Silenced Voices: Rejecting Mob Mentality
'The wounds inflicted on that fateful night run deep. The memory of jeers, of hostile glares, of the palpable tension that filled the room – these are not easily forgotten'
The air crackled with tension as I stepped into the packed auditorium at the University of Sydney last night.
The familiar scent of worn textbooks and coffee gave way to something more acrid – the smell of sweat and anticipation tinged with malice. What should have been a forum for open dialogue instead became a crucible of hostility, exposing the sordid underbelly that runs through our campus community.
As one of just ten students standing against a sea of nearly 800, I felt the weight of the moment presses down upon me. The ideals of academic discourse – free thought, respectful debate, the pursuit of truth – seemed to waver and dim in the harsh fluorescent light. I was about to witness firsthand how quickly these lofty principles can crumble in the face of unchecked radical ideations.
The buzz of hundreds of voices filled the room, but beneath this energy lurked something darker, more insidious. Eyes darted our way, filled not with the curiosity of fellow students, but with suspicion and unconcealed hate. Some gazes lingered, challenging, while others flicked away quickly as if we were something distasteful, not to be looked at directly. Before the meeting even began, invisible lines were being drawn across the auditorium floor, separating “us” from “them” with chilling efficiency.
A young woman detached herself from the crowd, approaching our small group with deliberate steps. Her phone was held high, its lens a Cyclops eye trained unwaveringly upon us. Without a word, without even the barest glance of acknowledgment that might betray our shared humanity, she snapped our photo. The camera’s flash momentarily illuminated her face, revealing a mask of cold determination before she melted back into the anonymity of the crowd. We weren’t fellow students to her; we were specimens to be documented, our humanity stripped away by her camera lens.
At that moment, I felt a chill run down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the stuffy warmth of the packed room.
As the meeting officially commenced, any pretence of civil discourse evaporated. An SRC representative asked the audience to get their heckling out of the way, coaxing the crowd to chant, “Free, free Palestine!” The words crashed against the walls, a rallying cry that brooked no dissent, no nuance, no alternative perspective. The sound swelled, hundreds of voices merging into one deafening cry.
Our small contingent exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between us. With a collective intake of breath, we dared to respond, our voices small but determined: “From Hamas”. The effect was instantaneous and overwhelming. The room erupted in a cacophony of boos and jeers. Face after face contorted in fury, fingers pointed accusingly, and for a moment, I feared the invisible lines on the floor might be crossed.
At that moment, as angry voices rained down upon us from all sides, I realised with stark clarity that this was no longer a meeting of minds. It had become a battleground, and we were hopelessly outnumbered.
Two motions lay at the heart of the gathering: A demand for the university to sever all ties with Israel and embrace the BDS campaign, and a call for a single Palestinian state “from the river to the sea,” coupled with support for “armed resistance.”
The true nature of the assembly revealed itself when Satvik, a member of our group, proposed amendments condemning the October 7th terrorist attacks and Hamas. His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of recent history. For a brief, hopeful moment, I allowed myself to believe that surely, in this bastion of higher learning, such a reasonable request would find support.
The response was swift and brutal, shattering that naive hope like glass against concrete.
“All those opposed?” the president of the SRC called, his voice barely masking a note of grim satisfaction. The room transformed into a sea of raised arms, crashing against our small island of ten. An overwhelming majority – students I probably had sat next to in lectures and shared polite smiles with on-campus – voted to explicitly refuse condemnation of a terrorist attack.
As if this silent rebuke wasn’t enough, a voice cut through the tension. “F**k no!” The crude rejection echoed off the walls, met with scattered laughter and murmurs of approval. I scanned the room, trying to locate the source, but in that moment, it hardly mattered. The voice had merely given crude vocalisation to the sentiment clearly shared by the majority.
In that instant, any illusion of this being a fair and open debate shattered irreparably. The fragile veneer of academic discourse peeled away, revealing an ugly core of entrenched ideology and groupthink. We weren’t participants in a democratic process; we were witnesses to a foregone conclusion, a performance of false inclusivity that only served to highlight our isolation.
I looked at my peers, seeing my own shock and disbelief mirrored in their eyes. How had we arrived at this point? When had our university, supposedly an establishment of critical thinking and nuanced debate, become a place where the condemnation of terrorism was a controversial stance?
The meeting trudged on, but for me, everything that followed was viewed through the lens of that moment. The raised hands, the crude rejection, the palpable hostility – all of it served as an overt reminder of the growing chasm between ideals and reality on our campus.
Profiles in Courage and Contempt
Amidst the swirling hostility, rare moments of bravery shone through. Freya Leach, leader of the conservative club, stood tall at the podium, with the Israeli flag proudly draped over her arm. As she spoke, a chorus of boos cascaded down, threatening to drown out her words. Yet she persisted, her voice rising above.
Her words cut through the noise, sharp and uncompromising: “They raped women, they killed children, they burnt people alive,” she declared, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear but with righteous indignation. “And you are standing here saying that we should not condemn that?”
For a moment, the room fell silent. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a lone voice shouted, “Yeah!” The vulgar affirmation was met with scattered nervous laughter and confused glances. I watched as people looked around, perhaps searching for the source of the outburst, or perhaps seeking guidance on how to react. Yet no one disavowed the statement. No one stood up to condemn the tacit approval of such horrific acts.
In that moment of uncomfortable silence, the true nature of the gathering was laid bare. It wasn’t just about political disagreement anymore; it was about the willful denial of human suffering, the casual dismissal of atrocities in service of an ideology.
But for every act of courage, there were countless displays of contempt. Satvik, who is Indian, found himself suddenly thrust into the spotlight, and a cry went up from the crowd. “Racist!” The accusation was hurled by members of the predominantly white audience. The twisted irony of the situation – a person of colour being labelled racist by a mass of white faces – seemed lost on the accusers, their self-awareness swallowed up by their hateful anger. Satvik’s words were measured, seeking common ground amidst the discord. But before he could even begin, an SRC leader, the very person tasked with facilitating open discussion, cut him off. “Loser,” the leader sneered, the contempt in her voice palpable.
Again, any pretence of leadership or impartiality vanished like smoke. The mask had slipped, revealing the ugly face of bias and close-mindedness beneath. This was a kangaroo court, where voices of reason were punished, and nuance was derided.
The Weight of History
As the meeting raged on, I found myself increasingly aware of the weight of the Hebrew script adorning my jumper. What had begun the day as a simple fashion choice now felt like a declaration of identity. Hostile glares raked across the fabric as if the mere sight of those ancient letters was an affront, a challenge to the narrative being spun around us.
Sitting amidst all the anger and intolerance, I felt the presence of generations past settle upon my shoulders. My great-grandparents seemed to materialise in the empty chairs beside me. They had faced the corrosive scourge of antisemitism in their time, all eight of them being Holocaust survivors, enduring hardships that I, in my modern life of relative comfort, could scarcely imagine.
I thought of my great-grandfather, forced to flee his home in the dead of night, the sound of shattering glass and angry voices lingering in his ears. I remembered the stories of my great-grandmother, her quiet dignity in the face of daily humiliations, and the strength it took to rebuild a life from the ashes of hatred. Their experiences, separated from mine by decades and continents, suddenly felt immediate and visceral.
As these thoughts swirled through my mind, I felt a curious sensation. It was as if their strength, their resilience, their unwavering spirit in the face of adversity was flowing through time, through the branches of our family tree, and directly into me. My spine straightened, and my resolve hardened. If they could face down the darkest chapters of history, surely I could weather this storm.
Lost in these reflections, I was jolted back to the present by the weight of a particularly venomous stare. A student seated nearby had fixed me with a look of pure loathing, her eyes flickering between my face and the Hebrew script on my jumper. Her lip curled in disgust as she made a dismissive gesture towards the garment as if its very existence was a crime against humanity.
In that charged moment, I had a choice to make. I could shrink away, could try to make myself smaller, less visible. I could give in to the fear and intimidation that hung thick in the air. But the strength of my ancestors surged within me, and I chose a different path. Meeting her gaze directly, I allowed a smile to spread across my face. It wasn’t a smile of happiness – how could it be, in such circumstances? – but one of defiance, of quiet strength. I raised my hand in a friendly wave, my voice carrying a note of mock cheerfulness as I asked, “Would you like a picture? It’ll last longer.”
The words hung between us, a challenge wrapped in politeness. For a moment, surprise flickered across her face, clearly taken aback by my refusal to be cowed. Then her scowl deepened, and she turned away, muttering something under her breath that I chose not to hear (presumably zionist c**t).
As she retreated, I felt a small surge of victory. It wasn’t about winning an argument or changing her mind – those bridges seemed far too distant on this tumultuous night. No, this was about standing firm, about refusing to let intimidation silence me or erase my identity. In that small act of defiance, I felt connected not just to my own ancestors, but to all those throughout history who have stood tall in the face of bigotry and hate.
The meeting continued its chaotic course around me, but something had shifted within. I was no longer just an observer, no longer a passive recipient of the hostility filling the room. I was a link in a chain stretching back through generations, and forward into a future yet to be written. Whatever the outcome of this night, I knew I would face it with the strength of those who came before me, and with the hope of creating a better world for those yet to come.
A Call for Reflection
The second motion passed to raucous cheers, the sound washing over me. I found myself adrift in a tumultuous sea of emotions, each threatening to pull me under.
Pride swelled in my chest, a warmth that spread through my limbs as I reflected on our small group’s unwavering stance. We had stood firm, backs straight and voices steady, even as the tide of opposition threatened to sweep us away. There was a certain nobility in that, a courage that I knew would sustain me in the days to come.
Yet intertwined with that pride was a deep, gnawing sadness that threatened to hollow me out from within. This was our campus, our community. These were the halls where ideas were meant to flourish, where minds were supposed to open and grow. Instead, I had witnessed them become a battleground, a place where dissent was silenced, and nuance was trampled underfoot.
The call for a “militant student mass mobilisation” echoed in my ears long after the meeting had adjourned, a chilling refrain that followed me out into the cool night air. Those words, so casually tossed out into the fray, carried a weight that seemed lost on many in attendance. I couldn’t shake the unsettling knowledge of how quickly such rhetoric can escalate, how easily words can become actions, and how actions can become something far more dangerous.
In the hours that followed, as the adrenaline of the night faded and the reality of what had transpired settled in, I found myself grappling with a new set of challenges. The memory of the event replayed in my mind on an endless loop – the hostile glares, the dismissive sneers, the palpable tension that had filled the room. But now, added to this mental maelstrom was a new, equally disturbing element: silence.
The university’s response to the events of that night was tepid at best, a bureaucratic mumbling that seemed designed to offend no one and, in doing so, supported no one. How, I wondered, could an institution dedicated to the lofty ideals of learning and personal growth allow such a hostile environment to flourish unchecked? The silence from the administration spoke volumes, each passing hour of inaction a tacit endorsement of the divisive atmosphere that had taken root on our campus.
This silence left a void, and in that void, fear and uncertainty began to grow. Vulnerable students – those who had dared to dissent, who had stood up for nuance and complexity in a room that demanded simplicity and conformity – were left to fend for themselves. In lecture halls and common areas, an undercurrent of tension persists.
As I navigated this new, unsettling reality, I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of disappointment. This was not the university experience I had envisioned, not the bastion of free thought and open dialogue I had been promised. Instead, we found ourselves in an increasingly divided community, where ideological lines were drawn ever more starkly, and the space for middle ground seemed to shrink by the day.
Yet even in this disheartening aftermath, a spark of determination refused to be extinguished. The very silence that frustrated me also fuelled a resolve to speak louder, to stand firmer. If the institution would not uphold the principles of academic freedom and respectful discourse, then it fell to us – the students who believed in these ideals – to do so.
As I penned these reflections, I realised that the true test was not just in standing up during that heated meeting, but in how we chose to move forward. The challenge now was to find a way to bridge these divides, to create spaces for genuine dialogue amidst the chaos. It would not be easy, but then again, the things most worth fighting for rarely are.
Moving Forward
As the dust settles on that tumultuous night, it becomes increasingly clear that what transpired in that packed auditorium was not an isolated incident. No, this meeting was a symptom, a visible eruption of a greater sickness that festers not just within our university, but in institutions of higher learning across the nation. We find ourselves standing at a precipice, teetering on the edge of a fundamental shift in the very nature of academic discourse.
The questions that loom before us are as daunting as they are crucial. What does academic freedom truly mean in an era where words are wielded like weapons? Where do we draw the line between impassioned activism and intimidation? How do we balance the right to protest with the right to feel safe on campus? And perhaps most pressingly, what is the responsibility of our institutions in this new landscape? Are they guardians of free speech, and protectors of student welfare, or have they abdicated both roles in favour of perilous neutrality?
As we grapple with these weighty issues, the path forward seems shrouded in fog. Yet, through the mist, one thing becomes crystal clear: we stand at a crossroads, and the direction we choose now will echo through the halls of academia for generations to come.
The task before us is monumental, yet vital. We must find a way to bridge the chasm that has opened between different factions on our campus. This divide, carved by ideology and deepened by mistrust, threatens to swallow the very ideals upon which our university was founded. We must create spaces – physical and intellectual – where even the most contentious topics can be discussed openly, where dissent is met not with silencing tactics, but with reasoned argument and mutual respect.
This is not a call for bland agreement or the flattening of diverse viewpoints into a palatable middle ground. Rather, it is a rallying call for genuine dialogue, for the kind of robust, passionate, yet respectful debate that should be the hallmark of university life. We must learn to disagree without demonising, to challenge ideas without attacking individuals, to listen with the intent to understand, not simply to refute.
The path ahead is fraught with challenges, the terrain unfamiliar and often treacherous. But one thing is abundantly clear: silence is no longer an option. We cannot afford to be passive observers as the fabric of our academic community unravels. Each one of us – whether student, faculty, or administrator – must find our voice and use it. We must speak out, engage in genuine dialogue, and work tirelessly to build a campus community that truly embraces diversity – not just of background, but of thought, celebrating a multiplicity of perspectives.
The wounds inflicted on that fateful night run deep. The memory of jeers, of hostile glares, of the palpable tension that filled the room – these are not easily forgotten. Yet, these wounds need not define us. They can, if we choose, become the catalyst for meaningful change, the impetus for building something better.
The responsibility for this transformation lies not with any single group but with all of us. Students must step up, moving beyond the comfort of ideological bubbles to engage with those who think differently. Faculty must model the kind of nuanced, respectful discourse we wish to see. And the administration must find the courage to stand firm in defence of true academic freedom, even when – especially when – it is unpopular to do so.
As I pen these final thoughts, I am acutely aware of the weight of this moment. The choices we make now, the stands we take, the bridges we build or burn – these will form the legacy we leave for the next generation of students. Will they inherit a university characterised by division and ideological entrenchment? Or will they step into a vibrant academic community where diverse thoughts flourish, where challenging ideas are met with intellectual curiosity rather than hostility?
The choice, ultimately, is ours. As we step into this uncertain future, let us do so with hope, with determination, and with an unwavering commitment to the ideals of open inquiry and respectful dialogue. It is only by embracing these principles that we can hope to create a university – and, indeed, a world – that we can truly be proud of.
The choice is ours. The time is now. What will we do with this moment?
Celina Di Veroli is a student at the University of Sydney.
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