WHEN I first began college, I never forgot how excited my best friend was for me. She told me, “It’s so cool! When you graduate, you get to wear a sablay.” 

At the time, I saw it the way most people do— as something elegant, uniquely UP, and picture-worthy. It looked light on the shoulders, like a final reward after years of hard work. But what I didn’t know then was just how heavy that sablay really is.

There’s a certain weight that comes with studying in UP— one that starts long before graduation. 

The moment that people find out that you’re from UP, they either assume these things: that you’re a genius, an activist, or sometimes, even an NPA in the making. 

I’ve lost count of how I was treated differently because of it. The questions change, the tone shifts. Sometimes, there’s admiration; other times, suspicion. 

And because I hated that shift, I began hiding it. When people asked me where I study, I gave vague answers: “in a state university” or “somewhere in Los Baños”, hoping that the conversation wouldn’t go further in that direction. Whether I liked it or not, most people made UP the cornerstone of my personality. 

But the truth is, I entered UP not as a genius, an activist, or even someone who is politically aware— I entered it as a grieving daughter. I had just lost my father. My family was adjusting to the absence of stability— both emotional and financial— and UP felt like my only shot at survival. I didn’t come to the university to impress anyone. I came to survive because it was the only college I could afford. 

I saw the sablay as something I had to earn. A symbol that I had made it through despite everything. 

But as I neared the end of my graduation and learned a lot from dealing with the marginalized sectors, I realized that I was looking at it in a very limited perspective. The sablay is not a personality, nor is it a badge of genius or a mark of rebellion. It is not merely a light at the end of the tunnel for many students. 

What it is is a reminder of what’s expected of us next, long after we take it off. 

The sablay is heavier than it looks—not because of what it’s made of, but because of what it demands.

The Sablay as a Symbol of Triumph and Status

In recent years, several controversies have surfaced involving individuals falsely claiming to have graduated from UP. Some even went so far as to fake their certificates, SAIS grades, and yes, the sablay photoshoot. 

These sparked outrage in the UP community. Both students and alumni called out the disrespect behind such fabrications. The sablay is not merely a decorative sash. It is earned— not bought, not borrowed, and most certainly not faked. 

To wear it without having to endure the rigor of UP education is not just dishonest but in itself is a form of theft for the hundreds of graduates who clawed their way to wear the sablay on stage. It steals recognition from those who actually survived the sleepless nights, academic pressure, the terror profs, and the relentless questioning that comes with a UP education. It is a mockery of the sacrifices of those who actually worked hard to wear the sablay on their shoulder. 

But while these cases are infuriating, they also reveal a deeper truth about how the sablay is perceived—and even marketed. 

For many UP students who labored through sleepless nights, fought for principles, and stood with the marginalized, the sablay represents hard-earned triumph. But for others, it has become a symbol of status—a marker of prestige rather than perseverance.

It used to carry ideas that UP graduates are somehow better, more capable, or more worth listening to just because they came from the country’s premiere university. It represents an unspoken hierarchy in Philippine society—where UP, and by extension the sablay, sits at the top. 

And that’s dangerous.

Because when the sablay is framed merely as a marker of superiority, we forget the very lesson we should have learned from UP. It becomes less about honor, excellence, and service but more about social capital. It begins to serve as a tool of exclusion, rather than a testament of resilience and service. 

When you’re constantly primed to believe that being from UP makes you exceptional, you get tempted to believe it. To let it define you. To see yourself as inherently better than others who didn’t get the same opportunity, even when so much of that opportunity is shaped by privilege. 

Yes, the sablay is a symbol of triumph. But that triumph shouldn’t be weaponized as status. It isn’t proof that we’re better than others. It’s not a license to look down on those who didn’t receive the same opportunities. If anything, it should keep us grounded. 

Because the truth is, many of us were only able to study in UP because of the people who couldn’t—those whose taxes funded our education, whose labor made our learning possible, and whose dreams we now carry with us.

The sablay should not isolate us from them. It should remind us that we owe them something in return.

The Sablay as a Responsibility

“So what if you’re from UP?” one of Jessica Soho’s cameramen asked her when she was just starting out—40 years ago. She recalled the moment during her speech at UP Diliman’s commencement exercises.

“UP is not a vacuum, and more importantly, not an ivory tower,” she said. 

But if the sablay should be worn not with entitlement and power, what does it guarantee us? Nothing— except responsibility. 

Being from UP shouldn’t be a pass. Not to privilege. Not to ego. And certainly, not to power without purpose. It should never be the basis for superiority, nor an excuse to look down on others who didn’t walk the same halls. The sablay is not a crown but a cross we have to carry. 

You didn’t graduate as an Iskolar ng Bayan only to serve yourself. 

The truth is, some who have worn the sablay have gone on to display brilliance, even excellence—but not honor. And most certainly, not responsibility. They’ve used their intellect to manipulate, their credentials to exclude, and their influence to preserve the status quo that UP taught its students to resist. 

They may have topped their classes, dazzled with speeches, or led rallies in their youth but somewhere along the way, they stopped serving the people and started serving only themselves.

These are the people who speak of nationalism but negotiate with tyranny. Who wear the sablay in framed portraits while turning their backs on the very principles that it represents. 

And that is the ultimate shame: when the Iskolar ng Bayan becomes indistinguishable from the trapo. When the revolutionary becomes the oppressor. 

As Orwell wrote in Animal Farm: “The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

Because to be like this is not simply a failure but a betrayal. 

Carrying It Forward

The sablay may just be a piece of garment for others. UP graduates should look at it beyond that. 

We should not view it as something we take off at the end of the day, after graduation. What it represents must stay with you. 

Because the sablay is not a symbol of privilege, but of trust—a trust given by the people who made your education possible. It is the faith of a nation that hopes you will use what you’ve learned not to uphold systems of oppression, but to extend a hand to the marginalized, and let your voice rise with theirs in the call for a better future.

Jessica Soho was right: UP should not be an ivory tower. It must not exist above the people, isolated in prestige. It should be a platform, a step you climb not to elevate yourself alone, but to help others reach the same goal too. 

To wear the sablay is to bear a heavy cross. It is to promise that you will not turn your back on the very communities that carried you to your journey. It is a vow not to retreat in comfort, but to walk forward in honor, excellence, and most importantly, in service.