In 1933, shortly after the Nazis came to power, Martin Heidegger – world-renowned philosopher and newly elected rector of the University of Freiburg – delivered a speech that would remain in history far more vividly than all his philosophical writings taken together. The speech was titled “The Self-Assertion of the German University,” and it is one of those texts that do not merely age badly, but age as a warning. In it, he declared that the university must free itself from “negative academic freedom,” from arbitrariness, from irresponsible thinking, from the luxury of asking questions that disturb order. True freedom, he said, does not lie in autonomy but in “service” – in submission to a higher mission, in discipline, in the historical task of the people and the state. The university is not a place for the whims of individual scholars, but a spiritual organ of the nation, obliged to align itself with the state project and not stand in its way.

It is a speech in which the word “freedom” appears constantly, yet its content is entirely replaced. Freedom no longer means the right to take risks, to err, or even to come into conflict with power. Here it means proper alignment, loyal service, disciplined thinking. All of this is wrapped in refined philosophical language, in talk of “mission,” “destiny,” “responsibility.” But beneath the lyricism stands a simple idea: the university has no right to be autonomous. It must be useful. And if it must choose between truth and the state, the choice has already been made.

In 2024, Georgi Valchev, rector of Sofia University, gave an interview to the website BGNES in which – without, of course, realizing it – he repeated the main assertions of that infamous speech by his German colleague. Without philosophy, without Hölderlin, without pathos. Only in the language of “common sense” and “institutional responsibility.” He told us that as a public institution the university is obliged to defend the official state position on certain historical issues. He said that freedom of opinion is important, but only if opinions are “balanced.” That it is not a problem to speak, as long as speech first passes through the proper council, the proper committee, the proper procedure. That the rector cannot take decisions unilaterally, but that the institution has the right to “correct” initiatives that create tension. That “institutional measures” will be taken.

This is not Nazism. It is something much more banal – and precisely for that reason more dangerous. It is the same mental framework, reduced to administrative language. The university is not a place that can afford to come into conflict with the state. The university is not a place that has the right to question the “official position.” The university is a public institution, and public institutions, as we know, must be “responsible.” Freedom remains, but only if it is approved in advance. Pluralism is allowed, but only if it does not disturb order. Truth is permitted, but only if it does not create problems.

The difference between 1933 and 2026 is not in the logic. It is in scale and speed. Heidegger spoke at a moment when totalitarianism was already marching through the streets. Georgi Valchev speaks in a country that is supposedly a democracy, supposedly a member of the European Union, supposedly a society that has “overcome” its past. And here the convenient justification appears: “We are not living under totalitarianism.” “No circular orders have been handed down.” “There are no bans.” “Everything follows the rules.”

But is that really so?

Is Bulgaria in 2026 a society that has outgrown its totalitarian past? Or simply one that has changed its instruments while preserving its old instincts? A society that no longer arrests, but “reforms.” That does not prohibit, but “balances.” That does not silence, but explains that now is not the right moment, not the right format, not responsible enough.

Freedom of speech here is like a Sunday shirt – everyone takes it out on official occasions, everyone boasts about it, but no one wears it in daily life. Of course we have freedom. You can say whatever you like, as long as you are not in a place that matters. You can criticize power, as long as you are not inside an institution that depends on its funding. You can hold an opinion, as long as you do not turn it into an event. And if you do dare – do not worry, no one will ban you. They will simply explain that you are “one-sided.” That you are “provocative.” That you are “unbalanced.” And then they will fix the regulations.

This is an old Bulgarian tradition. Since the time when inconvenient intellectuals were not merely criticized, but “brought to their senses.” There has always been a reasonable person ready to say: “Yes, but the moment is not right.” “Yes, but not like this.” “Yes, but we must be careful.” Caution – that national virtue – has always been more important than freedom. Let nothing go wrong. Let us not embarrass ourselves. Let us not upset anyone. Let us not damage the “image.”

Today this reflex is sold as institutional maturity. As European behavior. As “learning from history.” Yet history teaches exactly the opposite: every time universities cease to be places of risk, they cease to be universities. They turn into cultural houses with security, into conference halls for official truths, into loudspeakers printed in academic font.

And here the inevitable sarcasm begins, because without it there is simply no way to speak honestly. Yes, of course, there is freedom of speech in Bulgaria. So much freedom that people no longer bother to use it. So much freedom that you already know in advance what is worth saying and what is not. So much freedom that you begin to censor yourself so as not to create trouble. This is not fear – it is “reason.” Not submission – simply “responsibility.” And of course it is not silence – we are only talking about “balance.”

And when someone says that the university must defend the state’s position, it does not sound like a scandal. It sounds normal. It even sounds patriotic. Who would want a university to create problems? Who would want tension? Who would want conflict? Only some kind of extremists, right?

But that is precisely where the danger lies. Not in crude prohibition, but in the soft logic. Not in dictatorship, but in its cultural prelude. In the idea that freedom is a good thing, but only if it does not get in the way. That the university is important, but only if it is “responsible.” That truth is a value, but only if it does not disturb the official narrative.

Heidegger at least lived in an era when illusions were short-lived. Georgi Valchev lives in an era when illusions are official policy. And that is the more frightening thing. Because when freedom is abolished openly, people at least understand what is happening. But when it is neutralized with a smile, with regulations, and with the assurance that “there is nothing to worry about,” then it disappears without us even noticing.

And later, years from now, we will again wonder how we got here. We will write analyses. We will look for the guilty. We will say that no one wanted this. That everything happened gradually. Which, of course, will be true. As always.