A few days ago, I saw a post about a thesis defense at a neighboring faculty. One of the examiners showed up with her six-month-old baby. The presence of the adorable little one prompted another examiner to crack a joke: “the youngest examiner in the universe.”

The joke seemed to land well, and perhaps she took it as an inspiring story—a young lecturer successfully balancing her roles as educator and mother. But I didn’t see it that way.

I don’t know why the baby was in the examination room. I don’t know whether the mother was working, sick, had no caretaker available, or whether she made the decision as a form of compromise between her job and her family. I’m not here to speculate. Her personal motives are beyond my concern.

What I can assess is the action as it appeared in the public space—because that is the realm we all share, the realm that can be ethically evaluated, and the realm we have a responsibility to uphold. In Islamic legal terms: nahnu nahkumu bi al-zawahir—we judge by what is outwardly apparent.

A thesis defense is a formal academic event. It lasts only one or two hours. In a brief and focused setting like that, it is perfectly reasonable to expect full attention and respect for the integrity of the academic space.

We know that for a lecturer, a thesis defense may just be part of his regular academic routine. But for a student, it is a pivotal moment—perhaps the most important experience of his entire academic life.

He prepares nervously, revises repeatedly, anxiously awaits the date, and hopes to perform at his best. When he finally enters the room, he imagines a space that is formal, serious, and focused. So the presence of a baby—no matter how cute and endearing—is a distraction. It shifts the tone of the room from an intellectual forum to a stage for celebrating the “inspiring young mom.”

Some may defend the action in the name of empathy. They might think it’s human, flexible, and still within reasonable bounds. After all, the lecturer still showed up, still performed her role, and didn’t abandon her responsibilities. But that line of thinking shows how low our standards for professional ethics have sunk.

Imagine a professorial inauguration ceremony. A lecturer stands to deliver a scholarly oration before the university senate, colleagues, and family members who traveled from afar. If the senate chair were to walk in holding his grandchild, would that be seen as touching? Probably not. In fact, it might be seen as disrespecting the solemnity of the event. If we go to great lengths to honor a lecturer’s important moment, shouldn’t we offer the same dignity to a student’s defining milestone?

Of course, the baby isn’t to blame. He didn’t ask to be there. He had no idea what was happening. The issue isn’t the baby—it’s the glorification of a gesture that blurs boundaries. Academic spaces don’t have to be stiff and lifeless, but they do require ethical standards. When those standards are abandoned, the line between personal and professional gets fuzzy. If one day, an examiner brings a stove and decides to brew coffee mid-defense, will we call that “human” too?

A thesis defense is not a family gathering. It’s not a stage to showcase how well a mother or father can multitask. Even if the mood is relaxed, the space is still meant to test arguments—not test a baby’s diaper endurance. Empathy is important, but it must be placed wisely. Not everything personal belongs in a shared public space. Professionalism is not the opposite of humanity. In fact, because we value humanity, we must protect public forums from being reduced to domestic spillover.

How about this: I’ll gladly watch the baby for an hour or two—so you can focus on honoring a student’s once-in-a-lifetime thesis defense the way it deserves to be honored.

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