キャリアニュース2020年4月16～23日

In early March, the first cases of COVID-19 were reported in my city, Boston. Suddenly, our university inundated us with emails encouraging good hygiene practices and social distancing. Then, a few days later, we were informed that all noncritical research should stop and that mandatory work-from-home policies would be implemented. Anxiety spread like wildfire. I had not expected my work life on campus to stop so suddenly. My lab mates and I think of our workspace as a home away from home, where we enjoy interacting at lab meetings and over coffee. I felt a pit in my stomach as I realized all that was over for now. I was afraid of feeling isolated. > “My sense of isolation has faded, and … I feel more connected than ever.” What worried me even more was the extent of the isolation. Within a few days of learning that I'd be working at home for at least 6 weeks, I found out that a conference I was planning to attend in June was canceled. Not only was I going to miss my work environme

It's a common trope that Arab women lack equality of opportunity and freedom to engage with the world. The received wisdom is that they are prevented from pursuing an education and a career by religious and/or cultural restrictions. But the truth is more nuanced. Religion and culture are not the strongest determinants of Arab nations' approaches to women's education—systems and resources are. Choosing to see religion or ethnicity over economics and prosperity is both careless and damaging. There is no religious bar to education for women in my faith, Islam. Indeed, according to religious doctrine, the acquisition of knowledge is binding on all Muslims, regardless of gender. A peppering of female role models, stretching back to the earliest days of Islam, supports this assertion and gives women today a pedigree to be proud of. For example, in 859 CE, Fatima al-Fihri founded the University of al-Qarawiyyin in Morocco, today the oldest continuously operating university in the world. Of c

During my first few years in grad school, I proudly told colleagues that my research on earthquake hazard mitigation technology would save countless lives and help prevent trillions of dollars of infrastructure damage. I wasn't lying. My adviser and I truly felt as though we were about to deliver a technological breakthrough. But our confidence came crashing down one afternoon, when we met with representatives of a state agency to discuss moving our work beyond the pilot scale. “The risk of using a brand new technology is too high. The approval and implementation process can take decades,” one official told us. I left the meeting feeling deflated. > “I've come to realize that … my scientific expertise is valuable in other arenas.” I went home and thought deeply about my priorities. I saw real problems in the world: natural hazards, environmental injustice, social inequity—the list goes on. I went to grad school because I wanted to make a difference. I felt that the world was burni