Trump’s return to office let university administrators say their hands were tied.Robyn Stevens Brody/AP
It’s become a familiar refrain: something awful happens in the world, and a member of the commentariat asks, “Where are the student protests? Or did those only happen when Biden was president?”
Deprived of student targets, they are forced to post ad infinitum about Hasan Piker. Who wouldn’t be bitter?
The consistent thread is that kids these days, because they’re protesting or because they’re not, are the problem. “One might expect left-leaning college students to have practically started a revolution” over Trump’s bombing of Iran, a writer for the Atlantic recently mused. After all, critics from Jonathan Haidt (“Instagram intifada”) to Jesse Watters (“Hamas influencers”) framed the students as the least impressive of Iran’s proxies.
But the question itself is a fair one. Where are the protests? The real answer isn’t that students decided to shut up. It’s that universities, and a hostile federal government, have expended massive resources trying to ensure they do.
Between spring and fall of 2024—before Donald Trump’s reelection, let alone his return to office—the total number of campus protests dropped a staggering 64 percent.
Then came Trump’s second term. Universities were terrorized and cuts dished out—but administrators who had been pulling their hair out in 2024 could now say their hands were tied. Soon after Trump’s election, dozens of schools fell over themselves to institute even more speech-suppressing policies, banning things like megaphones and musical instruments from outdoor areas of campus except with permits or during specified hours.
Even faculty members are still dealing with the legal and disciplinary fallout of joining protests.
University presidents dragged before Congress to prove their compliance with Trump’s half-dozen executive orders on education testified endlessly about why they’d allowed such chaos in their fiefdoms. In response to allegations of antisemitism—and threats to revoke federal funding—some schools, like the University of California, Berkeley, even turned over students’ personal information to the federal government.
Others simply turned the other cheek as the federal government bore down on their students. Some students who spoke in support of the Palestinian cause, like Mahmoud Khalil and Rumeysa Ozturk, were kidnapped by ICE. Others, like Momodou Taal, were pressured into leaving the country to avoid the same fate. Even faculty members are still dealing with the legal and disciplinary fallout of participating in the encampments.
Schools like the City University of New York and New York University still aren’t allowing student commencement speakers out of fear that those speakers might criticize Israel. At Swarthmore College, students are busy preparing for criminal trials over their participation in encampments two years ago, when they should be preparing for finals. Immigrant students, now as in 2024, face the highest stakes: say too much about Israel or Palestine or genocide online, and your green card might be revoked.
The high-risk climate has not silenced student activism entirely, in particular around Gaza. On April 24, several dozen students rushed the quad at Occidental College bearing Palestinian-flag banners, and set up the same cheap green Amazon tents that got Columbia protesters accused of being a Soros and/or Hamas-funded op back in 2024. One student in the encampment called me on Saturday, late from a session of his weekly Torah study group, and said the Occidental group was “definitely the first encampment that’s lasted more than 24 hours since 2024.”
The students at Occidental, who also mounted an encampment in 2024, wanted their school to divest from weapons manufacturers and companies profiting from occupation and genocide in Gaza. Occidental, like most colleges and universities, did not divest two years ago.
The most liberal of liberal arts schools can now plead Trump administration pressure to call in riot cops.
But, like many schools, it did change its rules around demonstrations. “We’ve seen wave after wave of reactionary protest policies,” the Occidental student, who did not wish to be named due to fear of administrative retribution, told me—as at the dozens of other schools that expanded the circumstances in which student protest would be met with the threat of expulsion or arrest. In Occidental’s case, student protests have been restricted to specific times and spaces, and more bafflingly, “semi-permanent structures” have been banned. (“What does that even mean?” the student I spoke to wondered.)
Columbia’s 2024 encampment lasted two weeks. Occidental’s 2o24 protest lasted eight days and was voluntarily disbanded after the school’s board of trustees agreed to consider a divestment proposal, which it did not take up. The 2026 Occidental encampment, called the Rafah to Jenin Liberated Zone, was dismantled after only 3 days. No one was arrested and no one was hurt—but even the most liberal of liberal arts colleges can now plead Trump administration pressure if they threaten, or choose, to call in the riot cops. April’s Occidental board meeting, which the students aimed to protest, was moved to Zoom.
“Students involved in the encampment cited a recently submitted divestment proposal as their key issue. That proposal is currently under review by the College’s Board of Trustees through the College’s established process, which is designed to gather input from across our community,” an Occidental representative told me.
And students, despite the higher-risk climate, are still politically engaged. The protests this week indicate that, as do slower modes of organizing, like the historic wave of graduate student unionism we are in. (Harvard’s graduate student union just went on strike, for one.) Some young people have simply moved their organizing off-campus and into broader coalitions. Palestinian flags can be found at anti-ICE and No Kings protests. We may not be in an era of encampments—but the kids haven’t given up and gone back to scrolling.
