This is Not Where I Belong

 

Sometimes, I wonder if I am at fault.

I was raised -- academically, intellectually, emotionally -- by the University of the Philippines. And in UP, we are taught to speak up when something feels wrong. We are taught to question systems, to challenge the status quo, to hold authority accountable, not with disrespect, but with reason, with courage. We call our deans “Sir” or “Ma’am,” yes, but we speak to them not with fear, but with mutual respect. They teach us, and we teach in return. That is the heart of the university: a place where knowledge is shared, not hoarded behind titles and rank.

That was the culture that formed me. That’s where I found my voice. But here, in this current institution, things are… different.

Here, you are expected to stay quiet. To say yes. To go along. Because you are just a “lowly” faculty member. Because questioning makes you a target. Because the system values hierarchy above dialogue. The higher the title, the less accessible the person becomes. The farther away they sit, figuratively and literally, from the people who do the actual teaching.

The other day, I attended a meeting at the main General Santos campus. The architecture and ambiance reminded me so much of UP Diliman. But the feeling was not the same. There was no familiar thrum of shared purpose. No sense of being in a place where ideas are free to roam. For me, there was no pride, no love. And when the chancellor walked in, he was flanked by bodyguards, assistants, an entourage more fitting for a celebrity than an academic leader.

And I just knew: I do not belong here.

And yet, paradoxically, I do love this university. I love my students, fiercely and completely. I love the hope they carry, the questions they ask, the fire in their eyes. I love what this institution stands for: unity in diversity, peace and progress in Mindanao, respect for indigenous cultures. Those values matter to me. They are what keep me here, still trying.

What I do not love is the system. The worship of hierarchy. The silencing of dissent. The bureaucracy that mistakes fear for order. And the slow erosion of passion in those who simply want to teach and grow.

I don’t know how long I will stay. But I do know this: I will never apologize for expecting more. For believing that respect should not be earned through silence, but through truth. For knowing what it feels like to walk into a campus and feel love for it in your chest.

And for now, I carry that love elsewhere: with my students, in the classroom, and in the quiet work that I still choose to do well. To me, that's what matters the most. Perhaps for now, I do not have to belong. I only have to do the work that I signed up for, to the best of my ability, maneuvering away from the system that I feel is suffocating. I need to focus my attention on my purpose and my students. 

Then perhaps, soon, I will find a new home.