Silencing the Silencers

Few institutions in the modern world combine pomp, pedigree and provocation quite like the Oxford Union. The hallowed wood-panelled chamber, echoing with oratorical ghosts, has been home to a long procession of the eloquent, the controversial and the curious. In Hilary Term of 2025, I found myself stepping into this storied arena, not just as a spectator but as a participant in a debate that probed one of the thorniest dilemmas of contemporary discourse: This House Would Cancel Cancel Culture.

To speak from the same benches where Indira Gandhi once spoke with her imperious calm was a moment steeped in symbolism. But I came not as a statesperson or Nobel laureate, but an Ayurvedic physician pursuing a degree in Evidence-Based Health Care. My academic home, Kellogg College, and my administrative role as Director of Strategy on the Union committee, might have afforded me proximity to such events but nothing prepared me for the intellectual intensity of standing before a full house to make the case for cancelling ‘cancel culture.’

The irony is not lost on me. ‘Cancel culture’ was born, in part, from an urge to demand accountability. It empowered the powerless to challenge entrenched hierarchies and speak truth to abuse. In its earliest manifestations, it resembled a form of democratic reckoning. But somewhere along the way, the noble impulse mutated. I argued that it now resembles a digital guillotine, swinging with indiscriminate force.

The modern avatar of ‘cancel culture’ tolerates no nuance. A poorly phrased comment, a misstep in youth, or an opinion unpopular with the digital chorus can trigger reputational ruin. It no longer confines itself to the powerful or the predatory; it has become an omnivorous mechanism, devouring professors, comedians, researchers and students alike. The result is not accountability but anxiety. We have created a culture of fear in the guise of progress.

My speech centred on this evolution, on how a once-useful tool has hardened into dogma. The chilling effect on open discourse is palpable, particularly in academic spaces where dissent should be protected, not punished. Self-censorship has replaced curiosity; silence now masquerades as virtue.

In calling for the cancellation of ‘cancel culture,’ I was not advocating impunity. Rather, I was championing the values of proportionality, redemption and reasoned engagement. Accountability, I suggested, must make space for growth. Public life should not resemble a courtroom without appeal.

That evening, I watched as speakers on both sides of the aisle summoned history, morality and wit to bolster their arguments. There were moments of tension and moments of surprising humour. But what struck me most was the rare generosity of listening. In the end, our side - the proposition - won the vote. Yet victory felt secondary to the act of collective thinking. This was not theatre, though it had its drama; it was discourse, in the oldest and best sense of the word.

Reflecting on that evening, what lingers is not the adrenaline, nor the applause, but the responsibility. To occupy that chamber is to be reminded that free speech is not license, but duty. It must be wielded with humility, fortified by facts and tempered by empathy.

The Union debate was not just a notch on a CV; it was a personal reckoning with what kind of citizen I aspire to be - one who believes in dialogue over dogma, in complexity over caricature, and in second chances. In the end, what I took away was not a resolution, but a question: what kind of society do we become when we confuse justice with erasure? I left the Union that night with more conviction than when I entered - not just in my argument, but in the necessity of keeping debate alive, uncomfortable though it may sometimes be.

(The author is a Pune-based student.)