It was 2019 when I called my friends back home in India, all of us struggling to comfort each other in the aftermath of a devastating election. Narendra Modi, the leader of the right-wing Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), had just secured a sweeping victory, further consolidating his grip on the country’s politics. His party had campaigned on a platform of Hindu nationalism, reinforcing a majoritarian vision that increasingly sidelined India’s Muslim population and other marginalized communities. With Modi’s second term, the BJP’s push to reshape India into a Hindu-first state felt more emboldened than ever.
Speaking with friends and colleagues back home, the collective sense of exasperation, loss and powerlessness ran so deep that it reached me even in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Throughout India’s turbulent 20th century, we had already seen how university spaces could become battlegrounds for rights and freedoms — an experience that left no room for apathy.
Now, I urge my colleagues at the University of Hawaii at Manoa: do not go gently into the night.
Wherever we look, apathy — lack of interest, enthusiasm or concern — has become a defining feature of contemporary society. Scholar Miriam Ticktin describes it as an ethical failure to recognize the suffering of others, leading to public indifference, reinforcing structural inequalities, and weakening societal empathy. This failure is evident in India’s dismissal of protests, such as the farmers’ movement and violence in Manipur, and in the U.S., where many quickly complied with controversial executive orders or overlooked the gravity of the Jan. 6, 2021, U.S. Capitol breach.
To counteract such apathy, political philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari advocate for “lines of flight” (lignes de fuite) — resisting rigid systems to cultivate a politics of multiplicity. In both nations, where democracy relies on the coexistence of diverse cultures, the ongoing struggle between majoritarian consolidation and pluralist resistance continues to shape national identity and political discourse.
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This resonates at UH-Manoa right now, where, among other things, DEI (diversity, equity, inclusion) programs are being destabilized and dismantled. For those with wealth and power, politics might merely be a tool for securing tax breaks or influence. For marginalized communities, however, political engagement can be a matter of basic survival. The stakes could not be higher.
At its core, a university has obligations to serve the public interest through research, education and community engagement.
UH has an additional responsibility — as a land-grant institution of Hawaii — to embody aloha in its truest sense. Meaningful support requires concrete actions, resources and public advocacy. The administration has a responsibility to stand with our colleagues, students and community members who are feeling threatened and marginalized. In this time of fear and uncertainty, we can stand up, speak out and support them. There is power in numbers, and UH-Manoa can be the leader its community needs.
In supporting these marginalized groups, I am reminded of a story my grandmother used to tell: a well-meaning monkey believes he is rescuing fish by plucking them from the water. Other animals applaud and even start paying him for these so-called “rescues.” But in his eagerness to help, he fails to recognize that he is suffocating them.
Advocacy, too, can be misguided when it does not center on the needs and voices of those directly affected. To avoid this, we must not act on assumptions or seek applause — we must listen to those facing marginalization with empathy and follow their lead in forging solutions. Solidarity is not about saving others; it is about standing alongside them to protect the waters they live in.
Universities have long been a place of dreamers, a hub of cultural exchange, and in the case of UH, one that understands the true meaning of aloha. To dream now is to resist cynicism and social decay.
To my fellow UH-Manoa faculty, staff and students: Let us not succumb to complacency or inaction. Let us listen to those facing persecution and work alongside them to direct our resources where they are needed most. And above all, let us ensure that our efforts uplift rather than harm — protecting the waters that sustain us all, rather than removing fish from them in the name of misguided aid, or worse yet, giving up altogether.
Smrity Ramavarapu is a Ph.D. candidate in ethnobotany at the University of Hawaii-Manoa.
