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Justo Antonio Triana is a rising senior at Syracuse University and a FIREsummer intern.

Growing up in Cuba, I had to measure with surgical precision each of my words at school, knowing they could possibly be deemed “problematic,” meaning “counterrevolutionary,” meaning I — or worse, my family — could get in serious trouble for what I said.

There is no room for controversy in a totalitarian state. If your thoughts do not align with the only permissible truth, you are an enemy. And no one wants to be the enemy of a repressive apparatus that is bigger and stronger than you. No one likes to feel powerless.

I remember one morning the school administrators summoned all the students to a meeting. They wanted to inform us that some American musicians were going to visit our high school in a few hours as part of a cultural exchange program. A student asked the principal if we could talk to the musicians. The principal replied, “Of course you’re free to talk to them, but beware that everything you say has consequences.” 

It was crystal clear to us what her words meant: If you dare to make us look bad, we will make you regret it.

Arriving in the United States in 2019, I again found myself self-censoring in a classroom.

When the search for truth is sacrificed for the sake of not being canceled, the outcome is a superficial and sterile education.

The difference is that in America it is not primarily administrators who enforce ideological homogeneity, but other students. Unlike in Cuba, the censorial administrator’s role in the U.S. is a surrogate one. They do not threaten ideological dissenters directly, but rather simply construct speech-chilling policies and enable the illiberal majority to silence students with dissenting views. Aware of the potential reputational and financial cost of publicly expressing a sincere rejection of free speech, university officials opt to quietly draft speech codes whose definition of “hate” is wider than the Pacific Ocean and encourage students to denounce each other or their professors over the slightest disagreement. 

In America, they let students do the dirty work of pressuring their peers into silence.

The result is a campus culture in which students and faculty know that everything they say “has consequences” and the accused are guilty until proven innocent. In this culture, self-censorship is the norm. While we might all agree that we should be empathetic to our peers, and that a bigot shouldn’t feel comfortable making others miserable, the current obsession with political correctness on campus is not fostering a culture of mutual understanding and respect. It’s fostering one of distrust and fear — a climate that is all too familiar to me.

On multiple occasions, after expressing minor disagreements with a professor during class in America, I have received a long email from them apologizing. They would say they hoped that they didn’t make me feel uncomfortable or offended, and would tell me how much they value my perspective. While it certainly feels good to have professors that are so receptive to my opinions, their behavior also raises the question: Are they doing it because they sincerely feel that they were rude to me, or because they are afraid I may take it personally, report them, and ruin their career?

As a student I quickly learned to be careful about the things I say, not because they are objectively offensive, but because they could be misinterpreted. But professors — who sometimes spend an entire career at a single college — have learned to be twice as careful in order to socially survive. Rather than risk hurting someone’s feelings and facing punishment for doing so, many simply choose not to discuss controversial topics in the first place. And when the search for truth is sacrificed for the sake of not being canceled, the outcome is a superficial and sterile education.

I’ve come to realize that self-censorship is the worst kind of censorship, because it involves internalizing our own submission to power.

A student’s oversensitivity should not lead to policies and practices that prevent others from having their ideas challenged and growing intellectually. Some call this excessive concern for students’ feelings “progress.” Professors call it “fear of losing my job.”

After experiencing life in Cuba and in the U.S., I can see some disturbing similarities. In both countries, the inquisitor no longer explicitly tells you what you can or cannot say, but instead very subtly reminds you that your life may be ruined if you dare to speak out, letting your fear of punishment do most of the work.

I witness this with horror. I understand the process by which people self-censor because I learned to do it unconsciously as a child. But how sad and humiliating it would be to do that as an adult! I’ve come to realize that self-censorship is the worst kind of censorship, because it involves internalizing our own submission to power. That submission and manufactured guilt is what causes people to apologize when it’s not necessary — not out of kindness, but out of fear. This is a growing problem, and it can only be fought with courage.

On break from the burden of self-censorship

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As I consider what can be done to improve the situation, I have two things to say. First, to those who know the value of free speech but do nothing to preserve it: If you are willing to let go of your freedoms for fear of punishment, at least be aware that your silence (the thoughts you dared not express, the people you dared not defend, and the bullies you dared not defy) will work better than a heckler’s veto in shutting others up.

Second, to those who are considering standing up for others’ right to free expression: There are smart ways to do it without becoming a martyr. Be proactive! Don’t wait for a public letter calling for some professor’s head to worry about the wording in your school’s speech code. Forge alliances with students, faculty and staff who value free inquiry. Meet with administrators and advocate for the Chicago principles, or simply ask FIREfor guidance.

Your job is to do something before it is too late, because — and I speak as a Cuban once again — it is easier to protect your freedoms while you still have them than to regain them once they’re lost.