I'm a history professor at the University of Texas at Dallas. At 4:03 p.m. on Wednesday, May 1st, I was arrested along with 20 other faculty, staff, students, alumni, and community members.
Fifteen minutes earlier, university administrators released a statement guaranteeing peaceful student protests and protection of free speech. The assurance was accompanied by an immediate order to disband the Gaza Liberation encampment set up by students, demanding that the university withdraw from five arms companies involved in the systematic killing of Palestinians. As a historian who teaches students about the importance of clearly and specifically citing sources, I noticed that the instruction did not refer to any specific campus policy. Still, I tried to obey.
The circle of students sat silently in the center of the camp, arms folded. My colleagues and I stood quietly, well outside the encampment, between students and a troop of state troopers in riot gear flanked on either side by officers from at least four other law enforcement agencies. They gathered in front of what looked like a tank. Behind us, another professor implored the advancing officers that force was not necessary. He never dreamed that an ailing, middle-aged professor would actually physically protect his students, but he believes in peaceful protests. This was my attempt to demonstrate my opposition to extreme and unnecessary displays of force. For this I was arrested along with 20 others. We could face up to six months in prison for trespassing on a university where we learn, teach and study.
We were chained wrists, legs and feet and loaded into police vans. There we sat for almost half an hour in a sweaty box, made of metal, with no air conditioning, and lit by the sun, before being taken to the adjoining county jail, where a police officer told us about Sandra Bland's “suicide.” Preached. Even though we were arrested in Dallas County, we were booked into the Collin County Jail and arraigned. We will be tried in a neighboring, more conservative jurisdiction.
This was an overwhelming experience. The people I love and respect wanted me to rot in prison. Many more expressed their concern and support. Mostly I just wanted to get back to work. After being released on bond, I rushed to campus to teach the final session of a class on the history of American religion.
Yaakub Illa
The purpose of the university is for students to think deeply about the world they have inherited, to develop an interest in it, and to develop a free spirit of inquiry. Prisons aren't the type of classrooms often featured in donor promotional materials, but the students learned a lot that day behind bars. I did too. I was proud to hear them passionately discuss their academic interests, from computer systems engineering to biochemistry to digital video design to pre-colonial African history. They had fun and enthusiastic interactions with other inmates, recommending their favorite books, encouraging them to earn degrees they didn't have, and pursue their intellectual interests. These students deserve attention. They are smart, curious, and courageous. It was an honor to learn from them.
We also learned from other inmates who had the exact opposite reaction from university administrators. Shortly after the violence was quelled by those who had paid to care for the students, strangers they met in prison showed compassion and care. One inmate found out he was going to be a father the day we arrived. Picked up at the age of 20 with half a joint, he spent 10 years embroiled in the legal system and ended his college career as an anthropology student. We all look forward to him launching his promised blog and podcast to share with you the insights he has shared with us, including his impressive knowledge of the Mande people of West Africa.
The most obvious lesson was the brutality of the American legal system, which many, especially poor Americans, are familiar with. The most common cry we heard in prison was the longing to lie down. Prisoners were confined to one of two locations at the whim of their guards, and could spend up to 48 hours without a bed. In the first place he has two crowded camps with a cement floor and small metal benches on which only a few of us can sit, much less lie on the ground. was. The other space is a large room with hard plastic chairs, where lying on the ground is strictly prohibited and reclining too much risks angering the guards, before dragging one of the students to detention. A security guard kicked him in the leg.
Most of the students were in disbelief at policies clearly aimed at increasing suffering. Other inmates often looked in disbelief at the students' surprise. Many knew from past experience that this is how the system works. Now we know it too. There is historical precedent for disseminating this type of knowledge to students. The repression of Freedom His Rides in the 1960s exposed a generation of college students to the harsh realities of state violence. Like students more than half a century ago, our students have hard-won but important new lessons to teach the academic community.
This fall, I enjoyed a difficult but important conversation with a colleague whom I greatly respect and who I know has very different feelings than I do about the events in Gaza. Among other things, he pointed out that students are students. They come to our universities to learn. And he's completely right. As faculty, we have the privilege of sharing knowledge that is only gained through years, if not decades, of research. Both the current crisis in Gaza and the surge in attacks on student movements are teaching opportunities, and it is imperative that we connect the knowledge we gain from our fields of expertise to the big issues of our day, today and every day. So, after learning about the pre-arrest camps, I wanted to channel student energy into meaningful educational opportunities and asked the student leaders if I could share some books with them. Five hours later, police threw those readings in the trash.
History suggests that students have something to teach us, too. Students are often at the center of our democratic experiment, such as Lane's Rebels protesting slavery in 1834, the Tuskegee students' uprising against industrial education in 1903, and College Day during the women's suffrage movement in 1917. Has been a trailblazer (in the same year students at the University of Texas at Austin rallied against Gov. James E. “Pa” Ferguson), the president was ousted after deploying Nashville police to quell protests. Fisk University students in 1925, resistance to the Red Scares, courageous sit-ins and other forms of protest in the 1930s. Whether it's civil rights activists, the massive student movement against the Vietnam War, the anti-apartheid boycotts of the 1980s, or the current generation condemning the mass deaths in Gaza and modern-day police abuses. It would be a big mistake not to support students' rights to think, learn, and act, especially in universities, which are places dedicated to developing thinkers, learners, and leaders. Their curiosity and passion are essential to our democracy.
The sniper rifles, tear gas cannons and armored vehicles that appeared at the University of Texas at Dallas are no longer on campus. But I have a question. Even the difficult and uncertain questions. Issues such as whether the deaths of thousands of people in Gaza amounted to ethnic cleansing or genocide. Questions about the morality of a university's huge investment in a weapons company. Questions about the purpose and usefulness of protests, civil disobedience, and the divestment movement. I commend my students for asking these questions and look forward to continuing to learn from them.
Ben Wright is a history professor at the University of Texas at Dallas, specializing in abolitionist studies.
