The university and its new orthodoxies

The silence before speech

There was a time when the university understood itself as a place where one ran the risk of being wrong. Not because error was celebrated, but because truth could not emerge without collision, without friction, without the discomfort of dissenting thought. The ideal of the academy was never consensus. On the contrary, its legitimacy derived precisely from its ability to question existing certainties.

Today, that spirit appears to be shifting, including within the Netherlands, a country that has long understood itself as a liberal and pluralistic democracy.

Not abruptly, not through censorship committees or explicit prohibitions, but more subtly — almost atmospherically. The contemporary university is increasingly characterised by a peculiar form of moral predictability. Within lectures, research groups and public academic debates, there exist self-evident positions and socially dangerous positions. Certain convictions function as implicit proof of intellectual sensitivity; others immediately arouse suspicion.

It is precisely here that the paradox of the modern academy resides. Never before has the university spoken so insistently of diversity, inclusivity and safety, while at the same time the space for ideological deviation appears to narrow. The contemporary university accepts many forms of difference — provided they move within the same moral grammar. This tendency has become increasingly visible within Dutch universities and cultural institutions.

Cultural diversity is celebrated. Diversity of sexual identity is protected. Different lifestyles are recognised. Yet diversity of worldviews proves considerably more complicated. Conservative intuitions, cultural traditionalism or politically right-leaning convictions are no longer treated within parts of academic culture primarily as intellectual positions, but as moral signals. Not merely mistaken, but suspect.

The consequences rarely manifest themselves in overt repression. The modern university no longer requires explicit censorship. Social conditioning works more efficiently. Students quickly learn which statements generate applause and which produce silence. Which words open careers and which evoke associations best avoided. The fear is not necessarily disciplinary punishment, but social classification.

A student who identifies as progressive generally moves safely within the moral centre of academic culture. A student who identifies as conservative, or even merely centre-right, is often psychologically interpreted before being intellectually heard. The debate thereby shifts imperceptibly from arguments to intentions. No longer is the central question solely what someone thinks, but why they think it.

This mechanism is all the more striking because universities historically understood themselves as defenders of intellectual pluralism. A society that renders dissenting opinions socially impossible ultimately becomes not only intolerant, but intellectually weaker. Even an incorrect opinion possesses value precisely because it compels truth continually to justify itself. A conviction never challenged hardens easily into dogma.

Yet the contemporary university increasingly appears uncomfortable with precisely the uncertainty that once constituted its reason for existence. Moral convictions are no longer defended merely as political preferences, but as necessary conditions of decency itself. Thus emerges a culture in which deviation appears not simply as error, but as a lack of empathy, civilisation or historical consciousness.

Within many intellectual milieus, conservatism is not primarily refuted intellectually, but rendered culturally suspect. The conservative no longer appears as a participant within the same philosophical field, but as a representative of outdated structures, hidden resentment or moral insensitivity. The debate thereby shifts subtly from argument to character.

This process has far-reaching consequences. For once certain political positions are morally disqualified, the nature of academic conversation itself changes. Whoever continually risks association with extremism, racism or reactionary thought learns to speak cautiously, or not at all.

It is there that the erosion of pluralism begins.

Not at the moment ideas are forbidden, but at the moment individuals begin to anticipate social sanction. The university then remains outwardly free whilst inwardly cultivating a culture of self-censorship. The most effective orthodoxies are rarely those which recognise themselves as orthodoxies.

The modern university no longer presents itself solely as an institution of knowledge production, but increasingly as a moral actor. Concepts such as inclusivity, social justice, decolonisation and safety no longer function merely as subjects of study within many academic contexts, but as normative starting points within which debate itself takes place. In doing so, the nature of academic legitimacy changes as well.

Scientific authority traditionally rested upon methodological discipline: doubt, verification, contradiction and the willingness continually to subject one’s own assumptions to criticism. Yet the contemporary university increasingly appears to cultivate another form of legitimacy, one deriving not solely from epistemic rigour, but also from moral positioning.

Precisely there, a subtle yet fundamental shift emerges.

Within large sections of academic culture, progressivism no longer functions merely as a political preference, but as implicit proof of intellectual and moral refinement. Certain convictions thereby function not simply as viewpoints, but as signals of empathy, historical sensitivity and social correctness. Other convictions lose their status as legitimate intellectual positions and become increasingly interpreted psychologically or morally.

This shift has profound consequences for academic culture itself. For once political positions are no longer assessed solely rationally, but also function as moral classifications, the social dynamics of speech change as well. Students and academics intuitively learn which convictions are institutionally safe and which carry social risk.

This process rarely unfolds through explicit repression. Precisely the absence of formal censorship renders the development difficult to perceive. Contemporary academic orthodoxy functions primarily through anticipation: the expectation of social correction, reputational damage or ideological association. It is not prohibition that produces conformity, but the continual presence of implicit moral frameworks within which deviation immediately acquires meaning.

Thus emerges a paradoxical situation in which universities speak constantly of diversity whilst simultaneously appearing increasingly unable to tolerate genuine epistemic plurality. Cultural and identitarian differences are recognised provided they remain within the same normative horizon. Yet once deviation concerns fundamental political, cultural or civilisational assumptions, tolerance frequently transforms into suspicion.

It is for this reason that many students holding liberal-conservative, centre-right or culturally traditional convictions experience political restraint as a form of social self-protection. Within the Dutch context, even support for mainstream centre-right parties can quickly become socially suspect within academic environments. Not necessarily because their views are forbidden, but because they understand that certain associations within the academic field can carry disproportionate consequences. A supporter of a mainstream centre-right party is quickly read as problematic, a more conservative sympathiser as potentially reactionary, and any criticism of dominant progressive frameworks risks immediate association with extremism.

The irony of this is profound. Institutions which understand themselves as defenders of inclusivity appear increasingly incapable of distinguishing between intellectual deviation and moral threat.

It is precisely within this shift that another, far more serious development slowly emerges: the growing inability to recognise antisemitism once it appears in new, ideologically legitimised forms.

When antisemitism changes its language

Contemporary antisemitism rarely manifests itself any longer in the explicit language of the past. It is precisely therein that its danger resides. Whereas classical forms of antisemitism were recognisable in their overt hostility, modern antisemitism increasingly appears in discursive, morally legitimised and institutionally rationalised forms.

This creates a profound confusion within universities, media and administrative institutions. Antisemitism continues to be recognised in its historical symbolism, far-right slogans, neo-Nazi imagery, openly racial rhetoric, whilst simultaneously becoming far less recognisable when it presents itself as activism, decolonisation or moral justice.

It is here that the contemporary blind spot emerges.

For once hostility towards Jews or Israel becomes embedded within a broader narrative of emancipation and anti-oppression, the institutional reflex shifts as well. Statements, slogans or behaviours which in other contexts would immediately be regarded as stigmatising or essentialising suddenly lose their problematic character once they appear within a progressive moral framework.

Not because institutions consciously support antisemitism, but because ideological proximity clouds judgment.

Thus emerges a dangerous asymmetry.

Universities and media today possess an extraordinarily refined vocabulary for analysing discrimination, exclusion and microaggressions — except when those same mechanisms are directed against Jews within activist-progressive contexts. Then attention shifts remarkably quickly towards historical context, geopolitical emotions or the right to activism.

Because of this, a situation emerges in which antisemitism is no longer merely denied, but increasingly relativised, sociologically explained or discursively dissolved into larger political narratives.

This mechanism is reinforced by the manner in which contemporary institutions engage with collective guilt and moral categorisation. Within sections of academic and activist discourse, Israel increasingly appears not as a concrete state open to political criticism, but as a symbolic representation of colonialism, whiteness, power or Western violence. Consequently, the position of Jewish individuals within the debate shifts as well.

They are no longer viewed solely as citizens, students or scholars, but increasingly interpreted through association. Not infrequently, an implicit expectation emerges that Jewish students, Israeli researchers or pro-Israel academics must publicly distance, justify or position themselves before being permitted to function as legitimate participants within debate.

It is there that an old mechanism returns in new language.

The logic of collective association, historically one of the central foundations of antisemitic thinking, reappears, this time clothed in the vocabulary of human rights, intersectionality and anti-colonial morality.

And perhaps therein lies the greatest danger.

Not in the radical activist at the margins of debate, but in the institutional reluctance of universities, media and administrators who witness this shift unfolding yet struggle to name it explicitly. For once antisemitism appears within ideological movements that understand themselves as morally righteous, administrative paralysis emerges.

Institutions fear less the antisemitism itself than the social consequences of naming it.

Moreover, this paralysis is no longer confined solely to universities. Within Dutch media, universities and public administration alike, the same pattern of discursive caution becomes increasingly visible. Within media organisations, cultural institutions and parts of the administrative apparatus, the same pattern of discursive caution becomes increasingly visible. Precisely where institutions were historically expected to distinguish between legitimate criticism and collective stigmatisation, normative ambiguity increasingly prevails.

Criticism of Israeli policy is, of course, entirely legitimate within a democratic society. Yet when criticism consistently transforms into essentialisation, delegitimisation or collective association, the nature of debate itself changes. The problem arises not because political criticism exists, but because boundaries begin to dissolve without institutions appearing willing any longer to mark them explicitly.

This becomes all the more problematic because modern forms of antisemitism thrive precisely upon ambiguity. They rarely operate solely through explicit hatred, but through insinuation, association and discursive shift. It is precisely for this reason that antisemitism has historically functioned as a silent assassin within societies: not because it immediately erupts visibly, but because it gradually normalises itself through language, imagery and institutional tolerance. This historical sensitivity carries particular weight in the Netherlands, where the memory of wartime antisemitism remains deeply embedded within the national conscience.

The danger resides not solely in radical movements themselves, but in the cultural ecosystems that fail to provide sufficient resistance once antisemitism appears in ideologically attractive forms.

Universities play a crucial role in this.

Precisely because they present themselves as moral and intellectual guide institutions, they influence not merely research and education, but broader societal morality as well. Discourses legitimised within academic contexts slowly filter into journalism, the cultural sector, policy and politics. Once universities struggle to recognise antisemitism when it appears in activist-progressive linguistic frameworks, that blindness gradually migrates into other institutions as well.

Thus emerges a broader societal shift in which certain forms of discrimination become immediately visible whilst others are continually relativised through context, intention or ideological sympathy.

It is therein that the danger of our age resides.

Not merely that antisemitism returns, but that it returns within institutions which simultaneously understand themselves as defenders of inclusivity, human rights and social justice. Within the Dutch context, this tension becomes particularly unsettling because these institutions continue to understand themselves as guardians of tolerance, openness and democratic pluralism.

And perhaps that is what renders contemporary antisemitism so difficult to recognise.

It no longer appears solely in the language of hatred, but increasingly in the language of morality.

Perhaps it is the gradual nature of this development that renders it so difficult to recognise. Antisemitism rarely returns in exactly the same form through which societies remember it. Consequently, the hope repeatedly emerges that incidents are temporary, that social tensions will dissipate naturally, and that distinctions between ‘here’ and ‘there’, between national identity and geopolitical conflict, will provide protection against escalation. Yet history demonstrates how fragile such reassurances become once discursive shifts begin institutionally to entrench themselves.