Decolonial studies have surged into prominence within academic circles, ostensibly seeking to unravel the lingering threads of colonialism and champion a more balanced global knowledge framework. At first glance, this appears a noble pursuit, yet a deeper scrutiny reveals troubling undercurrents that demand attention. Far from being a neutral scholarly endeavor, decolonial studies may be perceived as an artificial construct, one that, under the guise of rectifying historical wrongs, inadvertently sows seeds of division and perpetuates a skewed form of racial bias. Consider the foundational claim of decolonial studies: that Western knowledge systems are inherently oppressive, necessitating their dismantlement in favor of alternative ways of knowing. This sweeping assertion casts a shadow over the undeniable strides humanity has made through Western intellectual traditions. The scientific method, a product of Western thought, has propelled advancements that transcend cultural boundaries—vaccines eradicating smallpox, the internet knitting the world closer together, and agricultural innovations feeding billions. Democratic ideals, tracing roots to ancient Greece and refined through the Enlightenment, have fueled governance systems that prioritize individual rights and civic participation, inspiring liberation movements even in former colonies. To label these achievements as mere tools of oppression dismisses their universal utility. Take India, where British-introduced railways and education systems, though born of colonial intent, became instruments of national unity and independence. By insisting on purging such contributions, decolonial studies risk discarding tools essential for progress, favoring instead a fragmented landscape of subjective truths that erode the shared pursuit of knowledge. This leads to another curious facet of decolonial rhetoric: its fixation on historical victimhood. The narrative paints colonized peoples as eternally shackled by Western aggression, a portrayal that, while rooted in real suffering, often lingers too long in the past. In some African nations, leaders point to colonial legacies to explain away corruption or crumbling infrastructure, sidestepping accountability for present-day failures. Contrast this with Singapore or South Korea—both touched by colonial hands—where focus shifted to innovation and education, yielding economic miracles. The constant rehearsal of grievances can trap communities in a cycle of blame, stunting the very agency decolonial studies claim to champion. Zimbabwe offers a stark example: decades of pointing to colonial exploitation have coincided with economic collapse, while internal mismanagement goes unaddressed. Such an approach subtly implies that progress hinges not on effort or ingenuity, but on endlessly revisiting old wounds. Equally troubling is the emphasis on identity politics, which often veers into a peculiar inversion of discrimination. Policies like South Africa’s Black Economic Empowerment prioritize racial quotas, sparking debates over whether merit takes a backseat to historical redress. Critics argue this has hobbled public services, as appointments lean on demographics rather than competence. In the United States, university admissions tussles reveal a similar tension—affirmative action, meant to level the field, sometimes sidelines qualified candidates from majority groups, fueling resentment. Canada’s indigenous hiring preferences in academia have stirred whispers of unfairness among scholars who see their credentials overlooked. What emerges is a system where past imbalances justify new ones, trading one form of exclusion for another, all under the banner of equity. This risks entrenching group identities as the sole lens for opportunity, sidelining the individual effort that conservative thought holds dear. History, too, falls prey to oversimplification in decolonial hands. Colonizers are cast as unrelenting villains, the colonized as pure victims, flattening a tapestry of human interaction into a monochrome tale. Yet reality resists such neat boxes. During the British Raj, India saw not just exploitation but railroads and schools that Gandhi himself leveraged to rally a nation. In Vietnam, French rule brought the Latin alphabet, boosting literacy and linking the country to global currents. Even in the Americas, Spanish colonial cities laid foundations for modern states, blending cultures in ways decolonial narratives gloss over. By cherry-picking atrocities and ignoring exchange, this discourse distorts the past into a cudgel for present-day division, rather than a mirror for understanding. It’s a selective storytelling that fuels rancor, not resolution. Then there’s the stifling effect of decolonial rhetoric on open discourse. Critics who question its tenets are swiftly branded as defenders of empire, their voices drowned out by accusation. In universities, scholars challenging decolonial orthodoxy—like those at Oxford debating curriculum shifts—face ostracism or worse. Social media amplifies this, with activists quick to ‘cancel’ dissenters, as seen when a historian questioning reparations was pilloried online as a bigot. This mirrors the very dogma decolonial studies decry in colonial systems, erecting a new orthodoxy where disagreement is heresy. Australia’s debates over colonial statues saw reasoned critiques shouted down as racist, not engaged. Such tactics choke the free exchange of ideas, a cornerstone of any society valuing truth over ideology. In education, the push to ‘decolonize’ curricula raises further concerns. Calls to sideline Shakespeare or Enlightenment thinkers—figures who shaped global culture—risk leaving students with a lopsided view of history. At universities like Cape Town, protests to remove Western classics have sparked fears of intellectual narrowing, where only local lenses are deemed valid. This silos knowledge, undermining the universalism that education should foster. Economically, decolonial critiques of capitalism as a Western plague ignore its role in lifting millions from poverty. China and India embraced markets, slashing deprivation, while Venezuela’s rejection of ‘imperial’ economics plunged it into chaos. The blanket disdain for such systems overlooks their adaptability, favoring instead vague alternatives that falter in practice. Culturally, the drive to resurrect indigenous ways can slide into a rigid essentialism. In New Zealand, prioritizing traditional Māori healing over modern medicine has clashed with public health goals, notably in vaccine uptake. This romanticizes stasis, shunning the dynamism that birthed the Renaissance through Greek, Roman, and Islamic interplay. By fetishizing purity, decolonial thought risks isolating cultures from the cross-pollination that drives progress, as Japan’s blend of tradition and Western tech attests. What results is a worldview that, far from liberating, binds societies to outdated scripts under the guise of authenticity.