By Michael Rainsborough
But I am mulling over of the idea of the GDR as an article of faith. Communism, at least of the East German variety, was a closed system of belief. It was a universe in a vacuum, complete with its own hells and heavens, its punishments and redemptions meted out right here on earth. Many of the punishments were simply for lack of belief, or even suspected lack of belief. Disloyalty was calibrated in the minutest of signs: the antenna turned to receive western television, the red flag not hung out on May Day, someone telling an off-colour joke about Honecker just to stay sane.
Anna Funder, Stasiland: True Stories from Behind the Wall (London: Granta, 2003), p. 157.
US Vice President J.D. Vance's speech at the Munich Security Conference in February 2025 delivered some home truths to European elites—truths, no doubt, they would have preferred stayed ringing the doorbell while they hid behind the sofa. He reminded them, as gently as a boot to a glass coffee table, that lecturing the world on liberal democracy rings hollow if fundamental freedoms at home are left to rot. Free expression and freedom of conscience are not just decorative principles; they are the foundation of a system worth defending.
Watching Vance's tour de force, one couldn't help but notice the procession of glum, besuited faces—some adorned with military brass—belonging to Europe's ruling class, as they absorbed his unvarnished critique. The audience sat in a kind of stunned silence usually reserved for unexpected tax demands. Yet, one couldn't shake the eerie sensation of history whispering in the background.
It was as if Vance were echoing Mikhail Gorbachev, standing before the crumbling Soviet satellite states, delivering the uncomfortable truth that their imperial benefactor was no longer interested in propping up a decaying system. The old order was on its own, and America had its own version of 'glasnost' and 'perestroika' to pursue—namely, draining its own swamp of bureaucratic sclerosis and deep-state inertia.
History may not repeat itself, but it certainly enjoys a good rhyme. The atmosphere surrounding Europe's current trajectory has a distinct end-of-era communism aroma, a musty blend of self-delusion and bureaucratic conformity. At the beginning of this article, I included a quote from Anna Funder's classic study of East Germany, detailing how minor infractions—telling a joke, failing to display a red flag, or angling one's TV antenna toward the West—were enough to turn someone into a dissident. It's striking how little it took to be branded an enemy of the regime.
What follows is a three-part essay examining the evolution of post-liberal authoritarianism in Europe—a microcosm of how the 'wrong' opinions can turn you into a pariah. Let me be clear: I am not suggesting that Europe has fully descended into a totalitarian nightmare on par with Soviet-era Eastern Europe, where every institution bowed to the party's whims. But as Vance intimated, can we confidently say we're not heading in that direction?
Drawing from personal experience, I will detail what happens when one inadvertently becomes a dissident in modern Britain. In my case, the crime was co-authoring an essay for the Bruges Group in early 2019—an act about as radical as misplacing an Oxford comma. The fallout was remarkable, and as events unfolded, I couldn't help but notice unsettling parallels between my experience and the fate of dissidents in late-stage communist regimes.
These essays explore how, in today's 'inclusive' Europe, one becomes a persona non grata simply by doing their job diligently and exercising lawful free expression in their field of expertise. They expose the exclusionary tactics and social ostracism—ironic, given the self-congratulatory platitudes of 'Diversity, Equity and Inclusion' in modern academia. And they trace the repercussions, as I attempted to piece together what had happened, unearthing the informers and denouncers, and the reflections I gathered in the aftermath—because, as it turns out, turning the tables on the whole thing was more satisfying than I expected. Who knew exclusion could be so enlightening?
To be clear, my experience does not compare to the harrowing ordeals of dissidents in the Eastern Bloc, who faced omnipresent surveillance, imprisonment, or worse. However, when people in Western Europe can be fined, detained, or even jailed for praying privately or expressing views deemed offensive to progressivist dogma, one must ask: at what point does the 'soft' in soft authoritarianism become a distinction without a difference?
Or, to put it another way—if this isn't the road to tyranny, someone should explain why the scenery looks so familiar.
Part I: The Accidental Dissident
The resemblance, though imperfect, remains strikingly compelling. Having spent much of my academic career studying political dissent and the nature of resistance the familiar patterns felt both hauntingly resonant and unsettling. As I leafed through the pages of my 'Subject Access Request', I found myself imagining the experiences of East German citizens poring over their Stasi records after the collapse of the German Democratic Republic: the tense anticipation and dread as they uncovered what the bureaucratic machine had documented about them; the statements made by others, often misrepresenting their character; and most disturbingly, the identities of the informants—those who had chosen to denounce them.
The Stasi, East Germany's infamous secret police, was renowned for compiling vast archives on the citizens of the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Following the wave of popular protests in late 1989 and the subsequent collapse of the ruling Socialist Unity Party, protesters seized most of the Stasi records before they could be destroyed. Beginning in January 1992, citizens were granted the right to access their Stasi files. Over the next decade, approximately seven million individuals applied to view their records.
Of course, my misadventures couldn't possibly equate to those who endured the ruthless attentions of the East German authorities, or indeed to any dissident in Communist Eastern Europe or beyond. However, the echoes were unnerving because I had somehow managed to land myself, and not for the first time, on the wrong side of a regime—admittedly, a regime not as historically villainous as East Germany's, but one nevertheless that in its own way was, as I came to discover, no less ideologically inflexible—namely, my employers at King's College London.
The Making of a Thought Criminal
In brief, I gave over 25 years of service to the College, primarily in the Department of War Studies. I established degree programmes—including one of its most popular, the MA in Intelligence and National Security. I founded innovative research centres, spearheaded international collaborations and designed courses that remain staples even after my departure. In due course, I climbed the ranks. In 2013, I became Deputy Head of Department. In that role, I tackled the excitingly bureaucratic task of making teaching allocations fairer and workloads more transparent (not exactly a bestselling memoir in the making, I know). By 2016, I found myself Head of Department, overseeing its expansion in terms of staff, degree programmes and even office space—because nothing says 'success' like securing a few extra square metres in central London.
Yet, I was never destined to blend seamlessly into the academic mould. I've always been something of a maverick—someone who stumbled into academia only because I wasn't much good at anything else. My childhood dreams of becoming an airline pilot, an army officer, or a diplomat were all dashed by the small inconvenience of my own lack of aptitude. Instead, I became the accidental Professor—gifted with a natural distrust of authority, a legacy from my Cockney father, and an enduring scepticism of intellectual fads and orthodoxies.
Oddly enough, this disposition rarely made me the darling of the faculty lounge. Throughout my career, I found myself in periodic skirmishes with those whose brain-bandwidth was capped at one ideology. These jousts often played out in the barely-read pages of obscure scholarly journals. I never set out to be a contrarian—I simply believed in questioning positions and interrogating concepts and theories. I worked hard, was competent in my field, and treated everyone with civility, including those who disagreed with me. My guiding principle was that universities should be arenas for debate and the free exchange of ideas, where diverse viewpoints can clash and inspire.
It was this ethos that endeared me to the Department of War Studies, as was. Its commitment to multidisciplinary approaches, pluralism and intellectual tolerance resonated deeply and fuelled a loyalty to its open-minded academic tradition. In hindsight, though, my misfit tendencies were probably both my greatest strength and the thing most likely to land me in hot water. But perhaps that is the fate of all reluctant academics?
Endangered Speeches
So, what did I do to incur the wrath of the regime? Seemingly, it was my obstinate belief that universities are places for dialogue and debate. Over the years, my knack for poking holes in intellectual echo chambers often raised suspicions. But for the sake of brevity, let's start in 2018—a simpler time when I (naively) thought that hosting a speaker series might spark genuine conversation and debate.
The series, catchily titled Endangered Speeches: Debating the Culture Wars, was born out of requests by both students and colleagues to have a good old-fashioned discussion about identity politics and cultural values. You know, the big-picture stuff that had been brewing since the end of the Cold War. Such debates, moreover, were ones that made academic departments like mine feel alive. And because I have a keen interest in the topic of clashing social values as a cause of war (and an irresistible pull toward ambitious undertakings), I eagerly embraced the project.
Now, this wasn't some rogue operation. Far from it. We worked with the department's professional events team, advertised the series on the College website, and followed all the proper channels. Everything was above board. Smooth sailing, no second glances—until, as fate would have it, a couple of days before the first event.
That's when a petition (tiny, yet as is usually the case, shrill and hyperbolic) clawed its way into limelight, demanding we cancel our invited speaker, Dr Joanna Williams. Joanna was to speak on the topic of intellectual conformity, about which she had recently written a very good book. The petition alleged that she had made anti-transgender comments in her previous writings. Which, by the way, she hadn't. The petition scraped together a meagre 140 odd signatures, including from people outside the College, many of whom probably wouldn't have been able to locate the event on a map if you circled it in neon marker.
What followed was a masterclass in institutional overreaction. Emergency meetings were called. Extra security was brought in. And for what? A completely harmless event that passed off without incident. People came; they listened, debated and left presumably with their horizons broadened. It was everything a university event is meant to be: thought-provoking, civilised and—dare I say it—a lot of fun. After the talk finished, I wondered, why all the unnecessary hassle? Was it the topic? The timing? Or just my impeccable ability to waltz into controversy like it's a long-lost friend? Whatever the cause, I wouldn't change a thing—except maybe asking for better snacks next time round.
Welcome to the Kafka Club, Where Your Membership is Mandatory
At the time, little did I know that I was unintentionally auditioning for the role of 'reluctant dissident', following the script outlined by the Czech playwright Václav Havel. He famously remarked that no one wakes up one day and decides to become a dissident. Instead, you're thrown into it by a mix of personal responsibility and external circumstances. It starts with the innocent aim of doing your job well and ends up with you being branded an enemy of the state.
A week later, and there I was, summoned before my managers, and subjected to a barrage of incoherent reprimands that were vague at best, mystifying at worst. It was Kafkaesque. Apparently, I was single-handedly dragging the department's reputation through the mud (no explanation as to how), and simultaneously guilty of being both naïve and disingenuous. Quite a paradoxical skill set, would you not agree? If anyone cracks the secret formula for that one, do share. You could be in the running for the Nobel Prize in Contradiction.
In my well-meaning attempt to clarify, I explained that universities exist to promote debate and freely critique ideas. Their expressions suggested I had spoken an extinct dialect. It was as if I'd just tried explaining quantum mechanics to a toddler. The concept of freedom of debate was completely foreign to them. They demanded I shut down the speaker series. I refused. From that moment on, I knew my days were numbered—and not in the fun countdown-to-a-holiday sort of way.
The next event rolled around in February 2019, which involved Toby Young (the in the early stages of setting up the Free Speech Union) and Professor Eric Kaufmann, among others. Yet again, the event passed off without incident. Yet it was clear that my managers were still displeased by my lack of deference. To make matters worse, this was during the chaos that engulfed British politics in the post-Brexit referendum era, when everyone seemed unsure whether to laugh, cry, or emigrate.
The Flight from Reason: Destination, Anywhere But Logic
In a moment of misguided optimism, I waded into the murky waters of national debate and co-authored an article that was originally published by the Bruges Group, on this very site no less. The title of the essay was 'The British Road to Dirty War'. A bold headline, sure, but one that carried a serious message. The essay calmly argued the not-so-controversial idea that if an out-of-touch elite kept stubbornly ignoring the will of the people then civil unrest just might become a reality. I mean, it's not as if history's little footnotes—like rebellions, uprisings and the occasional collapse of global order—have anything useful to teach us. The article was a pointed reminder that ignoring the masses hasn't worked out so well since, say… the French Revolution. What could possibly go wrong with such a reasoned perspective?
As I later discovered, and as my 'Stasi file' confirmed, plenty could go wrong. My academic integrity was impugned, with accusations that I was writing on matters 'about which he [that's me] cannot claim any special expertise'. This was an interesting claim given that my areas of research specialisation—alongside those of my co-author—comprised civil war, insurgency, and the very concept of 'dirty war' itself; the academic study of which I pioneered, as any casual Google search might have revealed. I had written a slew of books on these subjects. Naturally, the real experts—the ones who had never so much as cracked open a book on the subject—were on hand to set me straight. At last, the true authorities had spoken: those whose knowledge of 'dirty war' extended no further than their own office politics.
Exercising one's academic right to discuss such matters—rights enshrined in the Education Act (1986)—proved far too much for a select group of my more intellectually gluten-free-zone colleagues (no cross-contamination of ideas allowed). These are the types who I had long suspected would be disqualified from the 'Open Debate Olympics' in the first round. They were part of a 'progressive' cohort that started infiltrating the department from the early 2000s, working with the kind of determination usually reserved for termite colonies to erode its once-pluralistic ethos. As the College files reveal, their verdict on my writing was that I was dangerously populist. In other words, I was reckless enough to suggest that ordinary citizens might tire of elites who spend their days ignoring and belittling them.
In a particularly Stasi-esque twist, one of these ever-vigilant regime stooges reported in my file that I had committed the academic equivalent of high treason by quoting Nigel Farage, not once but, wait for it: twice. And just to make sure the scandal was properly conveyed they added an exclamation mark for emphasis. I should have been escorted from the premises for such thought crimes. Grounds for a show trial, clearly. One can only assume they were moments away from fainting into their artisanal kale salads.
Rumours started swirling like leaves in a storm. Sympathetic colleagues warned me that I might be 'hauled in' on Monday by the College authorities. What exactly they planned to do to me was unclear, but I envisioned shackles, medieval dungeons and something particularly brutal with a soy latte. Sunday afternoon was spent on a long, contemplative bike ride, wondering if I'd still have a job by Monday evening.
Monday arrived. Sure enough, I was invited to spend some meaningful quality time with the Faculty Dean, Professor Frans Berkhout—in a public café on the campus, no less, because why not add professional disrespect to the me? In full view of anyone sipping their cappuccinos, I was informed that I needed to step aside and make room for someone who could cater for their more refined palate, for which read someone pleasingly predictable and dutifully submissive.
I'd prepared myself for this moment, so I sat there stoically biting my lip as I politely withstood the absurd litany of aspersions and non-sequiturs. I said little except that I didn't agree with any of it, but I'd be willing to discuss things further—privately, this time—the following week.
In the meantime, I did what any reasonable person would do: sought legal advice and braced for the cold, hard truth. The consensus was, yes, I had a case—if I fancied a long, soul-draining, wallet-emptying adventure. Hardly anyone's idea of a good time, except perhaps for a lawyer's accountant. Instead, it was recommended that I use what leverage I had to negotiate an exit.
Michael Rainsborough is a writer and academic. Between 2016 and 2019 he was Head of the Department of War Studies at King's College London. The full text of 'What I Learned in My College Stasi File' was originally published by the Committee for Academic Freedom, which can be found here. His most recent book, A Front Row Seat at the End of History: The Untimely Essays of David Martin Jones and M.L.R. Smith, 1999-2024, has recently been published by Bruges Group Publishing.
