Since President Donald Trump has taken office, elite Americans and academics are leaving the country. A quarter of those who responded to a recent poll said they would like to move outside the country in the next five years. And European countries are welcoming them.
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According to data released by the UK Home Office, between March 2024 and March 2025, a record-breaking 6,000 U.S. citizens applied to either become British citizens or to live and work in the country indefinitely. In April, over 300 scientists applied to France’s Safe Place for Science Program, which promises “a safe and stimulating environment for scientists wishing to pursue their research in complete freedom.”
Americans are looking to emigrate for the same reasons immigrants have historically chosen to come to the U.S.: political and economic anxiety and instability in their country of origin. The immigration script of the past century has been flipped, and for academics, in particular, the loss of government funding has led them to seek intellectual freedom and the ability to conduct research elsewhere.
While the rationale for emigration is clear, the potential consequences of their departure are not. What happens when a critical mass of middle-class, educated professionals leave the country? The exits of prominent people can have unexpected effects on a given country, embarrassing the regimes they’ve left, adding human capital to the places where they are welcomed. Additionally, when people emigrate, their absence consolidates power around the regimes they left behind. In other words, politics becomes more reflective of the ideologies and values of those who stay.
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During South African apartheid, famous musicians such as singer Miriam Makeba were forced into exile as the only way to speak out safely against injustices. Makeba was very vocal in her criticism of the apartheid government at a time when most Black women were silenced by discriminatory laws, including pass laws that restricted movement, and denied the right to own land and even custody of their children.
In 1960, she left South Africa and continued to use her voice— both as a musician and activist—to speak on the atrocities in her home country. Her 1963 speech at the United Nations called out global silence on apartheid and encouraged world leaders to act by supporting freedom fighters. In response, the apartheid regime revoked her citizenship and passport.
Because Makeba was so beloved for her music and admired for courage, she was granted passports from nine different countries, including Belgium, Ghana, Tanzania, Cuba, Algeria, and Guinea. Among her American peers and friends were the likes of Nina Simone, Marlon Brando, Cicely Tyson, Ray Charles, and Louis Armstrong. Makeba was only able to return home in 1990, at the invitation of the recently-released Nelson Mandela, perhaps the most famous prisoner of the apartheid regime.
Like Makeba, trumpeter Hugh Masekela was also considered persona non grata by the apartheid regime, which viewed artistic expression by Black people as an act of violence. Masekela was forced to leave home after the 1960 Sharpeville massacres that resulted in the deaths of 69 people and deepened political unrest across the country. Makeba and Masekela, briefly married, also collaborated in anti-apartheid music. Their impact on the politics in their homeland, even from abroad, was powerful, despite the regime making it difficult for them to interact with family. Their highly anticipated 1980 joint anti-apartheid concert in Lesotho was cancelled after the apartheid regime in South Africa pressured neighboring Lesotho and Botswana.
While their music played an essential role in agitating for freedom, exiled artists faced numerous professional challenges and lost opportunities. Makeba’s success in exile came at great cost; two of her children died in exile and she was unable to return home to bury them.
South Africa also suffered from the loss of critical voices. Not everyone who went into exile returned home or was able to continue speaking up from abroad. Those who returned sometimes lacked the professional skills needed to build a life for themselves, having spent their prime years fighting for their survival. And in the U.S., they were often similarly restricted, as Jim Crow segregation mirrored many of the injustices that they experienced at home in South Africa.
As South Africans were pushed out, apartheid became stronger and more violent to dissenters. Even children who attempted to combat the racist laws were killed or beaten as in the Soweto Youth Uprising of 1976. In the aftermath, songs became inspiration to those in South Africa. In 1977, Makeba and Masekela’s joint song “Soweto Blues” was a widely popular protest song about the massacre and a thorn in the side of the regime. Despite being banned in South Africa, collectively their music served as the soundtrack of the anti-apartheid movement.
While pushing out dissenters may allow an oppressive regime to consolidate power or suit a nation’s current political climate, it can have a huge cost—as America learned at the height of the Cold War. Consider the case of brilliant Chinese scientist Qian Xuesen in the 1950s. Qian had studied at MIT and CalTech and became a full professor at both universities. He went on to co-found NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in 1939, becoming one of the top rocket science experts working for the U.S. government. The U.S. government did not view his Chinese citizenship as a national security threat, because the U.S. and China were allies during World War II.
This relationship changed after the war. In 1945, revolutionary leader Mao Zedong declared China a communist country. Chinese nationals living in the U.S. were suddenly seen as state enemies. A new director at JPL, where Qian was now working, reported his concerns that some of the lab members were likely communists. There was fear and suspicion due to the growing Cold War and the rise of McCarthyism. Although there was no evidence of wrongdoing by Qian, he was put under house arrest for five years until his deportation to China in exchange for the repatriation of American pilots captured in the Korean War, in 1955 by President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s administration.
Qian’s politically-motivated exile did little to help America’s Cold War, and instead greatly benefitted Communist China. In 1958, he became a member of the Communist Party and revived his career. Prior to his arrival, China did not have a strong rocket science program. Qian became the “Father of Chinese Aerospace and Rocketry.” He helped develop the Dongfeng ballistic missile and the Chinese space program. U.S. Secretary of the Navy, Dan A. Kimble called Qian’s departure “the stupidest thing this country ever did. He was no more a communist than I was, and we forced him to go.”
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In short, countries push enormous artistic or scientific talent out at their own expense.
American brain drain will set the U.S. back decades in innovation and technology, and vanquish America’s advantage in education and other major fields. American scientists have been ahead of the rest of the world on healthcare and technological advances like AI. Millions of people have long regarded the United States as a beacon of education and intellectual hope. History shows that an exodus of American academics will likely hasten a collapse of American education, not preserve it.
Leaving can also have negative impacts on the quality of democracy in the United States. Citizen engagement across diverse perspectives and ideological lines can lead to a better and more inclusive society, ultimately leading to a stronger democracy. Consider the beloved Statue of Liberty, a cultural landmark, that immigrants were not only welcome, but made up the working fabric of America. Moreover, the exit of American elites and academics, many of whom are voters, can diminish citizen voice and engagement, leading to the decline in the quality of democracy.
The historical lesson is a cautionary tale. As academics consider leaving because the current government’s policies do not reflect their ideals, the vacuum created by their absence may be filled by people whose values align more with the government. For instance, in the wake of Qian’s departure, anticommunist sentiment soared and McCarthyist witch hunts spread. And it took three decades before Mabeka could return to her homeland. Should academics choose to return, they might find America more conservative, and perhaps more flagrantly violent than it was when they left.
Indeed, defending democracy is a game best played on home turf.
Chipo Dendere is a Political Scientist and Assistant Professor of Africana Studies at Wellesley College.
Kellie Carter-Jackson is a Historian and Michael and Denise Kellen ’68 Associate Professor of Africana Studies at Wellesley College.
Made by History takes readers beyond the headlines with articles written and edited by professional historians. Learn more about Made by History at TIME here. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of TIME editors.