Op-Ed: Florida State University: Silence in the Classroom, Fear in the Faculty — How Academic Freedom and Democracy Die

Photo by Jackson Myers

A shorter version of this article was published in the Tallahassee Democrat.

“Don’t report me to the administration.”

The professor’s voice was light, almost joking — but the unease in the room was real. Nervous laughter followed.

I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing at Florida State University (FSU): professors afraid, truths avoided, political reality suppressed. I told myself I was imagining it — until it was directly confirmed. Classrooms once meant for fearless inquiry now have professors self-censoring, students hesitating, and truth quietly rewritten. This is not just discomfort. It is a slow, state-driven suffocation of academic freedom. I wasn’t just studying authoritarianism anymore. I was living it.

I had transferred from Bridgewater State University in Massachusetts — where open debate and intellectual risk-taking were the norm — to join what I believed was a more prestigious political science program at FSU. I never imagined I would enter a reality where scholars were afraid to acknowledge basic political science.

Naïvely, I assumed that Governor Ron DeSantis’s policies wouldn’t reach into the classroom. But the chilling effect of self-censorship here is undeniable — and it stems directly from legislation designed to silence dissent. The Stop WOKE Act (HB 7) prohibits suggesting that individuals bear privilege or oppression based on identity. SB 266 bans public funding for diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs and restricts curricula that address systemic inequality. Though a federal judge blocked parts of HB 7 in higher education, its shadow remains. Faculty behave as if under constant surveillance — because they might be.

FSU professor and journalist Diane Roberts has described Florida’s academic environment as the most repressive she’s seen in decades of teaching. She warns that fear now governs the classroom, and that Florida universities are “under siege from right-wing ideologues.”

At first, I doubted my perceptions and tried to rationalize the signs of self-censorship. Maybe professors were softening their language to avoid alienating conservative students. Maybe they were just being cautious. But as the patterns continued, the omissions and contradictions became impossible to ignore.

Over time, the climate of fear became undeniable — acknowledged quietly in private conversations. Historian Timothy Snyder calls this anticipatory obedience: when people censor themselves before anyone tells them to.

I’m speaking out because I refuse to remain silent as our democracy erodes — because this is how authoritarianism starts. Almost never how it ends.

In a post-9/11 human rights course, the professor clearly stated that what former President Bush called “enhanced interrogation” was, in fact, torture. But when it came to present-day threats — especially those implicating the Republican Party — he grew cautious. After Trump’s 2024 election win, I cited a Human Rights Watch report warning that his presidency posed a grave threat to global and domestic rights. The professor said nothing. He gave a small nod and moved on. Later, he added, “It’s not all doom and gloom,” implying the courts would hold. At the time, I took it as neutrality. Looking back, it felt like quiet avoidance.

Time and again, I saw how this culture of caution led professors to retreat from basic truths. In one class, I noted that Republican policies are overwhelmingly anti-refugee. The professor asked, “Why would you say that?” I pointed out that GOP lawmakers oppose refugee protections at far higher rates than Democrats. He conceded the point — but still warned, “Not all Republicans.” What should have been a straightforward, evidence-based statement became something to defend, as if facts weren’t enough.

Even in a course on democracy and dictatorships, authoritarianism was handled with caution. Just days after the April 2025 mass shooting on our campus, a student asked why the U.S. lacks basic gun control. The professor suggested it was due to public opposition. I pushed back, saying most Americans support common-sense reforms, and the real barrier is the power of gun lobbyists and corporate donors. The professor flushed. “I was getting to that,” he said — but quickly moved on. His silence said more than his words.

In that same course, we read from scholars like Steven Levitsky, whose work shows how competitive authoritarian regimes erode democracy from within. But we never applied those frameworks to the United States. Levitsky has called the modern Republican Party an authoritarian threat — not business as usual. Yet in class, a decade-old chart labeling the U.S. a “full democracy” was briefly acknowledged as outdated, then shrugged off. “The U.S. is a democracy,” the professor said flatly. When a student raised concerns about democratic stagnation in our own country, the response was a pause, a joke — “They can’t fire me” — and then a redirection to bureaucratic inefficiencies.

In another class, a professor finally voiced what had remained unspoken:

“I want you to think about this again. I’m assuming this is a safe place — and recognize that faculty themselves have fear in discussing these issues. That, in itself, is an infringement of my civil liberty, because I’m supposed to have academic freedom.”

That same professor, when approaching controversial topics like critical theory or ultranationalism in the context of “America First,” often repeated the same line: “Don’t report me.” The humor was thin. The message was unmistakable.

Elsewhere, an instructor cited global data showing conservatives support authoritarianism at higher rates — but quickly added, “I don’t mean Republicans.” The retreat from reality was automatic, as if teaching academic consensus had become professionally dangerous.

Among the few students I spoke with, most were unaware of the chilling effect — or unwilling to discuss it. One student confided that she wondered if the professor was avoiding the truth on purpose. But when I reached out to others, my messages went unanswered. The silence was louder than any response.

In private, the chilling effect was confirmed. Faculty admitted they now adjust syllabi, skip topics, and soften conclusions — not to improve pedagogy, but to avoid backlash. Even tenured professors no longer feel protected. One told me that faculty undergo formal review every four years, and that knowledge lingers whenever they speak. Tenure used to guarantee academic freedom. Now it feels conditional — subject to political pressure, student complaints, and shifting ideological lines. Professors especially fear being reported by right-leaning students for simply teaching mainstream political science.

I’ve spoken with professors in Democratic states — like at Bridgewater, Massachusetts. Some mentioned concerns about immigration enforcement or federal budget cuts. But none described the climate of political surveillance and anticipatory silence that now defines Florida’s public universities. It’s a state-engineered campaign of intellectual repression. Other GOP-controlled states are following Florida’s lead, including Texas, where SB 17 bans DEI offices and initiatives at public universities.

I reached out to FSU’s leadership to discuss these patterns. A public relations official asked where the article would be published. When I declined to say, the conversation ended.

That silence is not neutral. FSU is obeying in advance — refusing to defend its faculty, revise its policies, or speak out against the state’s repressive agenda. This is not passive inaction. It is active complicity.

Florida is backsliding into soft authoritarianism. There’s no overt repression — just fear in the classroom, silence in place of inquiry, and truth either rewritten or avoided entirely.

If we don’t speak now — if we allow Florida’s model of classroom censorship to take root — we won’t just lose academic freedom. We’ll forfeit our agency to save this crumbling democracy.

The path back begins with recognition. Faculty associations, governing boards, and national watchdogs must document and challenge this repression. Alumni and donors must ask harder questions. And students must break the silence that so many feel forced to keep.

The choice is ours. We can let fear shape our universities — or reclaim them. But we cannot do both.