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Sunday, September 14, 2025

Trump’s Education Plan Seeks to Make Cruel Domination Into “Common Sense”

Trump isn’t even trying to hide his authoritarianism within social acceptability.

September 13, 2025

Protestors on the campus of New College of Florida chase after Christopher Rufo, a conservative activist and New College of Florida trustee, after he attended a bill signing event featuring Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, who signed three education bills in Sarasota, Florida, on Monday, May 15, 2023.Thomas Simonetti / The Washington Post via Getty Images

U.S. democracy has always been fragile, and we are now witnessing its dismantlement.

The rising tide of political violence poses one threat to democracy in this country, but another quieter threat is also hard at work via the erosion of free speech and critical thinking, both of which are necessary for a flourishing democracy.

Trump’s book bans and attacks on opposing political ideas, the blocking of independent journalism, the intimidation of news organizations, and the defunding of public media are all part of this erosion. These attacks are neither accidental nor incidental, but systematic and dangerously consequential to this country

Trump’s regime is driven by a form of authoritarian control (both political and military), disinformation, and a blatant disrespect for the U.S. Constitution. He has ushered in policies rooted in forms of fascism, where the act of dominating the people is articulated and enforced as “common sense.”

The concept of hegemony helps to capture what this regime is attempting to accomplish — or is in fact accomplishing. Hegemony, within the current U.S. context, captures what I see as an unmitigated criminal process of domination.

In this exclusive interview, education scholar Stephen Brookfield offers clarity on the concept of hegemony, how it is linked to white supremacy and authoritarianism, and how critical education and educators can mount a necessary form of resistance. Brookfield is an adjunct professor at Columbia University Teachers College in New York and professor emeritus at the University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis-St. Paul. His goal is to help people (including himself) identify and challenge the dominant ideologies they have internalized. Brookfield is the author, co-author, or editor of 21 books, including Becoming a White Antiracist (with Mary Hess), Teaching Race, and The Handbook of Race and Adult Education (with Vanessa Sheared, Juanita Johnson-Bailey, Elizabeth Peterson & Scipio A. J. Colin III). The interview that follows has been lightly edited for clarity and length.

George Yancy: Define hegemony and explain how it is negatively related to processes of education and learning.

Stephen Brookfield: Hegemony exists when a set of ideas that claim to explain how the world works, and the associated practices linked to these, sustain a particular social order. The question to be asked about hegemony is: Whose interests does it serve? Is it an unrepresentative minority whose position is bolstered by the widespread acceptance of these ideas and practices? Or does this hegemony reflect and promote the interests of the wider majority? Hegemony is always being contested as groups within a society constantly try to promote their own interests. When hegemony is most successfully in place, there is no need for paramilitary control because people have internalized the dominant ideology so completely that they police their own conduct. And, as Michel Foucault pointed out, they often take sensuous pleasure in doing so.

In the United States right now, there is a clear attempt to create a hegemony based on particular ideologies. One of these is monopoly capitalism, hidden behind the valorization of free-market enterprise as the best guarantor of freedom and liberty. Another is patriarchy. A third is white supremacy, the belief that European settlers “tamed” and “civilized” a continent, and that their “superior intelligence” and capacity for clear decision-making helped create the greatest nation on Earth. Mixed into this combustible cocktail is authoritarianism, the belief that a strong leader is needed who brooks no dissent from their vision and policies, and whose certainty appeals strongly to those confused by the maelstrom of forces they see swirling around their individual lives. Erich Fromm’s work outlined this dynamic beautifully three-quarters of a century ago.

At the heart of a successful state hegemony is control of what Louis Althusser called ideological state apparatuses. One of these is education. Control the curriculum and you control the range of ideas that people are exposed to. This is why schooling is inherently political. In earlier parts of my career, I had colleagues who disagreed with me on this point. Now I don’t know anyone who disputes it. Early pointers of this hegemony were Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis’s targeting of New College of Florida, and the federal abolition of critical race theory as a term used in federal training programs. As the current administration hits its stride, we have revisionist history in place that erases any analysis of slavery. Add to this the targeted removal of any institutional practice or office that mentions the words diversity, equity, or inclusion (DEI); the ridicule of anything that describes itself as “anti-racist” as “woke”; and targeted lawsuits aimed at any university that resists these restrictions — and we have the clear attempt to install white supremacy as an official, state-approved ideology.

Antonio Gramsci, whose work is usually associated with the term hegemony, was particularly focused on how cultural mechanisms enforce a certain picture of the world. As Fox News moved to occupy an important place in U.S. TV networks and right-wing radio and podcasts gathered steam, white supremacy, patriarchy, and authoritarianism were all fully legitimized and reinforced as “sensible” ways to order society. The betrothal of the Trump administration to right-wing media is consummated by senior cabinet and advisory positions being filled by pundits drawn from these sources.

The overt nature of this attempt to create hegemony is striking. There is no need to hide authoritarian control behind socially acceptable signifiers. The stream of billionaires traveling to kiss the ring of the president shows just how far business has caved.

Black history is under attack. Through a right-wing hegemonic retelling of Black history, where the reality of the brutality of anti-Blackness is being erased, memory is being controlled by those who would rather tell a pleasing lie than face the horrors of truth. While there was important pushback, I recall that a group of Texas educators had proposed to the Texas State Board of Education that slavery should be taught in second grade social studies as “involuntary relocation.” Or think about the Florida Board of Education and its approval to teach middle school students “that enslaved people gained a ‘personal benefit’ from the skills they learned under slavery before the Civil War.” My sense is that partly undergirding this attempt to whitewash and rewrite the brutality of anti-Blackness within the U.S. is the aim to maintain a history and ideology of “white innocence.” Given your important work on whiteness, explain how the meta-narrative of white innocence is part of the core of what Trump is up to.

George W. Bush said that the worst moment of his presidency was not 9/11 or leading the country into an invasion that killed hundreds of thousands in Iraq. Instead, it was being called a racist after his administration’s lackluster response to Hurricane Katrina. This shows the deep-rooted belief held by many white people that we are essentially racially innocent. Sure, our ancestors may have enslaved people, but that was what was considered culturally appropriate at the time, and anyway it has no relation to who we are today. We treat others as we would want to be treated, we don’t make judgments about the content of character based on skin color, and we treat people of color with goodwill. So how can we be racist? This act of self-congratulation is a common signifier of white innocence.


“Control the curriculum and you control the range of ideas that people are exposed to. This is why schooling is inherently political.”

Innocence is a delightfully complex term, something that is often projected as a desirable state to which we should aspire, but also something that suggests a certain childlike naivete. Recently, the protestation of white innocence has become weaponized as a response to the Black Lives Matter movement and the anti-racist momentum that built in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. This weaponization has multiple dimensions. First, there is the reinterpretation of colonialism and imperialism as a generally innocent and beneficent phenomenon in which the supposed improvements conferred (instilling morality, religious conversion, and an adherence to European values) far outweigh any unfortunate mistakes such as genocide and slavery. Second, we have the contemporary claim that even if some bad things were done in the past, that has nothing to do with anything that’s happening today. The strident rejection of white guilt is one aspect of this; as is the belief that referring to the history of slavery and settlement is a “woke” device that folks of color use to blame their situation on the past, thereby ignoring their need to take personal responsibility for their lives and work harder.

A deeper sense of innocence is that which Shannon Sullivan describes as the innocence of “good white people.” This is the innocent belief in our essential humanity, in our commitment to “treating people as we find them,” in our subscription to the color-blind viewpoint, and in our belief that we act out of the best possible motivations. Under white innocence, the sincerity of our actions is what matters the most and “justifies” any unintended harm we might commit.

This describes a worldview that I internalized early on in life and that still resides within me. One way that structural inequity stays in place is by the majority assuming that a level playing field exists so that we interact as equals unaffected by history. In this worldview, the past does not matter, and structural barriers are overcome by exercising goodwill. Under white innocence, words and actions that came from a “good place” cannot be viewed as racist, owing to the purity of their intentions. If we are told that we have behaved or spoken in a racist way, we apologize. But in our hearts lies the unspoken conviction that really the other person was being overly sensitive. Or, that they’ve misinterpreted a beneficent communication and taken offense at imagined slights that were really not there. In this way, innocence regards racism as an unfortunate problem of miscommunication owing to what we call “cultural differences.”

As the current administration systematically defunds any institutional efforts to address racism, those who were made uncomfortable in the past by DEI programs can now breathe a sigh of relief. In their minds, we are back to “normal.” Balance has been restored after a period of whites being unfairly blamed for colluding in white supremacy.

If you recall, in George Orwell’s 1984, the dystopian Party can control what people think and do. In fact, in that book, the belief that “2 + 2 = 5” is taken as true and is indicative of the extent to which political power can be used to brainwash people. Fascism works to create a world where what is blatantly false has become what is deemed “common sense” and “true.” Under Trump’s neo-fascist regime, we must fight against the perpetuation of systematic falsehoods and ideologies of distraction. You argue that the process of “doing ideology critique involves adults learning to become aware of how ideology lives within them as well as understanding how it buttresses the structures of the outside world that works against them.” Understanding and deploying the concept of ideology critique is indispensable at this moment. Explain ways in which teachers in schools and universities might use ideology critique to contest the attempt by the right wing to accept blatant falsehoods as “commonsense wisdom.”

One of the greatest challenges in my teaching has been to work out how to get students to think structurally; that is, how they learn to realize that their individual actions are framed by their social location and that wider economic forces and dominant ideologies constrain the options they consider. The ideology of individualism, so lauded throughout the history of the U.S., is a major barrier to this task. It posits life’s journey as one of grit, determination, and struggle in the face of barriers that are unexpectedly thrown up to block the realization of our full potential.

I am not a rigid economic materialist. I don’t believe that individual choice is purely a comforting myth, and I do believe that individual consciousness is, ultimately, inexplicable. Chance, unpredictability, and serendipity are powerful elements of the human condition. But our choices are fueled by the ideological oxygen we breathe. Ideological state apparatuses such as education and religion, official government policies and statements, and the daily bath in social media present the range of possibilities that we view as both desirable and realistic. When a government controls the flow of information and intimidates schools and media outlets into legitimizing their worldview, then hegemony becomes easier to establish.

The key as an educator is to find a way to interrupt this dominant ideological narrative. In adult education, a great deal of attention has been paid to what the transformative learning theorist Jack Mezirow called “disorienting dilemmas.” These are the moments when our settled expectations about how the world works are thrown into confusion. Examples would be facing an unexpected health crisis and finding care unavailable, being fired after a history of professionalism and assiduously working to achieve institutional goals, or being conscripted to fight in a war. For George W. Bush, it was being called “racist.”


“As the current administration systematically defunds any institutional efforts to address racism, those who were made uncomfortable in the past by DEI programs can now breathe a sigh of relief. In their minds, we are back to ‘normal.’”

As we negotiate our response to being caught in such dilemmas, we are brought face-to-face with our paradigmatic assumptions. As we realize that these assumptions are flawed, we are forced to examine why we believed them to be so accurate in the first place. We seek other, more satisfactory meaning schemes and perspectives that make more sense.

In the classroom, teachers need to create disorienting dilemmas that unsettle and confound our students’ expectations. And, as we do so, we need to judge how much dissonance can be tolerated. Too much, and we risk them dismissing our activities as unrealistic. Too little, and we allow them to stay comfortable. In ideology critique, I present a cultural or institutional action that seems benign and desirable and then ask students to answer several questions about it: What assumptions are embedded in the practice? What is it intended to achieve? Whose interests does the practice serve? Who is most harmed by it? Why do those who benefit not recognize the harm it creates? How could the action be reimagined in ways that were fairer or socially just?

A similar approach is to institute equity pauses as a required element in decision-making across a university. As program changes are made, admissions criteria altered, and curricula revised, we need to pause very deliberately before deciding on a particular course of action and ask the ideology critique questions above.

We also need teachers and institutional leaders to model the practice of critical reflection. White leaders need to talk publicly about their own struggle to recognize that they have a racial identity, and to acknowledge the benefits this brings. This kind of disclosure needs to become normalized, so that discussions of racism are not prefaced by a collective intake of fearful inhalation. Neither should it be confessional, in which whites purge themselves of the sin of racism by asking absolution from colleagues of color. And courses need to be taught by racially mixed teams who can model what a difficult racial conversation looks like — stilted, characterized both by periods of uncomfortable silence, and also displaying strong emotions and feelings.

In my own capacity as a philosopher and a teacher, I have attempted to model what it means to engage in critical reflection. Indeed, critical reflection is inextricably linked to critical pedagogy. But what we are witnessing is the very opposite of critical reflection. In The Power of Critical Theory: Liberating Adult Learning and Teaching, you describe the problematic process of creating what you call “adult educators as professional ideologists.” What will education in the U.S. look like as “adult educators as professional ideologists” continue to gain traction? And what are the larger implications for U.S. democracy?

I have argued that critical reflection focuses on power and hegemony — on understanding how and when an elite group uses power in an authoritarian way to impose its cultural hegemony on the majority of people. It also reveals the tricks of ideological manipulation that result in people voting enthusiastically for politicians whose actions and decisions end up harming those same voters — and then continuing to do it over and over again.

Adult education as political detoxification seeks to remove the addictive chemicals of white innocence from our consciousness. It demonstrates the falsity of believing that we all act on a level playing field, or the naivete of thinking that our actions are motivated solely by a humanist concern for everyone to get along. It unmasks power.

This article is licensed under Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0), and you are free to share and republish under the terms of the license.



George Yancy is the Samuel Candler Dobbs professor of philosophy at Emory University and a Montgomery fellow at Dartmouth College. He is also the University of Pennsylvania’s inaugural fellow in the Provost’s Distinguished Faculty Fellowship Program (2019-2020 academic year). He is the author, editor and co-editor of over 25 books, including Black Bodies, White Gazes; Look, A White; Backlash: What Happens When We Talk Honestly about Racism in America; and Across Black Spaces: Essays and Interviews from an American Philosopher published by Rowman & Littlefield in 2020. His most recent books include a collection of critical interviews entitled, Until Our Lungs Give Out: Conversations on Race, Justice, and the Future (Rowman & Littlefield, 2023), and a coedited book (with philosopher Bill Bywater) entitled, In Sheep’s Clothing: The Idolatry of White Christian Nationalism (Roman & Littlefield, 2024).

Saturday, January 25, 2025

Bertrand Russell: Redefining the Public Intellectual in an Era of Rising Authoritarianism



 January 24, 2025
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Bertrand Russell – Public Domain

Within days of his return to office, President Donald Trump unleashed a chilling display of authoritarianism, providing a stark reminder of the specter haunting the United States: the specter of fascism. As reported in the New York Times, his actions underscored a vision of governance steeped in cruelty and unchecked power.  With the stroke of a pen, Trump pardoned 1,500 individuals involved in the January 6th insurrection, dismantled environmental protections, opened Alaska’s wilderness to expanded oil and gas drilling, terminated Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs across federal agencies, and signed an executive order ending birthright citizenship. He erased recognition of gender diversity on official documents, escalated attacks on transgender Americans, withdrew the U.S. from the Paris Climate Agreement and the World Health Organization, declared a national emergency at the southern border, dispatched thousands of troops, and initiated mass deportation orders targeting immigrants. Each action exemplified not only the brutalities of gangster capitalism but also a profound disregard for human rights, social justice, and the preservation of the public good.

What makes these assaults even more alarming is their widespread support. Trump’s war on civil rights, immigrants, the rule of law, the environment, and gender equity is endorsed by the MAGA Party, a significant portion of the American public, billionaires seeking deregulation, and a chorus of complicit pundits and politicians. This is more than a moral collapse or a democracy on life support—it reflects the deliberate cultivation of civic ignorance and the institutional erosion that allowed fascism’s seeds to take root, with Trump’s presidency representing its most visible end point.

At the core of this culture of gangster capitalism lies an interconnected web of anti-public intellectuals, media personalities, cultural influencers, and powerful apparatuses—including the legacy press and online platforms—that actively promote or tacitly enable an authoritarian agenda. Their complicity contrasts sharply with historical figures who resisted tyranny with unflinching courage. Bertrand Russell, for instance, serves as a reminder of intellectual bravery in dark times. Today, such moral clarity is rare but not extinct. Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, who led the National Prayer Service at Washington National Cathedral, embodies a bold and energized resistance, challenging the silence and submission that so often accompany the rise of authoritarianism.

During the service, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde addressed President Trump directly, urging him to embrace justice, compassion, and care in his policies, particularly toward immigrants and those most vulnerable under his administration. With a solemn yet hopeful tone, she declared:

“Millions have placed their trust in you. As you said yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of that God, I implore you: have mercy on the people of this nation who now live in fear. There are gay, lesbian, and transgender children in families across the political spectrum—Democrat, Republican, and Independent—some who fear for their very lives. Have mercy upon them.”

As her sermon neared its conclusion, she continued, her words both a plea and a moral indictment:

“I ask you, Mr. President, to have mercy on the children who fear that their parents will be taken away. I ask you to extend compassion and welcome to those fleeing war zones and persecution, seeking refuge on our shores. Our God commands us to be merciful to the stranger, for we too were once strangers in this land.”

Trump’s response was as predictable as it was venomous. He dismissed the service as “boring and uninspiring,” deriding Budde as a “radical left hardline Trump hater.” His words, steeped in scorn and his trademark disdain for critique, encapsulated the spirit of his administration—a politics of division, cruelty, and vindictiveness.

This spirit found an echo in Republican U.S. Representative Mike Collins of Georgia, who weaponized Budde’s sermon on social media. Posting a video clip of her heartfelt appeal, he coldly remarked: “The person giving this sermon should be added to the deportation list.”

In these exchanges, the chasm between Budde’s call for mercy and Trump’s politics of malice became starkly evident—a collision of two opposing visions for the nation. One rooted in compassion, the other in the unrelenting embrace of cruelty.

The spirit, boldness, and courage embodied in Budde’s speech echo a long and vital history of resistance. Under every regime of domination, there have always been voices that refuse to be silenced—public intellectuals and everyday citizens who, together, stand against the tides of bigotry, hatred, war, and state violence. These voices remind us that even in the darkest times, resistance is not only possible but necessary.

One such voice, whose life and work illuminate the enduring power of civic courage, moral responsibility, and the willingness to risk everything for justice, equality, and freedom, is Bertrand Russell. His legacy offers us profound lessons for navigating our current moment, where the stakes of resistance feel as urgent as ever. My connection to Russell’s work feels especially personal, as my own writings are housed in McMaster University’s Mills Library, alongside a significant archive of Russell’s papers. In reflecting on his life, we are reminded that the struggle for justice is a continuum—one that demands not only bold ideas but also the bravery to act upon them.

One of the most unexpected and meaningful moments of my personal and scholarly life was standing beside a towering image of Bertrand Russell during the ceremony marking the donation of my personal archives to McMaster University Library’s William Ready Division of Archives and Research Collections. It felt like a quiet dialogue across time—a convergence of lives committed to ideas, justice, and the unyielding pursuit of truth. Libraries and archives hold a special kind of magic, especially in an age when historical memory is eroded by an avalanche of information, the unceasing churn of emotional overload, and a culture entrapped by what Byung-Chul Han calls “the immediate presence.”

In stark contrast to this frenzy of hyper-communication and ephemeral data, the archive stands as a sanctuary for depth and reflection. It safeguards not just the fragments of the past but the larger arc of its story, providing a sense of wholeness and continuity. Here, time stretches beyond the fleeting moment, offering a context that embraces the works, personal artifacts, and relationships that shape the lives of artists, intellectuals, and cultural workers. The archive resists the tyranny of the present, reminding us that the threads of history weave a fabric far richer and more enduring than the fleeting snapshots and soundbites of our digital age.

Having my work archived along with Russell’s was particularly moving since he was a model for me as a public intellectual as I began teaching and writing in the 1960s. I came of age when intellectual, political, and cultural paradigms were shifting. Protests were advancing on university campuses and in the streets against the Vietnam War, systemic racism, the military-industrial complex, the corporatization of the university, and the ongoing assaults waged on women, the poor, and the vulnerable. Intellectuals and artists such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Allen Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Ellen Willis, Susan Sontag, Paul Goodman, James Baldwin, Angela Davis, and Martin Luther King, Jr. were translating their ideas into actions and exhibiting a moral courage that both held power accountable and refused to be seduced by it. This was an age of visionary change, civic courage, and democratic inclusiveness; it was a time in which language translated into actions that enabled people to understand how power operated on their daily lives and how their daily existences and relationships to the world could be more engaging in critical and radically imaginative ways.

For me, Bertrand Russell stood out among these intellectuals in a way that was both iconic and personal. Russell was not only a rigorous scholar but also a public intellectual who moved with astonishing ease through a range of disciplines, ideas, and social problems. He embodied a new kind of public intellectual, one who functioned as a border crosser and traveler who, like another great public intellectual, Edward Said, refused to hold on to scholarly territory or a disciplinary realm in order to protect or bolster his fame or ego. Careerism was anathema to Russell and it was obvious in his willingness to push against conceits and transgressions of power—whether it was contesting World War I as a conscientious objector, dissenting against the authoritarian populism consuming much of Europe in the 1930s, protesting against the threat of nuclear weapons, or criticizing the horrors and political depravity that marked the United States’ war against the Vietnamese people.

In pushing the boundaries of civic courage and the moral imagination, Russell took risks, put his body on the line, and made visible the crimes of his time, even if it meant going to jail, which he did as late in his life as the age of 89 after protesting against nuclear weapons. Russell lived in what can be called dangerous times and he responded by placing morality, critical analysis, collective struggle, and a profound belief in democratic socialism at the center of his politics.

I was always moved by his courage, and his belief in the political capacities of everyday people and the notion that education was central to politics itself. Russell believed that people had to be informed in order to act in the name of justice. He believed that politics could be measured by how much it improved people’s lives, gave them a sense of hope, and pointed to a future that was decidedly better than the present. Russell, like Václav Havel, another towering public intellectual, believed that politics followed culture and that there was no possibility of social change unless there was a change in people’s attitudes, consciousness, and how they live their lives. Russell believed that a critical education could teach young people not to look away and to take risks in the name of a future of hope and possibility. Russell’s radical investment in the power of education was more than simply a strong conviction. Not only did he start his own progressive school in the 1920s, but he believed that one demand of the public intellectual was to be rigorous and accessible and to make one’s work meaningful in order for it to be critical and transformative. Russell connected education to social change and believed that matters of identity, desire, power, and values were never removed from political struggles.

Not only did he write incessantly as a public intellectual, but he was always willing to throw his body and mind into the thick and fray of the social problems he addressed. As a writer and political activist, he was overtly derided and even condemned by other intellectuals. One episode that moved me immensely when I learned of it was that he was denied a position at the College of the City of New York. At the time, powerful conservatives both in and out of the Catholic Church saw his ideas as dangerous, going so far as to claim if he took up the job at CCNY, he would be occupying a “Chair of Indecency.” I read about this period in Russell’s life soon after I was denied tenure for political reasons at Boston University by the notorious right-wing president, John Silber.

Russell’s willingness to keep going in the face of such attacks nurtured in me both energy and faith in my convictions. As a radical educator, Russell inspired me and gave me the courage to address issues animated by a fierce sense of justice and the political and moral imperative to fight against “the texture of social oppression and the harm that it does.” Like Russell, I learned that thinking can be dangerous and that it demands a certain daring of mind and willingness to intervene in the world. Russell convinced me that to be an educator, you had to be willing to cause trouble in times of war and upheaval and just as willing to disturb the peace in moments of quiet acquiescence. At a time when public intellectuals seem to be in retreat, Russell’s legacy and work are even more important given the darkness now engulfing much of the globe.

Russell is more important to me today than he was when I first read his works in the 1960s. He is a reminder of a type of engaged intellectual that crossed boundaries far removed from the university with its sometimes deadly specialisms, corporatism, conformism, and separation from the problems of the day. While public intellectuals still exist today, too many of them speak from narrow specializations, narrate themselves in soundbites appropriate for the digital age, and often refrain from speaking to the broad audiences and tangled issues of the day. Too many of them advocate for single issues and lack the knowledge or willingness to speak in terms that are comprehensive, willing to do the hard work of connecting a vast array of issues and common concerns. Russell’s claim that his three passions were “the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind” seem quaint in today’s fast-paced culture of consumerism, unchecked individualism, and a crippling obsession with self-interest.

Russell is a crucial reminder of the value of historical consciousness and memory because his life, writing, actions, and moral courage remind us of the work that public intellectuals can do and how they can make a difference. Russell provides a model of what it means to talk back, scorn easy popularity, and refuse to wallow in the discourse of comfortable platitudes. Russell was not merely a witness and, like Martin Luther King, Jr. and other notable figures of his generation, refused to keep silent and was equally appalled by the “silence of good people.” He made clear that there had to be a crucial element of love and solidarity in the ability to feel passionate about freedom and justice. Erich Fromm, one of the great Frankfurt School theorists, called Russell a prophet because his “capacity to disobey is rooted, not in some abstract principle, but in the most real experience there is—in the love of life.” In an age of “fake news,” emergent fascism, systemic racism, and engineered destruction of the planet, militarism, and genocide, Russell is an extraordinary and insightful reminder of the power of informed rationality, critical education, and evidence. At a time when the threat of a nuclear disaster looms larger than ever, Russell offers both in words and deeds the recognition that security cannot be gained through a culture of fear, fraud, armaments, and armed struggle.

At a time when democracy teeters under siege, authoritarian populism surges, public values are eroded, and trust in democratic institutions falters, Bertrand Russell’s writings, actions, and struggles offer an enduring reminder of what is necessary to confront the present darkness. He calls us to civic courage, moral outrage, and the critical thinking required to bridge private troubles with broader social transformations. His life and work stand as a testament to the unyielding pursuit of justice and the recognition that no society, no matter how idealized, is ever just enough.

For Russell, politics was not just about economic structures; it was a battle for the meaning and dignity of humanity itself —over agency, identity, values, and the ways we see ourselves in relation to others. These concerns resonate profoundly today, as unbridled individualism, the fetishization of privatization, and a narrow devotion to self-interest have been elevated to virtues in many Western societies. These forces have paved the way for a moral void, a nihilism that fuels the resurgence of authoritarianism across the globe. Against this collapse into despair, Russell’s vision remains a vital antidote—expansive, hopeful, and profoundly life-affirming.

Russell’s legacy is not just a lesson in intellectual brilliance or political acumen, but in the audacity of hope paired with the courage to act. He reminds us that history bends not by passive observation, but by collective struggles, solidarity, and the refusal to accept injustice as inevitable. To remember Russell is to embrace a moral clarity that resists indifference and cynicism, and to imagine a world where dignity, equity, and joy are not luxuries but foundational principles.

Standing beside his archives was, for me, an extraordinary honor. It was not merely an encounter with history but an invitation to carry forward the weight of its lessons. In that moment, I felt the enduring shadow of a life devoted to justice and civic responsibility, a shadow that challenges us to live with greater purpose.

To remember Russell is to remember the indispensable role of hope in the face of despair, the necessity of resistance when the specter of fascism is with us once again, and the moral obligation to imagine and fight for a world yet to be born. His legacy is a call to action—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the power of ideas, the courage of individuals, and the collective force of mass movements can light the way forward.

Note.

This essay draws from an earlier essay on Russel that appeared in Hamilton and Arts Letters 11:1 (2018).

Henry A. Giroux currently holds the McMaster University Chair for Scholarship in the Public Interest in the English and Cultural Studies Department and is the Paulo Freire Distinguished Scholar in Critical Pedagogy. His most recent books include: The Terror of the Unforeseen (Los Angeles Review of books, 2019), On Critical Pedagogy, 2nd edition (Bloomsbury, 2020); Race, Politics, and Pandemic Pedagogy: Education in a Time of Crisis (Bloomsbury 2021); Pedagogy of Resistance: Against Manufactured Ignorance (Bloomsbury 2022) and Insurrections: Education in the Age of Counter-Revolutionary Politics (Bloomsbury, 2023), and coauthored with Anthony DiMaggio, Fascism on Trial: Education and the Possibility of Democracy (Bloomsbury, 2025). Giroux is also a member of Truthout’s board of directors.


Thursday, September 26, 2024

 

When You Suffer for Your Sanity and Struggle to Get Free


Vincent van Gogh (Netherlands), The Starry Night, 1889.

In 1930, Clément Fraisse (1901–1980), a shepherd from France’s Lozère region, was confined in a nearby psychiatric hospital after he tried to burn down his parents’ farmhouse. For two years, he was held in a dark, narrow cell. Using a spoon, and later the handle of his chamber pot, Fraisse carved symmetrical images into the rough, wooden walls that surrounded him. Despite the inhumane conditions in these psychiatric hospitals, Fraisse made beautiful art in the darkness of his cell. Not far from Lozère is the monastery of Saint Paul de Mausole in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, where Vincent van Gogh had been confined four decades earlier (1889–1890) and where he completed around 150 paintings, including several important works (among them The Starry Night, 1889).

Ex OPG, Naples (Italy), 2024.

I was thinking about both Fraisse and Van Gogh when I visited the old Ospedale Psichiatrico Giudiziario (OPG) in Naples (Italy) in September for a festival that took place in this former criminal asylum, which once held those who had committed serious offences and were deemed to be insane. The vast building, which sits in the heart of Naples on the Monte di Sant’Eframo, was first a monastery (1573–1859), then a military barrack for the Savoy regime during Italy’s unification in 1861, and then a prison set up by the fascist regime in the 1920s. The prison was closed in 2008, and then, in 2015, occupied by a group of people who would later form the political organisation Potere al Popolo! (Power to the People!). They renamed the building Ex OPG – Je so’ pazzo, ‘ex’ meaning that the building is no longer an asylum, and Je so’ pazzo referring to the favourite song of the beloved local singer Pino Daniele (1955–2015), who died around the time the building was occupied:

I’m crazy. I’m crazy.
The people are waiting for me.
….
I want to live at least one day as a lion.
Je so’pazzo, je so’ pazzo.
C’ho il popolo che mi aspetta.
….
Nella vita voglio vivere almeno un giorno da leone.

Today, the Ex OPG is home to legal and medical clinics, a gym, a theatre, and a bar. It is a place of reflection, a people’s centre that is designed to build community and confront the loneliness and precarity of capitalism. It is a rare kind of institution in our world, one in which an exhausted society is increasingly isolated and individuals, encaged in a prison house of frustrated aspirations, nonetheless hope to use their meagre tools (a spoon, the handle of a chamber pot) to carve out their dreams and to reach for the starry sky.


Anita Rée (Germany), Self-Portrait, 1930.
Rée (1885–1933) killed herself after the Nazis declared her work to be ‘degenerate’.

Even the World Health Organisation (WHO) does not have sufficient data on mental health, largely because the poorer nations are unable to maintain an accurate account of their populations’ immense psychological struggles. As a result, the focus is often limited to the more affluent countries, where such data is collected by governments and where there is greater access to psychiatric care and medications. A recent survey of thirty-one countries (mostly in Europe and North America, but also including some poorer nations such as Brazil, India, and South Africa) shows a shifting attitude and increased concern about mental health. The survey found that 45% of those polled selected mental health as ‘the biggest health problems facing people in [their] country today’, a significant increase from the previous poll, conducted in 2018, in which the figure was 27%. Third in the list of health challenges is stress, with 31% selecting it as the leading cause of concern. There is a significant gender gap in attitudes towards mental health amongst young people, with 55% of young women selecting it as one of their primary health concerns, compared to 37% of young men (reflecting the fact that women are disproportionately impacted by mental health issues).

While it is true that the COVID-19 pandemic heightened mental health problems across the world, this crisis predated the coronavirus. Information from the Global Health Data Exchange shows that in 2019 – before the pandemic – one in eight, or 970 million, people from around the world had a mental disorder, with 301 million struggling with anxiety and 280 million with depression. These numbers should be seen as an estimate, a minimum picture of the severe crisis of unhappiness and maladjustment to the current social order.

There are range of ailments that go under the name of ‘mental disorder’, from schizophrenia to forms of depression that can result in suicidal ideation. According to the WHO’s 2022 report, one in 200 adults struggle with schizophrenia, which on average results in a ten- to twenty-year reduction in life expectancy. Meanwhile, suicide, the leading cause of death amongst young people globally, is responsible for one in every 100 deaths (bear in mind that only one in every twenty attempts results in a death). We can make new tables, revise our calculations, and write longer reports, but none of this can assuage the profound social neglect that pervades our world.


Adolf Wölfli (Switzerland), General View of the Island Neveranger, 1911.
Wölfli (1864–1930) was abused as a child, sold as an indentured labourer, and then interned in the Waldau Clinic in Bern, where he painted for the rest of his life.

Neglect is not even the correct word. The prevailing attitude to mental disorders is to treat them as biological problems that merely require individualised pharmaceutical care. Even if we were to accept this limited conceptual framework, it still requires governments to support the training of psychiatrists, make medications affordable and accessible for the population, and incorporate mental health treatment into the wider health care system. However, in 2022, the WHO found that, on average, countries spend only 2% of their health care budgets on mental health. The organisation also found that half of the world’s population – mostly in the poorer nations – lives in circumstances where there is one psychiatrist to serve 200,000 or more people. This is the state of affairs as we witness a general decline of health care budgets and of public education about the need for a generous attitude toward mental health problems. The most recent WHO data (December 2023), which covers the spike in pandemic-related health spending, shows that, in 2021, health care spending in most countries was less than 5% of Gross Domestic Product. Meanwhile, in its 2024 report A World of Debt, the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) shows that almost a hundred countries spent more to service their debts than on healthcare. Though these are foreboding statistics, they do not get at the heart of the problem.

Over the course of the past century, the response to mental health disorders has been overwhelmingly individualised, with treatments ranging from various forms of therapy to the prescription of different medications. Part of the failure to deal with the range of mental health crises – from depression to schizophrenia – has been the refusal to accept that these problems are not only influenced by biological factors but can be – and often are – created and exacerbated by social structures. Dr. Joanna Moncrieff, one of the founders of the Critical Psychiatry Network, writes that ‘none of the situations we call mental disorders have been convincingly shown to arise from a biological disease’, or more precisely, ‘from a specific dysfunction of physiological or biochemical processes’. This is not to say that biology does not play a role, but simply that it is not the only factor that should shape our understanding of such disorders.

In his widely read classic The Sane Society (1955), Erich Fromm (1900–1980) built on the insights of Karl Marx to develop a precise reading of the psychological landscape in a capitalist system. His insights are worth re-considering (forgive Fromm’s use of the masculine use of the word ‘man’ and of the pronoun ‘his’ to refer to all of humanity):

Whether or not the individual is healthy is primarily not an individual matter, but depends on the structure of his society. A healthy society furthers man’s capacity to love his fellow men, to work creatively, to develop his reason and objectivity, to have a sense of self which is based on the experience of his own productive powers. An unhealthy society is one which creates mutual hostility, distrust, which transforms man into an instrument of use and exploitation for others, which deprives him of a sense of self, except inasmuch as he submits to others or becomes an automaton. Society can have both functions; it can further man’s healthy development, and it can hinder it; in fact, most societies do both, and the question is only to what degree and in what directions their positive and negative influence is exercised.


Kawanabe Kyōsai (Japan), Famous Mirrors: The Spirit of Japan, 1874.
Kyōsai (1831–1889) was shocked, at the age of nine, when he picked up a corpse and its head fell off. This marked his consciousness and his later break with ukiyo-e traditional painting to inaugurate what is now known as manga.

The antidote to many of our mental health crises must come from re-building society and forming a culture of community rather than a culture of antagonism and toxicity. Imagine if we built cities with more community centres, more places such as Ex OPG – Je so’ pazzo in Naples, more places for young people to gather and build social connections and their personalities and confidence. Imagine if we spent more of our resources to teach people to play music and to organise sports games, to read and write poetry, and to organise socially productive activities in our neighbourhoods. These community centres could house medical clinics, youth programmes, social workers, and therapists. Imagine the festivals that such centres could produce, the music and joy, the dynamism of events such Red Books Day. Imagine the activities – the painting of murals, neighbourhood clean-ups, and planting of gardens – that could emerge as these centres incubate conversations about what kind of world people want to build. In fact, we do not need to imagine any of this: it is already with us in small gestures, whether in Naples or in Delhi, in Johannesburg or in Santiago.

‘Depression is boring, I think’, wrote the poet Anne Sexton (1928–1974). ‘I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave’. So let’s make soup in a community centre, pick up guitars and drumsticks, and dance and dance and dance till that great feeling comes upon everyone to join in healing our broken humanity.FacebookTwitterReddit

Vijay Prashad is an Indian historian and journalist. Prashad is the author of twenty-five books, including The Darker Nations: A People’s History of the Third WorldThe Poorer Nations: A Possible History of the Global South, andThe Withdrawal: Iraq, Libya, Afghanistan, and the Fragility of U.S. Power Noam Chomsky and Vijay PrashadRead other articles by Vijay, or visit Vijay's website.