The Line is Thinner Than we Think: Rebecca Ruth Gould on Academic Freedom

In this Q&A, Bethlehem Attfield talks to Rebecca Ruth Gould, who is a School of African and Asian Studies (SOAS)  Distinguished Research Professor of Comparative Poetics and Global Politics, about academic freedom, the importance of understanding culture and languages to gain authentic perspectives. She also talks about the courage to speak out on your convictions, and the small subtle shifts that could lead liberal democracies down a road towards fascism.

What does your role at SOAS involve?

The School of African and Asian Studies (SOAS) originally offered me a role as a distinguished professor of Middle Eastern literature, which I am really passionate about. However, it felt limiting as it did not reflect all my research areas. So, I chose a title that reflected my core interests, which is the link between poetry and politics. I’m especially interested in the influence of poetics, social implications, and aesthetics in shaping politics. This connection really guides my work and understanding. The title of Comparative Poetics and Global Politics also covers comparative poetics: studying how poetic practices change across cultures in a global context, not just in a Eurocentric one. This was crucial to the Global Literary Theory: Caucasus Literatures project that I led from 2018 to 2024.       

In my work, I explore the relationship between poetry and politics, focusing on linguistic and cultural differences and their political importance. For example, discussing the violence in Palestine, Syria or Iran requires us to understand the context and the full spectrum of human experience, including the subtleties and nuances of language. My work highlights these shared human traits and individual uniqueness, emphasising societal relevance.

I am also committed to understanding different cultural perspectives from those who experience them first-hand, seeing literature and poetry as essential entry points, but always within their wider political and social contexts.

How do you view the role of the university within wider society?

This question is challenging because the landscape is shifting significantly. Universities have been a constant presence across cultures. I believe the university’s role is evolving radically. There is a growing devaluation of humanistic knowledge, accompanied by a certain cynicism about the capacity of institutions to bring about meaningful change. 

Universities are seen as institutions that uncover truth and examine ideas. Their core purpose is to uphold academic freedom, creating environments where even controversial ideas can be debated openly without fear. This tradition dates back over a thousand years across many cultures. 

Universities are also evolving with online education and international collaborations expanding access and COVID accelerated this growth.  Despite some drawbacks like less in-person learning,  these changes have the potential to democratise knowledge. Beyond formal education, informal initiatives like protests, library events and seminars enrich university life and promote diverse learning. The future depends on this diversity.     

You’ve written across multiple fields and in several languages. What journey led you to connect with different communities, learn their languages, and use your writing to advocate for their causes? 

My first passion is literature. From the age of 13, I have been excited about the works of Russian novelists like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. Their writing raised deep questions for me about the meaning of existence. Despite struggling in school, I ended up studying at The University of California, Berkeley (US) due to my interest in Russian literature, rather than heritage or culture. But over time, I learned about the broader context, including Russian colonialism and the violence in Chechnya around 2000, which deeply affected me. After my BA, I found myself at a crossroads in my life, so I booked a ticket to Vladikavkaz, the capital city of North Ossetia-Alania in Russia and a gateway to the Caucasus. Chechnya was still technically a war zone. It was just emerging from the conflict, but it was such an eye-opening experience. 

I stayed with refugees who had been displaced, whose homes had been destroyed, and they were incredibly generous. The experience truly reshaped the way I viewed the literature I had been reading. What fascinated me was not just how extraordinary their life stories were, but also how different the life experiences of Chechen refugees were from the Russian majority. Often, when people try to understand the Chechen wars and the Caucasus in general, they use Russian sources. The people I stayed with were believers in Islam, they spoke Russian, but they also had their own Indigenous languages, and their culture differed from that of Russian Orthodox Christians. 

I felt that my BA studies and training were only the starting point. I became especially interested in the Caucasus, while also becoming more aware of less widely spoken languages and how the histories of these communities are often left out of the overarching narrative of empire. I realised the importance of seeing the world from the perspective of the colonised. I returned to Georgia to live there, and I took many trips to the North Caucasus. Those experiences eventually led to my first book: Writers and Rebels: The Literature of Insurgency in the Caucasus.

I studied Arabic, Persian, and Indigenous languages. After living in Georgia for seven years, I decided to pursue a PhD and chose Columbia University’s anthropology department. Although I love and respect anthropology, I felt it was not the right fit. The main issue was that many anthropologists focus only on the twentieth century, ignoring earlier history. Similarly, studying contemporary literature doesn’t mean ignoring ancient traditions, which is especially important for understanding cultures like Ethiopian, Chechen, or Georgian. I wanted to honour that past, so I pursued a PhD in Persian prison poetry, which became my second book: Persian Prison Poem: Sovereignty and the Political Imagination. Afterwards, I lived in Palestine, in Bethlehem and the West Bank. 

What took you to Bethlehem?

In 2011, I received a fellowship at the Van Leer Institute of Jerusalem, a respected institution that offers five-year fellowships to researchers without teaching duties. But I abandoned the fellowship after a year. I initially accepted it to work in Palestine, seeing it as an opportunity. While the fellowship required working in Jerusalem, I chose to live in the Palestinian territories to experience what the people there go through, out of a sense of solidarity.  

What was your research project about?

I focused on global literary theories, particularly premodern comparative poetics. I was also researching classical Persian and classical Arabic, but I was simultaneously experiencing what it was like to live under occupation in the 21st century. It was challenging, but I learned a lot. After a year of witnessing people being strip-searched daily at checkpoints, I decided to leave and eventually secured a permanent position in Singapore.

What are some of the consequences of speaking out against the injustices you witnessed? 

Throughout my life, I have witnessed many people face oppression for expressing their views or exercising their freedoms. While my own experiences may seem minor in comparison, what strikes me most is how unexpected such moments can be. 

After working various jobs and fellowships, I moved to the UK. In 2017, while teaching at my previous university, my past resurfaced. Back in 2011, when I was living in Bethlehem, I had published an article comparing the conditions there to apartheid and reflecting on how the Holocaust is represented in certain strands of Israeli culture — views that were not particularly controversial in many Western countries at the time. The piece echoed other voices but carried deep personal meaning for me: I had witnessed racist incidents and events that I will never forget. Though I eventually moved on, I did so without facing any immediate consequences.

Then, six years later, an anonymous student wrote an op-ed about my 2011 article in the student newspaper, claiming discomfort over my comments about Israel. I was teaching classes on Russian literature at the time. It seemed irrelevant, but it came back to haunt me. 

A few months earlier, the UK government had been among the first to adopt what is known as the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism. IHRA affects us all, because it has been adopted by many countries and imposes limits on what can be said. At its core lies the question: what is antisemitism? One example provided by this definition is excessive criticism of Israel, which is considered antisemitic in contemporary political discourse. 

The core issue is that this granted the UK government the authority to decide on matters that should be open for academic debate. When a government seeks to control what can or cannot be said, that process should involve the public, through media coverage and parliamentary involvement. 

The government adopted the IHRA definition with little public awareness, following which the Ministry of Education began pressuring universities to adopt it within their speech and disciplinary codes. When the student published the op-ed, they used that definition to accuse me of antisemitism. This in turn prompted the UK Special Envoy for Post-Holocaust Issues to call for my dismissal.

I want to emphasise that the IHRA definition itself is a recent document, invented only ten years ago with political goals. 

When a UK newspaper published a distorted story about me suggesting I should consider my position, dismissing my response, I saw how easily the media can spread misinformation for sensationalism. Although the university’s inquiry ultimately ruled that my article was not antisemitic, the investigation into an article  that I had written years before I joined was unnecessary. The experience exposed how fragile academic freedom can be, especially outside  the classroom.

That leads me to my next question: how do you see the difference between liberal democracies and non-democratic countries in terms of suppression of free speech? 

The difference between democracy and authoritarianism is much more subtle and fragile than we think. For instance, consider the banning of Palestine Action by the UK government getting a ban voted through the House of Commons— this is an authoritarian measure. This doesn’t mean the UK has become fascist, but it’s a step in that direction. 

What surprised me most was not only the government’s action but also the overwhelming support from Parliament; only about 26 MPs voted against proscribing Palestine Action, while 385 supported it, for what were acts of vandalism. Regardless of one’s views, that cannot reasonably be defined as terrorism. Yet over 90% of Parliament supported or stayed silent. Without strong democratic institutions, we cannot rely on politicians alone to stop society from drifting and sliding toward fascism.

The day I reached out to you about this Q&A session was just after you published the ‘Decolonising Free Speech’ article. On that same day, I also heard on BBC news about guidelines related to the recently reinstated Freedom of Speech law in UK universities. Was there a similar law when you experienced those issues?

Yes, that’s a crucial point. I believe it helps explain why free speech is often misunderstood and manipulated by those who serve their own interests while ignoring the rights of others. While the state promotes free speech in universities, making it a legal issue, the actual effects in practice are disappointing. I hope that these regulations were well-intentioned, but I’m sceptical. I’m uncertain if those laws apply to my case, as regulations have become stricter. It wasn’t really about the laws but about power. 

My experience shows that the law is a tool influenced by power relations; understanding this can be advantageous. Free speech is a fundamental right linked to freedom — crucial for both privileged and oppressed groups. Many laws focus on restricting freedoms rather than protecting them, and that weakens democracy.

What is the role of digital media in all of this? You’ve co-edited a book about activism and the role of digital media in activism, so how do you see it in bypassing state control? 

It has both positives and negatives. While technology enables free expression and cross-cultural connections, the platforms are not neutral. Those with political agendas often control them, which is evident in Elon Musk’s running of X. Larger platforms like Meta run Facebook, and Instagram can also be unreliable. Smaller platforms, such as Medium can show more promise, but they may be sold to the highest bidder. Overall, the impact depends on the platform and who controls it.