Unprocessed Materials

Reflections on protest in the archives.

by Magda Lena Griffel

Illustration by Isabelle Oh

Rumor had it the Rare Book and Manuscript Library had “materials” from the Spring 2024 protests. Curious, I hiked to Butler’s sixth floor, wedged my possessions into my designated locker, and entered the hallowed Woods reading room. Golf pencil sharpened, note paper stacked, I sifted through massive manila folders to find the latest addition, labeled “Israel-Gaza War Protest.” I flipped it open eagerly, ready to unearth archival treasure. Inside: two measly letter-sized photocopies. The rest, apparently, had yet to be processed.

My email to the archival librarian inquiring about about access to the other materials from the Spring 2024 protests was met with the following response from Columbia Media Relations:

The Archives collected handouts, publications and digital materials following the Spring 2024 campus protests, some created by demonstrators for distribution on campus, such as flyers and handouts, and some created by the University, such as campus-wide emails … University Archives will preserve, organize, and describe the items. 

An interview request was ignored, as were questions about which materials were included, when materials would be processed, and any estimate as to when they could be viewed by the public. 

Empty-handed, I wondered what exactly made archival material ready for presentation. Is it all logistics, scanning, and labelling? Or, is it that the University has yet to curate the perfect post-encampment narrative?

Columbia pins on its “activist Ivy” badge proudly, but only when it is convenient. Students in 1968, advocating against the University’s involvement in the Vietnam War and its planned construction of a segregated gymnasium in Harlem, are retrospectively named heroes by the very institution that brutalized them. To promote “Our History” on social media, newsletters, and University websites, Columbia proudly features photos of the ’68 student activists occupying campus buildings. In one photo on the school’s main websites, they catch bundles of food from the Low Library windows. Alongside the photo is a vague acknowledgement of arrests and controversy, but few specifics. It doesn’t say that on August 30, 1968, it was Columbia’s president who called the NYPD; that they used tear gas, batons, and brute force to load them into vans and cart them downtown at three o’clock in the morning.

“Columbia is a far different place today than it was in the spring of 1968,” a press release written in April 2018 asserts.“The fallout dogged Columbia for years. It took decades for the University to recover from those turbulent times.” Columbia got bad press. Columbia’s image suffered. Columbia had to work hard to rewrite the narrative. After “turbulent” or “tumultuous” periods, it takes a PR overhaul to reclaim public support and prestige.

As it turns out, a carefully crafted pretense of integrity was enough for the University to reshape its public image, even if just for a while. “Activist Ivy” is not just a term of endearment or derision students use; it’s a brand the school has carefully cultivated since the ’60s. With precise wording, choice photographs, and an emphasis on “embracing intellectual debate,” the administration has shaped the label into something useful for them, both financially and in terms of recognition and esteem. The legacies of the 1968 activists are being rewritten and churned into profit, whether they like it or not. Whether the 1968 activists like it or not, their legacies are securing the University some chunk of its profits.

Legacies can be claimed, hijacked; and they will be, again and again. Langston Hughes left Columbia after one year largely because the racism on campus was so severe. Though he was initially denied housing because he was Black, my professors still beam proudly as they read “A Dream Deferred,” as if this institution made him. Attending this school means selling our name and future achievements to be used in pamphlets and press releases until the end of time. Selling, of course, is the wrong word—we all know who’s paying here.

Public opinion about the genocide in Gaza is shifting rapidly. Pew Research polls indicate that almost 40 percent of Americans in September agreed that Israel is going too far in its military operation against Hamas, up from 27 percent in 2023. In parallel, Columbia University’s status as a reputable institution has plummeted, with Columbia ranked last in free speech by the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression. The Administration knows they have to start reframing the narrative. For now, access to the archives is strategically limited. Before the contents are displayed, Columbia will have to get its story straight. After all, before they’re exhibited, archives need curation.

On my way down from my failed quest in the archives, I passed the glass cases on the third floor of Butler, the ones with rotating historical installations. I imagined them, 10, 20, or 30 years from now, filled with photos of the encampment, Hind’s Hall, and the May 2025 Butler library sit-in. They could be lined up in tidy little frames just as they’ve displayed the ’68 activists over the years. Proud of our Activist Legacy, a heading might cheer. Behind the glass, the unblinking eyes of students later arrested, expelled, suspended, doxxed, and injured. The protesters’ demands for divestment from Israeli-affiliated companies and institutions, a ceasefire in Gaza, and the liberation of Palestine are relegated to a subheading, if not rewritten altogether. Because they’ll be poster children of the activist Ivy—that’s all that matters.