What I learned in the 1960s about universities and political statements

Shortly after congressional hearings last fall, the president of Harvard resigned. Now, after months of protest related to Israel, Palestine and the war in Gaza, Harvard has proclaimed a policy that its administration will no longer issue official statements about public matters unless they directly affect the core functions of teaching, research and academic freedom. 

The policy is new, but the problem is not. Younger colleagues sometimes ask if I have ever seen such turmoil at Harvard. My reply is: yes, much worse.

The recent encampments and protests often violate the free speech limits of time, place and manner that are enshrined in the university’s longstanding statement of rights and responsibilities. But today’s protests are relatively civilized compared to those of the 1960s.

Protests were more violent then. My office was in the Center for International Affairs and, as I describe in my memoir, “Our building was occupied a number of times; an attack by a Weathermen fringe group sent a staff member to the hospital; in another attack, a bomb was exploded in an office. To quote a Weathermen pamphlet I kept from November 1969: ‘The people who run the CFIA are hired killers. They write reports for the government on how to keep a few Americans rich and fat. Professors who help the government are pigs. Isn’t there a pig you’d like to get?’ They boasted that they broke into the building, hung the Viet Cong flag, and kicked the swine down the stairs, and broke all the windows.”

There is a big difference between bombs and obstructive tent camps.

But violence is not the only problem. Free speech is essential to a university, and protests within the boundaries of the free speech limits on time, place, manner and nonviolence should be both expected and tolerated. But the protests should be by individuals or groups, and they should not purport to invoke the institution itself.

The role of the university was already in dispute in the 1960s, and not just by students, but among some faculty. I remember a dinner with a small number of faculty colleagues where I argued that our democratic societies would be poorer if academics debased their search for truth and universities became just another pressure group and not one of the strongest. Some of my colleagues disagreed and said the institution was obliged to make statements that disassociated itself from immoral government policies like the Vietnam War. 

They argued that university endowments were supporting companies that produced war materiel. Protesters have subsequently argued for divestment regarding many issues, such as apartheid in South Africa, climate change and now companies that invest in Israel. When economists point out that such actions have little economic effect because someone else quickly buys the divested stock, advocates reply that what matters is the political effects of naming and shaming. Divestment is an institutional statement; it amplifies the political impact beyond what can be created by members of university community. 

The problem with the argument is that the costs to the university are much higher than the benefits gained for the cause being advocated. Far stronger political pressure groups are likely to outweigh the political impact of the divesting universities. And the cost to universities is not only to their academic freedom and independence, but to their internal community. As the recent Harvard report argued, “because few, if any, world events can be entirely isolated from conflicting viewpoints, issuing official empathy statements runs the risk of alienating some members of the community by expressing implicit solidarity with others.”

Self-restraint on political statements is only part of the problem. Enforcement of rules is also important. For a university administration to use the police is both a tactical and a moral problem. Tactically, it was great mistake for Harvard President Nathan Pusey to call in the state police (who overreacted) in 1968, and today it should be a last resort.

At the same time, there are university rules governing time, place and manner of free speech (including protest), and if they are not enforced, the university can no longer function for its core mission of teaching and research. It also endangers the reasoned exchange of opposing views and reduces discourse to a mere question of who pushes harder. If protesters reply that they are deliberately breaking the rules to dramatize their cause and amplify their message, they must also remember Martin Luther King’s point that civil disobedience is moral if you are willing to pay the penalty.

Of course, this does not mean that universities can be completely neutral with regard to all political issues. But they should reserve their institutional fire for cases that have a direct and significant effect on their core functions of teaching, research and independent inquiry. In the current situation, academic freedom means that both pro-Israel and pro-Palestine voices must be heard, and universities must stand up to browbeating by congressional committees as well as donors who threaten to withdraw financial support.

The importance of protest and its limits, as well as the proper institutional role of universities, can benefit from the lessons of the 1960s. With that in mind, we should welcome the principles expressed in Harvard’s recent statement.

Joseph S. Nye is former dean of the Harvard Kennedy School, and author of a new memoir, “A Life in the American Century.”