By Herman M. Lagon
In a small university in the Visayas, a new graduate program is on hold — not for lack of students or ideas, but because of paperwork. Under the Commission on Higher Education (Ched) Memorandum Order No. 15, s. 2019, a school cannot offer a master’s or doctoral degree unless it has four full-time professors with PhDs in the exact same field. A computer scientist who spent years developing educational technology is “unqualified” to teach Technology and Livelihood Education. A professor in Educational Leadership with published work on rural teacher empowerment can lecture — but not advise theses. The rule sounds logical, until you see how it works on the ground.
This “vertical alignment” rule—where faculty must hold BS, MS, and PhD degrees in a straight line—was created to ensure academic rigor. But in practice, it favors big universities in Metro Manila and in highly urbanized cities with deep faculty benches and leaves regional institutions struggling.
As Prof. Ched Arzadon wrote in a viral post, this rigid rule “reinforces metro-centrism” and punishes schools that already lack access to PhD holders. Ironically, a policy meant to raise standards has ended up stifling innovation and local growth.
Graduate schools should be places where curiosity and collaboration thrive. Instead, many regional universities face red tape that kills ideas before they start. One state school had to drop a proposed master’s in Food Innovation because it did not have four PhDs in that specialization. Experts in nutrition and chemistry — clearly relevant — were disqualified for being “not vertically aligned.” The community lost a program that could have helped local industries grow.
Philosopher-educator Louie Giray (2023) calls this dehumanizing. In A Case Against the Policy Mandating Vertically-Aligned Degrees in Philippine Graduate Education, he warns that such rigidity turns universities into “authoritarian institutions” that prize titles over wisdom. His point hits home for teachers who took winding paths to expertise — an engineer turned science educator, a sociologist who became a counselor, an artist creating tools for mental health learning. Under Ched’s rule, they are considered misfits, even when their work speaks for itself.
To be fair, the idea behind vertical alignment makes sense. It ensures that professors teach what they truly know, and that graduate students are guided by experts in their fields. While studies abroad, such as Abatayo’s (2023), affirm the model’s value in wealthy systems, local data from Candelaria et al. (2025) and the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) reports show it’s ill-suited to regions still struggling with equity. What works for Harvard does not always fit the realities of Bukidnon or Antique. The policy assumes a kind of abundance that simply does not exist in most local universities.
This creates a cruel paradox: how can regional schools produce PhDs if they cannot start programs without already having them? It is like asking farmers to plant without seeds. One dean once joked, “We have to import professors from Manila or spend hundreds of thousands sending faculty to Manila-centric trainings and courses just to prove we’re provincial.” Everyone laughed — but no one really found it funny.
Globally, education is moving toward interdisciplinarity — the blending of fields to solve complex, real-world problems. The OECD (2022) calls this “horizontal integration,” a vital skill for the modern workforce. Yet Philippine education still clings to rigid silos. This stifles creativity and discourages collaboration just when the world demands it most. The issue is not the principle of quality, but the way the rule is applied—control mistaken for competence.
Arzadon points out that Section 14 of Ched’s policy — requiring four full-time PhDs in one discipline — sends the wrong message. It values degree titles more than actual expertise. A public administration scholar studying school governance might guide education students better than someone whose diploma fits neatly on paper. True knowledge, she argues, does not always move upward. Sometimes it spreads sideways — like roots finding water where it is needed most.
Beyond bureaucracy, the policy reflects a deeper bias. This obsession with alignment also reflects a colonial mindset that ties prestige to centralization. Metro Manila and a few large urban universities become the measure of legitimacy, while regional, city, and municipal colleges and universities — the ones most connected to local needs — are seen as second-class. The teachers in far-flung schools, who need graduate training the most, are often forced to leave their communities to study in cities. Instead of closing the gap, the policy widens it.
The solution is not to abolish alignment but to humanize it. Ched and the Department of Education must revisit how the rule is applied — giving space for flexibility, context, and collaboration. Education should not be about keeping ladders straight but keeping doors open. Some of the best professors I have met were not the most “aligned” but the most alive — those who crossed disciplines, connected ideas, and returned wiser. Learning, after all, is not about staying in line. It is about knowing when — and why — to cross it.