Speak to young university students today and a picture emerges of deep concern for justice, hunger for real-world connection, and an urgent desire to belong to something bigger than themselves.
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The preliminary projections, based on SEVIS and State Department data, paint a stark picture for higher education institutions that have come to rely heavily on international students for both revenue and academic diversity. The analysis predicts an overall 15% drop in international enrollment for the 2025-26 academic year, which would reverse years of steady growth in this critical sector.
“This analysis, the first to calculate the potential economic impact of fewer international students on cities and towns across the country, should serve as a clarion call to the State Department that it must act,” said Dr. Fanta Aw, executive director and CEO of NAFSA. “The immediate economic losses projected here are just the tip of the iceberg.”
The projected decline stems from a confluence of policy changes and administrative challenges that have created significant barriers for prospective international students:
Visa Interview Suspension: Between May 27 and June 18, 2025, student visa interviews were paused during the peak issuance season—precisely when students needed to secure visas for fall enrollment. When interviews resumed on June 18, consulates received a directive to implement new social media vetting protocols within five days, but with minimal guidance.
Appointment Bottlenecks: Reports indicate limited or no visa appointment availability in key countries including India, China, Nigeria, and Japan. India and China alone represent the top two sources of international students to the United States, while Nigeria ranks seventh and Japan 13th among sending countries.
Declining Visa Issuance: F-1 student visa issuance dropped 12% from January to April 2025 and plummeted 22% in May 2025 compared to the same period in 2024. While June 2025 data has not been published, the analysis suggests a possible 80-90% decrease based on the identified disruptions.
Travel Restrictions: A June 4, 2025 executive order imposed restrictions on nationals from 19 countries, with reports suggesting another 36 countries could be added. These restrictions alone threaten $3 billion in annual economic contributions and more than 25,000 American jobs.
The economic implications extend far beyond university campuses. International students contributed $46.1 billion to the U.S. economy in 2024-25 and supported nearly 400,000 jobs across various sectors including housing, dining, retail, and transportation.
The projected 15% enrollment decline would reduce international student economic contributions to $39.2 billion in 2025-26, down from an expected $46.1 billion. This represents not just a loss to individual institutions, but to entire communities that have built economic ecosystems around international education.
“Without significant recovery in visa issuance in July and August, up to 150,000 fewer students may arrive this fall,” the report warns, highlighting the narrow window remaining for policy corrections.
Beyond immediate economic impacts, education leaders worry about long-term consequences for American higher education’s global competitiveness. International students contribute to research innovation, provide diverse perspectives in classrooms, and often remain in the United States after graduation, filling critical roles in STEM fields and other high-demand sectors.
The timing is particularly concerning given increased competition from other English-speaking countries like Canada, Australia, and the United Kingdom, which have positioned themselves as more welcoming alternatives for international students.
To mitigate what NAFSA calls a “devastating outcome,” the organization is urging Congress to direct the State Department to take two immediate actions:
The report argues that these policy changes could help institutions avoid the projected enrollment cliff and preserve the economic benefits that international students bring to American communities.
For institutions planning fall enrollment, the report suggests the need for contingency planning and advocacy efforts to address visa processing challenges. With the traditional summer months representing the final opportunity for students to secure visas for fall enrollment, time is running short for policy interventions.
Key points:
A colleague of ours recently attended an AI training where the opening slide featured a list of all the ways AI can revolutionize our classrooms. Grading was listed at the top. Sure, AI can grade papers in mere seconds, but should it?
As one of our students, Jane, stated: “It has a rubric and can quantify it. It has benchmarks. But that is not what actually goes into writing.” Our students recognize that AI cannot replace the empathy and deep understanding that recognizes the growth, effort, and development of their voice. What concerns us most about grading our students’ written work with AI is the transformation of their audience from human to robot.
If we teach our students throughout their writing lives that what the grading robot says matters most, then we are teaching them that their audience doesn’t matter. As Wyatt, another student, put it: “If you can use AI to grade me, I can use AI to write.” NCTE, in its position statements for Generative AI, reminds us that writing is a human act, not a mechanical one. Reducing it to automated scores undermines its value and teaches students, like Wyatt and Jane, that the only time we write is for a grade. That is a future of teaching writing we hope to never see.
We need to pause when tech companies tout AI as the grader of student writing. This isn’t a question of capability. AI can score essays. It can be calibrated to rubrics. It can, as Jane
said, provide students with encouragement and feedback specific to their developing skills. And we have no doubt it has the potential to make a teacher’s grading life easier. But just because we can outsource some educational functions to technology doesn’t mean we should.
It is bad enough how many students already see their teacher as their only audience. Or worse, when students are writing for teachers who see their written work strictly through the lens of a rubric, their audience is limited to the rubric. Even those options are better than writing for a bot. Instead, let’s question how often our students write to a broader audience of their peers, parents, community, or a panel of judges for a writing contest. We need to reengage with writing as a process and implement AI as a guide or aide rather than a judge with the last word on an essay score.
Our best foot forward is to put AI in its place. The use of AI in the writing process is better served in the developing stages of writing. AI is excellent as a guide for brainstorming. It can help in a variety of ways when a student is struggling and looking for five alternatives to their current ending or an idea for a metaphor. And if you or your students like AI’s grading feature, they can paste their work into a bot for feedback prior to handing it in as a final draft.
We need to recognize that there are grave consequences if we let a bot do all the grading. As teachers, we should recognize bot grading for what it is: automated education. We can and should leave the promises of hundreds of essays graded in an hour for the standardized test providers. Our classrooms are alive with people who have stories to tell, arguments to make, and research to conduct. We see our students beyond the raw data of their work. We recognize that the poem our student has written for their sick grandparent might be a little flawed, but it matters a whole lot to the person writing it and to the person they are writing it for. We see the excitement or determination in our students’ eyes when they’ve chosen a research topic that is important to them. They want their cause to be known and understood by others, not processed and graded by a bot.
The adoption of AI into education should be conducted with caution. Many educators are experimenting with using AI tools in thoughtful and student-centered ways. In a recent article, David Cutler describes his experience using an AI-assisted platform to provide feedback on his students’ essays. While Cutler found the tool surprisingly accurate and helpful, the true value lies in the feedback being used as part of the revision process. As this article reinforces, the role of a teacher is not just to grade, but to support and guide learning. When used intentionally (and we emphasize, as in-process feedback) AI can enhance that learning, but the final word, and the relationship behind it, must still come from a human being.
When we hand over grading to AI, we risk handing over something much bigger–our students’ belief that their words matter and deserve an audience. Our students don’t write to impress a rubric, they write to be heard. And when we replace the reader with a robot, we risk teaching our students that their voices only matter to the machine. We need to let AI support the writing process, not define the product. Let it offer ideas, not deliver grades. When we use it at the right moments and for the right reasons, it can make us better teachers and help our students grow. But let’s never confuse efficiency with empathy. Or algorithms with understanding.
This post originally appeared on the Christensen Institute’s blog and is reposted here with permission.
Key points:
A few weeks ago, MIT’s Media Lab put out a study on how AI affects the brain. The study ignited a firestorm of posts and comments on social media, given its provocative finding that students who relied on ChatGPT for writing tasks showed lower brain engagement on EEG scans, hinting that offloading thinking to AI can literally dull our neural activity. For anyone who has used AI, it’s not hard to see how AI systems can become learning crutches that encourage mental laziness.
But I don’t think a simple “AI harms learning” conclusion tells the whole story. In this blog post (adapted from a recent series of posts I shared on LinkedIn), I want to add to the conversation by tackling the potential impact of AI in education from four angles. I’ll explore how AI’s unique adaptability can reshape rigid systems, how it both fights and fuels misinformation, how AI can be both good and bad depending on how it is used, and why its funding model may ultimately determine whether AI serves learners or short-circuits their growth.
What if the most transformative aspect of AI for schools isn’t its intelligence, but its adaptability?
Most technologies make us adjust to them. We have to learn how they work and adapt our behavior. Industrial machines, enterprise software, even a basic thermostat—they all come with instructions and patterns we need to learn and follow.
Education highlights this dynamic in a different way. How does education’s “factory model” work when students don’t come to school as standardized raw inputs? In many ways, schools expect students to conform to the requirements of the system—show up on time, sharpen your pencil before class, sit quietly while the teacher is talking, raise your hand if you want to speak. Those social norms are expectations we place on students so that standardized education can work. But as anyone who has tried to manage a group of six-year-olds knows, a class of students is full of complicated humans who never fully conform to what the system expects. So, teachers serve as the malleable middle layer. They adapt standardized systems to make them work for real students. Without that human adaptability, the system would collapse.
Same thing in manufacturing. Edgar Schein notes that engineers aim to design systems that run themselves. But operators know systems never work perfectly. Their job—and often their sense of professional identity—is about having the expertise to adapt and adjust when things inevitably go off-script. Human adaptability in the face of rigid systems keeps everything running.
So, how does this relate to AI? AI breaks the mold of most machines and systems humans have designed and dealt with throughout history. It doesn’t just follow its algorithm and expect us to learn how to use it. It adapts to us, like how teachers or factory operators adapt to the realities of the world to compensate for the rigidity of standardized systems.
You don’t need a coding background or a manual. You just speak to it. (I literally hit the voice-to-text button and talk to it like I’m explaining something to a person.) Messy, natural human language—the age-old human-to-human interface that our brains are wired to pick up on as infants—has become the interface for large language models. In other words, what makes today’s AI models amazing is their ability to use our interface, rather than asking us to learn theirs.
For me, the early hype about “prompt engineering” never really made sense. It assumed that success with AI required becoming an AI whisperer who knew how to speak AI’s language. But in my experience, working well with AI is less about learning special ways to talk to AI and more about just being a clear communicator, just like a good teacher or a good manager.
Now imagine this: what if AI becomes the new malleable middle layer across all kinds of systems? Not just a tool, but an adaptive bridge that makes other rigid, standardized systems work well together. If AI can make interoperability nearly frictionless—adapting to each system and context, rather than forcing people to adapt to it—that could be transformative. It’s not hard to see how this shift might ripple far beyond technology into how we organize institutions, deliver services, and design learning experiences.
Consider two concrete examples of how this might transform schools. First, our current system heavily relies on the written word as the medium for assessing students’ learning. To be clear, writing is an important skill that students need to develop to help them navigate the world beyond school. Yet at the same time, schools’ heavy reliance on writing as the medium for demonstrating learning creates barriers for students with learning disabilities, neurodivergent learners, or English language learners—all of whom may have a deep understanding but struggle to express it through writing in English. AI could serve as that adaptive layer, allowing students to demonstrate their knowledge and receive feedback through speech, visual representations, or even their native language, while still ensuring rigorous assessment of their actual understanding.
Second, it’s obvious that students don’t all learn at the same pace—yet we’ve forced learning to happen at a uniform timeline because individualized pacing quickly becomes completely unmanageable when teachers are on their own to cover material and provide feedback to their students. So instead, everyone spends the same number of weeks on each unit of content and then moves to the next course or grade level together, regardless of individual readiness. Here again, AI could serve as that adaptive layer for keeping track of students’ individual learning progressions and then serving up customized feedback, explanations, and practice opportunities based on students’ individual needs.
Third, success in school isn’t just about academics—it’s about knowing how to navigate the system itself. Students need to know how to approach teachers for help, track announcements for tryouts and auditions, fill out paperwork for course selections, and advocate for themselves to get into the classes they want. These navigation skills become even more critical for college applications and financial aid. But there are huge inequities here because much of this knowledge comes from social capital—having parents or peers who already understand how the system works. AI could help level the playing field by serving as that adaptive coaching layer, guiding any student through the bureaucratic maze rather than expecting them to figure it out on their own or rely on family connections to decode the system.
Can AI help solve the problem of misinformation?
Most people I talk to are skeptical of the idea in this subhead—and understandably so.
We’ve all seen the headlines: deep fakes, hallucinated facts, bots that churn out clickbait. AI, many argue, will supercharge misinformation, not solve it. Others worry that overreliance on AI could make people less critical and more passive, outsourcing their thinking instead of sharpening it.
But what if that’s not the whole story?
Here’s what gives me hope: AI’s ability to spot falsehoods and surface truth at scale might be one of its most powerful—and underappreciated—capabilities.
First, consider what makes misinformation so destructive. It’s not just that people believe wrong facts. It’s that people build vastly different mental models of what’s true and real. They lose any shared basis for reasoning through disagreements. Once that happens, dialogue breaks down. Facts don’t matter because facts aren’t shared.
Traditionally, countering misinformation has required human judgment and painstaking research, both time-consuming and limited in scale. But AI changes the equation.
Unlike any single person, a large language model (LLM) can draw from an enormous base of facts, concepts, and contextual knowledge. LLMs know far more facts from their training data than any person can learn in a lifetime. And when paired with tools like a web browser or citation database, they can investigate claims, check sources, and explain discrepancies.
Imagine reading a social media post and getting a sidebar summary—courtesy of AI—that flags misleading statistics, offers missing context, and links to credible sources. Not months later, not buried in the comments—instantly, as the content appears. The technology to do this already exists.
Of course, AI is not perfect as a fact-checker. When large language models generate text, they aren’t producing precise queries of facts; they’re making probabilistic guesses at what the right response should be based on their training, and sometimes those guesses are wrong. (Just like human experts, they also generate answers by drawing on their expertise, and they sometimes get things wrong.) AI also has its own blind spots and biases based on the biases it inherits from its training data.
But in many ways, both hallucinations and biases in AI are easier to detect and address than the false statements and biases that come from millions of human minds across the internet. AI’s decision rules can be audited. Its output can be tested. Its propensity to hallucinate can be curtailed. That makes it a promising foundation for improving trust, at least compared to the murky, decentralized mess of misinformation we’re living in now.
This doesn’t mean AI will eliminate misinformation. But it could dramatically increase the accessibility of accurate information, and reduce the friction it takes to verify what’s true. Of course, most platforms don’t yet include built-in AI fact-checking, and even if they did, that approach would raise important concerns. Do we trust the sources that those companies prioritize? The rules their systems follow? The incentives that guide how their tools are designed? But beyond questions of trust, there’s a deeper concern: when AI passively flags errors or supplies corrections, it risks turning users into passive recipients of “answers” rather than active seekers of truth. Learning requires effort. It’s not just about having the right information—it’s about asking good questions, thinking critically, and grappling with ideas. That’s why I think one of the most important things to teach young people about how to use AI is to treat it as a tool for interrogating the information and ideas they encounter, both online and from AI itself. Just like we teach students to proofread their writing or double-check their math, we should help them develop habits of mind that use AI to spark their own inquiry—to question claims, explore perspectives, and dig deeper into the truth.
Still, this focuses on just one side of the story. As powerful as AI may be for fact-checking, it will inevitably be used to generate deepfakes and spin persuasive falsehoods.
AI isn’t just good or bad—it’s both. The future of education depends on how we use it.
Much of the commentary around AI takes a strong stance: either it’s an incredible force for progress or it’s a terrifying threat to humanity. These bold perspectives make for compelling headlines and persuasive arguments. But in reality, the world is messy. And most transformative innovations—AI included—cut both ways.
History is full of examples of technologies that have advanced society in profound ways while also creating new risks and challenges. The Industrial Revolution made it possible to mass-produce goods that have dramatically improved the quality of life for billions. It has also fueled pollution and environmental degradation. The internet connects communities, opens access to knowledge, and accelerates scientific progress—but it also fuels misinformation, addiction, and division. Nuclear energy can power cities—or obliterate them.
AI is no different. It will do amazing things. It will do terrible things. The question isn’t whether AI will be good or bad for humanity—it’s how the choices of its users and developers will determine the directions it takes.
Because I work in education, I’ve been especially focused on the impact of AI on learning. AI can make learning more engaging, more personalized, and more accessible. It can explain concepts in multiple ways, adapt to your level, provide feedback, generate practice exercises, or summarize key points. It’s like having a teaching assistant on demand to accelerate your learning.
But it can also short-circuit the learning process. Why wrestle with a hard problem when AI will just give you the answer? Why wrestle with an idea when you can ask AI to write the essay for you? And even when students have every intention of learning, AI can create the illusion of learning while leaving understanding shallow.
This double-edged dynamic isn’t limited to learning. It’s also apparent in the world of work. AI is already making it easier for individuals to take on entrepreneurial projects that would have previously required whole teams. A startup no longer needs to hire a designer to create its logo, a marketer to build its brand assets, or an editor to write its press releases. In the near future, you may not even need to know how to code to build a software product. AI can help individuals turn ideas into action with far fewer barriers. And for those who feel overwhelmed by the idea of starting something new, AI can coach them through it, step by step. We may be on the front end of a boom in entrepreneurship unlocked by AI.
At the same time, however, AI is displacing many of the entry-level knowledge jobs that people have historically relied on to get their careers started. Tasks like drafting memos, doing basic research, or managing spreadsheets—once done by junior staff—can increasingly be handled by AI. That shift is making it harder for new graduates to break into the workforce and develop their skills on the job.
One way to mitigate these challenges is to build AI tools that are designed to support learning, not circumvent it. For example, Khan Academy’s Khanmigo helps students think critically about the material they’re learning rather than just giving them answers. It encourages ideation, offers feedback, and prompts deeper understanding—serving as a thoughtful coach, not a shortcut. But the deeper issue AI brings into focus is that our education system often treats learning as a means to an end—a set of hoops to jump through on the way to a diploma. To truly prepare students for a world shaped by AI, we need to rethink that approach. First, we should focus less on teaching only the skills AI can already do well. And second, we should make learning more about pursuing goals students care about—goals that require curiosity, critical thinking, and perseverance. Rather than training students to follow a prescribed path, we should be helping them learn how to chart their own. That’s especially important in a world where career paths are becoming less predictable, and opportunities often require the kind of initiative and adaptability we associate with entrepreneurs.
In short, AI is just the latest technological double-edged sword. It can support learning, or short-circuit it. Boost entrepreneurship—or displace entry-level jobs. The key isn’t to declare AI good or bad, but to recognize that it’s both, and then to be intentional about how we shape its trajectory.
That trajectory won’t be determined by technical capabilities alone. Who pays for AI, and what they pay it to do, will influence whether it evolves to support human learning, expertise, and connection, or to exploit our attention, take our jobs, and replace our relationships.
What actually determines whether AI helps or harms?
When people talk about the opportunities and risks of artificial intelligence, the conversation tends to focus on the technology’s capabilities—what it might be able to do, what it might replace, what breakthroughs lie ahead. But just focusing on what the technology does—both good and bad—doesn’t tell the whole story. The business model behind a technology influences how it evolves.
For example, when advertisers are the paying customer, as they are for many social media platforms, products tend to evolve to maximize user engagement and time-on-platform. That’s how we ended up with doomscrolling—endless content feeds optimized to occupy our attention so companies can show us more ads, often at the expense of our well-being.
That incentive could be particularly dangerous with AI. If you combine superhuman persuasion tools with an incentive to monopolize users’ attention, the results will be deeply manipulative. And this gets at a concern my colleague Julia Freeland Fisher has been raising: What happens if AI systems start to displace human connection? If AI becomes your go-to for friendship or emotional support, it risks crowding out the real relationships in your life.
Whether or not AI ends up undermining human relationships depends a lot on how it’s paid for. An AI built to hold your attention and keep you coming back might try to be your best friend. But an AI built to help you solve problems in the real world will behave differently. That kind of AI might say, “Hey, we’ve been talking for a while—why not go try out some of the things we’ve discussed?” or “Sounds like it’s time to take a break and connect with someone you care about.”
Some decisions made by the major AI companies seem encouraging. Sam Altman, OpenAI’s CEO, has said that adopting ads would be a last resort. “I’m not saying OpenAI would never consider ads, but I don’t like them in general, and I think that ads-plus-AI is sort of uniquely unsettling to me.” Instead, most AI developers like OpenAI and Anthropic have turned to user subscriptions, an incentive structure that doesn’t steer as hard toward addictiveness. OpenAI is also exploring AI-centric hardware as a business model—another experiment that seems more promising for user wellbeing.
So far, we’ve been talking about the directions AI will take as companies develop their technologies for individual consumers, but there’s another angle worth considering: how AI gets adopted into the workplace. One of the big concerns is that AI will be used to replace people, not necessarily because it does the job better, but because it’s cheaper. That decision often comes down to incentives. Right now, businesses pay a lot in payroll taxes and benefits for every employee, but they get tax breaks when they invest in software and machines. So, from a purely financial standpoint, replacing people with technology can look like a smart move. In the book, The Once and Future Worker, Oren Cass discusses this problem and suggests flipping that script—taxing capital more and labor less—so companies aren’t nudged toward cutting jobs just to save money. That change wouldn’t stop companies from using AI, but it would encourage them to deploy it in ways that complement, rather than replace, human workers.
Currently, while AI companies operate without sustainable business models, they’re buoyed by investor funding. Investors are willing to bankroll companies with little or no revenue today because they see the potential for massive profits in the future. But that investor model creates pressure to grow rapidly and acquire as many users as possible, since scale is often a key metric of success in venture-backed tech. That drive for rapid growth can push companies to prioritize user acquisition over thoughtful product development, potentially at the expense of safety, ethics, or long-term consequences.
Given these realities, what can parents and educators do? First, they can be discerning customers. There are many AI tools available, and the choices they make matter. Rather than simply opting for what’s most entertaining or immediately useful, they can support companies whose business models and design choices reflect a concern for users’ well-being and societal impact.
Second, they can be vocal. Journalists, educators, and parents all have platforms—whether formal or informal—to raise questions, share concerns, and express what they hope to see from AI companies. Public dialogue helps shape media narratives, which in turn shape both market forces and policy decisions.
Third, they can advocate for smart, balanced regulation. As I noted above, AI shouldn’t be regulated as if it’s either all good or all bad. But reasonable guardrails can ensure that AI is developed and used in ways that serve the public good. Just as the customers and investors in a company’s value network influence its priorities, so too can policymakers play a constructive role as value network actors by creating smart policies that promote general welfare when market incentives fall short.
In sum, a company’s value network—who its investors are, who pays for its products, and what they hire those products to do—determines what companies optimize for. And in AI, that choice might shape not just how the technology evolves, but how it impacts our lives, our relationships, and our society.
Imagine studying in a Wales where every student understands their rights and responsibilities.
Where module feedback drives real change, where student representatives have time, resources and power to make a difference, and where complaints drive learning, not defensiveness.
Where every student contributes to their community in some way – and where decisions can’t be made about students without students.
When the Tertiary Education and Research (Wales) Act 2022 was being drafted, the inclusion of a mandatory Learner Engagement Code was important – Wales resolved to put into primary legislation what England had buried in the B Conditions and Scotland had largely left to institutional discretion.
Section 125 now requires the Commission to prepare and publish a code about learner involvement in decision-making that’s not optional, or best practice – it’s law.
This year the newly formed commission (MEDR) has been informally consulting on it – but it’s now been so long since the original debates that there’s a danger everyone helping to develop the thing will forget what it was supposed to do.
Nobody will benefit from something that emerges as something weak or vague. The opportunity is for Wales to lead the way with some crunchy “comply or explain” provisions for universities in Wales that reflect the fact that this has been put in primary legislation.
We know what happens when learner engagement is treated as an afterthought. In England, providers often silence critique on reputational grounds – the Office for Students’ (OfS) free speech guidance had to explicitly state that students have the right to publicly criticise their institutions. Imagine needing regulatory clarification that criticism is allowed in a democracy.
Meanwhile, Scottish institutions celebrate their “partnership” approach while student representatives struggle to influence decisions that matter. Sparqs frameworks look good on paper, but without regulatory teeth, they rely on institutional goodwill. And goodwill, as any student rep will tell you, tends to evaporate when difficult decisions need making.
When module evaluation becomes a tick-box exercise rather than genuine dialogue, problems fester. When student reps are excluded from decisions about their own education, drop-out rates climb. When complaints are buried rather than learned from, the same issues affect cohort after cohort.
I’ve seen a lot of it over the years. The disabled student who gave up trying to get adjustments implemented because every lecturer claimed the central service’s plans were “merely advisory”. The international PGT student who couldn’t complain about teaching quality because they feared visa implications. The part-time student who couldn’t access support services because everything was designed around full-time, on-campus students.
The student facing disciplinary proceedings who wasn’t allowed an advocate and faced a panel with no student members – in contrast to the support available to staff in similar situations.
These aren’t edge cases – they’re systematic failures that a robust Code could prevent. Wales has a genuine opportunity to do something different – to create a Code with teeth that makes learner engagement mandatory, measurable and meaningful.
The most effective student engagement systems require common features. They’re comprehensive, covering everything from module evaluation to strategic planning, and are backed by resources, ensuring student representatives aren’t expected to volunteer countless hours without support. And crucially, they have consequences when institutions fail to comply.
The key is moving from “should” to “must”, with a comply or explain mechanism that has genuine bite.
Here’s how it could work. The Code would set out clear standards – not aspirations but requirements. Providers would either have to comply with the standards or publicly explain why they’ve chosen an alternative approach that delivers equivalent or better outcomes.
But – and this is crucial – explanations wouldn’t be allowed to be boilerplate excuses. They would need to be evidence-based, time-limited, and subject to scrutiny.
The Commission would assess compliance annually, not through tick-box returns but through triangulated evidence – student surveys, complaint patterns, representation effectiveness metrics, and crucially, the views of student representatives themselves.
Where providers persistently fail to meet standards without adequate justification, consequences would follow – from improvement notices to conditions on funding.
There would be an expectation of an annually agreed student partnership agreement – setting out both processes and priority actions – and an expectation that students’ unions would produce an annual report on the experiences of students at that provider.
This isn’t about micromanaging institutions – it’s about establishing minimum standards while allowing flexibility in how they’re met. A small FE provider might implement representation differently than a large university, but both must demonstrate their approach delivers genuine student voice in decision-making.
The Code should first establish that students are both consumers with enforceable rights and partners in their education. This dual recognition ends the sterile debate about whether students are one or the other. It means providers must respect consumer rights (quality, promises kept, redress) while creating genuine partnership structures.
Knowing your rights matters. Following Poland’s model, all students should receive comprehensive training on their rights and responsibilities within 14 days of starting. That shouldn’t be an optional freshers’ week session – it should be mandatory education covering consumer rights, representation opportunities, complaints procedures, support services, and collective responsibilities.
Crucially, the training should be developed and delivered by the SU. There should be written materials in (both) plain language(s), recorded sessions for those who can’t attend, annual refreshers, and staff trained to respect and uphold these rights. When every graduate understands both their rights and responsibilities, Wales will transform not just higher education but society.
Following Portugal’s model, student representatives should get protected status. That means academic adjustments for representative duties, just as providers must accommodate pregnancy or disability. No student should face the choice between failing their degree or fulfilling their democratic mandate.
Representatives should get justified absences for all activities – not just formal meetings but preparation, consultation, and training. Assessments should be rescheduled without penalty, deadlines adjusted based on representative workload, and attendance requirements modified. Reps should get protection from any form of academic discrimination.
The Finnish model adds another layer – ideally, student representatives in governance should receive academic credit or remuneration (or both). Learning through representation is learning – about negotiation, governance, and strategic thinking. They are skills that matter in any career.
The Estonian approach shows what’s possible when feedback becomes embedded in academic culture. Making evaluation mandatory for module completion ensures universal participation. But it must be meaningful – published results, documented actions, closed feedback loops. Every student becomes a partner in quality enhancement, not just the engaged few.
Wales should adopt Estonia’s three-part structure – teaching quality, student engagement, and learning outcomes. This recognises that educational success requires both good teaching and student effort. No more blaming students for poor outcomes while ignoring teaching failures, and no more student satisfaction surveys that ignore whether students are actually engaging with their learning.
Results should be published within modules – not buried in committee papers but visible where students choose modules. Previous evaluation results, actions taken, ongoing improvements – all should be required to be transparent. Future students should be able to see what they’re signing up for, and current students should see their feedback matters.
Sweden’s clarity is instructive – students must be represented “when decisions or preparations are made that have bearing on their courses or programmes or the situation of students.” There’s no weasel words about “where appropriate” or “when practicable” – if it affects students, students must be involved.
In the Netherlands, where decisions are made by individuals, not committees, information must be provided and consultation must occur at least 14 days in advance. And written explanations should be required when student recommendations aren’t followed – because accountability matters in managerial decisions.
Beyond academic structures, students should be represented on professional service boards, IT committees, estates planning groups, marketing focus groups. Decisions about campus facilities or digital systems affect students as much as curriculum design – yet these areas often lack any student voice.
The digital environment deserves special attention. Student representatives should be involved in decisions about learning platforms, assessment systems and communication tools – not after implementation but during planning. Because digital accessibility and usability directly impact educational success.
Wales could be bold. Following the Dutch model, some decisions should require student consent, not just consultation. The Code could distinguish clearly between:
Matters requiring consent (cannot proceed without student agreement):
Matters requiring consultation (mandatory input but not binding):
Matters governed by a council of staff and students:
Matters delegated to the students’ union
This isn’t radical – it’s a recognition that students are genuine partners. No other stakeholder group would accept purely advisory input on regulations governing their activities. Why should students?
Another area where Wales could be genuinely radical would take Wales’ vision of students as citizens by going beyond traditional representation structures – broadening “engagement” beyond academic quality.
The European model of subject-level associations – common from Helsinki to Heidelberg – shows what’s possible. These aren’t just academic societies but genuine communities combining social activities, career development, representation, and civic engagement. They create belonging at the discipline level where students actually identify.
In Tallinn, departmental student bodies aren’t sideshows but partners in departmental culture. They organise orientation, run mentoring, coordinate with employers, feed into curriculum development – and crucially, they’re funded and recognised as essential, not optional extras.
In some countries there’s even a “duty of contribution” where students volunteer to help run the institution. Green officers, peer mentors, student ambassadors – multiple routes to engagement beyond traditional representation. Not everyone wants to be a course rep. But everyone can contribute something.
Even if we’re just talking about student clubs and societies, Wales should mandate that providers support and fund these diverse engagement routes.
Every student should serve somehow during their studies – it’s citizenship education in practice. Some will be traditional representatives, others will mentor new students, run sustainability initiatives, organise cultural events, support community engagement. All develop democratic skills. All should share responsibility for their community.
Some countries maintain a tripartite principle for major bodies – equal representation of students, academic staff, and professional staff – to recognise that universities are communities, not hierarchies. Maybe that’s asking too much – but even with a minimum of two students in the room, representation means nothing without support.
Some countries require that student reps receive all documentation at least five days in advance, training on context and background, briefings on complex issues, and support to participate fully – you can’t contribute if you don’t understand what’s being discussed.
When new committees or working groups are established, there should be active consideration of student membership with default presumption of inclusion. Decisions and justifications should be communicated to student representatives, and there should be annual reviews of representation effectiveness with evidence-based changes.
Some countries transform meetings from tokenistic to meaningful. Materials distributed five working days in advance means no ambushing student representatives with complex papers. Everything in accessible language, translated where needed, should be a standard too.
The Swedish innovation of publishing all decisions and rationales builds accountability. Rather than being buried in minutes, decisions get actively communicated. Students can see what’s decided in their name and why – democracy requires transparency. And committees should pick up minimum student membership levels with voting rights, and there should never (ever) be just one student in a room.
Latvia mandates that SUs receive at least 0.5 per cent of institutional income, and minimums were agreed as part of the Australian Universities Accord. This isn’t generous – it’s the minimum needed for effective representation. The Welsh Code should set a minimum as a % of income, or fees – ensuring student bodies have resources to train representatives, gather evidence, and hold institutions accountable.
Funding should come with independence safeguards. There should be no conditions that compromise advocacy, no reductions for challenging decisions, and protected status even when (especially when) relationships become difficult. Written agreements should protect core funding even during institutional financial difficulties.
Beyond core funding, providers should be required to supply facilities, administrative support, IT access, and time for representatives. The split between guaranteed core funding for democratic functions and negotiated funding for service delivery would protect both representation and student services.
Complaints are a really important part of student engagement – and so the OIA’s Good Practice Framework, which learns from them, should be mandatory, not optional. A proper system treats complaints as valuable intelligence, not irritations to be managed.
Wales should then go further, automatically converting failed appeals containing service complaints into formal complaints. When patterns emerge, compensation should go to all affected students, not just those who complained. And every provider should be required to publish on what it’s learned from complaints over the past year, and what it’s doing about it – with sign off from the SU.
The Swedish model’s restrictions on disciplinary proceedings protect students from institutional overreach. Proceedings are only allowed for academic misconduct, disruption of teaching, disruption of operations and harassment. And students are given full procedural rights – including representation, disclosure and presence during evidence.
Wales should go further. Every student facing disciplinary proceedings should have the right to independent support, and any panel should include student members who are properly trained and supported. Peer judgement matters in community standards.
And neither disciplinary nor funding processes should ever be used to silence criticism, punish protest, retaliate for complaints or discourage collective action. The free speech protections in OfS’ guidance should be baseline – students’ right to criticise their institution is absolute, whether individually or collectively.
Every year, countless disabled students arrive with hope and ambition, only to find themselves trapped in a Kafkaesque system of “support” that demands disclosure, documentation, negotiation, repetition, and often – silence. If Wales is to lead, then it should be unflinching in acknowledging the daily indignities that disabled students face – and bold in tackling the systemic failures that allow them to persist.
Adjustments, when granted, are inconsistently implemented, and advocacy, if it exists at all, is fractured and under-resourced. In many departments, reasonable adjustments are still treated as optional extras. Central services write the plans, but academic departments dispute their legitimacy, claiming subject expertise trumps legal obligation. Students are asked to justify, to prove, to persuade – again and again. And often in public – as if their access needs were a debate.
Disabled students can’t be expected to fight these battles alone. Wales should require institutions to facilitate advocacy, embedded close to academic departments, co-located with SUs where possible, and independent enough to challenge unlawful behaviour when necessary. Not every rep can be an expert in disability law. But every student should have access to someone who is.
The law is clear – providers have an anticipatory duty. That means planning ahead for the barriers Disabled students face, not waiting until they fall. But few providers conduct serious, evidence-based assessments of their disabled student population by type of impairment, by subject area, by mode of study. Without that, how can anyone claim to be meeting the duty? Wales could also set the tone nationally with a mandatory bank of questions in the NSS that probes access, implementation, and inclusion.
Wales’ code should mandate that providers move beyond warm words to hard strategy – analysing disability data with student input, mapping gaps, and resourcing change. Every provider should be required to publish a Disability Access Strategy – co-designed with students, informed by evidence, and backed with budget. And implementation should be monitored – not through passive complaints, but active auditing. Where there are failures, there should be automatic remedies – and if patterns persist, the Commission must intervene.
And briefing all students on disabled students’ rights would help too. If every student understood what disabled students are legally entitled to, fewer adjustments would be denied, more peers would offer solidarity, and institutions would face pressure from all sides to comply with the law. Education here is empowerment – for disabled and non-disabled students alike.
If all of that feels like a lot, that’s because it is.
But that’s why it was put in primary legislation – to show what’s possible when you take student engagement seriously, to create structures that outlast changes in institutional leadership or political climate, and to graduate citizens who understand democracy because they’ve practiced it.
But most importantly, to lead:
The Commission will ensure that Welsh PCET providers lead the UK in learner and student engagement and representation.
Universities Wales isn’t so sure. In its response to the Regulatory System Consultation it said:
We do have a number of concerns about regulatory over-reach that can be found in several of the pillars. For example, in the Learner Engagement pillar, the demand for investment of resources and support for learner engagement could be deemed to be a breach of institutional autonomy, particularly in light of this being married to ‘continuous improvement’ – if this ends up being a metric on which the sector is judged, it could be particularly contentious in tight financial circumstances.
Good grief. It really isn’t a breach of institutional autonomy for students to expect that a little slice of their fees (whether paid by them or not) will be allocated to their active engagement and will be under their control. As Welsh Government put it during the passage of the Bill:
There is already some excellent learner engagement within the sector, but the prize now is to ensure this is the norm across all types of provisions and for all learners.
Welsh Government talks about civic mission, distinctive Welsh values, and education for citizenship – in universities, the Code is where rhetoric can meet reality.
Fine words should become firm requirements, and partnership can stop being what institutions do to students and become what students and institutions do together.
I know which Wales I’d rather study in. The question now is whether MEDR has the courage to mandate it.
There are a couple of typical ways to “read” Pamela Gillies’ investigation report into financial oversight and decision making at the University of Dundee.
One is to imagine that the issues in it are fairly unique to that university – that a particular set of people and circumstances were somehow not picked up properly by a governing body apparently oblivious to what was happening below the surface.
In that extreme, the key failing was not doing all the Scottish Code for Good Higher Education Governance asks its governors to do.
Another is to wonder whether, even with a clean bill of “good governance” health, it could happen elsewhere.
One of the things that is fascinating about organisational failure is the way in which governance tends to be picked up as a problem – because it can lead to the conclusion that because organisational failure is not widespread, the governance issues must be local.
If you position governance exclusively as scrutiny, it could of course be the case that the culture of governance is weak across the board – it’s just that most senior teams in universities don’t make the mistakes that were evidently made at Dundee, and thus we’d never know.
After all, nobody questions governance when things are going well, when funding is flowing and when student numbers are on the up. If anything, in that positioning, the danger is in complacency – because governance needs to come into its own to avoid mistakes and catch issues before they become catastrophes.
When Gillies’ report was published, I couldn’t avoid recalling countless conversations I’ve had over the years with student members of governing bodies about everything from the lateness of papers to the culture of decision making.
So to test the waters, I pulled out 14 governance issues from the investigation and put a brief (anonymous) survey out to students’ union officers who are members of their Board, Council or Court.
I can’t claim that 41 responses (captured in the second half of June and the first half of July) are representative of the whole sector, and nor are they representative of the whole of the governing bodies on which respondents have sat.
But there is enough material in there to cause us concern about how universities around the UK are governed.
One issue that Pam Gillies picked up was leadership dominance, where the vice chancellor and chair were found to have “behaved like they have everything under control” while governing bodies failed to provide adequate challenge.
When we asked whether student governors had experienced leadership that “routinely dominates discussions, controls narratives to present overly positive pictures, or makes it difficult for governors to raise concerns,” 68 per cent said they’d experienced this “a lot”. Another 27 per cent said “a little.”
That’s 95 per cent of respondents experiencing some level of what one might generously call “narrative management” by their senior teams.
The comments flesh out what this looks like in practice. One student governor observed:
You are told at the start that your job is to manage the VC and the SMT but they manage the governors. The Chair and the VC behave like they have everything under control. The room just does not seem interested in education or the student experience, more whether it is running as a business.
Another captured the emotional impact:
Whenever I have asked a question or said something even questioning let alone critical about UEG it’s like I have suggested burning down their office. They are allowed to be both over-defensive and over-reassuring rather than treat contributions from me and some of the other more vocal governors as contributions to thinking. It makes the whole thing quite pointless.
It’s not just about dominance – it’s also about active silencing. Gillies found that dissenting voices were marginalised and that “critical challenge was not welcomed.” Our survey bears this out.
When asked about governors being “shut down, spoken over, dismissed as ‘obstructive,’ or otherwise discouraged when trying to challenge decisions,” 51 per cent reported experiencing this “a lot”. Another 37 per cent said “a little”.
The mechanisms are subtle but effective. One respondent noted being warned at the start of their term that the previous student president had not been “constructive” and that to get things done, they needed to be “constructive” instead. The implied threat was clear – play nice or be frozen out.
It was made very clear to me at the start that the previous President had not been ‘constructive’ and that if I wanted to get things done I needed to be ‘constructive’. All year I have felt torn – other governors would regularly ask me at the meal what was ‘really going on’ but I never felt like I could be critical in the actual meeting because of the ‘partnership’. I feel like the VC was under a lot of pressure to perform for the governors, and that makes it impossible to say anything about what you think is going wrong.
Another described the choreography of exclusion:
The power dynamics are fascinating if you’re into that sort of thing. Watch who the Chair makes eye contact with, whose contributions get minuted vs. ‘noted’, who gets interrupted vs. who can ramble for 10 minutes unchecked. I never got the premium treatment – I feel that the Chair needs some feedback on whose thoughts they obviously value.
That isolation extends beyond meetings. Multiple respondents noted deliberate strategies to separate them from support:
One tendency we picked up on a lot was to isolate me from support, I wasn’t allowed to discuss the papers with my CEO or have my CEO in the room. It’s only student on the board. They say that’s for confidentiality, but everyone else in the room is clearly discussing their issues with people who can put everything into a context. I think it should be the law that two students are on the board.
Gillies found that important decisions at Dundee were made outside formal governance structures, with a “small inner circle” controlling key outcomes. Our survey question on decision-making transparency suggests this is far from unique.
When asked whether “important decisions are made by a small inner circle before reaching the governing body,” 51 per cent said this happened “a lot”, with another 44 per cent saying “a little”.
The comments reveal how that manifests. One student governor described discovering a shadow governance structure:
I think there’s a huge element of culture at my institution which prevents effective governance but it’s also the structure. There’s a meeting which isn’t included in the governance structure but everything goes to it before it can go anywhere else and it’s restricted to senior managers at the university. If it isn’t approved there, it won’t happen, even if things like rent negotiations have taken place in the ‘proper’ meetings, they can just scrap it and say ‘no, this is what needs to happen’ and then we’re just told. It feels like secret meeting which secretly governs everything and every other meeting is a rubber stamp for decisions made there.
Another put it more bluntly:
The meetings are very odd places, we don’t have any input at all on anything. Everything that comes to the Court is finished, and our job seems to be to politely probe what is in front of us (always once, follow ups frowned upon). Eye-opening but completely pointless.
Gillies highlighted how late papers and missing documentation hampered effective governance at Dundee – the control of information emerges as a critical tool in maintaining this system across the sector. Over half (54 per cent) of respondents in our survey reported experiencing late papers, missing documentation, or “critical updates given verbally rather than in writing” frequently.
But it goes deeper than administrative incompetence. When asked about financial information quality – an area Gillies found particularly problematic at Dundee – 37 per cent said they’d frequently received reports that “were unclear, seemed to obscure the true position, contained unexplained anomalies, or lacked integrated information.”
One respondent shared a particularly telling anecdote:
Training – our old CFO was a dick. He said that he wouldn’t train student members of Council in the finances because we ‘wouldn’t understand it’ which, in my mind, seems like something to a) find out and b) entirely irrelevant to a governor asking to see financial information.
The systematic exclusion of student perspectives from board papers then compounds it:
Many of the budget requests and department updates did not reflect the student experience accurately whether it was missing data from specific feedback routes or lacking in student perspective entirely, it made approvals difficult for me and difficult for the board as I would then be asked for the data and even though I can share some of the issues I know of I cannot represent the entire student body. With only 48hrs notice.
The message seems to be that knowledge is power – and student governors aren’t meant to have it.
Gillies found that Dundee’s governing body had been presented with “overly positive pictures” that obscured institutional reality. Quite striking in our survey is the disconnect between the institution presented in governance meetings and the one students actually experience.
Multiple respondents described sitting through presentations that bore no resemblance to reality:
The university that gets presented isn’t the university I was at as a student.
Another elaborated:
It feels a lot like a fantasy world in there but they really don’t know how the university actually works, and the questions they ask are so weird, like they are desperate for the university to be as good as they imagine it is when there are really a lot of problems with how it runs especially at school level.
This fantasy is then maintained through what we might call the tyranny of positivity. When asked whether they’d felt “pressure to maintain positive messaging even when you have legitimate worries,” 61 per cent said they’d experienced this “a lot”.
The enforcement mechanisms vary. Some are explicit:
They love talking about ‘student voice’ in the abstract but hate it when we actually speak. I raised concerns about library hours during exams and the DVC literally rolled his eyes. Later the Chair pulled me aside and said I should ‘pick my battles more carefully’ and focus on ‘strategic matters’.
Others are more subtle. Multiple respondents described being praised for contributions that never led to change:
I was often praised in the minutes. ‘Thoughtful contribution from the student member.’ But praise without change feels hollow – a polite pat on the head.
This disconnect between fantasy and reality is exacerbated by what several respondents identified as an unhealthy fixation on rankings:
A lot of the meetings were really interested in what I had to say, but the obsession with league tables is bizarre. We spent easily an hour at the last meeting discussing how to game NSS metrics but when I suggested actually fixing the issues students raise – timetabling chaos, inconsistent feedback, broken IT systems – I got blank stares. One governor literally said ‘can’t we just manage student expectations better?’ What’s the point?
Another observed:
There are about sixteen of us in theory but really there are six people who speak at every meeting, and it is always about whether we are beating other universities. I don’t think the governors have any way to judge how well the university is doing other than by thinking about other universities. It is very weird.
This comparative obsession substitutes for genuine evaluation of institutional health – where things become filtered through the lens of institutional positioning rather than student experience.
The survey responses also reveal how regulatory compliance has become another distorting filter. Several respondents noted how the Office for Students has inadvertently created perverse incentives:
It is very weird to me that whenever I’ve talked about student issues they are responded to with things like ‘that would not be an issue for the OfS’, like we are only supposed to worry about the student experience if OfS are doing a visit.
It suggests that governing bodies are more concerned with regulatory perception than addressing underlying problems – a dangerous conflation of compliance with quality.
A particularly Byzantine aspect of student perceptions of governance emerges in the contradictions around representation. Multiple respondents noted being told explicitly that they were “not a representative” of students, only to have governors constantly ask them about student views:
At the start of the year it is drilled into you that you are not a representative, and then at every meeting someone has asked me what students think, what students are saying, how students would react, and so on. It really is ridiculous.
It creates an impossible position – student governors are simultaneously expected to embody the student voice whilst being forbidden from claiming to represent it, and are consulted when convenient but dismissed when challenging.
The tokenism extends to how “the student experience” is conceptualised:
There is a pressure not to rock the boat too much or the SU funding will be under threat. One other thing is that the other governors see ‘the student experience’ as one homogeneous thing. I represent 30,000 students – disabled students, commuters, mature students, international students, care leavers – but I get 5 minutes at the end of every meeting to cover ‘student matters.’ When I highlight different needs across student groups, eyes glaze over.
One response powerfully captured another dimension of the problem:
Too many decisions are made by white upper-middle class men who have no real understanding of student demographics or experiences and the effects that rushed, ill informed decisions can have on the student body.
This homogeneity problem compounds all the others – if governance doesn’t reflect the communities it serves, how can it possibly understand their needs?
Throughout the responses runs a theme of performative partnership that masks fundamental power imbalances. Student governors describe being valued for their “input” on predetermined decisions whilst being told their contributions are “premature” on anything still under genuine consideration:
Two types of agenda items, ones where student input is ‘valued’ (anything they’ve already decided) and those where student input is ‘premature’ (anything they haven’t decided yet). Its never the right time for meaningful student contribution.
The contrast between public and private behaviour is also revealing:
I feel that the UET are like Jekyll and Hyde, they have listened to me outside of the meetings but when I have asked about things during Board meetings they react very defensively. I’m not supposed to be a rep for students but nobody else ever talks about students unless we count recruiting students.
Gillies found that committees at Dundee operated as “rubber stamping exercises” rather than providing genuine oversight. Our survey revealed similar patterns, with 46 per cent reporting committees feeling like “rubber stamping exercises.”
Even when committees try to assert themselves, the resistance is telling:
We had an issue with the auditors and the closest I’ve seen us come to blows as a Council was when the exec tried to treat the issue as annoying but closed and move on but Council had to say ‘actually, no, we’d like an audit of our auditors to work out how [confidential] was missed.’
The fundamental problem, as one respondent observed, may be structural:
I honestly think that the huge number of things the council are expected to know about and make decisions on are beyond them. They don’t meet often enough and they really do not understand their responsibilities.
Gillies documented how Dundee’s governance processes were abandoned during crisis periods. Our survey asked about governance during “difficult periods,” and of those who didn’t say “N/A”, 51 per cent reported seeing “normal governance processes abandoned, informal advisory groups bypass committee structures, or key oversight bodies become inactive when they’re most needed.”
It suggests that whatever thin veneer of good governance exists in normal times rapidly dissolves under pressure – precisely when robust governance is most essential:
Student input in governance is at a real risk of just becoming a box ticking exercise as I have sat in meetings where the student experience is discussed by everyone but the students in the room. Once decisions need to be made at speed all thought for student and staff is ignored and it is often because of their own burdensome governance structures that inhibit the agility needed for such a volatile time in HE.”
The emotional toll shouldn’t be underestimated. Multiple respondents described feeling “out of place,” “invalidated,” or like they were “betraying everyone” simply by asking questions.
One particularly poignant comment came from a sabbatical officer who left their role early:
It was a really tough experience as I had students relying on me. I wish that I could’ve stayed in my role for longer but the lack of transparency and wish to subdue the view for students contradicted my individual beliefs and leadership style. I was supportive and I wanted students to know what I was doing. This wasn’t always possible.
And the lack of institutional learning is telling:
It is telling that they spent so much time with me at the start but haven’t spent any time with me to get my feedback at the end. I feel that they should do exit interviews to learn about how intimidating the atmosphere can be.
Perhaps most damning is the response to our final question. When asked whether they “feel confident that your governing body would identify and respond appropriately to serious institutional risks,” only 32 per cent expressed confidence.
That means 68 per cent of student governors – governors who usually have the most intimate knowledge of how their institutions actually operate – doubt their governing body’s ability to spot and address serious problems.
One captured the fundamental dysfunction:
If I compare it to being on my union board I think the governors is a joke. If I ask why or how in the union we have a decent conversation. If I do it at governors the atmosphere is like I’ve betrayed everyone. And if I say something isn’t clear that is turned into something I’ve not done or read. We’re not governors. We’re an audience.
Another summed up the experience with clarity:
I feel that the whole thing is engineered to make the vice chancellor and her team to look good rather than gather our input or ideas, I would have side conversations with some of the community governors who shared my view but there just is not any part of any meeting where ‘input’ is welcome.
Some of the most problematic critiques came in respondents’ final reflections on what governance actually means in practice:
What frustrates me most is the wasted potential. These are genuinely smart, accomplished people who could transform this place. But they’re trapped in this weird bubble where everything’s fine and any criticism is disloyalty. I know I’m not the only one.
The sense of governance as performance came through repeatedly:
In the January meeting I was invited to do a presentation before the formal meeting on what student life is like and I got a lot of praise from the Chair about how eye-opening it was. But about half of the governors were not there and the PVC-E went off on one about how the university’s surveys contradicted some of the things we were saying. I feel that the whole body just doesn’t have a clue about students or staff and what it is like to be a student in 2025.
One respondent captured the Kafkaesque nature of their experience:
The whole ‘critical friend’ thing is such a con. We’re meant to be critical but every time I challenge something I get ‘well, Council can only advise, we cannot instruct the executive.’ So we’re legally responsible for decisions we can only ‘advise’ on? The Vice Chancellor keeps saying Council is ‘not a court’ whenever we try to hold them accountable. I’ve started asking ‘what CAN Council actually do?’ because honestly I’m not sure anymore.
The broader implications were spelled out starkly:
The big, big, BIG thing for us as student leaders has been ‘what Council is and is not for’. Often, when we’ve brought issues for discussion or ‘airing’ at Council, I have had every variation of ‘Council is not a court’ ‘Council can only advise the exec, it cannot instruct it’ ‘Council is for critical challenge but cannot dictate’ some of which is absolutely at odds with then being legally responsible for the decisions you have only ‘advised on’ and ‘cannot dictate’.
And perhaps most damningly:
As a new Sabbatical officer, I felt extremely out of place with the culture of Court meetings, as if I wasn’t supposed to be or welcome there. It made my input feel invalidated and overlooked. Structurally, important decisions are already decided upon within committees before reaching court.
It’s important to set what I’ve gathered in context. Student governors have a particular perspective and a specific set of confidence and cultural capital asymmetries that are bound to make being on a body of the “great and good” a difficult experience.
41 responses is not the whole sector (and may not even be from 41 universities), and it was a self-selecting survey. But we should be worried.
Out of the back of the Dundee episode, both Graeme Day and the Scottish Funding Council have committed to exploring ways to strengthen governance to avoid a repeat.
Universities Scotland has committed to collective reflection on Gilles’ findings and the lessons it shares to give “robust assurance” of financial management and good governance to funders, regulators, supporters and all who depend on universities.
It has also said it will “connect” to Universities UK’s work to consider the leadership and governance skills required in the sector in times of transformation and challenge.
As such, the same issue that students see in governing bodies is playing out nationally – there are questions that suggest a loss of autonomy, and reassurance about “performance” designed to retain it.
There is therefore a real danger that the processes will conclude what these sorts of things always conclude – that with the right “skills” and adherence to a given Code, all will be well.
But the experiences from students suggest that neither “getting the right skills” nor calls for better codes will solve the fundamental problems. The issue isn’t just about getting the “right” people around the table or training them better – it’s about reconsidering what we’re asking governance to do.
As I noted here and here, the Dutch experience offers an alternative. Following a series of governance scandals in the early 2000s, the Netherlands rejected both excessive state control and unfettered institutional autonomy. Their 2016 Education Governance Strengthening Act created a “third way” – creating multi-level democratic participation from program to institutional level.
Rather than imposing rigid rules, the framework promoted “horizontal dialogue” where students, staff, management, and supervisors engage in ongoing conversations about their university.
A 2021 evaluation found meaningful channels for student and staff input had been created, with improved dialogue quality between stakeholder groups. If there’s enough of them, staff and students have turned out to be better at scrutiny than skilled lay members or someone from the funding council sat in the corner.
It’s also partly about what is discussed. Most boards operate primarily in fiduciary mode (overseeing budgets, ensuring compliance) or strategic mode (setting priorities, deploying resources). While essential, these modes often crowd out what governance scholars call the “generative mode” – critical thinking, questioning assumptions, and framing problems in insightful ways.
Generative governance asks probing questions: “What is our fundamental purpose?” and “How does this decision align with our core values?” It involves scenario planning, delving into root causes rather than symptoms, and actively considering ethical implications beyond legal compliance. And it allows senior staff to participate, rather than perform – a culture that then improves scrutiny in fiduciary mode.
It is where staff, student, and community governors could add most value – yet it’s often where their contributions are most dismissed as inappropriate or “operational.” The standard line that governors should be “concerned with the university rather than as representatives” misses the point that understanding the lived experience of those working and studying there is essential to good governance, and actually improves fiduciary scrutiny.
Put another way, maybe better fiduciary mode scrutiny could have probed more on the Nigerian students focussed business plan at Dundee. But it’s more likely that better generative mode governance could have explained what was starting to happen to the currency in Nigeria, how tough students were funding it to pay their fees, and what families were going through as the Naira went into collapse.
It’s also partly about what we think “effectiveness” means. Universities facing unprecedented challenges – financial pressures, technological disruption, legitimacy crises – need governance capable of navigating complexity, not just ticking out risk registers. They need what the Dutch reforms sought – genuine accountability to the communities they serve, not just reassuring compliance with regulatory requirements.
Universities at their best are spaces where different forms of knowledge encounter each other, and where democratic values are modeled and sustained. Their governance should reflect this reality.
As such, we need to ensure we’re solving the right problem. The issue isn’t governors who need better training or institutions that need tighter control. It’s a governance model designed for a different era and different types of organisation, struggling to cope with contemporary complexity while excluding the voices that could help navigate it.
What we do next requires courage to move beyond the false choice between corporatisation and collegial nostalgia. A third way is possible – one that takes seriously both institutional sustainability and democratic participation, that values both expertise and lived experience, that reconciles the university interest with the interests of those who study and work there rather than separating them or elevating one of them, and that governs for the public good rather than just institutional survival.
The students sitting in those boardrooms, feeling like audiences rather than governors, deserve better. So do the staff, the communities universities serve, and democracy itself.
Three students have been selected for this year’s cohort: Anwar Karim from Morehouse College, Denver Edmonds from Spelman College, and Miya Scaggs from Spelman College. The fellows were chosen based on grade point average, leadership experience, school involvement, creative work, and professional recommendations.
The eight-week paid fellowship places students in New York or Los Angeles, where they complete rotations across different agency departments while receiving senior-level industry mentoring and participating in curated learning experiences and volunteer service projects.
“The Spike Fellows Program continues to provide an invaluable experience and mentorship for our students who desire impact in the entertainment industry, both in front and behind the camera,” said Dr. Michael Hodge, Executive Director of the AUCC. “Each year, we see a new set of students immersed in the industry, becoming working professionals and aspiring entertainment leaders.”
The program has achieved a 100 percent employment rate for participants, with alumni securing positions at major entertainment companies including Gersh, Netflix, Warner Brothers, and Range Media. One former fellow was inspired to pursue graduate studies at the University of Southern California’s film program.
Beyond professional placement, the program provides comprehensive support for participants. A multi-year partnership with Ralph Lauren furnishes business attire for fellows, while networking opportunities include events like the inaugural Young Black Hollywood Mixer, which earned recognition from Deadline as one of the Best Red Carpet and Party Photos of 2024.
The initiative targets undergraduate students from Clark Atlanta University, Morehouse College, and Spelman College who demonstrate interest in entertainment industry careers. The program aims to address equity gaps in entertainment by creating direct pathways for talented HBCU students to access industry opportunities.
The Atlanta University Center Consortium, established in 1929, operates as a 501(c)(3) non-profit representing Clark Atlanta University, Morehouse College, Morehouse School of Medicine, and Spelman College. The organization describes itself as “the world’s oldest and largest association of historically Black colleges and universities.”
The fellowship represents part of broader industry efforts to increase diversity in entertainment, particularly in behind-the-camera roles where representation has historically lagged. By partnering with established industry figures like Lee and agencies like Gersh, the program provides students with direct access to decision-makers and career-building opportunities typically difficult to access for underrepresented groups.
Why do students run out of money? And is it their mistake?
It’s partly because student maintenance support has not kept pace with the cost of living.
Last year, the Centre for Research in Social Policy (CRSP) at Loughborough University calculated that students need £18,632 a year outside London (and £21,774 a year in London) to have a minimum acceptable standard of living.
But if you’re living away from home in England, the maximum maintenance loan is £10,227 – and it’s less than that once your parents earn over £25,000.
And if you’re an international student, the Home Office’s “proof of funds” figure – the money you need to show you have in the bank to cover your living costs – has been (un)helpfully aligned to that inadequate figure.
In that scenario, you’d need help with budgeting – especially if you’ve never lived away from home before, if you’ve not participated in higher education before, or if you’ve never lived in the UK before.
You’d want to know, for example, how much a TV license costs. The good news is that your chosen university has a guide to student living costs, and it lists the license as costing £159 per year.
The problem? £159 was the 2021 rate – a TV licence now costs £174.50. Still, one little mistake like that isn’t going to break the bank, surely?
Over the past few years I’ve whiled away some of my train delays surfing around university websites looking at what the sector says about student cost of living.
I’ve found marketing boasts dressed up as money advice, sample student budgets that feature decades old estimates, and reassuringly precise figures that turn out to be thumbs in the air from the ambassadors in the office.
Often, I find webpages that say things like this:
The problem is that the “fact” turns out to be from 2023, the source on the “lowest rents” claim turns out to be “not yet reliable”, and the “one of the cheapest pints in the country” claim has its source this story in the Independent. From 2019.
That’s also a webpage that says you can get a bus to the seaside and back for £4.30 (it’s currently £12), a ferry to Bruges for £50 (the route was withdrawn in 2020), and a train to London for “for just over a tenner” – when even with a railcard, the lowest fare you’ll find is £22.66.
Campus gym prices are listed as less than £20 a month (it’s actually from £22.95 for students), rent for a one-bed city flat is listed as £572 (the source actually says £623.57), and you’re even told that you can head to a “legendary” local nightclub to “down a double” for £1.90.
Sadly, even Spiders Nightclub is having to cover “the increasing cost of basic overheads” and “the ongoing inflationary cost of purchasing stock”. The current price is £2.50.
Sometimes, I find tables like this – where the costs listed appear to be exactly the same as when the webpage was updated in 2022.
HERTS 1
Actually, that’s not quite true. Someone has bothered to update the lower rent estimate up to £500 a month since then – leaving all of the other figures unchanged.
Archive.org allows me to see all sorts of moments when someone, somewhere, has performed an update. Of sorts.
Here’s one where food and rent have gone up, but everything else is as it was in 2022. The main difference is that the “Yearly costs for students” lines in the table have been deleted – presumably because they would stretch credibility.
Not every university has a run at listing costs. Many (over 30 at the time of typing) refer their readers to the Which? Student Budget Calculator.
The Which? Student budget calculator was deleted in 2022 – and even when it was live, its underpinning figures were last updated in 2019.
Sometimes the google search takes you to undated slide decks and PDFs. This metadata suggests that this one is from 2023 – although the figures in it look suspiciously similar to the numbers in the UG prospectus in 2015.
To be fair, that’s a university that has at least got an updated chart showing sample costs in its international arrival guide – with a reassuring note that average costs are correct as of March. You’d perhaps be less reassured to find that those average costs – other than the cost of (university) accommodation – have remained exactly as they were since last year.
Sometimes, a picture is painted of painstaking research carried out by dedicated money advisors. Here’s a table that says the minimum costs have been estimated by the university’s support teams:
How lucky students in that city are, given that the only things that have increased over the past year are accommodation and rent:
Actually, tell a lie. Many of the costs seem to be identical to those in 2020:
Lost of the sample budgets and costs are unsourced – but not all of them. A large number quote figures from Save the Student’s student money survey – which last year used responses from 1,010 university students in the UK to calculate the results.
Even if that was a dataset that could be relied upon at provider or city level, that was a survey that found 67 per cent of students skipping meals to save money, 1 in 10 using food banks and 60 per cent with money related mental health problems. Not a great basis on which to budget, that.
Others quote their costs from the NatWest Student Living Index – which for reasons I’ve explained in 2024, 2023 and 2022, isn’t an approach that I think comes close to being morally sound.
Plenty of universities don’t list costs at all, but imply to international students that the “proof of funds” figure has been calculated by Home Office officials as enough to live on:
It has, of course, just been copied across from DfE’s maximum maintenance loan – a figure widely believed to be wholly inadequate as an estimate of living costs for students.
Sometimes you find things like this, a set of costs “based on feedback from our current international undergraduate and master’s students”. Someone has gone in and updated the costs for university halls – but hasn’t updated anything else, and nor have they updated the estimate for total monthly living expenses:
Sometimes you find things like this – costs that haven’t changed in two years contained in an official looking document called “Student Regulations and Policies: Standard Additional Costs”:
And sometimes you find miracles. Here’s a university where most of the costs haven’t increased in 18 months, and the cost of clothing has fallen dramatically – despite ONS calculating that clothing inflation is currently 5.9 per cent.
Then there’s charts like this that are “subject to change” – although no change since last summer:
Or unsourced tables like this, where somehow student costs have started to fall. I want to move there!
2024. Here’s 2025:
The good news for prospective students – and the bad news for universities – is that this is all now going to have to change.
Looking at all of this through the lens of the new Digital Markets, Competition and Consumers (DMCC) Act, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that universities have been sailing remarkably close to the wind – and that the wind direction has now changed dramatically.
Under DMCC, the systematic provision of outdated cost-of-living information would likely constitute a serious breach of consumer protection law. The Act makes it automatically unfair to omit material information from invitations to purchase – and there’s little doubt that accurate living costs are material information for prospective students making decisions about whether and where to study.
Crucially, there’s no longer any need to prove that students were actually misled by the information, or that it influenced their decision-making. The omission itself is the problem.
The legal framework has fundamentally shifted in universities’ disfavour. The scope of what counts as material information has expanded beyond those categories defined by EU obligations, while misleading actions are no longer restricted to predefined “features” of a product or service.
Instead, any information relevant to a student’s decision can now trigger a breach – meaning universities can no longer rely on narrow, checklist-based approaches to compliance. Outdated transport costs, inflated claims about local entertainment prices, or misleading accommodation estimates all fall squarely within this expanded scope, even though they might previously have been considered peripheral to the core “product” of education.
The Act has also lowered the threshold for proving breaches of professional diligence. Previously, universities might have argued that minor cost discrepancies didn’t cause “material distortion” of student decision-making. Now, practices need only be “likely to cause” a different decision – shifting the focus from proving impact to ensuring accurate practice from the outset.
The Act explicitly recognises that certain groups of consumers are particularly vulnerable, and that practices which might not affect others can cause disproportionate harm to those groups.
International students – who rely heavily on university cost estimates for visa applications and have limited ability to verify information independently – are a textbook example of vulnerable consumers. So too are first-generation university students, those from lower-income families, and young people making major financial commitments for the first time. The Act requires universities to proactively identify and mitigate risks to these vulnerable groups as part of their duty of care.
The Competition and Markets Authority now has significant new enforcement powers, including the ability to impose civil penalties of up to 10 per cent of an organisation’s turnover and to hold corporate officers personally liable where they have consented to or negligently allowed breaches to occur.
Given the sector-wide nature of these problems, and the ease with which accurate cost information could be obtained and maintained, it would be difficult for universities to argue that continued reliance on years-old estimates meets the standard of professional diligence now required by law.
The sector has had years to get this right voluntarily. With enhanced legal obligations, fundamentally expanded definitions of what constitutes actionable information, lowered thresholds for proving breaches, and much sharper enforcement teeth now imminent, universities that continue to present outdated or inaccurate living costs as current information may find that their casual approach to accuracy has become a rather expensive mistake. Their mistake.
Virtual reality (VR) isn’t a silver bullet replacement for lectures or labs, but it is the most practical method to support higher education to deliver immersive learning more effectively at-scale.
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Universities could be subject to a ’report card’ that assesses their responses to antisemitism, which could result in cut funding, according to Australia’s antisemitism envoy’s report released on Thursday.
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