The Invisible Scissors
On sticky notes, missing chapters, and the fragility of truth
April 2026
I.
Imagine a Dutch schoolbook from 1942. At first glance, nothing remarkable: torn cardboard, yellowed pages, the smell of old paper. Look closer. Here, on page 47, a rectangular slip sits carefully pasted over a paragraph. The edges are smooth, but you can still see them. Under that slip is something that may no longer be read. A name struck out. A thought declared forbidden. A truth that became inconvenient.
This is censorship with glue. Visible. Tangible. A student running a finger over that slip feels the unevenness. And wonders, perhaps: what is underneath?
Now, eighty-four years later, imagine a different book. It looks perfect. Smooth cover, clean layout, not a single blemish. But study the table of contents and something is missing. Chapter seven is gone. It was about diversity in American diplomacy. It was written, accepted, ready to print. Until the political wind shifted. Until a lawyer sent a letter. Until the publisher did the math: the cost of a legal battle against the revenue of a book. And decided: better without.
This is censorship without glue. Invisible. The reader notices nothing. Only the author knows what could have been there. Only the researcher who speaks about it knows the story.
Between these two books lies a world of difference. And yet they tell the same story.
II.
The German occupier was in a hurry. In May 1940, the tanks were in Rotterdam. By September, schools had to reopen. There was no time to rewrite all the textbooks, no paper for new editions, no capacity for a complete purge. So they chose the pragmatic solution: correction slips. Standard phrases that teachers were required to paste over “incorrect” passages. Jewish names disappeared. References to democracy were covered. The royal family ceased to exist.
The genius, and the horror, of this method was the appearance of normality. The book still looked like a schoolbook. The lesson still went ahead. But the content was corrupted. And the visibility of the censorship functioned as a constant reminder: “this is what we decide you are allowed to know.”
Some teachers refused. Some pasted carelessly, so that the original text remained partly visible. Some read aloud in secret what was underneath. That was resistance. But it was also dangerous. An inspector who asked too many questions, a colleague who knew too much, a student who said too much: it could lead to dismissal, to arrest, to worse.
After liberation, the slips were removed. Sometimes literally: carefully loosened, preserved as evidence. Sometimes symbolically: the book was discarded, replaced by a new copy. The truth returned. But the memory of the lie remained.
III.
Jan Melissen is not a resistance fighter. He is a scholar, in the year 2026. He researches diplomacy at the universities of Leiden and Antwerp. He believes in open debate, in academic freedom, in the power of ideas. But in 2026 he encounters something he had previously experienced in China.
An American government institute had fully cooperated on a chapter about diversity in diplomacy during the Biden presidency. The text was finished. The author satisfied. The collaboration a success. Then Trump returned. And with him, the declaration of war on DEI: diversity, equity, inclusion. Overnight, these terms became taboo.
The institute instructed its lawyer. “Do what is necessary to stop it.” Legal proceedings were threatened. The publisher did the math: months of delay, tens of thousands of dollars in costs, the risk that the entire project would collapse. And there were the young researchers who had contributed to the book. For whom publication is essential to their career.
The decision was made quickly: cut that chapter. Publish without it.
“Things are happening now in the US that I previously experienced in China,” says Melissen. And he adds: “If this continues, the academic community will find itself in a stranglehold of the state.”
There is no sticky note here. There is no visible censorship. There is only a missing chapter that no one will notice, unless someone tells them.
IV.
The connection is not immediately obvious. One is totalitarian occupation, the other a democratic constitutional state. One uses coercion and violence, the other legal procedures and economic pressure. One is visible, the other invisible.
But at a deeper level they share the same anatomy.
First: urgency. The occupier had no time for thorough rewrites. The publisher had no time for a legal battle. Censorship works best when it has to happen fast, when there is no room for reflection, when pragmatism prevails over principle.
Second: the appearance of normality. The schoolbook remained a schoolbook. The academic work remained academic work. Only the content was compromised. And that is precisely what makes it so dangerous: the institutions keep functioning, but their soul is corrupted.
Third: the rationality of self-censorship. The teacher who cooperated to keep her job. The publisher who cut to save the book. The researcher who stays silent to protect his career. These are not cowards. These are rational actors in a system that punishes those who do not comply.
Fourth: invisibility as a weapon. The correction slips were visible, but the student did not know what lay beneath. The missing chapter is invisible; the reader does not know that something is absent. Censorship works best when the absence goes unnoticed.
V.
And then there is China.
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There, censorship works more subtly still. Money. Visas. Access. Partnerships.
British universities preemptively remove content that might provoke China. European researchers adjust their grant applications. International publishers block articles in China at the government’s request. No one forces them. They do it themselves. From rational calculation. From financial necessity. From fear of losing access.
Experts call this “authoritarian diffusion”: dependency as the driver. Copying plays no role. And it works. Without violence. Without threats. Only through the logic of markets and politics.
Jan Melissen recognizes it. “Things are happening now in the US that I previously experienced in China.” The mechanisms are the same. That is what he means. Funding as a weapon, legal pressure as a tool, self-censorship as the outcome.
VI.
But here we must stop and breathe. Because the comparisons have limits.
The Netherlands in 1942 was an occupied country without democracy, without rule of law, without freedom of expression. Those who refused risked their lives.
China today is an authoritarian state where dissidents disappear, where “re-education camps” exist, where criticism of the party can lead to years of detention.
The United States in 2026 is still a democracy with an independent judiciary, a free press, civil society, and room for dissent.
That difference is fundamental. That difference gives hope.
In a constitutional state you can litigate. In a constitutional state you can publish about censorship. In a constitutional state you can organize solidarity. In a constitutional state you can choose principle over pragmatism, even if it costs time, money, and energy.
But (and this is the painful “but”) a constitutional state is not automatic. A democracy is not a law of nature. Freedom is not property you acquire once and keep forever. It is a practice you must engage in daily. A muscle you must train. A fire you must feed.
The parallels are a warning. The mechanisms are universal. The temptation of pragmatism is always great. Invisible censorship is the hardest to resist.
VII.
There are four answers.
First: make it visible. The correction slips from 1940 are now archival objects. They are preserved, studied, displayed. They prove what happened. The missing chapter from 2026 must also be documented. Name the book. Name the deleted chapter. Publish the text somewhere else. Make the absence visible.
Second: organize solidarity. A young researcher cannot afford to not publish. But the academic community can. Create alternative publication channels. Raise funds for legal battles. Build networks of mutual support. Make it rational to act on principle.
Third: choose the long term. Censorship works through attrition. Through procedures that take months. Through costs that mount. Through careers that stagnate. The answer is patience. Perseverance. The willingness to lose today in order to win tomorrow.
Fourth: teach what is underneath. The teachers who in 1942 secretly read aloud what lay beneath the correction slips were heroes. The academics who today speak about missing chapters, about mechanisms of censorship, about the importance of academic freedom, are too. Teaching is resistance.
VIII.
Back to those two books.
One with the sticky note. One with the missing chapter.
Both tell a story about power. About who decides what we are allowed to know. About the fragility of truth.
But they tell another story too.
The story of the teacher who carefully peels off the slip and keeps it for better times. The story of the researcher who speaks about what was not allowed to be published. The story of the student who asks: what is underneath?
That is the story of resistance. Not dramatic. Not violent. But tenacious. Persistent. Hopeful.
History does not repeat itself. But it rhymes. And the rhyme we hear now is not a copy of 1940 or of Beijing. It is a new version. Subtler. More legalistic. More invisible.
The defense is the same: make it visible. Document. Teach. Persist.
Because the truth beneath the sticky note is waiting. And the missing chapter can still be written.
If we choose to…
