What makes a peanut butter jelly sandwich good?
- Good peanut butter (hot take: crunchy is always better)
- Sweet jelly
- Decent bread
Hard to mess up, right? Now, imagine that your younger sibling comes along and pours too much jelly on your perfectly crafted sandwich. Then, your friend drops a spoonful of smooth peanut butter. Suddenly, people are coming in and adding bread, it’s all soggy, and it ends up being an utter mess—more like a PB&J lasagna.
This is exactly what is happening in Spain’s university system.
Loved by some and criticized by the many, it has two key players: public and private universities. Policies have consistently failed to address the underlying issues facing either of the institution types, and as a consequence the system is approaching the zenith of its crisis.
First, the peanut butter. Public universities suffer from apparent chronic under-financing. Take Madrid, where the six state-funded institutions, home to more than 200,000 students, have to split €7.6 million annually for infrastructure upgrades and maintenance. For comparison, Texas Tech, with 41,000 students (not even the largest public college in Texas), has spent around $12.2 million per year on athletics infrastructure alone—but who’s counting the pennies! Zoom out, and far from being simply underfunded, the country’s universities endure a regime of academic austerity—spread thin, but passed off as legislation contributing to structural efficiency. And it’s not getting better either. Since 2016, Madrid’s public funding for higher education has fallen by almost 30%, leaving many campuses with crumbling facilities and outdated technology. Their demand? More cash from the government, and a more centralized educational system. More PB on a poor slice of bread collapsing under its own weight.
Next, the jelly. Private universities have been around for quite some time in Spain, but have grown rapidly in number, almost tripling since 1998 to the present 41 colleges. Nonetheless, this has not been without its challenges: they are often dubbed “degree factories”, and many face criticism for lacking academic rigor or for prioritizing business over quality. So what do they desire from policymakers? Well, instead of calling for deregulation and real autonomy, many push for regulations that favor their model—to gain legitimacy, secure subsidies, and protect themselves from competition. In short, a dump of state-approved jelly.
The result is quite apparent:
A tug-of-war erupts, with public and private sectors each yanking the rope of regulation toward their own interests. Consequently, traditionalist Spain denies itself the joys of a truly competitive, or even coherent for that matter, university system. Rather than advocating for less interference and more innovation, both public and private institutions lobby for tailor-made rules. The national accreditation agency, ANECA, manages to both over-regulate course content and fail at ensuring meaningful quality differences between schools. In short: almost no one’s happy, yet everyone wants a bigger say in the mess. A very sad and soggy sandwich smothered in government overreach.
The institutional landscape does not help. The national accreditation agency, ANECA, micromanages the university system down to the decimal, suffocates space for new thought and, in lots of ways, is downright obsolete. After all, how can students, faculty, and college administrators have faith in an institution deemed inefficient by the Spanish government itself? Indeed a very sad and soggy sandwich smothered in overreach.
Only a hero could solve a conflict of this caliber and save the day with their wisdom!
Frank Chodorov was a pioneer in American libertarian thought. His work spanned creating The Freeman, the Foundation for Economic Education’s flagship publication, and establishing the Intercollegiate Society of Individualists.
But the work that offers the best wisdom for Spain’s PB&J dilemma (how to know whether to add or subtract ingredients) is his Revolution at Ramah, which recounts a biblical parable with eerie relevance. Twas 1050 BCE, the Israelites were living in the Promised Land, governed not by kings but by judges—local leaders who upheld Mishpat, a divine, decentralized legal tradition forged by trial and error. But as Samuel, the last judge, aged and appointed his corrupt sons, trust eroded. The people demanded a ruler, a deliverer, a policeman of the state.
Samuel turned to Yahweh, who replied, “It is not you they have rejected, but Me as their king.” God told him to warn them: a king would conscript their sons, take their daughters, seize their fields—and their freedom. Still, they insisted. They chose a governor over liberty, and King Saul was crowned.
At first, he brought unity and strength. But soon, power corrupted him. He disobeyed divine commands, and the Israelites, once eager for royal rule, grew disillusioned. They wanted to go back, but the system they abandoned could not be easily restored. They had traded freedom for control—and got neither peace nor prosperity in return.
Sound familiar?
Spain’s universities, like the Israelites, are begging for a king—more centralization to fix problems caused by centralization in the first place.
Now, the college system stands at a crossroads. With students and professors alike discontent, policymakers must choose: pile on more peanut butter and jelly layers—centralized regulations aiming to favor both sides—and risk repeating King Saul’s fate, or strip the sandwich back to its essentials, letting quality ingredients shine without the soggy excess. And for that, they just have to remember one simple question:
What makes a peanut butter jelly sandwich good?
This piece solely expresses the opinion of the author and not necessarily the magazine as a whole. SpeakFreely is committed to facilitating a broad dialogue for liberty, representing a variety of opinions. Support freedom and independent journalism by donating today.
