A Philosophical Study of Silence as Epistemic Violence

On being the eldest child and pushed into the corner...

I imagine I was the loudest I’ve ever been when I was born. As the oldest child—and the only child for just under three years—I had the stage to myself. Then my sister came along, and later my brother. Of course, I don’t remember much from those early years, but I do remember this: I’ve always been quiet. From age five to eighteen, every parents’ evening was the same—teachers telling me I needed to speak up more. But I couldn’t.

It wasn’t until I was twenty that I realised anxiety played a big role in my silence. But where did this anxiety around speaking come from?

Maybe it started at home. My younger sister, the classic middle child, and my neurodivergent brother, a constant talker, left little room for my voice. I stayed in my room with my head in a book. I could never quite get a word in—and even now, I still struggle.

I’ve always written better than I speak. When I talk, words tumble out in a mess, but on the page, they flow effortlessly. The problem is, writing takes time—and it’s not how most communication happens at school or work. So, my voice got left behind. I was silenced. And there’s a certain violence to being silenced, whether intentional or not.

This week, I want to dig into the philosophy of silencing and connect it to my own experiences. I’ve already touched on my upbringing, but I also want to explore academic silencing and the silencing I’m facing in the corporate world right now. And in some ways I also feel that way about some writers here on Substack. It hurts—deeply—and I think it’s worth unpacking why.

The Philosophy of Silencing

To dive into the philosophy behind silencing, it’s worth starting with a little preface about a key idea in the philosophy of language. In his famous work How to Do Things with Words, J.L. Austin introduces the concept of ‘speech acts’—which is really just a fancy way of saying that words can do stuff, not just say stuff.

Language isn’t just a collection of words we speak—it’s a force that acts upon the world. Through what J.L. Austin calls performative utterances, language doesn’t just describe things; it does things. For example, when someone says, ‘I promise,’ they’re not just stating a fact—they’re actively making a promise (or at least we hope they are).

But for a speech act like this to be successful, certain conditions must be met. Austin refers to these as felicity conditions. These are the specific social, contextual, and institutional factors that make a performative utterance valid and effective. For instance, the judge’s declaration only works if they have the legal authority to sentence someone, if they’re speaking within a courtroom, and if all necessary legal procedures have been followed. If any of these conditions are missing—say, if a random person on the street declares you guilty—it’s not a valid speech act.

Not every utterance qualifies as a speech act because not every utterance meets these conditions. This distinction is crucial because it highlights how language operates within systems of power and authority.

Austin’s concept of speech acts provides a framework for understanding the power dynamics of language, allowing us to see how power operates when someone is silenced. When the conditions for a speech act are undermined—whether through societal bias, structural inequality, or a lack of recognition—certain voices are effectively silenced, preventing them from performing the actions they intend. This is where the philosophy of silencing begins to emerge, highlighting the ways in which power shapes who gets to speak and whose words are heard.

Violence of Silencing

To grasp the violence of silencing, I want to reference Emerick B.'s forthcoming work, The Violence of Silencing. While I've explored various philosophical interpretations, this one had the most profound impact on me—it was the one that helped me recognise the injustice I had experienced.

Emerick focuses on epistemic violence. Violence which is inflicted by the knower. Thus for him silence is all about epistemic violence. To inflict epistemic violence one must violate the integrity by diminishing epistemic capability

Let’s take a step back and consider what we mean by violence. In Western philosophy, violence is often defined as involving intentionality, excessive physical force, or the violation of morally significant entities such as people, property, or animals.

However, as Emerick critiques, this definition falls short because it excludes other forms of harm, such as psychological and institutional violence—arguably some of the most pervasive and damaging forms of violence.

People are more than just their physical bodies; they are beings with agency, aspirations, and a drive to build their futures. Violence isn’t limited to physical harm—it can also manifest when someone’s ability to act, grow, or pursue their goals is thwarted. When a social structure, system, or individual obstructs this progress, it constitutes violence.

Emerick gives the example of a child who is constantly undermined—told their opinions don’t matter, silenced when they try to express themselves, or dismissed in a way that leaves them perpetually frustrated—this is a form of violence. It stifles their development and denies them the tools to assert their autonomy. This type of harm isn’t always visible, but it’s no less impactful, leaving long-lasting scars on a person’s sense of self and their ability to navigate the world.

By expanding our understanding of violence beyond the physical, we begin to see how deeply embedded these patterns of harm are in social structures and interpersonal relationships. It’s a call to recognise and address the subtle ways in which people’s agency and futures are denied.

At its core, this is about reducing someone to a lesser being and violating their capacity as a knower. This is epistemic violence.

We often think of violence as being tied to intentions, but this isn’t how Emerick sees it. He argues that whether something is violent should be determined by its outcome. To truly understand violence, we need to shift our focus to the perspective of the victim rather than the perpetrator.

Emerick also makes an important distinction between the adverb violently (the action) and the noun violence (the outcome). This is the difference between the act itself and its consequences:

- A non-violent action can still lead to violence.

- A violent action might not result in violence being committed.

Because of this, Emerick suggests that the world may actually be more violent than we think. And honestly, I agree. By looking at violence through this lens, we uncover just how much harm is overlooked or dismissed in our daily lives.

And inevitably it leads to a lack of creativity.

It is from here I want to discuss this philosophy in line with epistemic violence I have experienced at three stages of my life:

1. My childhood

2. University

3. Corporate life.

My Childhood

I’ve already touched on my childhood experience in the introduction, but it’s worth digging deeper. Growing up in a household where I was constantly talked over and my feelings were routinely dismissed, I now realise I experienced my first encounter with epistemic violence. My voice—what I knew, felt, and wanted to express—was systematically undermined.

Epistemic violence doesn’t leave physical scars, but its impact runs deep. When your thoughts and feelings are ignored or invalidated, it’s not just frustrating—it’s identity-shaping. It teaches you, subtly but powerfully, that your voice doesn’t matter. And once that lesson is learned, it’s hard to unlearn.

This silencing didn’t just shape my ability to communicate; it shaped how I feel about myself. Over time, it grew into a constant, gnawing anxiety. I began questioning whether I even had the right to speak, let alone whether what I said was valid or meaningful. I never put my hand up at school, and even if I wanted to I spent minutes threatening over what I was going to say in case it was invalidated — but really it was usually congratulated. But this anxiety was so deep rooted in my childhood I just could not overcome it.

This anxiety manifests in ways I’m still working to untangle. In group conversations, I worry about interrupting or saying something “wrong.” At work, I second-guess my contributions, often choosing to stay silent rather than risk being dismissed. Even in casual settings, there’s always a voice in my head whispering, What if they don’t care?

It’s as though the early experience of being silenced rewired my brain to expect rejection whenever I try to speak. And this anxiety doesn’t just stem from fear of being ignored—it’s rooted in the belief that I deserve to be ignored. That’s the most insidious part of epistemic violence: it doesn’t just silence you in the moment; it embeds silence into your sense of self.

University

It’s true that many people experience imposter syndrome at university—being surrounded by brilliant minds can do that to you. But for me, it went beyond the usual self-doubt. There were moments, especially during my postgraduate studies, when specific professors made me feel like my writing was irredeemably flawed.

Their comments weren’t just critiques; they felt like dismissals. My ideas, my arguments, and the way I expressed them were picked apart in ways that felt personal rather than constructive. Over time, this chipped away at my confidence until, by the end of that year, I had all but lost faith in my ability to write.

Looking back, I see this as a form of epistemic violence.. It wasn’t just that my writing was criticised—it was that my capacity as a thinker, as a knower, was undermined. Epistemic violence occurs when someone’s ability to contribute to knowledge is systematically devalued or dismissed, leaving them feeling voiceless or illegitimate in intellectual spaces.

For me, the silencing wasn’t overt. It was in the tone of feedback that made me feel small, in the dismissive looks that implied my ideas weren’t worth engaging with, and in the lack of encouragement that made me question whether I belonged in the academic world at all.

What made this experience even more damaging was its setting. Academia is supposed to be a space for growth and exploration, a place where ideas are nurtured and challenged in equal measure. Instead, it became a space where my voice felt unwelcome, and the confidence I’d spent years building was systematically eroded.

This experience didn’t just hurt my self-esteem; it affected how I saw myself as a writer and a thinker. I internalised the idea that my contributions were inherently inferior, which only deepened my anxiety and self-doubt. It’s taken years to start reclaiming that confidence, to remind myself that my voice matters and that those moments of silencing say more about the systems and individuals perpetuating them than about me.

Corporate Life

Securing my first job as a copywriter should have been an exciting milestone, but instead, it left me feeling utterly defeated and demoralised. From the start, I could never seem to meet my boss’s expectations. My work was constantly criticised—not in private, where constructive feedback might have helped me grow, but publicly, in front of the entire team.

He would pull up my drafts on the screen during meetings, dissecting every word with a mix of sarcasm and disdain. The room would fill with uncomfortable silence or, worse, suppressed laughter. I don’t know if his goal was to humiliate me, but that’s exactly what it felt like. It wasn’t just feedback—it was personal, sharp, and cutting.

Looking back, I can see how this kind of treatment wasn’t just unprofessional; it bordered on epistemic violence. In a role where my job was to contribute ideas and create something meaningful, his constant belittling chipped away at my belief that I had anything valuable to offer. Every critique felt less like a call to improve and more like a statement that I simply wasn’t good enough—that my words, and by extension my voice, were inherently flawed.

This environment left a lasting mark. I began to second-guess every sentence I wrote, obsessively editing and revising in fear of another public takedown. My anxiety skyrocketed, and my confidence plummeted. Instead of growing into the role, I found myself shrinking, afraid to take risks or share ideas.

What made it worse was the ambiguity. Was this deliberate nastiness, or did he think this was an acceptable way to manage? It comes back to how Emerick believes something is violent if it affects the knower. I felt stripped of agency and completely silenced. It took leaving that job to begin to rebuild my sense of self, but the scars linger, shaping how I approach my work and how I see my own voice.

I know I can write. I didn’t earn two English degrees by accident or sheer luck—they’re a testament to my dedication, skill, and love for language. Of course, my writing might not resonate with everyone; art is subjective, and that’s the beauty of it. But acknowledging that subjectivity is crucial. No one—whether a professor, boss, or peer—has the right to diminish my voice or anyone else’s through epistemic violence.

Epistemic violence isn’t just an attack on someone’s ideas; it’s an attack on their capacity to contribute, to express, and to be heard. It denies the fundamental individuality and validity of each person’s perspective, and that’s not just wrong—it’s deeply harmful.

Writing, like all forms of communication, is an act of agency. It’s how we make sense of the world and share our truths. To silence or undermine someone’s voice isn’t just dismissive; it’s destructive. And fighting against that means not only reclaiming my confidence but also standing up for the right of every person to be heard, valued, and respected for their unique contributions.

Writing may be subjective, but respect should never be optional. Whether you want to hear it or not, let someone talk. Give them the space to share their thoughts because otherwise you could be committing epistemic violence.