Published on Aug 2025
Share
Australian universities, like their global counterparts, are navigating seismic shifts in how higher education is imagined, delivered and valued. The last decade—particularly the years following the pandemic—has brought sweeping changes in technology, student mobility, teaching practice and cultural expectations. From one angle, it’s a story of remarkable innovation. But it’s also a story of what we may be in danger of losing.
Globalization, digital transformation, increasing linguistic and cultural diversity and evolving student expectations are prompting universities to rethink what they do and how they do it. In many ways, Australian institutions have risen to the occasion. We’ve seen expanded hybrid learning, deeper international collaboration, student-centered teaching practices and a renewed focus on inclusion and wellbeing. But alongside these shifts is a quieter, more troubling pattern, one that many of us working in the sector are only beginning to name out loud.
The global classroom—and global pressures
Australia has long positioned itself as a hub for international students, and rightly so. With more than 30% of enrolments coming from overseas, universities have adapted by developing global programs, international partnerships and flexible platforms to support cross-border collaboration. Hybrid and online degrees are no longer a novelty, and “global employability” is now a standard selling point.
But beneath this globally connected surface, there are signs of strain. As in many parts of the world, internationalization policies increasingly center on economic return. International students are often viewed not as scholars, but as revenue streams. Language support is sometimes bolted on rather than built in. And while we talk about “internationalizing the curriculum,” in practice, this work remains uneven and often symbolic.
In this context, multilingualism, so often framed as an institutional asset, risks becoming a commodity. We market diversity to attract students, yet frequently fall short in making space for genuinely multilingual pedagogies or student voice. And this isn’t just happening in Australia. It’s echoed in many so-called “Global South” contexts too, suggesting that we might be dealing with shared structural logics, rather than geographically bound problems.
Market-driven reform: what are we really adapting to?
It’s easy to see technological and global shifts as signs of progress. But these same shifts have been accompanied by a growing market logic that’s reshaping the core of higher education. Across Australia, we’re witnessing the erosion of language departments, the hollowing-out of the humanities and the closure of teacher education programs focused on languages and English as an additional Language.
Despite Australia being one of the most multilingual nations on earth, language education has been systematically undervalued, sacrificed, often quietly, in the name of “efficiency.” Public discourse still celebrates multiculturalism, yes, but the infrastructure that supports it— language expertise, intercultural teaching, sustained community engagement—is disappearing.
What’s emerging instead is a system governed by market metrics. Student load, research income, industry partnerships. Knowledge is
being reclassified according to its “return on investment.” And the
kinds of knowledge that don’t produce immediate economic value, such as
Indigenous knowledges, critical theory, language acquisition, are, it
seems, increasingly expendable.
What students want—and what they’re actually getting
To be clear, universities have made significant progress in responding to students’ needs. There’s been a noticeable shift towards more inclusive teaching practices, a stronger focus on mental health and wellbeing and growing efforts to involve students in decision-making. In some institutions, students are even helping co-design curriculum, which is both encouraging and long overdue.
But at the same time, the relationship between students and
universities is changing. Degrees are marketed as products, and students
are increasingly cast as customers. This shift has material
implications: subjects that are “low demand” disappear, programs are
redesigned to be shorter, slicker, more career-focused. And often, that
means less space for ambiguity, for language, for deep learning.
Technology: exciting, but not neutral
Technological innovation has, without doubt, opened up new possibilities. The pivot to online learning during COVID was impressive, if sometimes clunky. Since then, we’ve seen the rise of virtual labs, AI-enabled writing support, even immersive simulations. Many of these tools are genuinely transformative.
But we can’t afford to be uncritical. Not all students have the same
access to technology. Not all educators are trained to use it
meaningfully. And while AI tools like ChatGPT offer new ways of engaging
with content, they also pose serious questions around academic
integrity, authorship and what it actually means to learn. We need more
than just enthusiasm, we need ethical frameworks, pedagogical strategies
and time to reflect.
So where to from here?
It’s tempting to celebrate adaptability. And yes, Australian universities have done a great deal to keep pace with change. But perhaps the more urgent task is to ask: What exactly are we adapting to? And what might we be losing along the way?
If we accept the restructuring of education according to neoliberal values as inevitable, we risk losing sight of what universities are really for. Higher education should be a space for curiosity, critique and cultural exchange, not just credentialing. And it should value a broader vision of “impact” than economic growth alone.
Across the country, I’ve seen incredible work being done, often quietly, often by educators and students working at the margins, to keep alive these broader missions. They’re building multilingual classrooms, designing trauma-informed pedagogy and creating spaces for community collaboration. This is the kind of work we should be lifting up, not letting slip through the cracks.
The question, really, isn’t whether universities can adapt. It’s
whether we can choose what we’re adapting for.