Where Do Our Values Go When We Clock In?

Professionalism as a Politics of Silence

Someone once said to me, “Personally, I support Palestine, but it’s different when you’re running an organisation.” I’ve been thinking about that sentence ever since. Not because it’s unusual, but because it’s so common that we barely notice how revealing that really is..

It raises a question that feels more and more urgent to me; why do our morals and principles seem to disappear the moment we turn on work mode?

When I scroll through LinkedIn, I see post after post celebrating anti-racism work, decolonisation initiatives, equity strategies, and all of the other ‘brave’ conversations. But all of it feels strangely palatable. Sanitised. Political, but not too political. Just political enough to signal values, but not enough to ruffle feathers, upset funders, or jeopardise partnerships with institutions, brands or corporations. Empty activism. Solidarity that never risks anything. It’s performative 'allyship' that ends the moment it becomes inconvenient, sitting very comfortably within the boundaries of what is institutionally accepted. Where are the LinkedIn posts about Palestine? About Sudan? About Congo? About Iran? Where are the statements about the crises that are happening right now, in real time, with real human consequences. The ones that don’t fit neatly into EDI initiatives.

We all know these issues exist. We talk about them privately. We may share articles in group chats. Some of us post on social media. We express outrage in safe spaces, where it's at no cost to us. But when it comes to our professional lives, the places where our voices might actually carry weight, silence is rewarded. And I know it's not that people don’t care. It’s that institutions have taught us that caring too loudly is risky. Charities fear losing funding. Universities fear losing partnerships. Employees fear losing jobs. Artists fear losing careers. 

And so we end up with a strange cognitive dissonance; individuals who believe in social justice, working for organisation who say they believe in social justice, working within systems that maintain the status quo. It’s like the worst kind of inception. Organisations that champion equity but avoid naming the structures that produce inequity. Workplaces that celebrate diversity but shy away from confronting the realities that shape the lives of the very communities they claim to support.

The result is this kind of professionalised “empathy”, one that is polished, strategic, and ultimately kind of meaningless. Not even just meaningless, but harmful. There is a particular kind of pain that comes from someone who said they would stand with you and then turned their back on you. Ironically, someone who never claimed to be your ally can’t break your trust. However, when you present yourself as an ally, you are not just making a statement, you are asking people to believe in you. You are inviting them to be vulnerable, to take risks and to trust that you will stand with them when it matters. That trust is a responsibility that should not be taken lightly. And when you abandon that responsibility the harm is not just abstract, it is personal.

So maybe the real question isn’t “Why don’t organisations speak up?” We already know why: power.. money.. fear... The real question is: what would it look like if we all refused to let our principles waver? What would it look like if people, and the institutions they build, were brave enough to stand for things even when it’s professionally and politically uncomfortable? The world doesn’t need more palatable politics. It needs courage and clarity.

If we can talk about anti‑racism, we must talk about Palestine. If we can talk about decolonisation, we must talk about Congo. If we can talk about human rights, we must talk about Sudan. And if we truly believe in social justice, then our principles shouldn’t end when we clock in. Thats where it begins.

And maybe this matters now more than ever. We’re living through a moment where hatred, misinformation, and deliberate distortion are coming at us at a relentless pace. The goal is obvious; to exhaust us, to divide us, to make us forget that we are bound to each other long before we are bound to any institution, product or job description. It’s meant to make us suspicious of each other. To make us believe that our struggles are separate, that our griefs don’t rhyme. But that’s a lie. Strip away the noise and we all want the same things: to love and be loved, to be healthy, to be free.

That shared humanity is exactly what gets obscured when we stay silent. When we let fear dictate the volume of our compassion. When we allow institutions to convince us that neutrality is professionalism. And the more quiet and obedient we become, the more we lose ourselves. Real solidarity cuts through that noise. It refuses to be manipulated by narratives designed to pit communities against each other. It insists on remembering that every crisis, whether in Palestine, Sudan, Congo, Iran, Grenfell, or outside your local refugee hotel, is a human crisis before it is a political one.

In a world so saturated with attempts to divide, choosing to stand with others clearly, consistently, and without waiting for permission is one of the few acts that still has the power to bring us back to ourselves.