The silent exclusion of women in white-collar workplaces

In Bangladesh, white-collar jobs—those in offices, government ministries, banks, and the corporate sector, among others—are often seen as a symbol of success and empowerment. These jobs usually come with respect, stability, and social status. But even in these seemingly progressive spaces, women are often made invisible, not through overt confrontation but through subtle, everyday behaviours that leave them feeling unseen, unheard, and at times reduced to mere decoration.

Let me share my experience of attending a national-level event. The chief guest was a woman, the secretary of a powerful ministry. As a young professional, I was eager to observe her, not just what she said, but how she navigated the space. As she poured herself tea, adjusted her saree, and got ready to speak, I noticed something: she was careful, too careful.

Around her sat five senior male guests. They laughed heartily, seemed to be cracking jokes, leaned across her chair as if she weren't there. At one point, they even craned over her to speak to each other. She smiled politely. But the discomfort in her body language was loud. Yet, no one acknowledged it.

That moment reminded me of Judith Butler's theory on gender performativity. According to Butler, gender is not just something we are. It is something we perform, repeatedly, to meet social expectations. The chief guest's preparations before speaking weren't merely for self-adornment; they were performances, which signalled to the room that she is woman enough to belong, and professional enough to be taken seriously.

In another setting, a woman joined a closed-door meeting with male colleagues to discuss an annual workplan. To ease the environment, there were small talk, laughter and memory-sharing. Then a joke crossed a line. A male colleague quickly corrected himself, "Sorry, that might go against our corporate gender policy." The room laughed again. One cannot help but wonder: should the woman have felt relieved that someone remembered the rulebook? Or should she have felt alienated by the very fact that the observance of gender policy is required for her inclusion? This is where Rosabeth Kanter's tokenism comes in. The apology wasn't really about gender policy. It was about reminding the woman that she's the exception in that room. Not part of the boys' club. A guest on borrowed space.

As a student, I once attended a high-level discussion on international trade hosted by a well-known local think tank. During lunch, I overheard one of the organisers thanking a sociology professor, one of the few female participants, saying, "Honestly, the event photos don't look good without enough women, and donors insist on female presence." Her participation was valued not for her expertise, but merely as a symbolic presence to fulfil a quota and improve appearances.

Moments like these make me reflect on Nancy Fraser's concept of "recognition vs redistribution." Fraser explains that inclusion isn't just about being invited (recognition); it's also about being given real power and value (redistribution). Bangladesh's educated spaces may include women, but have they truly redistributed authority and respect? Or are women still decorative—present but peripheral?

It is easy to applaud the growing presence of women in the formal labour force. Yet, how often do we pause to consider the loneliness these women endure? What is the weight of the hidden burden they carry while navigating exclusion and microaggressions instead of focusing fully on productivity? What emotional and mental labour is demanded simply to maintain composure in predominantly male environments?

Another incident gave me a very similar realisation. It took place at a university debating club where a group of senior alumni—both men and women—were seriously discussing the state and its power. Suddenly, one guy said, "Let's change the topic. This is going over the heads of these girls." These were educated professionals working in important national and international roles. Yet, they still believed that some topics were too difficult for women to understand.

Lastly, and perhaps most uncomfortably, we must also reflect on how women in national political leadership—both seasoned figures and the newcomers—are treated in our public discourse. The nation has witnessed, time and again, how the focus shifts from their political work to their appearance. Their sarees, eyebrows, and even undergarments have become topics of discussion and viral memes. This speaks volumes about our collective tendency to trivialise women's contributions by reducing them to objects of scrutiny and mockery.

For too long, researchers and policy experts have generalised that women's voices are absent in rural, economically disadvantaged, and less-educated population settings. They have confined women's lack of agency to blue-collar (jobs involving manual labour) sectors. But the examples cited above are within the boardrooms, conference tables, auditoriums, and lecture halls of urban Bangladesh, the so-called "progressive spaces." Our narrow focus has led to an overestimation of progress in establising gender equality in urban, white-collar environments, where women's empowerment is often portrayed as being complete.

It is high time we examined the root causes of these persistent exclusions beyond simply attributing them to patriarchy. While patriarchy is deeply embedded in society and shapes people's behaviours and attitudes, this explanation alone is insufficient. Undoubtedly, a big part of the failure also lies in our education system. It teaches the rules of inclusion but doesn't change mindsets. It produces skilled female graduates but doesn't prepare men to work with women as equals.

Symbolic gestures and headline-friendly policies are no longer enough. What is urgently needed is systemic transformation. Structures that enable women to not just be present, but to belong. To not just speak, but to be heard. To not just perform, but to lead freely without fear of invisibility. Until then, we will continue to ask ourselves: are we truly in the room or just in the photo?

Arju Afrin Kathy is a development professional.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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