My grandmother never called herself a rebel. She called herself a survivor. Born in the shadows of the Soviet Union, my grandmother’s life was marked by abandonment and displacement, yet she managed to escape the wrath of war-torn villages to build a purpose. She crossed borders with my grandfather, my mother, and my aunt, and nothing else, leaving behind a country and a language because staying didn’t align with survival. Her story was not one to be romanticized. Rebellion was not a choice; it was the only way forward. I grew up with a very different guidebook, a much quieter one. My rules were not enforced by labour camps or political repression, but by discomfort and consequence. As a Black, Jewish daughter of a single mother and immigrant, I learned to become palatable.Society taught these rules relentlessly. My mother worked hard to undo them. She taught me to be loud, outspoken, and to always confront supremacy, even in its most polite disguises. That silence is never neutral. It only protects those already comfortable.With her voice in my head, speaking is not much easier.In academia, silence is often rewarded. It is treated as professionalism, intellectual restraint, and even maturity. There have been many times when silence has felt heavier than risk; one of those moments happened in my third year of university.I was sitting in my Film and Politics class, discussing the representation of Muslim women on screen. A Muslim woman in the class shared her perception of a scene that was shown by our professor, mentioning its damaging implications. A white male student from Louisiana immediately overtook the conversation. His attack was ready, assured, and familiar. As he raised his voice, he claimed oppression. His discomfort became the centre of the discussion. As the conversation escalated, her words were reduced to emotion, and his were treated as an argument. The room shifted.The professor remained silent.Before I had time to calculate the consequences, I spoke. Three students followed. For an hour, we pushed back, accused of racism. For the entire hour, the professor chose silence.His silence was deafening.Academic spaces tend to present themselves as neutral arenas for debate, but neutrality collapses in the face of power imbalance. Educators are taught to value open discussion, but not to interrogate who is protected by it. Intervention is framed as bias, meaning silence is synonymous with fairness. In reality, silence functions as risk management: it protects authority, avoids complaint, and preserves reputations. When harm occurs under the guise of dialogue, institutions opt for comfort. This is why silence is a constant in the classroom. Impartiality absolves authoritative figures of accountability, forcing the burden onto students, particularly students of colour, to silently endure harm while simultaneously grappling with the labour of interruption.What happened that day was no exception. This does not occur because institutions fail. It happens because they are functioning exactly as designed.I’ve seen this pattern unfold in my sister’s life. She is consistently labelled as aggressive for speaking plainly, warned about how she presents herself, and strictly told to soften her tone in academic spaces. Permission to speak must be attained, while it is casually granted to others who echo our points in more digestible voices.This blueprint is followed far beyond the classroom door. I came to realize this while completing my dissertation on the treatment of Black women journalists in the UK, but my findings were not unique to newsrooms. The context of journalism only exposed that women of colour are praised for resilience but punished for dissent.The message is clear and consistent. Our words are not the issue. Our presence is.The night after that class, I understood the gravity of the situation. My safety was not at risk in the way my grandmother’s had been. Once I recognized silence as a system, its refusal became mandatory. I emailed my professor the next day.I refrained from dramaticization. I named what had happened: that the discussion was dehumanizing for BIPOC students, that political debate was no excuse for the invalidation of humanity, that mediation matters when power is uneven.Sending that email did not put my physical safety at risk, but it did jeopardize my academic reputation. I suppose that’s how institutional rebellion works.First, he dismissed me. Later that same day, he responded again, this time thoughtfully and admittedly. He consulted colleagues, agreed to meet with me, and over time, restructured parts of the course. He reframed future discussions. He incorporated work centred on powerful representation.It wasn’t a dramatic victory. It didn’t dismantle an institution, but there was a slight shift, and I felt it. It revealed that academia does not change until it is made uncomfortable. Silence only fuels it.The thing people tend to overlook about speaking up is that it doesn’t end in the moment. Once you rebel, there will always be a follow-up. Another comment, another room, another silence so loud you begin to see how often the rules ask you to disappear.These are the politics of rebellion, in academic spaces, in online comment sections, in the workplace. It’s a privilege to have access to speak up, but there should be no shame in acknowledging its burden. It exists alongside an expectation to continuously face its challenges, to educate, to interrupt, and to bear the emotional labour of systematic failure.Rebellion becomes a driving force of identity, whether you want it to or not.I often think about the difference between my grandmother’s rebellion and mine. She didn’t have the luxury of contemplating resistance. Her rebellion was colossal because it had to be. Mine is quieter because it can be. Where her courage was rooted in survival, mine is situational. I decide when to speak and when to rest.We tend to perceive rebellion as a single moment: a protest, a speech, a grand rupture. But more often, it’s a delicate practice. A habit, or a disposition, to be uncomfortable again and again. It exists in classrooms, in emails, and in our everyday lives. Rebellion never promises to resolve itself neatly, and it often refuses closure. I will never truly know what it meant to rebel the way my grandmother did, but I do know this: silence has never protected us. It has only protected institutions.
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