Looks Like A Duck, Quacks Like A Duck…But
I recently took part in an executive education programme—one of those courses that brings together business professionals from all over the world. Participants came from diverse industries, from aviation to pharma, from publicly listed companies to family businesses—some of them with legacies stretching over 200 years. It’s the kind of setting where people arrive with impressive credentials—and certain expectations. I was no exception. Specifically, I carried the assumption that people who attend programmes like these—diverse, international, well-travelled and highly educated people—would be more “like me” than not. That assumption didn’t survive the week. Case Study 1: Corporate Plumage In my first course, we were presented with a case involving a university’s long-standing relationship with a major corporate partner in the Middle East. The relationship had suddenly soured and the university had been ghosted. Eventually, it emerged that a newly published diversity and inclusion statement on the university’s website, accompanied by a rainbow flag, had triggered the break. We were invited to discuss how the university board might respond. Some participants felt that removing the flag would be cowardly. Others emphasised that for staff and students, the symbol was not just a gesture and it represented a lived and ongoing commitment to inclusion. Still others questioned whether such symbols should be adapted to different cultural contexts. One participant even suggested that no response was needed at all; the university wasn’t acting any differently than other Western institutions and the partner would return eventually, given the lack of comparable alternatives. As I listened, I realised I didn’t have a strong opinion one way or the other. I understood the need for a public inclusion statement. I’m used to seeing rainbow flags as a kind of seasonal badge on corporate websites during Pride month. Often, it signals allyship: bright and bold in June but often absent the rest of the year. I found myself watching the discussion unfold. In the end, the university chose to remove the flag from its website, while retaining the decorations on campus. I wonder whether the solution satisfied the corporate partner. CASE STUDY 2: THE DUCK NO ONE SAW COMING The next afternoon, I found myself walking to lunch with a woman I had met that morning. We were making small talk. I mentioned that I’d grown up in the Middle East and now lived in Ireland. She responded, “I’m sure that was a big change for you.” Trying to bridge the gap I sensed between us, I explained that, in fact, there were many shared values across both regions—particularly around family and community. She nodded, somewhat distractedly, then added that the media sources she followed painted a very different picture. For her, it was an ideological gap she wasn’t sure she could cross. Her comment was delivered with quiet certainty. Curious, I asked gently, “Have you ever lived in the Middle East?” She shook her head. “No.” We both seemed to understand that our conversation had reached its natural end.Afterward, I found myself reflecting on my own assumptions. I had expected that someone attending a global programme would arrive with nuance and curiosity. I assumed that my experiences were the norm. I assumed that everyone would engage across backgrounds and find resonance with the stories and identities in the room—including those of the many participants from non-European origins. That we would see each other as more than our phenotypic presentations—as mosaics: complex, layered and far from monolithic. As the week went on and we discussed concepts like confirmation bias, anchoring bias and sunk cost fallacies, what stayed with me was this: bias in decision-making and governance is hard to eliminate precisely because it’s often invisible to us. I had assumed that education and international exposure would naturally lead to openness. But as we explored in class, bias isn’t always loud or intentional. Often it shows up in what we don’t question—about others and about ourselves. Case Study 3: Alpha Duck Season Later in the week, I had dinner with a friend who was also attending the programme. We spoke about our respective course experiences. She shared a story from an earlier module, where she’d worked in a group that included two male executives she described as “classic alpha males.” They had immediately positioned themselves as the de facto leaders, sidelined quieter voices and offered unsolicited feedback—particularly to those from different cultural backgrounds—on how they could ‘lead better.’ I knew exactly what she meant. We’ve all worked with those leadership archetypes and I found myself thinking again about bias, fit and friction. The truth is, all kinds of people exist in all kinds of organisations. Some leadership styles resonate in one culture and fall flat in another. There are environments where my own way of working might not be a good fit. There are leaders I might quietly write off, whose approach ends up driving the next phase of someone else’s growth. The market doesn’t care who made whom uncomfortable. Growth is growth. Value speaks. My values might one day be the reason my organisation succeeds. Or they might be the thing that holds it back. It’s hard to know in the moment. The future is uncertain. We can only make sense of what worked when we look back to connect the dots. BOARDROOM TO INNER ROOM: Across each of these stories runs a common thread: the subtle expectation that others will mirror us and the discomfort when they don’t. I realised that my sense of belonging in these spaces is often built on being accepted and reflected. This week didn’t teach me how to include everyone. That was never the goal. It taught me how hard it is to stay curious.How quickly I draw conclusions. How fast my System 1 thinking kicks in searching for familiarity, scanning for signals that say “this person is like me.” I didn’t slow down in the moment. I didn’t ask better questions. I didn’t show up with the kind of curiosity I’d like to believe I value. It’s only in reflection that I’ve been able to see myself more clearly. To notice the speed of my thinking. To realise how easily I reach for coherence, even if it means oversimplifying someone else. I’m not writing this as a lesson. I’m writing it as a question. How do other people do it? How do you stay open, especially when your instincts are pushing for a quick conclusion? How do you pause the script you think you’ve seen before and let someone surprise you?
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