College Campuses Have Gotten Scary. They Don't Have to Be
Charlie Kirk's assassination on a college campus was shocking but not surprising, given the increasingly violent discourse in many academic environments. A recent experience showed another way.
Editor’s note: We’re back from an end-of-summer hiatus and are looking at a period of reduced activity due to the holidays, but we have some compelling and timely pieces coming your way over the next few weeks, so be sure to watch your inbox. In the meantime, thank you for being a part of the conversation and we wish you and yours a sweet new year. Shana Tova and Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem. — A.M.
Several months ago, I met with a group of mostly non-Jewish students from a top American university who were visiting Israel for the first time, as I do fairly regularly. We talked about what it was like to run an Israeli newspaper before and during the current war, why so many Israelis view international media coverage of the conflict as hopelessly slanted, how domestic politics are influencing the conduct of the war, and a host of related topics.
Toward the end of the lively Q&A session, a young woman raised her hand.
“Have you ever felt unsafe?” she asked. “Have you ever feared for your physical safety?”
I had never been asked that question before, and I contemplated it for a few moments before responding.
“I have to say,” I finally told her, “I was in Israel on October 7. I have been here throughout the war, during rocket barrages from Lebanon and missile attacks from Iran. I have lived through wars and waves of terror attacks and have attended more funerals than I can possibly count. But I have never felt more unsafe than I did recently when speaking on a U.S. college campus.”
Their jaws dropped.
I am not sure they would have reacted the same way had that conversation taken place this week.
To many — myself included — Charlie Kirk’s gruesome assassination last week during a campus event at Utah Valley University was shocking, but not altogether surprising. It seemed only a matter of time before the violent rhetoric and intimidation on college campuses were going to result in murder.
According to a new survey conducted by the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression (FIRE), a third of college students (34%) say using violence to stop someone from speaking on campus is acceptable at least some of the time — a fourteen-point increase compared to just three years ago. Seventy-one percent say shouting down a speaker to prevent them from speaking on campus is at least occasionally acceptable, and 54% say physically blocking other students from attending an on-campus speech is acceptable at least some of the time.
Predictably, this has had a chilling effect on students’ willingness to engage in conversation on controversial topics in academic environments that are supposed to cultivate and encourage those very exchanges. More than ninety percent of students surveyed by FIRE (91%) said they self-censor during conversations with other students on campus at least on rare occasions, and most — 59% — say they do so at least once a month. Eighty percent of students said they feel that they can’t express their opinions about certain topics because of how other students, a professor, or the university administration will respond at least some of the time.
Of all the topics that are difficult to discuss on campus — from abortion to gun control to racial inequality — the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was identified by students as the most fraught. After two years of campus protests and encampments that have, at times, featured violent attacks on Jewish students and attempts to prevent them from accessing parts of their own campuses, it is hardly surprising that many Jewish young people say they keep their Jewish identity and views on Israel to themselves. Only 27% of Jewish students surveyed by Hillel International and the Anti-Defamation League said they felt comfortable with others on campus knowing their views on Israel. Some forty percent (41%) said they felt a need to conceal their Jewish identity on campus and more than one-in-five (22%) said they felt compelled to take additional security precautions to ensure their physical safety.
But as I told that group of students in Jerusalem, while my recent experience on a college campus reflected the validity of those concerns, it also showed that there can be another way.
I had been invited by the University of Denver’s Center for Middle East Studies — part of the renowned Korbel School of International Studies, named after its founder, the distinguished Czech American diplomat (and Madeleine Albright’s father) Josef Korbel — to give a talk about wartime journalism, based on my experience as The Jerusalem Post’s editor-in-chief during the war.
The original plan had been a moderated conversation between me and Al Jazeera Managing Editor Mohamed Moawad, but Moawad was unable to make it, so the decision was made to hold two events: one with me, the other — some weeks later — with him.
Hundreds of people had registered for the event, and as the hall filled up, I caught a glimpse of one or two attendees sporting yellow ribbons for the Israeli hostages in Gaza and several wearing keffiyehs.
The evening opened with remarks by the Korbel School’s dean, who stressed the importance of open and civil discussion and set ground rules for the event, including that disruptions would not be tolerated.
I then came to the lectern and started speaking about my unusual path to the leadership of The Post, about the period leading up to October 7, the day itself, and the first few weeks and months of the war.
I had only been speaking for a couple of minutes when the first disruption occurred.
“Shame!” screamed a bespectacled blonde girl in a keffiyeh seated in the second row as she leapt to her feet. “Shame on you for denying genocide!” She was joined by two other protesters in chanting, “Free Palestine now!” as they made their way out of the hall.
“You will see us again, don’t worry,” one of them hissed as she stabbed her finger in my direction. “You will feel our wrath,” she added ominously.
Several more disruptions ensued, and campus police officers showed up to restore order. It soon became clear that this was a coordinated effort to prevent the event from proceeding; shortly after each cluster of protesters was removed, another would stand up and shout. I implored them to stay, stressing that I would answer any question they had, no matter how challenging, so long as they engaged civilly.
“Fuck you!” spat an agitated young man in a beanie, his eyes filled with hate, as he was escorted out of the hall.
I fielded questions from audience members in the room, as well as from those watching the livestream. Some were well-informed, others somewhat less so. One participant asked a pointed question about the destruction of hospitals during the war; another charged that the presence of Israeli settlers in Gaza had prompted the events of October 7 (I gently reminded her that there have not been any Israeli settlers in Gaza for twenty years).
Then something remarkable happened.
As we neared the end of the two-hour event, a small woman in a pale gray hijab standing in the back of the hall received the microphone. She identified herself as a Palestinian American, born in Jerusalem, and told the audience about the difficulties of daily life in the West Bank. She spoke about the challenges of navigating roads riddled with security roadblocks, about her frustration at her inability to worship freely at Al-Aqsa, about violence perpetrated by Israeli extremists against innocent Palestinians.
When she was done speaking, I thanked her for sharing her experiences with such dignity and grace. “Some part of me wants to give you a hug,” I said, before responding that the situation she described only highlights the need for a fair and equitable solution to the conflict, one in which Palestinians and Israelis are both able to realize their national aspirations and secure their individual rights and freedoms.
When the event finally concluded, I came down from the stage and made a beeline for her. She looked up at me and opened her arms. We embraced for several long moments.
We wound up speaking for about 25 minutes as the hall emptied around us. I was aware of several people who came over wanting to engage in conversation, but I kept my attention on her and her story. The sight of a man in a kippah, wearing a yellow hostage pin, in conversation with a hijabi woman sporting several Palestinian flag buttons was enough to cause them to back away respectfully.
At the end of our conversation, we exchanged WhatsApp numbers and expressed the hope that we might be able to meet up during her next trip to our shared homeland. Noticing that I was starting to lose my voice, she promised to share a recipe for a concoction sure to restore it (she later sent it over, along with an offer to bring honey and lemons to my hotel).
The evening, however, ended on a bitter and unnerving note.
As I made my way to the exit, accompanied by the center’s senior staff, a student came up from the lobby and informed us that a group of protesters had gathered downstairs, in an apparent attempt to confront me upon my departure. After a brief discussion of what to do, we hurriedly made our way through a passageway in the back and exited the building via a rear staircase. The staff insisted on escorting me to a waiting car and ensuring that I left campus unscathed.
In all, the evening felt like an encapsulation of so much that is wrong with the campus conversation surrounding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and so many other difficult topics. It also offered a more constructive alternative.
The disruptions had come from individuals with no apparent skin in the game — young people so certain that their views are wholly right and that any others are beyond the pale, yet so woefully unable to defend their convictions that they would rather shut down the debate and threaten speakers than see their beliefs crumble under scrutiny. Confronted by uncomfortable truths or ideas that differ from their own, they scream and shout, filled with righteous indignation, until they are ultimately thrown out, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
But in that silence, a simple moment of connection between an Israeli and a Palestinian — the only two people in the room whose daily lives are actually shaped by the conflict — offered a glimpse of a more hopeful possibility, one marked by difficult but civil dialogue that tackles the most challenging issues head-on while acknowledging both sides’ basic humanity.
Yes, it is the harder path, but it is the only one that can lead us forward.
Thank you for sharing your experience
of speaking on a college campus, interrupted throughout by protestors. You described your meeting with the young Palestinian American woman and your talk could not have ended on a more hopeful, beautiful note. College students protesting is just one disturbing phenomenon. Violence has erupted in other settings, it certainly has increased all over the country, not at all a welcome development. Not long ago I had the fleeting (unrealistic) thought that if things got to a breaking point I would try to emigrate to Israel! I have followed the war closely since October 7th, often reading the JPost and other sources. I have a pretty good image in my mind of what it looks like on the ground. And I had the crazy thought that I would rather hear a siren and run for cover than be attacked on the street, or a train with no warning and no defense. I am not Jewish but I love Israel. I could write an essay about all that but you will probably be too busy
to read it.