Chinese leaders have unveiled their plans to revive the economy during the National People’s Congress.

The past few weeks have felt like a Cold War thriller in which an enemy agent somehow infiltrates the top of the United States government. Soldiers fighting for democracy have been abandoned to die in the field. The U.S. president vows to annex Canada, Greenland, and the Panama Canal. Long-established alliances are suddenly teetering. Economic bungling has pushed the country toward recession. The only beneficiaries of this bizarre series of MAGA outrages have been America’s geopolitical enemies.

Those of us who have reported for any length of time on the pro-Trump movement are called upon again and again to explain what is happening and why. We attend conferences, join television programs, and meet foreign reporters. And when we do, we find ourselves confronted with what I call the opioid dispenser.

[J. D. Vance: Opioid of the masses]

The opioid dispenser might be a politician, a business leader, or an academic. Whatever their basis of authority, the opioid dispenser offers a message of reassurance:

Yes, these recent actions are very provocative. But they are driven by serious strategic purposes. [Insert an imagined rationale here.] We should focus on the signal, not the noise. It’s a wake-up call, not the end of the world. We must take Trump seriously, but not literally. [Multiply clichés until the allotted time is exhausted.]

I compare these bromides to opioids because they soothe immediate pain, but only at the risk of severe long-term harm. Chemical opioids work by blocking pain receptors in the individual brain. Similarly, these calming messages about Donald Trump work by dulling the collective mind.

At a conference on European security, the opioid dispenser may tell you that Trump is hostile to the European allies because they do not spend enough on defense.

If that were true, then you’d think that increasing defense spending would allay Trump’s hostility. Instead, the administration’s de facto chief operating officer, Elon Musk, publicly insulted Poland, America’s European ally with the most robust defense program on the continent, now funded to the level of almost 5 percent of GDP. A few days earlier, Trump’s vice president gave a television interview in which he mocked “random” countries that “have not fought a war in 30 to 40 years”—widely seen as a slighting reference to France and Britain (though he denied it). This came days after the United Kingdom announced the biggest, most sustained rise in defense spending since the end of the Cold War. (France had already committed, in 2023, to a near doubling of its defense spending over the subsequent seven years.) Shortly before his jibe, the vice president gave a speech in Munich in which he championed Europe’s pro-Russian parties of the far right and far left. Whatever’s going on here, it is not about a wish for more allied defense spending.

Justifying Trump’s abject support of Russia, another opioid dispenser will explain the pro-Russia tilt as actually a grand strategy to counter China.

That sounds lofty. But the claim unravels upon contact with reality. For sure, an American president who wanted to counter the world’s second-largest economy would want to mobilize strong allies. But Trump has aggressively alienated allies, starting with America’s two immediate neighbors and its historical partners in Europe and the Pacific Rim. It’s not just that Trump wants Russia as an ally; he seems to want nobody else—except maybe Saudi Arabia and El Salvador.

Meanwhile, the Trump administration is not actually standing up to China at all forcefully. During his latest campaign, Trump dismissed Taiwan as undeserving of U.S. protection because it “doesn’t give us anything.” Trump’s ravaging of U.S. foreign-aid programs concedes major influence to China, especially in Africa. Musk is significantly vulnerable to Chinese economic pressure on his large business in that country. Trump himself has taken a huge sum from a Chinese investor for his crypto operations.

Trump’s enthusiasm for Russian President Vladimir Putin—and avidity for Russian money—dates back 20 years. At a time of economic desperation, Trump earned $54 million on the flip of a Palm Beach property. His former lawyer Michael Cohen told MSNBC that Trump regarded the profit to be the result of Putin’s personal influence. Whatever explains the Trump-Putin bond, acclaiming it as a brilliant, Kissinger-like diplomatic pivot doesn’t pass the laugh test.

[David Frum: At least now we know the truth]

An opioid dispenser may try to explain Trump’s anti-Canada economic warfare as an anti-drug policy, a response to the flow of fentanyl south across the Canadian border.

Yet the fentanyl claim was almost immediately exposed as fiction. And if stopping a narcotics flow was the goal, why would the president demand annexation of Canada or parts of Canada? Trump aides have spoken of ejecting Canada from intelligence-sharing agreements, which again is not what you’d do if your goal were to improve cross-border drug enforcement. Maybe Trump’s 51st-state talk is not to be taken literally, but if taken seriously, as the opioid dispensers advise, the message is unmistakable: These are expressions motivated by animus against Canadian sovereignty, not a wish for improved U.S.-Canada cooperation.

To survive a dangerous environment requires accurate assessments of the predators on the prowl.

Inventing an alternative Trump—one more rational and less malignant than the actual Trump—may assuage anxiety. But only temporarily. The invention soon collapses under the burden of its own untruth, wasting time in which the victims of its fiction could have taken more effective action to protect themselves.

With every passing day, it is harder to remember that Elon Musk was not always a political firebrand. The old Musk advocated for his business interests and professed to care deeply about climate change, but he largely stayed out of partisan politics. As a result, he was much more popular. He hosted Saturday Night Live and walked the Met Gala’s red carpet. He also received substantive honors, including election to one of the oldest and grandest institutions of science, the Royal Society. The fellowship put Musk in elevated company: In 2018, he traveled to London to add his signature to the society’s charter, alongside those of Albert Einstein, Charles Darwin, and Isaac Newton.

Thousands of scientists are now calling for Musk’s name to be blotted out from that charter’s fine vellum pages. The effort kicked off last summer, when 74 fellows (out of roughly 1,600) sent a letter to the Royal Society’s leadership, reportedly out of concern that Musk’s X posts were fomenting racial violence in the United Kingdom and could therefore bring the institution into disrepute. In November, one of the signatories, the neuropsychologist Dorothy Bishop, resigned from the Royal Society in protest of what she saw as inaction; her statement cited Musk’s derogatory posts about Anthony Fauci and the billionaire’s promotion of misinformation about vaccines. Then, last month, Stephen Curry, a biologist who is not himself a Royal Society fellow—or a guard on the Golden State Warriors—wrote an open letter calling for Musk’s expulsion, for many of these same reasons. It has since been signed by more than 3,400 scientists, including more than 60 actual fellows.

The society has not taken any disciplinary action in response to these entreaties. Musk himself made no comment on the campaign to oust him until March 2, when Geoffrey Hinton, “the Godfather of AI” (and a member of the Royal Society Class of 1998), lent his voice to the cause. In a reply to Hinton on X, Musk said that only “craven, insecure fools” care about awards and memberships. Despite this I’m-not-mad bravado, Musk seemed stung. He did not respond to emailed questions, but on X, he did accuse Hinton of cruelty. The following evening, the Royal Society convened a meeting to discuss the matter. It took place behind closed doors, and what transpired is still not entirely clear. (In an email to The Atlantic, the society said that all matters relating to individual fellows are dealt with in strict confidence.) According to one report, the society now plans to send a letter to Musk, though what it intends to write was undecided as of last week. At least for now, Musk’s fellowship seems to be safe.

This roiling at the Royal Society comes at a tricky time for scientific institutions, especially universities. Having perhaps waded too far into political disputes in recent years, the leaders of these institutions are now trying to stay out of politics at the precise moment when politicians are trying to damage them. Musk may have been spared, so far, by an understandable desire among the Royal Society’s leadership to stay neutral. Scientific organizations that succumbed to political orthodoxies, or enforced them, have often come to regret it. During the Cold War, some scientists in the United States faced professional penalties or outright ostracization because they were suspected of being Communists. In the Soviet Union, dissenting biologists were shipped to the gulag. At the peak of China’s Cultural Revolution, a physicist who worked on the “Western science” of general relativity could be charged with resistance and denounced at a public rally.

[Read: The death of government expertise]

These cases are extreme, but subtle interminglings of politics and science can be toxic in their own way. They can undermine the atmosphere of free inquiry that gives science its unique power, its ability to sift good ideas from bad in pursuit of a more expansive and refined vision of the universe. Even an institution’s well-meaning statement of support for a social cause may have a chilling effect on any member who does not happen to agree. A scientist’s success is determined in no small part by their peers’ appraisal of their work and character. Scientific institutions should therefore avoid actions that could be interpreted as political litmus tests. They largely do: No university would deny a Donald Trump–supporting grad student’s application for enrollment, at least not as a matter of official policy. And likewise, mere support for Trump should not and would not disqualify Musk from the Royal Society.

Of course, Musk’s support for Trump is not the issue here. In her resignation letter, Bishop raised the matter of his scientific heresies, specifically about vaccines, to argue that he breached the society’s code of conduct, which prohibits fellows from undermining the society’s mission. In 2021, Musk posted and later deleted a cartoon that depicted Bill Gates as a fearmongering villain who was trying to control people with COVID vaccines. In 2023, he insinuated that the NBA player Bronny James’s cardiac arrest could have been a side effect of those vaccines. Outrageous as these posts may be, Musk is allowed to be wrong about some things. Scientists are unevenly brilliant, if they are brilliant at all, and some of the best were heretics or even fools on one scientific issue or another. Lynn Margulis revolutionized evolutionary biology. She also promoted pseudoscientific theories of HIV transmission. Freeman Dyson had a better handle on the physical laws of the universe than almost anyone since Einstein, but he went to his grave a climate-change skeptic. Kicking Margulis and Dyson out of polite scientific society for these consensus violations would have impoverished science.

[Read: The erasing of American science]

The best case for booting Musk from the Royal Society doesn’t concern his beliefs at all. It proceeds from his actions, the way that he is degrading the world of science on Trump’s behalf. In the months since the 2024 election, he has made himself into a tool of Trump’s administration, a chain saw, in his own telling. And with that chain saw, the president has begun dismembering America’s great scientific institutions. The Royal Society is an ancestor of those institutions. During its centuries-long heyday, it funded scientific research that wouldn’t otherwise have been pursued. The National Science Foundation and the National Institutes of Health do this today, on a much larger scale. The Royal Society’s members are right to feel a twinge of solidarity as they watch Musk and his Department of Governmental Efficiency push deep staff cuts at the NSF and the NIH, and hear reports that deeper cuts are to come. In their speed and extent, these force reductions have no precedent in the history of American science.

Musk has done all of this in the name of efficiency, but scientific research is antithetical to unrelenting thrift. Basic research needs some slack to allow for false starts and trial and error. Musk of all people should know this. When the Royal Society announced that Musk would be made a fellow, it cited SpaceX’s advances in rocketry, first and foremost, and rightfully so. The company has made reusable rockets a reality, and if its larger Starship model starts working reliably, it will enable a host of new wonders in space. But SpaceX’s success required long experimental phases and lots of exploded rockets, all of which cost money. A big chunk of that money came from NASA, a scientific institution whose checks are signed by the U.S. taxpayer. Last week, it was reported that NASA, too, will soon face budget cuts. They are said to be concentrated in its science division.

Maybe Musk values scientific institutions only as a means to his personal ends. Maybe he sees them as disposable ladders that he can cast off after he has climbed to new heights of wealth. Either way, scientists are finding it difficult to fight back. They don’t have much money. Their petitions and open letters can be cringeworthy. But at the very least, they ought to withdraw the honors that they have extended to Musk. They don’t have to let him retain the imprimatur and gravitas of the Royal Society, one of the most storied institutions to have come down to us from the Enlightenment. If you give a man a medal, and he returns with a torch to burn your house down, figure out how to stop him, fast. But also: Rip the medal from his chest.

The first time Donald Trump threatened to use the power of the presidency to punish a university, I was the target. At UC Berkeley, where I was chancellor, campus police had at the last moment canceled an appearance by Milo Yiannopoulos, the alt-right political pundit who was then a star at Breitbart News, because of a violent attack on the venue by a group of outside left-wing activists who objected to Yiannopoulos’s presence. In the end, although these protesters caused significant damage both on campus and to shops and businesses in downtown Berkeley, the police restored peace. Yiannopoulos was safely escorted back to his hotel, where he promptly criticized the university for canceling his speech. But on the morning of February 2, 2017, I awoke to a tweet reading: “If U.C. Berkeley does not allow free speech and practices violence on innocent people with a different point of view - NO FEDERAL FUNDS?”

I didn’t worry much about Trump’s threat at the time. I now realize that was a mistake. American universities did not cause the onslaught that the second Trump administration is unleashing upon them. But they would be in a much stronger position today if they had made a proactive case to the public for their own importance—and taken steps to address their very real shortcomings.

In the aftermath of the Yiannopoulos episode and Trump’s tweet, I worried less about the potential loss of federal funding than about the enormous costs of hiring additional police and converting the campus into a riot zone over and over. Berkeley’s commitment to free speech all but guaranteed that more conflict was in store. Yiannopoulos had announced that he would come back, and Ann Coulter soon accepted an invitation to speak at Berkeley as well. For a time, my concerns seemed justified. Berkeley spent millions of dollars to fortify the campus, and pro- and anti-Trump factions continued to clash. Meanwhile, Trump’s first administration largely spared higher education. Despite relentless criticism of universities for their putative anti-conservative bias, federal support for scientific research retained bipartisan support.

[Rose Horowitch: Colleges have no idea how to comply with Trump’s orders]

What I failed to appreciate was that the new administration was preparing the ground for a war on the American university—one that it might have carried out had the first Trump White House been better organized. In the context of crises and protests around controversial speakers, along with the growing preoccupation on campuses with offensive speech and so-called microaggressions, Trump and his allies contorted the idea of free speech to build a narrative that the university, rather than the political right, was the chief threat to the First Amendment. State after state introduced legislation, drawing on a template devised by the conservative Goldwater Institute, purportedly to defend free speech but also to enact draconian protocols for disciplining students who engaged in campus protests deemed to prevent others from speaking. (At least 23 states now have statutes in effect conferring some level of authority to state legislatures to monitor free speech on campus, demanding yearly reports, and imposing harsh new rules for student discipline.) Republican politicians began to include denunciations of universities in their talking points; in a 2021 speech, J. D. Vance declared, “We have to honestly and aggressively attack the universities in this country.”

Now the war has begun in earnest. Trump’s directives to restrict funding for science, especially the mandate to dramatically reduce National Institutes of Health grants for scientific infrastructure, equipment, and lab support—all essential components of university science—will cripple biomedical research across the country. Already, universities are reducing graduate programs and even rescinding informal offers that were made before the spending cuts were announced, and in some cases introducing hiring freezes. If the Trump administration sticks to its decision to cancel $400 million in federal grants to Columbia over the charge of tolerating anti-Semitism, we haven’t seen anything yet.

Nowhere is the assault on universities more pronounced than in the campaign to eradicate DEI. A recent Department of Education “Dear Colleague” letter warned that “using race in decisions pertaining to admissions, hiring, promotion, compensation, financial aid, scholarships, prizes, administrative support, discipline, housing, graduation ceremonies, and all other aspects of student, academic, and campus life” is prohibited. The letter purported to base its guidance on the Supreme Court’s 2023 decision striking down affirmative action, but its language went far beyond the Court’s ruling. The price of noncompliance: no federal funds. This time, I take the threat seriously.

Universities have made two general mistakes in the face of sustained right-wing criticism. First, they have behaved as if their societal value is self-evident. In fact, they need to be far more proactive in communicating the enormous contributions they make to the public good: a campaign not just to defend themselves but to remind the country that our universities are among our most crucial assets. Many of the core elements of the technologies that enable our modern lifestyle—the internet, GPS, new immunological cancer therapies, mRNA vaccines, and medical imaging, to take just a tiny sample—have emerged from academic laboratories. Whether one is concerned about democracy, how scientific research can continue to position the U.S. as a global leader, how to solve global issues such as disease and climate change, or how to maintain a competitive edge with other nations such as China and Russia, we need our universities.

[Read: A new kind of crisis for American universities]

Second, university administrators have too often assumed that because a great deal of conservative criticism of higher education has been made in bad faith, none of it is valid. The truth is that universities have not always honored their commitments to free speech, academic freedom, and open inquiry as well as they should have, and the decline in public support for universities reflects, at least in part, those failures and shortcomings.

Offices of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion named values that for years were largely seen as benign. There was broad agreement that students from underrepresented minorities needed to have the opportunities higher education afforded but required special support to thrive in intense and often hostile academic environments for which they had little preparation or family support. Over the past decade, however, these offices grew in size and influence. With that came legitimate concerns about administrative overreach, bloat, and ineffectiveness.

At the same time, the liberal consensus was unraveling. Some faculty and students had indeed rejected the premise of free speech, noting that when power inflected all social relations, there was nothing like a level playing field; universities, they argued, should side with those lacking power and limit the speech of the powerful. Concerns about the ways in which prejudice was expressed in everyday interactions, often through unintentional slights and statements, not only surfaced as priorities for administrators but were converted into speech codes and protocols. A new language of “harm” was used to prosecute new canon wars, target faculty who offended students in the normal course of teaching, and deploy a new range of techniques to censor, punish, or “cancel” other members of the university community.

All of this came to a head in the protests after the Hamas attacks of October 7, 2023. Without any campus consensus about free speech, open inquiry, and civil discourse, an existing political impasse became even more intractable.

When, as Berkeley chancellor, I was petitioned by student and faculty groups to cancel invitations to speakers like Yiannopoulos and Coulter, I worried that to do so would be to invite censorship more broadly, and that any abrogation of free-speech rules on campus would soon be used against other political positions. I warned campus constituencies that the principle of free speech would not only protect liberals when national politics shifted—as they already had in the first Trump administration—but also help enshrine the university’s larger commitments to open inquiry and academic freedom, serious threats to which had already begun.

Now my fear that any curtailment of free-speech principles by universities would be used against universities is coming to pass. The new administration is targeting any use of race in statements or programs promoting diversity and inclusion. This effort goes far beyond admissions and hiring decisions, to the point of threatening institutions over the content of their curriculum, making a mockery of the administration’s supposed commitment to free speech. And the attacks on campus protests and DEI are just the opening salvo.

[Jonathan Chait: Anti-Semitism is just a pretext]

Governor Ron DeSantis has already signed legislation chilling instruction in disciplines including sociology and Middle East history in Florida’s public universities. Given the cuts to science funding at the federal level, we may soon see efforts to control the teaching of climate science, or biology, and maybe even evolution once again. The playbook to take “back” universities includes much more than what we have so far seen.

Federal support for scientific research, and for financial aid for students, is part of the postwar social contract that was articulated at a time when America recognized the need for as many of its citizens as possible to receive a university education and for American science to become preeminent. America’s universities, and its science, grew to be the best in the world.

This is the time to rearticulate and defend the unparalleled value of our research universities. They are the envy of nations around the globe. We attract the best and the brightest to our shores as students, researchers, and teachers. Creating these extraordinary institutions took the better part of a century, but they can be destroyed very quickly. The attack on the university may eventually backfire politically, but not before it does enormous damage. As higher-education leaders resist efforts to undermine and punish universities for their commitment to knowledge, science, and truth, they must also take care to deliver on the promises they make. Only then will the defense stand a chance of succeeding against the current assault.

China announces meeting with Russia and Iran amid UNSC talks over nuclear programme as Trump letter heads to Tehran.

The exercises are aimed at strengthening cooperation between the three countries as Iran accuses US of 'bullying'.