by Mimi Rosenberg
When Silence Is Complicity, or The Cost of Going Along to Get Along Is Too Big A Price to Pay
I write this because, sadly, the threat to personal liberties and political speech is no longer theoretical—it is frighteningly real. We are living through a moment in which expressing views that run contrary to government positioning or dominant institutional narratives can result in serious consequences: jeopardized education, derailed careers, and even the loss of personal liberty. The cost of speaking out is rising, and the pressure to self-censor—to compromise, to capitulate—is mounting.
“Going along to get along” is often framed as wisdom—a survival tactic, a gesture of civility, a way to keep the peace. But beneath its surface lies a quiet violence: the erasure of dissent, the flattening of conviction, and the normalization of complicity. In a society structured by inequality, consensus is rarely neutral. It is often the product of pressure, fear, and the desire to avoid being marked as “difficult.”
The idea that one can survive by softening their stance or “going along to get along” is proving to be a dangerous illusion. Capitulation does not protect—it erodes. It turns institutions into enforcers of silence. As Professor Rashid Khalidi recently described his former university, Columbia, it has become “Vichy on the Hudson”—a chilling metaphor for how easily spaces of learning can become collaborators in repression.
Nowhere is this more visible than in the repression of speech around Palestine. The case of Mahmoud Khalil—a Columbia graduate detained by ICE and threatened with deportation for his pro-Palestinian activism—is emblematic of this crackdown. Khalil’s refusal to capitulate, even under threat of losing his legal status and being separated from his newborn child, is a courageous act of resistance. His case is not isolated—it is part of a broader campaign to silence dissent, particularly on campuses, where students and faculty are being surveilled, suspended, and expelled for speaking out.
At the same time, we are witnessing a coordinated effort to erase discourses on racism, queer and trans life from our schools and libraries. Book bans targeting LGBTQ+ themes and authors of color have surged, with thousands of titles removed from shelves across the country. These bans are not just about books—they are about erasing identities, histories, and lived experiences. When we capitulate legally or politically to these efforts, we destroy lives. We do not win democracy or equal rights by surrendering the stories that make those struggles visible.
This writing is a reflection on that reality. It is a call to resist the unprincipled and domineering demands that seek to control thought, erase dissent, and punish defiance. It is a reminder that history has shown us the cost of silence—and the power of resistance.
History’s Blueprint for Defiance
Oppressive regimes have long relied on censorship, surveillance, and fear to maintain control. Yet, noncompliance—often at great personal cost—has repeatedly disrupted these systems. The printing press shattered the monopoly on information held by religious and political elites. Despite bans and book burnings, underground pamphlets fueled revolutions. During the Inquisition, the Catholic Church suppressed dissenting texts. Thinkers like Galileo Galilei and Baruch Spinoza refused to stay silent, laying the foundations for modern science and philosophy.
In France, Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish army officer, was falsely accused of treason in 1894. His conviction, rooted in antisemitism and institutional cover-up, sparked a national crisis. Émile Zola’s open letter “J’Accuse…!” exposed the injustice, igniting public outrage. Dreyfus was eventually exonerated, but only after years of resistance.
History offers no shortage of examples. Radical thinkers and organizers who refused to go along—who insisted on naming injustice and imagining alternatives—have been punished, surveilled, and erased. Emma Goldman, for instance, was deported in 1919 for her anti-war activism and anarchist beliefs. But her ideas endured, inspiring future generations. Her repression came during the Palmer Raids—a precursor to the FBI’s later counterintelligence programs – it reveals a longer arc of state repression: Goldman’s deportation was not an anomaly, but part of a continuum that would later include the systematic targeting of Black liberation movements, Indigenous resistance, and anti-imperialist organizers.
The Black Press and the Power of the Printed Word
In the United States, the Black press became a powerful tool of defiance. Ida B. Wells, born into slavery and raised during Reconstruction, became one of the fiercest voices in American journalism. Her anti-lynching editorials enraged white mobs, who burned down her press. Forced into exile, she continued publishing from New York and Chicago, documenting racial terror and challenging the nation’s conscience.
The Chicago Defender defied Southern officials who tried to suppress its distribution. Smuggled in suitcases and mailed in secret, it reached Black troops and communities with a message of resistance: “Let us rise.” Its bold stance helped fuel the Great Migration and gave voice to the civil rights movement.
Broadcasting Defiance: The Legacy of Black Power Radio
In the 1960s and ’70s, Black Power radio stations like KDIA in Oakland became cultural hubs for the movement. DJs and activists used the airwaves to promote self-determination, economic independence, and resistance. These stations bypassed mainstream gatekeepers, broadcasting news of police raids, legal defense efforts, and community organizing. They shaped cultural identity and galvanized collective action.
Whistleblowers and the Fight for Truth
Newspaper resistance and whistleblower courage also played pivotal roles in challenging repression. Daniel Ellsberg’s leak of the Pentagon Papers in 1971 exposed government deception about Vietnam. The Supreme Court sided with the press, declaring: “The press must be free to publish the news.” Chelsea Manning’s 2010 leak to WikiLeaks revealed war crimes and surveillance. Julian Assange’s platform challenged state secrecy, igniting fierce debates about press freedom. These acts of digital resistance forced journalism to confront power.
Appeasement Is Not Protection: The Danger of Cooperation with Repression
Today, we see a resurgence of McCarthy-era tactics: congressional committees issuing subpoenas to universities, unions, and media outlets, demanding internal documents and communications. Institutions are being threatened with defunding, loss of accreditation, or revocation of broadcast licenses—not for criminal acts, but for expressing dissent, revealing inconvenient truths, or refusing to align with reactionary policies.
Some may believe that cooperating with these inquiries will spare them. That by handing over names, softening their programming, or distancing themselves from controversial voices, they can survive. But history teaches otherwise. You cannot appease a bully. You cannot negotiate with a system that thrives on fear and punishment. The moment you comply, you validate the premise that dissent is dangerous—and you become complicit in its suppression.
Unions that betray their members under pressure lose their moral authority. Radio stations that dilute their message to retain their license lose their soul. Universities that sacrifice academic freedom to preserve funding cease to be places of learning. The cost of going along is not just reputational—it is existential. You lose the very thing you were meant to protect: the right to speak, to teach, to organize, to resist.
The Ideology of Noncompliance
Repressive systems thrive on fear and conformity. They sell the illusion that submission equals safety. But history proves otherwise. Compliance doesn’t protect—it makes one complicit. Ostrich politics—burying your head to avoid conflict—only emboldens the system designed to silence dissent.
Resistance is survival through solidarity. Galileo didn’t survive by appeasing the Church—he survived by truth. Ida B. Wells didn’t protect herself by retreating—she exposed the horror. Black Power radio didn’t play it safe—it played it loud. Dreyfus didn’t regain justice through quiet endurance—it took a nation’s reckoning. Mahmoud Khalil didn’t survive by compromise—he survived by refusing to disappear.
Why Resistance Matters Now
Repression thrives when we convince ourselves that playing nice will save us. But history speaks louder. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s action in spite of it. Movements survive because people refuse to be isolated. Shared defiance is harder to silence. Censorship is a war on stories. Telling the truth—especially when forbidden—is revolutionary.
We must speak out about Palestine, especially now, when it has become the dominant issue around which speech is being repressed. We must defend the right to teach about racism, queer and trans life, and the lived experiences of marginalized communities. When we capitulate—legally, politically, or institutionally—we destroy lives. We do not win democracy or equal rights by erasing the very people who demand them.
We will not water down truth to fit inside the margins of state approval. We will not mistake tolerance for protection or diplomacy for justice. Noncompliance is not conflict—it is care. Survival demands voice, not disappearance.
The Refusal to Vanish
You don’t survive repression by submitting. You survive it by speaking. Every act of defiance—every uncensored broadcast, every underground newspaper, every whistleblower’s leak—is a refusal to disappear.
From Ida B. Wells to Black Power radio, from Daniel Ellsberg to Chelsea Manning, from Mahmoud Khalil to every author fighting book bans and students and teachers fighting curriculum erasure—the message is clear: truth is not negotiable. Compliance rewards the powerful—not the compliant.
So we speak, even when it shakes us. We resist, even when it costs us. Because silence is complicity—and we were never meant to vanish.
Together, we resist.
–Mimi, member, the Ida. B. Wells Media Defense Network