Written by Audrey Denise Pangan
“Where the white sands and the corals,” then every Sillimanian completes the entire song. But what has happened to the white sands and corals that once stretched freely?
At Silliman University, the sea is more than a view. It is an identity. For decades, the phrase “Campus by the Sea” has portrayed the university’s image. Students study with salt in the air, walk to class with waves in sight, and end long days bathed in the golden sweep of sunset over water. The shoreline is part of campus life.
Yet, beneath the beauty of sunrise photos and seaside traditions, the coastline is changing, along with the identity and culture it sustains.
Being a campus by the sea now holds a deeper weight as the shoreline and the culture it cradles erodes like sand through fingers.
For Danielle Mark Fukuda, a marine biologist, the sea is not just beside the campus but a living space for research.
Students wade into shallow waters, where seagrass sway with the tide and tiny crabs scuttle among shells and fishes—the pulse of the local ecosystem and the backbone of nearby fisheries. Here, the shoreline becomes a living classroom where tides and marine life are observed up close.
“We take out the students to see it for themselves, make their observations on whatever’s happening or whatever’s in the marine ecosystems,” Fukuda said.
Beyond lessons, this hands-on experience builds a bond with the environment, teaching students to care for the life thriving along the shore.
For Iman Nicole Reyes, a Marine Biology student, that proximity drew her to the university.
“One of the reasons I picked Silliman was because it was really near the sea so it would be optimal for our marine studies, and I feel like it’s more relaxing than anything compared to other colleges that are in the cities,” she said.
The sea breeze, the open horizon, the immediacy of observation are not just scenery but part of her education.
While the sea continues to influence student life, the coastline itself continues to shift.
The shoreline faces multiple pressures: reclamation projects covering seagrass beds, studies detecting E. coli strains along the coast, and ongoing human activity altering the ecosystem.
Dr. Aileen Maypa, director of IEMS and a marine ecologist in Dumaguete since 1994, has witnessed these changes firsthand.
“Three hectares of seagrass are buried. That’s a lot of habitat for our resources, which we call our food, that has been buried. This reclamation is really causing [a] negative impact to our food supply here in Dumaguete,” she said.
The consequences ripple outward. Local fisherfolk who once gleaned along sandy shores now face cemented edges. Seawalls reflect wave energy back into the water rather than letting it dissipate naturally across beaches.
Sea grasses in the deeper waters are dying, smothered by sediments stirred up by strong waves and weakened by polluted waters—a reminder of how fragile this balance is.
As reclamation projects reform the coastline, marine scientists find themselves clarifying a common misconception, that growth and conservation cannot coexist.
Fukuda said that development isn’t opposed but must follow the principles of sustainable development, allowing humans and nature to coexist. Without such science-based guidance, biodiversity and local livelihoods are put at risk.
“That line ‘Silliman beside the sea’ is actually threatened,” Maypa stressed.
As the shoreline narrows, so does the clarity of what that identity truly means.
“Being the campus by the sea and then we have so many incremental reclamations on-going that cultural value, that identity [is] starting to become a bit blur,” Fukuda said.
As the seagrass dies and reclamation continues, the fieldwork, observation, and seaside traditions students experience are at risk of disappearing. Cement now interrupts what was once an extensive sandy beach and seagrass meadows.
“There’s a barrier now, I wish it can be changed and we can go back to those wide expanse of sandy beaches,” Maypa said.
Even Reyes notices the gap between image and experience. While the university carries that title, she believes that identity sometimes lives more visually than culturally.
Students are not passive observers but active challengers of change, diving in to protect and restore the shoreline. Some plant mangroves, rehabilitate corals, and organize coastal cleanups. Others advocate for responsible development, joining petitions and campaigns, helping ensure the shoreline persists for future generations.
“I’d love to see more activities that would celebrate the sea. They would do cleanups, but not much on interacting with the fishermen and the livelihood that is mainly settled by and in the sea,” Reyes said.
She spoke with clear passion and determination. She wanted people to feel the same love for the environment that drives her and her peers, eager to share their knowledge and protect the shoreline for everyone.
Still, hope persists in research, restoration, and resistance. Mangrove reforestation and coral rehabilitation initiatives invite students and volunteers to take part in helping rebuild habitats, strengthen biodiversity, and protect the coastal ecosystem that sustains both marine life and local communities.
Building on these efforts, scientists translate research into management, and management into policy. Even when progress slows, advocacy moves forward.
But protecting the Dumaguete coast and marine biodiversity shouldn’t fall on scientists alone.
“The students, the faculty and staff, the whole Silliman community should keep on fighting and be vigilant with the changes in Dumaguete’s coast, and engage in issues affecting its habitats and biodiversity,” Maypa said.
Beyond the view of the shore, Dumaguete’s coast hums with life.
Fisherfolk rely on its waters for their catch and underwater habitats shelter the fish that sustain local fisheries. For students, each tide carries lessons in stewardship—a living legacy they inherit and are learning to protect.
“We have to give it to you, the next generation, in a healthy state, not in a damaged state. What will you inherit if it’s all cement?” Maypa said.
The tides rise and fall outside the campus gates, brushing against sand that students have wandered for decades. The wind carries the salty tang of the sea, and each step along the shore is a reminder of the rhythms of life and the care it demands.
Being a campus by the sea means noticing the flow of life in sand and surf, feeling the tide’s rhythm, and carrying the responsibility of protecting a shore that teaches and nurtures its community.
Somewhere between the ebbing waves and the scattered corals, the white sands still whisper stories of the past. They speak not just of what was lost, but of what can be restored, if hands, hearts, and hope keep tending to the shore that has always been, and will always be, a part of Silliman.