I spent last summer in Tbilisi, Georgia, seeking a smattering of policy experience and a surplus of excellent food. I did not expect to depart frantically contemplating whether my identity is formed from within or without.

Tbilisi embodies nuance and contrast. My quick strolls around the “world’s most Bohemian city” last summer might have revealed a Soviet-era housing block, a fourth-century Kartli fortress, and a pulsating techno club, one after another in dissonant harmony.

All traces of nuance evaporate, however, when conversation shifts to the mass exodus of Russians who are leaving their imperial homeland in search of a site less prone to the discomforts of war (or international isolation), ultimately settling in quaint, vulnerable Georgia. The Georgian assessment seemed blunt, derisive, and near uniform: Russians represent violence and merit no hospitality.

The unequivocal nature of Russian hatred in Georgia transformed my perspective on the institutions to which we tie ourselves, be they states or those much narrower. The question of whether an anti-Putin Russian should atone for the actions of their despot is not dissimilar in form — though obviously incomparable in scope — to the question of whether a Harvard student should atone for the ever-growing list of Harvard-born institutional misdeeds that keep internet petitions swirling around Cambridge airwaves.

I do not know whether a Harvard student should bear responsibility for, say, the elitism that fuels the education from which they benefit, nor whether some random family from Stavropol, Russia, deserves to face hostility on Tbilisi streets.

But I do know this: People notice, perhaps above all else, the institutions we represent. It falls upon us to counteract hasty assumptions — lest our crowd-sourced institutional identities grow even more powerful.

The intensity of the constructed Russian identity in Georgia makes complete sense. Since 2008, when Russia invaded Georgia via its northern border, gaining de facto control of 20 percent of its territory and killing 228 civilians, Russian forces have frequently kidnapped and harmed Georgian citizens caught near the occupation line and steadily pushed their illegal borders out onto new Georgian land, swallowing village pastures overnight.

And yet, in Georgia’s capital city, just 60 kilometers away, Russians freely drink, dine, get invited onstage at The Killers concerts, and sing pro-Russian ethno-anthems in the street. Many of these Russian expats fully support Putin and fled his regime’s reach only for economic reasons, or to dodge his draft.

This naturally provokes strong rhetoric among Georgians — not to mention the spearhead of the free world. “No one should expect Georgians to welcome visitors from Russia,” announced the United States Ambassador to Georgia over the summer, thereby throwing the full ideological power of the U.S. behind the reduction of individuals to the state from which they hail.

The notion of being responsible for one’s state — or “collective responsibility” — is hardly new to political philosophy. In democracies such as ours, citizens form and guide governments, leading some scholars to argue that people share responsibility for the deeds of their states, regardless of their personal opinions.

Indeed, just as a pacifist benefits from their state’s successful international conflict, a concerned Harvard student arguably benefits from the tuition payments of high-income students favored by the admissions department, or perhaps even its historical transgressions against Indigenous and enslaved individuals, depending on how far one turns back the dial.

These are, of course, highly subjective and oft-fought arguments that require uncomfortable reckoning with desert and agency. Less subjective is the considerable power that the institutions we represent hold over our external identities, shaping our impact on others before the first word spoken.

No doubt this influence can be positive. But it more often leads to negative, or at least simplistic, impressions. To a foreigner, an American might more likely evoke notions of consumerism or obesity, while a working-class southerner might associate a Harvard student with coastal elitism or outsized arrogance rather than service-minded intelligence. In cases of egregious institutional crimes, such as the Russian invasions of Georgia and Ukraine, the negative association must be so intense that it begins to erase individuality altogether.

It falls within our interests, then, to anticipate and defend against these uncontrollable assumptions, lest they actually come to define us. I have written before on Harvard’s unique capacity to consolidate broader societal grievances about elitism under one institutional umbrella, and the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression’s recent labeling of Harvard as the worst school for free speech — whether valid or not — will likely reinforce this reputation.

So cut across the Harvard divide. Engage, respectfully and earnestly, with people dissimilar to you in belief system, geography, or level of education when opportunities present themselves. Resist the temptation to travel through comfortable channels replete with identical people. Leave Cambridge, at least for a weekend (or a month).

To some, the “Harvard elitist” heuristic may prevent any chance of meaningful connection. It’s certainly difficult for Russians in Georgia to escape the impression that they represent a criminal regime. It is possible that we are all prisoners to collective responsibility; it is possible that our institutional definitions lie beyond revision. But no matter how futile, it merits attempting to define ourselves.

Peter N. Jones ’25, a Crimson Editorial Editor, is a Government concentrator in Mather House.