08 CL22 Hogan__Proofed LL


Cultural Logic: Marxist Theory & Practice 
2015-2017 (Whole Number 22), pp. 82-107 
 

Politically Engaged Scholars: 
An Analytic of Positions and Norms 

Patrick Colm Hogan 

The following essay considers various possible roles of intellectuals in social change and 
some ways of evaluating these alternatives. It is important to recognize the alternatives as they 
complicate what we might initially envision as the nature and tasks of a scholar activist. The first 
section of the essay distinguishes some possible relations between expertise and politics, including 
not only integration, but also dissociation of the two. I conclude this first section by arguing that all 
these practices are potentially valuable. Thus, our assessment should not be focused on selecting 
among individual alternatives, but on fostering an effective distribution of activities in practice. 
Put simply, we should not all be the same. 

The second section takes up the forms of scholarship that can be considered politically 
engaged and considers the nature of the associated scholarly expertise. There are two broad 
approaches to this issue. First, some scholar activists support the use of general research methods 
only. In contrast, others wish to draw on discipline-specific theories. In the latter group, we may 
make a further distinction between those who wish to stress “middle level” principles, close to 
empirical observations, and those who wish to follow more encompassing schemes, such as 
Marxism or Deconstruction, the global approaches often referred to as (capital “T”) “Theory,” but 
perhaps more aptly characterized as worldviews. 

The third section turns to evaluative considerations. We may organize evaluation in 
these cases into legal, epistemic/pragmatic, meta-political, and ethical concerns. Legal topics 
include, for instance, the degree to which certain categories of speech or action by academics 
enjoy constitutional protection. The epistemic considerations address the validity of the 
methodological or theoretical expertise. The related, pragmatic concern bears on the degree to 
which the theory in question is likely to achieve desired political goals. Meta-political 
evaluation addresses the politics of the activism itself—for example, the degree to which a 
particular invocation of expertise is likely to limit democratic participation in deleterious ways. 
Ethical issues include, among other matters, the consistency with which the theories are 
applied. 

The final section concerns the scope of the application of expertise. The first broad 
division here is activism within the educational system versus activism in the society at large. 
Within the educational system, we may make further distinctions between the classroom and 
scholarly outlets, on the one hand, and other institutional and extra-institutional forums (e.g., 
professions or unions), on the other. All these areas merit consideration. However, in order to 
keep this essay from turning into a small book, I confine detailed discussion to the area of 
teaching. In certain respects, this is the fundamental area of engaged scholarship. If my political 
commitments are connected to my scholarly expertise, then the first—and sometimes only—



	
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place they are likely to be evident is in my teaching and research (e.g., in classes on colonialism 
and literature or writings on literature and empathy). At the same time, the classroom is probably 
the area where political engagement is the most controversial, the most likely to be denounced 
as indoctrination. Thus it seems to be an appropriate case to illustrate and further examine the 
considerations put forth in the preceding sections. 

Academic Expertise and Varieties of Political Engagement 

“Scholar activists” are, to say the least, not all the same. They differ most obviously in 
their political orientations. There are right-wing and left-wing activists. Even on the left, there 
are differences—for example, by discipline. Even within a single discipline, scholar activism is 
not uniform, as the cases of Noam Chomsky and George Lakoff illustrate. Nonetheless, we all 
probably have something like a prototypical scholar activist in mind when we refer to the group. 
Prototypes are valuable. But they also simplify. One risk of such simplification is that writers 
celebrating politically engaged scholarship may fail to recognize diversity that is not a matter of 
political orientations as such and that may have value precisely as diversity. In other words, 
prototypes may foster a tendency to see non-prototypical cases of a category as deviant and thus 
wrong. 

We may begin by a simple, logical analysis. We have two parameters: political 
engagement and scholarly expertise. By “political engagement,” I mean (roughly) having the goal 
of improving society or social wellbeing, an active commitment to advancing not only personal 
but also social good. Simplifying somewhat, we may say that one either is or is not politically 
engaged. Since the discussion is confined to academics or scholars, I will assume that all 
relevant persons have scholarly expertise. Thus the issue is only whether or not they apply 
scholarly expertise to their political engagement. These parameters yield three possibilities. 

One possibility is that there is no political engagement. Without political engagement, 
there can be no issue of whether or not expertise is applied to political engagement. This is the 
class of scholars commonly derided for living in an “ivory tower,” out of touch with the real 
world. For obvious reasons, I will not be concentrating on this group. However, I should briefly 
note that the derision aimed at them is unfair and even contrary to progressive goals. First, there 
is something to be said for the “anti-political” view that “politics brought out the worst in 
people . . . and also brought to the surface the worst types in society,” as the narrator of J. M. 
Coetzee’s Summertime put it (228). Political indifference allows many atrocities. But political 
commitment often initiates atrocities. The idea, even if overstated, may serve as a salutary 
corrective to the enthusiasms of many engaged scholars. 

Second, it seems clear that scholars’ research programs may be guided by numerous 
factors. These include the generation of intrinsically interesting questions raised by the topic of 
inquiry and the status of the relevant descriptive and explanatory principles available at a given 
time. In other words, disciplines and theories may follow research programs guided by work in 
the discipline or theory itself. Alternatively, researchers may derive problems or questions from 
external forms of activity, directing them to a discipline or theory. Thus there are both internally—
and externally—defined research trajectories. Caution with respect to externally defined agendas 
is obviously salutary in an age of corporate—and military—sponsored research. As 
Schrecker notes, researchers “all too often skew their research” to the interests of funding 



	
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sources (165; see also 166, and 168). On the other hand, in speaking of engaged scholars, we are 
not concerned with corporate or military sponsorship. It would be ludicrous to say that 
research should be insensitive to pressing human needs (e.g., food scarcity) simply because 
they are external; but it would be no less ludicrous to say that research should be insensitive to 
the issues raised by its own internal development. Even if one’s goals are wholly pragmatic, one 
can never predict beforehand what practical benefits might result from the pursuit of knowledge 
in its own relative autonomy. As, for example, Robert Post points out, one can never know 
just what knowledge will bear on democracy. The point holds a fortiori for knowledge that 
bears on such a broad category as social wellbeing. This speaks in favor of keeping a place for 
“disengaged” or politically neutral scholars. 

On the other hand, it is important that the nature of political engagement not be 
understood too narrowly. Social forces consistent with dominant ideologies are likely to orient us 
in our scholarly pursuits. It is not always obvious whether questions arise primarily from the 
internal dynamics of a research program or externally from social norms. The point need not even 
be a matter of dominant ideology. For example, there is nothing more intrinsically interesting 
about the Israel-Palestine conflict than the Kashmir crisis. Indeed, in some ways, the non-
standard nature of the latter makes it more theoretically interesting. But it seems clear that the 
former has received far more attention, even from scholars with minimal political engagement. 
Similar points may be made about research into different types of cancer or different national 
literatures. 

A second type of scholar is politically engaged, but without particular appeal to his or her 
expertise. This is an engaged citizen who happens also to be a scholar. Again, I will not be 
focusing on this case. However, it too should not be dismissed or diminished in value. It is, 
of course, valuable to draw on one’s expertise in analyzing political situations and strategies. 
However, disciplinary doctrine is always changing, in part because our approximation to the truth 

is never fully successful. After his talk at the 17th World Congress of Philosophy in 
Montreal in 1988, Hilary Putnam remarked (if I recall correctly) that the one thing we know 
about any current scientific theory is that it is wrong. Of course, scientific theories commonly 
improve on our intuitions, but at the same time they may, to some extent, simplify those 
intuitions. In certain ways, our common sense is the result of ideological bias, but in other ways it 
is the result of evolution, which has attuned us to nuances of interpersonal and other matters. 
The point is perhaps particularly obvious in the case of literary understanding. Our theoretical 
generation of “readings” is often based on linguistic principles (e.g., those of Saussurean 
linguistics in Deconstruction) that are incapable of explaining even the simplest semantic processes 
of ordinary conversation (see my Politics 52-56). One would hardly want everyone relying on 
common sense alone. But it does not follow that there is no value in having a group of citizens 
whose political engagement exhibits a fundamental reliance on common sense rather than 
disciplinary expertise. 

Such a cohort is likely to be particularly valuable when it is self-critical, recognizing that 
common sense is often challenged by systematic research and theory construction. We might then 
reasonably expect scholars to be critically engaged citizens, even when they are not drawing on 
their own expertise. We may consider such critically engaged citizens to be the minimal case of 
politically engaged scholars. 



	
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The final possibility, however, gives us a more robust and prototypical form of scholar 
activist. This is the scholar who is politically engaged and who applies his or her expertise to the 
target of political engagement—the biologist who draws on biology in addressing environmental 
degradation, the linguist who draws on linguistics to analyze political rhetoric, the queer theorist 
who draws on queer theory to understand and respond to homophobia. 

Here too, however, there are kinds. In connection with this, we may draw a distinction 
between different degrees of political engagement. Many academics are committed to political 
change and they do seek to contribute to such change through their academic analyses. However, 
they do little beyond analysis in terms of actively pursuing political goals. They are often 
dismissed as “armchair theorists.” Being primarily an armchair theorist myself, I am keenly 
sensitive to the limitations of my own position. However, as with other cases, it is important 
that this group not be dismissed out of hand. Here, again, it seems that diversity is a good thing. 
Physicians may be more important to social wellbeing than almost any other profession. But we 
would not have an ideal society if everyone were a physician, with no one trained in anything 
else. The same point holds for varieties of political engagement. 

Before considering the benefits of having some armchair theorists—or, as I will call 
them, “scholar observers”—we need to consider the alternative group of engaged scholars. Here 
we come to scholar activists proper. These are scholars who are involved with political 
movements in such a way as to draw systematically on their scholarly expertise for participation in 
the movement. At the risk of manifesting a Sanskritic mania for fine distinctions, I will draw a 
broad contrast within this group as well. There are obviously many degrees of possible 
involvement with political movements. Indeed, there are many degrees of political engagement 
of any sort. However, there does seem to be an important difference between activists who are 
participants in a movement, even participants who are prominent (e.g., as speakers at events), 
and activists who are enmeshed in institutional or other formal administrative structures. Put 
simply, there is a difference between someone who gives a talk at an anti-war rally and someone 
who has to worry about arranging for government permits for the rally, or someone who is 
involved in actually crafting the language of proposed legislation regarding the war. These two sorts 
of activist are in different social positions and operate in different social contexts; those differences 
affect the precise nature of their engagement, just what scholarship they deploy, and how they 
deploy it. 

Consider, again, two well-known scholar activists—Noam Chomsky and George Lakoff. 
Chomsky was for a long time perhaps the left’s paradigmatic scholar activist. However, despite 
prominent participation in various broad movements, his formal role in political institutions 
(e.g., parties) has been limited. In contrast, Lakoff has been associated with the Democratic 
Party in different ways. He has also been a leading figure in the Rockridge Institute, guiding its 
program of enhancing progressive politics, largely through cognitive linguistic analysis. Other 
activists have taken up, or pursued, still more embedded institutional roles, as when Slavoj Žižek 
ran for President of Slovenia as candidate of the Liberal Democratic Party. For years, I half 
jokingly urged Chomsky to enter formal politics so that he could make a more concrete 
difference, and give at least some voters an option that they could choose without offending their 
principles. Chomsky, not jokingly at all, recoiled from the suggestion. When I think about it, I 
realize that my suggestion was in many ways ludicrous. What made Chomsky paradigmatic as a 
scholar activist was in part contingent on his independence from institutions. 



	
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This leads us again to the benefits of diversity. Some “pragmatists” might deride the 
inconsequential lucubrations of scholar activists who refuse to engage with institutions that 
have real power. Conversely, some “purists” may object to soiling one’s hands with participation 
in the Democratic Party. Both positions seem partially correct, but partially misguided. The 
benefits of actual involvement with powerful institutions are fairly obvious. These benefits bear 
not only on practical consequences, but also on the formulation of theoretical principles 
themselves. As to the latter, the more concrete and practical one’s political engagement, the 
more one is likely to ask pragmatic questions and to draw on research in ways that bear on 
specific, human issues. For example, this appears to have occurred with Judith Butler through 
her involvement with the practical formulation of human rights policies. As Butler wrote in her 
1999 preface to Gender Trouble, “I have been compelled to revise some of my positions in 
Gender Trouble by virtue of my own political engagements,” including “board chair of the 
International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission” (xvii). I had the pleasure to work 
with Butler on the Modern Language Association’s Committee on Academic Freedom and 
Professional Rights and Responsibilities. Despite her reputation for being highly abstract and, 
indeed, opaque, Butler was a model of precision, clarity, and practicality on that committee. 
Moreover, one could see her criticisms of identity categories implicitly informing her comments 
and contributions. 

In keeping with this general tendency toward increased practicality and precision, 
institutional engagement often gives activists a greater sense of the detailed problems involved in 
specific areas of activism. Consider a very simple case. Part of the charge of the MLA committee 
just mentioned involves considering and responding to letters of complaint regarding academic 
freedom issues sent by MLA members to the organization. Sometimes the complaints have 
merit; sometimes they do not. In each case, however, the consideration of particulars leads one 
from a reliance on general ideas to an attempt to deal with concrete particulars. The process often 
reveals the limitations of the general ideas. 

On the other hand, it is also clear that institutional involvement is itself limiting in many 
ways. We may put our three forms of engaged scholarship on sort of multi-dimensional gradient. 
The dimensions include, among others, the following: 1) limitation in alternative positions; 2) 
nuance in the development of positions; 3) opportunity to confine oneself to areas where one has 
adequate expertise; and 4) differences in temporal perspective regarding implementation and 
outcomes. In each case, the actual situation of an activist tends to impose different sorts of 
constraint, with a broad tendency for the constraints to increase from engaged observer to 
movement-based activist to institutionally-embedded activist. 

As to the first dimension, the greater one’s integration into an institution, the greater the 
extent to which one’s alternatives are limited by the policies and procedures of the institution itself. 
For example, it should be easier for Chomsky to address radical alternatives to U.S. economic 
structure than for Lakoff to do so. This is not simply because institutional involvement restricts 
the options one may reasonably propose. Institutional involvement tends to reorient one’s 
thoughts about issues. There are many cognitive reasons for this. For example, even temporary 
groups, such as committees, produce what are called “anchoring effects.” Anchoring effects are 
constraints in the degree of deviation from previously articulated options. To take a very simple 
case, even an explicitly arbitrary number will affect test subjects’ estimate of how many 
countries there are in the United Nations (Tversky and Kahneman 335-336). Note that such 



	
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effects are strongest with respect to institutionally embedded activists, but they are not absent 
from activists who are simply participants in movements. These effects would appear to be 
weakest with respect to scholar observers. 

The second dimension (nuance in the development of positions) is somewhat more 
equivocal. On the one hand, concrete, practical problems faced by institutionally embedded 
activists may challenge absolutes, thus developing certain sorts of nuance in theoretical 
formulation. However, requirements of action and the contingencies of appealing to broader and 
more diverse audiences may foster a degree of simplification. It is sometimes difficult to act on 
complex, highly qualified theories. It is often almost impossible to explain such theories to non-
experts in compelling ways that encourage political action rather than irritable drowsiness. For 
example, there has been some research recently on possible links between certain cognitive and 
personality traits, on the one hand, and certain political attitudes, on the other. The research 
shows only statistical correlations or a degree of co-variation—for example, between political 
conservatism and “negativity bias” (“Compared with liberals, conservatives tend to register 
greater physiological responses to such stimuli and also to devote more psychological resources” 
to “features of the environment that are negative” [Hibbing, Smith, and Alford 297]). This sort of 
research is often greatly simplified when invoked in activist contexts. For example, I recently 
came across an article by Susan Douglas, Catherine Neafie Kellogg Professor of 
Communication Studies at the University of Michigan and an astute and informative writer for 
left-liberal political magazines. Douglas basically identifies certain personality traits as 
characterizing conservatives. To be fair, she does say that conservatives “tend toward certain 
psychological characteristics.” Nonetheless, this seems to suggest more than the fact that 
research commonly shows only a greater statistical likelihood for conservatives to have these 
tendencies than for liberals to have them, or that the numerical averages for traits are higher for 
one group than the other. For example, consider negativity bias (not cited specifically by Douglas, 
but a relevant recent argument in important outlets). One study found that, on average, 
conservatives’ response times to a certain negative stimulus were around 530 thousandths 
of a second, while the average for liberals was about 485 thousandths of a second (Carraro, 
Castelli, and Macchiella). Thus conservatives take a wee bit more than a half second, liberals a 
wee bit less. This is suggestive, but not the sort of data one is likely to imagine when hearing that 
conservatives tend to have negativity bias. It is unsurprising that the results of such research would 
be simplified in contexts where one is faced with the more direct experience of conflict and thus 
the enhancing of inter-group antagonisms. Indeed, we have strong cognitive and emotional biases 
toward such polarization (see Pronin, Puccio, and Ross). To make matters worse, it is far from 
clear that conservative/liberal or Republican/Democrat or any other standard political division 
actually captures the explanatory principle at stake anyway. Put differently, the research itself 
seems to involve concealed variables (on the negativity bias research, see my “Negativity”). 

Further, related problems arise from the third and fourth dimensions mentioned above. 
As to the third (opportunity to confine oneself to areas in which one has adequate expertise), 
activists are likely to find themselves in situations where they have to address complex, real-world 
problems. Those problems may bear on many disciplines. Activists often do not have the luxury of 
limiting themselves to their own area of expertise, simply setting aside specialized work with 
obvious bearing on these problems. Even when they fully comprehend relevant research outside 
their areas of expertise, it is rarely the case that they are in a position to respond to it critically. The 
situation of the scholar observer is different. He or she is generally better situated to select just 



	
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what research he or she will consider and how critically he or she will examine it. Again, the 
neuroscientific research is a case in point. Douglas and others in her situation have the option of 
ignoring the research, thus potentially impoverishing their concrete analyses. But they are 
generally not well situated to respond to the work critically. 

Part of the reason for this difference in positioning has to do with the sorts of temporal 
scale that operate in different forms of political engagement (the final dimension from our list). 
First, there is simply the time at one’s disposal for considering various topics and acquiring 
relevant expertise. To take a crude example, Douglas faced a publication deadline for her 
column. As Katha Pollitt recently wrote, with respect to reporting on the Charlie Hebdo murders, 
“how is it possible, in a few days, to learn enough and understand enough and see and hear enough 
to write anything that is not simply a combination of random anecdotes and interviews shaped, 
inevitably, by what one already thinks” (6). The same general point holds for formulations of 
policy statements on particular political events and even for longer-term programs such as 
political platforms. Perhaps more significantly, the practical nature of activist engagement almost 
invariably forces one to respond to events or even enduring conditions with an eye on short-term 
consequences. The point is most obvious with elected officials, who face re-election challenges, 
but it is true for any group that seeks to sustain its organizational structure. For example, 
political publications need to consider not only how their advocacy might ultimately contribute to 
restructuring the economy, but also how they might sell enough books or advertising in order to 
sustain their enterprise. 

In short, there are many ways in which scholars may be politically engaged. Some may be 
more valuable than others, but each has its own advantages and drawbacks. In consequence, it 
seems clear that not everyone should be the same. The best situation is some combination of these 
various options. 

Or, rather, the best situation is some combination of these or other options. The preceding 
analytic is not intended to categorize all people univocally or enduringly. First of all, many of us 
are sometimes ivory tower or disengaged intellectuals, sometimes scholar observers, sometimes 
engaged citizens. Moreover, some forms of engagement are intermediate between observation 
and activism. The point here is not to pigeonhole individuals. It is, rather, to set out a grid that will 
give us a sense of the possible forms of political engagement for scholars, as well as what 
some of their benefits and drawbacks might be. Moreover, this grid is tentative. Different 
contexts will require different distinctions and different analyses. 

Before going on to issues of evaluation, it is worth considering one further aspect of our 
usual conception of a scholar activist. The prototypical scholar activist is probably widely seen 
as, in some way, oppositional. This oppositional character is most often a matter of “content” or 
program, a matter of what sorts of society one might advocate and seek to implement. This is to 
a certain extent straightforward. There hardly seems to be much of a point in engaging in social 
activism if one’s goal is not to change things. 

On the other hand, there are different ways in which one may imagine that change. In 
his recent book on academic freedom, Stanley Fish has presented a typology of positions on the 
purposes of academic work. Fish’s own position is that the purposes do not go beyond the 
function of the discipline itself (e.g., teaching and scholarship on literature). However, he isolates 



	
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other options. I have argued elsewhere that there are problems with Fish’s typology (see 
“Academic”). However, in a slightly modified form, it suggests some important differences that 
may be useful. Specifically, Fish distinguishes those who see scholarship and teaching as 
advancing the common good, as engaging in critique, or as promoting revolution. Since his topic 
is academic freedom, he treats these goals in relation to academic freedom, exemplifying the first 
position by the AAUP, the second by Judith Butler, and the third by Henry Giroux. Roughly, the 
difference here may be systematized in the following terms. The first position is that the society 
may be improved by changing the implementation of currently predominant norms; the 
second involves critiquing those norms, challenging the framework in which current thought and 
social action unfold; the third involves substituting new norms. All three may inform the different 
varieties of engaged scholarship, though the second is perhaps more difficult to implement in an 
institutional context, which tends to require positive alternatives. Note that all three positions are 
oppositional in some manner, though the second and third are more obviously or intensively 
oppositional, thus probably closer to our prototype of a scholar activist. I will not tire the reader 
with another disquisition on the value of all three (but cf. Abbott and Schwartz on the value of 
both reformist and radical strategies in democratic socialism). The nature of such an argument 
should be clear without me spelling it out. 

I will, however, point to one form of opposition that is perhaps undervalued by engaged 
scholars. That is opposition to dominant views within engaged scholarship. I am not referring 
here to David Horowitz’s plea that more “conservatives” be incorporated into academia. The 
point is not that oppositional movements should allow room for views that are dominant 
elsewhere—in other words, the very views against which they stand in opposition. There are 
some contexts in which this may be the case. Moreover, there will always be some diversity of 
opinion among academics on any given issue, and that should not be stifled or ignored. However, 
in general, the socially dominant position (e.g., in support of a national war) is so widely 
represented in society at large that it hardly needs to be given a special place within the usually 
tiny opposition of engaged scholarship. Rather, I am referring to alternative kinds of 
oppositional thought and practice. Not to dredge up the past, but for most of my graduate study 
and early career, one was automatically dismissed as a reactionary “phallogocentrist” if one did not 
believe in the linguistic presuppositions and assertions of Jacques Derrida. It should not have 
taken revelations about de Man’s past Nazi connections to open up some room for dissent 
from the idea that “differance” was an adequate account of meaning, for example. 

Finally, in addition to its substantive claims, there is another way in which engaged 
scholarship may be understood as oppositional, or at least alternative. It is in the careful, detailed, 
and elaborated reflection it enables. As Ellen Schrecker has written, “In a world of sound bites 
and bullet points, the nation’s campuses are among the last few places where it is still possible to 
deal with complicated ideas or entertain unorthodox opinions” (4). “Unorthodox opinions” 
points toward the oppositional content of engaged scholarship. “Complicated ideas” is more 
general, but it bears on engaged scholarship as well. Specifically, it speaks to the general tendency 
for standard ideas in a society, including standard political ideas, to simplify social or other 
phenomena and to resist questioning or challenge. This type of opposition is not a matter of 
policy content. But it is also not merely formal. It is, rather, a matter of methodology and 
intellectual processes that are relatively independent of one’s policy conclusions. If policy 
opposition most obviously valorizes participatory activism that seeks concrete social change, such 
methodological opposition most obviously valorizes engaged scholar observation. 



	
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The Nature of Expertise: Theories and Worldviews 

The preceding section set out an analytic of scholars’ political engagement, focusing on the 
nature of that engagement. A no less important parameter concerns the sort of expertise invoked by 
scholars. In this case, however, the analysis is simpler and can be treated more briefly. 

Consider, again, the contrasting pair of scholar activists from linguistics—Noam 
Chomsky and George Lakoff. Lakoff’s political analyses are based largely on his own 
theoretical work on conceptual metaphor and related phenomena. When he analyzes a policy, he 
focuses on the way in which the formulation and defense of the policy rely on the recruitment of 
broad metaphorical structures that serve to guide our thought, organizing our ideas and orienting 
our responses. Chomsky, in contrast, has tended to maintain that his own linguistic theories are 
irrelevant to political analysis and activism. For Chomsky, there is a special role for engaged 
scholars or intellectuals. But the relevant expertise of scholars is a matter of largely trans-
disciplinary skills, primarily methodological training, and access to information. As Chomsky 
puts it in his influential essay, “The Responsibility of Intellectuals,” intellectuals have “the leisure, 
the facilities, and the training to seek the truth lying behind the veil of distortion and 
misrepresentation” (Chomsky 60). The general skills prominently include an ability to conduct 
scholarly research, finding and evaluating varied sources of information, sifting through data, 
formulating explanatory hypotheses consistent with the data and with general theoretical 
desiderata such as simplicity, recognizing violations of methodological principles, and so forth. 
The access to information is largely a matter of having privileges at libraries, and in some cases 
having the training required to understand the information (e.g., fluency in Hebrew, which allows 
one to read the Hebrew press, an important resource on Israel-Palestine issues). 

Here, one might wonder what could possibly motivate Chomsky to set aside his own 
theories and to take up only broad methodological principles in his political engagements. 
Chomsky has both epistemic and political reasons for this preference. The epistemic reasons 
concern the tentative and changeable quality of any linguistic or other theory. As we have 
already noted, scientific theories change continually. The validity of a political analysis should 
not be contingent on the validity of a theory that is almost certain to be revised quite soon—thus 
that is almost certain to be viewed as at least partially invalid in the near future. Chomsky also has 
a rather low opinion of the scientific status of most theories that may be intrinsically relevant to 
political or social activism. The political reason is that Chomsky believes political analysis 
should be readily accessible to ordinary people and should in principle be the sort of work that 
could be undertaken by them. Accessibility of information is simply a contingent feature of the 
researcher’s background and social location. Broad methodological principles are, in effect, 
systematic versions of skills held by all neurotypical humans. Thus there is nothing special about 
the sort of scholarly engagement undertaken by Chomsky and there is no reason that ordinary people 
could not understand it entirely or undertake it on their own, perhaps with some limited training 
to strengthen their own empirical and logical processes—I am guessing that Chomsky would say 
that the main training required would be a basic introduction to library research or relevant 
electronic databases. Indeed, Chomsky is scathing about the appeal to expertise, going so far as 
to say that “the cult of the expert is both self-serving, for those who propound it, and fraudulent.” 
He explains that “To anyone who has any familiarity with the social and behavioral sciences (or 
the ‘policy sciences’), the claim that there are certain considerations and principles too deep 
for the outsider to comprehend is simply an absurdity, unworthy of comment” (Chomsky 72). 



	
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These points lead us to the issue of evaluating expert knowledge in its application 
through political engagement. However, before continuing with that, we need to complete our 
analysis of types of expertise. We have a basic division between common methodological and 
research practices, on the one hand, and specific disciplinary or inter-disciplinary theories on the 
other; however, the second category may seem overly broad. 

For example, the contrast suggested by Chomsky’s preferences here does not appear 
terribly stark when one reads Lakoff’s work. The same point holds for such social psychological 
approaches as that of Zimbardo. Though technical in certain ways, conceptual metaphor 
analysis is quite accessible, even if it turns out to be harder for people to do than might at first 
seem to be the case. The same point holds for understanding in-group/out-group definitions, 
or processes of empathy enhancement. However, the problems of both comprehension and 
democratic participation become more acute when one thinks of Judith Butler’s deconstructive 
reflections or Slavoj Žižek’s Marxist-Lacanianism. 

In part, this difference is a matter of vocabulary and idiom. In part, it is a matter of the 
trajectory of thought. In part it is a matter of the extent to which a given analysis relies on 
background knowledge. But that is not all there is to it. Part of the difference between Lakoff’s 
work and that of Derridaean or Lacanian critics is that Lakoff is relying on the sort of theory that 
David Bordwell might refer to as a “middle level” account, what might also be called a “local” or 
“limited domain” theory. This is an integrated complex of well-articulated principles, closely and 
clearly related to a set of data in a limited domain (e.g., verbal metaphor), which the principles 
serve to describe, organize, and explain. In contrast, Derridaean Deconstruction and Lacanian 
psychoanalysis are high level or global theories. They do not so much explain independently 
ascertainable data. Rather they serve to interpret their subjects in such a way that they in effect 
produce the data. (Of course, all theories re-construe data; the issue is the degree to which a 
given discourse fosters a rethinking of the world that insulates the theory-suffused [e.g., 
Deconstructive or psychoanalytic] account from understandings of the data shared across 
contending theories.) Moreover, their subjects are not simply local. They are wide-ranging, even 
universal in the accounts of some adherents. Deconstruction, for example, does not so much 
explain why “binaries” are “unstable” and “phallogocentrism” is “always already self-
deconstructing.” It produces a way of considering the world that leads one to think of the world in 
terms of unstable binaries, phallogocentrism, and so forth. Indeed, in this way, these are perhaps 
not so aptly considered theories as worldviews. Much the same points could be made about many 
discourses or philosophies that have underwritten engaged scholarship—for example, 
Existentialism. Of course, many worldviews incorporate valuable, extensively developed 
middle-level theories, but such theories remain encased in what are ultimately non-judicable 
worldviews. The often dogmatic quality of such worldviews is marked not only by their 
imperviousness to challenge, but also by some common idioms that pervade the associated 
discourses. Examples would include the invocation of some doctrine with the phrase, “as Q has 
taught us” (e.g., “as Derrida has taught us”), a phrase not coincidentally reminiscent of religious 
precedents, such as “As the Bible teaches us.” 

It is perhaps unsurprising that scholar activism is often associated not with 
methodological expertise nor with middle-level theory expertise, but with worldviews. Indeed, it is 
important to note here that a given discourse may have been produced initially as a theory, but 
then transmuted into a worldview by zealous adherents. One might argue, for example, that this is 



	
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the case with Marx and historical materialism. Even more striking cases come from evolutionary 
theory, particularly evolutionary psychology, and even current neuroscience. These both appear 
increasingly to be viewed as theories of everything or of everything that matters. Any apparent 
social difference can be taken up and given an “explanation” in terms of adaptations among 
hunter-gatherers; a tentative and debatable interpretation of an ambiguous brain scan may be 
touted as a new absolute about the way our “mind-brain” operates—often in conformity with 
dominant ideology (e.g., gender ideology; for a powerful critique of such “neurosexism,” see 
Fine). These qualms about worldviews or the misuses of theories as worldviews return us to the 
issue of evaluation. 

Evaluating Expertise in Engaged Scholarship: Categories of Norms 

Here, then, we need to have a better sense of the ways that we might evaluate these 
forms of expertise. The undertaking is complicated by the fact that there are numerous, 
sometimes mutually exclusive values in almost any political project. We may isolate a few types 
of norms that are likely to be particularly important for the evaluation of the application of 
expertise in engaged scholarship. These are legal, epistemic and pragmatic, “meta-political” (as 
we might call the politics of the means, rather than the politics of the goal), and ethical. We 
might briefly consider each sort of evaluation in turn, noting its relevance to engaged scholarship. 

Legal evaluation generally takes two forms. The first is simply the appraisal of whether 
some academic speech or action violates the law (e.g., in constituting defamation of character or 
incitement to violence). The second, complementary to this, concerns the extent to which the state 
or some institution (e.g., a university) may legally restrict speech or action. For the most part, I 
will leave aside legal norms as they require separate, extensive treatment; moreover, their precise 
articulation and assessment demand a form of expertise that I lack. (I have the luxury of setting 
legal concerns aside as this essay itself is an instance of observer scholarship.) However, it is 
important to remark on one general principle that bears on restrictions affecting engaged 
scholarship, as the stifling of academic speech and action appear to be commonly aimed at 
dissident activists. The main legal question in such cases is generally whether or not it is 
permissible for an institution to restrict speech or action (e.g., for a university to terminate the 
employment of a faculty member based on his or her political assertions). Engaged scholars 
often wish to argue that, in relevant cases, such restriction is not legally permissible. I am, of 
course, sympathetic with this wish, though it is sometimes difficult to evaluate. Nonetheless, it is 
important not to base everything on legal permissibility of restriction versus impermissibility. If 
permissible, restriction may still be highly undesirable. Indeed, this holds even when we agree 
that the restricted speech itself is misguided, problematic, or offensive. Belching in public is 
distasteful. It might be legally permissible to outlaw belching in public, with a fine—hefty 
enough to produce a deterrent effect—imposed on anyone caught belching by an officer of the 
law, but it hardly follows from the undesirability of the act and the permissibility of the law that 
we should institute such a law. The point holds a fortiori for politically dissident speech. 

In some ways, the most basic issue with evaluating engaged scholarship is legal, since legal 
status is what permits the dissemination of the relevant scholarship to begin with. Intellectually, 
however, the fundamental concerns are epistemic and pragmatic. The epistemic evaluation of 
theories is largely straightforward. It involves the usual issues of the consistency of the 
descriptive and explanatory claims with the data, the strength of statistical correlations, the 



	
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possibility of generating simpler explanatory hypotheses, and so on. On the other hand, there 
are some complications here. Perhaps most significantly, following such philosophers of science as 
Imre Lakatos, we are well advised to evaluate not merely isolated theories, but the trajectory of 
research programs. All theories are likely to prove mistaken or overly complex in some respect. 
What is important is that such theories continue to be evaluated and improved. This is easy to 
judge with mainstream or dominant theories, since they are usually under constant examination 
and revision. However, it is more difficult to evaluate with respect to non-dominant approaches, 
which are often under-funded and under-researched. Politically engaged scholars may draw on 
theories that challenge not only dominant political structures, but also dominant theoretical 
paradigms (to use the Kuhnian term). As such, they may be engaged in fledgling research 
programs. It is therefore important to give leeway or greater benefit of the doubt to such 
programs, so that they have the opportunity to develop in ways that make more rigorous 
evaluation reasonable. Returning to a previous point, I might stress here that this applies to 
research programs that are non-dominant within the community of engaged scholars at any given 
time. 

I class the pragmatic and the epistemic together as the effectiveness of a scholarly activity 
(its pragmatic value) is largely a function of its epistemic validity. If a theory indicates that there 
are particular sources of racism or particular motivations for a state pursuing war, and if that 
theory implies strategies for opposing racism or war, then the effectiveness of the strategies is 
presumably contingent on the validity of the theory. Thus pragmatic evaluation is also fairly 
straightforward. Consider, for example, the academic boycott of Israel (as opposed to an 
economic boycott aimed at Israeli businesses). I am opposed to it for a number of reasons; these 
include my belief that a specifically academic boycott is unlikely to have beneficial effects on 
Israeli policies toward Palestinians (as well as my belief that it will have deleterious 
consequences on people who are not particularly guilty of crimes committed by the state of Israel). 
Take one small aspect of the boycott, at least in conversations with people supporting it, I hear 
that producing shame over Israeli policies is a likely outcome of the boycott and that such 
shame is likely to produce ameliorative action. Perhaps the organizers of the boycott do not 
have this sort of mechanism in mind. However, it would not be surprising if they do, since it is a 
common way of thinking. Moreover, it is difficult to see what other motivational effects they 
might imagine for the academic boycott. (Opponents of the boycott, I should note, are often 
explicit about their own use of shaming, as one can see by Googling “BDS” and “shame”). The 
problem is that the pragmatic presumptions here appear to be mistaken. Shame seems to involve a 
sense that other people observe one with physical or moral disgust (on the relation of these forms 
of disgust, see Rozin, Haidt, and McCauley). There are two common responses to such a sense; 
the first is withdrawal (see Scheff 455). This hiding behavior is unlikely to produce active 
opposition to Israeli policy. The second common response is rage. Far for inspiring conciliation, 
“humiliation and shame are the core trigger and vulnerability for violence” (Walker and Knauer 
725). That rage, directed against those who find one disgusting, is likely to foster nationalistic 
xenophobia among Israelis, not empathic identification with Palestinians—just as Israeli 
humiliation of Palestinians has often encouraged rebellion. Indeed, shame may inspire further 
racism (see Ray, Smith, and Wastell). This is particularly true given the fact that Israeli Jews have 
more than ample historical reason to distrust moral disgust from non-Jews (on anti-Semitism 
and disgust, see Nussbaum 347-349). 



	
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The specifics of pragmatic evaluation in any given case may be difficult. But, again, the 
general principles are straightforward. Here, however, I might make two general observations. 
First, I have long suspected that a particular risk for engaged scholars, at least those on the left, 
is that they will mistake good intentions for good results. Specifically, liberals appear often to be 
motivated more strongly by empathic concerns (see Hirsch, DeYoung, Xu, and Peterson). 
Empathic distress can be relieved by two strategies. The first is changing the situation itself, thus 
the pain suffered by the target (e.g., the hunger of the poor). The second is through “mood 
repair,” the ameliorative alteration of one’s emotional response (on mood repair, see Forgas 258). 
While the latter encompasses many techniques, one technique of mood repair for empathic 
distress is almost certainly the thought that one has taken appropriate action. If I see a car 
accident and feel distress, I am likely to reduce that distress if I have found someone with a 
cellphone and, so to speak, offloaded responsibility for calling for help. In cases of this sort, the 
efficacy of my action is fairly straightforward. In the case of broad social problems, however, 
things are often much less clear. It is often difficult to say just what effects a given action might 
have on, say, racism. This difficulty may lead to renewed efforts to ascertain what sorts of action 
enhance inter-group empathy or other social and psychological processes that are likely to 
reduce racism. But it is also possible that the opacity of results will, in effect, disinhibit wishful 
thinking, and thus allow us to construe uncertainty of outcomes as positive results. This brings me 
to the second and closely related general observation. Such wishful thinking is often manifest in 
and reinforced by some recurring practices in current scholarly discourse. For instance, it appears 
common now to characterize scholarly engagement not merely in terms of illocutionary acts of 
challenging, but in terms of perlocutionary success (to use Austin’s terms). For purposes of 
illustration, consider a course description that I came across while outlining the present essay, a 
description that was not idiosyncratic, but characteristic of a widespread pattern in current 
academic discourse. The description said that the course would examine how queer speech 
“destabilizes normative sexuality.” I do not mean to pick on the instructor of this course. Again, 
the phrasing is standard in the profession. Decades ago, we might have said that queer theory 
challenges beliefs about sexual norms. That leaves the question of success unresolved. Moreover, 
it leaves it unresolved in two ways. First, it does not tell us whether or not the challenge has 
successfully changed people’s beliefs. Second, it does not tell us whether or not any change in 
beliefs has changed social behavior—a serious issue, given the relatively limited readership of 
academic queer theory. The course description’s (fairly standard) rhetoric, in contrast, absolutized 
the political accomplishment of queer theory. Such theory does not merely challenge, but 
effectively “destabilizes.” Moreover, it does not succeed merely with some people’s beliefs; it 
undermines the norms themselves. Indeed, in saying “normative sexuality,” the suggestion may 
propel the success of the undertaking further still. It may indicate that not only social norms, but 
also human sexuality itself has been reconfigured. 

Again, by “meta-political,” I am referring not to the political goal of scholarly 
engagement (e.g., the reduction of racism), but to the political implications of the means used to 
achieve that goal, thus the activity of political engagement itself. Here, I would point to two 
general risks in engaged scholarship. The first is the risk indicated by Chomsky—that expertise 
will create an elite or vanguard that undermines the democratic participation of non-experts in the 
formulation and pursuit of policies. Chomsky discusses this problem in “Objectivity and Liberal 
Scholarship,” where he maintains that “elitist bias” is “at the root of the phenomenon of 
counterrevolutionary subordination” in Bolshevism and Western liberalism (Chomsky 85). This is 
a risk highlighted by the anarchist tradition. However, there is an opposite risk as well. In the 



	
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Marxist tradition, it is often referred to as “voluntarism” (see, for example, Lukács 4, 124, 134, 
191, 318, and 322). Voluntarism, narrowly conceived, is the view that mere revolutionary or 
progressive decision and commitment are adequate to transform society, even when the 
objective conditions are not amenable to such transformation. Ironically, some of the most 
striking cases of voluntarism come from the Marxist tradition (e.g., in some practices 
undertaken in China during the Great Leap Forward). This is in part a matter of lack of expertise. 
In other words, the problems that result from voluntarism derive to some extent from setting aside 
disciplinary knowledge for some sort of ideal, often one defined by a guiding worldview 
(illustrative cases may be found in incompetent construction or irrigation work from the Great 
Leap Forward [see Roberts 270-271]). Thus one might say that both the anarchist and Marxist 
traditions have a meta-political point. On the one hand, engaged intellectuals need to recognize the 
danger of vanguardism or elite anti-democratic tendencies. But at the same time, they need to 
recognize that expert knowledge is often crucial and anti-intellectualism is no less a threat than 
elitism. 

Finally, we have ethical evaluation. Obviously, the precise nature of one’s ethical 
evaluations will rest in part on one’s system of ethical beliefs. It would go beyond the scope of the 
present essay to undertake the defense of one or another ethical system. However, in general, 
ethical systems operate to oppose egocentric bias. In other words, the purpose of ethical 
reflection is to move away from one’s ordinary, selfish motives and to inspire some sort of 
interest that is not egocentric. Thus two common ethical principles are universality of application 
(as opposed to application biased in egocentric ways) and respect for the autonomy of others (as 
opposed to recognizing only one’s own autonomy). 

The universality of application criterion means not only that we should treat other 
individuals equally with ourselves. It suggests also that we should apply principles evenhandedly 
to in-groups and out-groups, to those with whom we agree and those with whom we disagree. For 
example, I believe that Steven Salaita’s rights of free speech were violated egregiously. 
However, critics of his treatment by the University of Illinois often indicate that his job offer was 
withdrawn simply because he criticized Israel. Even the article in The Nation may easily leave 
this impression, since, its author tells us the first “important” issue raised by the case is that 
“universities are increasingly being asked to shut down criticism of Israel” (Palumbo-Liu 10). 
Censoring critiques of Israeli policies and practices is clearly a serious problem, with grave human 
consequences. It was undoubtedly a central factor in this case. However, it is misleading to indicate 
that Salaita simply made a criticism of Israel, as if for instance he merely set out the human 
rights violated by Israel in treating Palestinians. His dismissal was at least facilitated (and perhaps 
in part motivated) by the precise nature of his “criticism.” Specifically, he made some appalling 
comments about Israelis—for example, that “I wish all the fucking West Bank settlers would 
go missing” (quoted in Alexander). I suspect that Salaita did not think through the implication of 
his comment, but it implies that he wishes a number of Israeli infants would be captured and 
presumably executed extra-judicially. Many on the left seem to have considered this a mere 
triviality. Following the ethical principle of universality of application, it would seem that they 
should consider it also trivial if, for example, some professor, responding to the destructiveness 
of the crowds in Ferguson, Missouri, tweeted that he wished “all the [expletive] people on the 
streets of Ferguson would get the Michael Brown treatment.” Of course, there is an important 
difference here in that Blacks are the oppressed group while (adult) Israeli settlers are the 
oppressor group. But the universality criterion is not satisfied simply by noting some difference. 



	
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After all, there is always some difference in the individuals involved in such cases. Rather, there 
must be a difference that sufficiently defines an ethical principle. But what would the principle be 
here? Extrajudicial execution of an entire group, including children and other innocents, is 
ethically permissible—indeed, something to be wished for—if that group encompasses 
political oppressors, but not otherwise? 

Respect for the autonomy of others is perhaps less clear in its implications. I would say 
that it involves seeking to convince others of the value of one’s position so that they are free to 
make a rational choice in the matter. This entails presenting the facts of the case clearly and 
with adequate acknowledgment of complexities and of any clear, contravening evidence. Two 
brief examples should illustrate the point. Some years ago, I saw a tape of George Lakoff 
discussing political strategy with a group of activists. Lakoff was stressing the importance 
of “framing” the issues in a way that is advantageous to the progressive legislation. One example 
they considered was abortion. “Pro-life” advocates commonly frame the debate in terms of killing 
babies. One of the participants in the discussion proposed that they could frame the abortion 
debate in terms of a story. I do not fully remember the details, but as I recall it involved inviting 
one’s interlocutor to imagine that his or her daughter or sister had been raped, that she would have 
to forego opportunities and suffer shame if she were not allowed to have an abortion, and so on. 
On the one hand, it is perfectly reasonable for “pro-choice” advocates to point out that there are 
cases of this sort. However, there is a problem with this as a way of treating abortion as an ethical 
issue—or, rather, two problems. First, none of the participants in Lakoff’s group would have 
accepted the universalization of such judgments. For example, they would (rightly, of course) 
denounce a defense of lynching that claimed we should not “frame” the issue as “killing 
Blacks.” Rather, we should frame it by reference to a story—imagine that your (white) daughter 
has been raped (by a black man), and so on. Second, and more relevantly for the autonomy 
criterion, this reframing strongly appeals to personal attachment bonds (parent/child or sibling 
relations). As such, it is in effect an attempt to compromise the autonomy of the interlocutor’s 
judgment. 

A second example is closely related, but more general. We are often told that the best 
political speakers—like the best preachers and, supposedly, the best teachers—are the ones who 
can really “fire up” their listeners (to use the phrasing of a university vice provost speaking 
about her concept of the ideal teacher). But firing up one’s addressees is a way of inhibiting their 
autonomy, producing a state of proneness to action and commitment that they may think better 
of when not fired up. Here, I could not put the point better than Chomsky has done, “I’m 
always put off by people who are called good speakers, by those who can rouse an audience,” he 
explains. “That’s just what you do not want. If you have the capacity to do it, you should suppress 
it” (Science 115). 

In both cases—framing and firing up—the point is a simple one. Engaged scholars are 
perhaps in a position where they particularly risk slipping from scholarship to propaganda. 
Everyone has ethical obligations to avoid propaganda. Those obligations do not cease to apply 
when it comes to scholars. 

The Scope of Application for Engaged Scholarship: Teaching 
 



	
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All engaged scholarship seeks to change society. However, scholars differ in the range of 
forums through which they express their scholarly engagements and the range of targets toward 
which they address those engagements. Perhaps the most fundamental difference along this axis 
is that between academic and extra-academic forums. The paradigmatic scholar activist works 
outside the university structure, directly addressing law, politics, economy, or civil society in 
public spaces, sometimes from governmental or non-governmental institutions or movements. 
A more limited case of scholar activism may be found when scholars put their expertise to use in 
seeking to improve society by changing or developing aspects of the university, profession, or 
union. For example, drafting statements on academic freedom for the Modern Language 
Association of America is a form of engaged scholarship. Though limited in its extent, it is 
potentially consequential. 

Finally, in perhaps the majority of cases, the most basic form of scholarly engagement 
comes with the primary duties of an academic—teaching and research. When the scholar’s 
specific disciplinary expertise bears directly on his or her political concerns (e.g., if he of she 
works on gender studies, colonialism, nationalism, or any of the other countless topics that are 
important to both higher education and political life), then the scope of his or her scholarly 
engagement almost invariably includes both teaching and research. In the minimal case, political 
engagement may not go beyond such professional outlets. 

This is not to say that engaged scholars “preach” politics to or “indoctrinate” their 
students. Engaged scholars—no differently from ivory tower scholars—may, should, and (in all 
likelihood) usually do apply their scholarly expertise to the legitimate subject matter of the course 
in reasonable ways; they simply do so in ways that manifest political goals, even if those goals 
remain only implicit, as is presumably the case almost all the time. Of course, a given instructor 
may pursue a political agenda that distorts or bypasses the subject matter of the course. That is 
wrong. But it is wrong because it distorts or bypasses the subject matter of the course, not because 
it is political. It would be no less wrong if the motivations were religious or the result of 
personal humor or mere lassitude. Thus, cases of this sort—though widely discussed as central 
to issues of politically engaged scholarship—are in fact irrelevant to it. Someone may behave 
unprofessionally for political reasons, just as someone may drive recklessly to get to a political 
rally. The problem in each case is the behavior, not the incidental motive for the behavior. More 
precisely, “preaching” implies explicit and sustained advocacy, which would most often distract 
from the purposes of learning in the classroom and thus is objectionable on that score. 
“Indoctrination” implies both deceit and coercion of belief. It is not clear to me that university 
level teachers have the means available to coerce belief (though they have the means to coerce test 
responses—a different matter). In the case of indoctrination, then, the issue is deceit. In short, both 
objections come down to a failure to fulfill the educational objectives of the course. Again, the 
motives for such a failure are not—or should not be—the issue. 

In this section, I will consider one very limited example of political engagement in the 
classroom, drawn from my own teaching. It is one of the few times when I move very slightly 
beyond the scholar observer role to take a less sedentary part in political activity. However, the 
manner in which I do this is so highly non-prototypical that it is hardly recognizable as activism. I 
believe it is a particularly apt example precisely for this reason. Here as elsewhere the point is not 
that this is the way everyone should be an engaged scholar. Indeed, it is rather the opposite: that 



	
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there are many ways of being an engaged scholar. They have different potential values, even if 
they are all subject to the same broad evaluative criteria. 

I regularly teach a course called “Literature and Culture of India.” In this course, I present 
a range of philosophical, literary, and artistic trends in the history of Indian thought, often pairing 
an ancient work with some modern parallel. The course does not focus on colonialism or anti-
colonialism and rarely involves any Anglophone writings. It treats Indian tradition as a 
multifarious, developing complex of ideas and practices that involves many influences, of 
which European thought and custom are a relatively late and limited instance. Put differently, I 
adopt an “Indocentric” approach to Indian literature and culture. Rather than viewing India 
primarily in relation to the West, I view one part of Indian culture primarily in relation to other 
parts of Indian culture. In keeping with this, I stress the great diversity of concepts and customs in 
Indian cultural history. These are both already politically engaged decisions. I have a choice 
between encouraging my students to see Indian culture in relation to Western culture or to see it 
on its own terms; I have a choice between encouraging them to think of Indian culture as 
uniform or as diverse. For example, on the topic of caste, I discuss how there has been anticaste 
thought and activism since ancient times and that, indeed, Vedāntism (the revered system of 
metaphysics developed in the Upaniṣads) is logically incompatible with caste hierarchies—as 
some of the Upaniṣads themselves indicate (see Olivelle 29 and 306 for an example from the 
Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad).  

I should also note that this approach is underwritten by universalism, which is to say the 
broad presumption that the psychological processes and group dynamics of different cultures 
follow universal principles. Taking the West as a norm and contrasting India with that norm 
fosters a sense of difference, which is almost invariably conducive to out-grouping—or 
“Othering” as literary critics are fond of saying. We do not “Other” people we think of as the 
same, but people we think of as different. The sense of common humanity, with its facilitating 
effects on empathy and identification, are enabled by treating India on its own terms, rather than 
by contrast with the West, and by emphasizing the variability of Indian culture on such issues as 
caste or individual choice in marriage. 

Thus there is a broad political orientation in my teaching of Indian literature and culture. 
This necessarily works its way out in the specific books I choose to examine in the course. For 
example, I recently taught Bhaṭṭa Jayánta’s Āgamaḍambara, a play that treats conflicts among 
philosophical schools and practical traditions (e.g., regarding sexuality). I also make a point of 
teaching Patañjali’s Yoga-Sūtra, with its stress on ahiṁsā, non-violence or non-harming. These 
works fit the political purposes of the course nicely. For example, Jayánta’s work makes the 
diversity of Indian traditions unmistakable. The YogaSūtra stresses the imprudence of violent 
behavior for the one committing the violence, a perspective that is often unexpected for my 
students, who tend to view violence solely in moral terms (whether the violence is judged 
immoral or morally necessary). Later works range from the gently humanist stories of 
Rabindranath Tagore to films or novels connected with the All-India Progressive Writers’ 
Association. 

However, I cannot simply choose works that are politically expedient. There are important 
works that are militaristic and casteist as well, including some of the most influential, such as the 
Rāmāyaṇa and Bhagavad Gītā. I usually teach one or the other, most often the latter. When I 



	
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teach the Rāmāyaṇa, I commonly pair it with explicit or implicit revisions to show the degree to 
which some ideological premises of the work have been challenged repeatedly in the course of 
Indian history. Examples include Bhavabhūti’s Uttararāmacaritam and, more subtly but more 
subversively, Kālidāsa’s renowned Abhijñānaśākuntalam, as well as modern films such as Pinjar 
and Raavan. 

The situation with the Gītā is more complex. In that work, Kṛṣṇa gives an argument in 
favor of a relatively unreflective commitment to the prosecution of war as duty. This is a 
potentially consequential argument for the attitudes and actions of my students. Indeed, initial 
responses, written down immediately after reading the work, suggest to me that students often find 
Kṛṣṇa’s arguments compelling. In relation to this, I first locate the Gītā in its larger narrative 
context, the Mahābhārata. I explain that the standard view is that the Pāṇḍavas are the “good 
guys” and the Kauravas are the “bad guys.” Granting that the text favors the former group over 
the latter, I argue that, despite this, the origins and outcomes of the conflict are not as 
unequivocal as is often made out. For example, the origin involves a dispute over the kingship 
that is not straightforward, but very convoluted and uncertain. More importantly, we consider the 
details of Kṛṣṇa’s argument, noting its rhetoric and its logical problems. For example, Kṛṣṇa 
appeals to ideas from Sāṅkhya philosophy to argue that one inflicts no harm in killing the body, 
since the body is necessarily fleeting and distinct from the unchanging self. Such killing 
therefore poses no problems for Arjuna’s dharma or ethical duty; however, Kṛṣṇa does not 
apply this principle consistently. If killing the Kaurava enemies causes them (i.e., their souls) no 
harm, then surely the lesser crimes of the Kauravas (depriving the Pāṇḍavas of the kingdom) 
affect only the fleeting, material world and are thus not harmful either. But if those crimes are 
inconsequential in the same way as killing, then they should raise no dharmic issues themselves. 
In other words, it is difficult to understand why one is ethically required to respond to Kaurava 
crimes if dharma is tied to genuine (rather than merely apparent) harm—and how killing is a 
response anyway, since it is putatively not harmful. (Note that such inconsistencies do not arise 
because Indians somehow reject “Western” logic, as is sometimes claimed. The consistency of 
“Western” and “Eastern” logic is clear not only from the general adherence of “Eastern” texts to 
principles of inference, and from “Western” deviations from those principles, but also from the 
treatments of logic by, for example, Nyāya philosophers.) 

My implicit political purpose in going through these various points is two-fold. First, it is 
to disarm the effects of Kṛṣṇa’s arguments on my students. Second, it is to suggest some of the 
problems with arguments for war generally. I do not make explicit connections with, say, specific 
U.S. wars or militarism (though I do not believe there would be anything wrong with doing so). 
However, I do often note that Kṛṣṇa’s tactics are not unique, but common. For example, I 
might remark that wars often begin with sovereignty disputes that each side presents as 
unequivocal, but that are commonly complicated and contradictory. One side might have a 
superior claim, but it is rarely a matter of one side being the good guys and the other side being 
the bad guys. Even when there is a “right” side in a conflict, it is often a matter of fairly bad 
guys versus really bad guys. Moreover, the outcome of the Mahābhārata war suggests that, even 
if there is greater right on one side, war is rarely if ever a prudent or ethical option. 

I hope it is clear that my teaching choices in this case reflect political engagements, even 
if they are far less salient than more prototypical forms of engaged scholarship. Again, that non-



	
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prototypicality is one reason for considering a case of this sort. In any event, here the usual 
evaluative issues arise. I should consider them briefly in turn. 

I hope it is clear that my teaching choices in this case reflect political engagements, even 
if they are far less salient than more prototypical forms of engaged scholarship. Again, that 
non-prototypicality is one reason for considering a case of this sort. In any event, here the usual 
evaluative issues arise. I should consider them briefly in turn. 

Issues of legal evaluation would seem to arise primarily in the area of academic freedom. 
For many years, I had almost entirely non-Indian students in the class. The Indian students I did 
have tended to be secular Hindus or liberal Muslims interested in non-Muslim traditions. (For 
reasons of time, I often do not teach the Muslim part of Indian tradition in this course. It figures 
prominently in another course on “Literature and Culture of the Muslim World,” which has 
some of the same implicit political goals and some different ones also.) Recently, however, I 
have begun to get heritage students who enter the class believing that that the Rāmāyaṇa and the 
Bhagavad Gītā are infallible revelations. Thus far, my relations with these students have been 
perfectly fine. Indeed, they are often knowledgeable about aspects of tradition as practiced that are 
unfamiliar to me (my connections with lived Hindu tradition, through my wife, are necessarily in 
part specific to regional and, indeed, familial traditions). Nonetheless, the presence of committed 
believers in the class makes it potentially risky to treat these texts as anything other than divine 
utterances. 

Suppose, for example, that I was subjected to the sort of campaign to which the important 
Indologist, Wendy Doniger, has been subjected (see Doniger’s essays for an account). Doniger 
has been vilified as anti-Hindu in part for some critical comments she made about the 
Bhagavad Gītā. However, I will make two remarks. The first is that, even if a writer such as 
Robert Post is correct that academic freedom resides primarily in the profession or discipline, it 
should involve at least some application to individual faculty members. At the very least, it would 
seem that it should entail a presumption that a professionally established faculty member is in the 
best position to determine the precise content and trajectory of his or her teaching, given university 
requirements as to topic and general features of content. As Ronald Dworkin put it, “academic 
freedom insulates scholars from the administrators of their universities: university officials . . . 
cannot dictate how those who have been appointed will teach” (183; see also Schrecker on 
“Lehrfreiheit or ‘freedom to teach’” [11] and more generally on faculty “autonomy” [e.g., 12-13]). 
Even other faculty members in the same field do not have the day-to-day experience of the class 
and the organizational sense of the course’s goals and means; these are the province of the 
instructor. 

The second thing to remark in this context is even simpler. Suppose it is the case that 
academic freedom as established in case law does not protect an instructor from censure for 
particular sorts of teaching (e.g., teaching that offends the religious sensibilities of some students in 
the class). It does not follow that the university is obligated to censure those sorts of teaching. In 
other words, the default case is not censure, with the burden of proof on anyone who opposes 
censure. The burden of proof should always be on those who wish to suppress speech, whether 
such suppression is or is not legally permissible. This is, so to speak, the cultural (rather than 
merely legal) implication of academic freedom or of freedom of speech more generally. 



	
102	Cultural	Logic	

Here, however, ethical issues arise. The preceding comments suggest that it should in 
general be difficult to censure teaching the Bhagavad Gītā as a work of political argumentation 
rather than divine revelation. But it does not follow that it is ethical of me to do so. Here the 
universality and autonomy criteria arise. Do I apply the relevant principles consistently? In fact, 
there are complications here. It should in principle be possible for someone to treat one text as 
revelation but not another, depending on his or her own beliefs. Consistency here would rather 
involve granting others the reciprocal right to treat one’s own favored texts as historical rather 
than revealed. For example, to be ethically consistent, a Christian would not need to treat the 
Bible as historical. However, he or she would have to accept others doing so. It happens that this 
is not an issue for me, since I do not believe that any work derives from divine revelation. 
Moreover, part of my argument about the Bhagavad Gītā is that it appears to have incorporated 
different sources with different aims (e.g., a “dharma” source concerning ethical duty and a 
“bhakti” source concerning devotion). I often explicitly link this with Biblical studies that isolate 
different strands of Bible authorship, precisely in order to stress that the “secularizing” 
approach to a sacred text should not be confined to the Hindu tradition. 

As to the autonomy issue, I can without hesitation assure my readers that I never “fire up” 
students in any way. Indeed, anyone who has heard me lecture will know from experience that 
my listeners are far more likely to nod their heads in a struggle against somnolence than in 
enthusiastic agreement. I also believe that I am not “framing” the discussion in a misleading 
way or a way that I would not readily generalize to other texts. By urging students to consider the 
logic of the argument carefully, I try to prepare them for analyzing texts on their own. Moreover, 
when I differ from standard opinion, I note the difference. 

Autonomy issues might arise in connection with my treatment of student responses in 
class and on exams. For example, do I allow students to disagree with my view of the Bhagavad 
Gītā? This is in part a political question, a matter of the balance between democracy and expertise. 
But it is also a question of respecting my students’ ability to formulate their own views on the 
topic. The answer to both the political and the ethical issue is the same. I expect my students to 
recognize that one may challenge Kṛṣṇa’s argument on grounds of consistency. They are 
perfectly free to defend Kṛṣṇa’s position. However, they should not simply assume its 
consistency. This seems to me the ordinary, scholarly position. Academics—both teachers and 
students—do not articulate their views in a vacuum. We relate our views to those of other people. 
In keeping with this, one should accept the autonomy of one’s students in the same way one 
modulates democracy by expertise. A classroom is not a ballot box. People in the class do not 
simply vote for their preference. The responsibility of both the teacher and the students lies 
primarily with making a case for their positions, a case that bears on the textual evidence, the 
cultural background, and the discursive context of other arguments in the field at the time—
necessarily including the instructor’s own prior arguments. 

Of course, some people would claim that any intrusion of political views into the 
classroom is wrong. Since my arguments about the Bhagavad Gītā involved such views, however 
backgrounded, the arguments are themselves illegitimate or at least suspect. In a lecture at the 
University of Connecticut a couple of years ago, Stanley Fish was faced with a question about an 
instructor presenting his or her political views as explicitly personal, thus not as some sort of 
doctrine to which students were required to subscribe. (The question did not come from me). Fish 
responded that it was still wholly illegitimate to present one’s own opinions in the classroom. 



	
Hogan		103	

Coming from the teacher, Fish went on, this was akin to the student’s mother presenting her 
opinions. Evidently, Fish’s experience of adolescents and young adults is quite different from 
mine. While one tends to simply believe one’s parents in early childhood, there seems often to be 
a tendency to dismiss one’s parents’ views as one passes through adolescence. The analogy 
between teachers and parents is perhaps apt, but, if so, it is one reason why we probably do not 
need to worry greatly about exerting excessive influence on our students. I have little doubt that 
my students are at least as skeptical about my views as they are about those of their parents. 

In addition, Fish’s account assumes that there is a politically neutral option, that we can 
either be political or not. In some cases, that is true, but not always. What would be the politically 
neutral position in the case of the Bhagavad Gītā? Surely it is not politically neutral to treat the 
argument as revelation or as logically compelling, which is presumably what one does in effect 
when one merely explicates the text without considering its internal contradictions or its 
contextual complications. The point is particularly clear in the case of my classroom teaching, 
since I tend to approach a range of arguments (e.g., those in Āgamaḍambara) skeptically. If I 
refrained from doing so in the case of the Bhagavad Gītā that would particularly make it seem as 
if Kṛṣṇa’s argument is valid. 

More generally, far from fostering political neutrality, at least some course subject matter is 
intrinsically political, thus itself non-neutral. As such, it would seem to require the incorporation of 
ethical or political response. For example, there would, I believe, be something deeply wrong 
with a course on Nazi Germany that conveyed no sense that anti-Semitism was a terrible force 
that produced unspeakable crimes; there would be something amiss with a course on American 
slavery that failed to communicate the dehumanization and suffering of slaves. 

A number of years ago, I published an essay on “Why We Should Not Set Out to 
Politicize the Classroom.” One implication of that essay was that we should not import 
extraneous political concerns into teaching, for both academic and political reasons. The point 
here is that some political concerns are part of what we are teaching. 

We should not set out to politicize the classroom. But we should also not simply ignore 
the politics that arise from the topic itself. Indeed, attempting to ignore such politics will almost 
invariably be a matter of conforming to mainstream ideology. It will be a pseudo-non-politics. 

As this suggests, the usual ways in which “politicized pedagogy” is debated appear to be 
misdirected. The key issue is not a matter of insulating the classroom from one’s political goals. 
Nor is it a matter telling “both sides”—“balance,” as it is sometimes called—particularly because 
there are rarely just two alternative positions, and what alternatives there are usually do not have 
equal intellectual value. As Akeel Bilgrami put it, “if ‘balance’ has any role to play” in teaching, 
it is “entirely nested within” the “primary aim of universities … to pursue the truth.” Thus, “the 
only thing that ‘balance’ could mean is that one must look at all the evidence.” It “cannot possibly 
mean … the equal presentation in the classroom of two contradictory views” (339-340). 
Pedagogy always involves choices among alternatives. These choices may quite reasonably be 
guided in part by political goals—if those choices remain consistent with the intellectual 
requirements of the course and associated scholarly standards, which brings us to the epistemic 
issue. 



	
104	Cultural	Logic	

Any possible justification of politically engaged pedagogy rests on the epistemic 
reasonableness of the information and analyses conveyed by the instructor. This bears first of all 
on what is directly presented in the classroom. In my case, then, it concerns the reasonableness 
of my account of the Māhābhārata, the various elements of dharma, and the logic and precise 
claims of Kṛṣṇa’s argument. In addition to what is directly presented, there is also the issue of 
whether or not the presentation is likely to mislead students—hence my explicit references to 
standard views on the nature of heroism and villainy in the Mahābhārata. Indeed, I usually 
use a translation of the poem that includes an introduction at odds with my own account. This 
contradiction not only helps to prevent the students’ from being misled, it helps to foster their 
own intellectual autonomy. Indeed, in my view, it is an epistemic as well as ethical benefit if 
one’s pedagogy presents plausible alternatives to dominant approaches, as long as students realize 
that they are receiving such alternative views. This would seem to be the case even when there is 
no political benefit to the alternatives. 

Finally, there is the pragmatic issue. Referring to Stanley Fish’s teacher/mother 
analogy, I suggested that most students are unlikely to simply accept an instructor’s views on 
political matters. But this does not mean that we cannot present students with convincing reasons 
to think through political issues—such as arguments supporting war—in ways that they might not 
have done otherwise. Here, as elsewhere, it is unlikely that isolated pedagogical practices will 
have much of an impact on their own. My last set of classes on the Bhagavad Gītā, on their 
own, had no discernible impact on the life of the nation. However, in conjunction with many 
other experiences had by many students across a range of schools and teachers, they may have 
contributed to “network effects,” the emergent properties of systems that arise from but go well 
beyond small, localized interactions (for a concise introduction to network theory, see Caldarelli 
and Catanzaro). The actual effects here are, of course, an empirical issue. However, the near 
hysteria of the political right over supposed left-wing indoctrination of students suggests that, at 
least in the view of our political contraries, higher education is having a liberalizing effect on 
many students. In this respect, for many of us—who do not have the skill, the knowledge, the 
fortitude, or the social platform of Chomsky, Lakoff, Butler, or other prominent scholar 
activists—the classroom may be our most effective forum for engaged scholarship (given the 
qualification that our teaching should satisfy the legal, ethical, and above all epistemic criteria 
noted above). 

But, once again, the point here is not to support one type of political engagement over 
others. It is, rather, to note that there are many ways in which scholars may be politically engaged 
and many criteria by which such engagement may be evaluated. The aim of such an analysis is 
to give us a more encompassing and a more finely articulated sense of the possibilities for 
scholar activism and thus, one hopes, to foster greater and more productive political 
engagement by scholars in the future. In other words, my hope in offering this analytic of 
possible forms of engagement has been to broaden not only our conception of scholar activism, 
but to broaden that activism itself. A concept too narrowly tied to a prototype is self-limiting. 
Now, as usual, the left is in no need of self-limitation. 

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