Among Professors: Academic Life, Power & Survival

  One afternoon, my phone rang at home. A colleague, herself a professor too, had managed to get hold of my number through HR. The message was urgent: I had to come in immediately. There was a guest lecture, and the room wasn’t tidy enough. I was to come and vacuum. That she and I held identical positions seemed, in her view, entirely irrelevant. I remember standing there with the receiver in my hand, wondering whether this was some kind of joke. This was not the only incident with her. I once visited her at home, where she proudly showed me her study: an enormous room, larger than my living room, dominated by an imposing desk. She then pointed out her husband’s study: a small, cramped closet without a window, tucked half under the stairs. The hierarchy at home followed exactly the same logic she applied at work. Academia harbours two opposite extremes: those who struggle with feeling like a fraud, and those who seem to thrive on unshakeable self-confidence. Both are fed by the nat...

While I was finishing a paper at home, a colleague from the administrative staff posted a photo on the internal network: an empty corridor, with the caption, “The summer silence on campus… where is everyone?” The reactions were predictable:  😊   🏖️   😎 Light-hearted, no doubt. And yet beneath the jokes ran something more persistent: a quiet undercurrent of suspicion. “You must be at the pool every day, right?” Or, to my students: “You must be left to fend for yourself, your supervisor is never around.” It made me wonder: when did being present become the ultimate proof of working? If I really had spent all that time by the pool, I would probably have an Olympic medal by now – not a pile of unfinished articles, reviewer comments, and looming deadlines. In academia, two worlds quietly coexist. For support staff, the campus is the workplace. Work has fixed hours, fixed locations, and above all: visibility. If you are there, you are working. If you are not, apparently you ...

When I applied for my current position, I was – at least on paper – not the ideal candidate. Understandably so: there are always people with a stronger CV or a more “sexy” specialisation. I was simply glad that I got the job. That is, until I heard who the paper favourite had been. It turned out to be someone I knew. Same niche, same research focus. Only less experience, fewer publications – in fact, less on every front. She had once applied for a position in my department and had been rejected. I understand that a university might sometimes prefer someone with a supposedly more exciting research topic over someone with extensive experience in a less fashionable area. Fine. But we were doing exactly the same work. So it wasn't the field. I did briefly wonder why, but didn’t dwell on it. I had the job, after all. Until I applied elsewhere and didn’t make it past the first round – while my PhD student did. That surprised me. I had taught him the field. I had more experience, more pub...

For a long time, I assumed that universities put students first. That seems self-evident: without students, a university has no reason to exist. In many places this is fortunately still the case, especially at younger universities and in countries where the traditional authority of professors has largely eroded. That is precisely why I was surprised by how things worked at one of the universities I was employed at. I was used to lengthy discussions about curricula, careful analyses of student evaluations, consultations with student representatives. Everything revolved around one question: how can we improve the educational experience? Not here. The first question I was asked was not what students need, but: “What would   you   like to teach?” I genuinely thought:  Really? I get to decide that myself? At first glance, that sounds appealing. A dream scenario for any professor. But once I saw which courses my colleagues were offering, my surprise turned into discomfort. Litt...

This blog has always had a name. Just not mine. When I started writing here, I had good reasons to stay anonymous. I was writing about colleagues, institutions, and systems I was still part of. Not to settle scores — but to name what rarely gets named: the unwritten rules, the quiet power plays, the mechanisms that shape academic careers in ways no handbook ever mentions. I took care. Names disappeared. Genders were swapped. Incidents from different people and different places were combined into single stories. The pattern remained. The individuals did not. But a pattern without a face has its limits. Why now I am retiring. Not quite yet, but soon. After more than thirty years in academia — as a PhD student, a researcher, a professor — I am stepping back from institutional life. And with that step comes a certain freedom. The freedom to say: this is what I saw. This is what I experienced. And this is my name. That is not a small thing in academia, where reputation is currency and caree...

“You always apply for those small projects — they’re much easier.” The euphoria of my research grant had lasted exactly one walk to the coffee corner. I’d rushed out to share the news, and before the first congratulations faded, a colleague offered his verdict. The message was clear:  your achievement is not really an achievement. In those moments, the joy of achievement is quickly replaced by self-doubt. You start to wonder: Did I really deserve this? Should I have worked harder? Was it just luck? Later, when the practical consequence was discussed — a modest teaching reduction, as is customary — the apparent cheerfulness turned to open irritation. Two colleagues were annoyed. Why didn’t   they   get teaching relief to make time to write a proposal? Wasn’t that unfair? The implication was unmistakable: I must have had   so few   other responsibilities that I had ample time to work on a proposal. The months of sacrificed weekends were irrelevant. My investment w...