Public Silence and Private Empathy

The writer is a current president

I knew, after exchanging with my team the 12th draft of a public statement on recent events in the Middle East, it would never go out.

Not because I wasn’t clear and resolute about what to say, but because the public parsing of institutional statements released before ours gave me pause.  

It was another reminder that in the place I now live, often the best way to honor the truth and advance the mission of the institution I serve is through public silence and private empathy. 

While silence may be interpreted as weakness, it sure beats an unfair dissection of words to call my moral clarity into question, malign my faculty, threaten our budget, unpledge pledges, and call for my resignation.

So, the public statement did not go out. 

Instead, the time we saved in futher wordsmithing was used to ensure I delivered on what I am actually responsible for: securing the safety of my campus community, upholding the virtues of academic freedom, walking the fine line separating Title VI protections from First Amendment rights, rejecting hate and bigotry while supporting an accused individual’s right to due process, and, most importantly, being available to listen to all who saw in me, the president, the embodiment of the university’s commitment to all its students.

To this day I believe that not issuing a public statement was the right thing to do for my institution. 

The right thing for me? Not so sure.

I am deeply emotionally and intellectually conflicted with the need for silence in the public sphere. It feels an abdication of personal duty. It feels like hell.

Was my silence a cowardly attempt to avoid conflict when conflict is the often the best way to test beliefs and understandings?

Was my silence a sign that I had sold out to a lifestyle that feels especially affluent to someone all too familiar with welfare programs, the rhythms of living paycheck to paycheck, and the intricacies of credit card shell games?   

Did my silence betray a lack of confidence in my grasp of the seemingly intractable challenges of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, in turn exposing me as less of an intellectually engaged scholar of the world than most would expect their president to be?

Was my silence an affront to values I worked hard to model for my own children—fighting for what you believe in and facing the consequences?

And the worst question of all: Will my children think less of their father for not speaking out? 

My worries and self-doubt are exacerbated by the fact that in a previous presidency, and in a different time and place, silence would not have even been on the table. 

There, politics dictated swift, unequivocal statements. I learned to speak with confidence, never backtrack, and, when necessary, zig a little here and zag a little there—the ability to sense and respond, to navigate public opinion, spin your message while not straying from the truth was the sign of a true leader.

Expressions of public outrage that aligned with my personal values were applauded and often the best way to fuel the institutional mission.

But in these gerrymandered days, in this other place, life is no longer so simple. Now I try my best to balance the pull of silence and the push for outrage that fills my inbox.

In days, weeks, and months after October 7, amid rising calls for ceasefires, instead of continuing to craft a public statement, we turned our attention to listening to those whose mental and physical well-being needed protecting. I met with student leaders, gave them my cell number, and told them I was there for them. As always.

It’s possible, even likely, I will be called to account for my silence. If that time comes, I will explain that we tried and failed to produce the perfect statement—one that would avoid fueling the polarization of our communities, would age well, would not put us in the untenable position of having to invest precious time and resources issuing statement after statement justifying our morality against the backdrop of violence and war. 

I will explain that our time was better spent working closely, privately, and empathetically with our campus communities at a time of unimaginable turmoil, grief, and suffering.

Because, after all, I am a university president, not a head of state.