Fahmi Quadir, Adtalem, and the High-Stakes Ethics of Short-Selling

In the realm of Wall Street, few figures challenge the system from within quite like Fahmi Quadir. Known in financial circles as “The Assassin,” Quadir has made a name—and a mission—for herself by exposing fraud and predatory behavior in publicly traded companies. But unlike most short-sellers chasing profits on volatility, Quadir brings a moral clarity to her work, emphasizing that short-selling can be an instrument of justice when practiced with rigor, purpose, and transparency. Her recent campaign against Adtalem Global Education, a for-profit college conglomerate, underscores the power—and danger—of this approach.

Fahmi Quadir is the founder and Chief Investment Officer of Safkhet Capital, a short-only hedge fund she launched in 2017 at the age of 26. Safkhet is not your typical Wall Street operation. Built on deep forensic research and a mission to hold corporations accountable, the firm takes bold, high-conviction positions against companies it believes are engaged in deception, exploitation, or fraud.

Quadir's career trajectory is as unlikely as it is impressive. She originally planned to pursue a PhD in mathematics, but a series of encounters at New York’s National Museum of Mathematics—funded by quantitative finance giants like Renaissance Technologies—introduced her to a world where market dynamics and moral imperatives could collide. She quickly realized that capital markets held not just monetary power, but the potential to drive social change. With no formal finance background, she was identified by hedge fund insiders as a natural fit for short-selling. She dove in, eventually appearing in the 2018 Netflix documentary Dirty Money, which chronicled her pivotal role in the takedown of Valeant Pharmaceuticals.

In February 2024, Quadir spoke at Stanford’s Graduate School of Business during an event hosted by the Corporations and Society Initiative (CASI). In a conversation moderated by JD/MBA student Thomas Newcomb, she unpacked her approach to short-selling—one defined by intellectual rigor, emotional resilience, and moral conviction.

"Short selling means you borrow shares from your bank, sell them, and hope the price drops so you can buy them back at a lower price and pocket the difference," Quadir explained. “But prices can go up infinitely. The potential losses on a short are also infinite.”

That risk, she emphasized, is not theoretical—it’s lived. “You need to withstand a lot of pain,” she said. “Short-selling isn't for everyone. It’s about doing uncomfortable work, challenging popular narratives, and being willing to look like a fool—until you're proven right.”

And yet, in Quadir’s view, this discomfort is necessary. “Shorting is important for the functioning of our markets. It provides liquidity and price discovery. But in a tiny corner of the market, there are those of us who are using short selling as a way to expose injustice and correct bad capital market behavior.”

Quadir focuses on companies she believes are harming customers or committing fraud, rather than chasing momentum or hype. “We avoid situations of mass delusion,” she noted, “because mass delusion can stay delusional forever.”

Her most famous case remains the takedown of Wirecard AG, a German electronic payments firm that collapsed in 2020 amid massive accounting fraud. Safkhet's 25% short position on Wirecard was the culmination of years of research and collaboration with whistleblowers and law enforcement. It was a textbook example of what Quadir calls "story-driven" short-selling—piecing together a company's past to uncover the rot at its core.

She recounted a chilling origin story involving Wirecard’s founders, Markus Braun and Jan Marsalek—who is now a confirmed Russian agent—and an Austrian billionaire with ties to adult entertainment who allegedly used intimidation tactics to force a takeover. “When that’s part of your origin story,” she said, “whatever comes after is going to be epic.”

But Quadir’s sights have recently turned toward a different kind of fraud—one operating under the guise of education. In January 2024, Safkhet Capital released a detailed short report on Adtalem Global Education, labeling it a “toxic byproduct of an imperfect higher education system.” The report highlighted Adtalem’s dependence on federal student aid—more than 70% of its revenue—and exposed dismal outcomes at its institutions, including Walden and Chamberlain universities, both of which serve a disproportionately high number of Black and working-class women.

The report also noted a financial responsibility score of 0.2 out of 3.0—far below the threshold used by the U.S. Department of Education to flag institutions at risk of mismanaging federal funds. In Quadir’s view, Adtalem wasn’t just financially shaky—it was “completely uninvestable.”

The market agreed. Following Safkhet’s report, Adtalem’s stock dropped 19% in a single day, with further losses in the days that followed. The company attempted to halt trading and accused Quadir of “short and distort” tactics—a claim that fell flat. “It was very satisfying after that hold was released to see the market validate our thesis,” she said. “Their strategy backfired.”

At Stanford, Quadir reflected on why she made the Adtalem report public: “There was an informational vacuum around this company. The shareholder base was largely passive. No one was doing the kind of research or analysis we were doing.”

But Quadir is quick to point out that short-sellers alone cannot fix a broken system. “Nothing is going to change if there isn’t enforcement,” she said. “We need to have some high-profile cases where people go to jail. These characters continue to get away with it or settle, and what happens? Their stocks go up.”

She remains hopeful, however, that markets—if given the right incentives—can self-correct. “I think the greatest believers in market efficiency have to be short sellers. I believe capital markets can correct bad behavior, and that benefits all of us.”

Short-selling, when practiced ethically, is not about sabotage. It is about storytelling, investigation, and risk—a lot of risk. Quadir’s approach requires patience, emotional stamina, and intellectual courage. It is not for the faint of heart. But in a world where regulators are often captured and media attention can be fleeting, short-sellers like Quadir play an essential, if controversial, role.

Her work against Adtalem is not just a case study in financial activism. It is a call to reexamine how markets reward failure, how federal funds prop up predatory institutions, and how silence—especially in higher education—can be bought. As Quadir puts it, “We have the power to affect change. We just have to be willing to take the hits.”

Sources

This article draws significantly from the February 2024 Stanford Graduate School of Business event, A Conversation with Fahmi Quadir, Wall Street’s Fearless Short Seller, hosted by the Corporations and Society Initiative (CASI). The event transcript and summary are available at https://casi.stanford.edu/news/conversation-fahmi-quadir-wall-streets-fearless-short-seller.

Additional information was compiled from the Safkhet Capital short report on Adtalem Global Education (January 2024), publicly available statements by Adtalem Global Education, coverage of Adtalem’s stock movement by MarketWatch and Bloomberg, investigations into Wirecard by the Financial Times, and Quadir’s portrayal in the 2018 Netflix documentary Dirty Money.

Legal responses to Safkhet’s report were also noted from Pomerantz LLP and Block & Leviton, which opened shareholder investigations into Adtalem in January 2024. Data from the U.S. Department of Education regarding Title IV funding and financial responsibility scores was used to contextualize Adtalem’s regulatory risk.

For further background on short-selling’s role in price discovery and enforcement gaps in higher education, see related coverage in The Wall Street Journal, The Chronicle of Higher Education, and Inside Higher Ed.

Forgetting Henry George

As American colleges and universities spiral deeper into debt, corporatization, and social irrelevance, it is worth asking not just what ideas dominate the landscape—but what ideas have been buried, neglected, or deliberately forgotten. Among the most significant casualties in our intellectual amnesia is Georgist economics, a once-influential school of thought that offered a radical, yet practical, alternative to both capitalism’s excesses and socialism’s centralization. And in today’s extractive academic economy—what Devarian Baldwin calls the “UniverCity”—its insights are more relevant than ever.

The Ghost of Henry George

Henry George, a 19th-century American political economist, is best known for his seminal work Progress and Poverty (1879), in which he argued that while technological and economic progress increased wealth, it also deepened inequality—primarily because the gains were siphoned off by landowners and monopolists. His solution was deceptively simple: tax the unearned income from land and natural monopolies, and use that revenue to fund public goods and social services.

At one time, George’s ideas inspired political movements, policy debates, and even academic curricula. He was considered a serious rival to Karl Marx and a practical philosopher for American reformers, including the early labor movement. Cities like San Francisco saw brief experiments with land value taxation. But today, outside niche think tanks and the occasional urban planning circle, Georgism is a faint echo, barely audible in the halls of economic departments or public policy schools.

The University and the Land

If we look at contemporary higher education through a Georgist lens, what emerges is a sobering picture. Colleges and universities are not merely neutral grounds for the exchange of ideas—they are massive holders of land, beneficiaries of public subsidies, and agents of displacement. Institutions from NYU to the University of Chicago to Arizona State have used their nonprofit status and real estate portfolios to expand into communities, often gentrifying and pricing out working-class and BIPOC residents.

At the same time, these same institutions profit from a credentialing economy built on a foundation of student loan debt. Over 43 million Americans collectively owe more than $1.6 trillion in federal student loans, an economy of indebtedness that props up tuition-driven institutional budgets while shackling generations of graduates. The very students who attend these universities, often in the hope of upward mobility, find themselves trapped in debt servitude—subsidizing administrative bloat, sports franchises, and real estate empires they will never own.

This is where Devarian Baldwin’s work becomes critical. In In the Shadow of the Ivory Tower, Baldwin exposes how universities have become “anchor institutions,” deeply embedded in the urban fabric—not just through education, but through policing, property development, hospital systems, and labor exploitation. These institutions accumulate wealth not by producing new knowledge, but by extracting rents—social, economic, and literal—from their surroundings.

Baldwin and George, though a century apart, are speaking to the same fundamental economic injustice: wealth flowing upwards through property and privilege, at the expense of the many.

Why Georgism Was Forgotten

So why has Georgism disappeared from mainstream education? The answer lies partly in the success of those it sought to regulate. Landowners and financiers, who stood to lose the most from land value taxation, worked diligently to discredit George’s theories. Neoclassical economics, with its abstract models and marginal utility curves, became the dominant language—obscuring the real-world power dynamics of land and labor.

Universities, especially elite ones, adopted this neoclassical framework, increasingly aligning their interests with those of capital. Philanthropic foundations and corporate donors funded economic departments and think tanks that promoted market fundamentalism. Over time, Georgism—radical yet rooted in common sense—was pushed out of the curriculum.

This forgetting wasn’t accidental. It was ideological.

A Forgotten Game with a Forgotten Message

A striking example of Georgism’s cultural erasure lies in the very board game that has taught generations about capitalism: Monopoly. Originally created in the early 20th century by a woman named Elizabeth Magie, the game was first called The Landlord’s Game and was explicitly designed to illustrate Henry George’s ideas. Magie’s intent was pedagogical—she wanted players to see how land monopolies enriched a few while impoverishing others, and to promote George’s remedy of a single land tax.

But over time, the game was appropriated and rebranded by Parker Brothers and later Hasbro, stripped of its Georgist message and recast as a celebration of ruthless accumulation. What began as a cautionary tale about inequality became a glorification of it—a metaphor for how George’s ideas were not just buried but inverted.

In that sense, Monopoly is the perfect symbol for the American university: a system that once had the potential to democratize opportunity but now functions as a machine for privatizing wealth and socializing risk, leaving students and communities to pick up the tab.

What Higher Education Could Learn—and Teach

If the goal of higher education is to educate an informed, critical citizenry, then forgetting Georgist economics is not just an intellectual oversight—it’s a moral failure. Henry George offered a vision of society where value created by the community is returned to the community. In the age of student debt, university land grabs, and deepening inequality, this vision is urgently needed.

Imagine a higher education system where public revenue from land values funds debt-free college. Imagine a world where students no longer mortgage their futures for degrees whose value is increasingly uncertain. Imagine colleges not as engines of gentrification but as stewards of local wealth, investing in community-owned housing and cooperatives. Imagine students learning about economics not just as math problems, but as moral questions about justice, equity, and the public good.

Devarian Baldwin’s scholarship, much like George’s, invites us to interrogate power structures and imagine alternatives. It’s time for a revival of that imagination.

Relearning the Unlearned

Reclaiming Georgist economics in the academy would not be a return to some golden past, but a reckoning with the present. It would mean confronting the rentier logic at the heart of higher education—and the debt-based financing that sustains it—and reorienting our institutions toward justice and common prosperity.

In a moment when so much of American higher ed is collapsing under its own contradictions, perhaps what’s needed is not another billion-dollar endowment or ed-tech unicorn, but an idea long buried: that land—and learning—should belong to the people.

For the Higher Education Inquirer, this is part of an ongoing inquiry into the pasts we forget, the futures we imagine, and the power structures that shape both. 

Harvard and Yale Selling Off Private Equity Stakes

Harvard and Yale—titans of American higher education and longtime bellwethers of endowment strategy—are quietly offloading billions in private equity holdings. These moves, confirmed through multiple reports and market insiders, signal a significant shift in institutional investing, with potential ripple effects across the higher ed landscape and beyond.

The two Ivies, boasting the largest university endowments in the world ($50.7 billion for Harvard, $40.7 billion for Yale as of 2024), have long championed the “Yale model” of endowment investing: high allocations to illiquid assets such as private equity, venture capital, hedge funds, and real assets like timberland and oil. But the bloom is off the rose.

From Darling to Dilemma

Private equity once promised high returns, portfolio diversification, and access to elite deals not available to public investors. In the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, as traditional markets stagnated, institutions doubled down on alternative investments. For years, this strategy paid off—at least on paper.

But cracks have been forming.

Private equity valuations have come under scrutiny as deal activity has slowed, interest rates have risen, and exits through IPOs and acquisitions have dried up. Many private equity funds are now sitting on aging portfolios—so-called "zombie funds"—that have not returned capital in years. Meanwhile, limited partners like universities are increasingly liquidity-constrained, especially as operating costs rise and tuition-dependent revenues remain fragile.

Harvard Management Company and Yale’s Investment Office, once aggressive buyers, are now sellers on the secondary market. Reports indicate both institutions are using intermediaries to quietly market stakes in private equity funds—often at discounts of 10% to 20%, or more, below net asset value.

A Broader Retreat?

This retreat isn’t just about balance sheet management. It’s a broader reassessment of what endowments should be doing—and what risks they should be bearing.

Universities face mounting scrutiny over their massive, tax-advantaged endowments and their relationships with Wall Street. Critics question why institutions with social missions are entangled in opaque, leveraged, and sometimes predatory industries. Private equity firms, after all, have been deeply involved in sectors like healthcare, housing, for-profit education, and prison services—areas where returns often come at the cost of public welfare.

Moreover, the mismatch between the long lock-up periods of private equity investments and the growing need for financial flexibility is becoming more apparent. University administrators now must navigate volatile geopolitical conditions, student protests over divestment, and uncertain federal funding. Liquidity matters more than it did a decade ago.

The End of the Yale Model?

David Swensen, Yale’s late investment chief, revolutionized university finance with his embrace of illiquid alternatives. But times have changed. While the strategy made Yale’s endowment a model for copycats, today it may represent an outdated orthodoxy.

Harvard and Yale’s pivot may be the beginning of the end for the “Yale model” as we know it. Other institutions—especially smaller endowments that tried to mimic the Ivies—may find themselves stuck with toxic assets, unable to unload them without taking steep losses.

In fact, some mid-tier and small colleges may have to choose between covering operational costs and holding on to underperforming private equity positions. For those with limited financial cushions, the fallout could be existential.

Higher Ed’s Reckoning with Risk

The endowment shift also raises a philosophical question: What is the purpose of university wealth?

As elite schools back away from the riskier corners of Wall Street, perhaps it's time for a broader reckoning—about not just how universities invest, but why. Should institutions built on ideals of knowledge, access, and social progress be hand-in-glove with industries known for wage suppression, regulatory arbitrage, and asset stripping?

Harvard and Yale may be late to that moral realization. But their financial pivot is a sign that even the most powerful players can’t ignore reality forever.

In the age of growing student debt, declining public trust, and ballooning inequality, selling off a few private equity funds is a small move. But it could be the start of a larger shift—one where higher education finally begins to question whether its financial strategies align with its educational mission.

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If you have insights into university endowment strategies or are a whistleblower inside the private equity world, contact us confidentially at Higher Education Inquirer. 

Navigating the Storm: Existential Questions for Higher Education and the Nation

“Who are we? Where are we going? Where do we come from?” These existential questions are not luxuries in times of crisis—they are necessities. And as the storms of political, social, and environmental upheaval grow darker, they demand our full attention.

For many in the United States, especially younger generations, the future feels bleak. Student loan debt weighs down tens of millions. Meaningless, low-wage, precarious employment—what anthropologist David Graeber called “bullsh*t jobs”—dominates the landscape, even for the college educated. Higher education, once touted as the great equalizer, has increasingly functioned as a sorting mechanism that reinforces class division rather than dismantling it.

This is not accidental. It is the consequence of more than a half century of growing inequality, fueled by tax cuts for the wealthy, deregulation, union busting, and the privatization of public goods. Since the 1970s, wages for working people have stagnated, while the top one percent has consolidated unimaginable wealth and power. Higher education has both suffered from and contributed to this shift: as public funding declined, universities increasingly turned to corporate partnerships, tuition hikes, student loans, and contingent labor to survive. In doing so, they have often replicated the very inequalities they claim to challenge.

Instead of building an informed and empowered citizenry, the modern university too often churns out debt-saddled consumers, precarious workers, and disillusioned graduates. The idea of education as a public good has been replaced by the logic of the market—branding, metrics, debt financing, and labor flexibility.

Meanwhile, U.S. politics offers little solace. We are caught between the reactionary authoritarianism of Trumpism and the managerial neoliberalism of the Democratic establishment. Both forces have proven inadequate in confronting systemic inequality, environmental collapse, and imperial overreach. Instead, they compete to maintain the illusion of normalcy while conditions deteriorate.

Internationally, the collapse of moral leadership is most evident in the ongoing genocide in Palestine. Backed by billions in U.S. aid and political cover, the Israeli military has killed tens of thousands of civilians in Gaza and displaced countless more. Hospitals, schools, and entire neighborhoods have been leveled. On college campuses across the U.S., students and faculty who dare to speak out against this atrocity have faced surveillance, censorship, arrests, and administrative repression. At a moment when moral clarity should be the minimum, too many institutions of higher learning have chosen complicity.

This convergence of global injustice and domestic repression raises urgent questions for academia. What is the role of the university in a world marked by war, inequality, and ecological collapse? What values will guide us through the storm?

The answer begins with honesty. We must recognize that higher education is not separate from society’s failures—it is entangled in them. But that also means it can be part of the solution. Colleges and universities can serve as spaces of resistance, reflection, and regeneration—but only if they reject their alignment with empire, capital, and white supremacy.

Where do we come from? From resistance: from student uprisings, civil rights sit-ins, anti-apartheid divestment, labor organizing, and community building. From people who believed—and still believe—that education should serve justice, not profit.

Where are we going? That depends on whether we are willing to confront power, abandon illusions, and build institutions that are democratic, transparent, and rooted in the needs of the many rather than the few.

The future is uncertain. The storm is here. But history is not finished. A more humane and equitable society remains possible—if we have the courage to demand it.

The Harvard Business School Paradox: Ethics, Elites, and the Theatre of Honesty

For the first time in nearly 80 years, Harvard University has taken the extraordinary step of revoking the tenure of a faculty member—Francesca Gino, a former professor at Harvard Business School (HBS) known for her widely publicized research on ethics, decision-making, and organizational behavior. The irony of her downfall—accused of academic dishonesty while researching honesty—has been noted by nearly every outlet covering the story. But a deeper question lingers: What does Gino’s story tell us about Harvard Business School and the neoliberal system it both serves and symbolizes?

Ethics as Performance in a Neoliberal Order

Gino, once celebrated for championing ethical behavior and "rebel talent," now stands accused of falsifying data in multiple academic papers. But HBS’s brand of ethics—delivered through expensive executive programs and best-selling books—is part of a larger performance in which corporate elites are taught to appear virtuous while perpetuating systems that concentrate wealth, exploit labor, and externalize harm.

In this context, ethics becomes less about justice or truth and more about managing perceptions. The fall of Francesca Gino is dramatic, but the real ethical crisis lies not in her alleged misconduct alone—it lies in the institutional contradictions embedded within HBS itself. Harvard Business School doesn’t just teach capitalism; it molds the gatekeepers of global capital. Its mission is not merely to educate but to replicate and legitimize a system that increasingly rewards the few at the expense of the many.

HBS: The Training Ground for Economic Power

From Wall Street executives to Silicon Valley disruptors, the alumni of Harvard Business School include some of the most powerful figures in global finance and industry—many of whom have presided over layoffs, environmental degradation, and financial schemes with far more damaging consequences than academic fraud.

The school’s ethos is rooted in neoliberal values: deregulation, privatization, shareholder primacy, and labor "flexibility." These principles have driven inequality to historic levels, eroded public trust in institutions, and created a permanent underclass of precarious workers—including the adjuncts and support staff who toil in the shadows of Harvard's gilded brand.

That Gino was one of Harvard’s highest paid employees, earning over $1 million a year, underscores the commercialization of academia. Her high-profile persona, media presence, and prolific publication record made her not just a scholar but a product—one the institution proudly marketed until it became inconvenient.

The Politics of Academic Accountability

The revocation of Gino’s tenure has been portrayed as a triumph of academic accountability. But it also reveals the selective nature of institutional justice. While Harvard moved swiftly to investigate and sanction Gino, other faculty members in elite institutions—some with clear ties to ethically questionable industries or discriminatory practices—remain unscathed, protected by the very power structures they serve.

Moreover, this case unfolds against a broader political backdrop in which Harvard, like other elite universities, is entangled in legal and ideological battles with the federal government. From fights over DEI initiatives and student visas to federal funding for research, the university’s moral posturing often masks a pragmatic calculus: preserving its endowment, its influence, and its brand.

A System that Rewards Deception

That Harvard Business School fostered—and then disowned—a figure like Francesca Gino should surprise no one. The institution’s most infamous alumni include architects of the 2008 financial crisis and leaders of corporations known for tax evasion, union busting, and regulatory capture. In such a system, the real problem isn’t dishonesty—it’s getting caught.

Gino’s downfall may satisfy the university’s need for a scapegoat, but it doesn't address the deeper malaise at the heart of elite business education. Harvard Business School produces managers, not moral leaders. It shapes ideologies, not communities. And in doing so, it offers up a sanitized vision of capitalism in which individual ethics can redeem systemic violence.

The Theatre of Respectability

Francesca Gino’s tenure revocation is a symbolic gesture—one that reinforces the illusion that elite institutions police themselves rigorously. But the real fraud is more abstract and far more consequential: it is the fraud of presenting institutions like Harvard Business School as guardians of ethical capitalism, while they actively reinforce the economic logic of exploitation.

In a just world, the moral bankruptcy of neoliberalism would be exposed not by a professor’s faked data, but by the suffering of workers laid off for shareholder gains, the communities displaced for private equity ventures, and the global inequities entrenched by the very graduates these schools send into the world.

Until then, we are left with what Gino herself once studied: the subtle science of dishonesty. Only now, the lab is Harvard—and the experiment is ongoing.

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The Higher Education Inquirer continues to investigate the contradictions and inequalities embedded in American higher education, especially as they relate to labor, class, and power. Follow us for more independent, critical analysis.

Between Empire and Enterprise: Harvard, Trump, and the Exploitation of International Students

As the Trump administration again targets immigrants and global institutions with punitive policies, international students at Harvard University—one of the world’s most prestigious academic brands—are experiencing what one student leader called “pure panic.” At the center of the storm: a now-halted move by the White House to revoke Harvard’s certification in the Student and Exchange Visitor Program, threatening the legal status of thousands of students from nearly every country in the world.

Harvard responded with swift legal action, accusing the federal government of ideological retaliation. But while the Trump administration deserves criticism for its xenophobic and authoritarian maneuvers, it is equally important to interrogate Harvard’s own role in creating a system where international students are treated as both intellectual capital and financial assets.

Nearly 27% of Harvard’s student body—close to 7,000 individuals—comes from abroad. For decades, Harvard has positioned itself as a global institution, a magnet for the so-called "best and brightest" regardless of national origin. It has used this cosmopolitan image to bolster its prestige, attract philanthropic donations, and justify sky-high tuition rates. In reality, Harvard is not just a university—it is a flagship enterprise in the global neoliberal order.

This model—recruiting international students as both symbols of diversity and sources of income—reflects the logic of global capitalism more than the ideals of education. Harvard’s operations increasingly mirror those of a multinational corporation: high-end branding, worldwide recruitment, aggressive legal defense, and political lobbying. The foreign students it attracts are often among the global elite, or, in many cases, indebted strivers betting their futures on the supposed merits of a Harvard degree. When the political winds shift, as they have under Trump, these students are left exposed.

This is precisely what’s happening now.

Abdullah Shahid Sial, co-president of Harvard’s student body and a Pakistani national, told CNN that students are “very clearly, extremely afraid” about their legal status and whether they can return to campus. Some are stuck abroad, unsure if they’ll be allowed back. Others face suspended research projects or financial uncertainty. Sial praised Harvard officials for trying to help but also acknowledged the limitations. The window to transfer to other schools is closed for many. Aid packages, crucial to international students, don’t travel with them.

This crisis reveals the tension at the heart of elite higher education’s global ambitions. Harvard, like other elite U.S. universities, thrives on internationalism—so long as it serves its institutional goals. But when international students are treated not as community members but as liabilities or bargaining chips in political disputes, the myth of benevolent globalization unravels.

Yes, the Trump administration’s policies are driven by xenophobia and an open hostility to intellectual exchange. But they also expose the fragility and hypocrisy of the global education marketplace. International students are recruited into a system that offers opportunity but no guarantees, prestige but little protection.

Harvard cannot simply claim the moral high ground by suing the federal government. It must also reckon with its deep entanglement in the very structures that commodify students and expose them to geopolitical risk. For all its rhetoric about global citizenship, Harvard’s model remains fundamentally extractive—built to serve elite interests, not global equity.

If the United States is to remain a serious destination for global education, and if Harvard is to be more than a luxury brand in academic robes, the model must change. International students deserve more than branding and brochures. They deserve stability, legal protection, and a voice in the institutions that profit from their presence.

Until then, they remain trapped—between the nationalist paranoia of Washington and the neoliberal empire of Cambridge.