What I learned from Jane Jacobs

**media[27418]**NIGHT OWLWhen I went to London, I was a bit lost—not just geographically, but personally. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. I’d wander around aimlessly, sit on park benches, explore tiny alleys, and just people-watch. But in all that quiet observing, something clicked. I started to realize that there’s no better education than being able to travel the world and see how different communities live, build, and thrive.When I started studying formally, the first book I read was Jane Jacobs’ The Death and Life of Great American Cities. And honestly, that book has never left me. It shaped the way I see cities, neighborhoods, and the power of community. Jacobs, to me, was someone who looked around and paid attention to what made a place feel alive.Her idea of “eyes on the street” has stuck with me the most. It’s about more than just safety—it’s about community ownership, presence, and trust. A place where people know each other, where the streets are alive with kids playing and neighbors chatting, where you feel seen and safe. Only when a girl can walk to school without worrying about being harassed or harmed, will we really say we’re making progress on gender equality. Safety isn’t just a public policy issue—it’s personal. It determines who gets to participate in life.I think about all this when I look at places like the Manila Hotel. It’s one of those places that carries history, soul, and memory. And I sometimes wonder—what if we had done a better job preserving places like that? What if we had stronger systems to honor and protect our shared spaces and stories?In the Philippines, barangays are the heart of our communities. They’re where everyday life happens. But often, they don’t get the love or resources they deserve. If we applied Jane Jacobs’ way of thinking, we’d start seeing barangays not just as administrative units, but as powerful hubs of community-building.Jacobs believed in people-driven planning. Not top-down, technocratic decisions—but real conversations with the people who actually live there. Imagine if every barangay made space for residents to regularly gather, plan, and even dream together. Street festivals, small markets, clean-up days, communal gardens—these aren't just nice-to-haves. They’re how you build trust, safety, and shared purpose.And we’ve got to make our spaces work better, too. Jacobs loved mixed-use neighborhoods—where you’ve got homes, shops, schools, and parks all within walking distance. A lot of our barangays already have this mix—it just needs better support, maybe more thoughtful zoning, or some help for local entrepreneurs to thrive.One of the biggest things Jacobs taught me is that small is powerful. Big flashy infrastructure doesn’t always change lives—but a well-lit street corner, a cleaned-up plaza, or a community-run library might. Let people shape their own spaces, and they’ll take care of them. That’s the kind of change that sticks.And beyond buildings and sidewalks, there’s our culture—our languages, our traditions, our history. So much of it is disappearing fast. I hope our government finds a way to create real incentives for people to preserve what we have—our old houses, our stories, even our native tongues. We need to document our disappearing languages now—before they’re gone forever.Jacobs saw cities as living, breathing organisms, shaped by the people who live in them. If we look at our barangays through that lens, we’ll realize how much potential we have. These aren’t just governance units—they’re living communities that could lead the way in making our cities more human, more safe, more us.