A for Ashoka, B for Bully

Should Ashoka University have taken a stand as an institution in support of Ali Khan Mahmudabad, following his arrest for remarks made on social media? There is a view, and a very strong view, that it should have. There is another view that different faculty members and students hold different political views and the university cannot be partisan in its approach. I tend to support the latter viewpoint.

This is not the first time that penal actions have been initiated by the State against faculty members of public universities in recent years. In none of those cases did university administrations take a stance, for or against. Neither did the affected academics demand it. Therefore, I believe it may be unfair to expect Ashoka University to defend Ali Khan’s post.

That, however, is not what the alumni and the academic community believe. They want the university administration to uphold the liberty of its faculty and students to write and speak on issues they consider important.

We certainly do not expect universities to defend persons accused of murder, sexual harassment and other crimes. However, if a member of the academic community is hounded by the State or non-State actors like the RSS, the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad, and others of that ilk, one would reasonably expect the administration to at least speak up in support of the individual’s right to free expression; and to state that it cannot condone such attacks.

Conversely, the university can choose discretion as the better part of valour, and refrain from making a ‘non-committal’ stance public. The university administration chose to not publicly defend Ali Khan’s right to free speech. The university’s promoters would agree that teachers and students, like all citizens, have a right to free speech—defending it doesn’t mean endorsing the content, merely the right to express it. Is it so difficult to appreciate this difference?

Why did the university feel it necessary to distance itself? Why the haste to disown a faculty member facing persecution and public humiliation — making it clear he must face the ordeal alone — simply for exercising his constitutional rights?

The university stated, ‘Comments made by a faculty member on personal social media do not represent the university’s views.’ This is obvious — none of us write as university spokespersons. When we publish opinion pieces in newspapers, we don’t expect them to be treated as academic papers, nor do we expect our institutions to defend them — we defend them personally.

When we adopt a research methodology, do we expect our universities to authorise it? No, we proceed as individuals. Every scholar is alone in their pursuit. All we seek is understanding and solidarity from the wider academic world.

For a moment, let us set Ali Khan’s case aside. Let us return to the case of Sabyasachi Das, another faculty member disowned by Ashoka University. He had shared, on social media, a work-in-progress research paper on electoral trends. It was attacked by the same people who later attacked Ali Khan. Following the backlash from the RSS network, the university immediately dissociated itself from him.

The university administration is right when it says it is not responsible for the research findings of its teachers. But the Ashoka administration did not stop at that. It felt it necessary to discredit Das’s work by stating: ‘Ashoka values research that is critically peer-reviewed and published in reputed journals. To the best of our knowledge, the paper in question has not yet completed a critical review process and has not been published in an academic journal. Social media activity or public activism by Ashoka faculty, students or staff in their individual capacity does not reflect the stand of the university.’

Going by Das’s then colleagues, the administration tried to interfere with his research and offer unsolicited suggestions. His department of economics came out with a statement: ‘Academic research is professionally evaluated through a process of peer review. The governing body’s interference to investigate the merits of his recent study constitutes institutional harassment, curtails academic freedom, and forces scholars to operate in an environment of fear.’

The department of political science weighed in: ‘…the governing body’s actions have signalled to students that critical enquiry can be met with severe repercussions and thus undermines the work that we do within and outside the classroom.’

Even before Das, Ashoka University subtly pressured Pratap Bhanu Mehta to leave. Initially hailed as a prestigious acquisition, they soon found him too hot to handle. Scorched by his intellectual brilliance, they ‘persuaded’ him to resign. Unlike the cases of Das or Ali Khan, the university lacked any immediate justification, apart from the fact that the BJP detested what Mehta stood for. Anticipating trouble, the university took a peremptory step.

Prior to Mehta, the university had forced Rajendran Narayan to resign following his support for a petition on issues affecting the Kashmiri people.

Looking at all these episodes, a common pattern emerges: threats from Hindutva elements are met with the university’s reluctance or inability to stand up to them.

Ashoka’s promoters are afraid to admit that they are afraid, that we live in a land ruled by a bully called the BJP and that we need to be careful. Instead, they try to take a moral high ground, talk about their commitment to academic rigour and imply that the actions of the Ali Khans are unacademic; that faculty members should focus on writing research papers and gathering academic brownie points to advance their careers.

While writing this piece, I recalled an essay by Upendra Baxi, titled ‘Teaching as Provocation’. Reflecting on his life as a teacher, he admits to being haunted by his students’ unspoken question: “What good can you do for us?”

He writes: ‘It is the search for an answer to this question that has led me to bouts of social and legal activism in India, in many a context, outside the classroom. Students constitute a jury every year which determines whether a teacher is guilty or not guilty of treating knowledge as a Brahmanical preserve or using it, outside and inside the classroom, as a sword, as a hoe, as a broom, the badges of inferiority of all other varnas.’

Baxi imagines two categories of teachers: rationalist and hedonist. He does not disrespect the former but prefers the latter. Let us read on to understand his preference: ‘The hedonistic conception of teaching leads to the politics of commitment to causes; the rationalist conception tends to maintain a respectable, and safe, distance between knowledge and [the] politics of action.’

And what do hedonist teachers do? Let us hear Baxi again: ‘The hedonist thinks she learns from real life struggle as much as through studies, teaching and research; and has a passionate commitment to altering the conditions and institutions in which knowledge is produced.’

I think anyone who wants to set up universities should read this essay first, and decide if they want to hire hedonist teachers at all. If not, they should pack their department with rationalist teachers only. But as we soon realise, inside every rationalist lives a hedonist!

Teachers, in short, are hazardous elements. Those who wish to enter the business of ideas must accept the occupational hazards that come with it and stop complaining when they arise. Or not enter the field at all.

Apoorvanand teaches at Delhi University. More of his writings can be found here