Just as “Der Optimismus ist Pflicht” (optimism is a duty) – as Popper is frequently (though perhaps apocryphally) credited with saying – so too is academic publishing.
Even if you don’t aspire to a high-flying academic career or dream of becoming an Academic™ who delivers keynote lectures to thousands of rapt admirers across the globe, even if you’re a modest university lecturer, publishing is mandatory. If you want to stay in the system, you must do it. And who wouldn’t want to stay? In Hungary, for instance, an assistant professor like myself earns about 1000 USD per month—for which I teach five courses per semester in both Hungarian and English, supervise theses, review dissertations, serve on university committees, handle administrative duties… and, of course, publish, because it is a must. (This isn’t a complaint about my institution, but about a national education policy that punishes independence and systematically underfunds those universities that have not yet aligned themselves with political power.)
So yes, we publish. Not necessarily because it’s joyful. Not (only) because we’re masochistically inclined or secretly fond of punishing ourselves for our inadequacy. (Though let’s be fair—some of us do have a flair for self-sabotage)
No, we do it because that’s what one does. Because this is the system, and for some reason, we still believe in it.
As we know from various critical social science perspectives, we have a tendency to uphold and legitimize the very systems to which we belong—even when these systems are arbitrary in their functioning and detrimental to our interests. This is what is known as system justification: a deeply ingrained motivation to assign meaning and legitimacy to a given social arrangement, even if its rules work against us. We do not merely accept the structure—we often reproduce it ourselves. This mechanism reveals itself in even the most banal acts of everyday conformity. For example, when we, as researchers—fully aware of the arbitrariness, injustice, and at times outright humiliating nature of peer review—still keep submitting our manuscripts to academic journals. Like the larger structures of power and oppression, this system operates—and we operate it. (We truly are all Sisyphus – despite learning early on that the stone always rolls back down, we still keep pushing it uphill.)
No, we do it because that’s what one does. Because this is the system, and for some reason, we still believe in it.
But sometimes, it might be worth asking what exactly we’re measuring—apart from a few academic fellows’ egos. Especially when we know that the academic world is at least as elitist as artistic subculture (or any other, for that matter)—though we must admit: the artists usually win on wardrobe. If you work with the right people and move in the right circles, doors open. But if you, say, instinctively recoil from adopting the performative jargon that is often seen as the price of entry into academic legitimacy, then… well, tough luck.
And yet, elitism isn’t even the most uncomfortable part of the story—unpleasant as it is. If anything is worse than that (and I admit it’s hard to imagine), it’s when the research itself begins to falter. When it’s not just the interpretations or the theoretical assumptions that are shaky, but the raw data, the experiments, the so-called facts. And still, we remain loyal to the system. A system that is unjust, exclusionary, performative, abusive—and, not infrequently, entirely fraudulent. (My dear friend Csaba Szabó writes about this in detail in his 2024 book, where he demonstrates that a significant portion of medical research is irreproducible, and exposes the structural flaws of the academic publishing system—flaws rooted in careerist pressures and profit-driven editorial practices.)
But what else can we do?
The world is not fair—no matter how much we might want to believe it is. And we do get used to the absurd, especially when we’re forced to live in a world like ours: a world in which state-led military campaigns are coordinated in Signal group chats; a world in which a prime minister declares a still-raging neighbouring war “over,” not because it is, but because the peace he campaigned for on behalf of someone else didn’t arrive—so he declares it retroactively fulfilled.
Photo by Tetiana Papilota on Unsplash
So, duly habituated to the absurd and firmly committed to system justification, we brace ourselves. And we try to publish.
And this is where the real descent into hell begins. Take my own recent experience. Following the suggestion of the expert who reviewed my thesis, I reworked the methodology chapter of my already-defended dissertation (yes, that very one) in 5–7 days and submitted it to a journal in October last year. By December, I received a response: the topic was interesting, but the paper needed to be rewritten because it didn’t meet the “standards of academic publication.”
I humbly accepted the critique—after all, I was still a newcomer to academia, someone who had landed in this world much “like Pilate in the Gospels”: out of the blue, unwilling, unknowing. So, I felt that the judgment of a respected journal editor carried weight. You know, that good old reflex—the kind of thing Cialdini (2001) would call the authority principle. And besides, I’m a humble person.
So, I followed the instructions, rewrote the piece (which took me another 3–5 days – not that anyone’s counting), and resubmitted it within the deadline. This, of course, happened while I was also putting together the materials for five new seminars to be taught over the semester – with only a month and a half to prepare. So, I submitted the paper – and I won’t lie, it was a struggle. I’m not a methodologist, just a plain anthropologist. But God is my witness: I like learning new things. So, I submitted the paper, exhausted but with a sense of accomplishment.
The submission was sent on January 21. I received the reviews on May 3. Three months. Three reviewers. Three universes.
Reviewer A found the article exciting, well-structured, and appreciated that it tackled an important methodological issue. They liked the practical clarity of the examples and thought the piece conveyed well the everyday challenges of research. They did find the title a bit dry and suggested a brief nod to the field of mixed methods. Overall verdict: recommended for publication. (Estimated revision time: 1–2 hours. A pleasant morning’s work.)
Reviewer B was less enthusiastic. They felt the paper discussed “self-evident matters” (so then irrelevant) and might work as a methodological case note, but wasn’t convincing in its current form. They did, however, take the time to point out some misplaced commas and “clumsy phrasing.” (Estimated revision time: 2–2.5 days. I’m recovering from surgery, so I guess I have the time.)
Reviewer C took it further. They were looking for a methodological validation study where I had submitted a reflexive account of practical experience. They didn’t consider the aim of the article – they simply imposed the logic of an entirely different genre. It’s a bit like going to a Coldplay concert and shouting that you want to hear Losing My Religion. I get it. I prefer R.E.M., too. But it’s still a Coldplay concert. (If I had the expertise to deliver what they wanted: estimated effort 5–7 days. Probably more than the total free time I’ll have all semester.)
To be honest, I already found it hard to understand how three such radically different professional opinions could emerge about the very same text. But what really defeats me is how one could possibly meet all three sets of expectations at once.
And I haven’t even mentioned the icing on the cake—because if I hadn’t already felt sufficiently infantilized, now was the time: the editors didn’t just ask me to revise the paper in light of the reviewers’ comments; they also expected me to respond to each and every critical remark and briefly explain the changes I made. That alone would take a full day—if I were to do it.
So, duly habituated to the absurd and firmly committed to system justification, we brace ourselves. And we try to publish.
But I don’t. At this point, I decided I would no longer comply. Why? Partly for the reasons outlined above: I don’t actually want to become a member of an elitist academic inner circle—and even if that were my deepest perverse desire, I simply don’t have the time to “work my way in” given all the duties I have listed above as university teacher at an underfunded university.
But more importantly, I said no because there has to be a limit somewhere.
And for me, that limit lies where peer review becomes not only context-blind, but especially paternalistic and condescending. Paternalistic, because maybe—hopefully!—there’s good intentions behind it. But it still speaks from a place of authority, quietly overruling my agency. Let’s be honest: these so-called “constructive” gestures often stem from the assumption that the reviewer simply knows better. Better what the piece is about, better what would serve it best.
And we might as well admit it—many of us have felt that familiar, faint whiff of superiority in the tone of a review. Let’s not forget: some argue that paternalism begins precisely when the intervention is unwanted, as de Marneffe (2006) suggests. (And really, who enjoys having their work dissected and publicly diminished?)
I’ve spent—and continue to spend—my adult life navigating the dissonance that upward mobility often brings. Not because I believe it makes me morally superior, or because I see myself as some enlightened counter-figure to academic elitism (I don’t), but because I’ve had to think hard about the kinds of power we wield, often without even noticing. I don’t want to become the kind of scholar who uses their symbolic power to intimidate or belittle others—though I’ve certainly seen enough examples of how easily that happens. Instead, I try—emphasis on try—to be the kind of person who treats others with a baseline of respect. Not because of where I come from, but because I’ve seen what happens when that respect is absent. Because I know what it’s like to feel out of place. Not as a romanticised origin story, just as lived reality. So instead of endlessly striving to be published, I try to focus on keeping that perspective intact—and on not reinforcing the very hierarchies we claim to critique.
There is something emblematic in this hypocritical world of ours, where while we denounce postcolonial injustices, critique oppressive structures, and advocate for critical social justice and empowerment, we teach our students that adaptive preferences are harmful, that dependency-based aid is outdated, and that our task is to nudge others break free of the vicious cycle of learned helplessness —and then we reproduce the very mechanisms we claim to critique. We just use different words and more elegant footnotes. Because we’ve learned one thing well: framing is everything.
Academic publishing—especially for young or so-called “outsider” scholars—often functions as a modern rite of passage. The period between submission and decision, that liminal no-man’s-land, renders researchers particularly vulnerable. They are no longer mere “civilians,” but not yet recognized as full members of the scholarly community. They have voluntarily undertaken self-exposure, placed their professional identities at risk—and the verdict is still pending.
In this in-between state, scholars—like liminal initiates described by Turner (1969)—may be subjected to symbolic trials and implicit tests of worth. And they are especially vulnerable to the kind of symbolic violence Bourdieu (1991) described: subtle forms of domination embedded in seemingly neutral evaluative structures. The peer review process—however “constructive” its intention—often resembles a trial by ordeal, in which rejection becomes the quiet yet effective mechanism of communal boundary enforcement.
Academic publishing—especially for young or so-called “outsider” scholars—often functions as a modern rite of passage. The period between submission and decision, that liminal no-man’s-land, renders researchers particularly vulnerable.
In the best-case scenario, this transitional phase is followed by (re)integration: the text is accepted, and the author (at least temporarily) regains their place within the academic community. But this re-entry is in fact the beginning of a new cycle: a new manuscript, a new separation, a new liminality. In the worst case, the researcher remains trapped in that liminal zone, with a rejected manuscript and battered self-esteem, forced to look for new doors, new thresholds, new trials.
And just to be clear: this piece is not born out of personal bitterness over the fact that my ‘high-impact’ article Stratified Random Sampling for a Qualitative Study: Insights from a Deeper Understanding of the Population didn’t get published. (It will appear elsewhere.) I just find myself wondering: How is it that we accept a system that is unreliable, unjust, elitist, and often downright abusive? How is it that we brace ourselves for the slap, over and over again—and still consider it a sign of our legitimacy? Why do we continue to participate in a system whose structural injustices we know all too well—and which we ourselves routinely critique across different contexts, from university seminars to barroom conversations?
References
Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and Symbolic Power. Edited by John B. Thompson, translated by Gino Raymond and Matthew Adamson. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Cialdini, R. B. (2001). Influence: Science and Practice. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.
de Marneffe, P. (2006). Avoiding Paternalism. Philosophy & Public Affairs 34. 68–94.
Szabó, C. (2024). Unreliable: Bias, Fraud, and the Reproducibility Crisis in Biomedical Research. New York: Columbia University Press.
Turner, V. (1969). The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine.
