*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
When I was in high school—an exclusive school for boys known
for its strict discipline and structured routines—I first witnessed the
formative power of fear. The corridors were lined with rules that demanded not
only respect but also quiet conformity. It was a place where perfection was
idealized and mistakes, though human, were treated as moral failures.
One day, a Playboy magazine circulated among my classmates.
It was a trivial act of adolescent curiosity, yet within the confines of our
highly controlled environment, it was considered a grave transgression. The
magazine passed from hand to hand until, by some twist of chance, it ended up
in my bag. The next morning, our teacher confronted the class, demanding the
name of the culprit. No one spoke. Fear filled the room—palpable, heavy, almost
sacred. Then, a classmate, trembling but determined to save himself, pointed at
me.
That moment became my first education on the anatomy of
fear. My accuser was not evil; he was terrified. He sought refuge in accusation
to avoid punishment. What I learned that day went far beyond the boundaries of
our classroom. I learned that fear, when institutionalized, does not produce
discipline—it breeds survivalism. It turns communities into collections of
individuals who act not from conviction but from avoidance.
Years later, as I entered the professional world—first in
public service, later in private institutions—I recognized that the same
behavioral mechanism had simply evolved in form, not in essence. The Sumbungero
I met in high school had grown up and found permanent residence in
bureaucracies, offices, and corporate hierarchies. The same psychology
persisted: individuals motivated by fear rather than principle, obedience
mistaken for loyalty, and silence equated with professionalism.
In government, this phenomenon manifests through what I
describe as institutionalized fear compliance. Subordinates conform not because
they agree with directives, but because they are afraid to contradict
authority. In the private sector, it appears as corporate silence—employees who
tolerate managerial excesses for fear of losing employment or opportunities. In
both domains, fear becomes an invisible form of governance, shaping behaviors
more effectively than any policy manual or organizational code.
Within this context, the Sumbungero—the habitual informer or
tattler—emerges as both symptom and instrument of fear. He represents a
behavioral adaptation to an environment where honesty is dangerous and
self-preservation is rewarded. By reporting selectively, often under the guise
of vigilance, he positions himself as indispensable to authority. His role is
parasitic yet symbiotic: he survives by feeding on distrust, while authority
sustains him as a convenient channel of information.
The damage of such a culture is profound. Fear-based systems
may achieve short-term efficiency but at the cost of long-term integrity and
innovation. Individuals within such organizations become risk-averse and
defensive. Creativity is suppressed, initiative declines, and morale erodes.
People learn to perform rather than to believe. The illusion of order masks an
undercurrent of resentment and insecurity.
Yet, not all fear is destructive. There exists what moral
philosophers and organizational theorists call reverential fear—a fear grounded
in respect rather than punishment. It is the kind of fear that compels a person
to act ethically, not out of coercion, but out of conscience. In leadership,
reverential fear emerges when subordinates respect their superiors’ integrity
so deeply that they avoid wrongdoing not because they are afraid of
retribution, but because they do not wish to disappoint.
Reverential fear is formative. It strengthens ethical awareness and nurtures accountability. It transforms compliance into voluntary discipline. It cultivates a sense of duty that transcends supervision. In contrast, punitive fear—fear imposed through threats and surveillance—produces mere submission, devoid of moral maturity.
The distinction is critical for both government and private
institutions. The success of any organization depends not merely on control but
on conviction. Where fear governs, integrity decays; where reverence governs,
integrity thrives. Reverential fear humanizes leadership. It transforms
authority from domination into guidance and discipline from punishment into
learning.
Consider two contrasting organizations. In one, the leader’s
presence silences discussion. Employees become cautious, measuring every word.
Mistakes are hidden, and creativity suffocates. In another, the leader commands
respect through consistency and fairness. His staff speak openly, knowing they
will be corrected but not condemned. In the first, fear produces obedience. In
the second, reverence produces excellence. The difference lies not in
authority, but in the kind of fear that authority evokes.
In governance, this distinction is vital. Fear-based
leadership may maintain temporary order, but it cannot build sustainable trust.
When citizens or employees obey merely because they are afraid, the moral
fabric of the institution weakens. Accountability must come not from fear of
punishment, but from reverence for responsibility.
The Sumbungero culture, pervasive in many institutions
today, thrives precisely where this moral foundation is absent. It is not a
failure of individuals alone—it is a failure of systems that reward silence and
punish honesty. The eradication of this culture requires a deliberate
reorientation of leadership philosophy: from command to compassion, from
surveillance to dialogue, from punishment to participation.
Reverential fear is not weakness; it is wisdom. It
recognizes that authority must inspire rather than intimidate. It builds
environments where people obey because they believe, not because they tremble.
It restores moral balance to organizations that have confused discipline with
domination.
When I look back at that classroom incident from my youth, I
see it now not as humiliation, but as revelation. It showed me how easily truth
can be lost in environments ruled by fear, and how deeply people long for
leadership they can respect rather than dread. The lesson remains timeless:
organizations—whether public or private—must replace fear that coerces with
fear that enlightens.
A nation, like an institution, cannot thrive on fear. It can
only endure through reverence—through that subtle, sacred fear of disappointing
those who trust us, of failing the duties we have sworn to uphold, and of
betraying the principles that give our work meaning.
That is the kind of fear worth keeping. It is not the fear
of punishment but the fear of losing integrity. It is not fear of authority but
fear of betraying the public trust. It is not fear that silences, but fear that
strengthens.
Because in the end, the true measure of leadership is not
how many people are afraid of you—it is how many people are afraid to let you
down.
