A sperm donor fathers more than 150 children. A cryobank misleads prospective parents about a donor’s stellar credentials and spotless health record. A cancer survivor’s eggs are stored in a glorified meat locker that malfunctions, ruining her chance at biological motherhood. A doctor implants a dozen embryos in a woman, inviting life-threatening complications. A clinic puts a couple’s embryos into the wrong woman—and the biological parents have no recourse.

All of these things have happened in America. There’s no reason they won’t happen again.

When the Alabama Supreme Court ruled in February that frozen embryos are children, effectively banning in vitro fertilization, it produced an uproar. In response, the state legislature quickly granted IVF clinics sweeping immunity, regardless of what egregious errors they may make. This is the way the debate over assisted reproduction has typically played out in the United States: A vocal minority asserts that embryos are people and calls for total bans of reproductive technology; meanwhile, the industry goes unregulated, leaving prospective parents with few safeguards and even fewer options when things go wrong. Unconsidered are all the patients who want IVF to be legal and also want it to be regulated like any other medical practice.

[Read: The people rooting for the end of IVF]

People across the political spectrum should be concerned about how underregulated fertility care is. The stakes are high. An estimated 9 percent of American adults have used some form of assisted reproduction by the end of their childbearing years—including in vitro fertilization, intrauterine insemination, and donor gametes. One out of every 50 babies born in the United States was conceived via IVF. Many of the hundreds of thousands of people who show up at clinics each year are desperate; the tissues that they entrust to these clinics frequently represent their only hope of biological parenthood. In a country that claims to care about families, the dearth of regulation represents a failure that cuts across party lines.

Kaitlyn Abdou spent $165,000 on IVF and never had a child. Although she experienced multiple miscarriages using artificial insemination and paid for an insurance plan with full fertility benefits, her insurer denied her coverage because, as a single, queer woman, she didn’t meet Massachusetts’s definition of infertility: a man and a woman who are unable to conceive after one year of trying. Like thousands of other Americans, Abdou fell through the cracks of inconsistent state-by-state mandates. So she sold her house to pay for the treatments.

At the clinic, CNY Fertility, Abdou struggled to understand her options, because there were so many different potential add-ons to her treatment, many of which seemed to be backed by shaky science. Without large-scale studies and clinical best practices to consult, Abdou felt, like many patients, that the best medical information came from anecdotes in Facebook groups. After four months of doctor-ordered human-growth-hormone injections—a common tactic to try to improve egg quality, though not FDA-approved—Abdou’s right ovary burst during an egg retrieval. Despite the pain, the clinic sent Abdou home. She woke up in agony and then headed to the emergency room, where she learned that she was bleeding internally. “If I had slept through the night,” she told me, “I probably would have bled out and died.”

At times, Abdou wondered if the lab had mishandled her embryos; when several blastocysts that had been developing well were suddenly not viable, Abdou couldn’t tell if the reason was chance or poor protocols. No one warned her that she might continue to lose one pregnancy after another: Over three years, she had five miscarriages before giving up. Her care team cited the importance of “staying positive.” But with each round of treatment, the clinic made more money. Abdou received no guidance about when to stop or information about how likely she was to succeed. (CNY Fertility did not respond to a request for comment.)

After hearing horror stories from patients at other clinics, about freezers malfunctioning and doctors withholding basic information on embryo quality and ultrasound results, Abdou feels like her experience could have been far worse. “I was lucky,” she said.

The U.S. fertility industry is unique in its lack of rules and oversight, compared with other countries and other fields of medicine. From the field’s inception, lawmakers have declined to regulate it. In the 1980s, anti-abortion conservatives blocked initial efforts at IVF regulation because of discomfort with the creation and destruction of embryos, as well as the perceived threat to morality posed by decoupling sex and reproduction. Although Democrats led the congressional hearings fighting for oversight, liberals also feared that restricting what could be done would limit who could access it, and would end up excluding single people and same-sex couples (who are, in fact, barred from accessing IVF in many other countries, including France, Italy, and China).

Dov Fox, a reproductive-law professor at the University of San Diego and the author of Birth Rights and Wrongs, told me that Congress “just threw up their hands and said, ‘We’ll let the private sector sort it out.’”

American consumers were left with the barest of federal rules—one law requiring testing donor sperm and eggs for sexually transmitted diseases, another requiring clinics to report their pregnancy and birth rates—with no penalties for noncompliance. Additionally, the FDA will not approve techniques that genetically modify embryos. In this vacuum, a patchwork of state statutes and case law developed, creating “a confusing legal tangle” for patients, according to Margaret Marsh, a professor at Rutgers University and a co-author of The Pursuit of Parenthood. For the most part, the industry is self-regulated by professional bodies that have no enforcement power, besides referring reckless doctors to state medical boards.

Ironically, by opting out, the federal government played an enormous role in shaping the fertility industry and causing it to diverge from other medical specialties. In 1995, two Republican members of Congress added an appropriations-bill rider that banned federal funding of embryo research—a provision that still stands. In most medical fields, government grants get new treatments off the ground, which leads to rules, best practices, and data-collection guidelines meant to serve the public interest. In assisted reproduction, this is all absent. Wanda Ronner, a professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, and the other co-author of The Pursuit of Parenthood, told me, “We don’t even have independent, peer-reviewed research funded by the NIH to say ‘What’s the most effective way to make sure the embryo is okay to transfer?’ or even ‘What temperature to freeze the embryos?’ We don’t even have a lot of information on these fertility drugs and how they impact you.”

Basic facts continue to elude researchers. “We do not even know how many frozen embryos we have in this country,” Marsh told me. The last count was performed 20 years ago and found 400,000. Today, “we have no idea.”  

Unlike new cancer drugs and novel surgeries, which go through multiple rounds of trials before receiving FDA approval, “a lot of innovation in fertility is clinical,” Sonia Suter, a law professor at George Washington University and a co-author of Reproductive Technologies and the Law, told me. Usually performed on small samples of patients, many of these experiments “don’t even require going through the research process.” This means patients like Abdou are left with sparse information about efficacy; instead, they are often test subjects themselves.

Because of the federal research-funding ban, Fox told me, “assisted reproduction grew up less as a medical practice or research than as a business activity.”

[Yuval Levin and O. Carter Snead: The real lessons of the Alabama IVF ruling]

Ordinary safeguards are often absent. Every area of health care has so-called never events: catastrophic failures that are never supposed to happen, such as amputating the wrong limb or forgetting a scalpel inside a patient’s abdomen. The government requires hospitals to report these incidents—but no agency tracks reproductive disasters. Whereas donor blood is usually barcoded and drug storage frequently requires fingerprints to unlock, Fox points to multiple cases of egg and sperm banks labeling tissue with pen and paper.

This lack of oversight extends into almost every aspect of assisted reproduction. The U.S. has no federal limits on how many times a man can donate sperm—leading to donors with hundreds of offspring and a rise in accidental incest between donor-conceived half-siblings. No one holds cryobanks responsible for the information that they provide customers. One bank promoted its most popular donor as a genius athlete with a Ph.D. and perfect health. In reality, he was a college dropout with a rap sheet. According to Fox, who produced a podcast about the case, “They know that nothing is going to be checked and that they can make more money if they lie.”

Sex selection, banned in almost every other country, is big business in the United States. Genetic tests paired with IVF enable prospective parents to identify and implant either male or female embryos. This is illegal in Canada, Australia, and every European nation besides Cyprus, except in rare cases to avoid passing on X-chromosome-linked diseases. But in 2018, an estimated 75 percent of American clinics offered sex selection for nonmedical reasons, with the majority allowing people to undergo IVF solely to pick a son or a daughter—despite a 1999 condemnation from the professional body overseeing reproductive medicine. (It has since updated its position to a neutral stance.) Jeffrey Steinberg, a pioneer of the procedure who practices in California, estimates that trait selection comprises 5 to 10 percent of the American IVF market, or up to $90 million annually.

New polygenic tests—which sequence embryos’ genomes and promise parents the ability to select those at the lowest risk for obesity, bipolar disorder, and other conditions—are attacked by critics as “Eugenics 2.0” yet are completely unregulated by the FDA. Most countries ban these tests, along with their marketing claims. But in the U.S., parents can use raw genetic data to pick embryos based on whatever criteria they want. They can even go online to find dubious advice about how to choose the smartest, tallest, most attractive offspring.

Steinberg defended the status quo, telling me that regulation risks “putting the handcuffs on scientists.” He added, “If there’s anything society should have learned, it’s Keep their hands off of people’s reproductive choices.” Like many other fertility specialists, Steinberg uses the rhetoric of choice, borrowed from the abortion debate, to argue for loose regulations—a tactic that might backfire and imperil IVF as abortion restrictions mount across the nation.

Despite its shortcomings, the U.S. fertility industry is booming. People travel from all over the world to get care here. Some seek services that are illegal elsewhere, such as sex selection, the purchase of donor gametes, and commercial surrogacy. Others can’t get care in their home country because they are single, queer, older, or ill.

When negative outcomes arise, one could argue “that’s a price we’re willing to pay for a medicine of miracles that fills empty cribs and frees families of terrible diseases,” Fox said.

No matter how hard clinics try, Steinberg said, mistakes are the cost of doing business. “Embryos are treated with the utmost respect, just like humans,” he told me. “But it’s never to say that a human doesn’t get sucked out of the window of an airplane or that an embryo doesn’t get dropped on the floor. It can happen. ... Life is life. Not everything will be absolutely perfect.”

Reproductive technology can bring prospective parents great hope—which makes its failures especially brutal.

Georgette Fleischer believes that she was the victim of fertility fraud. Fleischer quickly conceived her first child using donor gametes, but when she came back to give her six-month-old daughter a sibling with remaining gametes, New Hope Fertility Center, in New York, couldn’t produce a single viable embryo. According to a lawsuit Fleischer filed, New Hope denied her access to her medical records multiple times; when she finally got them, she learned that previously healthy sperm were now nearly all immotile or deformed. (The clinic created the embryos anyway, without informing Fleischer.)

Eventually, Fleischer found a paper in the prestigious journal Fertility and Sterility published by the chief executive of New Hope, John Zhang, that documented his trials in freeze-drying and reconstituting sperm. The dates overlapped with Fleischer’s treatment, and the consequences resembled what had happened to her sperm, leading Fleischer to believe that Zhang had experimented on her tissue without asking her.

“I was the perfect guinea pig,” Fleischer told me. She believes that she was targeted because she was an older single mother, reliant on both donor eggs and sperm. But even if Fleischer can prove that she was the victim of Zhang’s experimentation, only nine states have laws against experimenting on reproductive material without a patient’s consent. New York isn’t one of them.

Fleischer reported Zhang to the FDA and the New York Department of Health, but she may never know the outcome. Her lawsuit laid out 12 claims; the judge dismissed all but medical malpractice and lack of informed consent. She’s appealing, claiming that the damage extends far beyond those narrow categories. But these cases are so hard to win, Fleischer told me, that she couldn’t find a lawyer and has had to represent herself. (In court filings, New Hope Fertility Center and Zhang denied Fleischer’s allegations; neither party responded to multiple requests for comment.)

Fleischer exemplifies the vulnerability and desperation that many fertility patients feel, turning to technology when they can’t conceive because of age, cancer, risk of heritable diseases, sexual orientation, or lack of a partner. Clinical failures “leave those people who were already disadvantaged doubly or triply so,” Fox said.

Marsh, the historian, told me that under the current system, “infertile people are being robbed.” A lack of clear information means that patients don’t know how to get the best care, scrambling while time runs out. Ronner, at Penn, said she and Marsh believe that reactionary, piecemeal approaches will only make things worse: “We worry that without clear national policies on assisted reproduction, access to IVF and control over embryos could become as difficult in many states as access to abortion already is.” She added that although IVF is available now, “that could change in a minute.”

A decade ago, the CDC created an action plan for addressing infertility as a public-health issue; Ronner and Marsh point to its suggestions as a great place to start reform. They also advocate for creating a “distinctly American” version of the United Kingdom’s Human Fertilization and Embryology Authority, an independent body that oversees both research and clinical care.

[Read: The calendar of human fertility is changing]

Most other industrialized nations provide, subsidize, or mandate insurance coverage of IVF, which gives them a strong incentive to regulate the industry. This could eventually happen in the U.S.; 21 states and the District of Columbia now require insurance to cover some infertility treatment. But even that assistance is uneven: Arkansas, one of the few states to explicitly mandate IVF coverage, restricts that mandate to heterosexual married couples only.

Although abortion remains a controversial political issue, the response to the Alabama Supreme Court’s ruling—and the state’s swift passage of a law to protect IVF—shows broad support for family-building technology. According to a recent CBS/YouGov poll, 86 percent of Americans believe that IVF should be legal. Perhaps the uproar in response to the Alabama decision provides an opportunity to protect patients and provide guardrails around the treatments that create much-wanted children, without leaving regulation to the whims of the marketplace or reactionary rulings.

America already has a model for regulation: the military. Eight military hospitals provide IVF at about a quarter of the average cost. Security protocols are strict, according to Donald Royster, a retired Air Force colonel and former head of the military IVF center at San Antonio Military Medical Center. Expensive add-ons, including preimplantation genetic testing, are far less common, keeping costs down while dodging thorny ethical questions.

Patients also need specific ways to seek relief when things go wrong, according to Fox. Legislation and jurisprudence should recognize the special status of eggs, embryos, and sperm, instead of pretending that they are “lost property or killed persons or a broken contract or even medical malpractice.”

Failing to acknowledge this only politicizes and imperils fertility care. Patient safety, accurate advertising, and legal accountability should not be partisan issues.

Nick Wilson, a sophomore at Cornell University, came to Ithaca, New York, to refine his skills as an activist. Attracted by both Cornell’s labor-relations school and the university’s history of campus radicalism, he wrote his application essay about his involvement with a Democratic Socialists of America campaign to pass the Protecting the Right to Organize Act. When he arrived on campus, he witnessed any number of signs that Cornell shared his commitment to not just activism but also militant protest, taking note of a plaque commemorating the armed occupation of Willard Straight Hall in 1969.

Cornell positively romanticizes that event: The university library has published a “Willard Straight Hall Occupation Study Guide,” and the office of the dean of students once co-sponsored a panel on the protest. The school has repeatedly screened a documentary about the occupation, Agents of Change. The school’s official newspaper, published by the university media-relations office, ran a series of articles honoring the 40th anniversary, in 2009, and in 2019, Cornell held a yearlong celebration for the 50th, complete with a commemorative walk, a dedication ceremony, and a public conversation with some of the occupiers. “Occupation Anniversary Inspires Continued Progress,” the Cornell Chronicle headline read.

As Wilson has discovered firsthand, however, the school’s hagiographical odes to prior protests has not prevented it from cracking down on pro-Palestine protests in the present. Now that he has been suspended for the very thing he told Cornell he came there to learn how to do—radical political organizing—he is left reflecting on the school’s hypocrisies. That the theme of this school year at Cornell is “Freedom of Expression” adds a layer of grim humor to the affair.

[Evan Mandery: University of hypocrisy]

University leaders are in a bind. “These protests are really dynamic situations that can change from minute to minute,” Stephen Solomon, who teaches First Amendment law and is the director of NYU’s First Amendment Watch—an organization devoted to free speech—told me. “But the obligation of universities is to make the distinction between speech protected by the First Amendment and speech that is not.” Some of the speech and tactics protesters are employing may not be protected under the First Amendment, while much of it plainly is. The challenge universities are confronting is not just the law but also their own rhetoric. Many universities at the center of the ongoing police crackdowns have long sought to portray themselves as bastions of activism and free thought. Cornell is one of many universities that champion their legacy of student activism when convenient, only to bring the hammer down on present-day activists when it’s not. The same colleges that appeal to students such as Wilson by promoting opportunities for engagement and activism are now suspending them. And they’re calling the cops.

The police activity we are seeing universities level against their own students does not just scuff the carefully cultivated progressive reputations of elite private universities such as Columbia, Emory University, and NYU, or the equally manicured free-speech bona fides of red-state public schools such as Indiana University and the University of Texas at Austin. It also exposes what these universities have become in the 21st century. Administrators have spent much of the recent past recruiting social-justice-minded students and faculty to their campuses under the implicit, and often explicit, promise that activism is not just welcome but encouraged. Now the leaders of those universities are shocked to find that their charges and employees believed them. And rather than try to understand their role in cultivating this morass, the Ivory Tower’s bigwigs have decided to apply their boot heels to the throats of those under their care.

I spoke with 30 students, professors, and administrators from eight schools—a mix of public and private institutions across the United States—to get a sense of the disconnect between these institutions’ marketing of activism and their treatment of protesters. A number of people asked to remain anonymous. Some were untenured faculty or administrators concerned about repercussions from, or for, their institutions. Others were directly involved in organizing protests and were wary of being harassed. Several incoming students I spoke with were worried about being punished by their school before they even arrived. Despite a variety of ideological commitments and often conflicting views on the protests, many of those I interviewed were “shocked but not surprised”—a phrase that came up time and again—by the hypocrisy exhibited by the universities with which they were affiliated. (I reached out to Columbia, NYU, Cornell, and Emory for comment on the disconnect between their championing of past protests and their crackdowns on the current protesters. Representatives from Columbia, Cornell, and Emory pointed me to previous public statements. NYU did not respond.)

The sense that Columbia trades on the legacy of the Vietnam protests that rocked campus in 1968 was widespread among the students I spoke with. Indeed, the university honors its activist past both directly and indirectly, through library archives, an online exhibit, an official “Columbia 1968” X account, no shortage of anniversary articles in Columbia Magazine, and a current course titled simply “Columbia 1968.” The university is sometimes referred to by alumni and aspirants as the “Protest Ivy.” One incoming student told me that he applied to the school in part because of an admissions page that prominently listed community organizers and activists among its “distinguished alumni.”

Joseph Slaughter, an English professor and the executive director of Columbia’s Institute for the Study of Human Rights, talked with his class about the 1968 protests after the recent arrests at the school. He said his students felt that the university had actively marketed its history to them. “Many, many, many of them said they were sold the story of 1968 as part of coming to Columbia,” he told me. “They talked about it as what the university presents to them as the long history and tradition of student activism. They described it as part of the brand.”

This message reaches students before they take their first college class. As pro-Palestine demonstrations began to raise tensions on campus last month, administrators were keen to cast these protests as part of Columbia’s proud culture of student activism. The aforementioned high-school senior who had been impressed by Columbia’s activist alumni attended the university’s admitted-students weekend just days before the April 18 NYPD roundup. During the event, the student said, an admissions official warned attendees that they may experience “disruptions” during their visit, but boasted that these were simply part of the school’s “long and robust history of student protest.”

Remarkably, after more than 100 students were arrested on the order of Columbia President Minouche Shafik—in which she overruled a unanimous vote by the university senate’s executive committee not to bring the NYPD to campus—university administrators were still pushing this message to new students and parents. An email sent on April 19 informed incoming students that “demonstration, political activism, and deep respect for freedom of expression have long been part of the fabric of our campus.” Another email sent on April 20 again promoted Columbia’s tradition of activism, protest, and support of free speech. “This can sometimes create moments of tension,” the email read, “but the rich dialogue and debate that accompany this tradition is central to our educational experience.”

[Evelyn Douek and Genevieve Lakier: The hypocrisy underlying the campus-speech controversy]

Another student who attended a different event for admitted students, this one on April 21, said that every administrator she heard speak paid lip service to the school’s long history of protest. Her own feelings about the pro-Palestine protests were mixed—she said she believes that a genocide is happening in Gaza and also that some elements of the protest are plainly anti-Semitic—but her feelings about Columbia’s decision to involve the police were unambiguous. “It’s reprehensible but exactly what an Ivy League institution would do in this situation. I don’t know why everyone is shocked,” she said, adding: “It makes me terrified to go there.”

Beth Massey, a veteran activist who participated in the 1968 protests, told me with a laugh, “They might want to tell us they’re progressive, but they’re doing the business of the ruling class.” She was not surprised by the harsh response to the current student encampment or by the fact that it lit the fuse on a nationwide protest movement. Massey had been drawn to the radical reputation of Columbia’s sister school, Barnard College, as an open-minded teenager from the segregated South: “I actually wanted to go to Barnard because they had a history of progressive struggle that had happened going all the way back into the ’40s.” And the barn-burning history that appealed to Massey in the late 1960s has continued to attract contemporary students, albeit with one key difference: Today, that radical history has become part of the way that Barnard and Columbia sell their $60,000-plus annual tuition.

Of course, Columbia is not alone. The same trends have also prevailed at NYU, which likes to crow about its own radical history and promises contemporary students “a world of activism opportunities.” An article published on the university’s website in March—titled “Make a Difference Through Activism at NYU”—promises students “myriad chances to put your activism into action.” The article points to campus institutions that “provide students with resources and opportunities to spark activism and change both on campus and beyond.” The six years I spent as a graduate student at NYU gave me plenty of reasons to be cynical about the university and taught me to view all of this empty activism prattle as white noise. But even I was astounded to see a video of students and faculty set upon by the NYPD, arrested at the behest of President Linda Mills.

“Across the board, there is a heightened awareness of hypocrisy,” Mohamad Bazzi, a journalism professor at NYU, told me, noting that faculty were acutely conscious of the gap between the institution’s intensive commitment to DEI and the police crackdown. The university has recently made several “cluster hires”—centered on activism-oriented themes such as anti-racism, social justice, and indigeneity—that helped diversify the faculty. Some of those recent hires were among the people who spent a night zip-tied in a jail cell, arrested for the exact kind of activism that had made them attractive to NYU in the first place. And it wasn’t just faculty. The law students I spoke with were especially acerbic. After honing her activism skills at her undergraduate institution—another university that recently saw a violent police response to pro-Palestine protests—one law student said she came to NYU because she was drawn to its progressive reputation and its high percentage of prison-abolitionist faculty. This irony was not lost on her as the police descended on the encampment.

After Columbia students were arrested on April 18, students at NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study decided to cancel a planned art festival and instead use the time to make sandwiches as jail support for their detained uptown peers. The school took photos of the students layering cold cuts on bread and posted it to Gallatin’s official Instagram. These posts not only failed to mention that the students were working in support of the pro-Palestine protesters; the caption—“making sandwiches for those in need”—implied that the undergrads might be preparing meals for, say, the homeless.

The contradictions on display at Cornell, Columbia, and NYU are not limited to the state of New York. The police response at Emory, another university that brags about its tradition of student protest, was among the most disturbing I have seen. Faculty members I spoke with at the Atlanta school, including two who had been arrested—the philosophy professor Noëlle McAfee and the English and Indigenous-studies professor Emil’ Keme—recounted harrowing scenes: a student being knocked down, an elderly woman struggling to breathe after tear-gas exposure, a colleague with welts from rubber bullets. These images sharply contrast with the university’s progressive mythmaking, a process that was in place even before 2020’s “summer of racial reckoning” sent universities scrambling to shore up their activist credentials.

In 2018, Emory’s Campus Life office partnered with students and a design studio to begin work on an exhibit celebrating the university’s history of identity-based activism. Then, not long after George Floyd’s murder, the university’s library released a series of blog posts focusing on topics including “Black Student Activism at Emory,” “Protests and Movements,” “Voting Rights and Public Policy,” and “Authors and Artists as Activists.” That same year, the university announced its new Arts and Social Justice Fellows initiative, a program that “brings Atlanta artists into Emory classrooms to help students translate their learning into creative activism in the name of social justice.” In 2021, the university put on an exhibit celebrating its 1969 protests, in which “Black students marched, demonstrated, picketed, and ‘rapped’ on those institutions affecting the lives of workers and students at Emory.” Like Cornell’s and Columbia’s, Emory’s protests seem to age like fine wine: It takes half a century before the institution begins enjoying them.

Nearly every person I talked with believed that their universities’ responses were driven by donors, alumni, politicians, or some combination thereof. They did not believe that they were grounded in serious or reasonable concerns about the physical safety of students; in fact, most felt strongly that introducing police into the equation had made things far more dangerous for both pro-Palestine protesters and pro-Israel counterprotesters. Jeremi Suri, a historian at UT Austin—who told me he is not politically aligned with the protesters—recalls pleading with both the dean of students and the mounted state troopers to call off the charge. “It was like the Russian army had come onto campus,” Suri mused. “I was out there for 45 minutes to an hour. I’m very sensitive to anti-Semitism. Nothing anti-Semitic was said.” He added: “There was no reason not to let them shout until their voices went out.”

[From the May 1930 issue: Hypocrisy–a defense]

As one experienced senior administrator at a major research university told me, the conflagration we are witnessing shows how little many university presidents understand either their campus communities or the young people who populate them. “When I saw what Columbia was doing, my immediate thought was: They have not thought about day two,” he said, laughing. “If you confront an 18-year-old activist, they don’t back down. They double down.” That’s what happened in 1968, and it’s happening again now. Early Tuesday morning, Columbia students occupied Hamilton Hall—the site of the 1968 occupation, which they rechristened Hind’s Hall in honor of a 6-year-old Palestinian girl killed in Gaza—in response to the university’s draconian handling of the protests. They explicitly tied these events to the university’s past, calling out its hypocrisy on Instagram: “This escalation is in line with the historical student movements of 1968 … which Columbia repressed then and celebrates today.” The university, for its part, responded now as it did then: Late on Tuesday, the NYPD swarmed the campus in an overnight raid that led to the arrest of dozens of students.

The students, professors, and administrators I’ve spoken with in recent days have made clear that this hypocrisy has not gone unnoticed and that the crackdown isn’t working, but making things worse. The campus resistance has expanded to include faculty and students who were originally more ambivalent about the protests and, in a number of cases, who support Israel. They are disturbed by what they rightly see as violations of free expression, the erosion of faculty governance, and the overreach of administrators. Above all, they’re fed up with the incandescent hypocrisy of institutions, hoisted with their own progressive petards, as the unstoppable force of years’ worth of self-righteous rhetoric and pseudo-radical posturing meets the immovable object of students who took them at their word.

In another video published by The Cornell Daily Sun, recorded only hours after he was suspended, Nick Wilson explained to a crowd of student protesters what had brought him to the school. “In high school, I discovered my passion, which was community organizing for a better world. I told Cornell University that’s why I wanted to be here,” he said, referencing his college essay. Then he paused for emphasis, looking around as his peers began to cheer. “And those fuckers admitted me.”

Students say they have lost trust and are in limbo after New York officers arrested Gaza protesters.