Save SK from trapo

By Herman M. Lagon

The easiest applause line in politics is often the most dangerous one. Say “abolish the SK,” and many exhausted citizens will nod before the coffee cools. They have seen the lazy stereotypes: the endless basketball leagues, the beauty pageants with tarpaulins louder than the programs, the chairperson who learns the art of tarpaulin smiling before learning the art of liquidation. So when Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla suggested abolishing the SK, many people quickly agreed. In a country tired of weak institutions, it sounded clean and practical. But not every popular idea is a wise one. Some simply feel satisfying in the moment. A broken youth council is still not proof that youth representation itself is a bad idea. It may simply be proof that adults have allowed the young to inherit the worst habits of the old. The better response is not to erase the table. It is to stop letting trapos sit at both ends of it.

That matters because the SK, at least in law and in principle, was never meant to be a barangay rehearsal for petty patronage. Under the 1987 Constitution, the state is supposed to encourage the youth’s involvement in public and civic affairs. Republic Act No. 10742, the SK Reform Act of 2015, says much the same thing in more operational language: The point is to create “adequate, effective, responsive and enabling mechanisms” for meaningful youth participation in local governance. The law gave the SK real responsibilities, from preparing a three-year youth development plan and annual youth investment program to initiating programs for youth welfare and managing the youth’s share of barangay funds. The 2022 law, Republic Act No. 11768, strengthened that framework further. On paper, then, the SK is not a decorative youth wing. It is the country’s most direct civic apprenticeship at the barangay level. Removing the SK entirely does not only erase a flawed structure. It also closes one of the few doors where ordinary young people can try their hand at public leadership without political connections or famous last names.

Talk to anyone who mentors student leaders, and they will say the same thing: The youth are ready. They simply need space to grow. In many communities, the SK becomes that first classroom of public life — where young people learn planning, budgeting, and speaking for others. That training is not trivial. A 19-year-old who learns how to consult with fellow youth on mental health, school support, sports access, waste management, transport safety, or disaster response is learning the muscle memory of citizenship. I have seen enough young leaders in schools and communities to know the type. They are not glamorous. They are the ones carrying bond paper during registration, checking attendance, staying after an event to clean up chairs, and replying to messages from worried parents and younger students. These young people do exist inside the SK as well. They are just easier to miss because dysfunction is always better at advertising itself than quiet competence.

That said, pretending the institution is healthy would be dishonest. The criticism did not grow from nowhere. A major study commissioned by UNICEF and the DILG found the SK’s performance over a 10-year period to be generally weak, especially in legislation, youth development, reporting, and consultations with constituents. The 2015 reform law itself was practically an admission that the old setup had become too vulnerable to patronage, tokenism, and low accountability. Even before the latest controversy, critics had long described the SK as a breeding ground for dynasties, a smaller mirror of adult politics, and a place where some young officials learn all the wrong lessons too early. We have all heard the jokes because too often they were not jokes. The relative of the barangay captain runs. The cousin of the councilor runs. What should nurture young leaders can sometimes look like a family franchise in politics. Add poor guidance and a system that prizes charm over competence, and public service becomes more show than substance.

Still, abolition is a lazy broom. It sweeps the floor by throwing away the furniture. If the SK has become vulnerable to trapo culture, the solution is to attack trapo culture, not youth participation itself. Even the 2015 reform push led by supporters of overhauling the SK understood that. Among the strongest reforms were raising the age of SK officials to 18 to 24, requiring mandatory training, and introducing anti-dynasty restrictions, precisely because the goal was to move the institution toward competence and away from patronage. That instinct remains correct. The country does not need a youth council that behaves like a miniature mayoralty race. It needs one with stricter qualification filters, serious onboarding, transparent budgeting, public scorecards, and real consequences for nonperformance. If an SK can handle 10% of a barangay’s general fund for youth development, then it should also survive publication requirements, procurement scrutiny, attendance checks, liquidation deadlines, and citizen feedback. Service without accountability is not empowerment. It is cosplay with receipts missing.

What would reform look like if we were serious and not merely dramatic? Start with the obvious. Require certified training before full assumption of financial powers, not after damage is already possible. Let the Katipunan ng Kabataan assembly become what it should be: regular, documented, and open to all youth. That way, SK officials face their community, not just their election circle. Every budget and project update should also be posted publicly in clear Filipino or the local dialect. Strengthen the Local Youth Development Council so the SK is not isolated and can be checked, advised, and enriched by student leaders, faith-based youth groups, sports organizations, campus journalists, cultural advocates, and community volunteers. Most of all, tighten the anti-dynasty rules and enforce them like we mean it. If adults keep using the SK as a nursery for family brands, then yes, the public will keep mistaking youth governance for early-stage trapo incubation. The remedy is not abolition. The remedy is to starve the patronage pipeline.

This matters even more in the teachers’ context, where the cost of shallow politics is seen up close. Teachers know what happens when leadership is reduced to popularity and paperwork is treated as decoration. Schools are full of young people who can lead if given trust, structure, and coaching. When the SK works, it can support reading drives, tutorial hubs, anti-bullying campaigns, school supply banks, sports access beyond the usual boys’ league, menstrual health sessions, digital literacy orientations, youth disaster response, anti-teenage pregnancy advocacy, voter education, feeding programs, and even mental wellness conversations in places where guidance services are thin. These are not grand ideas. They are the ordinary, community-level programs youth councils are meant to carry out. When young leaders manage them well, they discover that leadership is not about noise, but about responsibility. A country already weary of cynical politics does not need fewer training grounds for public service. It needs better ones.

It is easy to understand why some have lost patience with the SK. But disappointment should not become neglect. If we remove every imperfect institution, the deeper problems will remain. The wiser choice is to preserve youth representation while demanding better standards from it. Young citizens deserve a venue for leadership that does not train them to become smaller copies of the worst adults in the system. If Remulla’s provocation pushes the country toward that deeper reform conversation, then it may still do some good. But if we stop at abolition, we will only prove once again that when politics fails to guide the young well, it finds it easier to blame them than to change itself. The SK should stay. The trapo DNA inside it should not.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and purpose-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions where he is employed or with which he is connected.