As we absorb the results of the election, I find myself reflecting on a word that consistently echoes in the back of my mind: exile. By “exile,” I’m referring not to a physical departure, but to the intellectual marginalization many of us experience. It’s a label that marks us as “unwelcome” and our scholarship as “controversial.” In using the word exile, I’m thinking of a specific experience: that of academics whose research and presence politicians would prefer to erase. For many of us whose work or lived experiences connect race, gender, history, or sexuality, within education, exile is less about leaving and more about staying in a space where we know we’re not fully welcome. And while it’s incredibly unsettling, I believe there’s a powerful irony here – when we’re pressured and marginalized, our scholarship often grows stronger and more urgent. I’d argue that exile, in this sense, can bring out our best work, and history backs this up.
Background and Historical Context
I’m currently in the home stretch of my PhD in Philosophy and History of Education at Ohio State, and the reason the concept of exile is often on my mind is because my dissertation is centered on building the biographies of Oskar Seidlin and Dieter Cunz, two queer German intellectuals who fled Nazi persecution and rebuilt their remarkable lives at my home institution. Historically, exile has been a crucible for the intellect. Thinking back to the German scholars who fled the Nazis in the 1930s and 1940s. These academics, many of whom were Jewish or politically dissident (like Oskar and Dieter), sought refuge in American universities where they could continue their work unencumbered by the oppressive ideologies that had overtaken their homeland. Forced from their own institutions, figures like Albert Einstein, Hannah Arendt, and Thomas Mann arrived in the United States and made intellectual contributions that would change their fields, and the world. For these scholars, exile, though certainly not wanted, meant freedom to examine, critique, and resist, which they could not have achieved had they remained under the thumb of totalitarianism.
Today, the dynamics may be different, but the parallels are certainly clear. The pressures faced by those of us whose work intersects with race, gender, history, human rights, feels like a modern form of exile. Our work is often labeled “divisive” or “radical,” terms used to justify dismissals, funding cuts, and program closures. But for many of us, these pressures only reinforce the importance of what we do. This also resonates even in my own experience as an administrator; I’ve seen firsthand how programs are shuttered simply because they address so-called “divisive” issues according to politicians. The 2024 election results have only amplified these tensions, with politicians continuing to wield the word “radical” to justify cuts to essential diversity and equity initiatives. And while the situations differ from those of Nazi-era refugees, the underlying threat feels similar: to suppress scholars whose work interrogates power structures and who seek to broaden understanding in areas that make some uncomfortable.
What strikes me as crucial for us to remember is that, when academics are pressured, our work becomes more relevant and necessary. Scholarship from the margins addresses perspectives that the mainstream overlooks or actively silences. Our voices not only tell untold stories but demand new ways of thinking. In a sense, the scholarship born of exile holds a mirror to society, challenging it to confront its own values, prejudices, and blind spots. This then turns me to my next point, what, then, is the responsibility of our institutions in this political climate.
Just as American universities once offered refuge to scholars like Oskar and Dieter fleeing fascism, today’s institutions must stand with those of us who patriotically refuse to leave, who continue doing this work in spite of hostility. The American higher educational experiment should be a haven of free thought, a place where even the most uncomfortable truths could be explored. It must remain so now, more than ever. Upholding academic freedom is not merely a matter of policy but a stance that affirms the essential role of dissenting voices.
As we move forward from the 2024 election, I sincerely urge academic institutions to honor their legacy as sanctuaries for free inquiry and critical thought. Our work is essential, and our voices are part of a long tradition of intellectual resilience that has enriched academia precisely because it defies easy acceptance. Now is the time for colleges and universities to actively protect those of us who are, as I put it, exiled, yet unyielding.
The mental weight of this type of exile is heavy, but we must recognize that this tension fuels our most important contributions. Our work becomes even more powerful and relevant when it is produced under pressure, when it insists on being heard in the face of opposition. To the institutions that house us, I implore you to stand firm in defense of academic freedom and diversity. Uphold the values that define the American academy as a place for all voices, even those that provoke discomfort or dissent. The future of our scholarship, and indeed the future of a truly free and inclusive academic landscape, depends on your courage to protect and empower the voices of those who are exiled, but refuse to be silenced.
Kyle J. Williams is a doctoral student at The Ohio State University.
This post was originally published on here
