The writer of this piece explains that things have always been difficult, but got much worse after October 7th.
From Inside Higher Ed:
No Country for Israeli AcademicsIn the summer of 2019, a few days after I left Israel to begin my history doctorate at the University of Texas at Austin, I had a conversation with one of my new department’s professors. I had just finished my master’s in Middle East studies back in Israel and, walking through UT’s campus and admiring the incredible facilities, I felt like the sky was the limit, intellectually speaking.A few minutes into the conversation, right as we wrapped the all-American mandatory small talk and as I began unfolding my vision for a prospective dissertation project that would cover the history of the Great Depression in the Middle East, the professor stopped me. “Listen,” she sighed, in a tone that, after several years in academia, I recognized as skepticism mixed with a hint of intellectual superiority, “I’m sure the project you have in mind is great. And I’m sure you can pull it off, professionally speaking. Should you decide to go for it, I’ll back you up and mentor you as best as possible. However, I highly recommend you reconsider. Not only the focus of your dissertation, but also your professional trajectory in academia. There is no easy way to say this, but if you are thinking about pursuing an academic career in the U.S., know this: You are an Israeli man who studies the Middle East. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANY MIDDLE EAST-RELATED JOB. The politics of it all are too obvious, and I would be dishonest to advise you otherwise.”At first, I refused to accept this advice. Was all this a façade? Did the merit-based system of academic achievements exist only inside my head? Should I not expect my intellectual contribution to count toward getting the professional career I wanted? And, should I decide to follow the professor’s advice, was I not becoming complicit with a system that reduced me to my nationality, my country of origin, and my gender?That conversation stayed in my mind in the following years. Eventually, I decided to take the middle road. Professionally, I positioned myself as a historian of agriculture and the environment whose empirical work primarily concerns the Middle East region. When the time came to begin presenting my scholarship at conferences, I looked for those focused on environmental history and agricultural history. I was more drawn to conversations with people working on topics like perceptions of nature in Sri Lanka or how the Wardian case—an early terrarium used for the shipping of plants—shaped the history of British colonialism. The Middle East Studies Association’s annual conference, by comparison, seemed less relevant. I truly believed I was navigating choppy waters in a way that still allowed me to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. Rather than let people in my field define my place for me, I looked for places in academia where I believed my identity as an Israeli was irrelevant.
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