I once met an old government clerk who had spent more than thirty years in public service. His hands trembled slightly as he signed papers, but his memory was sharp and his voice steady. He spoke of the old days when promotions were not earned through diplomas but through dedication — when loyalty, honesty, and hard work were the true measures of a man. “Back then,” he said, smiling faintly, “our service record was our diploma.” He folded his wrinkled hands and whispered, “Now, it’s just paper they look for.”
That line lingered with me. It was not a complaint — it was grief. Grief for a system that once rewarded service but now worships credentials. Somewhere along the way, we lost the soul of public service and replaced it with bureaucracy, certificates, and degrees.
Today, in the corridors of government offices, you can almost feel the quiet anxiety. Employees rush from their desks to weekend classes, not because they thirst for knowledge, but because the system demands it. Promotion, they say, now belongs to those who collect diplomas, not those who collect milestones. The worker who has given decades of faithful service is often left behind, while someone new, armed with a fresh master’s degree — sometimes from an obscure and questionable school — easily leaps ahead.
It is no longer about what you have done for the people, but what papers you can present. The tragedy is that this has become normal.
I have seen this not only among teachers but across the entire bureaucracy — in city halls, police stations, hospitals, and agencies. It has become an unwritten rule that to rise, you must have a degree. A master’s degree, a doctorate, sometimes even both. It sounds noble, but what happens when the value of education itself begins to decay? What happens when degrees can be earned not by sweat and sacrifice, but by shortcuts?
And then came the diploma mills — institutions that promise prestige without pain. They sprouted like mushrooms after rain, ready to sell master’s and doctoral degrees to anyone willing to pay. Some of these “students” barely attend classes. Some write “thesis” papers that are neither read nor defended. Yet, the diploma arrives on time — glossy, elegant, and instantly useful for promotion.
What is more heartbreaking is that the government accepts these degrees. The system, blind to authenticity, recognizes paper more than performance. The once meaningful words “Master” and “Doctor” have become mere decorations on calling cards, detached from the responsibility they once carried.
I have met many who joined these programs not because they wanted to cheat, but because they wanted to survive. Some were breadwinners who could not afford the long, demanding years of real study. Others simply wanted recognition for decades of service. They didn’t start with deceit in their hearts — they were only following what the system required. And when the system rewards compliance more than conscience, the moral burden shifts from the individual to the institution.
But the price of this culture is devastating. When we reward credentials instead of competence, we end up with leaders who cannot lead, managers who cannot manage, and educators who cannot inspire. We fill the bureaucracy with people who know how to comply, but not how to perform. The offices become larger, the walls taller, the titles longer — but the spirit of service smaller.
The saddest part is that those who truly excel — those who serve quietly and honestly — begin to lose hope. They see others getting promoted not because of what they’ve done, but because of what they’ve bought. The fire that once made them proud civil servants dims little by little. And when good people lose faith in the system, the system itself begins to rot.
I think about the old clerk again — the one whose trembling hands still stamped documents with care. He never had a master’s degree. He never wrote a dissertation. But he knew every law, every regulation, every citizen who came through his office door. He treated each transaction not as a task, but as a duty to the Republic. How many like him have been left behind because the government now measures knowledge by paper and not by principle?
We must face it — our nation has confused education with elevation. We think that by filling walls with diplomas, we build a smarter government. But true wisdom cannot be framed. It is seen in the humility of service, in the steadiness of ethics, and in the courage to do right even when no one is watching.
The civil service was meant to be a sanctuary of meritocracy, not a stage for credentials. Promotion should not depend on how many degrees one has earned, but on how deeply one has served. Let the field worker who has transformed communities rise. Let the teacher who has shaped lives be recognized. Let the nurse who has healed thousands be honored. Let the soldier who has kept peace without fanfare be rewarded. Let the paper follow the performance — not the other way around.
It is not wrong to study. It is not wrong to aspire. But when ambition becomes detached from authenticity, learning loses its light. The government must tighten the gates against diploma mills and reimagine what it means to be “qualified.” A person who holds a true degree — one born from discipline and devotion — will never fear reform. But those who built their rank on deceit will tremble before it.
Education is a gift. But when it becomes a commodity, it loses its soul. And when government becomes a marketplace of credentials, it loses its moral compass.
We must bring back the time when service was sacred, when a man’s worth was not in the titles he carried, but in the honesty he lived by. Because no diploma — not even one written in gold — can replace the quiet dignity of a public servant who works from the heart.
The old clerk I met once told me, “You can buy a degree, but not the respect that comes with wisdom.”
And perhaps that is where reform truly begins — not in rewriting policies, but in rediscovering conscience.
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