Among Professors: Academic Life, Power & Survival

Transparency is a beautiful word. It appears in strategic plans, in mission statements, in evaluation forms. But in practice? It's often the first thing to disappear when it comes to matters that truly matter. When I was asked to become vice-dean for research, it seemed like a great opportunity. The dean's assistant told me I would receive teaching relief, an attractive allowance, and — the icing on the cake — a sabbatical at the end of my term. I agreed, was elected. What turned out? No sabbatical at all. It had existed only in that one conversation. The teaching relief had to be arranged separately by the incumbent dean, who did so with a cc to the entire dean's office, writing that he was doing this "albeit with considerable reluctance" — as if I had asked him for a personal favour. Meanwhile the incumbent vice-dean, the dean, and the vice-dean for teaching all received teaching relief as a matter of course. The problem was never the teaching relief itself. The...

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...

“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...

On permanent positions and the informal rules of academic life Congratulations on your permanent position. The marathon is over — or so I thought.  Welcome to the triathlon. That was my first thought the first time I found myself second marking.  Reading every student essay reviewed by colleagues, writing a report: was their assessment fair and accurate? I didn’t take shortcuts. I read everything carefully and wrote a thorough, honest report. My colleagues were  not amused. There I went again. I had once more missed an unwritten rule.  It wasn’t about the quality of the feedback or genuine checking. It was about ticking a box.  Colleagues would do it like this: "Well done. Perhaps tweak this one up a bit, that one down a bit. Sorted." Everyone knew it was just for show. Except me. And this wasn’t the exception. It was the rule. Again and again, the formal purpose was quality control; the informal purpose was managing impressions. Take student questionnaires. You...

The idea of pursuing a PhD — let alone becoming a professor — was once beyond the realm of my imagination. In my environment, university served a single purpose: training for a solid, practical profession. It was the only path I knew. I followed it faithfully, earning a degree in a health-related field. Yet a sense of unease persisted. What followed was a ten-year odyssey through various specialisations — working with children, stroke patients, adults with intellectual disabilities — each move an attempt to find a niche that suited me. None ever did. The outcome was predictable: a severe burnout. A decade in the wrong career is a recipe for collapse.  I never imagined starting a PhD later in life, after a decade in another profession. Yet, within that breaking point lay an unexpected gift.  The catalyst that forced me to abandon the original path entirely and begin constructing another — one that led, improbably, to where I am now . I decided to study languages, purely out of ...