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 Sangguniang Kabataan, 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 ten-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. (To be continued)/PN
