I read the article over and over, hoping I was mistaken, that I wasn’t reading my own words under someone else’s name. But to my great horror I could only conclude that I had been right from the start: this was a chapter from my dissertation, published under the name of one of my supervisors. I didn’t know what to do, so I contacted my other supervisor to ask for advice. She said it was not the first time and asked me to produce evidence that the material was really mine. I spent a week digging up dated files, putting together a time line, but in the end it didn’t lead to anything—the article is still out there and I had to refer to it in my thesis instead of the other way around. And now you’re telling me how important it is to be open and share our work with others, how the hell am I supposed to feel about that?

I mean, it’s really sad to see how she keeps treating her PhD students, and not the least the women, but what am I supposed to do? I’m just one of them, with no power, and anyhow I have to think about my own situation, because if I defend them I will get into trouble myself. It’s not so easy, you know, if I don’t put myself first, no one else does.

We sat in the office of the head of department, and she told her version and then I was supposed to tell my version, but even as I spoke I felt the doubt growing in the room, even in myself—is this really how it happened, or had I misunderstood everything? Was this in fact just a “version,” as the chair put it, or was it the real thing? In the end, I didn’t file a complaint because the whole situation made me feel so insecure and I had no witness to either the “incident” or the meeting. There are so many guidelines, rules and even laws, but somehow they rarely seem to work in practice.

It’s not as if he did anything, I mean nothing sexual, he didn’t touch me or anything, never. It was just the way in which he talked about women, always bringing up sexual situations from novels or films or the real world. The framed poster he had in his office, depicting half-naked women in some sort of ancient setting. The way in which he would always stand too close to you, forcing you to raise you head in order to look him in the eyes. The handwritten notes he would leave in your pigeon hole, instead of sending an email. Or even emails that were somehow too private, but never crossing the line. But he never did anything, of course, it’s not as if it was harassment, it was just super uncomfortable. But that’s life, you know, all these men acting more or less correctly in the open but secretly waving their dicks. What can you do?

So I said, “This is not OK, you were so mean to him, this is no way to behave, you should apologize.” But even though they had all heard what had been said and had seen the student fighting back his tears at the comments of the senior professor and then leave the room crying, no one wanted to support my complaint. The student was inexperienced and spoke broken English, the professor was a large man with a red face and a loud voice, knowing how to exert his power. They all knew that if they objected to his behavior, they might be next. My written complaint was countered by a letter from the dean, explaining that this is “simply the way he is,” nothing to be upset about.

Everyone knew about his right-wing ideas, of course, they were no secret and when he invited people over for drinks he was rather outspoken. But, I mean, it was his house and it’s a free country, right? Of course, that last event was unpleasant and people obviously got very upset, the Nazi thing might have been too much. But still, telling the whole story to the dean and then forcing him to apologize in public like that, it was pretty harsh, considering what a beloved teacher he had been for so long. What was the point, really, what did she gain by turning him in? Anyhow, it was all forgotten after that and things went back to normal, he kept teaching for at least ten more years and was awarded a pedagogical prize. We all make mistakes you know, we’re just people.

I agree he’s a bit creepy, that’s no secret, but it’s your responsibility to handle him. Make sure you dress decently, button up your shirt properly—not like today—and don’t wear short skirts. Don’t provoke him and he probably won’t do anything to you. This is the way it is, so you might as well get used to it, that’s what I did, it’s what we all do.

Then she went on and on about all the important places she’d been to and the important people she’d met and knew, and how much they appreciated her, and I really tried to look interested because after all she is my senior and my supervisor, but in the end I felt that I had to say something, so I waited for her to take a breath and then I cut in, telling her that my article had been accepted by that journal. I expected her to be pleased, since she had read it and actually been quite helpful, but she looked at me as if I had offended her, then forced a smile and said “congratulations.” She then turned to her desk, shuffled around some papers and told me that our meeting was over, she had important things to do.

I was at the point of crying and then someone at the back of the room stood up and said, “Enough now, let’s move on. But first a five-minute break.” It was a professor I had never met before, from a different university, and as I was smoking a cigarette during the break, still fighting back my tears, he came up to me. At first he said nothing, just lit his cigarette and stood there, smoking. Then he said, “Sometimes people still do that to me, try to make me feel small, intimidating me in front of others. But then I imagine them as tiny people with tiny voices, of little or no importance. Let them whimper.” He put out his cigarette, nodded to me and left.