The announcement was sudden and dramatic. A video op-ed spread quickly across news platforms and social media, showing three well-known scholars from a prestigious American university. They declared that they were leaving the United States for Canada, explaining that their departure was a deliberate act, an intellectual retreat from a country they believed was sliding into authoritarian rule. They presented their decision as a sacrifice, a symbolic warning to the nation.
Yet the reception was far from sympathetic. Instead of widespread alarm or admiration, their words provoked sharp criticism. Many people did not see bravery in the gesture. They saw hypocrisy, the privileged announcing their escape while ordinary citizens had no such option. The disconnect was immediate and intense, revealing a growing tension between the intellectual class and the wider public.
This moment of backlash tells us something deeper than a single dispute over interpretation. It reflects a fault line in American political and cultural life. The divide is not only about ideas, but about perception, trust, and the weight of actions in a society already strained by resentment and disbelief.
The Perception Gap
For the scholars, leaving was meant to be a message of urgency. They imagined themselves as sounding the alarm before disaster struck, offering their absence as proof that the situation was becoming intolerable. In their framework, this was an act of courage.
But for much of the public, the opposite was true. Many saw their announcement as evidence of abandonment, a decision to walk away from struggles that most citizens cannot escape. In this view, the gesture was not sacrificial at all. It was indulgent. Worse, it was not even new. People remembered that similar warnings had been made before the first Trump administration, warnings that predicted an authoritarian turn that never fully came. The fact that these same intellectuals had not left the country then made their new declaration ring hollow.
There was also the striking irony that they delivered their message through the official channel of the New York Times, one of the most visible platforms in American media. The very fact that they could speak so openly and critically was itself proof that freedom of speech remained intact. If anything, their announcement showed that they lived in a country where dissent was not crushed but amplified. That irony was not lost on those who felt their alarmism was exaggerated.
Authoritarianism as a Process
The framework behind the scholars’ move was familiar in academic and journalistic circles. They often repeated the phrase, “authoritarianism is a process, not an event.” Their argument was that democracy does not collapse overnight, but erodes gradually. Early signs, such as the weakening of independent institutions or the vilification of the press, must be recognized before the decline becomes irreversible.
This framework has intellectual merit. It encourages vigilance and offers a way to interpret subtle shifts in political culture. Historical analogies, from 1930s Europe to more recent illiberal regimes, give weight to the argument. They provide a language for discussing dangers that might otherwise be dismissed as exaggerations.
Yet there is a dangerous side to this way of thinking. If authoritarianism is defined as a process, then almost any symptom can be picked out as proof of decline. Such a mindset can justify endless fear, even purges of those deemed complicit. Many observers feel that this is less a neutral framework than a political tool, one that allows liberal academics to disguise ideology as objective scholarship. In universities, people have often seen professors and organizers presenting themselves as neutral while quietly advancing partisan positions. The phrase that sounds so reasonable in theory becomes, in practice, a way of labeling opponents without fair debate.
Privilege and Retreat
What angered many was not only the words, but the symbolism of retreat. To exit a troubled society is a privilege not available to most. Millions of ordinary people cannot simply relocate when politics turn sour. Their lives are bound by work, family, and community ties.
In this light, the scholars’ departure became a mirror of privilege. It seemed to confirm the suspicion that elites can talk endlessly about crisis but will ultimately look out for themselves first. Rather than modeling solidarity, the act of leaving suggested detachment. The message was not “we are with you in the struggle” but “we have the means to escape, and we will use it.”
The imagery that came to mind for many was that of the Titanic. It was as if the professors had boarded lifeboats first, declaring from the safety of the sea, “we told you the ship was unsafe, because we are smart enough to see it. Good luck to the poorer passengers left behind.” The symbolism was unbearable. Instead of appearing as prophets, they appeared as elites saving themselves while issuing moral lectures from afar.
The Politics of Warning
Warnings about political decline carry moral weight. They are meant to awaken, to stir vigilance. But the power of a warning depends on the credibility of the speaker and the resonance of the message. When warnings come from figures who seem distant, the effect can invert. Instead of mobilizing, they alienate.
This is where comparisons with other figures are telling. Someone like Charlie Kirk, controversial as he was, never considered leaving the country he loved. He debated fiercely, meeting people face to face, and even lost his life in that arena. Or one might recall Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who resisted tyranny while remaining with his community until the very end. Their presence gave their words authenticity. They stayed even when it cost them dearly.
By contrast, the professors’ alignment with the New York Times, one of the most powerful media voices, felt less like courage and more like safety. For critics, it seemed as if they were cloaked not in sacrifice but in the protective authority of elite institutions. Their warnings, far from defying power, looked aligned with it.
The Forgotten Ground
The episode reveals another truth: intellectual discourse often misses the ground on which most people live. Citizens face rising costs, social fragmentation, and a constant stream of media noise. Their concerns are immediate, concrete, and daily. For them, warnings about creeping authoritarianism may feel distant from the problems that press hardest against their lives.
This is why the scholars’ retreat struck such a raw nerve. It symbolized what many already believed—that intellectuals speak in abstractions and fail to see the everyday weight of existence. Trust is not built by lofty frameworks but by shared presence, by listening and staying engaged with those who carry the burdens of ordinary life.
The forgotten ground is not simply an oversight, it is the very terrain on which democratic trust either survives or collapses. If intellectuals remain detached, they lose the ability to influence, no matter how precise their frameworks may be. Worse, their actions can deepen polarization. As critics observed, the professors may have thought they were standing with the unprivileged, but in reality they appeared as highly privileged actors, blind to how they were seen. The blindness was reminiscent of Marie Antoinette’s infamous phrase, “let them eat cake.” It was not cruelty, but obliviousness, that proved fatal.
Lessons from History and Today
History offers contrasting examples. Some thinkers chose exile and spoke powerfully from abroad, yet their distance always carried limits. Others chose to remain within their societies, enduring hardship alongside their communities. Their voices carried a different kind of authority, one grounded in solidarity.
The choice is ultimately theirs. No one can demand that intellectuals risk their lives or force them to stay in a place where they feel endangered. In fact, many of the greatest intellectuals of the twentieth century escaped to the United States during World War Two, and in doing so saved their lives. Their contributions later shaped philosophy, science, and literature in ways that would have been impossible had they perished in Europe. Leaving can sometimes be the only path to survival.
Yet critics of the current scholars point out that their departure is not framed as survival but as symbolic protest. In that sense, the act fuels polarization rather than peace-making. Instead of gaining sympathy, it creates suspicion. Instead of building bridges, it drives wedges deeper. What was intended as a call for vigilance became one more reason for division.
Domine Quo Vadis
Another story sheds light on the moral weight of leaving or staying. “Domine quo vadis?” is a Latin phrase meaning “Lord, where are you going?” According to a Christian legend, when Saint Peter fled Rome to escape persecution, he encountered Jesus on the road. Peter asked, “Lord, where are you going?” and Jesus replied, “I am going to Rome to be crucified again.” Confronted with this vision, Peter turned back to Rome, accepting his fate of martyrdom and choosing to remain with his people.
The story has been told for centuries as an example of fidelity and courage. It contrasts retreat with return, fear with solidarity. For believers and even for secular readers, it offers a timeless picture of what it means to remain present in the hardest of moments. The question “Where are you going?” is not only for saints, but for every leader, intellectual, or teacher faced with the choice of staying or leaving.
In this light, the departure of the professors takes on added poignancy. They chose to leave, while the story of Peter suggests that sometimes the deeper calling is to remain. The choice is never simple, but the moral force of staying carries a weight that no warning from exile can match.
Toward a Different Intellectual Responsibility
The question, then, is what intellectual responsibility should look like in a moment of democratic anxiety. If leaving appears as abandonment, what alternatives remain?
One path is to deepen engagement with communities that rarely hear from scholars. This means stepping outside the comfort of academic debate and listening to the language of lived experience. It means not only interpreting the world but being present in it.
Another path is humility. Intellectuals often imagine that their frameworks will carry immediate authority. But authority must be earned through trust, not claimed through position. Humility allows warnings to be heard not as condescension but as genuine concern. It transforms intellectual work into a shared act rather than a performance of superiority.
What must be avoided is the blind spot of privilege. Without realizing it, the scholars resembled elites saving themselves first while leaving others behind. Their very action, intended as a warning, instead deepened polarization. It is precisely such obliviousness that drives people away from both academia and mainstream media, creating space for alternative voices that resonate more directly with public sentiments.
Staying as a Form of Courage
The departure of the three scholars was meant to be a warning. Yet its effect was the opposite. It revealed how far intellectual voices can drift from public trust, how easily a gesture meant to awaken can be read as abandonment.
The deeper sickness lies not only in politics but in the weakening bond between intellectuals and the public. Warnings lose force when they come without solidarity. Presence carries more power than departure.
To stay is often the harder path. It is less dramatic, less visible, and more demanding. Yet it is precisely this path that holds meaning. To remain with one’s community, to endure difficulty together, is the act that builds trust and credibility. In times of strain, staying may be the truest form of courage, and the only way for intellectual responsibility to recover its voice.
Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians
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