Introduction

Higher education globally has been the focus of a range of reform efforts in recent years. These attempts have targeted not only the systemic level (marketisation, student loans, entry of new providers), but also the institution itself, its governance, educational model and practices. Common reforms have included promotion of generic employability skills and entrepreneurship; introduction of distance and blended learning; use of technology in face-to-face provision; widening participation and affirmative action; changes to departmental structures and the creation of interdisciplinary units; and moves towards environmental sustainability (^{Crow; Dabars, 2015}; ^{Laurillard; Kennedy, 2017}; ^{Mason et al., 2006}; ^{McCowan; Leal Filho; Brandli, 2021}; ^{Norões; Costa, 2012}; ^{Williamson, 2018}).

These changes have been more noteworthy in some contexts than others, with neoliberal reforms, for example, bringing significant shifts in the orientation and functioning of the university in Anglophone countries. Nevertheless, even in these cases the institution is still recognisable from its earlier manifestations, and identifiable with its counterparts stretching back to the mediaeval period, not only in name but also in its core characteristics. The university has been remarkably resilient in terms of its structures, practices and rituals, and few of the reforms mentioned above have troubled these underlying patterns. Furthermore, while there are evident national and regional characteristics in terms of higher education policy, and some commentators identify distinct models – e.g. the Latin American (^{Bernasconi, 2007}), the Confucian (^{Marginson, 2014}) or the Nordic (^{Välimaa, 2018}) – there is a remarkable level of homogeneity in higher education globally. Of the various distinct traditions of higher learning in ancient times, only the Islamic institutions have continued in unbroken fashion to the present day, and most institutions globally are adaptations of the European model.

The reasons for the dominance of a particular institutional form in higher education are numerous and complex, and involve historical questions of geopolitics, colonisation and soft power, and continuing processes of globalisation, dependency, expansion of markets, and developments in transport, and in information and communications technology. Yet there is a distinct set of questions about the relevance of this homogeneity and continuity to the functioning and impact of the university. Is the maintenance of traditional structures such as admissions procedures, year groupings, disciplinary divisions, professor-student hierarchies and awarding of degrees necessary or even essential to the achievement of its aims, or are they alternatively shackles that hold it back?

This article explores these questions of the nature of the underpinning institutional structures of the university, and their moral, political and educational significance. Identifying the structures in the first place is not an entirely straightforward task, given the deep rooting that has made them almost invisible for those people brought up within the system. Making the familiar unfamiliar is the first task then. The second is to determine their role and impact in relation to the purposes of the university. Neither maintaining the traditional institutional structures of the university simply because they are traditional, nor rejecting them for the same reason, are coherent positions, and we need an assessment of the role they play – in theory and practice. Finally, and as an extension of the second, the article explores what happens when the structures are removed, drawing on a few illustrative examples of deschooling initiatives in practice.

In determining the viability and desirability of this process of deinstitutionalisation, the question is inevitably raised of what yardstick we are using to judge the university. Definitions of the institution are notoriously hard to provide. This article will rest on an assumption of the central purpose of the university being, in ^{Collini’s (2012, p. 92)} words, “extending human understanding through open-ended enquiry”, with the organisation and activities of the institution cohering around that end. We could add to this definition that university is distinguished from other educational forms in providing in-depth and sustained study in particular areas of knowledge, rather than basic, generic or short-term instruction.

A previous analysis of the role of higher education in achieving the Sustainable Development Goals (^{McCowan, 2019}) explored the idea of the ‘post-development university’, one that might open up new possibilities beyond the current development compact, with its good intentions but problematic trappings of modernity, capitalism and coloniality. The post-development university was seen to have two elements: ecology of knowledges and deinstitutionalisation¹. The former of these has had much more attention in the literature and in social and political movements. It has manifested itself particularly through the calls for decolonisation of the curriculum, which have a long history in Latin America, but have come to the fore in recent years through the Rhodes Must Fall protests in South Africa. The relevance of decolonisation is most obvious in recently colonised countries which – despite formal independence and the emergence of an autonomous higher education system – nevertheless maintain the former colonial influence in their curriculum content, selection of courses, reading lists, epistemic foundations and sometimes staff bodies (^{Del Monte; Posholi, 2021}; ^{Heleta, 2016}; ^{Mbembe, 2016}). Nevertheless, these movements have also spread to the higher education systems of the former colonial powers themselves, seeking to diversify the curriculum in the context of multi-ethnic populations and diverse international student bodies.

These writings and movements focus primarily on critique, on what needs to be removed from the university (the tearing down of the statue). In terms of what might replace it, there are calls for indigenisation of the curriculum – in increasing levels of profundity from facts and subject matter, to theory and worldview – or to a pluralism, ecology or diversity of different forms of knowledge. The idea of epistemic pluralism and epistemologies of the South has had more attention in recent years (^{Arora; Stirling, 2020}; ^{Connell, 2014}; ^{Cortina; Earl 2020}; Takayama; Sriprakash; Connell, 2015; ^{Santos, 2015}; ^{Unesco, 2021}), though most often traced in very general terms. There have also been some examples in practice, such as the Intercultural Universities in Mexico, intended to provide a space for higher learning in indigenous knowledge traditions and languages, in dialogue with mainstream academic knowledge, leading to formally recognised degrees on a par with other institutions (^{Dietz, 2009}; Perales Franco; McCowan, 2021; ^{Schmelkes, 2009}).

However, the second aspect – deinstitutionalisation – has had much less attention, both in the literature and in practice. Much of the writing and mobilising around decolonisation assumes that the structures of the university, the national higher education system and global knowledge system, will remain largely intact, although with different knowledge content and different voices, and a redistribution of opportunities for speaking and listening within those systems. Boaventura de Sousa Santos, one of the most prolific writers on this topic, does acknowledge the need to challenge institutional forms in implanting the ecology of knowledges:

By a polyphonic university, I mean a university that exercises its commitment in a pluralistic way, not just in terms of substantive contents but also in institutional and organizational terms. A polyphonic university is a university whose committed voice is not only composed of many voices but, above all, is composed of voices that are expressed in both conventional and nonconventional ways, both in diploma-oriented and non-diploma-oriented learning processes

(^{Santos, 2018}, p. 277).

^{Santos (2017}; ²⁰¹⁸⁾ puts forward the notions of the pluriversity and subversity: the former referring to the transformation within the system, and the latter outside it. The pluriversity is characterised by two elements: commitment to social justice, and an ecology of knowledges, being plural rather than unitary (as the university is) in terms of its epistemic basis, curriculum and constituencies. An example we might give of this kind of institution is the University of Lusophone African-Brazilian Integration (UNILAB²) in the north-east of Brazil, which was founded in 2010 to provide a centre for South-South cooperation between Brazil and Portuguese-speaking African countries, as well as a focal point for teaching and research relating to African cultures within Brazil. While having distinctive elements, UNILAB is a federal university, and adheres to the standard structures of admissions, staffing, curriculum and qualifications of the federal system. As with many of these innovations, UNILAB has not been able to achieve all of the envisaged goals, in part due to the change of government in Brazil from 2016, and active hostility from the state, on which it depends for funding and regulation.

The subversity, on the other hand, operates outside of the higher education system, usually without formal recognition and funding streams, presenting practices of teaching and research that are often unrecognisable to the mainstream. In ^{Santos’s (2018, p. 277)} view, the term subversity: “captures both the subaltern character of social groups often involved in its initiatives and the subversive manner in which it intervenes in the conventional idea of the university”. While examples in practice of the subversity are not prominent, particularly due to the generally small size and transience of such initiatives, there have been a number of such experiences in all world regions, many of them members of the Ecoversities Alliance. These include Unitierra in Mexico and Swaraj in India, which will be outlined in greater detail below, initiatives that provide a conscious challenge to our notion of university, through doing away with admission requirements, certification, distinctions between lecturers and students, and programmes of study.

These ideas are important in drawing our attention to the need both to contest and transform existing mainstream institutions, and to allow space for the creation of new forms of institution. However, further analysis is needed of the structures of the university that are to be subverted. This article takes on this task, providing a theoretical mapping of the salient institutional characteristics, and draws out the implications of abandoning or replacing them.

Institutionalisation and deinstitutionalisation

Institutions have been defined as:

[…] a complex of positions, roles, norms and values lodged in particular types of social structures and organising relatively stable patterns of human activity with respect to fundamental problems in producing life-sustaining resources, in reproducing individuals, and in sustaining viable societal structures within a given environment

(^{Turner, 1997}, p. 6).

Institutions can take one of two broad forms: formal organisations or social norms. So we can describe the Catholic Church, or parliament or prisons as institutions, but also marriage, the family or patriarchy. In this study the term will be used primarily in the sense of a formal organisation, though having its basis in an underpinning set of ideas and practices as much as a specific organisational template.

There is an extensive literature on the role of institutions in society, in a variety of different disciplines including sociology, economics and anthropology (^{Acemoglu et al., 2005}; ^{DiMaggio; Powell, 1983}; ^{North, 1990}; ^{Scott, 2013}). In the field of education, neo-institutionalism has been a major current in sociology of education and comparative education, particularly associated with Stanford University (^{Baker; LeTendre, 2005}; ^{Benavot; Riddle, 1988}; ^{Chabbott, 2002}; ^{Meyer et al., 1977}). A key focus of this research has been the expansion of mass education around the world, as well as convergence between different national systems, and adoption of similar policies and curricula, associated with world culture theory (^{Meyer; Rowan, 2006}; ^{Anderson Levitt, 2003}). Debates have been vigorous over recent decades as to whether or not there is uniformity or diversity, convergence or divergence of schools and education systems around the world (^{Silova; Rappleye, 2015}).

In higher education studies, institutional theory has been used to understand isomorphic tendencies and ‘academic drift’ amongst universities, as institutions become more similar to their more prestigious counterparts, developing postgraduate degrees and research programmes, in their search for legitimacy and public recognition (^{Morphew; Huisman, 2002}). ^{DiMaggio and Powell (1983)} argue that this homogeneity is brought about by three forces: coercive (pressure brought by other organisations on which the institution is dependent, in particular government), mimetic (emulation of more prestigious organisations) and normative (through professional networks and communication). In some cases government regulation aims to put a brake on these processes of isomorphism, while at other times they drive it – for example, the UK’s dissolving the distinction between universities and polytechnics in 1992.

In contemporary times, internationalisation and rankings are central to the quest for legitimacy, as institutions seek recognition through membership of organisations, partnerships and high placing in national, regional or international league tables. Nevertheless, not all scholars concur that the quest for legitimacy amongst universities is leading to full homogenisation: ^{Stensaker et al. (2019)}, for example, through their study of institutions’ strategic plans, argue that we are moving instead towards stratification, as different echelons of the systems aspire to different levels, with some building recognition through local impact rather than being ‘world-class’. Zapp, Jungblut and Ramirez (2020) show that while membership of organisations such as the International Association of Universities may confer legitimacy on some types of university, the top-ranked institutions have little need and can rely on their ranking position and smaller, exclusive membership groups.

The literature on institutional theory in higher education aids in explaining why it is so difficult for institutions to escape from the conventional mould. As outlined above, educational institutions can be seen as ‘institutional organisations’ rather than ‘technical organisations’ (^{Meyer; Rowan, 2006}). Unlike the latter, which operate on an efficiency basis, using well-defined technologies to produce easily measured outcomes, the former “use ambiguous technologies (e.g. teaching) to produce outputs (e.g. knowledge, very capable students) whose ‘value’ and ‘quality’ are very difficult to determine” (^{Morphew; Huisman, 2002}, p. 495). According to the authors, this leads to “[…] acquisition of normatively defined practices and structures”, since “a college is a college only when those inside and outside the organization view it as a legitimate version of such” (p. 496). These considerations aid in our understanding of how difficult it is to create alternative universities, or to make more than superficial reforms to the institution.

While mindful of this literature, this article addresses a rather different set of questions about institutionalisation. Instead of the empirical question of how institutions emerge, develop and cease to exist, why they appear in certain contexts and not in others, or manifest themselves in different ways, it is concerned with the normative question of whether we should actively seek to dismantle and reconstruct the institution of university. Naturally, this task involves an analysis of the way the institution of university currently is – one that will be outlined in the section that follows, though focusing on key elements of their structure without an extensive historical or comparative analysis of their appearance in specific contexts.

The hypothesis put forward for exploration in this article is that presented by ^{Ivan Illich (1971; 1973; 1975)} in his analyses of various institutions of modernity: that institutionalisation is a well-motivated and perhaps inevitable part of the way in which societies develop, in order to protect and promote cherished practices in society – whether health, education, religious worship, relationships or child-rearing. Yet the structures that develop to provide and protect, to resource and regulate, with time outgrow their necessary size and reach, become ossified and take on an importance in their own right, rather than serving the original good in question. At this stage, institutions start to undermine and even to destroy that good – the principle of counter-productivity (^{Smith, 2011}, p. 5).

Rich and poor alike depend on schools and hospitals which guide their lives, form their world view, and define for them what is legitimate and what is not. Both view doctoring oneself as irresponsible, learning on one’s own as unreliable, and community organization, when not paid for by those in authority, as a form of aggression or subversion. For both groups the reliance on institutional treatment renders independent accomplishment suspect.

So for Illich there is a disempowering function of institutions, in providing the illusion of the accomplishment through treatment, and simultaneously undermining people’s abilities to learn by themselves and from each other in daily life. The aim instead is for what he terms ‘convivial’ learning, free from dehumanising technologies and control, or “[…] educational webs which heighten the opportunity for each one to transform each moment of his living into one of learning, sharing, and caring” (^{Illich, 1971}, p. 2).

Illich’s critique of education has various dimensions (^{Smith 2011}). Some of these are fairly standard in critical commentaries on education, such as the rejection of commodification. There is also is the hidden curriculum, the pernicious messages transmitted by the cultures of schooling that imbue and impoverish our subsequent lives: for Illich, notable amongst these are induction into consumerism, creating dependence on institutions and naturalising inequalities. Next is the overemphasis on qualifications, the prioritising by teachers, students and all other stakeholders of the formal assessments of learning rather than the learning itself – discussed elsewhere as the diploma disease (^{Dore, 1976}). But there are two other points that are more distinctive to Illich. While critiques and re-formulations of the role of the teacher are commonplace, Illich goes further to assert that the very existence of professional teachers is a problem. In order for learning to take place in all spaces of our lives, he argues that we need to move away from the idea that the role of teaching is confined to a few specialists. Instead, all people are teachers and all are learners. Finally, there is the analysis of the education system as a cycle of self-perpetuation. Despite the obvious drawbacks of our current education system in light of the above elements, it continuously reproduces itself into the future as its claws are dug too deep in our societies. Since livelihoods and even survival depend to a large extent on formal educational qualifications in most countries, opting out is simply not an option for most people.

Illich’s ideas around deschooling were developed together with his colleague at the Centre for Intercultural Documentation (CIDOC) in Mexico, Everett Reimer, who published his own version in School is Dead (^{Reimer, 1971}), and taken forward by a number of contemporary thinkers and activists such as Gustavo Esteva, Manish Jain and Madhu Suri Prakash. Ironically, the most prominent actualisation of the ideas of deschooling have been from those opposed to Illich’s political views, from free-market libertarians rather than anarcho-communists. There have been increasing examples of what has been called ‘Silicon Valley deschooling’ (^{McCowan, 2016}) and ‘deschooling from above’ (^{Sukarieh; Tannock, 2020}), critiquing formal education for its inadequacy in forming entrepreneurs and forging opportunities in the capitalist market. Initiatives such as Uncollege and the Thiel Fellowships are in this vein.

Illich’s broader critique of institutions is not without controversy and contestation. The questions of whether organised religion promotes spirituality or alternatively stifles it, the effects of our policing and criminal justice systems on law and order, and contemporary medical practices on our health and well-being are unresolved questions, are highly politicised and are not amenable to simple empirical tests. Likewise, questions of deschooling are unsettling and emotive, and have more detractors than proponents. While acknowledging the complexities and risks of deschooling, this article takes as its starting point that radical (in the sense of going to the roots) reassessment of educational institutions is valuable and indeed essential, and that we should not take any aspect of traditional structures for granted.

The paragraph above has made assumptions about shared institutions and shared experiences that may be unwarranted. Institutions differ depending on the context, and function differently in relation to diverse populations within a given context. So, the justice system may simultaneously be highly effective for the privileged few and be pernicious to marginalised groups. The analysis in this article of the implications of educational institutions must in this way differentiate between groups in society – and the stratification of outcomes is impossible to ignore in education. Nevertheless, this article does not restrict itself to an analysis of inequalities within and through education, and remains open to the possibility raised by Illich of negative impacts of institutional education on all learners.

While Illich explores in depth some aspects of schooling – the role of the teacher and the hidden curriculum – there are further important aspects of the structure of the institution that are not dealt with directly and require analysis. This article provides this assessment through the three facets of gates, roles and badges, as outlined further below. The analysis draws on Illich’s key insights, and while not adhering to every aspect of his argument or endorsing all of the empirical claims in Deschooling Society, supports the central tenet that humanity’s dependence on institutions needs questioning and that we need to move from dehumanising to convivial technology and relationships. Nevertheless, universities can be seen as having some distinctive characteristics in relation to the schools which are focus of Illich’s analysis. Universities have a multiplicity of functions beyond education, most importantly research, which may manifest elements of institutionalisation, but in different ways. Another important difference is the far greater autonomy of universities. Much of Illich’s critique relates to technocratic control and in universities there is a higher proportion of control by the practitioners (the academic community) – though admittedly lessened in the neoliberal age.

Gates, roles and badges

The analysis presented in this article focuses on three characteristics: gates, roles and badges. Gates refer to the mechanisms of the university that determine what comes in, and to a lesser extent what goes out, guarded by gatekeepers. Most obvious of these is the process of selecting which students to admit. Roles refer to the parts that different actors in the university play, the distinction between teachers and students, between academic and non-academic staff, and hierarchies in all categories. Finally, badges refer to the validation that is provided to the outputs of the university: in particular, the learning of students graduating and the quality of academic publications.

While not representing a comprehensive picture of the university (and a number of aspects of governance, learning and societal engagement would require separate treatment), these three elements constitute crucial features, and are prominent targets for deinstitutionalisation. As will be seen from the analysis below, these three have important implications in practice relating both to the core purpose of the university in promoting human understanding, and to social justice. They work directly as mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion of people, and in facilitating and constraining what is possible in terms of practice. But they also act indirectly to shape understandings of the processes of learning and scholarship, in a way akin to the ‘hidden curriculum’.

Deinstitutionalising the University

Unitierra (or Universidad de la Tierra, University of the Land) was founded in Oaxaca, Mexico in 1999 and continues to have a presence there, as well as having branches in Chiapas, Puebla and California. It was created through the dissatisfaction of local indigenous and other community groups with conventional education and a desire to create bottom-up provision free from dependence on the state or market. It draws on traditional indigenous practices, with links to the Zapatistas, as well as the ideas of post-development thinker Gustavo Esteva, who was one of the founding members. The following statement summarises the founding mission:

Universidad de la Tierra, or Unitierra, was thus born amongst the context of radical reactions against schooling observed in many Indigenous communities. We call ourselves a University to claim back the old tradition of first universities: that of learning together with friends around a table for the sole pleasure of learning and for the passion that studying inspires. Our university is not for getting a diploma or climbing the educational pyramid. We welcome young people with and without diplomas; some of whom have formal degrees while others never went to school

(^{Unitierra, n.d.}).

The university works primarily through free association of learners in an apprenticeship model, as well as collective study groups, both general and around specific themes. It supports itself primarily through donations, and is governed through a participatory assembly.

Swaraj University shares a number of characteristics with Unitierra, and there are many points of contact in the ideas of its founder, Manish Jain, and those of Gustavo Esteva. It was established near Udaipur, northern India, in 2010 to provide alternative educational programmes for young people based on self-designed learning. Students – known as Khojis, those who seek – undertake a two-year programme constructing their own curricula in accordance with their own interests, embedded in a community of learning. Curricular areas include the following: design and architecture, food and farming, art and history, spirituality, healing and self-care, entrepreneurship, science and environment. Like Unitierra, Swaraj combines mentorship (in this case based on the Indian guru-shishya tradition) for both skills-based and wisdom development, along with collective, group-based learning. Its opposition to certification is explicit:

There isNO degree or certificaterequired to join Swaraj University, and we do not give any degrees after the course. We are proud of being totally unrecognized and un-deemed, since we believe in creating portfolios based on one’s own experiences rather than degrees and certificates as a proof of one’s education. We are also part of the campaign,Healing Ourselves from the Diploma Disease, a national campaign to say NO to degrees and certificate and promote a better evaluation framework such as that which is based on experience and portfolios

(Swaraj University, n.d.).

Nevertheless, there is a nod to public recognition as the organisation has identified a range of employers who are willing to recognise the portfolios developed by learners.

These two initiatives have been selected as they are amongst the most profoundly radical of the alternative higher education experiences currently underway. They also share many features, and will be dealt with for the most part together in the analysis that follows. It is important to point out that this is not an analysis of their impact in practice (which would require detailed empirical research), but an assessment of the challenge to the theoretical model of the university.

It is clear that both of these initiatives present profound challenges to our conception of ‘university’, and to the three features outlined above. First, gates are significantly reduced and altered. There is no selection on the basis of academic merit, and no fees charged for admission. The only restrictions (in the case of Unitierra) are being an adult, and having a proposal for study and community engagement. There are of course a number of personal barriers that might stop individuals presenting themselves as students (lack of time, lack of confidence and so forth), but almost no institutional gatekeeping.

Roles are also fluid in this model. While there are people with an ongoing commitment to the institution who might correspond to staff members, and who ensure the continuity of the initiative, they are not professional teachers and also have the role of learners at times. Importantly, the roles as teacher and student are reversible. In one instance, a person may be mentoring another in documentary film-making, and be mentored by them in another instance in ancient Greek philosophy.

In the case of badges, there are perhaps the most radical changes. The institutions offer no certification for the learning gained – neither of the formal publicly recognised ‘degree’ type, nor of the micro-credential style becoming popular in online learning. This is a deliberate strategy to reclaim learning from the tyranny of qualifications. Because these institutions are not beholden to any external body or judgement, they are freed from having to orient their activities towards professional or other expectations, and allow space for organic learning.

It is important to emphasise, however, that it is impossible to do away entirely with these structures. They can be weakened, or made less significant, or reoriented, but they will still be there to some degree. An entirely structureless educational experience is impossible – not least because by definition education always has an element of intentionality. Learning can take place at any point in life, but it is only education when the learning experience is organised deliberately. Nevertheless, there are marked differences in the extent and impact of those structures, making it meaningful to talk about greater or lesser levels of institutionalisation.

Gates, roles and badges are, therefore, not completely eradicated in these initiatives but they are profoundly transformed. In relation to the three characteristics outlined above: their form is changed – in the case of Swaraj, the badges become a portfolio of substantive work, rather than a proxy certificate; the locus of control changes – its composition is determined by the individual learner in collaboration with peers; and the rigidity is lessened – with extensive flexibility in how the portfolio is constructed, and indeed no obligation to create one at all.

In assessing these innovations it is important to bear in mind that processes of deinstitutionalisation are dynamic. It is not a one-off task of removing or transforming structures, since the natural tendency is for structures to grow and ossify over time, and become as unwieldy as those they have replaced. Constant scrutiny is needed, therefore, of whether the institutional apparatuses are supporting or squeezing out the core purposes.

The profound changes in these elements might make us question whether what we are dealing with in fact here is a university or an institution of higher education at all. Nevertheless, according to the criteria discussed earlier – the aim of promoting human understanding through open-ended enquiry, through in-depth rather than broad and general learning or scholarship – these initiatives are without doubt assuming the mantle. And, while further empirical study would be needed to fully understand the impact in practice, in many ways they are doing so in reinvigorated ways for segments of the population who are routinely excluded from conventional higher education institutions.

It is important not to confuse the specific orientation of these two institutions (and others like them) with the challenge they pose to the institution. It so happens that both of them are oriented towards social inclusivity, indigenous knowledge and environmental sustainability, thus many of their area activities revolve around these ends. But it would be possible to have a deschooled university that focused on scientific literacy, entrepreneurship, spiritual growth or political conscientisation. Would these be indistinguishable from a scholarly society, or a reading group, or a collection of friends and colleagues that support each other in their studies? Perhaps not, or it is these distinctions that we need to challenge.

Of course, with transformations as profound as these, there are potential losses as well as gains. As outlined in a previous study (^{McCowan, 2016}), radical higher education suffers significantly from the lack of public recognition provided through qualifications, thereby struggling to garner resources as well as students. This point substantiates Illich’s idea of the cycle of perpetuation: society is so imbued with the qualifications framework that stepping outside of it means risking almost everything, and most people are not willing to take that gamble. The situation will change when there is a critical mass of people opting out of conventional diplomas, but that time is some way off.

The opting out of badges may in fact impact the openness of the gates. In practice, given the necessity of formal qualifications for most rewarding and well-remunerated professional opportunities in society, most young people do not have (or do not feel they have) the option to attend an institution of this type. Those attending these institutions consequently end up being those who already have formal qualifications, those who have financial security and therefore do not need them, or those who have no possibilities of obtaining them. Until a major societal shift occurs, therefore, the risk of opting out of the conventional employment sector is simply too high for many people, particularly those who are not financially secure.

A diametrically opposed problem presented by the lack of gates is the potential of an influx of students. In part, gates are there to ensure that the intake does not exceed the resourcing available. At the moment in Swaraj and Unitierra this is not a problem as the lack of public recognition means that large-scale uptake amongst the general population is unlikely. But an increase of demand in the future would strain the ability of the institution to keep an open gate. Furthermore, gates serve the purpose of selecting those students who are able to take advantage of the learning opportunities: so in most cases, universities require students already to have basic competencies and skills in place in order to engage meaningfully with the material. Having to provide the basic tuition in addition to the specialised in-depth learning characteristic of the university, may prove significant strain on the viability of the institution.

Staley’s (2019) imagined future institutions – such as Platform University and Microcollege – address these practical problems through having organic structures through which these pedagogical encounters can rise and fall over time, raising and allocating their own funds, while the platform remains as a stable hub within which this interaction can occur. However, it is not clear how easy that model would be to implement in practice, particularly in resource-constrained contexts, and without commercialisation of the venture. The challenges of resourcing and public recognition are not trifling, and dissuade most innovators from creating their higher education experiences entirely outside the mainstream system. Nevertheless, the analysis above shows the level of rupture that can be achieved when an initiative is not tied into legal, political, funding and accreditation frameworks. While the impacts in practice require further empirical research, their role as a beacon of possibility, and an instrument for the freeing of the imagination, is undeniable.

Future Directions

In reforming the university, therefore, we need to look beyond surface adjustments in systems and institutions to the deeper structures that determine the practices of the institution and its relationship to society. Efforts to decolonise the curriculum, build a representative student and staff body, and transform universities for sustainability will only bear fruit if we simultaneously pay attention to the nature of the institution, and the need to challenge its underlying logic.

In reassessing the institutional nature of the university, it is important to bear in mind that even conventional mainstream examples have fairly loose institutional framing in many respects. There is weak control on staff members for example, with academics commonly criticising their own institutions publicly, and little expectation of following a ‘party line’: when academics or students speak in public, unless they are specific role holders, it is generally understood that they are expressing their own opinions rather than those of the institution. Furthermore, hierarchical management only functions in certain areas of the university, or in relation to certain dimensions of work, with substantial freedom of working goals and patterns amongst academics (^{Haddock-Fraser; Rands; Scoffham, 2018}).

Significant changes have been brought to the institution in line with neoliberal policies and academic capitalism. New forms of corporate management have attempted to control and regulate the autonomy and organic creativity represented above. On the other hand, commodification and marketisation have loosened institutional control in some ways, while linking universities into capitalist markets in new ways. For-profit universities, for example, which have seen a rapid expansion in recent years have a very wide gate in terms of admissions, commonly admitting all students who are willing to pay the fees and have completed secondary schooling. Income generation drives have also encouraged universities to engage in more fluid ways with external communities and particularly the private sector, and some of the moves towards interdisciplinary work and restructuring of departments and academic identities have also been driven by commercial motivations.

Closely linked to these processes of commodification is that of unbundling, which is easily confused with deschooling or deinstitutionalisation. The process of unbundling (as explored in ^{McCowan, 2017}; ^{Ivancheva et al., 2020}; ^{Robertson; Komljenovic, 2016}) also leads to an unravelling of conventional structures of the institution, but in different ways, with distinct motivations and implications. Unbundling involves the separating out of the constituent elements of the university and the process of higher education: i.e. teaching, research and innovation, or design, delivery and assessment of courses. It certainly presents challenges to traditional gates, roles and badges: in relation to the latter, for example, with micro-credentials starting to challenge traditional composite degrees (^{Craig 2015}). The primary motivation for this separation is commercial: to provide consumers with greater choice over what they buy, and in some cases specialisation and economy of scale from the point of view of the supplier. A fully unbundled higher education experience consists of a range of learning experiences that students can pick from freely, piecing together their unique profile of learning, and seeking micro-credentials in the different areas where appropriate.

While unbundling and deschooling both lead to the end of the university as we know it, the former questions only some of the assumptions of our conventional institutions: while it gives greater freedom of choice to the learner, it is largely based on a transmission model of pedagogy, with learners as receptacles, and depends on assessment and credentials that have exchange value. Furthermore, in contrast to Illich’s deschooling, it views the purpose of education as enhanced individual success within a capitalist market, both in selling one’s employability and creating innovative products. While barriers to access are challenged, and there is a significant opening up of participation (seen in the most extreme form through the emergence of MOOCs), many other aspects of institutional processes remain largely intact, if appearing in a different guise. Deinstitutionalisation initiatives in higher education, therefore need to position themselves in opposition both to mainstream higher education but also commercially oriented deschooling initiatives.

This article is not in fact arguing that the mainstream university as an institution is inherently flawed. For sure, it has taken on many of the pernicious influences of the different ages in which it has existed – and in the contemporary moment, of global capitalism – and has a mixed record in relation to promoting public goods, equality and environmental sustainability. But it is far from the worst of our contemporary institutions, and still provides opportunities for critical thought, alternative visions and personal and collective transformation. The point made here is that space needs to be created for the emergence of new institutions of higher learning alongside the university, with differences not in the surface trappings, but in the deep assumptions and fundamental practices.

Illich may have been too harsh on the school. As an institution it has a number of positive attributes, and even in difficult circumstances around the world, and for the most disadvantaged communities, it does provide some opportunities for meaningful learning. Nevertheless, his primary thesis that institutionalisation over time corrupts its original purpose remains intact. The structures put in place originally to support the functioning of the institution – here conceptualised as gates, roles and badges – in many ways undermine that purpose. Importantly, they are confused for the purpose itself: so it is the gaining of a place at Harvard, and obtaining the MBA qualification that has value, not the experience and personal transformation themselves.

If the experiences of deinstitutionalisation outlined here catch on, it will lead to disruption of higher education systems – and very likely to a reduction in resources available, as individuals, corporations and states see them as less instrumentally valuable in the achievement of various goals, primarily economic. But the size and stature of the global higher education system is not our only concern. Better a small university network faithful to its mission and with a positive impact on society than a large one without. In fact, it is possible to see the downfall of universities as residing in this very compromising of their own mission in search of expansion and increases in resources at all costs.

Experiences such as Swaraj and Unitierra show us that it is possible to subvert and reframe even the foundational structures of the institution, and still uphold its primary purpose – indeed, fulfilling it better for communities that have been excluded from conventional higher education institutions. What these innovations give us more than anything is a boost for our imagination. After centuries of deep rooting of a dominant educational model, imagining an alternative – a real alternative, and not variations in tone – is a significant challenge. But it is one we must overcome if we are to retain the original purposes of the university and to address the environmental and civilisational crises facing humanity.