The old philosophy department – back when they still had departments. Back when they weren’t just units. The philosophy department of yore. That had survived decades before it was closed. The love its former students had for the old philosophy department. Even the fame of the old philosophy department.
Which wasn’t at all geared up for what academia became, back in the ‘80s. Which wasn’t part of the Research Assessment Exercise world! Which wasn’t part of the league-table world! Of the National Student Survey world! Which wasn’t part of the everything-is-measurable world! Of the all-is-quantifiable world! Of the publish or perish world.
And of course, they didn’t publish, so they perished. They were biding their time. Thinking their thoughts. Actually studying. Actually discussing ideas. Naturally, it had to close. Naturally, it had to go! It had to be wiped out! Its memory destroyed.
The old philosophy department. Only the oldest academics remember it! And some of them, with a tear in the eye. Some of them, voices shaking, who remember what happened. By the blindness of management. The tearing-apart of the old academic culture. The work of decades. A philosophical culture, carefully forged, carefully honed.
And we, to think, were the new philosophy department. But hidden! Under another degree title, History of Ideas. Under another course code. And concealed, in the Centre for Thought. Pretending to be something else: a wise move. A wise stratagem. Not drawing attention to itself.
A crypto-department. Hidden, for the moment. Until we’d reached sufficient numbers. Until we’d grown enough to come into our own – to emerge as a philosophy department at last, unafraid and unabashed. But until then … we were a secret. We were hidden.
Because if it was known that the university harboured a crypto-philosophy, we would only have attracted the wrong kind of attention. If our existence were not carefully concealed, then our enemies would make their move – out of jealousy, or incomprehension, out of enmity for thought; or even because of the troubled memories that the closure of the old philosophy department stirred up.
Because that’s how they were seen the old philosophy department: as trouble. As difficulty. As an obstacle. To the seamless transformation of the university.
The old department didn’t struggle with the university. They didn’t fight. They simply continued to do what they did. They ignored the dictates. Simply continued with their philosophising.
Which is exactly the reason that they were regarded as trouble! Which was precisely the rationale for closing them at once! A university without a philosophy department: unthinkable, once upon a time. Inconceivable, not so long ago. But the university didn’t mind. The university was unbothered.
And if we showed ourselves too soon, then we’d meet the same fate. If our existence was known … But as it was, thanks to Cicero, virtually no one knew about us. We were a secret, owing to Cicero. We were hidden under the aegis of The Centre for Thought – an innocuous title, but shelter enough.
We knew that it would be some time before we could roll away our stone. Emerge, intact as a philosophy department unto itself, successful, which the university wouldn’t dare to close. We knew it would be a while before we’d be out in the open: a philosophy department, a real one, conjured apparently from virtually nothing, with all the departmental paraphernalia – with external examiners, with external validation, with correct paperwork. Created it would seem pretty much ex nihilo, with all the accoutrements of a successful department, with robust student numbers, with well-published and respected staff, with representation on all the major faculty boards. Philosophy had just bootstrapped itself into existence, straight into the league tables, recruiting forty of fifty students a year, contributing very meaningfully to the university coffers: that’s how it would appear.
And in the meantime? We skulked. We kept out of sight. No one knew about us. And they didn’t know what they didn’t know. We kept undercover. Samizdat. Keeping quiet. Talking to no one. You never know who’s on who’s side, Cicero told us. Who might say the wrong thing. Even if they meant well. Even if they wanted to champion us. The wrong word in the wrong ear, and we’d be closed.
Underground philosophy. Secret philosophy. In, like, a cave beneath the uni. No one knew we existed, not really. Hidden-in-a-basement philosophy.But there was freedom in that. We could do teach we liked. Write what we liked …
But then Cicero left. Cicero disappeared. Why then – at that moment? Were we successful enough to stand on our own two feet? Had we consolidated our position enough to survive long term? Did we have prospects now? Would we survived if our existence was revealed?
Cicero must have known what was going to happen. The Organisational Management move … so terrible swift. All at once. With sublime force. The decision to move Philosophy to Organisational Management! Striking down from high! Like lightning! A Decision had been made!
We’d been seen! Our rock had been lifted! Publicity! Light! Managers banged tables. We were to be moved! Our fate had been decided!
And of course, we were frightened. We weren’t used to the attention. We wanted the darkness back. We wanted our peace and quiet. We wanted the lack of scrutiny we used to enjoy. We wanted to be undistracted from our labours – from our teaching, from our writing.
But now the university was peering at us. The university was making Decisions. Now: scrutiny. Now, the university peering at us. And Cicero wasn’t there to help us! No more cover! No more silence! No more peace! No more darkness!
Work in Progress 