“Mona has an agenda,” one of her colleagues sniffed at a faculty party.
-Laila Lalami, Echo
When fiction begins to resemble fact, we should start paying closer attention. Laila Lalami’s haunting short story Echo (2011), part of a post-9/11 literary collection, follows an Arab academic in the U.S. who realises that university walls are not as benign as they seem - they listen, they remember, they record. One misstep, one comment, and you are marked.
In 2025 India, the eerie resonance of that story feels uncomfortably close.
On May 18, reports broke that Dr. Ali Khan Mahmudabad, a political science professor at Ashoka University, had been arrested by the Haryana police in connection with a social media post he had made in the wake of the Indian military’s Operation Sindoor. In the post, he questioned the selective nationalism that applauds women officers in military service but ignores the plight of Indian citizens facing bulldozers, mob violence, and hate speech. To his surprise, his remarks were swiftly dubbed as “anti-national.”
The Haryana State Commission for Women interpreted the post as “vilifying military operations” and “undermining women officers.” A criminal complaint followed, and charges were brought under the Bhartiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), including undr Section 196, which penalises the promotion of enmity between different groups, and Section 152, a newly reintroduced version of the colonial sedition law, among other provisions.
What makes this issue resonate so widely is that at stake is the very identity of the university- is it a space for critical inquiry or for ideological surveillance?
More imperatively, it raises urgent questions about the meaning of free speech in a democracy and the rising cost of dissent in seemingly liberal spaces.
Should dissent be encouraged in “Liberal Spaces”?
The term “liberal space” often conjures images of open-mindedness, inclusivity, and vigorous debate, especially within university campuses, which are presumed to be sanctuaries for free speech. However, Laila Lalami’s Echo complicates this comforting notion by revealing the fragility beneath the surface of such spaces.
Mona, the protagonist of Echo, is an Arab academic who dared to critique the “War on Terror” publicly. Despite her intellectual rigour and commitment, she finds herself ostracised, labelled as having “an agenda,” and ultimately denied tenure. The subtle but powerful mechanisms of exclusion in the story show that even liberal institutions can become arenas where dissent is tolerated only up to a point, and where true ideological conformity is often quietly enforced.
The walls of Mona’s “liberal arts” college listen, remember, and record every controversial remark. The action against her is not officially framed as censorship but as a consequence of “budget constraints” and “collegial concerns.” Yet, beneath these polite euphemisms lies a profound intolerance for speech that disrupts the prevailing consensus or unsettles influential stakeholders.
The chilling parallel to Dr. Mahmudabad’s case is unmistakable. Ashoka University, a self-styled “liberal space” in India’s higher education landscape, prides itself on nurturing diverse voices. Yet, the rapid legal backlash against Mahmudabad’s social media commentary shows how quickly dissent, especially when it challenges dominant nationalist narratives, can be delegitimised and criminalised.
When the boundary between critique and criminality becomes so porous, dissent transforms from a democratic right into a legal risk.
In the United States, the constitutional architecture of free speech remains among the most protective worldwide. Anchored in the First Amendment, the right to freedom of expression extends robustly into academic spaces, where courts have consistently guarded against ideological distortion.
Landmark judgments such as Tinker v. Des Moines Independent Community School District (1969) held with a 7:2 majority that neither students nor educators “shed their constitutional rights to freedom of speech or expression at the schoolhouse gate.” Similarly, in Healy v. James (1972), the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the denial of official status to a student group solely because its views were deemed unorthodox, reaffirming that the mere dissemination of ideas, however offensive to good taste, cannot be suppressed on a state university campus in the name of conventions of decency.
The courts have also recognised the distinct role of teachers within the school setup. In Cockrel v. Shelby County School District (2000), the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals emphasised that teachers, as both government employees and facilitators of discourse, occupy a unique position in shaping the educational environment. Their First Amendment rights must be balanced against the community’s interest in efficient school administration, yet this special role demands protections that allow them to express and foster a wide range of ideas in the classroom. The classroom is thus described as “peculiarly the marketplace of ideas,” where exposure to diverse perspectives is vital to cultivating future leaders.
Justice Brennan famously articulated this principle in Keyishian v. Board of Regents (1967), asserting that “the Nation’s future depends upon leaders trained through wide exposure to that robust exchange of ideas which discovers truth “out of a multitude of tongues, [rather] than through any kind of authoritative selection.”’
These precedents form part of a wider legal culture that tolerates dissent as not merely permissible but vital. While contemporary debates over “cancel culture” and institutional neutrality may raise questions about academic freedom in practice, the legal threshold for suppressing speech remains high. Courts require a clear and present danger, such as incitement to imminent lawless action, for speech to be curtailed, following the reasoning in Brandenburg v. Ohio (1969). Mere discomfort or disagreement is insufficient.
India’s constitutional framework, on paper, echoes a similar commitment. Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution of India guarantees to every citizen the right to freedom of speech and expression. However, this right is subject to eight enumerated “reasonable restrictions” under Article 19(2), including sovereignty, public order, decency, morality, and relations with foreign states. Originally intended to balance liberty with public order, these restrictions have been expansively interpreted to stifle dissent.
The introduction of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023 marks a new moment in this trajectory. Section 152, which criminalises “acts endangering the sovereignty, unity and integrity of India,” is widely viewed as a semantic successor to the colonial-era Section 124A (sedition) of the Indian Penal Code.
Though the Supreme Court has kept the application of sedition law in abeyance, this revival under the BNS suggests a legislative commitment to preserving a similar mechanism under a different guise. The provision’s vague and expansive language enables the criminalisation of political critique, especially when directed against the state’s actions or military operations.
In recent jurisprudence, however, the Indian Supreme Court has tried to carve out some breathing room for free expression. In March 2024, while quashing an FIR against a parliamentarian for a social media post, the Court held that expressions must be evaluated from the perspective of “reasonable, strong-minded, firm and courageous individuals,” not through the lens of those inclined to see critique as a threat.
The judges went on to affirm that public dissent, even when unpopular, falls within the ambit of protected speech, as long as it does not incite unlawful conduct. Free expression, they argued, is foundational to a dignified life under Article 21, and disagreement must be met with reasoned counter-speech, not criminal sanction.
This reaffirmation of constitutional values is not without precedent. In Shreya Singhal v. Union of India (2015), the Supreme Court struck down Section 66A of the IT Act for being unconstitutionally vague and broad, refusing to allow vague fears of offense to justify speech restrictions. Despite this judgement, enforcement of its broader principle, that is constitutional ideals must inform prosecutorial action, often falters in practice.
In light of this, Dr. Mahmudabad’s arrest reveals a chilling convergence of law and ideology. His social media post did not incite violence, nor did it call for unlawful conduct. Instead, it questioned a national narrative, one that celebrates military strength while overlooking state-sponsored injustices.
Unlike Mona in Lalami’s Echo, who faced institutional erasure through denial of tenure, Dr. Mahmudabad faces the full force of state prosecution. Both, however, expose the same core idea: that dissent, when voiced from the margins-or even from within elite academic institutions-can be treated as betrayal. The consequences may differ by jurisdiction, but the logic of silencing remains strikingly similar.
The difference lies in the legal redress available. In the U.S., courts have consistently acted as a counterweight to institutional overreach. In India, the judiciary, primarily, the Indian Supreme Court’s inconsistent jurisprudence on free speech, ranging from moments of bold defense to prolonged silence, leaves dissenters exposed. Until the judiciary reclaims its constitutional role as a tower against executive excess, the cost of free expression in Indian academia will remain perilously high.
Final thoughts
If Echo teaches us anything, it is that liberal spaces are not immune to the forces of conformity and surveillance. The tolerance for dissent is conditional, shaped by power dynamics, public sentiment, and political expediency.
This raises difficult questions: Firstly, can a university truly be a bastion of free expression if the cost of dissent includes professional or legal consequences? Secondly, are “liberal spaces” willing to protect unpopular opinions that make their audiences uncomfortable? Or do these spaces ultimately prioritise consensus over critical, and sometimes uncomfortable, inquiry?
In Echo, Mona’s experience is a warning. Universities that fail to safeguard dissent risk becoming echo chambers, not institutions for enlightenment. And as Mahmudabad’s arrest demonstrates, the erosion of academic freedom is not a distant threat but a pressing reality. If India’s universities hope to live up to their liberal ideals, they must confront this contradiction head-on, embracing dissent as an essential feature of intellectual freedom.
