By the Book in Berlin

I’m close to finishing my book on The Capture of Universities, which deals with ideological capture, governance failure, and institutional decay. While drafting it, I included the story that follows, but in the end decided it was off-topic.

It is, however, too good not to tell.

Sometimes university rules become so peculiar that they strain credibility. This is an episode I recall from the early 1990s when I agreed to act as an external reviewer for the Habilitation of a German scholar, Horst Zuse, at the Technical University of Berlin. In the German system, the Habilitation is a prestigious postdoctoral qualification demonstrating the ability to conduct independent research and is effectively a prerequisite for a full professorship.

I knew Zuse’s research well and I was pleased to support him.

My role involved reading a substantial postdoctoral thesis, several hundred pages long, writing an extensive report, and travelling to Berlin to attend both the assessment panel meeting and the candidate’s public lecture.

The University offered no fee, but assured me that all expenses would be reimbursed. I flew to Berlin and stayed two nights because of the scheduling of the various stages. My report was favourable, and there was no disagreement among the panel. The meeting itself, however, was unnecessarily long; several members seemed to feel an obligation to deliver pompous and largely irrelevant speeches, as though auditioning for the role of Colonel Klink in Hogan’s Heroes. Still, the outcome appeared settled.

The lecture is ceremonial. It proceeds only if the panel has already agreed to award the Habilitation. By the time it takes place, the decision has effectively been made.

So the lecture went ahead as planned, with family present and polite applause at the end.

Unfortunately, Zuse had a long-standing academic adversary in the audience. This individual rose to speak and delivered a lengthy denunciation, concluding that Zuse was not worthy of the award.

Now, in most countries, this would have been noted, perhaps rolled politely into the minutes, and quietly ignored. But in Germany, rules are not advisory. They are sacred texts.

Buried deep in the regulations was a clause stating that any such objection meant that the Habilitation could not be awarded at all. The entire process had to be repeated through a formal resubmission.

No one had expected the rule to be triggered. But it had been written down, and therefore it had to be obeyed.

The panel could not confer the award that day. The atmosphere turned sour. What had seemed a ceremonial conclusion dissolved into procedural limbo.

I returned home and submitted my expenses. They totalled roughly £500.

A week later, I received a letter explaining that the university could not reimburse my expenses. The relevant rule stated that expenses for an external assessor were payable only if the Habilitation was awarded.

It had not been awarded.

The fact that the failure to award it was itself the mechanical consequence of another rule made no difference.

I was politely informed that German rules did not permit flexible interpretation.

And that was the end of it.

Zuse did eventually obtain his Habilitation a year later. I never received the £500.

It was, I suppose, a small price to pay for a masterclass in procedural absolutism. In Britain, we treat rules as guidance. In Germany, they are followed with a precision that borders on metaphysical commitment.

Some might call it rigidity. Others might call it integrity.

I called it expensive.