Resisting the casualised university

Casualisation at Australian universities is nothing new. It has, however, been getting worse over time. Casually employed staff are paid by the hour and receive a loading in lieu of entitlements such as various forms of leave, or the expectation of job security. While casualisation affects both academic and professional staff, overwhelmingly it has affected teaching-only academic staff (Kniest 2018a). The National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) published research in 2016 that clearly articulated the rise in insecure work, and contended that at least 40 percent of all employees were employed on a casual basis (Kniest 2016, p. 8). The 2018 follow-up to this research was ‘The flood of insecure work’, highlighting that the problem only worsened in the intervening two years. Those who worked in casualised employment now numbered 93,001, or 43.8 percent of the university workforce. With a further 20.8 percent on fixed-term contracts, only 35.6 percent of workers enjoyed secure, continuing positions (Kniest 2018b).

This increase in casualisation has undoubtedly changed the composition of the workforce. But the increased use of casual work itself has changed the very nature of the university. Lama and Joullié, in their study of the impacts of casualisation on teaching quality, argue that prior to 1980 casual academics were engaged for ‘noble purposes’ (2015, p. 2). The casual academic – usually a postgraduate student – would gain valuable teaching experience, while at the same time sharing the benefits of their research to undergraduate students. Other casual academics might be drawn from industry, bringing the benefit of their specialist knowledge and industry experience to bear. Since the late 1970s, however, Lama and Joullié contend that universities have instead used casualised labour to cut costs as a response to diminished or uncertain funding. It is difficult to disagree with the contention that the ‘substitution of [the] fulltime academic for casual teaching staff is now universities’ major cost saving strategy’ (Lama and Joullié 2015, p. 2). A national survey of casual academic staff in 2012 by the NTEU demonstrated that more than half of undergraduate teaching is now performed by casually employed staff (NTEU 2012a).

The effect of this change has had an impact on the student experience. Research on the ‘first year experience’ has become increasingly important to the higher education sector, as there is an increasing recognition that if universities fail to recognise the challenges and demands of first year students that there will be consequences in the form of student attrition rates. Retention of first-year students is big business. The consultancy, QS Enrolment Solutions, estimates that Australian universities lose more than 1 billion dollars per year due to students dropping out of university in the first twelve months (Renowden 2019). Education academics Baik, Naylor and Arkoudis (2015) clearly articulate the support students need in order to be successful in their first year, and it will seem unsurprising to those who teach in the sector. Students need staff to be available and accessible. They also rely on advice from staff more than in previous years. This advice might be on course or subject selection, assistance with study, feedback on assessments or awareness of university services for the provision of student support (Baik, Naydor and Arkoudis 2015, p. 33). The same study also cites increasing emotional or mental health concerns for students (Baik, Naydor and Arkoudis 2015, p. 30).

The contradiction between the priorities for students and the effect of casualisation is clear. While it may be preferable for students to knock on the door of their tutor’s office, many tutors do not have an office. Even if they did, they are only paid for the face-to-face teaching hours so are unlikely to be on campus at other times. Casually employed staff, who are often not invited to university meetings, are excluded in other ways from being considered part of the faculty. They have less access to professional development and are often less aware of university services. While a casually employed academic may go above and beyond in terms of meeting students outside of class time, devoting hours to giving feedback, or acting as emotional support for students, this is almost always unpaid work (in addition to often taking an emotional toll on the staff member as well). Wardale, Richardson and Suseno (2019) recently contended in The Conversation that casual academics ‘regularly go beyond their contractual obligations’, highlighting this as one of the benefits of casualisation. What university managements may see as a benefit, however, can also be seen as the exploitation of a vulnerable class of workers who continually need to go beyond what they are paid for in order to secure their next precarious contract. As Cantrell and Palmer (2019) argue in their blistering response to the Conversation piece:

“…casualisation is not a valid hiring practice with ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ but a system of exploitation that brutalises academics and imperils not only teaching and research, but the spirit of inquiry itself.”

It is also important to return to Lama and Joullié’s critique when discussing the impact on students. The mass casualisation of academia has led to a class in our universities we can call the precariat, to use the term given prominence by the work of Guy Standing (2016). This class of casual academics are not necessarily postgraduate students picking up one or two classes to supplement a stipend and gain teaching experience. Nor are they industry professionals imparting their wisdom. Often they are long-term, casually employed staff who have completed their own study, and complete any research they do unpaid and in their own time. They rely on their income from universities as their primary source of income, and on average earn less than the full-time Australian minimum wage.[1] Despite being talented and committed to their students, these are not the conditions in which the student experience thrives. While research by industry lobby groups contends that student satisfaction scores are not markedly different in courses taught by casual academics, this relies on student evaluations (Andrews et al. 2016).

Student evaluations are problematic for several reasons. Not only do they reduce pedagogy to a ‘consumer satisfaction’ score, but research has also shown that they are discriminatory against women and minority groups (Reid 2010; Mitchel and Martin 2018; Boring, Ottoboni and Stark 2016). Even without considering these issues, however, there have been serious questions raised about whether they are useful for evaluating teaching at all (Stark and Freishtat 2014). The NTEU has adopted a policy which makes clear that these evaluations should not be used in managing staff performance, and outlines alternative methods of evaluating the student experience. Student satisfaction as a metric is limited in that it measures a student’s satisfaction with their learning experience, but not necessarily teacher performance or student learning outcomes. Evaluations should be used as a useful tool for reflection on teaching practice, but a high degree of caution should be practised in using them beyond this (NTEU 2018, pp. 67-9).

While the student experience is a significant part of the overall problem, the impact on staff themselves is also important. As secure work advocate Karina Luzia told an NTEU forum at the Australian National University in 2018:

“The real issue is the way we are employed. The lack of income security, the second-class status of the academics and professionals who are employed this way, and all that comes with casual employment in the academy… It’s about having no sick leave, no annual leave, no carer’s leave, no bereavement leave, but also no offices, no desks, no computers, no access to kitchens, staff rooms, stationery, no secure storage, no career progression, no pathways, no promotion, no payment for consulting hours with students, no research allocation, nor funding, nor eligibility, no real flexibility or choice in teaching hours. And so on, that’s the issue.” (Luzia 2018)

Luzia sums up most of the industrial dimensions of casually employed staff, but the personal impact goes beyond this. Countless anecdotes exist of harrowing personal stories of casualisation. Consider the casually employed woman who was forced to return to work eight days after giving birth, contending with the choice between a lack of income and feelings of abandoning a newborn child (Clohesy 2018). Or the cancer survivor – forced to make the difficult choice between resting and looking after their health, or returning to work one week after a mastectomy to avoid further financial hardship (Barnes 2019). Consider the impact on people like ‘John’, who had been a casual academic for 15 years since finishing his PhD. When no offer of work came through the next semester, John saw no option but to take his own life (Morgan 2016).

Yet the bureaucracy of Australia’s universities would prefer a different story to be told. Wardale, Richardson and Suseno’s (2019) recent piece highlighted that many academics ‘enjoy the flexibility of working across other institutions’. They also ‘enjoy the flexibility of not having to fulfil service requirements such as attending meetings and annual performance reviews’. These arguments need to be seen for what they are – attempts to whitewash the experience of casual academics and the effect of casualisation on the academy. The University of Sydney Casuals Network responded directly to this common characterisation of casualisation with a memorable yoga-themed 2013 campaign – ‘Flexibility – more than bending over backwards’ (Thomson 2016).

University management is also aided in its task by industry lobby groups, such as Universities Australia (UA) and the Australian Higher Education Industrial Association (AHEIA). In 2014 then UA Chief Executive Belinda Robinson, now Vice-President University Relations and Strategy at the University of Canberra, claimed that: ‘casualisation suits a lot of people who take a portfolio approach to their career; they mix and match academic work with work in industry, consulting and so on’ (Lane and Hare 2014).

AHEIA is not widely known outside of university management and trade union circles, but where it has exercised influence, this has been to the detriment of casually employed university staff. AHEIA’s 2017 Annual Report, for example, lauded the termination of the Murdoch University Enterprise Agreement (EA) as ‘a ground-breaking achievement’. It also trumpeted its own success in representing its members (which are universities) at the Fair Work Commission, in reviewing the higher education award, which sets minimum wages and conditions for the sector. AHEIA claims their intervention led the Fair Work Commission to:

“… reject union claims to vary the Higher Education General Staff Award to “deem” casual staff to be ongoing after 6 months’ continuous service, and to increase the minimum engagement period for casual staff.” (AHEIA 2017, pp. 5-7)

The argument that it is university staff that prefer casualisation is a fig leaf. Research by May, Peetz and Strachan (2013, p. 264) demonstrates that only 12 percent of casual academic staff are ‘casual by ‘choice’ – would like to be in casual/sessional position in 5 years’ time (but not retiring)’. A further 7 percent are retired (or would like to be within 5 years), meaning that payment for work performed on a casual basis supplements a pension or superannuation. The clear majority aspire to an academic career (May, Peetz, and Strachan 2013).

While universities may think that the mass casualisation of our sector is here to stay, there is resistance within the academy. The NTEU recently established a National Tertiary Casuals Committee (NTCC) which seeks to elevate the voices of casually employed members within the union, and give them a central voice in determining policy (Townsend et al. 2018). Nic Kimberley, a casually employed member, recently became President of the NTEU Victorian Division which marks the first time casually employed staff have been represented at such a level (Kimberley 2018).

Initiatives such as the launch of a ‘Best Practice’ guide for employing casual academics, and a protest outside the 2019 Universities Australia conference, demonstrate that more securely employed staff are recognising the problems of mass casualisation and are willing to stand in solidarity with casually employed staff to challenge it (Townsend et. al. 2018; Clohesy 2019). There is an increasing realisation that casualisation represents a threat, not just to traditional forms of employment, but to concepts such as academic freedom and academic integrity (see for example, Clifton 2018). The message is also beginning to cut through politically. The Australian Greens, for example, highlight the need to provide ‘pathways to permanent work’ while committing to ‘winding back the casualisation of the sector’ (Australian Greens 2019). Even more recently, the Australian Labor Party has announced policies which would have created pathways to secure work for casually employed workers if implemented (Shorten 2019). While the Coalition’s recent electoral victory means we can only speculate on how these changes might have applied to casually employed academics, Labor’s engagement with the issue represents welcome progress in recognising the impact of casualisation.

The academic community does not have to accept the casualised university. Universities and the broader public should actively strive to change the situation the academy now finds itself in. The challenges are clear. Uncertainty about government funding and the resultant imperative to cut costs has brought about this phenomenon. Change will take continued advocacy from unions and interested political groups, a willingness to change from university managements, and increased funding from governments. While this change will not necessarily be immediate, we must progress toward it nonetheless. Universities must reject the mass casualisation of our sector for the sake of students, staff and the broader society the university serves.