In recent weeks, an unsettling chapter has opened in the fraught relationship between government power and academic freedom, one that should alarm anyone who values civil liberties. The Trump administration’s attempt to compel the University of Pennsylvania to hand over personal data on Jewish faculty, staff and students; contact information, emails, phone numbers, home addresses, That of course, was met with swift and justified outrage from faculty groups. They denounced the move as nothing less than government overreach, a glaring abuse of authority with “ominous historical overtones.” That phrase is more than mere rhetoric; it is a sober acknowledgment that history teaches hard lessons about what happens when the state targets a community defined by religion, ethnicity or political identity.
What makes this situation so troubling isn’t merely the specific request itself; it’s what it says about the vulnerability of academic institutions in the face of political pressure and how quickly these vulnerabilities can become an instrument of fear. Universities are meant to be bastions of free thought, safe spaces where scholars and students engage with ideas without dread of surveillance or retribution. That ideal is already under strain in a polarized age but to see a government pursue the personal data of a distinct group within a university, on the basis of identity, raises the specter of authoritarian intrusion into civil society.
Many have rightly drawn comparisons to the famous lines of Martin Niemöller, the German pastor who survived Nazi concentration camps and later reflected on the cowardice of the intellectual and spiritual classes during Hitler’s rise. “First they came for the Socialists… Then they came for the Jews… Then they came for me… And there was no one left to speak for me.” Niemöller’s words are a warning, not just about persecution, but about the ease with which decent people can convince themselves that the target of state aggression is somehow separate from them. The lesson is universal, attack one group’s rights, and you weaken the rights of all.
It is telling, then, that the administration’s demand was not limited to anonymous statistical data or broad trends. It sought identifiable information, individuals could be named, contacted, even harassed. That’s not research, that’s a register. Registers have dark connotations in modern history. They have been used to track, segregate, and ultimately dehumanize. To shrug at this because it’s happening in the United States in 2026 is to be complacent about the fragility of free society. Big data and bureaucracy are potent tools; in the wrong hands, they are indistinguishable from instruments of oppression.
What is particularly jarring in this episode is the reaction within parts of the academic community itself. Reports have emerged of some Jewish students, perplexingly celebrating the administration’s similar request for information on Palestinians and their supporters on campus. It is an astonishing display of what might be called “oppression envy” the notion that if an intrusive policy is directed at a group one opposes, it must be justified or even desirable. That reaction betrays a deep misunderstanding of solidarity and self-interest alike.
Any policy that sets a precedent for the collection of personal data based on identity, be it religious, ethnic or political, should be opposed universally, not only when one’s own group is targeted. When we cheer because “it’s them, not us,” we are participating in the very dynamic that erodes our collective defense against tyranny. The machinery of state power does not discriminate in the long run; it shops for legitimacy, and it finds willing collaborators when it can. Once the first register is written, adding others becomes easier.
The stinging irony here is that those who cheered the targeting of Palestinian students may soon find themselves defending their own rights tomorrow. The logic of “they deserve it” is self-defeating. If the assault on civil liberties is justified for one group, why not another? Why not any? Rights that are instrumental, only valid when convenient, are no rights at all. They are privileges that can be revoked.
What should unify us, at a minimum, is the defense of academia as a space free from surveillance and intimidation. Universities are not extensions of political power; they are crucibles of critical thought. Scholars must be free to inquire, teach and debate without fear that their identities will be harvested for political ends. If the government wants insight into campus dynamics, it should pursue it transparently, ethically, and with respect for privacy and due process. Nothing about this latest demand met that standard.
The faculty outcry against the administration’s actions was not hyperbolic. It was deeply rooted in a recognition that the request was a breach of trust between students, staff, and the institution, one that risked cultivating an environment of suspicion and fear. To be a university is to foster openness, not to bow to political dictates. When government pressure encroaches on these principles, academics must resist, not selectively, but universally.
The Trump administration is no longer in power. Yet the impulse to consolidate data, to surveil, and to categorize people based on identity is not unique to any one leader or party. It is a perennial threat that requires perpetual vigilance. Niemöller’s words echo across time not because they are quaint historical artifacts, but because the pattern they describe, the complacency in the face of injustice, is evergreen.
We must reject policies that single out any group for intrusive scrutiny. We must reaffirm that personal information is not fodder for political whims. We must remember that when civil liberties are compromised for some, they are compromised for all. In defending the rights of Jewish faculty and students today, we defend the rights of every scholar tomorrow. That is the true lesson history demands we learn and relearn before it is too late.
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