Open Letter To Some Of Those Attending The Global #DisabilitySummit #NowIsTheTime

Recovery in the Bin

Open Letter to some of those attending the Global Disability Summit

To:

Lenin Moreno, President of Ecuador

Gabriela Michetti, Vice President of Argentina

Sophie Morgan

20 July 2018

We are writing this open letter to you on behalf of Deaf and Disabled people across the UK concerning your involvement in the global disability summit being co-hosted by the UK government in London on 23 and 24 July.

We are strongly in favour of international support that improves the lives of Deaf and Disabled people across the world and welcome co-operation between States that lead to stronger human rights laws and protections. We particularly support the building of international solidarity and links directly between Deaf and Disabled People, our organisations and campaigns.

However, we have the following concerns regarding the July summit:

The role of the UK government in co-hosting the event. Following an unprecedented investigation carried out by the UN…

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The Mad Professor

Virginia Woolf

I am often told I am ‘brave’ to be open about my mental health issues and working in a job where your mind is your product, this may be so, but I don’t think so. Living with a mental health condition – particularly when it is serious and life threatening as mine is – is the real act of bravery. Talking about it – just as being honest, as a feminist, about the rampant sexism in academia – is to me just activism on another front.

Four years ago my mind exploded, partly due to overwork, and latent complex PTSD – which I had successfully avoid since a minor breakdown in my twenties – became a feature of my life. I am in recovery – which means generally I manage to live well with the illness – but occasionally I have relapses, and I am in the midst of  work-related one now.

So it is slightly disheartening to read a report showing that over a decade after alerts about the need to structurally reform academia to protect the mental health of academics and students, that nearly half of academics are showing signs of mental health problems. I thought the humorous tag of ‘Mad Professor’ was mine, but the experience of serious mental health issues is shared by nearly a third of my colleagues.

And let me make this clear: I am not talking about work-related stress, although that is an increasingly common feature of academic life. I am talking about being unable to breathe, to think, to feel the walls closing in, experiencing terrifying hallucinations, voices, an overwhelming desire to self harm, harm others or kill yourself, because that is the only way the relentless terrifying pain will stop. Like being trapped in a horror movies only it’s real and there is no way out of danger that faces you.

In my case these feelings can go on for days, weeks or months. Then, with the help of medication, self-help and talking therapies, I gradually start digging myself out of the tunnel. Occassionally the brightly lit door marked ‘exit’ (ie suicide) appears and is tempting, particularly as I know once I am out of the tunnel it won’t be sunny and light, it will be to a dense dark mist-filled forest through which I have to navigate with no map, just carrying on until at some point the sunshine starts to break through and I can breathe normally again.

And as this recent episode was work-related, all I could do was wonder, why on EARTH would anyone want to put anyone else through that? Particularly someone who, when well, is good at their job, does all the things she is supposed to do and well, brings in research money, teaches, supervises PhD students, writes some (if I say so myself) pretty  good stuff.

I don’t for a moment think that individuals, even senior management, in academia are actively trying to send their colleagues mad. But I do think we have become as a sector overly managed, overly concerned about REF and TEF and league tables and publish-or-perish, and senior managers are expected to run universities as businesses.

We may well, in our current neo-liberal days, have to accept the marketization of the academy. In any case I am not convinced that is worse than the times when it was an elite ivory tower only open to a narrow network of white middle class public school boys and girls. But when I started, at the tail end of that era, it was enough to be bright, brave, good at what you did, curious, good at critical analysis and inspiring students to learn to think for themselves.

Nowadays early career researchers face job insecurity unparalleled in any similar field, mid-level academics face pressure from students and managers to teach, research, and carry unmanageable workloads as a matter of course, and professors face the choice of giving in to bullying senior management, or seeing their careers and research underfunded and undervalued.

I have many friends who found academia intolerable and left – bright, inspiring women who feared for their mental health and their families. As I have zero non-academic skills and a large mortgage to pay as the primary breadwinner this is not really an option for me. Besides, when it is not sending me mad, I actually love my job: I am still inspired by my research, I still enjoy writing and teaching, I love mentoring and supervising early career researchers and seeing where they take their skills and enthusiasm and how it in turn benefits society.

In response to the growing mental health crisis that led to Malcolm Anderson’s suicide at Cardiff University, the sector is responding by calling for better mental health provision and support for students and staff, with the UK universities minister calling for Vice Chancellors to show leadership. This either rather spectacularly misses the point, or places the responsibility where it should lie, depending on your point of view. Whilst it is beyond an individual’s scope to change the issues in academia that threaten our mental health, it is Vice Chancellors who have the responsibility to set the tone and behaviour of their institution. Bullying, stress, unmanageable workloads, the individualisation and blame culture, marketization, job insecurity have all led to toxic workplace environments where neither students nor staff can flourish. This can be undone and we can resist, but only if our strategic leaders are committed to challenging established structures and norms: those very structures that put them in power in the first place.

However, just as the Athena Swan kitemark can enable institutions to undertake tackling gender inequality in a tickbox way without substantially changing the structures, I suspect that the fact that mental health issues in academia impact most seriously on women and early career researchers (particularly in the natural sciences) will preclude much progress. By definition, those in senior management in academia are either resilient to the toxic mix, collude through silence, or actively perpetrate it – or they would not be in positions of power. There are notable exceptions, but most senior managers in academia do not actively challenge unmanageable workloads, stress, job insecurity, sexism, bullying and other issues which contribute to mental health issues.

Pressure to create a kitemark system for Universities to demonstrate student mental health support is, I would argue, going to make it worse, not better. Although investment in counselling may well be overdue, the emotional burden of caring for students is going to be taken up disproportionately by younger and female academics, the very group whose own mental health is at greatest risk.

If we removed the systematic endemic structural issues that have lead to this mental health crisis in the first place, both the students and staff would be at lower risk of problems, would be better supported when problems arose, and we’d all be able to get back to our research, teaching and taking care of our students. Which is what we all joint the academic to do in the first place.

Mental health, suicide and academia

adult alone anxious black and white
Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com

This week’s news has been dominated by the sad stories of the suicides of Cardiff lecturer Malcom Anderson and chef Antony Bourdain. As someone who has struggled with complex PTSD which was triggered by overwork around the REF 2013, these hit home. In particular, the ‘suicide is selfish’ brigade who take over social media around these events. As a mother, as a wife, as a friend, as a colleague, how on earth could you contemplate suicide?

When you are in the depths of despair it can feel like a long, slow crawl through a dark, dark tunnel, knowing that even if you get to the end, a slow climb back out into the daylight awaits. You will have to find your way through a gnarled, fog filled wood before even a glimpse of light guides you.

At your side you see a brightly lit door marked exit. That’s the suicide door, the ‘easy’ way out.

You may have crawled through this tunnel many times before and know that if you can just keep going you will eventually reach the light. Or it might be your first time. Either way, the lure of that brightly lit door is strong.

If you take that door the pain stops. Not just the pain to yourself, but the pain you are causing those around you. As a mother, you genuinely believe that you are such a terrible person and mother to your children that they will be better off without you.

Of course this isn’t true. Suicide devastates families, and children who lose a parent to suicide rarely recover fully. I imagine that like the colleagues of Dr Anderson, my own colleagues would be upset by my death, as would my friends. Although my death would not devastate them as it would my children, no doubt they would be shocked and feel guilty, as I have done when friends have taken their lives.

Being an academic doesn’t protect you from the risk of suicide. As clever as we are, no amount of critical analysis, scientific observation or empirical research can protect as from the devastating pain of serious mental health issues. In fact, our skills can often be part of the problem: we can bring up any amount of evidence to corroborate our feelings of worthlessness and guilt when we are deep in despair.

I am grateful that I survived my suicide attempts. Grateful to my husband and children for continuing to love and support me, grateful to my GP and mental health nurses who kept me safe til I was back from the brink, grateful to the psychiatrist, psychologist and counsellors who helped me untangle myself from the clutches of anxiety, depression and PTSD. I am not ‘better’ but I manage to live well with the illness, and manage it with the help of support, medication and mindfulness. Had I not, I would not have seen my PhD students graduate, had the joy of seeing my research help develop policy and practice to improve disabled people’s lives, experienced the elation of winning research grants and seeing my work in print. I also would have missed my daughter’s prize giving, seeing my eldest son start university, my husband’s passing out parade…

All that gets me through suicidal ideation now is the knowledge that it passes, that I just need to keep on keeping on and eventually daylight will return, no matter how hard and painful that is. But Michael Anderson and Anthony Bourdain never got to see the light. They couldn’t see a way out of the despair, the overwork, the guilt, the pain….

We are told to ‘reach out’ when we feel suicidal. But when you feel suicidal, you often can’t reach out. You aren’t seeking attention, although you may be emitting a cry for help. All you want is for the pain to end, and you cannot see how reaching out will end it.

So if you know someone who is suicidal, particularly if they are a colleague, do not assume that their intelligence and academic ability will save them. Ask about suicidal thoughts – asking the question will not prompt them, it might well save someone. I remember the utter feeling of relief when my psychologist asked me if I felt suicidal. Being able to admit it out loud took some of the terror away: now it was a ‘thing’, external to myself, and I could try and find a solution to the ‘thing’.

Listen without judgement. Give reassurance: there is help available, and these feelings will pass with support. Encourage them to seek help, and encourage them to work on self care – if they have been living with mental health issues for a while, they will know what works for them. Talking, exercise, sunshine, mindfulness – these things and more can help with mild depression, can elevate moods and buy some time for people to work their own way back to wellness. For more severe clinical depression antidepressants and therapy do work.

Friends did this for me, and I am forever grateful.

But we should note that the academic workplace in itself can be incredibly toxic for our mental health. We are working longer hours, under greater pressure than ever before: younger and female academics who are at particular risk of precarity of employment are at the highest risk of mental health issues and burnout. Bullying, workplace harassment and the associated risks for mental health are on the rise in academia. Senior management are driven by performance indicators which do not encompass staff wellbeing, and are not effective at supporting their staff.

But a mentally unwell academic is not one who performs well. When I was at my very illest, I couldn’t speak to my family let alone to students. It took months to be able to read and teach again. It’s only now, five years on from my breakdown, that I am finally able to write well, to teach and research. Overwork contributed to five lost years. Failure to support the mental wellbeing of staff is costing the sector millions.

It is not just up to us to individually care for our colleagues. The academic sector needs to put its house in order.

Mentoring as a feminist academic

One of the very first things I did as a professor was to start mentoring early career academics. I was lucky enough to work with some brilliant mentors as I was developing my own career, and I felt duty bound to pass on the support and wisdom I knew had made my work possible. I knew from experience that the ‘inside knowledge’ that you gain from being mentored is priceless, as was the support from people who had been there, done that, and survived.
It was particularly important for me because I was a first-generation university graduate, and I grew up abroad. I never learned the middle-class unspoken code of getting ahead. I hadn’t been to the right schools, I didn’t know the right people, I had no role models from whom to learn. I was just bright, feisty, good at research, and lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time when funded postgraduate opportunities came up.
I got pushed into serving on promotions committees, initially as a representative of the non-professoriat, then later as that rare thing, a female professor who understood how things worked across different disciplines. I got the know the written and unwritten rules of things like the Research Excellence Framework, what an ‘international’ reputation really meant, what ‘counted’ and what didn’t. I learned how to spot successful people and emulate them, how to network, the importance of inside knowledge, and how to represent your discipline and your institution outside your work. I learned about enemies: how you could make them without meaning to, and how powerful they could be.
And the most important thing I learned, the hard way, was how to return to work and get your career back on track after being away on maternity or sick leave.
Mary Ann Mason and other scholars have documented the penalty that academic women pay for having a family, as against the positive boost having a family has on men’s career trajectories.
It isn’t just the time away from work: on return, women are often doing the double shift of the burden of arranging and doing the childcare; out of touch with current research in their field; having given up PhD students and research grants; having their ideas, work and students poached by childfree colleagues; finding international conferences and networking incompatible with the needs of a young family; taking on more pastoral and emotional labour in the workplace whilst their male colleagues are building up their research and absenting themselves from frontline teaching; finding the expectation of working 24/7 just to keep up any kind of competitive ability impossible.
So I took it upon myself to mentor early career academics, particularly mothers, on how to rebuild their careers without losing their sanity. How to build effective, supportive teams. How to focus on their writing and grant applications when they were being distracted. How to avoid the ‘mummy track’ and pull in all the social capital they could to be able to do the work that ‘counted’. How, in other words, to ‘lean in‘ to the world of academia, put their emotions and their bodies to one side and fit in to academic norms.
And whilst I still maintain there is an important role for academic mentoring as a tool for supporting women, I have come to realise how insidious mentoring and the reliance on mentoring has come to be.
Programmes like the Leadership Foundation’s Aurora leadership training rely on senior women providing their labour for free to mentor the next generation of promising academic women, and teaching them how to develop their own leadership skills within the academy.
In other words, women must learn to adapt to academia, and help each other do so, not the other way around.
What would it look like if we stopped making women adjust to the patriarchal world of academia? What if we focused instead on the structural issues that oppress women? On the overreliance and overvaluing of competitively funded research? On the treatment of academics as income generators instead of scholars? On the undervaluing of teaching and pastoral care? On the overvaluing of male markers of esteem such as membership of elite male-dominated clubs? What if we rewarded ‘difficult’ feminists who challenged sexist teaching and scholarship? Or people who acted with an ethic of care in the workplace, devoting their time to research and teaching in a co-operative way and focusing on the wellbeing of others rather than their personal empire building?
What would the academy look like then?
I suspect we wouldn’t need to mentor women, because the oppressive structures that meant they needed the mentoring in the first place wouldn’t be there.
And I suspect we would have a better, kinder, more effective academy for it.

On intersectional and white feminism: the dangers of grand theorising

I came to feminism as a young adult who had experienced domestic abuse, childhood abuse and rape. It was the only theoretical framework that helped me make sense of the world, the oppression I saw around me, and my own experiences. The aha moment of resolute clarity, when I was tutored by outstanding feminist scholars and began reading feminist legal scholars who did not blame or shame me, remains with me. That violence against women was a patriarchal act designed to reinforce male power, and not something invited, instigated or caused by the survivors, was a revolutionary idea, and ran counter to everything I had been taught to that point.

I was taught silence, and to protect the perpetrators, and to blame myself and the women around me for their experiences. The radicalism of not just not blaming women, but allowing them to speak of their experiences, and be believed and treated with compassion, remains for me the central tenet of feminism.

Feminism as a way of viewing and understanding the world is a broad church. It constantly re-examines the evidence, engaging in a process of reflection. Within my own discipline, it was necessary to establish the legitimacy of the feminist perspective as a way of approaching theory and an empirical understanding of the social world, particularly the world of welfare. I have been lucky enough to have been taught by feminist pioneers like Clare Ungerson, who taught us that ‘policy is personal’, particularly with regards to care policy. Fiona Williams was one of the first feminist scholars to teach us about intersectionality: in her case, race, gender and class. One of my own heroines Jenny Morris provided a robust counterpoint to Ungerson’s feminist critique of care, pointing out that disabled women who receive care are women too, and enabled me to think critically about the intersection between disability and feminism in my own research.

In popular culture, intersectional feminism has emerged as a critique of a feminism that does not recognise the impact of race, disability, class, age, sexuality and transphobia on women’s lives. 2018 was popularly held up at the centenary of British women’s right to vote: but that suffrage was only for *some* women, and did not extend to non property-holding women under 30 (ie on the same basis as men’s suffrage) until the Equal Franchise Act ten years later. Marie Stopes’ work on birth control revolutionised many women’s lives: but her passion and research were driven by eugenics and ensuring that certain women – particularly disabled and poorer women – did not have children. Her legacy can still be painfully felt in the enforced sterilisation of women with learning disabilities, for example.

The importance of feminism being a reflective inclusive movement is as significant now as it ever was. Mary Maynard warned explicitly against feminist ‘grand theorising’ – attempting to create a grand theory of everything that would explain the oppression that all women experience. She argued that context mattered, and that no one woman could be the ‘universal woman’ whose experiences could provide an objective rational discourse of feminism. It is with this in mind that I approach recent work on ‘white feminism‘ with caution. This is not feminism that is practised by white women: it is a specific type of feminism in which white women’s privileged racial position is explicitly ignored, or worse, used as a ‘universal feminism’ when it actually reinforcing white privilege and silences women of colour. ‘Unless it’s intersectional, fuck it’ as one angry, eloquent blogger put it.

The most recent example is Mary Beard’s defence of the Oxfam workers in Haiti who were revealed to be purchasing sex from prostitutes.

As she put it: “Of course one can’t condone the (alleged) behaviour of Oxfam staff in Haiti and elsewhere. But I do wonder how hard it must be to sustain ‘civilised’ values in a disaster zone. And overall I still respect those who go in and help out, where most of us would not tread.”

This is a shocking statement. It implies that NOT purchasing sex is the default of ‘civilised’ (ie white) men, and that women in disaster zones (ie black/ethnic minority and poor women) are not ‘civilised’ and as deserving of respect and bodily autonomy as white women. It’s a shockingly racist, privileged thing to say: it is not, by any stretch of the definition, a ‘feminist’ thing to say.

Beard was criticised for her statement, and posted pictures of herself online crying, which drew derision from vocal opponents to ‘white feminism’ who accused her of ‘weaponising the defense of innocence and insincere tears’.

It is this last statement that makes me pause carefully. It is the same accusation levied at other ‘white feminists’ such as Rose McGowan, who exposed Harvey Weinstein’s sexual abuse and who was attacked by a trans-activist at her book signing.

Telling white women their tears, their emotions, are an unacceptable way of expressing their sense of being upset and threatened, shows an astonishing lack of compassion. Women have routinely been silenced: abuse survivors like McGowan disbelieved, silenced, told to shut up and go away, that their pain is not real, by their abusers, by a systematically oppressive legal infrastructure, by men in positions of power. And this silencing has a worrying echo in this assertion: Being assaulted is horrible. But it’s not the same as experiencing daily, racist microaggressions (not to mention macroaggressions) or living life on the wrong side of white privilege.

A feminism that attempts to silence women who have experienced sexual assault is not a feminism I recognise. A feminism that attempts to assert that women who are relying on ‘white’ privilege – without unpacking ‘whiteness’ or being critical about the privilege of class, for example, that Beard was unquestioningly asserting, or the sexualised privilege that McGowan enjoys as a cis woman over trans women – seems to be attempting a ‘grand theorising’ that does not hold up under empirical or theoretical scrutiny. When women are accused of asserting their ‘white privilege’, and respond by saying but as a working class, Roma, disabled, Jewish etc woman I don’t HAVE ‘white privilege’ they are routinely silenced, and if they react emotionally, accused of weeping ‘white women’s tears’.

We have fought long and hard for our pain to be acknowledged, to be allowed to cry, to not be silenced. As Carol Gilligan points out, this silencing extends to academic enquiry and notions of justice and rationality. Women’s sexuality and emotions, their embodiedness, directly challenges male notions of the superiority of objectivity and rationality in academic enquiry. C Wright Mills attempts to ‘grand theorize’ – to create a meta-theory of social structures and oppression – implicitly and explicitly silenced women’s voices and experiences, by appealing to the rational, objective, justice oriented sociologist.

Women of colour are angry. They have every bloody right to be angry. Systematically oppressed, excluded, racialised, they grow up seeing racism where white folk never do. Just as most men need a sound dose of consciousness raising to see their own gendered privilege, most white, middle class, ablebodied women need some serious consciousness raising about racism, class, ableism and other intersectional divisions. Women of colour are right to be angry that their experiences are ignored, their voices silenced, right to challenge a feminism that isn’t intersectional.

But putting race at the exclusion of other social divisions at the heart, and doing it in a way that silences women’s emotions, bodies and experiences of violence and abuse, is a dangerous game. A blanket accusation of ‘white feminism’ has the effect of Godwin’s law (the idea that as a discussion on the internet grows longer, the likelihood of someone mentioning Hitler or calling someone a Nazi approaches 1: and once that has happened, the argument is over). Being a Nazi is absolutely and a priori an unethical and untenable position to hold, and being a ‘white feminist’ is now approaching that status. Race has become the new ‘grand theory’ that explains everything, and silences dissent and emotion: you are not allowed to cry ‘white tears’.

No-one listens when they are called a Nazi. And recaltrant non intersectional feminists don’t listen when they are called ‘white feminists’. It’s an oversimplified understanding of most situations. Being physically threatened at your own book signing is hardly a situation of privilege.  An accusation of ‘white feminism’ and ‘insincere tears’ leaves very little space for conciousness raising, for compassion, for the ongoing reflection and questioning that makes feminism the vibrant academic and social movement it is. Feminism absolutely should continue to question privilege and seek to become intersectional: but not at the cost of silencing abused women.

Whose Side Are We On? On being an activist academic

In asking whether sociologists should have values or be value-free Howard S Becker famously asked ‘Whose side are we on?’ His conclusions were that we should be on the side of the powerless and oppressed: that as academics, social scientists had a duty to examine social structures and the effect they had on ordinary people.

At the time that was a significant challenge to the academy. Founded on principles of reason and rationality, most disciplines tried to represent themselves as free from moral or political imperatives. Particularly in the wake of World War Two, where German scientists and engineers were co-opted into carrying out science to further Nazi ideals, the independence of the academy from political taint was held to be vital.

However, what Becker was pointing out was that the academy does not exist in social isolation. It is part of the social fabric of a society: educating its elite, informing discourse and policy. We make moral and political choices all the time: in choosing who we educate and how, what we research and what we don’t. To claim moral neutrality in the name of academic independence is simply to hide the fact that we are part of the elite and reinforcing their power.

I work in social policy, specifically around issues of gender, disability and age. Feminism, disability rights and gerontology all have a moral and ethical framework that expects academics to challenge power relations: particularly to challenge misogyny, ableism and ageism. If in our research we do NOT aim to highlight and tackle oppression, then we are accused of being ‘academic parasites’: using people simply for our own reputation and to reinforce our privileged position. Many social science and humanities disciplines expect a critical stance from their academics: to examine and critique the world not just as we see it, but to acknowledge and reflect on our own place in the world we research.

So when I engage in research that involves gender, disability or age I always engage in it as a political process. I am not just interested in analysing the social policies pertinent to women, disabled and older people. I am interested in finding out what social processes oppress them, and how those can be tackled. And I always try to reflect on my own position in that research: not just as an academic, but as a woman, a disabled person and a carer.

Many academics are also activists. The campaigns against climate change, to protect endangered species, to prevent domestic abuse, to tackle racism in policing were all founded on academic research, to name but a few. Academics also have a long history of crossing the divide to the third sector –  in my field the Fawcett Society, Inclusion Scotland and the National Carers Organisation have all been led by academics. There is also a long history of academics becoming politicians: Harold Wilson and Enoch Powell were former dons, and over 20 current MPs hold PhDs.

The current ‘impact’ agenda further supports close collaboration between activism and the academy: in the last REF, over 45% of impact case studies from my own discipline involved working with policy makers, and over half the universities entered reported ongoing collaborations with the third sector. Evidence-based policy and practice attempts to use research to inform social policy in proactive ways, and academics are usually very enthusiastic about its possibilities.

However, activism has its dark side, particularly in the age of social media and the resurgence of right-wing politics. As an openly feminist woman in academia I attract the usual misogynistic attacks in mainstream and social media. During the 2014 Scottish referendum I was carrying out independent research funded by the ESRC on what the different outcomes might mean for care policy and gender equality. I found that nations who had better gender equality outcomes, and used social care policies for that purpose, had gender equality enshrined as a national value in their constitutions. As a potentially newly independent country, Scotland could have that, and thereby acquire a powerful lever to effect policy changes. (Of course that alone would not make an independent Scotland a gender equal country and I was careful to stress that too). This finding marked me as a politically motivated independence supporter (I wasn’t) and attracted a fair amount of social media attacks from ‘cyberyoons’ (social media commentators against Scottish independence). Some took the trouble to track down my institution and make a formal complaint – which luckily my institution carefully replied to in my defence. I took it as a mark that I got ‘cybernatted’ almost as often as I got ‘cyberyooned’ that I was getting the balance of academic impartiality about right.

When I recently crossed the divide from activism to politics and ran for election in the 2017 snap general election, representing the Women’s Equality Party, I did so to highlight the gender-blindness of the main political parties. I campaigned on areas I knew about: social care policy, violence against women and women’s political representation. I was stalked, harassed, had frighteningly explicit pieces written about me in newspapers, and one men’s rights activist issued death threats on his website and targeted not just me but also my colleagues and students.

It’s hard to say whether that was because I was a woman, or a feminist, or a politician (all of whom regularly are the victims of hatred on social media). But my political opponents in particular hated that I was drawing on 25 years of research in my campaigning. In one hustings, after I had criticised the ‘dementia tax’ policy of the Conservatives, my opponent shouted at me ‘NO-ONE KNOWS THE SOLUTION TO SOCIAL CARE, NOT EVEN THE SO-CALLED PROFESSOR!’. Actually, I do know A solution based on years of comparative social policy research, and I earned the title ‘Professor’ through my international reputation for my research. But hey, all’s fair in love and war and politics.

Clearly as a society we value academics getting their hands dirty and engaging in the real world. The ESRC funded me specifically to find real world solutions to real world issues to help policy makers prepare for possible constitutional change, not sit in an ivory tower writing academic theories that no-one outside the academy would read or understand. The current REF will apportion 25% of its research funding on the basis of the non-academic impact the research has. We want and need our academics to use their knowledge for the greater good, and sometimes using that knowledge is a consciously political act.

But we need to protect them. If we value their expertise and their independence, we need to ensure that they are able to not just research the risky subjects, but take the risks necessary to get their findings into policy and practice. Academics should never be censured for taking activist or political positions on things they know about.

However, as academics we also have an ethical and moral responsibility to not step outside the boundaries of our research or claim knowledge we don’t have. The current problems with Personal Independence Payments for disabled people can be directly traced to psychological academic theories being misused in a social context. The depiction of Scottish independence supporters as far right nationalists can be directly traced to a misuse of political and historical theory about nationalist movements particularly in the twentieth century. The list goes on.

We should expect protection from our institutions and from society, we should fight for the things we know to be ‘true’ based on our research, we should fight to keep our independent critical stance. No matter what Michael Gove thinks, we need experts now more than ever in tackling some of the complex social issues that face our society. But we should not claim to be experts in everything or to have the ‘right’ answers, or to think that our status as elites gives us permission to ride roughshod over the electorate, or third sector activists, or people who are experts in things as a result of their lived experiences. We should lend our expertise to amplifying their voices: we SHOULD still be on the side of the oppressed. Otherwise we are simply reinforcing our own privilege.