Russian citizens studying and working at Central European University say the Russian government’s blacklisting of the liberal-arts institution puts them in a precarious position, exposing them to penalties or even prosecution if they return to their home country.
And they are disappointed that the Vienna-based university, which has a reputation for standing up to authoritarian governments, has not done more to support or advocate for its Russian students and staff members.
“It’s the criminalization of studying at Central European University,” said Irina, a Russian doctoral student. (The Chronicle is using pseudonyms for Irina and other Russians at the university because of their concerns that speaking publicly could put them at risk.) “We didn’t expect our university to be so passive.”
In October, the Russian Prosecutor General’s Office designated the university, also known as CEU, as an “undesirable” organization, accusing it of promoting an “anti-Russian agenda imbued with hatred of Russia and its multinational people” and, through its educational programs, working to “discredit” the Russian government and its military operations in Ukraine.
Under Russian law, undesirable organizations are forbidden from all activity and operations in the country, and anyone affiliated with them could be subject to fines or imprisonment.
Some 116 human-rights groups, nongovernmental organizations, think tanks, and educational institutions have been designated as undesirable since the law took effect in 2015, including the Wilson Center, in Washington, D.C., and Bard College, in New York. Like Bard, CEU has a mission of spreading liberal-arts education and is tied to George Soros, the progressive philanthropist and civil-society activist.
In a written statement released after the announcement, the university said it condemned the decision and refuted the accusations: “As a university committed to academic excellence, critical independent inquiry, and the pursuit of knowledge, we view this designation as serious restriction of our freedom to cooperate with Russian institutions and individuals, undermining our right to pursue teaching and research based on the highest academic standards.” The statement added that the university hoped Russian authorities would reconsider their decision.
It could be expected, but it also came as a shock.
Still, CEU said it would cease all educational and research collaboration with Russian partners and would no longer promote its degree programs in the country.
In recent years, the Russian government, under President Vladimir Putin, has sought to limit dissent on university campuses, squeezing academic freedom and restricting international scholarly outreach. This effort, which has accelerated since the Russian invasion of Ukraine, in February 2022, is an about-face from an earlier period of academic openness and engagement.
Despite the more repressive environment, Russian students and staff members at CEU said they were both surprised and alarmed when news of the designation began to circulate on Telegram, a secure messaging app. “It could be expected, but it also came as a shock,” said Julia, another Russian doctoral student. “It’s an unprecedented attack of an authoritarian government on an educational institutional in a democratic country.”
The law’s language is vague — purposefully so, many believe — and it’s unclear just how it might affect the roughly 100 Russian citizens who study, teach, or work at CEU, as well as Russian alumni of the university. Under the law, involvement with the “organizing activities of an undesirable organization” is illegal, punishable by up to six years in prison.
But what constitutes involvement? Would it apply to those on the CEU payroll, teaching in its classrooms, doing research in its laboratories or institutes, or recruiting its students? Would enrolling at the university be sufficient? What about participating in conferences or other events organized by CEU or publishing in academic journals under an institutional affiliation?
Some students and scholars have been politically active, opposing the Russian war in Ukraine or other government policies. And it’s possible that even families paying tuition for undergraduates studying at the university could be exposed under the law, said Alex, a researcher at CEU from Russia.
“The problem is, in part, that no one knows how the law works in practice because it’s been very arbitrary in the way its carried out,” Julia said.
Grad Students Especially Vulnerable
So far, a handful of activists in Russia have been charged under the law, and several have been convicted. An American professor at a Russian university with ties to Bard was deported.
Graduate students like Julia and Irina said they feel particularly vulnerable because they are studying at CEU and employed there, as teaching or research assistants. Conference presentations and journal articles — the coins of the realm for those pursuing academic careers — are public records of their association with the university.
The students said they were told by CEU administrators that they could transfer. But both women are several years into their doctoral programs and said that doing so is impractical because Ph.D. programs rarely accept late-stage transfers.
There’s also a question of what happens after they graduate. The academic job market in Europe is tough, while returning to Russia with CEU on their résumés could make them unhirable, as well as subject to prosecution. In the past, having a degree from a prestigious western institution like CEU was advantageous in landing a job at a Russian university.
For now, the students can remain in Austria on their student visas, and Julia said she is in no hurry to finish her dissertation, on Russian authoritarianism — a subject that could put her additionally at risk.
Russian students and staff members face a catch-22: They don’t qualify for asylum in Austria because none has been charged under the undesirable law. Other European countries, like Germany, offer humanitarian visas, but lawyers have told them they would be denied because they are currently in a “safe” country.
Little Guidance From Leaders
The students and staff members said they have repeatedly approached CEU administrators for assistance. Among their suggestions: The university could help undergraduates or early-stage graduate students transfer to other institutions in Europe or the United States or Canada. It could offer research fellowships so graduating students could remain in Austria longer. It could aid students and employees in finding lawyers. It could use its clout and its association with the Open Society Foundations, started by Soros to promote civil society, democracy, and education, to press national governments to make exceptions to asylum or visa laws, to seek support from the European Union, or to raise the profile of the students’ situation with human-rights and academic-freedom groups.
“CEU has all the connections,” said Raisa, an undergraduate student. “Not us.”
But the students said they have gotten little guidance from university leaders, aside from advice to remove references to CEU from their social-media accounts and assertions that they can transfer or avoid travel to Russia if they are worried about possible risks. Several said they had been told by college officials not to talk with reporters about the undesirable designation and its ramifications.
“Most Russian students and scholars feel quite abandoned by the university,” said Alex, the researcher. “The university should not have basically closed the door on the Russian community.”
When contacted by a Chronicle reporter, a CEU spokeswoman shared a link to the university’s previous written statement. (The statement did acknowledge that Russian students and employees could be “at risk of political persecution” because of CEU’s blacklisting.)
At press time, the university had not responded to additional questions emailed by The Chronicle.
Russian students and staff members said they were particularly disappointed in the university’s response, given its legacy. Founded by Soros in his native Hungary in 1991 after the fall of Communism, it has long championed academic freedom and promoted critical thinking and the open exchange of ideas.
It’s an attempt to control its citizens, and it’s an attempt to control access to knowledge.
Its mission was seen as such a threat that, in 2017, the Hungarian government passed a law that sought to force CEU to shut down or leave the country. Although the university challenged the Hungarian law and ultimately won its case before the European Court of Justice, political pressure led it to relocate to Vienna in 2019. In interviews, several students and staff members noted that the announcement of CEU’s undesirable designation coincided with a meeting between Putin and Viktor Orbán, Hungary’s authoritarian prime minister.
More recently, the university prominently supported Ukrainian students. It also publicly advocated for the release of one its graduate students who was jailed in Egypt for 19 months because of criticism of the Egyptian government he had posted on social media.
CEU is failing to live up to its anti-authoritarian bona fides, said Maria, a Russian staff member. “It’s a university with a mission to build an open society. I believe this is a moral obligation.”
While students and employees fear the personal ramifications, the undesirable designation is also an attack on CEU as an institution, said Irina, the graduate student. “Entities that produce any kind of knowledge Russia doesn’t like, it tries to outlaw,” she said. “It’s an attempt to control its citizens, and it’s an attempt to control access to knowledge.”
Many of those interviewed said they feared that repression in Russia could worsen after presidential election in March. “Just because nothing has happened as of now doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” said Raisa, who said some of her fellow undergraduates were scared.
Julia, one of the doctoral students, said she recognized that she was “privileged” compared with other students, like those in Ukraine, whose homes are under attack by Russia. Still, the law could keep her apart from family and friends who remain in Russia, and she worries whether she and others could become “forever migrants.”
“It feels weird,” she said, “not to have a home anymore.”