Part 1 — The Myth of Neutrality: Why Organisations Ask Us to Shrink”
This is Part 1 of a 2 Part Article Series
The Myth
I recently caught up with a friend I had worked with in Geneva. We reminisced about moments of purpose but also reflected on the weight of working within large international organisations — the egos, the hierarchies, and the quiet stifling of creativity. As we spoke, we found ourselves returning to a shared frustration shaped by years in multilateral institutions: the gradual loss of agency and the persistence of a colonial mindset that still underpins these spaces, echoing what scholars like Aníbal Quijano have described as the enduring “coloniality of power”.
It’s a familiar tension — one that governs who we are allowed to be in places where we work. In many of these international multilateral institutions, there is an unspoken expectation: that to serve the organisation and to progress up the hierarchy, you must set aside parts of yourself — your identity, your voice, your convictions and even your faith.
In these organisations, we are often reminded that what we say on social media or do in public might “reflect poorly” on the organisation and that what we believe may need to be softened in the name of ‘neutrality’ if we want to remain. I have often been advised to be cautious about what I post on social media to avoid bringing the organisation I was working for into disrepute. Over time, many of us simply learn to comply to ensure job and family security. We bite our tongues in the face of injustice, oppression — even genocide — so as not to disturb the status quo or the pay and benefits package, or for those from Africa or Asia, the residency status if we are working in Europe or North America. We uphold the language of “neutrality” and “impartiality,” even when it feels unevenly applied — when both sides are named but not equally held to account.
During that conversation, my friend and I sat with that discomfort — naming it, circling it, recognising it. Afterwards, I found myself pondering a deeper question: What if the problem is not that individuals don’t fit organisations, but that organisations were never designed to accommodate the full complexity of individuals in the first place?
Our frustration was neither coincidental nor a matter of employees being sour grapes. It reveals a deeper pattern — an unspoken myth still shaping many institutions, especially those influenced by dominant Eurocentric traditions. These institutions assert that the organisation must take precedence over the individual, that professionalism necessitates restraint, and that loyalty involves alignment, often requiring individuals to soften or silence their complete selves. Furthermore, it implies that neutrality can be both achieved and desirable.
This myth is seldom spoken openly or enforced overtly. Instead, it appears through coded language or cultural norms: “be professional,” “don’t rock the boat,” “align with the organisation,” “maintain neutrality.” On the surface, these seem reasonable, even necessary. But beneath, there is a deeper expectation — that individuals, especially those outside dominant norms, must soften, edit, or silence parts of themselves to belong. And this expectation is not felt or enforced equally.
Who Gets to “Shine”?
Many people are encouraged to excel at work — until it starts to feel uncomfortable. For those from dominant backgrounds, visibility is often seen as a sign of leadership; being loud is considered a sign of confidence and is rewarded accordingly. Confidence shows authority, and strong opinions are often presented as strategic thinking.
For others — particularly people of colour — visibility is more complex. “Shining” can be perceived as threatening, political, or disruptive; being loud is seen as having anger issues; confidence is labelled as arrogance; perspective is viewed as bias; passion is mistaken for unprofessionalism; and bringing lived experience into decision-making is questioned or ridiculed rather than appreciated. When intersecting factors — such as gender, age, faith, or disability — are included, the same employee is often swiftly labelled a troublemaker.
This is no coincidence. It exposes a deep-seated discomfort with individuals who do not conform to traditional ideas of authority, credibility, or neutrality. The result is a subtle but widespread pressure: excel, but not too visibly; contribute, but do not challenge; belong, but do not change.
The ‘fiction’ of Neutrality & Impartiality
At its core, this depends on a strong assumption: that organisations — and the people within them — can be neutral.
Generally, neutrality — as defined by the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement — is understood as not taking sides with any specific group or ideology. It aims to promote impartiality: to build trust, maintain legitimacy, and avoid political, racial, religious, or ideological conflicts. At its core, this principle of neutrality is highly ethical. It has supported principled humanitarian action and international humanitarian law for more than a century. Although much work remains in practice to ensure consistent adherence, it continues to serve as a guiding ideal.
One compelling example is the experience of Dr. Taylor Nichols, an emergency physician in California, who treated a critically ill COVID-19 patient covered in Neo-Nazi tattoos and expressing racist views. Despite the emotional weight of the moment — particularly given the diversity of the medical team and Nichols’ own Jewish identity — the team provided full, life-saving care. As Nichols later reflected, their responsibility was clear: even in the face of hatred, they were there to value the patient’s life. To me, this exemplifies neutrality at its most principled.
However, organisational neutrality does not always exhibit this level of moral clarity. Often, neutrality is not the absence of perspective but the dominance of a single viewpoint — so deeply embedded that it becomes invisible — what Pierre Bourdieu might describe as doxa: the taken-for-granted norms that shape how we see the world, and a reflection of what other scholars (like Edward Said and Michael Foucault) have long argued — that dominant norms often present themselves as neutral. What is therefore regarded as “professional,” “objective,” or “neutral” is not necessarily universal. It is influenced by culture and reflects dominant norms shaped by specific histories, geographies, and power structures. What is labelled “neutral” is simply what is familiar to those in positions of power. Hence, when organisations ask individuals to be neutral, they are usually requesting that they conform to those norms.
Another common myth is that organisations — and the people within them — can be impartial. Impartiality is often seen as the absence of bias. However, in practice, it can become a refusal to recognise bias. When institutions claim neutrality without considering whose perspectives are prioritised, whose histories are overlooked, and whose voices are excluded, they risk reinforcing inequality under the guise of fairness — echoing what Iris Marion Young warned: that ideals of impartiality can obscure structural injustice.
From a humanitarian perspective, impartiality makes no discrimination based on nationality, race, religious beliefs, class, or political opinions. It aims to relieve individuals' suffering, guided solely by their needs, and to prioritise the most urgent cases of distress.
However, impartiality should not mean detachment from reality. It should not require people to suppress their lived experiences or moral convictions. True impartiality is not about being unaffected — it is about being aware. It is about recognising one’s position, questioning one’s assumptions, and making deliberate choices to act with fairness and equity.
Within these dominant narratives of organisations — often shaped by Eurocentric perspectives — there is rarely a felt urgency to dissent. When you are not the one experiencing loss, negotiating your identity, or bearing the consequences of silence, the system can seem neutral and impartial— even just.
In organisational contexts, this frequently shows itself as an internal pressure to conform — to adopt dominant norms as “professional,” while considering one’s own cultural frameworks as secondary or unsuitable.
Hence, for those who hold multiple identities — cultural, racial, religious, political — this creates a tension that is both personal and structural: You are asked to fragment yourself, to translate yourself, and to fit into a space that was not designed with you in mind.
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However, we do not enter organisations as blank slates. We carry identities that shape how we see the world, interpret problems, and imagine solutions. These are not accessories we can leave at the door, and the reality of human experience is far more complex than the binaries organisations often impose.
So the fact is that you can be loyal to an organisation and still hold your own opinions; you can believe in its mission and still critique its practices; you can belong and still feel discomfort. These are not contradictions — they are signs of integrity.
Yet many organisations find it difficult to manage this complexity. They mistake alignment for agreement, loyalty for silence, and difference for risk. Consequently, a false dilemma emerges: you are either “with us” or you are “against us.”
In doing so, organisations lose something essential — the very diversity of thought and experience they say they value. Because the most genuine forms of loyalty often come from those willing to question, challenge, and strive for improvement.
Holding the Line: Plurality, Responsibility, and Harm
Challenging the ‘fiction’ of neutrality does not mean denying the existence of standards. Organisations have a purpose. They possess mandates, values, and responsibilities — especially in areas shaped by humanitarian principles, human rights, and public trust.
The ability to hold multiple identities, perspectives, and critical views does not — and should not — serve as a licence for harm. It is important to distinguish between incorporating lived experience into decision-making, questioning dominant norms or institutional practices, expressing moral or political discomfort, and promoting hate, dehumanising others, or holding views that fundamentally undermine others’ dignity and safety.
In an era where the line between public and private becomes increasingly blurred, this distinction is even more important. Harmful ideologies — whether expressed openly or kept secret — do not exist in isolation. They shape behaviour, influence decisions, and affect how individuals value others' lives and dignity. To clarify: being racist, antisemitic, Islamophobic, homophobic, or otherwise exclusionary in private cannot be entirely separated from how a person presents themselves in public or professional life.
Plurality does not equate to permissiveness, but equally, ethical responsibility should not be exploited to suppress legitimate dissent, critical reflection, or identity-based perspectives. This is the tension organisations must learn to manage. However, it is not achieved by flattening differences in the name of neutrality or by demanding silence, but by distinguishing between expression that challenges systems — and expression that harms people — and by cultivating accountability. This indeed requires clarity of thought and courage to act, and more importantly, it calls for organisations to go beyond simplistic binaries — towards a more mature understanding of what it means to hold both diversity and dignity simultaneously.
Neutrality should never serve as a shield for injustice — nor should identity be used as a shield for harm. To understand these contradictions, we need to pause and ask a deeper question: where did these norms originate?
Where Did This Model Come From?
In examining the tension between the organisation and the individual, a deeper and more troubling question arises: where does this model of thinking originate?
This raises further questions, such as: Is it then simply about modern professionalism? Or does it arise from something more historic?
To understand why these norms endure, we need to look beyond individual organisations and examine the histories that shaped them. This isn’t about viewing “the West” as a single entity, but about recognising that many dominant organisational norms have historical Eurocentric roots — and that these roots still influence what is deemed natural, neutral, and professional.
Today, what we observe is not the outcome of a single system but a mix of ideas: an Industrial-era emphasis on discipline and efficiency; Colonial-era notions of hierarchy and assimilation; and post-war concepts of neutrality and universality. These influences have shaped a powerful yet limited organisational model — and a view of the individual within it — where conformity is rewarded, difference is managed, and neutrality is often assumed without question.
It is important to recognise that modern organisational culture still bears the legacy of 18th-century industrial capitalism. In early factories, efficiency was driven by standardisation, predictability, and control. Workers performed specific roles within a larger machine. Questioning was not encouraged, but compliance was expected. As economies shifted from factories to offices and from production lines to knowledge work, these expectations persisted and even intensified. The “ideal worker” became someone who was not only productive but also composed, measured, and aligned with organisational values. Professionalism came to reflect behavioural discipline as much as technical skill. However, discipline, in this context, often meant conformity, and those norms — of how to speak, behave, lead, and even think — were never neutral. They were shaped by a specific cultural and historical context that favoured certain ways of being over others.
Alongside industrial logics, there are deeper echoes of colonial history. Colonial systems often relied on intermediaries — individuals who could operate within dominant frameworks while navigating local realities. These intermediaries were expected to adopt the language, norms, and worldview of those in power, often at the expense of their own identities. In this way, colonial governance reinforced — and in many cases amplified — the same patterns of hierarchy, conformity, and control that characterised industrial systems.
In a post-colonial era, this dynamic hasn’t disappeared; it has just been reorganised. Many modern organisations, especially international multilateral ones, still depend on understanding and applying dominant cultural norms related to communication, self-presentation, leadership, and disagreement for success. For professionals from the Global South or marginalised backgrounds within Western contexts, this often meant conforming to these norms. This isn’t a new phenomenon. As the Sri Lankan journalist and post-colonial commentator Tarzie Vittachi observed in his reflections on post-colonial societies, the figure of the “brown sahib” represented this tension — individuals who adopted the language, behaviours, and worldview of colonial authority to succeed within its structures.
While the context has shifted, the fundamental dynamic remains unchanged. Success is still often gauged by how closely one aligns with dominant norms, even when these norms were not devised with diverse identities in mind. In this sense, the “brown sahib” persists — it has been redefined. Today, it is frequently embodied by the figure of the international civil servant, tasked with navigating systems that continue to reward conformity to dominant norms. This is not merely about inclusion; it is about assimilation. And assimilation, by its very nature, entails a form of erasure.
This was further demonstrated after the Second World War when a new generation of international institutions emerged — based on ideals of neutrality, universality, independence, and impartiality. These principles remain significant, but they were developed within a specific geopolitical context — mainly crafted and led by Western powers, bringing with them particular assumptions about governance, knowledge, and professionalism.
Over time, these assumptions became ingrained as global standards. Neutrality and Impartiality evolved into a stabilising concept — enabling organisations to operate across different contexts without fully addressing underlying power dynamics. It fostered the appearance of objectivity, while often concealing whose norms were being universalised. In this way, neutrality became not just a principle but a myth — one that allowed institutions to claim fairness without examining the inequalities embedded within them.
Understanding these roots is essential because it reveals something fundamental: that these norms are not natural. They are not unavoidable but inherited, and what is inherited can be questioned. It can be expanded and reimagined. This only occurs if we are willing to see clearly the histories that continue to influence the spaces where we operate — and the expectations placed on those who inhabit them.
If this is the system we have inherited — layered with assumptions about neutrality, professionalism, and belonging — then the question is no longer whether it works.
The question is: what comes next?
Please check Part 2
