In the quiet mountains of South Upi, Maguindanao, the day began before the sun rose. Every morning at 4 o'clock, Lizabel Lansica, an 11-year-old girl with determined eyes and calloused feet, woke up to the crow of roosters. Alongside her grandmother, she would cook a simple meal—just enough to take to school—and fetch water from the nearby stream to bathe and drink.
By 5 a.m., Lizabel stepped into the dark, winding path toward school. Her small feet followed the same trail they had taken for the past six years—up hills, through mud, across rivers. It was a six-hour journey. When she arrived, she was often late, hungry, and exhausted. But she never turned back.
"I want to learn," she would say, quietly, every time someone asked why she kept coming back.
Her teacher, Ma'am Jocelyn Palao, always watched Lizabel with admiration. "She's one of the brightest," the teacher said, "but tiredness steals her focus." Lizabel struggled to stay awake in class, but she never missed a day—not even when the rains flooded the mountain paths.
Lizabel belonged to the Teduray, one of the many Indigenous groups in the Bangsamoro region. Like her, most children in her community lived far from the nearest school. Many gave up. Poverty, distance, and daily survival pushed dreams aside. Yet Lizabel held hers tightly.
"I want to be a teacher someday," she told Ma'am Jocelyn one rainy afternoon, soaked but smiling. "So other children won't have to walk so far just to learn."
In a place where over 45,000 primary-aged children still lack access to schools, Lizabel's steps became more than just a walk—they were a journey of hope. One child, with one dream, daring to believe in a future where education wasn't a burden, but a right.
And every morning, when the trail called again, Lizabel answered—with tired feet, but an unshaken heart.