How to kill without getting my hands dirty (In a student leader way)

This is not a leadership story. 

This is an autopsy. 

The Polytechnic University of the Philippines, as many proudly describe it, isn’t just home to smart iskolar ng bayan. It’s a campus full of fearless, critical, and fiercely competitive students. Naturally, most find their place in an organization that mirrors their values—whether through their stances, their systems, or their everyday practices.

From academic orgs to special interest groups and student councils, the university offers space for anyone with the heart (and energy) to serve the student body. But here’s the real question: Do students still genuinely care about their so-called “student leaders”?

Each year, over 97,000 PUPians are given the right to vote for student leaders who promise genuine representation—the kind that’s supposed to put students’ interests first. But if you’ve been keeping up with the drama unfolding in the SKM and LSC (yep, that fiasco), then welcome—here’s your quick-start guide on how to slowly kill everything that actually matters: student representation, expectations, trust, and yes — even your legacy.

Follow these steps closely (as many before you clearly have), and you, too, can turn your term in office into a masterclass in performative leadership and political cosplay.

A series of (un)successful events (and resignations) 

From the fierce annual Balik Sinta, the year-ending Tanglaw Fest, the colorful Rainbow Fest, and many other events organized by the student council throughout their term—the list may look impressive at first glance. But take a moment to ask: How many of these events actually met the expectations of the students?

How many were executed without issue—where bands, speakers, and guests didn’t later share bullet-pointed posts describing how they were mistreated, overlooked, or simply not respected? How many were planned with care—not just for logistics, but for the people involved and the time they gave?

And what about the organizers themselves? How often do we see “behind-the-scenes” post—grateful, yes, but tinged with frustration or exhaustion from feeling ignored, underappreciated, or left out of key decisions?

Then there are the students. Some post feedback openly, using their personal accounts. Others head to Facebook group pages, while many turn to PUP Freedom Wall, seeking anonymity—not out of malice, but out of fear. Because for some, it's safer to speak honestly when no name is attached.

And perhaps more telling than the feedback is this: the countless resignations have been filed—from the Office of the Student Regent (OSR), the Sentral na Konseho ng Mag-Aaral (SKM), and various Local Student Councils across colleges.

So we have to ask ourselves: Why does this keep happening? Why do these patterns repeat—again, and again, and again?

Step 1: Kill Student Representation (Vote straight, not wisely)

Every election season, students are given the right to choose—whether to run for a position or not. If they decide to take that step, they can align with a party or run independently. On paper, it sounds fair and open. In practice, it’s a different story.

Because how do you run with confidence when a single political organization dominates every election? Not necessarily because of proven competence, but simply due to numbers. It’s a reality many don’t talk about out loud—a quiet truth that’s easier to ignore than confront. But it raises an important question: How can elections be truly fair when those facilitating them are tied to one side?

Still, some students push through and decide to run.

But the challenge doesn’t stop at filing candidacy. The moment someone runs outside the dominant party line—especially independently—backlash often follows. It might not be overt, but it’s there: the subtle shading, the passive-aggressive comments, the silent treatment from peers who once clapped for your achievements.

Monopoly over leadership positions has long been a quiet issue. Students express frustration—not necessarily toward one party, but toward the lack of real choice. Some ask, “Why not just encourage more independent leaders to run?” But in a space where backlash is expected and neutrality feels risky, it’s not that simple.

And so, we arrive at a familiar dilemma: Do we vote straight, or click “abstain” and hope for better next time?

Step 2: Kill their expectations

Pre-election: be friendly. Smile as you walk down the University Avenue. Wave at familiar faces, nod at strangers, and accommodate every concern—even the most impossible ones—just enough to earn a good impression. Then, during your campaign speech, end with a list of promises:

Better leadership. Better office. Better events. Better representation. Say it with conviction, almost as if you're admitting the last batch didn’t quite deliver.

Then comes victory. You post a long, heartfelt caption thanking your supporters and swearing to do your best. You roll out a sleek series of teaser posters, art cards, promo videos, and Instagram GIFs for your first major event. You plan like a top-tier project head. You call meetings, set timelines, assign roles.

Then the first event flops.

So you post again—another long paragraph, this time explaining that the council will reflect, regroup, and fix things. You promise it won’t happen again.

But somehow… it does.

Maybe the event is forgotten. Maybe it only draws two attendees… and a ghost.

And then you try again.

You talk about “projects that empower the youth.” But quietly, the same pattern repeats.

When it fails: Blame logistics—because things just didn’t fall into place. Blame the administration—bureaucracy is always an easy target. Blame Mercury retrograde—even if there’s none. Blame your horoscope. Blame the students—for expecting too much.

Do it often enough, and the result is simple: students stop expecting anything at all.

And when no one expects anything, the job gets a lot easier.

Step 3: Kill Trust (The greatest weapon so far)

You won the position—which means people trusted you. Trusted you enough to believe you'd face the university’s toughest issues head-on. Trusted you enough that when you opened applications for your office, students rushed to fill them out, scrambling to make the cutoff, hoping to be part of something meaningful.

You welcomed them. Introduced yourself. Built friendships. Formed bonds. Roasted each other on social media. You let them in—just enough—so that when you eventually failed to become the leader you promised to be, they’d still choose to understand you. They’d excuse the shortcomings. They’d forgive the silence.

And it happens again. And again.

They trust you so much that even when you start treating your co-officers like interns in a toxic start-up—second-guessing their ideas, overriding their work, holding exclusive meetings for only the inner circle —they still stay, for a while. They stay because they believe in what you could be.

But eventually, they resign.

And when they do, you're finally free—free to lead without challenge, without questions, without anyone holding you accountable.

Step 4: Kill your image 

And now, things begin to unravel.

Students start voicing their concerns publicly. Former co-officers break their silence, sharing why they left. Feedback rolls in, not through whispers anymore—but through Facebook posts, Freedom Wall entries, and comment sections. So, you move to your next act: damage control through image preservation.

You start posting passive-aggressive statements, subtly shifting the blame. You remind people that you're just a student too—that you're not paid, that this role is voluntary, and that no one should expect too much. The message is clear: “You expect a lot from someone who does this for free.”

And just like that, you attempt to silence them—not by answering their concerns, but by guilt-tripping them into silence.

Then you continue the performance.

Stay mostly quiet. Block the ones who criticize you. Skip open forums. When the backlash gets loud, post quotes like “Kindness is free”—carefully cropped in beige Canva templates. Draft resolutions. Announce appointments of those who volunteered. Surround yourself with yes-men.

Stay silent long enough, and eventually, the students will start to ask the question you’ve been hoping for:

“Wait… do they even do anything?”

Step 5: Kill your legacy

And since everything else has been killed—the trust, the expectations, the student voice—no one demands anything from you anymore. You still get the recognition. You hold the position. You wear the title. And now, it’s time for the final act:

Killing your legacy.

When your term ends, what will students remember? The silence.

That you were always present—but never truly there. That you held power—but never held yourself accountable. That you wore the sash, the shirt, the praise—but never carried the weight of the responsibility that came with them.

It becomes a legacy of missed chances—not marked by controversy, but by absence.

And in the end, what lingers is not outrage, but reflection: What could have been? What change might have taken root—had the choice been made to lead, not just to occupy the role?

Wrap everything up

So there you have it—your unofficial guide to becoming the kind of student leader who kills… not with chaos or scandal, but with something far more subtle: absence.

Not showing up when it matters most. Not listening when students speak up. Not acting when you promised you would. Leadership, after all, isn’t just about holding a position—it’s about presence, consistency, and accountability. When those disappear, everything else follows.

And if you ever find yourself wondering why students no longer engage with the council, why fewer people vote, or why trust is at an all-time low—you don’t have to look far. 

Check your own track record. Look at the cycle you repeated. The damage wasn’t sudden. It didn’t come crashing in like a scandal. It crept in quietly—through missed deadlines, unanswered messages, and failed events.

It was silent. It was slow. And it was absolutely preventable.

Because sometimes, the biggest failure of leadership isn’t doing the wrong thing—it’s doing nothing at all.

Article: Gerie Marie Consolacion

Graphics: Marc Nathaniel Servo