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This piece belongs to a series of op-eds and columns published throughout this week reflecting on the one-year anniversary of October 7th.

—Tommy Barone ’25 and Jacob M. Miller ’25, Crimson Editorial Chairs

In the face of overwhelming suffering abroad, you might expect a university like Harvard to lead in confronting difficult truths and fostering dialogue. Instead, even the word has become a taboo: When Palestine is at stake, Harvard may cancel your panel, jeopardize your enrollment, or barely act for months as you are doxxed for your views.

Understanding the Palestine exception at Harvard — the constant, unfair repercussions facing those who support or even talk about Palestine — requires focusing on two key characteristics: its reliance on the ostensible neutrality of administrative rules, and the fact that suppressing speech may occur without explicit intent, much like other forms of discrimination.

That Gaza, one of the great humanitarian crises of our time, is met by a pervading silence on campus speaks volumes. The silence isn’t passive — it’s imposed.

It was imposed when Harvard administrators remained selectively silent, statement after statement. As Palestinians suffered, former University President Claudine Gay’s public communications — aside from a brief, isolated mention at Family Weekend — conspicuously lacked any reference to Palestinians, for months.

It was imposed when the Safra Ethics Center pulled their support from a panel on Islamophobia and antisemitism for a purported lack of ideological diversity, leading to its eventual cancellation. Even discussing forms of hatred — distinct from the conflict — now requires a background check on your stance towards Palestine.

And it was imposed when Harvard suspended five students and forbade the graduation of 15 seniors for their peaceful protest against complicity in the genocide — an inordinate punishment compared to what previous movements faced.

The Palestine exception extends beyond disciplinary action, undermining our speech climate and stifling campus debate.

The perpetrator need not be one entity. For organizers, the administration becomes a source of repression. For students and faculty, online harassment targeted at people’s livelihoods is often the source. The outcome is the same: fear, pressure, and institutional bias suffocate crucial debate.

Regarding activism, some suggest that organizers supporting Palestine merely face the natural consequences of their actions, and that time, place, and manner restrictions on speech in certain campus spaces justify the suppression of speech and the punishment of protest. But ignoring the context in which these rules are created and applied misses the point.

Powerful political interests — Congressional investigations, donor pressure, and lawsuits — compel Harvard to silence protesters, panels, and Palestinians alike. To that end, administrators create new rules, while beginning to enforce old ones.

Consider how Harvard has historically responded to protest movements with far fewer consequences, despite similarities in their tactics, or the new reformulation of protest rules — which now, oddly, prohibit chalk and signage.

It’s quite conceivable that these new rules emerged in response to all the understandable pressures Harvard faces. And it may be true that Harvard’s administrative decisions were not meant to discriminate against pro-Palestinian speech. But the effect is one and the same — speech is chilled, and pro-Palestine sentiment suppressed.

One begins to wonder if that was Congress’s and the donors’ intent all along.

The Palestine exception operates much like racism, sexism, and bigotry — it persists regardless of intent.

We don’t excuse a sexist employer because it’s not clear whether they “intended” to pass over female applicants for a job or if their actions were instead motivated by communal expectations. Even if sexist behavior was not their express intent, the result is the same, and we rightly consider the employer complicit in perpetuating misogyny.

The key is to notice that the collective effect of Harvard’s decisions creates a hostile environment for advocacy and discourse.

The punishments for pro-Palestine activism are harsher than for anyone else, and rules are applied strictly to anyone who dares mention Palestine across the University.

These disparities aren’t just coincidences, they reflect a long history of denying the very existence of Palestine and Palestinians — a lie central to anti-Palestinian racism.

For Palestinian students like me, the Palestine exception isn’t just a term — it defines our daily reality.

I’ve policed myself in op-eds, classrooms, and everyday conversations. I’ve held back contributions that would enrich the dialogue and provide factual context — all because I know the risks. Every time, I’m reminded not only of what I lose, but what we all lose when an entire perspective is silenced.

Harvard’s motto is veritas. But how may we pursue truth when we push important topics to the margins, or when faculty and students alike fear speaking openly?

Can Harvard claim to value civil discourse when it allows external pressure to dictate which conversations and protests can occur — or even who’s worth mourning?
Denying the Palestine exception betrays the mission of higher education. It invites a future where academic freedom becomes a scarce luxury, where silence is rewarded, and where the intellectual mission is sacrificed for the illusion of order.

If you’re still searching for the Palestine exception, look around. It’s here.

Zakiriya H. Gladney ’27, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a double concentrator in Statistics and Social Studies in Dunster House.