When Scientific Research Loses Its Essence

Dr Salah Daa’ak
Scientific research in universities—whether for academic promotion or as part of graduation projects—is, at its core, a substantial intellectual endeavour when approached with genuine seriousness and supported by an enabling environment and adequate funding. Rigorous research is not merely about writing pages or collecting data; it is a long journey that requires time, patience, effort, and resources to produce results that benefit society and humanity.
Scientific research encompasses multiple methodologies, each with its own tools, advantages, and costs. It may be useful to explore these types in greater depth in a future article, which we promise to present, to promote a culture of research and raise awareness of its importance. Nations are not built on slogans alone, but on serious knowledge that is translated into practical benefit. A basic understanding of research methods—whether at the university or even at the school level—helps safeguard society against misinformation and equips individuals with the minimum tools to distinguish between credible information and the falsehoods that proliferate across social media and open platforms.
Moreover, scientific research enhances society’s capacity for sound thinking and analysis in everyday life. It cultivates a critical mindset that does not merely consume information but seeks to understand and scrutinise it.
Serious academic publishing has also become a significant financial burden on researchers and institutions. Some reputable journals in Europe and the United States may require around $2,700 to publish a single paper. In contrast, lower-cost journals—particularly in parts of East Asia—may charge as little as $50. This disparity raises important questions about the quality of peer review and the reliability of academic standards.
I personally encountered aspects of this reality when I collaborated with Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz to publish a research paper on cancer during my time as head of cancer research at the Salah Wansi Foundation. This institution played a significant role in combating cancer in Sudan and included an advisory board of Sudanese scientists and academics. That experience revealed the immense effort behind any credible scientific paper—from data collection and analysis to rigorous peer review and the lengthy publication process, which can take months or even years.
However, the central problem lies not only in funding or publication costs, but in the shifts that have affected the very concept of scientific research in some academic environments. Research has, at times, become a means of securing promotion rather than a genuine intellectual pursuit aimed at producing knowledge and serving society. Some academics now operate under constant pressure to publish—not out of scientific passion, but out of fear of career stagnation, delayed promotion, or loss of academic standing.
As this reality intensifies, troubling practices have emerged with increasing visibility. These include adding names to research papers without a genuine scholarly contribution, sparking widespread debate about academic integrity and ethical responsibility. In some cases, research papers resemble lists of mutual favours rather than authentic scholarly work grounded in real effort.
In this context, a recent study titled “Put My Name on Yours and I’ll Put Yours on Mine: Exploring Unethical Practices in Academic Publishing” caught my attention. In it, researcher Michael Ovedel Oyenuga and his colleagues examined one of the most complex issues in contemporary research: the manipulation of authorship, particularly in environments under heavy pressure to publish for promotion, coupled with limited resources.
The study focused on universities in Nigeria as a case study, but in reality, it addressed phenomena present to varying degrees across many academic systems worldwide. It identified several problematic patterns, including reciprocal authorship arrangements, the inclusion of academics’ names in promotion files without actual contribution, and the exploitation of administrative positions to insert the names of department heads or supervisors without genuine participation.
It also highlighted informal agreements among some researchers to inflate publication output, and even instances in which individuals were listed as co-authors without their knowledge or consent. Such practices not only undermine the credibility of scientific research but also disadvantage serious researchers who devote years of genuine work to producing meaningful results.
What makes this study particularly valuable is that it goes beyond describing the phenomenon to analysing its underlying causes—from promotion pressures and prevailing academic culture to weak institutional oversight. It also points to a critical risk: that repeated exposure to such practices may normalise them within certain environments. This is the real danger—when wrongdoing becomes routine, people lose their sensitivity to it, and it gradually turns into accepted behaviour.
This leads us to an important question: is the problem solely with individual academics, or with the system that indirectly pushes them towards such practices? When the number of published papers becomes the primary—if not sole—criterion for promotion, without genuine consideration of the quality and impact of the research, such behaviours become almost inevitable.
Yet institutional shortcomings do not absolve individuals of ethical responsibility. Science is not merely a collection of names on a paper; it is a matter of conscience, knowledge, and genuine contribution. A true researcher is measured not only by what they publish, but also by their commitment to integrity, respect for truth, and dedication to producing meaningful work.
One of the most inspiring examples in this regard is the story of the British physicist Peter Higgs, shared by Professor Rabie Yassin in an academic discussion—a story that encapsulates the difference between the quantity of publications and the depth of impact.
In an era where some universities operate under the motto “publish or perish,” Higgs stands as a strikingly different model. This man, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 2013, published only eighteen papers throughout his career—yet he transformed humanity’s understanding of the universe.
In 1964, Higgs proposed a revolutionary idea in a remarkably brief paper of just a page and a half, addressing why particles possess mass. He suggested the existence of an invisible field permeating the universe, with particles acquiring mass through their interaction with it.
The idea was so bold that a scientific journal initially rejected it, citing a lack of clear relevance to physics. Undeterred, Higgs revised the paper and added a short paragraph that later proved crucial to one of the most important scientific discoveries of modern times.
It took nearly fifty years of work and experimentation at the CERN before scientists were able, in 2012, to confirm the existence of this particle. The following year, Higgs was awarded the Nobel Prize. The greatness of this story lies in its affirmation that the value of research is not in the number of pages or annual output, but in its capacity to make a real difference in human understanding.
Remarkably, Higgs himself remained largely out of the public eye. He did not even own a mobile phone, and when the prize was announced, no one could reach him—he was having lunch in a modest restaurant and learned of the news by chance from a neighbour.
By his own account, Higgs was once considered an “embarrassment” to the physics department at the University of Edinburgh, as his colleagues published dozens of papers annually. At the same time, he spent years reflecting. The university had even raised concerns about his low output, only later realising that true value is not measured by quantity but by the depth and impact of ideas.
This brings us back to the fundamental question our universities must confront today: are we truly rewarding genuine scholarship, or merely the accumulation of names and papers?
A university professor is not a machine for producing articles, but a comprehensive intellectual project encompassing teaching, supervision, mentorship, community service, and scientific development, alongside rigorous research. Some professors may not leave behind dozens of publications, yet they shape entire generations of students and researchers, leaving a far deeper impact than hundreds of papers.
Perhaps the time has come to reconsider academic promotion systems so that research output alone is not the sole criterion. Reducing the value of a university professor to the number of published papers may lead some—intentionally or otherwise—to treat research as an administrative obligation rather than a genuine intellectual and human mission.
Universities today are therefore called upon to restore balance between quantity and quality, and to develop fairer evaluation mechanisms that consider the depth of scientific, educational, and societal impact—not merely the number of pages and names.

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