S
Shaant
Guest
How exposing a revered professorβs abuse cost me my community, my peace, and nearly my career.
Photo by Shlomi Glantz on Unsplash
Certain truths in life cut like broken glass. You feel the shards, you know it will hurt, and you choose to continue walking.
Thatβs how I felt about the day I reported my mentor.
For years, I trusted him. He was the kind of professor who could make a career with just one reference, and I naively thought there was nothing wrong with standing in his mentorship glow.
When it became clearly apparent, I was long past seeing the ways he spoke to students, which bordered on inappropriateness, with what he said often being presented as jokes, and the power he wielded, not in guidance but in intimidation.
For me, the hardest moment was observing younger students as they visually shrank under his presence, burdened with unspoken truth, choosing to say nothing.
I continued to reassure myself that perhaps I was overreacting. Perhaps it was just the cost of survival in a hyper-competitive academic environment.
But after I overheard a student sobbing outside of his office after the humiliation of a viva, I realized I could stay silent no longer.
The room was defined by the smell of chalk and damp paper, but what I remember is her voice, subdued and defeated, repeatedly uttering βHe ruined me.β
My hands were trembling when I walked away, because I finally realized that the mentor I had once respected was not someone I could continue to hide when I remained silent.
Carrying the weight of betrayal on my back
When I turned in my report, I had the feeling I wasnβt just betraying him, but the institution itself.
This is the person whom the university celebrated, who was on every brochure. I wasnβt just being critical of a person; I was being critical of a system that had created him.
I expected anger from him, but I wasnβt prepared for how quickly the institution would turn against me.
The committee meetings that had once welcomed me now felt cold. My colleagues werenβt making eye contact. I could hear whispers down the hall.
One professor leaned in and said, βWhy werenβt you able to let this go? Do you understand what you did to all of us?β
That question echoed in my mind.
The betrayal was multi-layered. Friends who once shared coffee with me were now only a living memory.
Administrators were now interpreting my actions regarding a case as dangerous and damaging to the universityβs reputation.
I walked into various classrooms where students looked at me as if I had made them ashamed.
I felt naked, to the point it felt like I was being scrutinized for my character, rather than my behavior.
The irony was cutthroat.
I was the one treated as dangerous, while he continued to hold his position and smile at places and events involving me, like nothing had changed.
What loneliness really feels like when truth becomes a weapon
There is a certain type of loneliness that eats away at you, not because you are alone but because the entire world you live in refuses to accept your reality.
That was how I felt every day.
I stopped eating in the canteen because the air was so thick with gossip. Every walk across the campus involved a gauntlet of stares.
My girlfriend even started to notice that I was putting my phone on silent. I was just afraid of hearing again from someone whoβs wondering why I went βtoo far.β
It was one night, after another day of stone-faced meetings, I was in my rented room just staring at a ceiling fan.
Its blades made the only sound in the room.
For a moment, I let myself wonder whether I made a terrible mistake in life. I couldβve just kept quiet, carried on with my work, and left with no visible scars.
But then I thought of that girl crying outside the office, and how many others mustβve endured their wounds because they knew that nobody was ever going to stand for them.
That thought was enough to give me just enough strength to sit up and breathe finally.
Loneliness became my instructor.
It took away the illusions I had of loyalty, power, and friendship.
It revealed who people really were when integrity had a price.
When institutions defend power, not people
Eventually, I began to see what had been previously clear to me but hidden in plain sight.
The organization wasnβt constructed to protect students or staff. It was put together to protect itself.
Every committee I sat in, every so-called investigation, was nothing more than a delaying tactic to sweep complaints into an impenetrable bureaucracy.
I watched administrators manipulate language, saying things like βWeβll take this under advisement,β meaning we will wait until you give up.
At that point, it became apparent to me that the system wasnβt broken. It was working precisely as designed, to protect the powerful and tire out an adversary.
That was a bitter realization, but it was also liberating.
I no longer expected that justice would come from the organization. I could find my own peace in knowing that I told the truth, even though it cost me everything.
Even now, years later, I recall that time whenever I hear about whistleblowers in other places.
I understand what it is to risk your job, your relationships, your peace of mind, for the possibility that someone would listen.
I understand how you can become the villain when all you wanted to do is protect others.
And I understand the quiet strength it takes to be alone and have nothing but the knowledge of having done the right thing.
The truth I carry with me now
I would not be telling you the truth if I said I am without scars.
The scars remain, stuck with me in how I approach trust, loyalty, and power.
But I also carry an additional layer. The understanding that silence is the genuine act of betrayal.
Stating the facts did not make me a hero. It made me human.
It is the culmination of every horrid feeling. Fear, doubt, but remarkably, a level of clarity I would never go back in time to negate.
I learned how fragile reputations are, how institutions protect the reputation and self-interest of the institution before the people, and even how courage sometimes means becoming a nasty character.
What I learned is that institutions defended power. I defend the person.
The truth is never wasted.
I Reported My Mentor and Faced the Wrath of an Entire Institution was originally published in A Teacherβs Life on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
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