𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐬

The UP College of Arts and Letters (CAL) is a strange case: an elite intellectual center that exists, for all practical purposes, in the middle of the street.

According to the 2026 Times Higher Education and 2025 QS World Rankings, CAL remains the premier home for arts and humanities in the Philippines. It is an institution that has produced eighteen National Artists and a steady stream of global award-winners. Its output anchored the university’s 331st global ranking in the discipline, with English and Comparative Literature, European Languages, and Theatre Arts frequently outranking the university’s wealthier, science and technology-based units. To a data analyst in London, New York, or Tokyo, these metrics suggest a well-funded, stable machine. To the scholars in Diliman, the rankings are a feat of sheer, stubborn endurance.

Everything changed on April 1, 2016, when the Faculty Center burned. In a few hours, the college lost more than a landmark. It lost the country’s intellectual basement. These were not merely “files.” They included the hand-marked drafts of National Artists and Professors Emeriti—decades of notes on the Filipino identity that became gray ash by sunrise. A decade later, that site is not being rebuilt for the people who lost their work. It is being reclaimed by a different priority.

There is a sharp, quiet irony in how the university handles its brand. The administration frequently uses “liberal arts excellence” to sell the institution to donors and international partners, effectively trading on the prestige earned by CAL’s faculty, students, and alumni while keeping those same people on the curb. While the college climbed the rankings, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬” 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬—𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐢𝐫-𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬. Meanwhile, the teachers, researchers and artists who actually built that global reputation remain nomadic.

The neglect is perhaps most visible in the silence of the institution’s current leadership transitions. 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐔𝐏 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡-𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞. It is treated as a footnote rather than an urgency, an “issue” to be managed rather than a crisis to be solved. This omission is the ultimate proof of institutional indifference: even as the university seeks new leadership, the literal heart of its premier college remains a hollowed-out memory.

This is not just a matter of convenience. It is a break in how people learn. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 “𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞”—𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐄𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

Today, that social glue is gone, and the college has become a set of disconnected points on a map. You can see the toll in the way the faculty lives. 𝐀 𝐔𝐏 𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚 “𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞”: 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐩, 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩, competing for space with noisy refrigerators and the transit of strangers.

There is a common mistake in thinking that a “world-class” mind only needs a brain to function. But the humanities are social. They require the “casual collisions” and shared coffee that only a physical home allows. Every student at the university, whether they are headed for a lab or a law firm, passes through CAL to learn how to think, write, and study the friction between nations and nationalism. The college is the university’s conscience, yet it is treated like a tenant without a lease.

Philippine scholarship is currently running on conviction rather than support. CAL has proven it can produce world-class teaching, theater, creative works and research from a borrowed desk or a sidewalk. But asking for “defiant excellence” while refusing to provide a roof is a strategy of diminishing returns. The college has already delivered the prestige. It should not still be waiting for an address.