On the morning of March 8, federal agents entered a Columbia University-owned apartment and detained Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian graduate student, campus activist, and lawful U.S. resident. Officials cited unspecified national security concerns, stripping his green card and transferring him to an ICE facility in Louisiana, without trial. No formal charges were announced.
The detention of a legal U.S. resident for practicing free, political activism—without trial—should be unthinkable, especially at Columbia, a pivotal campus known for its student activism. And yet, it happened. More unsettling still is the lack of response from many of the nation’s most powerful academic institutions.
That silence is not incidental—it’s calculated. Days after Khalil’s detainment, President Donald Trump stated that he was “the first arrest of many to come.” The Trump administration then announced it would withhold $400 million in federal funding from Columbia, accusing the University of “inaction in the face of persistent harassment of Jewish students.” In reality, Columbia has taken significant steps to address concerns raised by Jewish students, including extensive campus security, establishing new task forces on antisemitism, and even suspending or disciplining pro-Palestinian student groups.
Still, the Trump administration’s message was undeniable: detentions like Khalil’s will happen again, and universities that challenge this agenda will face financial consequences. This is pressure with intent, a test to see whether institutions that once prided themselves on moral leadership will fold in the modern political landscape.
Already, Columbia has fallen to governmental pressure. Last Wednesday, the University signaled in exchange for the restoration of its $400 million in funding, it would comply with the Trump administration’s demands by working to implement new definitions and policies for antisemitism on campus. This is only the beginning of the executive’s persecution of students and intimidation of Ivy League institutions, which begs the question: Which institution will be next on Trump’s list, and will they succumb as well?
Universities’ fear of federal coercion is, to an extent, understandable. But history shows that institutions have faced similar pressures before—and resisted. Academics take bold moral stances in moments of national crisis, standing with students against unjust wars, apartheid, and censorship. Students used to lead the way, and their colleges followed.
At Princeton University, students organized hunger strikes and sit-ins, demanding divestment from apartheid South Africa, ultimately leading to the University’s decision to begin divesting in 1987. Under similar pressure, Brown University also began partial divestment after a 1992 hunger strike led by students. These moments reflected an underlying truth: elite universities are not only educational institutions, but also ethical actors.
During the Vietnam War, Harvard University became a focal point for anti-war activism. In April 1969, approximately 500 student activists occupied University Hall to protest the presence of the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps on campus. This led to significant institutional changes, most notably the formal codification of the University-Wide Statement on Rights and Responsibilities in 1970. The document defended students’ rights as much as orderly conduct, underscoring the power of student activism in shaping university policies. It is from this event that the Harvard Independent emerged as a way to provide broader context during moments of student-led activism. These decisions in the face of threats are instances our institutions look back on with pride. We are now at risk of defacing this history.
University responses to anti-war movements today are now characterized by a retreat into neutrality or overt suppression. In a healthier form, this neutrality could have led to the maintenance of free speech, where multiple perspectives are free to clash and communicate, bringing more scholarly complexity to campus. In May 2024, President Alan Garber ’76 set a new precedent for Harvard’s current rules in an official statement, valuing campus disruption over students’ right to protest.
This change led to 13 pro-Palestine protesters involved in the Harvard Yard encampment being barred from graduating, with 20 others placed on probation by the Administrative Board. More recently, Harvard University temporarily suspended library privileges for faculty members who participated in a “study-in” protest advocating for Palestinian rights, just weeks after students faced similar suspensions. The pattern is clear: instead of protecting free speech, institutions are policing specific forms of protest.
The disparity in treatment is striking. While pro-Israel alumni and affiliates successfully mobilized to influence University policies, pro-Palestinian groups faced suspensions and disciplinary actions. This inconsistency not only undermines the principle of free speech but also contradicts the University’s commitment to impartiality and open dialogue. These decisions came soon after President Garber met with the head of the Anti-Defamation League, Jonathan Greenblatt. The ADL is known for its history of pro-Israel lobbying, with Greenblatt’s most recent campaign conflating anti-Zionism with antisemitism. Here, there is an obvious role that external donors like alumni or special interest groups play in the University’s administrative decision-making.
Current institutions are succumbing to financial and political coercion. The choice to remain neutral or passive in these circumstances is effectively a choice to side with an oppressive administration, abandoning the University’s role as a defender of free thought and expression.
For over a year now, we’ve witnessed the consequences of capitulation. In January 2024, Harvard President Claudine Gay resigned under immense pressure from Congress and donors following her testimony before the House Committee on Education and the Workforce. Her departure, though officially attributed to plagiarism allegations, came amid a broader political effort to discipline universities over their perceived failures to combat antisemitism—a charge that, in practice, has often been leveled at pro-Palestinian speech and organizing.
These public associations hold power over the Harvard Corporation’s decision-making; with the resignation of several Ivy League presidents, the goal of each institution became damage control. The timing and intensity of her resignation marked a turning point: not only was a university president forced out under political scrutiny, but the University itself failed to meaningfully defend her or the institution’s right to remain independent of partisan influence.
This wasn’t always the posture universities took. During the McCarthy era, Harvard President James B. Conant ’16 was questioned by Congress about Harvard’s approach to faculty with alleged communist affiliations and argued that ideological beliefs alone should not be grounds for dismissal. Yale, similarly, refused to sign loyalty oaths, despite significant external pressures to do so.
Universities once understood that their legitimacy as centers of thought depended on protecting dissent, not policing it. Today, under similar pressures, where there was once defiance, there is now complacency. The Ivy League of today chooses silence in the face of federal constraints not because they lack historical precedent for resistance, but because they fear reputational and financial risk more than they value their own principles. But what is reputation without integrity? When institutions abandon their students under pressure, they don’t just forfeit moral authority—they weaken the very foundation of academic freedom they claim to protect.
The failure to support students advocating for their rights does not just diminish Harvard’s moral standing—as a leader amongst universities nationwide, it sets a precedent for the erosion of free speech on college campuses everywhere and emboldens future government overstep. Universities stand at a crossroads: they can yield to political coercion or reclaim their role as defenders of intellectual freedom and spaces for critical thought and societal progress. Their responses to external pressures will either fortify or weaken the principles of free expression, not just within their institutions, but throughout the nation.
Harvard needs to remember its legacy of moral conviction. Administrators must honor past leaders who, in the face of significant risks, set precedents by choosing to uphold the principles of free expression and choose their students above all else. This moment in time calls for courage and conviction. Now, Harvard has an opportunity to demonstrate that the values of academic freedom, open dialogue, and social responsibility are not merely rhetorical but are actively practiced and defended.
Courtney Hines ’28 (courtneyhines@college.harvard.edu) wants to be proud of her college again.
BY: COURTNEY HINES ’28
On the morning of March 8, federal agents entered a Columbia University-owned apartment and detained Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian graduate student, campus activist, and lawful U.S. resident. Officials cited unspecified national security concerns, stripping his green card and transferring him to an ICE facility in Louisiana, without trial. No formal charges were announced.
The detention of a legal U.S. resident for practicing free, political activism—without trial—should be unthinkable, especially at Columbia, a pivotal campus known for its student activism. And yet, it happened. More unsettling still is the lack of response from many of the nation’s most powerful academic institutions.
That silence is not incidental—it’s calculated. Days after Khalil’s detainment, President Donald Trump stated that he was “the first arrest of many to come.” The Trump administration then announced it would withhold $400 million in federal funding from Columbia, accusing the University of “inaction in the face of persistent harassment of Jewish students.” In reality, Columbia has taken significant steps to address concerns raised by Jewish students, including extensive campus security, establishing new task forces on antisemitism, and even suspending or disciplining pro-Palestinian student groups.
Still, the Trump administration’s message was undeniable: detentions like Khalil’s will happen again, and universities that challenge this agenda will face financial consequences. This is pressure with intent, a test to see whether institutions that once prided themselves on moral leadership will fold in the modern political landscape.
Already, Columbia has fallen to governmental pressure. Last Wednesday, the University signaled in exchange for the restoration of its $400 million in funding, it would comply with the Trump administration’s demands by working to implement new definitions and policies for antisemitism on campus. This is only the beginning of the executive’s persecution of students and intimidation of Ivy League institutions, which begs the question: Which institution will be next on Trump’s list, and will they succumb as well?
Universities’ fear of federal coercion is, to an extent, understandable. But history shows that institutions have faced similar pressures before—and resisted. Academics take bold moral stances in moments of national crisis, standing with students against unjust wars, apartheid, and censorship. Students used to lead the way, and their colleges followed.
At Princeton University, students organized hunger strikes and sit-ins, demanding divestment from apartheid South Africa, ultimately leading to the University’s decision to begin divesting in 1987. Under similar pressure, Brown University also began partial divestment after a 1992 hunger strike led by students. These moments reflected an underlying truth: elite universities are not only educational institutions, but also ethical actors.
During the Vietnam War, Harvard University became a focal point for anti-war activism. In April 1969, approximately 500 student activists occupied University Hall to protest the presence of the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) on campus. This led to significant institutional changes, most notably the formal codification of the University-Wide Statement on Rights and Responsibilities in 1970. The document defended students’ rights as much as orderly conduct, underscoring the power of student activism in shaping university policies. It is from this event that the Harvard Independent emerged as a way to provide broader context during moments of student-led activism. These decisions in the face of threats are instances our institutions look back on with pride. We are now at risk of defacing this history.
University responses to anti-war movements today are now characterized by a retreat into neutrality or overt suppression. In a healthier form, this neutrality could have led to the maintenance of free speech, where multiple perspectives are free to clash and communicate, bringing more scholarly complexity to campus. In May 2024, President Alan Garber ’76 set a new precedent for Harvard’s current rules in an official statement, valuing campus disruption over students’ right to protest.
This change led to 13 pro-Palestine protesters involved in the Harvard Yard encampment being barred from graduating, with 20 others placed on probation by the Administrative Board. More recently, Harvard University temporarily suspended library privileges for faculty members who participated in a “study-in” protest advocating for Palestinian rights, just weeks after students faced similar suspensions. The pattern is clear: instead of protecting free speech, institutions are policing specific forms of protest.
The disparity in treatment is striking. While pro-Israel alumni and affiliates successfully mobilized to influence University policies, pro-Palestinian groups faced suspensions and disciplinary actions. This inconsistency not only undermines the principle of free speech but also contradicts the University’s commitment to impartiality and open dialogue. These decisions came soon after President Garber met with the head of the Anti-Defamation League, Jonathan Greenblatt. The ADL is known for its history of pro-Israel lobbying, with Greenblatt’s most recent campaign conflating anti-Zionism with antisemitism. Here, there is an obvious role that external donors like alumni or special interest groups play in the University’s administrative decision-making.
Current institutions are succumbing to financial and political coercion. The choice to remain neutral or passive in these circumstances is effectively a choice to side with an oppressive administration, abandoning the University’s role as a defender of free thought and expression.
For over a year now, we’ve witnessed the consequences of capitulation. In January 2024, Harvard President Claudine Gay resigned under immense pressure from Congress and donors following her testimony before the House Committee on Education and the Workforce. Her departure, though officially attributed to plagiarism allegations, came amid a broader political effort to discipline universities over their perceived failures to combat antisemitism—a charge that, in practice, has often been leveled at pro-Palestinian speech and organizing.
These public associations hold power over the Harvard Corporation’s decision-making; with the resignation of several Ivy League presidents, the goal of each institution became damage control. The timing and intensity of her resignation marked a turning point: not only was a university president forced out under political scrutiny, but the University itself failed to meaningfully defend her or the institution’s right to remain independent of partisan influence.
This wasn’t always the posture universities took. During the McCarthy era, Harvard President James B. Conant ’16 was questioned by Congress about Harvard’s approach to faculty with alleged communist affiliations and argued that ideological beliefs alone should not be grounds for dismissal. Yale, similarly, refused to sign loyalty oaths, despite significant external pressures to do so.
Universities once understood that their legitimacy as centers of thought depended on protecting dissent, not policing it. Today, under similar pressures, where there was once defiance, there is now complacency. The Ivy League of today chooses silence in the face of federal constraints not because they lack historical precedent for resistance, but because they fear reputational and financial risk more than they value their own principles. But what is reputation without integrity? When institutions abandon their students under pressure, they don’t just forfeit moral authority—they weaken the very foundation of academic freedom they claim to protect.
The failure to support students advocating for their rights does not just diminish Harvard’s moral standing—as a leader amongst universities nationwide, it sets a precedent for the erosion of free speech on college campuses everywhere and emboldens future government overstep. Universities stand at a crossroads: they can yield to political coercion or reclaim their role as defenders of intellectual freedom and spaces for critical thought and societal progress. Their responses to external pressures will either fortify or weaken the principles of free expression, not just within their institutions, but throughout the nation.
Harvard needs to remember its legacy of moral conviction. Administrators must honor past leaders who, in the face of significant risks, set precedents by choosing to uphold the principles of free expression and choose their students above all else. This moment in time calls for courage and conviction. Now, Harvard has an opportunity to demonstrate that the values of academic freedom, open dialogue, and social responsibility are not merely rhetorical but are actively practiced and defended.
Courtney Hines ’28 (courtneyhines@college.harvard.edu) wants to be proud of her college again.