Quiz Show or Crisis Signal? “Bilyonaryo Quiz B” and the Spectacle of Philippine Education

Wazzup Pilipinas!?

In a nation where primetime TV has long been the playground of singing contests, slapstick sitcoms, and romanticized celebrity houses, the quiet resurgence of a quiz bee show feels almost revolutionary—if not ironically nostalgic. “Bilyonaryo Quiz B”, a program that pits college students against each other in intellectual battles, is a throwback to a more academically idealized time in Philippine television. But beneath its gamified charm and cash prize luster lies a disturbing question: Are we celebrating intellect—or simply exposing the wounds of a broken education system?

Hosted by the ever-composed and intellectually formidable David Celdran, “Bilyonaryo Quiz B” revives a classic format many thought dead: the televised quiz bee. Each week, students face off in buzzer rounds covering six classic subjects: History, Science and Technology, Arts and Literature, Math and Logic, Geography and Nature, and General Information. It’s neat, nostalgic, and seemingly noble. A millionaire is crowned at the end. The sponsors, never verbally acknowledged, loom visually on screen—a quiet reminder that even knowledge must now play to capital.

But as the show’s episodes roll out, viewers are left with more furrowed brows than awe-struck gasps. Contestants stumble on the Cavite Mutiny, bungle human chromosomes, and seem more shell-shocked than sharp. Is it just the lights and pressure? Or is this show unintentionally laying bare a national crisis that can no longer be hidden behind PowerPoints and Department of Education press releases?

Behind the Buzzer: A Crisis in Disguise

The Philippines is currently suffering from a full-blown education emergency. According to recent reports, including one published by the Inquirer, our PISA (Programme for International Student Assessment) results are abysmal, ranking among the lowest globally in reading, science, and math. The fallout from years of budget cuts, outdated pedagogical approaches, learning poverty, and systemic inequality is now being aired in primetime, one missed question at a time.

It’s not just about academic underperformance. The very model of education promoted in recent decades—what Brazilian philosopher Paolo Freire called the “banking model”—treats students as empty accounts waiting to be filled with data rather than empowered individuals capable of critical thought and transformation. In this light, quiz shows like Bilyonaryo Quiz B, though well-meaning, become bittersweet: a flash of hope in a dim landscape, but also a mirror reflecting everything we’ve lost.

From “Battle of the Brains” to “Brain Drain”

In the 1990s, Battle of the Brains wasn’t just a game show; it was a national event. It validated intelligence in a country often obsessed with beauty pageants and telenovela tears. It made nerds cool. And it proved that TV could be both entertaining and educational.

Fast forward to today, and the media landscape is a circus of gimmicks. Quiz shows now flirt with the absurd—Quizmosa, for instance, tests celebrity gossip rather than geography or science. Even adaptations of globally respected formats like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire are overloaded with suspenseful lights and cinematic music, more drama than data.

The digital age hasn’t helped. While we have more information than ever at our fingertips, attention spans have cratered. Intellectual curiosity is competing with viral dances, misinformation, and instant gratification. In a world of 15-second reels, how do you get anyone to care about the GDP of Laos?

Intellectual Capitalism: Is Knowledge for Sale?

The very platform producing Bilyonaryo Quiz B—the Bilyonaryo News Channel—is owned by a corporation known for profiling the lives of the ultra-wealthy. That context matters. When billionaires host quiz bees, it's not just entertainment; it's commentary. And it raises a question: Is this a genuine attempt to revive intellectual curiosity, or is knowledge simply being rebranded as a premium product—one you can monetize, gamify, and sell?

With its million-peso prize, “Bilyonaryo Quiz B” makes intelligence aspirational again. But it also commodifies it. Knowledge becomes spectacle, packaged for viewership, ratings, and sponsorship. In this sense, the show becomes both a resistance and a reinforcement: resisting ignorance, but reinforcing the idea that education, like everything else, must perform under capitalism’s spotlight to matter.

The Show Must Go On?

Let’s be clear: Bilyonaryo Quiz B is not the enemy. In fact, it may be one of the few recent efforts to restore dignity to intellectual pursuits in mainstream media. But like a bandage on a bullet wound, its presence does not cure the deeper hemorrhaging of our education system—it only conceals it momentarily.

That college students struggle to answer what were once basic questions is not a failure of the show. It is a symptom of something far graver: a generation raised on diluted curricula, underfunded schools, and a society that values fame over facts. It’s also a generation battling digital addiction, economic instability, and political disillusionment.

And yet, there’s something admirable about how Bilyonaryo Quiz B insists on intelligence in a time of noise. It insists that knowledge still has a place in the national consciousness, even if it has to fight for airtime between love teams and lip syncs.

Final Answer?

In a world where education is both politicized and privatized, Bilyonaryo Quiz B is less a savior and more a symbol. A symbol of what we once had, what we desperately need, and what we risk losing entirely. It is a love letter to a country that once revered its scholars and a warning to a future that might forget them.

So while it may never overhaul a system plagued by inequality, corruption, and pedagogical decay, perhaps this show can spark something small—curiosity, conversation, even conviction. Because before you change a nation, you must first ask it questions.

And maybe, just maybe, it will start buzzing back. 

THE IRONY OF INJUSTICE: Floodwaters, Gambling, and the Death of a Son

Wazzup Pilipinas!?

It was one of those nights in Metro Manila when the boundaries between land and sea ceased to exist. In Malabon and Navotas, torrential monsoon rains transformed roads into rivers. Families barricaded their homes, resigned to yet another flood—but for one family, it wasn’t just their belongings that were swept away. It was their hope.

On Tuesday, July 22, a father of six vanished. Not swept by waters—but by a broken system. His crime? Allegedly playing kara y krus, a coin-flipping street game that has now become a criminal offense under a draconian law passed in 1978—during the reign of Ferdinand Marcos Sr. That law was once justified as a safeguard against the vices that preyed on the poor. Decades later, not a single major gambling operator has been jailed under it. Only the nameless and powerless continue to be arrested.

This time, it was Gelo’s father.

Gelo—Dion Angelo, a 20-year-old college student and the eldest among six siblings—had no idea where his father had gone. Alongside his mother Jennylyn, who is blind in one eye, he began searching, sloshing through filthy, waist-deep floodwaters. Their journey was driven by panic and love.

For days, every police station in Caloocan, Malabon, and Navotas claimed ignorance. The family was left to suffer in suspense, until finally, on July 25, Gelo found his father shackled to five other detainees in a hidden corner of a precinct. He had been there all along. No calls. No records shown. The police, in silent conspiracy, had chosen to erase him.

Bail was set at ₱30,000—a laughable impossibility for a family living hand-to-mouth. As Gelo returned daily to bring his father food, wading through flood and filth, the cost was rising—not just financially, but physically. His body, overwhelmed by the toxic waters, began to fail.

By Sunday, July 27, Gelo was feverish. He apologized to his mother for not being able to visit the precinct or serve Mass that day. He was in pain. But he was still thinking of his father’s freedom.

That night, while his three-year-old sister slept nearby, Gelo’s breath stopped. The disease leptospirosis, transmitted through rat urine in floodwaters, had silently poisoned him.

He died not because of a game of chance, but because of a system that gambles with the lives of the poor.

A CRIME AGAINST HOPE

What is more criminal? A man playing a coin game to forget his hunger for a moment—or a state institution turning mobile phones into slot machines and enticing children into lifelong addiction?

Gelo’s father was arrested for a crime so minor that most would not even consider it one. Meanwhile, PAGCOR—the Philippine Amusement and Gaming Corporation—runs a sprawling web of online gambling operations under the guise of national revenue. The law is used not to protect the poor, but to make them pay for their poverty.

Once upon a time, laws prevented minors from entering casinos. Slot machines were forbidden in public places. Now, a child can place a bet online before learning to read a clock. Every mobile device is a casino. And if gambling is an addiction, then the government is the dealer.

How many children have watched their families fall apart in silence, while the state counts profits?

The hypocrisy is suffocating. In one hand, the government pushes gambling like sugar-coated poison. In the other, it imprisons the poor for indulging in it.

GELO: THE MARTYR OF A BROKEN SYSTEM

Gelo was not just a student. He was the family’s future. Studying Human Resource Services at Malabon City College, he dreamed of lifting his siblings from the slums, of giving his blind mother rest. Instead, he became a victim of two interconnected plagues: flooding from corruption, and injustice from weaponized poverty.

The same week Gelo died, the Catholic Bishops' Conference of the Philippines released a statement condemning online gambling. Kalookan Bishop Pablo Virgilio David, in another pastoral letter, condemned the corruption that allows flood control systems to fail despite billions in allocated funds. In Gelo’s death, those two evils collided.

The floodgate in their area had been broken for years. Just recently, ₱281 million had been allocated for its repair. Nothing changed. Corruption had stolen both infrastructure and security.

So while government agencies squander public funds, Gelo walked barefoot through diseased waters. And while high-ranking officials toast at casino tables, his family couldn’t even afford a funeral parlor for his wake. They held vigil on the street, beside traffic and noise.

A FATHER’S GRIEF, A NATION’S SHAME

When Gelo’s father heard about his son’s death, still chained behind bars, his wails echoed through the precinct. He blamed himself. He blamed God. He had been robbed not just of freedom, but of the chance to hold his son one last time.

And yet, the police still pushed forward with the case, still demanded he face trial for a coin game. He was temporarily released, thanks to a kind soul who posted bail—but the weight of injustice remains.

The real question isn’t why Gelo died. The question is how we allowed a system where this is normal. Where warrantless arrests are tools of control, where the justice system incentivizes false confessions, and where thousands rot behind bars—not because of guilt, but because they are too poor to prove innocence.

Is this justice?

LET THE FLOOD OF RIGHTEOUSNESS FLOW

The Book of Amos says: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

But in this country, the only thing that flows freely is the flood—of water, of corruption, of sorrow.

As a nation, we must mourn not only Gelo’s death, but our collective failure. This tragedy is not isolated. It is part of a pattern—a system calibrated to crush the poor while the rich dance above the law.

We must rise. Churches, schools, media, civil society—this is your moment to speak.

Gelo’s life was not in vain. His death must become a movement. A cry that wakes us up from numbness. A name we must never forget.

A FINAL WORD

Let Gelo’s story be told not just in whispered prayers, but in courtrooms, policy debates, protest rallies, and ballot boxes.

To the lawmakers—repeal outdated laws that are used as weapons against the poor.

To the police—enforce justice, not quotas.

To PAGCOR—stop pushing addiction under the guise of revenue.

To every Filipino—ask yourself: How many more Gelo’s must die before we say: “Enough.”

Let us not wait for the next flood to wash away another life. Let us be the storm that drowns injustice.

The Builders Beyond the Beach: GOAB Unleashes a New Era of Grassroots Tech Leadership with Its 2025 Ambassador Program

Wazzup Pilipinas!?

In a time when global tech conferences often chase prestige and spectacle, Geeks On A Beach (GOAB) dares to dive deeper—into the grassroots, into the communities, into the people who are quietly transforming the future of Philippine tech.

On August 1, 2025, GOAB officially launched its most ambitious community initiative yet: The GOAB Community Ambassador Program. And while its impact may not yet make waves in stock markets or disrupt billion-dollar industries overnight, it’s creating something arguably more powerful—a sustainable ecosystem rooted in inclusion, purpose, and people.

Not Just a Role, But a Movement

The 2025 GOAB Ambassadors aren’t merely figureheads or names on promotional materials. They are the beating heart of a movement that believes in tech as a transformative force—not just for industry, but for lives and livelihoods. They are startup founders, educators, designers, technologists, and students—from cities like Davao, Cebu, Pampanga, Manila, and Bohol—who believe that a rising tide lifts all boats.

At the helm is Ashley Uy, GOAB Community Director and founder of Sprout Up Bohol, whose own story echoes the very DNA of this movement. A former volunteer for TechTalks.ph, Ashley co-organized the first Startup Weekend Bohol in 2014 and attended her first GOAB the same year. What began as a spark in a local initiative is now a roaring flame lighting up communities across the archipelago.

Ashley’s vision was clear: “If we’re going to design the future, it must be built on shared purpose and authentic local insight.” The 2025 Ambassador Program, launched after a successful pilot, is the answer to that call.

Meet the Trailblazers: GOAB’s 2025 Ambassadors

Each ambassador is a community anchor, with a distinct mission:

Ashley Uy (Bohol) – The visionary lead, igniting Bohol’s digital workforce through Sprout Up Bohol

Aldrich Tan (Manila) – User experience champion, pushing human-centered design via UX PH

Christian Geonzon (Davao) – Youth empowerment engine at Davao Young Executives

Grahssel Dungca (Pampanga) – Developer community dynamo with DEVCON.PH

Karl Dela Cruz (Cebu) – User design thought leader through CebuUXD

Liam Mendoza (Davao) – The youngest in the cohort, rallying students with Davao Interschool Computer Enthusiasts

Melissa Lagat (Cebu) – Island innovator and community builder at Startup Island

Shannen Sapar (Davao) – Multi-platform creative force leading UX Davao and Sidlak Creatives

Steven Asoy (Bohol) – Tech advocate and dual-pillar support for both Sprout Up Bohol and DEVCON.PH

These aren’t just digital movers—they are ecosystem multipliers. Each brings not only skills but also an unwavering commitment to amplify opportunities in their cities and beyond.

More Than A Conference—A Platform for Impact

While GOAB remains one of the most anticipated beachside tech conferences in the region, its new direction signals a shift: from annual event to year-round enabler. Through the Ambassador Program, GOAB is building bridges between international stakeholders and grassroots leaders—creating a two-way street where insights, opportunities, and resources freely flow.

Throughout the year, Ambassadors will:

Host local meetups, talks, and knowledge exchanges

Act as connectors for startups needing support

Provide real-time, on-the-ground feedback to shape GOAB’s programs

Spark collaboration between regions and communities

Promote the values of #givefirst and #giveback

Why It Matters—Especially Now

Let’s face it—ecosystem building isn’t sexy. It’s the invisible, thankless work that doesn’t trend on social media or make headlines. But without it, startups collapse, talent drains, and innovation stays locked in silos.

GOAB knows this. That’s why it refuses to stay within the boundaries of a once-a-year event. Instead, it is stepping into the trenches of community development, investing in real leaders doing real work—every day, even when no one is watching.

In the words of one ambassador:

“Being part of GOAB isn’t just a title—it’s a torch we carry for our communities.”

What’s Next: Expanding the Shorelines

GOAB promises that this is just the beginning. In the months to come, each of the ambassadors will be spotlighted in a series of feature stories, sharing their local challenges, breakthroughs, and the unique flavor of innovation in their cities. Expect regional crossovers, grassroots initiatives, and fresh collaborations that blur the line between local and global.

Meanwhile, GOAB continues to invite more partners, mentors, and advocates to support the movement. If you’ve ever wanted to contribute to the Philippine startup scene, now is the time.

Want In? Here’s How

Join GOAB 2025 – Be part of the most meaningful tech conference in the Philippines. Don’t just attend—build.

Become a Beach Club member – Get exclusive deals, event access, and early opportunities to connect with the GOAB community.

Partner with GOAB – Whether you’re a global company, local nonprofit, or angel investor, there’s a place for you here.

To partner, email hello@geeksonabeach.com

From beachfront to backstreets, GOAB’s reach is growing—and so is its impact. Because innovation doesn’t always wear suits or sit in skyscrapers. Sometimes, it shows up in flip-flops, armed with a laptop, a dream, and a whole community behind them.

The next wave of builders is here. And they’re not waiting for the tide.

They are the tide.

#GOAB2025 #BuildBeyondTheBeach #GiveFirstGiveBack