American University of Beirut

Dear friends,

Sometimes I catch myself before it happens. It is easier at work, where after more than a quarter century in leadership I have learned the great value of being silent and reflecting. My late, great friend Jean Khoury once remarked to me on one of the principal truths he had retained from his years at Collège Notre-Dame de Jamhour: “How many,” he observed ruefully, “often miss the golden opportunity to stay silent and listen?”

In the American West, the equivalent teaching was “keeping your powder dry,” or restraining the full force, or impact, of one’s reply until the appropriate moment. Still, whichever motto one prefers, it speaks to the need for restraint and an appetite and ability to listen and look before one leaps or responds. It is useful, even a survival skill, in the game of power and even in everyday exchanges between close and trusted family members and friends. After all, no one, literally no one, enjoys constantly being in the presence of a know-it-all. 

During my first few years as president of the American University of Beirut, I would sometimes wince before entering the Middle East Airlines lounge at the airport or before boarding the plane. In those public spaces, I would unfailingly receive insistent opinions on how to run aspects of the university, its medical center, financial aid, governance, or other elements of our daily function.

On one trip to Boston, I discussed this experience with Larry Bacow, then-president of Harvard, who nodded knowingly; he too was no stranger to spirited counsel offered in informal settings. More than six years later, I find myself reflecting differently on that steady stream of ideas. My resistance has softened to that occasional deluge, along with a burgeoning appreciation of the skill needed for strategic silence. What once felt like interruption, I now more often recognize as an expression of care, engagement, and belief in a shared future.

Leadership, and music, are always scrutinized and re-evaluated. A favorite of mine for more than half a century is Simon and Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence:

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.”

As I have sifted through the morass, attempting to hear those sounds of silence, to separate the wheat from the chaff, several solid guidelines have emerged. Many, if not most, people who offer advice, whether in person or via social media, speak from genuine concern or deep loyalty to their alma mater. This is something we should be, and are, grateful for. At the same time, most contributors inevitably hold only pieces of a far more complex puzzle. This does not invalidate their views, but it does place them in context. 

And then, occasionally, there is the rare, stray insight, unalloyed and unexpectedly valuable. How does one evaluate and deploy such insights usefully? 

In an age flooded by the omnipresence of social media and unfiltered opinions, I do not possess, nor am I evolving, a perfect instrument to distinguish useful observations from less helpful contributions. Over time, however, I have developed a more or less workable internal funnel, allowing me to identify perspectives that merit reflection while gently setting aside others.

That funnel is very personal, and I cannot recommend mine or any other.

What I can recommend is a consistent willingness to listen from a position of assumed sincerity, the belief that people are sharing something they feel strongly about. This shift in my perspective evolved over time, and not in a linear fashion. In general, sound leadership benefits from pausing, from attending, from discerning when to speak and when to absorb. We all learn at different paces, and in different places. But listening at least as well as you speak is a quality for all seasons.

That was precisely my approach during a recent series of town halls, held in Pafos and Beirut, with students, faculty, and staff, as well as our AUBMC physicians and medical center leadership.

Across five meetings spread out over a week in February, I sought to inform, to learn, and to respond sincerely yet in a measured manner. The conversations were not always easy, nor were the discussions necessarily linear. But I left all five encounters feeling better informed, well heard, and thoughtfully received.  

What I heard varied, not only by audience, but also by vantage point, shaped by years of service, roles, responsibilities, and access to information. Some of what was said was illuminating. Some even inspiring. Some less so. But it was all informative, and almost invariably heartfelt.

It became clear yet again that the faculty, students, physicians, nurses, medical center leaders, and staff of AUB all care deeply about their university. In these uncertain times, in Lebanon, the region, and the world, many described the university as a rock of stability in their lives, a place of meaning, attachment, pride, and shared responsibility.

It was, I must admit, an exhausting but exhilarating experience.

Listening and learning, rather than rushing to respond, are equally vital in one’s private and family life. I can advocate for doing so not only at work, but for listening with restraint even when surrounded by those closest to you. I was reminded of this over the Christmas holidays during a rare gathering of a substantial portion of our family. Curiously, I noticed that people tend to lower their guard and sometimes listen less well when surrounded by those they trust and love. I would respectfully counsel the opposite. Listen well before you leap, no matter the company.

At a minimum, allow others to express themselves on matters they feel passionately about. Show empathy and patience. These are qualities that are not always in abundance, whether in our region or within the great universities writ large. 

Yet the rewards for silence can be considerable.

A significant proportion of the opinions that I have heard, from trusted friends and family members, town halls and open houses, and even in airport lounges and on planes, have given me pause to think in new and sometimes unexpected ways about the everyday life of the university.

Leadership is frequently judged by decisions taken. Less apparent, though no less important, are the decisions postponed until one has truly listened.

In an era where the value of a university education is a topic of much debate, perhaps it would be wise for those of us in positions of responsibility to listen more aptly before we fulfill the prevalent anxiety to act.