Among Professors: Academic Life, Power & Survival

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...

The moment you say yes once, you will be asked again. You have landed that new, highly coveted permanent position. You naturally want to show your best side: to be available, collegial, reliable. My warning is simple: don’t. Or if you must, only in moderation.  In academic environments, helpfulness is rarely rewarded explicitly, but it is quietly exploited. Women, in particular, tend to say yes more readily to tasks that “just need to be done”. Men, in my experience, often do so far less.  What I have noticed over the years is this: if a male academic does end up with an undesirable task, he often ensures that he is never asked again. By doing it badly, by delaying endlessly, or by “forgetting” it altogether. The outcome is predictable. The task disappears, and so does the request. The system, in other words, rewards exactly the behaviour it officially discourages. My advice, then, is straightforward but not easy: learn to say no. That is harder than it sounds, especially if y...

For some, becoming head of department is an honour. They probably assume it comes with status or power. For most academics, it is something to be avoided at all costs — or at least postponed for as long as possible. That was certainly true at my department at the time. A new head of department needed to be appointed. The dean called us in for a meeting: two candidates were under consideration. I had just secured a prestigious research grant, so I didn’t have time. A perfectly reasonable argument, I thought. The dean barely listened. My male colleague took a different approach. He began by chatting warmly with the dean about what a wonderful job the dean was doing. Since his appointment, so much had improved — and all this despite the heaviness of the role. The dean was suddenly all ears. My colleague then described his own situation: he, too, was under great pressure, but for a good cause. He went on at length about a grant proposal he was preparing. It would be so good for the univers...