IskolaRIFT: Drowned Long Before the Rain

Iskolaris did not collapse in bad weather; it drowned in a system that leaves no room for anything to go wrong.

Perhaps this is worth sitting with first. A university reveals itself not when things go as planned, but when they do not. When Iskolaris 2025 was called off, the immediate explanation was clear. In a statement posted by the PUP Iskolaris page on December 20, 2025, organizers announced that the event was rescheduled due to severe weather conditions that compromised technical equipment and posed safety risks to performers, staff, and attendees. The decision, they emphasized, was made despite thorough preparations and was guided primarily by concerns for safety and proper event conduct. In this narrow and immediate sense, the cancellation was justified. Proceeding under those conditions would have been irresponsible.

Still, stopping the conversation there feels insufficient. To do so is to mistake the trigger for the cause. Iskolaris did not collapse because of a single uncontrollable factor. It collapsed because it existed within a system that leaves no margin for disruption—no buffer for error, delay, or the unexpected. In such a system, any external pressure, whether logistical or environmental, does not test resilience. It simply exposes its absence.

What happened with Iskolaris in December 2025 was not unfamiliar to many PUPians. As reported by PUP Campus Journalists in their coverage of Iskolaris 2024, the university’s year-end celebration already grappled with constrained resources, with student organizers relying on pooled contributions to cover basic logistical needs such as sound systems and lighting while simultaneously using the event as a platform to protest budget cuts and the lack of student spaces. These events have long carried symbolic weight—not only as entertainment, but as rare moments of collective expression. Yet the constant tension between ambition and material limitation has become part of their defining reality.

The same pattern can be observed beyond Iskolaris. Events such as Tanglaw Fest, traditionally staged to welcome students each semester, have also reflected deeper structural constraints. According to reporting by Inquirer POP on Tanglaw Fest 2024, organizers were forced to recalibrate plans amid financial and logistical pressures, even as the event remained a crucial space for student advocacy and community engagement. The adjustments did not diminish the intent of the festival, but they underscored how even the most established student traditions must continually bend around limited institutional support.

This explains why the disappointment carried more weight than expected. It was not merely the loss of a concert. It was the recognition of a familiar design: large-scale student initiatives in PUP are often built to survive only under perfect conditions. When perfection fails—as it inevitably does—everything else follows. And so the real issue is not whether the decision to cancel was right. It was. The harder, more uncomfortable question is why so many of our events are designed in ways that leave cancellation as their most predictable ending.

For students, this feeling is not new. PUPians are no strangers to disappointment. Events shrink. Programs get downgraded. Promises quietly disappear. Every time, frustration explodes online, followed by the same familiar defenses: the budget is tight, the rules are strict, the university is poor. And every time, the anger eventually fades into resignation.

That pattern deserves closer scrutiny. That cycle is the real problem. Because it has trained us to confuse understanding the system with accepting its worst limitations. 

During the Iskolaris 2025 backlash on the PUP Freedom Wall, a confession posted on December 30, 2025 suggested that organizers could explore charging a minimal entrance fee to help fund logistics and secure quality performances. While many dismissed the idea as insensitive or elitist, that reaction reveals how deeply our collective imagination has been shaped by scarcity. The suggestion was not truly about making students pay for joy, but about asking whether—with proper structure—students might choose to invest in events that feel genuinely worth sustaining.

But the discomfort around this idea misses its core. This was never about money in the narrow sense. It is about value—the value we place on quality, sustainability, and the dignity of communal student life. When student events depend on uncertain sponsorships, volunteer labor, and hope, any unforeseen disruption—weather, logistics, delay—can derail months of planning.

To be fair, defenders of the current system raise legitimate points. A member of the student council responded to criticisms by outlining the legal and bureaucratic reality behind collecting fees. Fund-raising activities (FRA) require approvals that crawl through multiple offices. Government auditing rules demand trust receipts, procurement processes, and strict remittance timelines. The Free Tuition Law discourages anything that might look like mandatory collection. Violations can lead to administrative cases that could jeopardize a student leader’s future.

All of this is true and accurate. However, it is also incomplete.

Because explaining why the system is restrictive is not the same as explaining why the university has allowed such restrictions to remain unchanged for years, especially if they consistently undermine the success of major student initiatives.

Alternatives exist. While it is important to respect the necessity of checks and balances, there are practical reforms that could make future events more resilient. For example, establishing a standing cultural events fund with Board of Regents (BOR) approval can allow student councils to commit funds without redoing each step of the FRA process annually. Setting up pre-approved procurement frameworks for performers and logistics can help organizers secure contracts early. 

Other public universities manage to host large-scale, well-funded, audited events without criminalizing their organizers. They do so by establishing pre-approved event funds, centralized cultural budgets, standing partnerships, and procurement mechanisms that move at the pace of reality—not paperwork. If PUP cannot do the same, the issue is no longer law. It is priorities.

At its core, this is a question of what education is meant to include. The Free Tuition Law was designed to remove barriers to accessing academic instruction, not to constrain student life to bare survival. College is not only about classrooms and examinations. It is also about community, cultural expression, and rest—experiences that contribute to a humane education.

This is why the loss continues to linger. What makes the Iskolaris cancellation sting is not the lost concert. It is the recognition that we have been here before—and that unless something structural changes, we will be here again. Weather will always be unpredictable. What should not be unpredictable is whether a major university can sustain its own student culture.

If PUP truly believes in producing critical thinkers, then it must be prepared to turn that criticism inward. Not tomorrow. Not after another apology. Now.

Because the most embarrassing thing is not poverty. It is settling into dysfunction and calling it destiny. And the moment we stop demanding more than survival is the moment the system stops even pretending to give it. Indeed, Iskolaris did not fail under pressure; it revealed how little pressure the system was prepared to absorb.

Article: Ariane Claire Galpao

Cartoon: Raeka Alcaraz