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Viktoriya Voropayeva, a systems engineer and vice-rector at Donetsk National Technology University (DonNTU), will never forget the Saturday evening she first witnessed Russian tanks rolling through the streets of her city. In 2014, following the seizure of Donetsk by Russian-backed forces, the unofficial capital of Ukraine's Donbas region, Voropayeva and numerous colleagues faced a harrowing decision. They chose to abandon their home and establish a university in exile, relocating to Drohobych in western Ukraine. "We hoped that it would be one semester or one academic year," Voropayeva explains regarding the sudden move. "Nobody thought that it could be forever." Her family departed with only essential documents, family photographs, and their cat, leaving behind a life they had built over decades.
Similar narratives are unfolding in conflict zones across the globe, including Myanmar, Sudan, and Ukraine, where academics and entire university communities are being violently displaced. These scholars face the monumental task of rebuilding their institutions in foreign lands. They must preserve their academic heritage, continue their research, and educate students while navigating immense financial, legal, and emotional hardship. Forced displacement is not a new phenomenon for academics. European scholars fled Nazi Germany in the 1930s, and more recent wars in Syria, Afghanistan, and Yemen have created waves of displaced researchers. However, the scale and complexity of current crises are significantly greater. Today's displaced scholars often face a double burden, needing to escape immediate danger while simultaneously trying to salvage the life's work they have spent decades building.
This global movement creates a distinct class of migrants: the academic refugee. Unlike traditional refugees who focus primarily on safety and basic needs, these individuals carry the additional, crushing responsibility of preserving complex institutions. They must protect physical assets like libraries and laboratories, as well as the intangible continuity of their academic programs. The entire process represents a profound act of intellectual and cultural resistance against those who seek to erase their knowledge and history.
The conflict in Ukraine has produced one of the largest and most organized modern academic exoduses in history. When Russia invaded in 2022, it accelerated a displacement that had already begun in 2014 with the annexation of Crimea and the war in Donbas. Universities like Voropayeva's DonNTU were forced to move twice, first relocating within Ukraine and then, for many staff members, moving abroad as the war expanded in intensity. The Mariupol State University serves as a stark example of this tragedy. Its main campus was completely destroyed during the siege of Mariupol. University leadership evacuated to Zaporizhzhia, where they operated from temporary facilities, continuing to hold online classes for students scattered across Europe, often while those students were hiding in bomb shelters. The university's primary goal became nothing less than survival, aiming to keep its community connected and its academic identity intact.
Ukrainian scholars living abroad face difficult choices regarding their future. Many work in temporary positions at foreign universities. While grateful for their safety, they describe a profound sense of loss. Their research, often tied specifically to Ukraine's social or environmental context, is extremely difficult to continue in a new setting. There is also a constant fear of a "brain drain" that could permanently weaken the country's scientific capacity for generations to come. The uncertainty of whether they will ever return home casts a long shadow over their professional lives.
In Sudan, a brutal civil war that erupted in April 2023 has shattered the country's higher education system. Militias have occupied university campuses, looting equipment and destroying facilities. Researchers have described armed groups entering laboratories and offices to seize or destroy resources. Many Sudanese academics have fled to neighboring countries like Egypt, Chad, and South Sudan, where they struggle to find work that matches their expertise. The crisis has halted critical research projects vital to the nation. Studies on desertification, public health, and Nile River management are now abandoned. Displaced scholars report a desperate lack of funding and recognition for their work. Their qualifications are often not recognized in host countries, forcing many into underemployment where their skills go unused.
In Myanmar, the military coup of February 2021 triggered a mass boycott of state universities by both staff and students. An entire shadow education system, known as the National Unity Government's Ministry of Education, now operates in secret and online from within the country and from exile. Professors teach via encrypted applications to students hiding in dormitories or living in active conflict zones. This underground network keeps education alive, but it operates under the constant threat of arrest and violence. The risk to their physical safety is compounded by the difficulty of maintaining a coherent curriculum without access to standard academic resources or international collaboration.
Rebuilding a university in exile carries enormous costs that extend far beyond simple financial deficits. The initial challenge is purely practical: finding physical space. Host institutions may offer a few offices or classrooms, but exiled universities rarely have dedicated campuses of their own. Libraries are left behind on destroyed or occupied land. Specialized laboratories, filled with expensive, custom-built equipment, are almost impossible to recreate in a foreign location without massive capital investment.
The legal and bureaucratic hurdles are immense. An exiled institution must often re-register as a legal entity in a new country, a process involving complex negotiations about accreditation, degree recognition, and governance. Questions arise about authority: Who holds the authority of the original university senate? Can degrees granted in exile be recognized back home after the conflict ends? The human cost is perhaps the greatest of all. Faculty and staff are separated from their homes, often for years, experiencing trauma, grief for lost colleagues, and anxiety about an uncertain future. Salaries, if they exist at all, are meager. The work of maintaining an institution becomes a full-time struggle, leaving little time or energy for the research that defines an academic career. The psychological toll of living in a state of perpetual transition is profound.
In response to these crises, international networks have emerged to support displaced scholars. Organizations like the Scholars at Risk Network, the Institute of International Education's Scholar Rescue Fund, and the Council for At-Risk Academics (CARA) work tirelessly to place threatened scholars in temporary safe positions at universities worldwide. These "host-and-match" programs provide a critical lifeline. They offer a salary, an institutional affiliation, and a chance to continue scholarly work. However, these positions are usually temporary, lasting only one to two years. The scholar faces the same displacement cliff when the fellowship ends. Furthermore, the number of available positions is tiny compared to the massive scale of need. Many scholars remain unsupported for years while the war continues.
Some initiatives aim for more systemic support. The European Union's "Science for Ukraine" portal helps displaced researchers find jobs and funding across Europe. In the UK, CARA helps universities develop long-term integration plans for scholars, rather than just providing short-term placements. These efforts seek to bridge the gap between temporary refuge and permanent professional reintegration, though the challenge remains vast.
The ultimate goal for most exiled universities and scholars is to return home. Yet, return is fraught with difficulty. Campuses may be destroyed or occupied by hostile forces. Political situations may remain unstable for years. A generation of students may have been educated elsewhere, significantly altering the country's intellectual landscape. There is also a risk that prolonged exile changes the institution itself. To survive in a new context, the university may adapt its curriculum, research focus, and partnerships. These changes, while necessary for survival, may make it harder to reintegrate into the home country's system later. The university in exile must walk a tightrope: adapting enough to survive now, but preserving enough of its core identity to return later. The fear of returning to a homeland that no longer recognizes their work is a constant tension.
For individual scholars, the decision to return is deeply personal. Those who have built new lives abroad may hesitate to uproot their families again. Younger researchers who began their careers in exile may have weaker ties to their homeland. This creates a painful dilemma between personal stability and national duty. The choice to stay or go weighs heavily on the mental health and future prospects of thousands of professionals.
The story of universities in exile is ultimately about the resilience of knowledge. It demonstrates that a university is more than its buildings; it is a community of people, a tradition of inquiry, and a repository of collective memory. When these communities are scattered by war, their struggle to continue is an act of defiance. The efforts of scholars like Viktoriya Voropayeva highlight a profound commitment. They choose to carry the torch of their institution, even when the original campus is lost. They teach the next generation, preserving a national narrative and the skills needed for future reconstruction. Their work in exile is a bet on the future—a belief that the knowledge they protect will one day be needed to rebuild a peaceful society.
The cost of starting afresh is incalculable, measured in lost research, fractured careers, and personal trauma. Yet, the continued existence of these academic communities, against all odds, offers a glimmer of hope. It proves that even when the map is redrawn by conflict, the pursuit of knowledge can find a way to endure. These institutions serve as beacons of stability in a chaotic world, ensuring that education and scientific inquiry survive despite the most desperate circumstances.
As these displaced communities navigate their uncertain futures, their resilience stands as a testament to the enduring power of the academic spirit. The battles they fight are not just for their own livelihoods but for the preservation of the intellectual infrastructure of their nations. Whether they remain in exile or eventually return, their contributions will shape the future of their countries and the global academic landscape. The world must continue to support these scholars, not only as victims of conflict but as essential partners in the preservation of human knowledge and cultural identity.