How many people must know that someone is being bullied before silence itself becomes part of the abuse? If postgraduate students quietly warn one another about certain supervisors, if early-career academics discreetly advise colleagues to avoid particular professors, if administrative staff witness repeated episodes of intimidation, and if university leaders have heard the same stories for years, can anyone honestly claim that academic bullying is a hidden problem? Or is the more uncomfortable truth that, within many universities across the globe, we have become remarkably skilled at pretending not to see what everyone already knows?

These are uncomfortable questions because they force us to confront an unsettling paradox. Universities are expected to be the conscience of society; places where truth is pursued without fear, evidence is respected over opinion, and critical thinking is encouraged over blind obedience. They teach students to question assumptions, challenge injustice and speak truth to power. Yet when power is abused within the walls of academia itself, many institutions respond not with courage but with silence. Conversations that should happen openly are reduced to whispers in corridors, concerns that deserve investigation become departmental rumours, and people who privately acknowledge wrongdoing suddenly become reluctant witnesses when their voices matter most. It is this culture of silence, more than the actions of the bully alone, that has allowed academic bullying to persist across generations.

Academic bullying rarely survives because nobody knows about it. More often, it survives because too many people know about it but conclude that speaking out carries greater personal risk than remaining silent. The bully may be the one who humiliates students, intimidates colleagues or abuses institutional authority, but such behaviour becomes entrenched only when it is surrounded by a community that chooses self-preservation over collective responsibility. Every whispered warning given privately to a new postgraduate student is an admission that the problem exists. Every colleague who quietly says, "That is just how Professor X behaves," acknowledges that the behaviour has become normalised. Every institution that advises victims to "manage the situation carefully" instead of confronting abuse sends an unmistakable message that protecting reputations has become more important than protecting people.

Silence in academia is seldom born out of indifference. It is born out of fear. Universities are hierarchical institutions where careers often depend on the judgement and influence of those in positions of authority. Supervisors determine the pace of doctoral research, senior academics influence promotion and tenure decisions, principal investigators control access to research funding, and department heads shape opportunities for leadership and professional visibility. Within such systems, many people conclude that challenging those who wield power is simply too dangerous. The fear may not always be openly expressed, but it is deeply understood by everyone navigating the academic landscape.

For postgraduate students, the fear is perhaps most profound. Their academic future depends heavily on supervisors who evaluate progress, approve research activities, recommend conference participation and write reference letters that may determine future employment. Although universities often have formal mechanisms for reporting misconduct, many students remain unconvinced that these systems can protect them from subtle forms of retaliation. They worry about delayed feedback, strained supervisory relationships, prolonged examinations or diminished career prospects. Whether these fears materialise is almost secondary; the perception that speaking out could jeopardise years of sacrifice is often sufficient to keep victims silent. Many therefore endure intimidation, humiliation and emotional distress in the hope that perseverance alone will eventually bring them to graduation.

The silence extends beyond students. Early-career academics frequently occupy positions of considerable professional vulnerability. Lecturers on probation, postdoctoral researchers and research fellows often depend upon senior colleagues for collaborative opportunities, grant applications, promotion recommendations and invitations into influential academic networks. In such circumstances, remaining silent can appear to be a strategy for survival rather than a failure of courage. Many tell themselves that they will challenge injustice once they have achieved greater security, yet each generation that postpones speaking out unknowingly passes the same culture of silence to the next. In this way, academic bullying becomes institutionalised not through written policy but through learned behaviour.

Colleagues who witness bullying are not immune from this dilemma. Many privately express sympathy for victims while publicly distancing themselves from controversy. Some fear becoming the bully's next target, others worry about damaging long-standing professional relationships, and some simply convince themselves that neutrality is the wisest course of action. Yet neutrality in the face of persistent injustice rarely remains neutral in its consequences. Silence reassures perpetrators that their behaviour carries few consequences while leaving victims to believe that they have been abandoned by the very community that should have protected them. A department in which everyone knows but no one speaks gradually becomes a department in which intimidation is accepted as part of academic culture.

Psychologists describe this pattern as the bystander effect; the tendency for individuals to assume that someone else will intervene when responsibility is shared among many people. Universities are particularly susceptible to this phenomenon. Junior academics assume senior colleagues will act. Department heads expect deans to intervene. Deans wait for university management. Management relies on formal complaints. Meanwhile, victims often hesitate to report because they believe no one will support them. Responsibility becomes so widely distributed that, in the end, no one accepts responsibility at all. The result is predictable: the bully gains confidence, the victim loses hope, and institutional silence becomes one of the strongest allies of abuse.

The cost of this silence reaches far beyond damaged careers. Behind every act of academic bullying is a human being whose confidence has been gradually eroded, whose enthusiasm for scholarship has been diminished and whose emotional well-being has been profoundly affected. Repeated humiliation, intimidation and exclusion do not remain confined to offices, laboratories or lecture theatres. They follow people home. They disrupt sleep, strain marriages, affect parenting, weaken friendships and slowly convince victims that they are no longer good enough despite years of achievement and sacrifice. Many begin to doubt their competence not because they lack ability but because they have endured persistent psychological abuse from those entrusted to mentor and support them.

Research has consistently shown that prolonged workplace bullying is associated with anxiety, burnout, depression, post-traumatic stress symptoms and suicidal ideation. Academia is no exception. Indeed, the competitive nature of academic life, coupled with hierarchical relationships and intense performance pressures, can make its effects even more severe. Depression arising from sustained bullying is not a sign of weakness; it is a predictable response to prolonged psychological harm. Tragically, universities around the world have witnessed cases in which persistent bullying and institutional indifference have contributed to devastating mental health outcomes, including self-harm and suicide. While no single factor explains such tragedies, it is impossible to ignore the role that toxic academic environments can play in pushing already vulnerable individuals towards despair.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that these consequences are often entirely preventable. A word of support from a colleague, timely intervention by a department head, a fair investigation by university leadership or the simple courage of one witness willing to tell the truth can fundamentally change the trajectory of another person's life. Silence, therefore, is never simply the absence of words. It is a decision that carries consequences. Sometimes those consequences are measured in abandoned careers, broken confidence and lost opportunities. Sometimes they are measured in lives forever changed.

Universities often measure success through publications, grants, patents, rankings and citation indices. These achievements undoubtedly matter because they reflect intellectual productivity and scholarly influence. Yet there is another set of outcomes that rarely appears in annual reports or strategic plans. We seldom count the talented doctoral student who quietly withdraws because the emotional burden becomes unbearable, the promising lecturer who leaves academia after years of intimidation, the researcher whose creativity disappears under constant psychological pressure, or the family that watches a loved one struggle with depression brought about by a workplace that should have nurtured rather than diminished human potential. An institution may celebrate rising rankings while silently losing some of its brightest minds to cultures of fear.

The defining question, therefore, is not whether academic bullying exists. The evidence is overwhelming, and countless members of the academic community have experienced it directly or witnessed it from the sidelines. The real question is whether we are prepared to continue mistaking silence for professionalism, neutrality or institutional loyalty. Universities cannot claim to be guardians of truth while allowing fear to silence truth within their own communities. Nor can they speak convincingly about integrity, inclusion and well-being if those values disappear whenever power is abused by influential individuals.

The next time someone quietly remarks, "Everyone knows what has been happening," perhaps that conversation should not end with another whispered warning or sympathetic nod. Instead, it should provoke a moment of honest self-examination. If everyone knows, why does no one speak? If silence protects the bully but abandons the victim, whose side is our silence really on? And when future generations look back at our universities, will they remember institutions that merely produced knowledge, or communities that possessed the courage to defend the dignity of the very people who created it? The answer to those questions may ultimately define not only the character of our universities but also the character of each one of us.

Prof. Kofi Agyekum is an Associate Professor of Building Performance and Sustainability at the Department of Construction Technology and Management at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST), Ghana. He serves as Associate Editor for several international journals and has edited and reviewed numerous manuscripts across the built environment and sustainability disciplines. His research interests include research integrity, scholarly publishing, sustainability, and construction innovation.