Can students challenge the institutions they are part of, or does participation itself amount to complicity? Lucy Tappin explores the uncomfortable contradictions of pursuing an education at King’s, questioning whether challenging the university’s ties to Israel means walking away from the institution, or fighting for meaningful change from within.
I was presented with an uncomfortable paradox a few months ago at the pub. The Masters course I was to embark on at KCL was, at best, ironic and, at worst, immoral. Why commit myself to a year studying Conflict Resolution when I am, to some degree, rendered an agent in conflict by my attendance at a Western academic institution?
I’ll backtrack for a second, as the conversation didn’t emerge out of a vacuum. Some niceties were exchanged between mutual friends, pints were ordered, and (for a while) light conversation ensued. It was only once I’d introduced myself and my prospective attendance at Kings as a masters student in Conflict Resolution in Divided Societies that things pivoted pretty rapidly. Did I have a lighter? What am I up to next week? Do you feel comfortable funding settler colonialism?
What followed was an immediate affront. The next year of my academic career dissected in front of eight acquaintances clasping lukewarm pints. Essentially, how could I seem to care about peace in the Middle East whilst also attending a university with financial links to Israel, and therefore its genocidal agenda? That isn’t to say I didn’t deserve this scrutiny, or indeed that such scrutiny isn’t very necessary. Universities should be held accountable and staff and student bodies should be prepared to confront uncomfortable questions about participation. I suppose I bristled at the leap in logic that was made. And the conclusion that was arrived at.
It’s worth establishing some truths before returning to the pub scene. I entirely understand and sympathise with the resentment of Western institutions; British public bodies have historically been, and remain, imbricated with Israel. Titles of ‘university’ or ‘charity’ provide a veneer of philanthropy to organisations funding the Zionist project; the UK registered charity Toremet, for instance, has been found to have channelled millions of pounds to West Bank settler projects such as Regavim. The UK has aided and abetted the occupation of the West Bank and Gaza for decades with impunity. And whilst the UK is set to introduce comprehensive sanctions against all goods produced by illegal Israeli settlements in the occupied West Bank, this hardly negates decades of aiding, cultivating and legitimising an Israeli presence in the region in the first place. Britain has been wedded to the Zionist project since its inception. From the 1917 Balfour Declaration to Michael Gove claiming it’s ‘common sense’ to be a Zionist, declarations of support and legitimacy have readily been eschewed by the British state.
KCL hardly challenges the status quo. Falling short of publicly supporting the state of Israel, it enables the military occupation in a more surreptitious way. Despite pledging to revise its policy on investment into companies manufacturing ‘controversial weapons’ in 2024, KCL continues to invest in Palantir. KCL can’t feign ignorance; Palantir openly declared its strategic partnership with the Israeli Ministry of Defence two years ago and yet KCL’s investments into the company quadrupled in the same year. Its treatment of student activists fails to provide a redemptive counter narrative. The university suspended third year student Usama Ghanem in 2025 following his involvement in Pro-Palestine activism. His visa was revoked as part of this disciplinary action, demanding his return to Egypt where he faced the threat of persecution due to previous activism. At least 26 students faced disciplinary action following their engagement in pro-Palestine activism throughout 2025.
None of these facts are in contention. There is a tradition of British institutions legitimating, funding and enabling the Zionist project. KCL is but a piece of this grim puzzle. The question is how far do the tendrils of complicity stretch? To those who attend it?
I will now return to my seat at the pub and my initial sense of anger and incredulity. The suggestion was that, because I was aware of the facts, I ought to extricate myself from them. Indeed, I was even worse because I understood how universities facilitate Israel’s genocide and still chose to attend them. All in the name of ‘Conflict Resolution.’
This line of reasoning, taken to its most extreme, would mean that any participation in our (evidently capitalist, ‘Western’) society constitutes an act of complicity. How much can we disengage from institutions with a lineage of colonialism, slavery and orientalism before we retire from society completely? Or is the only suitable option to relocate to somewhere that unscathed from the contagion of capitalism? For the majority, this is not a luxury we can afford.
Unfortunately we exist in a nation built on the conquest of others and the shadow of history will never be far behind. Universities may be artefacts of a dark past but are we to merely accept that and take a step back? Defund them to criticise them? I don’t believe institutions such as KCL to be completely inert or static; they are not chained to their problematic histories or incapable of redemption. That is, of course, unless we allow them to remain so and accept them to be inherently deplorable.
I took offence at the assumption that, by attending Kings, I was automatically deferential to it and any political status quo it may maintain. I felt insulted by their lack of faith in my ability to navigate the idiosyncrasies of university with my eyes wide open. Their view of Kings was grounded in the belief that its staff simply reproduce the university line and lack pedagogical agency. We aren’t all puppets of some nefarious scheme to prop up Israel.
As to my financial contribution, I couldn’t provide an adequate response. I couldn’t confirm where my tuition fees would be spent, or whether I was indeed funding the occupation and destruction of a people. And therein lies an uncomfortable privilege: I can afford to not know. This is the case for many transactions that occur in a capitalist society. You simply don’t know exactly where the money flows and who pays the price.
That isn’t to say we shouldn’t interrogate companies or reconsider where we spend our money. It’s incumbent upon us to investigate how our money is spent. Scrutiny compels transparency. And such transparency provides us with the knowledge to pressure, (in this specific case, British universities) to divest. This is far more constructive than refusing any sort of dialogue.
However, I’d advocate accepting the parameters in which we operate as activists and opponents to genocide. I won’t disengage with a university education that could provide me with the means to challenge the systems of knowledge and power that underpin society. It is more important to interact than disengage. After all, it was student protests in 2024 that prompted KCL to divest from leading suppliers for Israel’s military. We must retain some faith in the ability of institutions to change.
More than anything, I left the conversation feeling disheartened. Frustrated at the descent into a competition over who could best advocate for Palestinians. Over who could claim the most correct, impressive, or righteous commitment to the cause. In their eyes, I was an extension of the system. I was the enemy because of who I associated with. My integrity was called into question not because of what I believed but because I lacked the accepted observable traits of a pro Palestine advocate. When we establish boundaries of who may or may not contribute to a cause, we lose sight of the cause itself and the imperfect ways in which individuals and institutions could facilitate it.
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