When the State Arrests a Professor, the University’s Silence Is a Verdict

The story here is not the arrest of Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad. It is also about what it signals in the aftermath.

The arrest of Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad for a reflective, measured social media post, is in all essence, a continuation of a deepening crisis, where the space for thought is shrinking and the cost of asking a question can be criminalisation.

(Photo: Kamran Akhter/The Quint)

Wilhelm von Humboldt, a great liberal reformer and humanist, once defined the university as “nothing other than the spiritual life of those human beings who are moved by external leisure or internal pressures toward learning and research.”

Even if a university didn’t exist, Humboldt believed a human being would otherwise “privately reflect and collect, another might join with men of his own age, a third might find a circle of disciples. Such is the picture to which the state must remain faithful if it wishes to give an institutional form to such indefinite and rather accidental human operations.”

This classic Humboldtian assertion on what a ‘university’ may symbolise or ought to actualise for people of any given generation was later revisited by Noam Chomsky in a 1969 essay.

At a time of great uncertainty and crisis in America’s own educational milieu, student-led activism across campuses pushed most universities and the intellectual elite to reflect on their role and reimagine their existence in society, even in processes of institutional propriety. Not much changed since.

It seems today too, once again, universities and colleges across the globe, amid a lurch towards right-wing extremism and ideological, majoritarian state assertion—including in India—remain positioned at a critical juncture.

A Constitutional Crisis in Learning

This is an impasse, or more so, a crisis that transcends the economic, technical, and administrative churn imposed by any other crisis (of access or of resources).

Far worse, what the arrest of Professor Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad demonstrates is that in Indian universities’ practice and approach, we face a constitutional learning crisis.

The foundations of our own "constitutional values" and "constitutional morality" find little or no presence in institutional learning or practice.

On 19 May, Dr Mahmudabad, an associate professor of political science at Ashoka University, was arrested for making a social media post. Nothing in the post explicitly contains content that can juridically justify an arrest—but that’s exactly what happened.

In any functioning democracy that respects its constitutional moral or principles, the very nature of this arrest call for public outrage and institutional alarm. 

However, barring some civic attention and social media appeals, the issue has passed almost unnoticed, absorbed into the rhythm of daily dispatches, detentions, FIRs, censorship orders, press conferences, and televised celebration.

The spectacle of majoritarian assertion, practiced in the form of extreme state power, has overwhelmed the substance.

The Arrest is the Signal, Not the Story

The story here is not the arrest itself. It is also about what it signals in the aftermath. 

Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad, head of Political Science at Ashoka University, was not in any way advocating insurrection. His post acknowledged the strategic achievement of Operation Sindoor and praised the symbolism of women leading the military briefing.

He posed a question—measured, reflective—about the meaning of symbolism in the absence of substantive justice for India’s minorities. It was not a provocation. It was not partisan. It was the work of a public intellectual engaging with the moment.

However, the state, in its conscious choice, responded not with debate nor critical deliberation, but with a blatant FIR under punitive laws. A question raised suddenly became a threat, and that thought became a liability. The arrest marks what the academy might call an epistemic rupture: a point at which power demands knowledge retreat, and knowledge is punished for resisting.

The complaints, most people admit, seem to be a complete misreading of his post, which does not say anything critical about Operation Sindoor or the two women military officers who, on several occasions, briefed the media on it.

Appearing for the professor, senior advocate Kapil Sibal mentioned the matter for urgent listing before Chief Justice of India (CJI) Bhushan R Gavai. Sibal said, “A professor at Ashoka University has been proceeded against entirely for patriotic comments. I want the matter to be listed urgently.”

Institutional Silence as Complicity

Perhaps more revealing than the arrest was the choreography that followed.

The issue simple: how did Ashoka University have nothing to say in support of its own faculty member? No official statement. No comment. No acknowledgment of concern. Ashoka University did not defend the right to expression. It did not invoke the autonomy of scholarship, nor did it uphold its duty to protect inquiry. It did not even ask for a fair hearing.

This silence is not just only loud; it is instructive.

What is important to remember here is, this is not a misstep. It is a pattern. Across borders, the university—as a space and institution—is being recast, not as a site of contestation, but as a risk-managed institution of reputation and restraint. 

In Thailand, American scholar Paul Chambers was arrested over his remote association with a webinar deemed offensive. He had not spoken nor organised it. Still, he was charged. In the United States, Georgetown professor Badar Khan Suri was detained by Homeland Security on immigration grounds shortly after publishing critical research. Neither case involved speech that was unlawful. Both involved speech that was inconvenient.

The Indian university, however, is at a sharper inflection point. It is not simply adapting to political pressure. It is retreating from its role altogether. It no longer mediates between state and society. It no longer affirms the legitimacy of dissent. It no longer distinguishes between critique and criminality.

In this vacuum, students watch as their teachers weigh each word, delay each paper, dilute each thought. The institutional memory of the university, once passed through debate and disagreement, is now being rewritten in silences.

The 'Quintilemma' of Higher Education

As the scholar James Yoonil Auh observes, universities today face a “quintilemma”: a five-fold crisis eroding the foundations of higher learning. Truth is politicised. Autonomy is fragile. Belonging is conditional. Survival is transactional. And purpose, perhaps most dangerously, is adrift. The arrest of Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad, and the institutional silence that followed, touches all five.

What does this teach students? They are urged to think critically but only within sanctioned boundaries. To speak freely, but never too loudly. To analyse, but not antagonise. This is a contradiction at the heart of modern academia: one that demands boldness and punishes it in the same breath.

Yet, the university, at its conception, was never meant to serve consensus. It was designed to disturb it. It was not built to affirm power, but to question it. The earliest universities were sanctuaries for thought deemed too unruly for the court or the church. They existed not to mirror the world as it is, but to imagine what it could be. That architecture—intellectual, civic, moral—is now under siege.

Global Parallels, Local Stakes

This erosion is not confined to India. In the United Kingdom, the Public Order Act has drawn sharp criticism for curbing student protests under the guise of public safety. In Hungary, entire gender studies departments have been dismantled through state defunding. In the United States, “anti-woke” legislation increasingly dictates the permissible contours of race, gender, and history education in public institutions.

The global university is becoming less a site of inquiry and more a stage for ideological compliance.

In this landscape, what does it mean to teach in India today? To learn? What does it mean to enter a classroom knowing that a question—however measured, however thoughtful—may be interpreted not as dialogue but as defiance? What does it mean when students must calculate not only what they think, but how safely it can be expressed?

This quiet assertion reminds us that India’s pluralism is not extinguished. It can, rather, be categorised as a glimpse. It appears, briefly and brilliantly, in moments—like a military briefing led by women, or a question raised in good faith. But a pluralism glimpsed is not a pluralism guaranteed. The real challenge is not to celebrate its performance on national stages, but to defend its presence in libraries, lecture halls, and living memory.

In the long run, it is not one arrest or one post that will define a republic. It is the ambient fear that settles into place afterward—the kind that does not silence outright, but teaches people to pre-empt their own silence. The greater risk, therefore, lies not in censorship, but in the habit of self-erasure.

The Targeting of Academics in India

And this is not the first time. Indian academics have long found themselves marked, maligned, and made examples of, for asking the wrong questions, publishing the inconvenient paper, standing by the unpopular view. The targets shift. The tactics evolve. But the pattern endures. What we are witnessing is not an isolated aberration but the escalation of a longer campaign—one that demands our immediate and unflinching attention.

The arrest of Dr Ali Khan Mahmudabad for a reflective, measured social media post, is in all essence, a continuation of a deepening crisis, where the space for thought is shrinking and the cost of asking a question can be criminalisation.

This pattern is not new. In 2021, Dr Pratap Bhanu Mehta, one of India’s most respected political theorists, was forced to resign from Ashoka University. His writings had become, in the words of the university’s founders, a “political liability.”

Economist Arvind Subramanian resigned in protest soon after. Their departures sparked student outrage and drew global condemnation, with over 150 international scholars calling it a “dangerous attack” on academic freedom. Mehta’s exit was not a resignation. It was an eviction masked as discretion.

There are others. In 2016, Amit Sengupta resigned from the Indian Institute of Mass Communication after being abruptly transferred to a remote campus, a move he described as retaliation for supporting protests around Rohith Vemula’s death. In 2023, economists Sabyasachi Das and Pulapre Balakrishnan left Ashoka University amid institutional discomfort with Das’s research.

The language of these repressions may vary—administrative reshuffling, legal harassment, subtle coercion—but the message remains constant: dissent will be punished, and inquiry will be policed.

This is not just a problem for the university. It is a threat to the republic. Because when a professor is arrested not for inciting rebellion but for posing a question, what is being criminalised is not speech, but thought itself. And when universities respond with silence—or worse, with complicity—what is lost is not just academic freedom, but the very idea of a university as a space of fearless inquiry.

The consequences are already visible: classrooms grow quieter, students second-guess themselves, curricula bend toward the comfortable. What is being taught, implicitly, is not how to think, but how not to.

If India is to preserve its pluralistic imagination, its constitutional morality, it must protect its scholars—not as agitators, but as stewards of the democratic conscience. The stakes are no longer theoretical. They are existential. Because once a society begins to punish its thinkers for thinking, it begins to forget how to think at all.

Geetali and Ankur Singh from the Centre for New Economics Studies contributed to this column.

(Deepanshu Mohan is a Professor of Economics, Dean, IDEAS, Office of Inter-Disciplinary Studies, and Director of Centre for New Economics Studies (CNES), OP Jindal Global University. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)