Dispatches from the present
On Saturday night the gates of Harvard Yard were closed, so that the University might hide our mess.
I entered through a side entrance just past midnight, wearing sweatpants and carrying a pillow. The security guard recognized me, nodded, and let me pass. For a moment I felt very alone; it didn’t seem like there was anyone else out on the green. The lamps were turned down low, just enough to illuminate the walkway in orange. Every now and then, I heard a rat scuttle. It was a sharp departure from the city outside.
Just an hour earlier, I was at the kind of alumni dinner that occurs semi-frequently at Harvard, which is to say, each seat cost several hundred dollars. The dinner was held by a social club for those in the arts; its alumni include a handful of famous actors, many prominent journalists and a few politicians. As we ate dessert, a professor at a top law school gave me advice on a potential career in academia. “And while you’re at school, make sure you behave,” he said, leaning in close, right next to my ear. He was drunk. “That means: don’t do any protest bullshit.” Of course, I nodded.
Minutes later, I received a text informing me that I could spend the night at the pro-Palestine encampment at Harvard Yard. I would attend as a journalist, not an activist. The campers, who were (understandably) wary of the press, had discussed my presence in a few group chats at length.
I approached the encampment, sheltered under the Yard’s large oak trees, taking in the dome-like forms of around thirty tents concentrated in front of University Hall. Someone had projected a red script that read “FREE GAZA” onto the building’s wall. A small group of students gathered below the projection, talking, but most campers were asleep. Rather early for a Saturday night, but then again, it wasn’t as if they could throw parties; that would be a rules violation.
In dealing with student protesters, Harvard’s administration has not chosen persuasion (as at Michigan State), negotiation (as at Brown) or even violence (as at Columbia), but rather the kind of quiet suppression that can only occur in a sophisticated bureaucracy. Intent on avoiding more of the disastrous press cycles that hit the university in the fall—first, because of a statement penned by Harvard’s Palestine Solidarity Committee that blamed Israel for Hamas’s October 7th attack, and second, because of now-former President Claudine Gay’s congressional testimony about anti-Semitism—administrators have tried their best to make sure that protests do not happen. And if they do happen, they try to ensure no one is there to see them.
As a result, the university has found that most pro-Palestinian activism is in violation of a rule. Usually, this activism violates the university’s Vietnam-era “Statement of Rights and Responsibilities,” a document prohibiting the ambiguous offense of interfering “with members of the University in performance of their normal duties and activities.” But if there was no rule on the books, they could always be created. Earlier this semester, the Palestine Solidarity Committee was suspended for violating new guidelines announced in January. On April 22nd, before the encampment had even been set up, administrators closed Harvard Yard to the public and prohibited students from bringing in tents or “structures” without prior authorization.
None of this stopped the encampment from being built, but I suspect it has still had an effect. The night I visited, I ran into a friend who is actively involved in pro-Palestinian activism. Belatedly, I realized she wasn’t camping; she just likes to come by to show her support. Indeed, many activists who normally lead the pro-Palestine movement on campus visit the encampment during the day but are absent overnight.
From a few conversations, I’ve gleaned that some activists don’t think the encampment is worth its cost. Harvard’s administration has threatened to suspend campers, potentially for a whole academic year; for graduating seniors in the encampment, this might mean that their degree is delayed. Meanwhile, the encampment is nowhere near achieving its goals—divestment from companies that do business in Israel—and the summer is approaching. Most campers will move out within the next two weeks, regardless of what the administration does.
“I guess that sounds selfish,” my friend added. She was worried I’d judge her. But it didn’t sound selfish to me; more than anything, it sounded familiar. As a rule, Harvard does not attract risk-takers. Most of us are neurotic strivers. Students are acutely aware of the potentially life-changing advantages of having a Harvard degree.
I think of a scene from the day before. I was observing the encampment when I noticed that the dean of Harvard College, Rakesh Khurana, was there watching too. Khurana is normally (or appears to be) a friendly face on campus. He strikes up conversations with students and walks them to class. He remembers their names and keeps track of their accomplishments. He is a prolific Instagram poster—sometimes he posts up to three or four times a day—and shares selfies of himself with smiling students. But that afternoon, he was frowning in a manner so exaggerated it must have hurt his face. His arms were crossed. I found his show of displeasure unsettling.
Khurana symbolizes Harvard’s community, or what administrators would like Harvard’s community to be. By appearing at the encampment, he conveyed a personal warning to campers: in addition to disciplinary action, they might also risk exile from Harvard’s community, and its attendant benefits.
Khurana has visited other protests; in November, when students from Harvard Jews for Palestine staged a sit-in at University Hall, Khurana spoke with the protesters. He implored them to see that the issue at hand was “complicated,” a characterization the students rejected. “I think this is one of the most morally clear issues in the world right now,” one of them told me.
I get the sense that most students agree with that statement. There are only so many videos of dead bodies one can tolerate. And yet, as I looked around at the encampment, I realized that relatively few students had shown up—there were maybe forty campers. Most pro-Palestine students at Harvard stayed home. I even wondered about myself. I cover student protests as a journalist, so I insist I can’t participate in them. But was that the whole reason I was looking into the encampment instead of taking part in it?
Some students blame the low participation on the encampment’s stated objectives. Not only are the campers currently far from reaching any deal with administrators (so far no negotiations have taken place), but as most students know, it’s unlikely that Harvard will ever divest from companies that do business in Israel, even companies that profit from war. So, the encampment is pointless.
Then again, sometimes it is necessary to register dissent, even if one’s demands are not likely to be met. Throughout this past week, I’ve seen several videos of children in Gaza thanking student campers for protesting on their behalf. If nothing else, maybe that makes the encampments worthwhile. But still, the same Harvard calculus remains. We cannot just say that Gaza’s children matter; instead, the institution forces us to ask, exactly how much are they worth to me?