. In these moments, electricity is not about comfort—it is about survival.
The wider social and economic costs are just as damaging. Small businesses lose income. Food spoils. Students are unable to study. Water systems dependent on electric pumps stop working. Tourism—one of Siquijor’s key economic drivers—suffers as visitors experience prolonged blackouts and unreliable services. During the outage, cellphones could not be charged, cutting off locals and tourists alike from communication with the outside world, except for the few who owned generators. It was reported that the LGUs, including barangays, which had generators, ran them for community cellphone charging
Public calls for the resignation of the electric cooperative’s management should not be dismissed as emotional reactions. In any institution that values accountability, leadership must answer for repeated and foreseeable failures. Logistical challenges and funding constraints are real—but they are part of the job. Other island utilities in the Philippines operate under similar conditions and yet maintain emergency fuel stocks and response plans. The difference is not geography; it is governance.
At the heart of the problem lies a culture of lowered expectations. After every blackout, explanations are given, apologies issued, and operations resume—until the next crisis arrives. There is little evidence of serious internal review, structural reform, or leadership accountability. When failures carry no consequences, they become routine. Consumers are conditioned to endure instead of demand better.
Siquijor does not need excuses. It needs reform—professionalized management, transparent planning, strict emergency preparedness standards, and firm coordination with fuel suppliers and government agencies. Electric cooperatives exist to serve their member-consumers. The people of Siquijor deserve a power utility that plans, protects lives, and learns from its mistakes. The main excuse is the absence of a tank that can store a fuel supply, but an LGU officer reported that there are at least 5 big tanks on the island, which can be negotiated.
Reports indicate that the cooperative’s generators consume approximately 44,000 liters of fuel per day. The final delivery made before the typhoon amounted to only about 200,000 liters—insufficient to sustain operations for even a week. If the reported issue with the fuel storage tank is real and remains unresolved, the next typhoon could once again plunge the entire island into a power blackout.
We once accepted darkness because we had no choice. Today, being forced back to sulo, uncharged phones, and silent hospitals is not nostalgia—it is regression. Until accountability is enforced and leadership failures are addressed, blackouts will continue to darken not only homes and hospitals, but also public trust. And for an island built on resilience and community, that may be the most serious outage of all.

08/02/2026

Bow and Arrow

Siquijor: Exit Tourism Fees
Beginning February 1, 2026, the Provincial Government of Siquijor officially began collecting a Tourism Ecological Fee from departing tourists—both domestic and foreign—amounting to roughly ₱50 per person with discounts for seniors and children below 6 years old. This represents a shift in how Siquijor funds its tourism and environmental programs. Unlike islands such as Boracay, where fees are largely charged at the point of entry, Siquijor’s approach charges the fee on exit, prompting lively conversations about its fairness, rationale, and impact.
Siquijor’s decision to impose an exit fee on both domestic and international tourists has sparked debate that goes beyond pesos and centavos. At first glance, the policy appears straightforward: visitors contribute a modest amount to help sustain the island they have enjoyed. Yet beneath this seemingly simple measure lies a much deeper and more difficult question—one that many tourism destinations in the Philippines continue to struggle with: Are we confusing environmental protection with economic development, and if so, at what cost, and to whom?
Across the country, island destinations have adopted different approaches. Boracay collects an entrance environmental fee, Palawan—particularly El Nido—charges an eco-tourism development fee upon entry, while Siargao applies a mix of local tourism and environmental charges. Siquijor stands out by charging on exit, an approach that subtly reframes the logic: visitors pay not for access, but for impact.
This distinction matters because the debate is not really about when tourists pay—but why.
A recurring argument against new tourism fees is that they may discourage visitors and dampen economic activity. Tourism, after all, is frequently described as a powerful driver of development—creating jobs, stimulating local enterprises, and generating revenues for local governments.
But this framing risks oversimplifying a far more complex reality.
Environmental protection used to be treated as a purely ecological concern—trees versus roads, reefs versus resorts. Today, however, environmental protection is inseparable from economics, particularly the economics of the poor. Environmental degradation does not affect everyone equally. It disproportionately harms those whose livelihoods are directly tied to natural resources.
In coastal provinces like Siquijor, this is not an abstract concept. Municipal waters, mangroves, seagrass beds, and coral reefs are not just ecosystems; they are physical assets of the poor. For small fisherfolk, these resources function as a daily “bank”—providing food, income, medicine, and education for their children. Over-exploitation or destruction of these resources is not merely environmental damage; it is economic bankruptcy for already vulnerable communities.
From this perspective, the core economic logic becomes clear:
The only sustainable path to improving the future of coastal communities is to protect, preserve, and expand these natural assets. This is environmental economics in its most human form.
Balancing tourism growth with environmental protection is undeniably difficult. Tourism creates visible economic activity—hotels, restaurants, transport services—while environmental losses are often silent and gradual. When confronted with this dilemma, many policymakers instinctively lean toward tourism expansion.
Yet a critical question must be asked: When we speak of “development,” who are we really developing for?
Is development about enabling the rich to become richer, or about lifting the poor out of poverty?
Even in the country’s most popular tourist destinations, poverty remains stubbornly present. Boracay, despite its global fame and steady tourist arrivals, still has marginalized communities living alongside luxury resorts. Palawan’s tourism boom has not eliminated poverty in coastal villages. Siargao’s rise as a surfing capital has created opportunities—but also rising land prices and displacement risks.
Tourism alone does not guarantee inclusive development. Without strong environmental safeguards, it can even undermine the very livelihoods it claims to support.
This brings us back to tourism fees. Are exit or entrance fees truly significant drivers of development, or do they merely add friction?
Critics argue that such fees—especially when combined with terminal fees, travel taxes, and transport costs—make the Philippines less competitive than neighboring countries with better infrastructure and lower charges. From this angle, tourism fees are seen as barriers rather than enablers.
This critique deserves serious attention. If tourism is indeed a priority sector, why rely on small per-person fees rather than drawing on broader tourism revenues—such as accommodation taxes, concession fees, or higher-value tourism activities? Are these fees economically substantial, or are they symbolically convenient but strategically weak?
However, the counterpoint is equally compelling. The purpose of environmental or exit fees is not primarily to maximize revenue, but to internalize environmental costs—to ensure that those who benefit from natural resources contribute to their upkeep. Properly designed, such fees are not anti-tourism; they are pro-sustainability.
A new lawyer in Lazi, Atty. Daniel, who retired from a career as a bank manager, estimated a conservative annual income from tourism fees running into the millions. His concern was how these funds would be utilized. He seemed to insinuate that a major event in a couple of years could be a reason for worry about the use of the collections.
To me, the real problem is not the existence of fees, but how they are justified, communicated and be managed.Bow and Arrow

Siquijor: Exit Tourism Fees
Beginning February 1, 2026, the Provincial Government of Siquijor officially began collecting a Tourism Ecological Fee from departing tourists—both domestic and foreign—amounting to roughly ₱50 per person with discounts for seniors and children below 6 years old. This represents a shift in how Siquijor funds its tourism and environmental programs. Unlike islands such as Boracay, where fees are largely charged at the point of entry, Siquijor’s approach charges the fee on exit, prompting lively conversations about its fairness, rationale, and impact.
Siquijor’s decision to impose an exit fee on both domestic and international tourists has sparked debate that goes beyond pesos and centavos. At first glance, the policy appears straightforward: visitors contribute a modest amount to help sustain the island they have enjoyed. Yet beneath this seemingly simple measure lies a much deeper and more difficult question—one that many tourism destinations in the Philippines continue to struggle with: Are we confusing environmental protection with economic development, and if so, at what cost, and to whom?
Across the country, island destinations have adopted different approaches. Boracay collects an entrance environmental fee, Palawan—particularly El Nido—charges an eco-tourism development fee upon entry, while Siargao applies a mix of local tourism and environmental charges. Siquijor stands out by charging on exit, an approach that subtly reframes the logic: visitors pay not for access, but for impact.
This distinction matters because the debate is not really about when tourists pay—but why.
A recurring argument against new tourism fees is that they may discourage visitors and dampen economic activity. Tourism, after all, is frequently described as a powerful driver of development—creating jobs, stimulating local enterprises, and generating revenues for local governments.
But this framing risks oversimplifying a far more complex reality.
Environmental protection used to be treated as a purely ecological concern—trees versus roads, reefs versus resorts. Today, however, environmental protection is inseparable from economics, particularly the economics of the poor. Environmental degradation does not affect everyone equally. It disproportionately harms those whose livelihoods are directly tied to natural resources.
In coastal provinces like Siquijor, this is not an abstract concept. Municipal waters, mangroves, seagrass beds, and coral reefs are not just ecosystems; they are physical assets of the poor. For small fisherfolk, these resources function as a daily “bank”—providing food, income, medicine, and education for their children. Over-exploitation or destruction of these resources is not merely environmental damage; it is economic bankruptcy for already vulnerable communities.
From this perspective, the core economic logic becomes clear:
The only sustainable path to improving the future of coastal communities is to protect, preserve, and expand these natural assets. This is environmental economics in its most human form.
Balancing tourism growth with environmental protection is undeniably difficult. Tourism creates visible economic activity—hotels, restaurants, transport services—while environmental losses are often silent and gradual. When confronted with this dilemma, many policymakers instinctively lean toward tourism expansion.
Yet a critical question must be asked: When we speak of “development,” who are we really developing for?
Is development about enabling the rich to become richer, or about lifting the poor out of poverty?
Even in the country’s most popular tourist destinations, poverty remains stubbornly present. Boracay, despite its global fame and steady tourist arrivals, still has marginalized communities living alongside luxury resorts. Palawan’s tourism boom has not eliminated poverty in coastal villages. Siargao’s rise as a surfing capital has created opportunities—but also rising land prices and displacement risks.
Tourism alone does not guarantee inclusive development. Without strong environmental safeguards, it can even undermine the very livelihoods it claims to support.
This brings us back to tourism fees. Are exit or entrance fees truly significant drivers of development, or do they merely add friction?
Critics argue that such fees—especially when combined with terminal fees, travel taxes, and transport costs—make the Philippines less competitive than neighboring countries with better infrastructure and lower charges. From this angle, tourism fees are seen as barriers rather than enablers.
This critique deserves serious attention. If tourism is indeed a priority sector, why rely on small per-person fees rather than drawing on broader tourism revenues—such as accommodation taxes, concession fees, or higher-value tourism activities? Are these fees economically substantial, or are they symbolically convenient but strategically weak?
However, the counterpoint is equally compelling. The purpose of environmental or exit fees is not primarily to maximize revenue, but to internalize environmental costs—to ensure that those who benefit from natural resources contribute to their upkeep. Properly designed, such fees are not anti-tourism; they are pro-sustainability.
A new lawyer in Lazi, Atty. Daniel, who retired from a career as a bank manager, estimated a conservative annual income from tourism fees running into the millions. His concern was how these funds would be utilized. He seemed to suggest that a major event in a couple of years could be a cause for concern about the use of the collections.
To me, the real problem is not the existence of fees, but how they are justified, communicated and be managed.

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