Being othered: When my nationality precedes my academic work

Returning from two recent international conferences, I find myself reflecting deeply on what it means to be an Israeli in the academic world today. As a researcher in disaster management and medicine, my professional life is dedicated to enhancing resilience, saving lives, and preparing communities for crises. I’ve always believed in the power of knowledge to transcend borders and have always seen academia as a sanctuary of shared purpose. Yet, this sense of sanctuary now feels fractured. The international academic community, once a welcoming network, now feels like a place where I am simultaneously an outsider and a representative of something contentious.

This isn’t just about visible boycott movements against Israeli institutions; those have been building momentum over time. What cuts deeper is the silent discomfort, the subtle distancing among colleagues and friends. I felt it intensely at these recent conferences, from the quiet tension at networking events to moments of hesitation on my part — like when I questioned whether to give my scheduled oral presentations out of fear of backlash. The academic spaces I’ve relied on for open exchange now feel filled with hesitation and unspoken judgments, where my nationality often precedes my work.

In one particularly painful instance, I watched a colleague rise and leave as soon as an Israeli presenter was called to the stage. It wasn’t just a minor protest; it was a powerful reminder of how deeply this divide runs, turning what should be spaces of collaboration into arenas of quiet estrangement. I spent much of the conferences assessing my surroundings, gauging people’s reactions, always aware of the weight my nationality carried. The experience was an exercise in “othering” — a reminder that, at least for now, who I am seems to matter as much as, if not more than, what I have to contribute.

For an academic, the implications go beyond the personal; they’re professional, ideological, and deeply disheartening. Conferences are spaces where ideas should flourish, where we challenge and learn from each other, especially in fields like disaster medicine. When I present my work on building resilience or improving emergency preparedness, it is with the goal of bettering lives anywhere, regardless of nationality or politics. And yet, I find myself facing an invisible barrier, where my contributions are filtered through the lens of my identity. My work is being cast in the shadow of larger conflicts I neither control nor perpetuate.

In the face of this pervasive discomfort, I could have chosen to step back, to leave the academic stage where I’ve been met with sidelong glances and quiet judgments. But instead, I’ve chosen to stay, to continue being present and visible in this space. I remain here not out of defiance, but out of a commitment to the ideals that drew me to academia in the first place. I believe in the importance of continuing to have a voice, to share what I know, to build resilience in communities everywhere—even if that voice, at times, feels unwelcome. Backing out would mean surrendering the progress I’ve made, the networks I’ve built, and the impact I can still have.

It’s disheartening to see professional relationships grow strained, with some collaborators hesitating or avoiding affiliations with Israeli colleagues, and others torn between personal beliefs and professional respect. This quiet divide is a symptom of the times, yet it feels contradictory to academia’s core values: inclusivity, open-mindedness, and the pursuit of knowledge. By letting nationality dictate the terms of collaboration, we’re allowing divisive lines to cloud the mission of expanding human understanding.

As a researcher in disaster medicine, I see irony in this. My work is rooted in the principle that people everywhere deserve help, regardless of politics. In crises, borders vanish, and humanity takes precedence. Yet here I am, feeling the weight of a nationality that overshadows my research, sensing that I am evaluated not for my insights but for where I come from.

I continue to hope that the academic community will see the value in preserving spaces where all voices are respected. We need more, not fewer, connections across borders, and an academic world where one’s identity is respected but doesn’t obscure one’s contributions. In staying, I aim to be part of this vision, a voice that persists because of, not despite, the discomfort. My work will speak for itself, and one day, I hope it will be seen purely for what it is – a contribution to our shared knowledge and resilience.

Until then, we must continue doing the work we believe in, determined to contribute, to collaborate, and to stay present, even when it feels uncomfortable. I carry my identity quietly, alongside my commitment to an academic community that values knowledge and resilience above all else. By choosing to stay, I hope to preserve a place for open dialogue and shared purpose – a space where contributions are respected for their merit, regardless of where we come from.