In September, following the EAIE conference in Glasgow, several friends and I traveled to Dublin for a long weekend. The weather was beautiful, the streets were bustling, and the city seemed to be enjoying the last days of summer. We spent our time exploring, enjoying good food, and taking in the warmth and energy of the Irish capital.
We soon learned that President Donald Trump was also visiting Ireland that weekend. His visit was attracting considerable controversy, with Irish news coverage highlighting public opposition to his policies and America’s engagement in international affairs. Although aware of the controversy, we had little idea that we were about to find ourselves in the middle of it.
On Saturday, September 12, we had booked a walking tour of Dublin, with instructions to meet our guide at the Spire of Dublin, the towering stainless-steel monument on O’Connell Street, one of the city’s principal thoroughfares. As we made our way toward the meeting point, we encountered an enormous demonstration winding through the city.
Thousands of people had gathered to protest President Trump’s visit and what they perceived as the United States’ increasingly troubling role in world affairs. The streets were filled with chanting protesters carrying banners, placards, and signs condemning American foreign policy, particularly the war in Iran and U.S. support for Israel. Many signs portrayed Trump as a warmonger, tyrant, or dictator. Others employed considerably more colorful language. It was a remarkable display of public dissent.
As my friends and I waited near the Spire for our tour group to assemble, a reporter from the Irish Independent approached me. He had apparently overheard our conversation and recognized my American accent. He asked whether I would be willing to share my reactions to the demonstration. I agreed.
What followed was an unexpectedly candid conversation. He asked about my impressions of the protesters, my views of Donald Trump, the war in Iran, and American support for Israel. I answered openly and frankly, expressing my opinions without much hesitation. Then, as our conversation came to an end, he asked a seemingly innocuous question.
“May I have your name?”
Until that moment, I had given little thought to my comments appearing in print. Suddenly, however, the implications of having my name publicly associated with criticism of the American president became uncomfortably real. Could my remarks attract unwanted scrutiny? Might they be interpreted as disloyal or anti-American? Could there be professional or personal consequences?
I had no reason to believe that this particular interview would attract governmental attention, much less provoke retaliation. Yet the possibility entered my mind, and that was enough. I declined to provide my name. The reporter accepted my decision, and we parted ways.
But as I walked away, I felt something I had not anticipated. I felt small and weak. Perhaps most troubling, I felt ashamed.
Only moments earlier, I had spoken confidently about democracy, political leadership, and America’s engagement in the world. Yet when given the opportunity to attach my name to those convictions, I hesitated. I had exercised my freedom to speak but had been unwilling to claim ownership of my words. It felt like an act of cowardice.
As an American, I have spent my life taking pride in the democratic principles upon which our country was founded. The First Amendment protects freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and the right to peaceful assembly. These are among the defining commitments of American democracy. Yet standing on a street in Dublin, thousands of miles from home, I found myself questioning whether I could exercise those freedoms without fear of consequences.
To be clear, no one was silencing me. No government official had threatened me, and I had no evidence that retaliation would follow if I identified myself. The decision was mine alone. But that realization made the experience even more unsettling.
What does it say about the health of a democracy when citizens begin to censor themselves, not because they have been forbidden to speak, but because they fear what might happen if they do?
Freedom of expression is more than a constitutional guarantee. It also depends on a political culture in which people feel secure enough to question authority, challenge government policies, and express dissent without fear of reprisal. Legal protections and the lived experience of freedom are not necessarily the same thing.
I have reflected on that moment many times since returning home. I recognize that withholding my name was a personal choice, not evidence that my government would have retaliated. There are legitimate reasons to protect one’s privacy, and anonymity does not invalidate one’s convictions. Should I have given the reporter my name?
Was I being prudent, or was I being cowardly?
As an international educator, I found another lesson in the experience.
Standing among those protesters in Dublin, I was reminded that international education is not simply about encountering other cultures. It is also about confronting how others see our own. As an American, listening to thousands of people express their anger and disappointment with my country was deeply uncomfortable, but also enlightening. I did not lend my voice to theirs, but I heard their message. Perhaps that is one of international education’s most important lessons: the willingness to listen, especially when what we hear challenges our understanding of ourselves and the country we call home.
