Researchers At Risk: Precarity, Jeopardy And Uncertainty In Academia [1 ed.] 3030538567, 9783030538569, 9783030538576

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION RESEARCH METHODS

Researchers at Risk Precarity, Jeopardy and Uncertainty in Academia Edited by Deborah L. Mulligan Patrick Alan Danaher

Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods

Series Editors Patrick Alan Danaher University of Southern Queensland Toowoomba, QLD, Australia Fred Dervin University of Helsinki Helsinki, Finland Caroline Dyer School of Politics and International Studies University of Leeds Leeds, UK Máirín Kenny Independent researcher Wexford, Ireland Bobby Harreveld School of Education and the Arts Central Queensland University Rockhampton, QLD, Australia Michael Singh Centre for Educational Research Western Sydney University Penrith, NSW, Australia

This series explores contemporary manifestations of the fundamental paradox that lies at the heart of education: that education contributes to the creation of economic and social divisions and the perpetuation of sociocultural marginalisation, while also providing opportunities for individual empowerment and social transformation. In exploring this paradox, the series investigates potential alternatives to current educational provision and speculates on more enabling and inclusive educational futures for individuals, communities, nations and the planet. Specific developments and innovation in teaching and learning, educational policy-making and education research are analysed against the backdrop of these broader developments and issues. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/15092

Deborah L. Mulligan Patrick Alan Danaher Editors

Researchers at Risk Precarity, Jeopardy and Uncertainty in Academia

Editors Deborah L. Mulligan Faculty of Business, Education, Law & Arts University of Southern Queensland Toowoomba, QLD, Australia

Patrick Alan Danaher School of Education University of Southern Queensland Toowoomba, QLD, Australia

ISSN 2662-7345     ISSN 2662-7353 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods ISBN 978-3-030-53856-9    ISBN 978-3-030-53857-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

For all researchers who engage—courageously, fearfully, hopefully—with multiple forms of risk, and who in so doing extend our understandings of, and enlarge our insights into, the world, Particularly at this time of the COVID-19 pandemic, with profound thanks for researchers and other professionals and practitioners who risk their own welfare to enhance the health and wellbeing of others.

Foreword: On the Biopolitics of Risk in Research

Maybe the most certain of all philosophical problems is the problem of the present time and of what we are in this very moment. (Foucault, 1982, p. 785)

In the research world, risk is a hot topic. While neither Thomas Lemke (2001, 2011) nor Michel Foucault (1982) addressed this topic specifically, their thinking is particularly pertinent for readers of this book. Research is not value-free, and risk is built into its DNA. The biopolitics of risk fosters close examination of adjustments of technical capacities, ensembles of regulated communications and ecologies of power relations inherent in all research work. In the biopolitics of risk, researchers’ bodies are malleable, and their work both susceptible and resistant to discourses inscribed through institutions, practices and techniques. As curated in this book, research/er risk constructs a compelling case for biopolitics to explain “the instability and fragility of the border between ‘life’ and ‘politics’” (Lemke, 2011, p. 4). It facilitates a more nuanced consideration of risk’s productive activities, its communicative resources and its networks of power relations (Foucault, 1982). The state has taken over what counts as research. If this sounds melodramatic or far-fetched, just attend a research committee meeting at your local university, then follow up with participation in a research and development meeting of a government department or multinational vii

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corporation. The topic of risk is front and centre: risk to the institution, risk to the bodies of participants, researchers, communities in/for which research is conducted. For institutions, risk is primarily legal, and consequentially financial and reputational. It incorporates health and well-­ being risks to bodies (including their minds, emotions and spirits). Thus, the biopolitics of risk embodies the sovereign power of institutions legitimising what counts as research and the normative disciplinary mechanisms of power constituted through the discursive practices of institutions, researchers and others. Ontologically, this collection interrogates challenging inscriptions of the subjectification of researchers, through its theoretical and empirical struggles with social, ethnic and faith dominations. It engages the relations of signification, production and power, which determine the forms of subjectivity experienced by researchers and the researched (Foucault, 1982). The four sections and 19 chapters in this book craft a biopower of risk redolent of recent research challenges encountered and portentous of future eras. The editors have crafted a comprehensive cornucopia of the biopolitics of risk that, in their examination of the (human) subject and power, is more empirical, more directly related to our present situation, and that implies more relations between research theory and practice. The authors mobilise and manoeuvre resistance against different forms of power as catalysts to bring to light power relations, their positionality and their application. In so doing, readers may be regaled while also confronted with accounts of the body politic in relation to technologies of risk, and its practices of power, signification and production in research. This collection apprehends risk through its reconceptualisation and reconstruction. The physical, emotional and intellectual bravery of the people you will meet in these chapters is a salutary lesson to us all; do not leave the stage, do not retreat behind platitudes of preferred positions. Engage with contested spaces and places. For uncertain enquiries, illustrate and celebrate the biopolitics of risk in its precarious positioning at the nexus of internal and external dimensions of the body-self, its topics and its locations of enactment. Rockhampton, QLD, AustraliaBobby Harreveld

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References Foucault, M. (1982, Summer). The subject and power. Critical Inquiry, 8(4), 777–795. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343197 Lemke, T. (2001). “The birth of bio-politics”: Michel Foucault’s lecture at the Collège de France on neo-liberal governmentality. Economy and Society, 30(2), 190–207. Lemke, T. (2011). Biopolitics: An advanced introduction. New  York, NY: New York University Press. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt9qg0rd

Acknowledgements

The editors are very grateful to the following individuals, without whom this book would not have been published: • The contributing authors, whose chapters constitute diverse and insightful explorations of researchers and researching at risk. • The participants in the contributing authors’ research, whose concomitant engagements with various forms of risk inspire equivalent appreciation and respect. • Ms Eleanor Christie, Ms Becky Wyde and their colleagues from Palgrave Macmillan who continue to enable and support risky scholarly endeavours. • Professor R.  E. (Bobby) Harreveld from Central Queensland University, Australia, for writing a characteristically generous and perceptive Series Editors’ Foreword to the book. • Ms Divya Anish and her colleagues at SPi Global, India, for typesetting and producing the book with exemplary professionalism and patience. • Mr Brendan Vines from Toowoomba, Australia, for his skilled representation of the figures in Chap. 1.

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Contents

Part I Risks Related to the Internal Dimensions of Researchers (Researchers’ Identities): Introduction   1 1 Conceptualising Researchers’ Risks and Synthesising Strategies for Engaging with Those Risks: Articulating an Agenda for Apprehending Scholars’ Precarious Positions  3 Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher 2 Still Anonymous: Stigma, Silencing and Sex Work in Australia 21 Dr Anonymous 3 “Punctuation, Pause, Next Slide, Please”: The Risks of Research and Self-Disclosure 35 Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede 4 Reconstructing Academic Identities at Risk: Conceptualising Wellbeing and Re-imaging Identities 55 Irina Lokhtina and Mark A. Tyler

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5 When Faith is on the Line: Exploring the Personal Risks and Rewards of Transformative Learning 71 Rian Roux 6 The Risky Responsibility of Doctoral Writing as Grief Work: Lessons Learnt Whilst Journeying with Trauma in Australia 85 Deborah L. Mulligan Part II Risks Related to the External Dimensions of Researchers (Researchers’ Professions): Introduction 101 7 “No Future for You”: Economic and Mental Health Risks in Young Spanish Researchers103 Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón 8 The Risks of Precarity: How Employment Insecurity Impacts on Early Career Researchers in Australia115 Lara McKenzie 9 How to Make the Cut in Academia: Managing the Uncertainty of Time as a Necessity to Have a Research Career131 Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek, and Gerrit Weitzel 10 The Need to Be a Leader of Research in the United States: Take the Risk and Move Beyond Your Opponents147 David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi, and Melissa T. Sasso

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Part III Risks Related to the Research Topic (Subject Matter): Introduction 163 11 God at First Place: My First Talk and Dinner with a Salafia Group. What They Talked About and How I Dealt with the Risk165 Gerrit Weitzel 12 Doing Feminist, Multispecies Research About Love and Abuse Within the Neoliberalised Academy in Aotearoa New Zealand and Australia179 Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser 13 Irony Sandwich: Reflections on Research Silencing from an Australian Silenced Researcher195 Jacqui Hoepner 14 Embracing the Knot: The Importance of Personal Risk-­Taking Within Intercultural Research in Aboriginal Australia209 Susan Janelle Moore Part IV Risks Related to the Research Setting (Conflict-­Laden Locations): Introduction 231 15 “Horrified by the Experience”? Reflections on a Pakistani Organisation’s Feedback About Doctoral Research Findings233 Syed Owais 16 Where the Map Turns Red: The Multiple Expressions of Risk in Ethnographic Research249 Paola Colonello

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17 The Ethics of Ethics: A Help or Hindrance When Conducting Sensitive Research with Australian Veterans?263 Nikki Jamieson 18 Friend or Foe: The Perils of Conducting Research on Moral Injury in an Australian Veteran Population279 Anne L. Macdonald 19 Activist or Advocate? Redefining Scholarly Risk in a West African Research Context295 Zibah Nwako 20 Dangerous Decisions: The Precarity of Real-World Research—A Provocation311 Deborah L. Mulligan 21 Reconstructing Researchers at Risk and Risky Research: Some Answers to the Organising Questions327 Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher Index343

Notes on Contributors

Dr  Anonymous  is a visiting scholar at an Australian Group of Eight university, and a current sex worker. Correspondence may be forwarded via the editors of this book. Paola Colonello  is an anthropologist. In recent years, she has deepened her research experience in the field of education, working in countries such as the Islamic Republic of Iran, Balūchistān and Tanzania. She works in the “Riccardo Massa” Department of Human Sciences for Education at the University of Milano—Bicocca, Italy, on her Doctor of Philosophy research about education in contemporary society, focused on the educational ideas offered by the Islamic concept of ğihȃd. She works in the areas of the philosophy of education, care education, ethnography and Islamic culture, with a specific focus on awareness and spiritual refinement. Deborah  Cunningham  Breede  is Professor of Communication, and Coordinator of Graduate Programs in Communication, in the Department of Communication, Media and Culture at Coastal Carolina University in Conway, South Carolina, United States, where she teaches communication, women’s and gender studies, and graduate courses. Cunningham Breede’s primary research, teaching and service interests focus on the formation, development, maintenance and challenges of community within a variety of contexts, including interpersonal and xvii

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familial relationships; educational, cultural and community collaborations; within and about sites and experiences of trauma; and during end of life experiences. Patrick  Alan  Danaher is a professor (Educational Research) in the School of Education (where he is also currently Deputy Head of School) at the Toowoomba campus of the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. He is also an adjunct professor in the School of Education and the Arts at Central Queensland University, Australia; docent in Social Justice and Education at the University of Helsinki, Finland; and an adjunct professor in the Division of Tropical Environments and Societies at James Cook University, Australia. He is also a series editor of Palgrave studies in education research methods. Dawne Fahey  is a visual artist and Doctor of Philosophy candidate in the School of Humanities and Communication Arts at Western Sydney University, Australia. Her practice-led doctoral project, Visualising empathy: An alchemist in the landscape, embodies an intense curiosity between self and other, in an exploration of the intersection among cultural immersion, landscape, personal meanings and sensibility. Fahey finds inspiration in exploring multiple landscapes, and she seeks to find emotional depth through empathic engagement with interconnected histories and relational landscapes. Heather Fraser  is Associate Professor of Social Work at the Queensland University of Technology, Australia. She is a critical social worker and vegan feminist who teaches social work students. Fraser’s research interests, while varied, all centre on questions of privilege and oppression, and in the last decade she has been working on projects relating to human– animal relationships and interactions. Fraser has written four books, including Neoliberalization, universities and the public intellectual: Species, gender and class and the production of knowledge (2016, with Nik Taylor) and Understanding violence and abuse: An anti-­oppressive practice perspective (2017, with Kate Seymour). Jorge  García-Girón  is a predoctoral researcher in the Department of Biodiversity and Environmental Management at the University of León, Spain. His research integrates biogeography, macroecology, metacommu-

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nity ecology and conservation biology to study the patterns and determinants of freshwater vascular plants at various spatial and temporal scales. Bobby Harreveld  is Professor of Education in the School of Education and the Arts at the Rockhampton campus of Central Queensland University, Australia. She researches in education and employment transition pathways; capability development for access; participation in learning and earning; the scholarship of teaching and learning; distance, open and online teaching and learning; and sociocultural understandings of education in diverse contexts. Harreveld was awarded life membership of the Vocational Education and Training Network (Australia) for services to vocational education and workplace transitions nationally and internationally. She is also a series editor of Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods. Jacqui  Hoepner is the Early Career Fellow for Higher Degree by Research Supervision at the Australian National University, Australia, where she researches and teaches in the School of Archaeology and Anthropology. Her doctoral thesis explored research silencing and its implications for academic freedom, revealing the various ways that academics are curtailed: by their colleagues, their institutions, interest groups and sometimes themselves. Her scholarly work focuses on institutional culture, academic freedom, critical public health and contested research fields such as alcohol and responsibility. Nikki  Jamieson is a suicidologist, social worker and Doctor of Philosophy researcher at the University of New England, Australia, exploring moral injury and veteran suicide. Jamieson lost her veteran son Daniel to suicide in 2014, and she has dedicated her life to suicide prevention. At present Jamieson is leading innovative and comprehensive research about moral injury with ex-Australian Defence Force members via her Doctorate of Philosophy. She developed a world first conceptual analysis of moral injury, develops keynote presentations and workshops nationally, works on strategic suicide prevention in Queensland, Australia, and is actively involved in suicide prevention more broadly. Jochem Kotthaus  is a professor of education at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts in Dortmund, Germany. He has researched and pub-

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lished widely about risky and not so risky topics: amateur and professional soccer; transformed collectivity; and forms of sexuality and desire. His further interests include theories of social pedagogy, subject theory and lifeworld studies, ethnography and the hermeneutic sociology of knowledge. Karsten Krampe  is an undergraduate research assistant at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts in Dortmund, Germany. He conducts his research from a perspective of the sociology of knowledge, focusing on different scenes and their representations. Irina  Lokhtina is Lecturer in Human Resource Management and Leadership at the University of Central Lancashire, Cyprus. She is a certified trainer of vocational training, Fellow of the Higher Education Academy in the United Kingdom and Co-convenor of the Working Life and Learning Network of the European Society for Research on the Education of Adults. Lokhtina’s research projects are in the domain of human resource management—more specifically, the sociology of work, including workplace learning; formal training; changing patterns of work; and mentoring. Her most recent work has been in relation to mentoring in the academic workplace. Anne L. Macdonald  is a Doctor of Philosophy researcher at the Phoenix Australia Centre for Posttraumatic Mental Health at the University of Melbourne, Australia, and a practising clinical psychologist. She was part of a multidisciplinary team researching moral injury at the Australian Centre for Armed Conflict and Society at the University of New South Wales, Australia. Macdonald’s clinical work focused on the treatment of trauma-related conditions in military populations and first responders. Her research is examining previously unexplored constructs in the elaboration of a new model to explain how moral injury occurs in ex-serving members of the Australian defence forces. Israel Martínez-Nicolás  is a predoctoral researcher in the Institute of Neurosciences of Castilla y León and in the Faculty of Psychology at the University of Salamanca, Spain. His research interests are focused on cognitive neurosciences, psycholinguistics and dementia, especially the deterioration of semantics and the emotional processes in Alzheimer’s disease.

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Lara  McKenzie is Honorary Research Fellow in the discipline of Anthropology and Sociology at The University of Western Australia, Australia. Her research focuses on Australia, particularly on gender, age, love, kinship, reproduction and cultural change. McKenzie’s book, Age-­ dissimilar couples and romantic relationships: Ageless love? (2015), explored age-dissimilar couples in Australia. She has also undertaken research about inequality and cultural difference in education. McKenzie recently conducted a study of recent doctoral graduates’ experiences of looking for stable academic work, and her writing here addressed the themes of gender, age, family, precarity, surveillance and audit practices. Susan Janelle Moore  is Senior Lecturer in Social Work in the School of Health at Charles Darwin University, Australia. She has 30 years’ experience of living and working in regional and remote northern Australia. Her commitment to systemic change in the pursuit of social justice includes professional practice and research into complex social problems. A direct descendant of Australia’s colonial settlers, Moore seeks opportunities to support the efforts of Aboriginal families and communities to regain control of decision-making for their children’s care and protection. Deborah  L.  Mulligan is affiliated with the University of Southern Queensland, Australia, where she researches in the field of gerontology, specifically in the area of older men (men aged over 50) and suicide ideation. Mulligan has a strong interest in community capacity building through examining the effectiveness and sustainability of particular men’s groups with male-only membership. Mulligan is also interested in the area of ethics and reciprocity when conducting research with marginalised groups. Vanaja Nethi  is an assistant professor in the Fischler College of Education and School of Criminal Justice at Nova Southeastern University, United States. She teaches research methods and STEM education courses at the doctoral level, and she also supervises doctoral dissertations in the Doctor of Education programme. She completed her master’s degree in science education at the University of London, and her Doctorate of Philosophy in education at Cornell University. She has worked internationally in Malaysia and Saudi Arabia, and her research interests include instruc-

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tional technology and online learning, transnational higher education, student mobility and STEM. Zibah Nwako  is a doctoral researcher whose main interests are in qualitative, creative and participatory research methodologies, the cross-­ cultural and international student experience, personal wellbeing and development, gender justice, non-formal education and life-wide learning. At the University of Bristol, United Kingdom, she has worked as a research assistant in the Centre for Comparative Research in Education, as a Doctor of Philosophy student representative and as an assistant teacher on various master’s and doctoral programme courses. Apart from her Doctor of Philosophy study, Nwako is a part-­time academic administrator, and a licensed freelance trainer of soft skills and self-development courses. Syed Owais  is an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at the University of Peshawar, Pakistan. He completed a Doctorate of Philosophy in sociology at the University of Warwick, United Kingdom. He is interested in historical and sociological institutionalist analysis of organisational and institutional change and development, particularly in organisations dealing directly or indirectly with the rural poor in Pakistan. He is co-investigator in an HEC-funded project about the Knowledgebased economy and social science research productivity in Pakistani universities. Gina L. Peyton  an associate professor at Nova Southeastern University, United States, teaches doctoral level courses in organisational and higher education leadership, and master’s level leadership courses. Peyton holds her doctorate in organisational leadership, specialising in higher education leadership, her Master of Science degree in reading and her Bachelor of Science degree in psychology from Nova Southeastern University. With almost 25 years of higher education experience, Peyton has extensive knowledge of leadership theories and practice, ethical leadership, strategic leadership, leading and managing organisational change, education and research. Peyton is a dissertation chair and serves on numerous leadership committees.

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Andrea Piontek  is a graduate student in sociology at the University of Bielefeld, Germany. Her research interests include hyperphenomena, subjective and collective horror, visual sociology, the sociology of knowledge and qualitative research methods. David  B.  Ross  a professor at Nova Southeastern University, United States, teaches doctoral level courses in educational, organisational and higher educational leadership. He holds his doctorate in Educational Leadership, a Master of Justice Policy Management degree and a professional certificate in Public Management from Florida Atlantic University, and his Bachelor of Science degree in Computer Science from Northern Illinois University. His publications focus on leadership, power, narcissism, organisational stress, academic integrity, entitlement, mobbing/ bullying, gerontechnology and areas of homeland security. Ross is also a co-editor of a book entitled Higher education challenges for migrant and refugee students in a global world. Rian Roux  is the academic integrity coordinator in the Office for the Advancement of Learning and Teaching at the Toowoomba campus of the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. He is also a full-time doctoral student, researching in the fields of transformative learning, student leadership development and the scholarship of engagement. Melissa  T.  Sasso is an education researcher at Nova Southeastern University, Florida, United States. Her dissertation topic focused on narcissistic leadership and toxic workplace environments in all fields. She has published numerous book chapters with her dissertation chair, David B. Ross, and she has published her dissertation entitled How narcissists cannot hold an organization together: A mixed method approach to a fictitious puzzle factory. Her current publications are about the topics of higher education and narcissistic leadership, media and propaganda, academic entitlement and the dark web, as well as mass media and how it manipulates our minds. Nik Taylor  is a sociologist whose research investigates mechanisms of power and marginalisation expressed in/through human relations with other species, and who is informed by critical/intersectional feminism. Taylor currently teaches topics in the Human Services and Social Work programme at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand

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that focus on human–animal violence links; social change; and crime and deviance, particularly domestic violence and animal abuse. Taylor’s latest books include Companion animals and domestic violence: Rescuing you, rescuing me (Palgrave, 2019, with Heather Fraser), and Ethnography after humanism: Power, politics and method in multi-species research (Palgrave, 2017, with Lindsay Hamilton). Mark  A.  Tyler  is a senior lecturer in the School of Education and Professional Studies at the Mt Gravatt campus of Griffith University, Australia. He is Program Director of the Professional, Vocational and Continuing Education Team, and Program Convenor of the Master of Training and Development programme. Tyler’s professional career originated in the human services field and progressed to the vocational and adult education field. His expertise is in the area of adult and vocational education. His research interests are related to workplace learning, teacher identity, critical spirit (the dispositions of critical thinkers), workplace mentoring and collaborative capacity-building. Gerrit  Weitzel  is a research assistant in the Institute for Society and Digital Studies at the University of Applied Sciences, Münster, and a Doctor of Philosophy student at the University of Bielefeld, Germany. His work focuses on youth research, youth culture research and questions of social inequality.

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 1.3 Fig. 1.4 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 3.5 Fig. 3.6 Fig. 3.7 Fig. 3.8 Fig. 3.9 Fig. 4.1

Flowchart for Part I Flowchart for Part II Flowchart for Part III Flowchart for Part IV Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Emerging influences of neoliberal practices on academic identity

13 14 14 16 36 38 40 42 43 45 46 48 50 62

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Fig. 7.1 (a) Individual scores on fuzzy correspondence analysis (FCA) axes 1 and 2 and relationships between FCA axes and gradients of depression, anxiety, stress and economic precarity. The colour scales represent different groups of individuals as represented in Fig. 7.1b. (b) Dendrogram plot for hierarchical clustering algorithm (k = 4 after the Gap Statistic procedure) on Gower’s distance matrix of fuzzy coded variables (here depression, anxiety, stress and economic situations). The height at which the links form (horizontal axis) is the distance between the two linked clusters

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Part I Risks Related to the Internal Dimensions of Researchers (Researchers’ Identities): Introduction Patrick Alan Danaher

The five chapters in the first section of this book investigate the distinctive risks that are related to the internal dimensions of researchers, focused specifically on researchers’ identities. From that perspective, the risks that this section of the book traverse arise from the personal circumstances, conditions and contexts connected directly with researchers as individuals. These risks can traverse the researchers’ personal belief and value systems, demographic characteristics, occupational backgrounds, life situations and other elements of their subjectivities. Researchers have little or no control over, and are accordingly unable to change, many of these elements, and in many cases they do not wish to do so, preferring instead to celebrate crucial aspects of their identities while striving to find ways to navigate around, or otherwise to engage with, the particular risks that derive from those identities. In Chap. 2, Dr Anonymous elaborates the distinctive risks arising from sex work being simultaneously her occupation and her research focus in Australia. She analyses those risks in terms of stigma and silencing, and their corollary negative impact on prospects for a sustainable research career. At the same time, Dr Anonymous propounds activism, and the principle of sex workers as active producers of knowledge, as bounded strategies for challenging those risks.

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Chapter 3, written by Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede, investigates the topical, interpersonal and methodological risks attendant on collaborative research relationships in Australia and the United States. Such relationships entail self-disclosure that might take research partners beyond where they feel comfortable. Nevertheless, the authors contend that collaborative research, when predicated on a shared framework and language, can generate co-learning and be transformative. Irina Lokhtina and Mark A. Tyler explore in Chap. 4 the risky academic identities clustered around conceptualising wellbeing and re-­ imaging such identities. These identities are enacted in conditions of precarious working conditions, constructed by neoliberal influences. Yet, despite these significant occupational challenges, the authors advocate reflexivity and “inner conversations” as proactive strategies for academics to sustain their wellbeing and to re-image their identities in more enabling and productive ways. In Chap. 5, Rian Roux uses what was at the time a confronting response to his statement of his personal faith to articulate his conviction of the risks and rewards related to transformative learning as a framework for facilitating rigorous research. On the one hand, these risks include emotional and psycho-social challenges to the researcher’s fundamental beliefs and values. On the other hand, these rewards entail critical distance and associated enhanced clarity of insight derived from the reflective practice contained within transformative learning. Finally in this section of the book, Chap. 6, written by Deborah L. Mulligan, focuses on the risky responsibilities of doctoral researchers for whom thesis writing also functions as grief work. Drawing on her own trauma related to the loss of her son, the author uses evocative autoethnography as a form of storytelling to present selected episodes from her journey to doctoral graduate. While her story is highly personal and poignant, the strategies that she elicits to embrace the identity risks attendant on her grief work resonate strongly with other researchers engaging with the respective risks accompanying their identities.

1 Conceptualising Researchers’ Risks and Synthesising Strategies for Engaging with Those Risks: Articulating an Agenda for Apprehending Scholars’ Precarious Positions Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher

Introduction Potential risks occur at every stage of the research journey. Such risks can be seen as possible threats to the accuracy, effectiveness and/or rigour of particular research projects. Furthermore, and despite this prevalence, these risks exhibit considerable diversity, manifesting differently in experimental work located in large-scale laboratories from projects conducted in various types of “in the field” research by solo investigators. Research risks often cluster around the ethical and political dimensions of relationships with participants and stakeholders, and centre on sometimes varied understandings of research integrity. D. L. Mulligan (*) • P. A. Danaher University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_1

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This book is focused on the phenomenon of researchers at risk—that is, the experiences and perceptions of scholars whose conditions and/or topics of research require them to engage with diverse kinds of precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty in academia. Sometimes this risk derives from working with variously marginalised individuals and groups, or from being members of such groups themselves. At other times, the risk relates to particular economic or environmental conditions and/or political forces influencing the specific research fields in which they operate. Researchers at risk frequently encounter ethical dilemmas centred on their relationships with the participants and other stakeholders in the research, including when they construct themselves, or are constructed by others, in particular ways, such as activists or lobbyists. These ethical dilemmas in turn generate emotional labour for researchers as they mobilise strategies designed to mitigate or otherwise to engage with these risks. Furthermore, researchers at risk are required to navigate often perilous positions in order to conduct their uncertain enquiries in ways that protect the research participants as well as themselves. In different ways, key actors such as doctoral supervisors, ethics review committees and university policy-makers might be seen as facilitating and/or hindering researchers’ efforts to address these risky situations. The chapters in this book identify and elaborate a wide range of different types of risk to which contemporary researchers can be subjected. These risks include, but are not limited to: • • • • • • • •

Emotional risk Mental risk Personal risk Physical risk Professional risk Reputational risk Spiritual risk Wellbeing risk

As we elaborate in the next section of this chapter, part of the complexity attending researchers’ risks lies in the diverse ways in which such risks are conceptualised and defined. Furthermore, we consider it vital, when

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articulating an agenda for apprehending scholars’ precarious positions, not only to elaborate and explain the origins and impacts of different kinds of researchers’ risks, but also to highlight specific strategies with demonstrated success in engaging productively and sustainably with those risks (whether through embracing, mitigating or otherwise addressing those risks). This dual focus is taken up in multiple forms in the subsequent chapters. This chapter consists of the following three sections: 1. Selected conceptualisations of researchers’ risks 2. Synthesised strategies for engaging with researchers’ risks 3. The book’s structure and the chapters’ sequencing, including the book’s eight organising questions, and the chapters’ clustering around the risks related to researchers’ identities and professions, research topics and research settings.

Selected Conceptualisations of Researchers’ Risks The scholarly literature exhibits multiple approaches to defining risks that vary according to whether the perspective adopted is largely cultural, environmental, political, psychological or sociological in character. One significant set of understandings of risk derives from the asserted relationship between modernity and risk, with the concomitant concept of the “risk society”. For instance, Beck (1992) identified modernisation as: surges of technological rationalization and changes in work and organization, but beyond that [it] includes much more: the change in societal characteristics and normal biographies, changes in lifestyle and forms of love, change in the structures of power and influence, in the forms of political repression and participation, in views of reality and in the norms of knowledge. (p. 50)

Based on this identification, Beck (1992) referred to a risk society as “a systematic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities induced and

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introduced by modernisation itself ” (p.  21). Similarly, Giddens and Pierson (1998) identified a risk society as “a society increasingly preoccupied with the future (and also with safety), which generates the notion of risk” (p. 209). One of the benefits of this kind of theorising is that it places risk in a broader, globalised perspective that helps to make meaning of otherwise seemingly senseless phenomena such as terrorism (Cleland, 2019). Certainly, many of the subsequent chapters engage in diverse ways with globalised, politicised understandings of researchers’ risks. By contrast, and at a more meso and micro level than the macro level attached to the risk society, researchers’ risks pertain to the complexities and vicissitudes of researchers’ relationships with research participants and other stakeholders. For example, Dickson-Swift, James and Liamputtong (2008) distilled from their varied research into sensitive topics such as death and dying, cancer, sexuality, homelessness and HIV/ AIDS particular risks facing their research, as well as the strategies that they implemented to contend productively with those risks. More recently, Koonings, Kruijt and Rodgers (2019) characterised ethnography as: an inherently rewarding but at the same time ‘risky’ research methodology: “high risk, high gain”. It is fraught with uncertainties, practical obstacles, challenges and pitfalls. Ethnographic researchers are unsure (or cannot and should not know beforehand) how it will work out and with what results. Because ethnographic research is relational and interactive it cannot be dissociated from the social process that is studied nor from the personal positions of all agents involved (including the ethnographer). (pp. 12–13)

At the same time, but from a different perspective, some researchers eschew a construction of risk as being inherently negative and as needing to be avoided or minimised. One version of this approach interprets risks in terms of opportunities for development and learning (Lee, 2017). A more politicised form of this approach associates risk with hegemonic discourses designed to control behaviours and to standardise understandings of what is “natural” and “normal”. From this perspective, Swadener and Lubeck (1995) contended that discourses of risk reflect ideological

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processes that involve identifying ostensible causes of, and potential solutions to, various “problems” related to specific groups who are considered “at risk”. Subsequently, Swadener (2000) asserted a direct association between “the rhetoric of ‘children and families at risk’” and “the currently popular language for describing those who are socially excluded or at risk of failure in various systems or contexts” (p. 117; emphasis in original). Building on this commitment to contesting the hegemony of taken-­ for-­granted assumptions of risk for particular marginalised communities, Danaher, Danaher and Moriarty (2007) argued as follows, and in a way that resonates with some of the following chapters: identification of children who are “at risk” or “vulnerable” needs to be placed in the broader context of their sociocultural positioning. If this positioning constructs them as “deficit” or “deviant”,…it must be critiqued and subverted if its practice of schooling is hegemonic rather than transformative. (p. 223)

Regardless of how researchers’ risks are conceptualised, they can have diverse and often profound effects on researchers and on their relationships with research participants and other stakeholders. For instance, Loughran and Mannay (2018) highlighted the emotional dimension of researchers’ work, contending “that the presentation of research as ‘objective’ conceals the subject positions of researchers, and the emotional imperatives that often drive research”, and making: a strong plea for the need to find a new place for emotion in research; to research and write in ways that are more honest, [and] more revealing, and have greater potential to disrupt the established workings of knowledge and power.

Certainly, each chapter in this book presents an honest, revealing and politically aware account of its respective rendition of particular researchers’ risks. Furthermore, some scholars assert that certain researchers are more vulnerable than others to the harm arising from specific kinds of researchers’ risks. For example, Bloor, Fincham and Sampson (2010) reported

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that an inquiry commissioned by QUALITI (Qualitative Research in the Social Sciences: Innovation, Integration and Impact), a node of the National Centre for Research Methods under the auspices of the Economic and Social Research Council in the United Kingdom, found “that junior researchers and PhD students, the main recipients of such harm, are being let down by some principal investigators and PhD supervisors who are failing to manage researcher risks effectively” (p. 45; emphasis in original). As with the relations between researchers and research participants, so the interactions among researchers in relation to risks need to be read against the grain of networks of institutionalised power. In presenting these selected conceptualisations of researchers’ risks, and as was noted above, this section of the chapter has linked those conceptualisations with broader theoretical paradigms such as psychology and sociology, with the consequences that researchers’ risks can be understood at macro, meso and micro levels. Moreover, scholars vary as to whether risks are wholly negative, to be avoided and minimised, and/or to be embraced as potentially productive ways of generating new insights into the human condition. Despite this variation, scholars generally agree that risks can have significant effects on researchers, and that those effects highlight the politicised networks framing researches’ work. We turn now to consider the kind of strategies available to researchers for engaging with the risks that they encounter.

 ynthesised Strategies for Engaging S with Researchers’ Risks We noted above this book’s dual focus: as well as identifying diverse conceptualisations of researchers’ risks, the subsequent chapters outline specific strategies that their respective authors have found to be useful in facilitating a productive engagement with those risks. The significant structural issues framing researchers’ risks notwithstanding, it is important to synthesise “what works” in assisting researchers in their encounters with diverse kinds of challenges and in some cases threats.

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Some of these strategies are clustered around formal professional development and training, and the associated policy-making work required of universities and other research institutions. For instance, Dickson-Swift, James, Kippen and Liamputtong (2008) advocated fully developed risk assessments for research projects, a comprehensive consideration of occupational health and safety issues, and “[r]ecommendations for professional supervision, policy development, and minimum training standards for researchers” (p.  133). Likewise, McCosker, Barnard and Gerber (2001) propounded “protocols or guidelines” to assist “The researchers, transcribers, supervisors and readers of publications [who] may…be placed at risk” (p. 1). At the same time, there is a recognition that sometimes existing institutional guidelines need to be strengthened: in asserting that “Scholars conducting research on either the social or [the] biological dimensions of conservation practice may confront harassment, violence, and sexual assault” (p. 1419), Rinkus, Kelly, Wright, Medina and Dobson (2018) sought to “encourage dialogue regarding codes of practice for fieldwork safety at multiple institutional levels that acknowledge and provide support for the varying forms of harassment researchers face during fieldwork” (p. 1419). A different, more situated and less formalised set of strategies pertains to researchers proactively responding to specific risks in ways that are often disciplinarily and paradigmatically specific. For example, Bradbury-­Jones and Taylor (2015) found that dealing with existing challenges identified for working with children as co-researchers succeeded when they acknowledged those challenges, articulated counter-challenges of their own and proffered “pragmatic solutions to the issues raised” (p. 161). From the very different perspective of security studies, Baele, Lewis, Hoeffler, Sterck and Slingeneyer (2018) proposed particular approaches to addressing the risks attending researchers in their discipline that resonated directly with their disciplinary mores and norms. For example, for “Ethical problems related to researchers’ physical security”, their mitigation strategies included “Strict guidelines constraining the interactions with potentially violent actors” and “Clear and well-thought principles of identity disclosure and consent” (p.  109). Correspondingly, for “Emotional strains due to the sustained witnessing of violence and suffering (real and online)”, their

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mitigation strategies included “Inclusion of adequate mental health interventions” (p. 109) for researchers. A similar paradigmatic difference has been discerned in the ways that researchers approach key elements of the research process as potential strategies for addressing certain kinds of researchers’ risks. For instance, Arrazola (2019) identified divergent views of providing feedback about research projects to participants: From a positivist or reconstructed positivist perspective,…feedback is used primarily as a strategy for improving research validity, while from a critical perspective the intention is to induce deeper and sustained levels of participation, critique, and influence toward a purpose, ultimately, of social transformation….From within a critical education perspective, research feedback therefore sets out to engage schools and their communities, including teachers and parents, as co-researchers and reflective agents capable of understanding and changing education and its social relations, not only being recipients of it.

From this perspective, strategies for engaging with researchers’ risks vary in consonance alike with diverse disciplines’ and paradigms’ interpretations of such risks and of appropriate and effective approaches to addressing them. More broadly, several of the ideas presented in the preceding section and this section of this chapter align strongly with the principles and strategies of Scholars at Risk, “an international network of institutions and individuals whose mission it is to protect scholars and promote academic freedom” (https://www.scholarsatrisk.org/). This network began at the University of Chicago, United States in 1999, and subsequently contributed to the since-disbanded Network for Education and Academic Rights, and also to an Academic Freedom Media Review, a Scholars-in-­ Prison Project and an Academic Freedom Monitoring Project (https:// www.scholarsatrisk.org/actions/academic-freedom-monitoring-project/). The continued need for Scholars at Risk highlights the global reach of the multiple risks encountered by contemporary researchers from numerous countries and disciplines, as well as the existence of carefully targeted approaches to protecting individual researchers and to working to address those risks internationally and systemically.

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This section of the chapter has synthesised several strategies for engaging productively with diverse kinds of researchers’ risks. These strategies demonstrate disciplinary and paradigmatic differences, and they also reflect varied foci on individual researchers’ actions and institutional policies and guidelines. Some strategies are short-term in character and relatively easy to implement; others are wider in scope and involve multiple actors. All require ongoing attentiveness to their effects and effectiveness.

 he Book’s Structure T and the Chapters’ Sequencing As one contribution to maximising the cohesiveness of this book, chapter authors were requested to engage explicitly with one or more of the following organising questions: 1. What are the different kinds of risk that contemporary researchers encounter when conducting their research? 2. Why do some researchers encounter risk, and what are the effects of that risk on the successful conduct of their research? 3. How can researchers engage effectively and ethically with the risks attending their research? 4. How do researchers at risk navigate the world after completion of their research? 5. Which specific strategies are effective in assisting researchers to engage with the risks that they face, and why are those strategies effective? 6. Which roles are played by other stakeholders (such as doctoral supervisors, ethics review committees and university policy-makers) in supporting researchers to engage with the risks that they encounter? 7. What do researchers’ precarious positions signify about the character, possibilities and limitations of contemporary research? 8. How can researchers’ uncertain enquiries contribute to reconceptualising and reimagining the work and identities of contemporary scholars?

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The 21 chapters in the book are divided into four parts, with an introductory chapter and two concluding chapters, as follows: • Chapter 1 orientates the reader and presents a variety of conceptualisations of researchers’ risks and of strategies for engaging with those risks. • Part I focuses on risks related to the internal dimension of researchers (researchers’ identities). • Part II engages with risks related to the external dimension of researchers (researchers’ professions). • Part III deals with risks related to the research topic (subject matter). • Part IV explores risks related to the research setting (conflict-laden locations). • Chapter 20 presents a provocation in the form of an essay that explores the concept of the researcher as a vulnerable agent. • Chapter 21 draws together selected threads from the preceding chapters to address the book’s organising questions. In combination, these four types of risk—researchers’ identities, researchers’ professions, subject matter and subject-laden locations—traverse many of the issues that contemporary researchers encounter, and consequently they are potentially significant for understanding how such researchers navigate precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty in their work.

 art I: Risks Related to the Internal Dimension P of Researchers (Researchers’ Identities) As is presented in Fig. 1.1, Part I contains five chapters about researchers’ risks related to those researchers’ identities. Dr Anonymous uses Chap. 2 to elaborate the risks that she has encountered as a sex-working academic in Australia who has experienced stigma and silencing, and who is committed to sharing valuable insider knowledge. In Chap. 3, Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede employ collaborative autoethnographic writing as a strategy for engaging with self-disclosed trauma in Australia and the United States. Irina Lokhtina and Mark A.  Tyler in Chap. 4 conceptualise wellbeing as a way of re-imaging academic

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Fig. 1.1  Flowchart for Part I

identities in neoliberal universities. Chapter 5 is deployed by Rian Roux to advocate an open mind as an appropriate response to another person’s challenge to his personal faith in Australia. In Chap. 6, Deborah L. Mulligan analyses her doctoral thesis writing as a vehicle for effective grief work in response to her teenage son’s death from cancer in Australia.

 art II Risks Related to the External Dimension P of Researchers (Researchers’ Professions) As is outlined in Fig. 1.2, Part II presents four chapters about researchers’ risks related to their professions. Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón use Chap. 7 to outline the economic insecurity and the mental health challenges faced by many young Spanish researchers, thereby highlighting the need for systematic action to address these concerns. In Chap. 8, Lara McKenzie elaborates a similar employment precarity for early career researchers in Australia, reinforcing the importance of comprehensive policy responses. Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek and Gerrit Weitzel in Chap. 9 propose the notion of “scholarly daredevils” as proactive risk-takers in German academia as a productive approach to progressing academic careers. Chapter 10 is

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Fig. 1.2  Flowchart for Part II

Fig. 1.3  Flowchart for Part III

employed by David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi and Melissa T. Sasso to explore both the challenges and the benefits associated with taking risks in the form of researcher leadership in the United States.

 art III: Risks Related to the Research Topic P (Subject Matter) As Fig. 1.3 represents, Part III includes four chapters about researchers’ risks related to subject matter. Gerrit Weitzel uses Chap. 11 to illustrate his employment of critical self-reflection to analyse his discussion with a Salafist group in Germany, with the possible outcomes including

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reinforced mutual incomprehension and/or enhanced intercultural understanding. In Chap. 12, Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser elaborate several risks attendant on researching the lives of other animals in the context of neoliberal universities in Aotearoa New Zealand and Australia, and they explore counternarratives with the potential to enact their commitment to social justice. Jacqui Hoepner in Chap. 13 explains how she was positioned by anti-wind lobbyists in Australia, and how other researchers have experienced similar efforts to silence them, and ponders how universities can support academics in such situations. Susan Janelle Moore in Chap. 14 advocates personal risk-taking as a pre-requisite of mutually empowering intercultural research involving Indigenous Australian participants in remote Australia.

 art IV: Risks Related to the Research Setting P (Conflict-Laden Locations) As Fig. 1.4 demonstrates, Part IV consists of five chapters about researchers’ risks related to conflict-laded locations. Syed Owais in Chap. 15 portrays the power dynamics at work in his efforts to gain feedback from a Pakistani non-government organisation, and in his university’s response to that feedback. In Chap. 16, Paola Colonello articulates the risks associated with visiting schools in the desert Balūchistān area as part of her anthropological research in Iran, and she celebrates the increased understandings that resulted from her doing so. Nikki Jamieson explores in Chap. 17 the ethics of human research ethics committees as they applied to her efforts to obtain ethics approval for her study involving sensitive research with Australian veterans. Likewise, albeit from a different perspective, in Chap. 18, Anne Macdonald elaborates how she was positioned negatively via social media by members of the Australian veteran population with whom she was researching the phenomenon of moral injury. Zibah Nwako in Chap. 19 ponders whether she is an activist or an advocate in encountering patriarchy in West African universities, and the empowering potential of particular theoretical and methodological resources in her research.

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Fig. 1.4  Flowchart for Part IV

Finally in introducing the book, the chapters’ academic rigour has been maximised by a systematic, two-step editorial review process. Firstly, each editor read and reviewed each chapter abstract independently, with the chapter authors engaging with editorial feedback if relevant. Secondly, the same process was used with the full text of each chapter, with chapter authors responding to the editors’ feedback as appropriate when writing the final versions of their chapters.

Conclusion This chapter has explored several types of conceptualisations of the risks encountered by contemporary researchers. It has also outlined different kinds of strategies that researchers have used effectively to engage with such risks. The diversity of both the risks and the strategies canvassed in the chapter is crucial: in no sense are we proposing a “one size fits all” approach to this issue. In presenting these conceptualisations and in synthesising these strategies, we have sought to articulate an agenda for apprehending scholars’ precarious positions that is intended to resonate with the equally diverse

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coverage of conceptualisations and strategies in the subsequent chapters. We see this agenda as highlighting in multiple ways the application of researchers’ agency in mobilising the respective risks that the chapter authors identify, as well as their commitment to their research projects as sites of integrity, responsibility and, where appropriate, empowerment and potential transformation. These conceptualisations and strategies represent also empirically grounded manifestations of the precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty that accompany particular aspects of researchers’ work, and that course through this book in diverse forms. In accentuating these themes, we acknowledge the courage, conscientiousness and professionalism of the researchers, included in this book and reflected in the research projects cited here, who strive to envision and enact researchers’ risks, and the responses to them, as essential elements of authentic, meaningful and rigorous scholarly practice. These attributes are even more to the fore in the context of the current COVID-19 pandemic, which in many respects has challenged all of us to encounter multiple forms of unprecedented risk, research-related and otherwise. Acknowledgements  The editors acknowledge the chapter authors for presenting powerful and prescient accounts of multiple manifestations of researchers at risk, and for proposing viable strategies for engaging effectively with such risk. The writing of this chapter was enhanced by the constructive feedback of two anonymous peer reviewers of the proposal for this book.

References Arrazola, B. V. (2019). Research feedback as a strategy for educational transformation. In G.  W. Noblit (Ed.), Oxford research encyclopedia of education. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Baele, S.  J., Lewis, D., Hoeffler, A., Sterck, O.  C., & Slingeneyer, T. (2018, May). The ethics of security research: An ethics framework for contemporary security studies. International Studies Perspectives, 19(2), 105–127. https:// doi.org/10.1093/isp/ekx003 Beck, U. (1992). Risk society: Towards a new modernity (M.  Ritter, Trans.). London, UK: Sage Publications.

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Bloor, M., Fincham, B., & Sampson, H. (2010). Unprepared for the worst: Risks of harm for qualitative researchers. Methodological Innovations Online, 5(1), 45–55. https://doi.org/10.4256/mio.2010.0009 Bradbury-Jones, C., & Taylor, J. (2015). Engaging with children as co-­ researchers: Challenges, counter-challenges and solutions. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 18(2), 161–173. https://doi.org/1 0.1080/13645579.2013.864589 Cleland, J. (2019). Sports fandom in the risk society: Analyzing perceptions and experiences of risk, security and terrorism at elite sports events. Sociology of Sport Journal, 36(2), 144–151. https://doi.org/10.1123/ssj.2018-0039 Danaher, P. A., Danaher, G. R., & Moriarty, B. J. (2007). Subverting the hegemony of risk: Vulnerability and transformation among Australian show children. Educational Research, 49(3), 211–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 00131880701550417 Dickson-Swift, V., James, E. J., & Liamputtong, P. (2008). Undertaking sensitive research in the health and social sciences: Managing boundaries, emotions and risks. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Dickson-Swift, V., James, E. L., Kippen, S., & Liamputtong, P. (2008). Risk to researchers in qualitative research on sensitive topics: Issues and strategies. Qualitative Health Research, 18(1), 133–144. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1049732307309007 Giddens, A., & Pierson, C. (1998). Conversations with Anthony Giddens: Making sense of modernity. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Koonings, K., Kruijt, D., & Rodgers, D. (2019). Introduction: Ethnography as “risky business”. In K. Koonings, D. Kruijt, & D. Rodgers (Eds.), Ethnography as risky business: Field research in violent and sensitive contexts (pp.  1–20). Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Lee, C. D. (2017). Integrating research on how people learn and learning across settings as a window of opportunity to address inequality in educational processes and outcomes. Review of Research in Education, 41(1), 88–111. https:// doi.org/10.3102/0091732X16689046 Loughran, T., & Mannay, D. (2018). Introduction: Why emotion maters. In T. Loughran & D. Mannay (Eds.), Emotion and the researcher: Sites, subjectivities and relationships (Studies in qualitative methodology) (Vol. 16). Bingley, UK: Emerald Publishing. McCosker, H., Barnard, A., & Gerber, R. (2001, February). Undertaking sensitive research: Issues and strategies for meeting the safety needs of all partici-

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pants. Forum: Qualitative Social Research/Sozialforschung, 2(1), article 22. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-2.1.983 Rinkus, M.  A., Kelly, J.  R., Wright, W., Medina, L., & Dobson, T. (2018). Gendered considerations for safety in conservation fieldwork. Society & Natural Resources: An International Journal, 31(12), 1419–1426. https://doi. org/10.1080/08941920.2018.1471177 Swadener, B. B. (2000). “At risk” or “at promise”? From deficit constructions of the “other childhood” to possibilities for authentic alliances with children and families. In L.  D. Soto (Ed.), The politics of early childhood education (pp. 117–134). New York, NY: Peter Lang. Swadener, B. B., & Lubeck, S. (Eds.). (1995). Children and families at promise: Deconstructing the discourse of risk. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.

2 Still Anonymous: Stigma, Silencing and Sex Work in Australia Dr Anonymous

Introduction Knowledge production, and available grant funding, is partly driven by popular conceptions of social problems (Dewey, Crowhurst, & Chimaraoke, 2019) leading to the problematisation of sex work in research, reinforcing popular conceptions. This ghettoisation of sex work assigns research to disciplines such as criminology, psychology and social work, public health and sexually transmitted diseases (Dewey et  al., 2019). Sex work research is rarely published in spaces reserved for workplace issues, tourism, or business and financial markets. “The literature is still much more about sex than it is about work” (Vanwesenbeeck, 2001, p.  242). This is a reflection on the reality of life for sex workers who remain marginalised, separated from mainstream society through processes of discrimination affecting access to financial markets, internet platforms, housing, health, justice, education, travel and immigration.

Dr Anonymous (*) Toowoomba, QLD, Australia © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_2

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Authority figures, such as researchers, are often held in mistrust by sex workers who are well aware of the potential of skewed research to further stigmatise and sustain social prejudices (Agustin, 2004; Jeffreys, 2010). Drawing on Marxist interpretations of oppressed people building a collective movement to end oppression, a sex worker rights principle “nothing about us without us” has encouraged sex workers to be producers of knowledge by joining the ranks of academia (Baratosy & Wendt, 2017; Kim & Jeffreys, 2013; Stardust, 2018). However, academia represents a dangerous space for risky researcher. This chapter weaves chronological personal narrative into academic descriptions of particular risks for sex researchers and sex workers. It examines tensions between advocacy and secrecy and finishes with perceived dangers affecting the dissemination of sex worker-led research.

Sex Worker-Related Stigmas Researching sex work is not only limited by a lack of research disciplines, funding1 and a “chilling effect” by institutional review boards (Irvine, 2012) but by stigma (Goffman, 1963; Sinha, 2016). Courtesy stigma (Goffman, 1963), also referred to as stigma by association, is an issue playing a role in workplace health affecting the workplace environment, professional relationships and resources available (Phillips, Benoit, Hallgrimsdottir, & Vallance, 2012). Stigma by association does not affect people equally, as female sexuality scholars more often report marginalisation such as disparaging jokes and assumptions about the researcher’s personal sexual identity or behaviour with more destructive consequences than male scholars (Irvine, 2015). In a study of contemporary sociologists in the field of sexuality studies, Irvine (2015) described the sexualisation of female scholars including harassment and assault. Simultaneously, sex workers are particularly vulnerable to sexual assault because they are commonly seen as available to men and always consenting (Sullivan, 2007). I experience a double vulnerability of being a female scholar of sexuality and a sex worker. Within  I received no funding for my research, and five applications for scholarships were rejected despite my eligibility. 1

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months of acceptance into a research programme, my susceptibility was realised in sexualised supervision sessions with my first academic supervisor. His cautious banter progressed to his nude skyping and a social meeting involving alcohol and kissing. Sex workers are much less likely to report sexual assault than other women, due to not only shame or powerlessness, but knowing that victims of assault suffer more significant negative consequences after a prosecution than perpetrators—even in the unlikely event of them being deemed guilty (Sullivan, 2007). I did not confront my supervisor’s behaviour and felt trapped in an escalating physical relationship when a fellow student made a report causing six months of internal and external investigations. After being found somewhat guilty, the supervisor was transferred to another university. During the inquiries I felt unsafe “coming out” or telling the truth about being a sex worker, which hampered the investigator’s ability to fully understand the situation. My reticence was because “those who choose prostitution free of coercion may be judged particularly harshly, as they are held responsible for electing deviancy” (Koken, 2012, p. 211). I felt silenced and ostracised. I was unable to progress in my studies at that time and the university was unable to provide another supervisor from the department. My mental health suffered as I struggled with self-blame and identity issues. It was difficult to seek mental health support as sex workers who see mental health professionals risk being pathologised for their choice of work and complain of spending more therapy session time on educating their therapists than therapy (Baratosy & Wendt, 2017). My choice of work had made me a target for sexual harassment and cultivated my role of complicity in wanting to please my supervisor. These emotional challenges eclipsed and tangled with those I was experiencing through a related but separate situation. Previously, I had suffered a rape by a client during sex work, reported it to the police and ultimately became a very rare statistic of a sex worker successfully seeing a client convicted of rape charges. This unexpected positive result for sex workers was tarnished by the perpetrator receiving a short sentence of incarceration. I regretted reporting to police, which also affected my ability to make decisions about the sexual harassment I endured as a research student. Rapists of sex workers have systematically not been treated as serious sexual offenders or dangerous to society. After his release from prison the perpetrator of my rape caused the death of an innocent child.

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The four-year judicial process relating to my rape attracted global media attention. I was anonymous in media and read, alone, all about me. I read online commentary describing me as deserving to be murdered, worthless, callous, and alternatively as having no consensual capacity and a victim of rape from every client who paid for my services. I read countless discussions about whether it was possible to rape a sex worker and felt shattered to see some sex working activists downplaying the seriousness of rape in a workplace setting. I read opinion pieces dissecting my character and differences from other women. Although anonymous in the extensive media about the case, I lived in constant fear that my family would find out about my job and assault. This fear is not only about influencing my relationships with loved ones, but a fear that they too, would suffer stigma by association. There is an illogical conflation with poor parenting and parents who conduct sex work in welfare laws and regulations. Sex workers often lose their children through state child protection services or through custody battles in courts (Duff et  al., 2015; Mac & Smith, 2018). Duff et  al. (2015) reported 37 per cent of 399 sex workers in Canada had experienced a child apprehension and sex workers generally avoided accessing services for fear of child protection service involvement. Ironically, many mothers, including myself, take up sex work to raise children from poverty. Some studies have found up to 90 per cent of sex workers have dependent children (Duff et al., 2015). Society’s treatment of sex working mothers emphasises the hypocrisy, dominance and influence of Madonna/Whore dichotomies. Sex workers are also not considered to be people of worth as our “cultural fondness for dead hooker jokes” attests (Mac & Smith, 2018, p. 216). I was also concerned that my professionalism in other careers would be affected if I was outed, as a history of sex work is not permissible in several professions such as teaching, registered health providers, policing and judiciary. It should also be noted that it is nearly impossible to conduct sex work without breaking any laws anywhere in the world including jurisdictions where sex work itself is decriminalised. It was in this climate at university, after a further six months of being a student unattached to a supervisor, when an external supervisor was found in another university and I continued my studies. I made the decision to conceal my sex worker identity from him.

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Stigma surrounding sex work affects researchers personally, and acts as a barrier to accessing willing participants in research about sex, particularly in sex industry research. This is because sex workers have suffered an: obsession with the private lives of escorts by researchers, where they enquire into the sex workers’ family background, social status, psychological profile, and delinquency record (or lack of it) [which] supports an agenda that revolves around individual responsibility and faults. (Minichiello, Scott, & Cox, 2017, p. 4)

An experienced researcher of the sex industry, Agustin (2004) attributes expectation bias to be a huge factor in sex industry research where study participants believe they are expected to present their worst stories, or indeed present themselves as victims to avoid stigma from the researcher. To avoid research projects which are skewed with inherent bias, sex workers engage in collective action to overcome stigmatisation and marginalisation though a perspective of “nothing about us without us” empowering us to be our own agents for representation (Kim & Jeffreys, 2013). Sex workers are gatekeepers for their knowledge and often demand meaningful long-term collaboration with sex researchers and can undermine or even sabotage a potential for empirical inquiry (Dewey et al., 2019). For researchers of the sex industry, recruitment of authentic and candid sex workers demands long-term investment in sex working communities and/or known sex worker status (Jeffreys, 2010). For sex working researchers recruiting sex worker participants, a balance must be struck between being a known sex worker to sex workers and not known as a sex worker to academics and members of the public, or risk being wholeheartedly out.

Risks of Disclosure The privilege of coming out or the misfortune of “being outed” as a person involved in the sex industry are situations about which Associate Professor of Feminist Studies at the University of California, Dr Mireille Miller-Young writes in the foreword of Coming out like a porn star: Essays

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on pornography, protection, and privacy (Lee, 2015). She describes the way radical sexual minorities stand “out and proud” to draw attention to and as a rebellion against, the repression, stigma and everyday struggles that sexual minorities face. The injustice of constantly questioning one’s risks and benefits of coming out is not one workers in other industries need to confront. The essays in Jiz Lee’s compilation illustrate the critical consequences on one’s relationships, one’s sense of self and integrity, livelihood and social mobility—risking everything (Lee, 2015). Indeed, I was “outed” to my second and external supervisor who resigned, citing stigma by association. Koken (2012) considers sex worker stigma as a concealable stigma and that coping strategies to hide stigma causes greater negative mental and physical health impacts than those who suffer visible stigmas. Further, strategies to conceal a stigma are guided by expectations of how others would react should they learn of the stigma, a concept known as anticipatory stigma. Individuals who “pass” as non-stigmatised suffer considerable cognitive and emotional stress consequently engaging in high levels of hypervigilance and self-monitoring in social situations, ultimately closing themselves off from potential sources of support (Koken, 2012). In time, a third supervisor was appointed to assist me to submit my work completed as a master’s project rather than an intended PhD owing to lost time. This new supervisor had a solid reputation and was prepared to stand by me should I be professionally outed. As soon as the master’s degree was signed off, I joined his team at a different university and enrolled for a PhD. I managed stigma (Goffman, 1963) by hiding my sex-work identity and by being classified as a distance student, not present on campus. During this time, the media was interested in Dr Brooke-­ Magnanti, who was outed as a sex worker and writer under the pen name Belle de Jour. Her career in genetic epidemiology was challenged when journalists broke into her office at the hospital where she worked. Subsequently, an ex-lover sued her for defamation claiming he had lost his military career due to association with a sex worker (Davies, 2013). The particular risks of being a sex worker and scholar were the subject of tabloid media and a constant reminder of my precarious position. I suffered no further supervisory difficulties owing to my sex worker status, but other problems occurred in my candidature owing to sex

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worker stigma. Financial difficulties included being unable to use mainstream banking services, Paypal, credit cards and electronic funds transfer facilities for any income gained through sex work resulting in inability to apply for bank loans or mortgages (Stardust, 2018). The practice of refusing service to sex workers is widespread in Australia and is illegal (Ombudsman, 2019). For many sex workers, refusal of banking services contributes to unstable housing and homelessness (Mac & Smith, 2018). Sex workers are unable to purchase insurance, professional indemnity, income protection or workers’ compensation. My autoimmune condition exacerbated by stress became intolerable and I had no choice but to continue working as a sex worker because I could not access government benefits or other safety net measures. I could not explain my work situation to medical or psychological professionals who might otherwise have been able to help. Personal experience of direct discrimination from health professionals, and information from sex workers interviewed by Koken (2012) who have described being treated as “dirty” or undeserving of respect by health care providers, informed my non-disclosure. Anticipatory “whore” stigma has very real consequences for the health and safety of sex workers. This is despite knowing, as Koken (2012) states, sex workers who engaged in selective disclosure regarding sex work reported greater access to social support, while sex workers who generally concealed their work often reported feeling lonely and socially isolated. This has significant impact on their social relationships and access to social support. Isolation as a sex working researcher is aggravated by other impacts of stigma such as being excluded from meetings and conferences held in the United States as a travel ban applies to sex workers (Ebrahim, 2012). This ban restricts sex working researchers from an avenue of research dissemination.

Sex Workers’ Dissemination of Knowledge Travel and internet restrictions prevent known sex workers from avenues of research dissemination that other researchers can access. Stardust (2018), a sex working academic examines the way banks, payment platforms, video hosts and email partners discriminate against adult

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businesses. “It forms part of a broader neoliberal project whereby the market becomes regulator, individuals assume risk, consumers replace citizens, and non-normative sexualities become valuable, and legal, only when tied to profit” (Stardust, 2018, p. 175). Individuals, especially those who wish to remain anonymous, have few avenues to fight discrimination against businesses and corporations. Discrimination against sex workers in online settings became law in the US in 2018 with the introduction of Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act (FOSTA), which conflates all sex work with sex trafficking in a politically motivated move to attempt to abolish sex industries. FOSTA criminalises internet companies for hosting sex workers on their platforms and has had global implications in the erasure of sex worker advertising, sex worker support systems, and dissemination of knowledge about sex work. Further, US End Demand policies have been imposed to deny funding for research that does not explicitly support End Demand or anti-sex work policies (Jackson & Heineman, 2018). US sex work policy is a morality policy, resistant to facts or any line of inquiry which might challenge a hypothesis of all sex work having negative consequences. Any data about sex work which is seen to be “too positive” is not regarded as credible. Bimbi and Koken (2019) further explain that no questions about sex work allowed in national surveys and specific sex industry research allocations are granted only after researchers have provided written a statement against the support of sex as work. Both FOSTA and End Demand policies have harmed sex workers (Jackson & Heineman, 2018), and will skew research efforts unless repealed. Barriers to the promotion of research outcomes are only one side of research dissemination. The significance of research presented depends upon the manner in which people perceive the research findings. Irvine (2015, p. 119) posits, “Marginalization practices discredit the work itself, erasing its significance and producing researchers’ subjective experiences of stigma”. Additionally, Rubin (1992) observes that society thinks female sex researchers are un-feminine which many extend to un-feminism. Hammond and Kingston (2014) have experienced views that sex research is dangerous for women and their work has had negative or critical responses because their research was judged as dishonourable and no good. Similarly to sex research in general, Attwood (2009) describes

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pornography research as carrying little cultural capital, is not taken seriously, has lower status or not even deemed worthy of study, which silences researchers in this field. She explains this can lead to a loss of professional status, affecting career progression (Attwood, 2009). Sex research is often received awkwardly with a mixture of amusement, condescension, suspicion and hostility. Additionally, a similar culture exists in the public sphere meaning politicians and journalists routinely ignore or skew our research to titillate leading to discrimination in law and policy and increasing stigma in stereotypes. Although the theoretical perspective of “nothing about us without us” actively supports sex workers as producers of knowledge from an internal standpoint (Dewey et al., 2019), the knowledge of sex workers is often devalued. From the soiled personalities of stereotypical representations of sex workers prior to the 1960s to the forced victimhood of sex workers since (Weitzer, 2007), sex workers are not typically considered credible or of having any personal agency. Women who say that they have consciously chosen employment in sex work have been neglected, viewed by anti-prostitution feminists as non-existent and politically designated as part of the “pimp lobby” (Jeffreys, 1997; Vanwesenbeeck, 2001). Sex working positive stories are typically considered to be those of people suffering “false consciousness”, a way of thinking that prevents a person understanding the true nature of their situation, and used politically to attempt to silence sex worker voices (Jeffreys, 2010). A recent Australian example is Roxana Baratosy, a known sex worker, whose first publication received harsh treatment beyond regular peer review by editors who were resistant to publishing her research (personal communication, 20/1/2020). “Academics have had their reputations destroyed, lost their jobs, and faced legal sanctions for teaching or researching porn as a result research is underdeveloped” (Attwood, 2009, p. 178). Elena Jeffreys (2019), a sex working academic, asks “whose voices are heard?”. Jeffreys (2019) dissects public policy proposals finding hostility towards sex workers assuming their poor character, and concern trolling where a policy or person participates in feigned concern for the wellbeing of sex workers whilst simultaneously suggesting sex workers need life improvement and are unable to care for themselves.

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Conclusion Despite the typical researcher risks that I faced, such as a lack of funding, isolation and disability, I managed sex worker stigma and fears of being outed to successfully complete my PhD. Publishing risks continue indefinitely as being heard and fears of being outed remain. A financially disastrous decision to resign from sex work is not practical and would not escape publishing challenges as having a history of being a sex worker attracts stigma due to perceptions of “soiled personalities” (Goffman, 1963). Although “nothing about us, without us” is integral to the sex work movement, in reality our objectivity is ultimately questioned. This situation places us in an uncomfortable stalemate (personal communication, Roxana Baratosy 20/1/2010). Stigma, and not sex work, is the problem and one which is almost never addressed as transient or to have any possible solutions (Weitzer, 2017). However, social acceptance of sex work differs by communities, by countries and throughout history. The process of normalisation of sex work needs firstly to find neutral language, positive representation in media, decriminalisation, sex workers’ voices be heard and the dissemination of non-biased academic research (Weitzer, 2017). Some progress has been made as Brents and Sanders (2010) consider the mainstreaming of the sex industry. The global spread of adult businesses, some adult film starts crossing into mainstream film industries and a “higher class” of representation of sex workers in media all contribute to economic and social integration. From an academic perspective, we need to speak about sex work as an occupation and not a problem, “as sex worker advocates have long noted, ‘the problem’ is not sex workers, but bad laws” (Minichiello et al., 2017, p. 4). “A modern society needs to be open to the notion that paid sexual interactions can be a deliberate and rewarding choice for many, that there are acceptable reasons for sex work to exist, and that women and men who buy or sell sex should be free to do so without fear or harm” (Minichiello et al., 2017, p. 7). To offset the uncertainty that sex workers experience in academia, affirmative action should be sought to encourage sex workers to lead research. Sex researching academics need to reach out to sex working

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communities to recruit sex workers into active researching roles rather than treating people with such valuable knowledge as passive subjects. Sex working academic’s precarious vulnerability needs to be supported by experienced academics who are prepared to defend the academic rigor of sex work research and who can assist in research dissemination. Sex workers need assistance to find their most powerful voices—they need to be able to speak and be heard. Acknowledgements  I am extremely grateful to the proud, super smart sex working academics who have critiqued this paper, including Roxana Baratosy (Flinders University), Elena Jeffreys (Queensland University of Technology) and Zahra Stardust (University of New South Wales). I also wish to acknowledge the risks taken and the trust endowed by my enduring supervisor and mentor.

References Agustin, L. (2004). Alternative ethics, or telling lies to researchers. Research for Sex Work, 7, 6–7. Attwood. (2009). Dirty work. Researching women and sexual representation. In R.  Ryan-Flood & R.  Gill (Eds.), Secrecy and silence in the research process: Feminist reflections. ProQuest. Baratosy, R., & Wendt, S. (2017). “Outdated laws, outspoken whores”: Exploring sex work in a criminalised setting. Women’s Studies International Forum, 62, 34–42. Bimbi, D., & Koken, J. (2019). Selective vision: How disciplinary frames, funding streams, and social policy shape research on sex work. In Routledge international handbook of sex industry research. London: Routledge. Brents, B., & Sanders, T. (2010). Mainstreaming the sex industry: Economic inclusion and social ambivalence. Journal of Law and Society, 37, 40–60. Davies, C. (2013, August 12). Brooke Magnanti sued by former lover over Belle de Jour blog. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/ books/2013/aug/11/brooke-magnanti-sued-belle-du-jour Dewey, S., Crowhurst, I., & Chimaraoke, I. (2019). Introduction. In Routledge international handbook of sex industry research. London: Routledge. Duff, P., Shoveller, J., Chettiar, J., Feng, C., Nicoletti, R., & Shannon, K. (2015). Sex work and motherhood: Social and structural barriers to health and social services for pregnant and parenting street and off-street sex workers. Health

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Care for Women International, 36(9), 1039–1055. https://doi.org/10.108 0/07399332.2014.989437 Ebrahim, S. (2012, July 24). Banned sex workers find sympathy from AIDS meeting organizers. Reuters. Retrieved from https://www.reuters.com/article/ us-aids-usa-sexworkers/banned-sex-workers-find-sympathy-from-aids-meeting-organizers-idUSBRE86M10Z20120723 Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma. Notes on the management of spoiled identity. London: Penguin. Hammond, N., & Kingston, S. (2014). Experiencing stigma as sex work researchers in professional and personal lives. Sexualities, 17, 329–347. https://doi.org/10.1177/1363460713516333 Irvine, J. M. (2012). Can’t ask can’t tell: How institutional review boards keep sex in the closet. Contexts, 11, 28–33. Irvine, J. M. (2015). The other sex work: Stigma in sexuality research. Social Currents, 2, 116–125. https://doi.org/10.1177/2329496515579762 Jackson, C., & Heineman, J. (2018). Repeal fosta and decriminalize sex work. Contexts, 17, 74–75. https://doi.org/10.1177/1536504218792534 Jeffreys, E. (2010). Sex worker-driven research: Best practice ethics. Challenging Politics: Critical Voices: NSWP Global Network of Sex Work Projects. Retrieved from https://www.nswp.org/resources?fulltext=jeffreys Jeffreys, E. (2019). Public encounters with whorephobia. Making sense of hostility toward sex worker advocates. In S. Dewey, I. Crowhurst, & C. Izugbara (Eds.), Routledge interntional handbook of sex industry research. New  York: Routledge. Jeffreys, S. (1997). The idea of prostitution. North Melbourne: Spinifex. Kim, J., & Jeffreys, E. (2013). Migrant sex workers and trafficking  – Insider research for and by migrant sex workers. ALARJ, 19, 62–96. Koken, J. (2012). Independent female escort’s strategies for coping with sex work related stigma. Sexuality & Culture, 16, 209–229. https://doi. org/10.1007/s12119-011-9120-3 Lee, J. (Ed.). (2015). Coming out like a porn star. Essays on pornography, protection, and privacy. Berkeley, CA: ThreeL. Media. Mac, J., & Smith, M. (2018). Revolting prostitutes. The fight for sex workers’ rights. London: Verso. Minichiello, V., Scott, J., & Cox, C. (2017). Commentary: Reversing the agenda of sex work stigmatiation and criminalization: Signs of a progressive society. Sexualities, 1–6. https://doi.org/10.1177/1363460716684510

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Ombudsman. (2019). Banks assume role of moral compass for legitimate businesses. Australia: Australian Government. Retrieved from https://www.asbfeo.gov.au/ news/news-articles/banks-assume-role-moral-compass-legitimate-businesses Phillips, R., Benoit, C., Hallgrimsdottir, H., & Vallance, K. (2012). Courtesy stigma: A hidden health concern among front-line service providers to sex workers. Sociology of Health & Illness, 34, 681–696. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1467-9566.2011.01410.x Rubin, G. (Ed.). (1992). Thinking sex – Notes for a radical theory of the politics of sexuality. Pandora Press. Sinha, S. (2016). Ethical and safety issues in doing sex work research: Reflections from a field-based ethnographic study in Kolkata, India. Qualitative Health Research, 27, 893–908. https://doi.org/10.1177/1049732316669338 Stardust, Z. (Ed.). (2018). Safe for work: Feminist porn, corporate regulation and community standards. Scopus (Elsevier B.V). Sullivan, B. (2007). Rape, prostitution and consent. The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Criminology, 40, 127–142. Vanwesenbeeck, I. (2001). Another decade of social scientific work on sex work: A review of the research 1990–2000. Annual Review of Sex Research, 12, 242. Weitzer, R. (2007). The social construction of sex trafficking: Ideology and institutionalization of a moral crusade. Politics & Society, 35, 447–475. https:// doi.org/10.1177/0032329207304319 Weitzer, R. (2017). Resistance to sex work stigma. Sexualities, 1–13. https://doi. org/10.1177/1363460716684509

3 “Punctuation, Pause, Next Slide, Please”: The Risks of Research and Self-Disclosure Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede

Introduction Research is risky business. A requirement for many of us in academia, research is integral to our professional success. An active research agenda is so important we can lose our jobs if we do not publish often enough. Our profession demands that we add to an existing body of knowledge in ways that not only advance our understandings of our world, but also advance our employers’ reputations. Researchers often share with their employers the responsibility to acquire funding, increase revenue streams, and continue institutional growth. Those risks expand when you are engaging in a new research partnership with a colleague you don’t really know, using a methodology that

D. Fahey (*) Western Sydney University, Sydney, NSW, Australia D. Cunningham Breede Coastal Carolina University, Conway, SC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_3

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Fig. 3.1  Untitled

demands mutual and highly personal disclosures. New research projects are always risky, but when writing an autoethnography about sexual assault with a colleague you’ve only just met, the risks become frightening. When your new research partner lives on another continent on the other side of the world, and you’re separated by physical and temporal distance, the risk becomes daunting (Fig. 3.1).

Literature Review This chapter explores topical, interpersonal, and methodological risk in collaborative research relationships. It is simultaneously a realist, confessional, and impressionist tale (Van Maanen, 1988). It’s a cautionary tale and a love letter (Bell, Golombisky, Singh, & Hirschmann, 2000). Engaging in an autoethnographic research project revolving around sexual assault(s) with a colleague you’ve never met before is certainly risky business, but it is also rewarding business.

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Much has been written about the nature of research relationships between and among the researcher and the researched (Davenport, Pradhananga, & Nelson, 2013; Hoel, 2013; Oliver, 2008). However, few researchers have contributed more to our understandings of the complexities of autoethnographic research relationships than Carolyn Ellis (Ellis, 1995, 2009, 2010, 2012; Ellis & Patti, 2014; Ellis & Rawicki, 2013). Ellis has pioneered our understandings of collaborative research relationships, especially the ways in which the researcher and the researched become intimately and inextricably bound. She has written evocatively of the complexities and dialectics which characterize these relationships, discussing the “emotional and ethical quagmires” in fieldwork (1995), conceptualizing autoethnography as method (2009), integrating the “communicative heart with a sociological eye” (2012), and defining and practicing both relational autoethnography (2013) and compassionate interviewing (2014). There remains a gap in the literature, however, when it comes to negotiating the complexities of the relationships between and among researchers (Ceglowski, Bacigalupa, & Peck, 2011). We approach our project applying the notion of “research as relationship” (Ceglowski, 2000). After ten years as a consultant with Head Start, Ceglowski begins her scholarly fieldwork as a volunteer. She struggles conducting research in her own “backyard” and worries about “breaking trust” with her supervisors. She is devastated when management informs her they won’t hire her as an aide, but prefer she remain a volunteer. She finds herself aligning with the under-resourced staff yet does not disclose her researcher status to them. She subsequently describes her transformation into a “soft hearted” researcher. She suggests that “what it means to be a good researcher depends on your points of reference” (p. 98). We agree. Our points of reference are each other, and we strive to practice the conceptualizations we have noted above: ethicality, relationality, and compassion. Interpersonally, we speak with a “communicative heart”; methodologically, we use “sociological introspection.” We practice “soft heartedness” with each other and with the disclosures inherent within our autoethnographic research. We ask permission; we practice careful listening. We invoke Buber’s I/Thou (1958), recognizing that “all real

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Fig. 3.2  Untitled

living is meeting” (p. 11) and all “relation is mutual” (p. 15). We care; we respect. It is an ongoing and challenging process (Fig. 3.2).

Dawne: Collaborative Research Collaborative research is “a high-risk research environment” (Costley, Elliot, & Gibbs, 2010, p. 6). It is a form of collaborative activism (Chang, Wambura Ngunjiiri, & Hernandez, 2016, p.  145). Collaborative researchers need to be open and honest with each other. They also need to be respectful and committed to the collaboration. When a shared framework and language is embraced, collaborative research has the potential for co-learning, eliciting new knowledge and perspectives. As collaborators, we listen to each other, each is heard. We are also cognizant

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that the relationship can deteriorate if the communication fails or if expectations for the collaboration differ. I felt emotional when I read your first autoethnographic stories. I knew I wanted to respond sooner rather than later, yet I felt at a loss to form meaningful sentences. I wanted to respond empathically, to acknowledge your story, to hear your pain, whilst at the same time, keep my girl inside of me safe from feeling overwhelmed by your experience. Poetry is a form of activism which allows me to be “present in the text in ways that traditional writing forms discourage” (Faulkner, 2017, p.  89). My poetry responds reflexively to your story, filling the liminal, emotional space between your words and mine. It allows my heart to lead when my mind falters (Owton, 2017, p.  44). Responding in this way is respectful; it allows me to have my voice, while you have yours. Writing in this way allows us to write using “a layered account” which “draws on many points of view and presents them to the reader as representations of lived experience emerging from the multitude of reflexive voices that simultaneously produce and interpret a text” (Ronai, 1994, p. 396). It is difficult to put words to the trauma (Eyerman, 2019, p. 111) of sexual assault; it is even harder to find people willing to listen. Often women and girls are not believed or their credibility is questioned when they disclose sexual violence. Disclosure brings forth challenges to personal identity and character, with the potential for subjective and emotional harm if survivors are doubted (Healicon, 2016, p. 48). Articulating the devastation of sexual violence is difficult at the best of times. I know only too well what it is like not to be believed. Our use of artwork deepens and extends our narrative process as it visualizes a form of experience that is often hard to articulate (p. 112). The stories we share with each other give meaning to our experience (Jago, 1996, p. 497) (Fig. 3.3). Dawne: Your words fill me up Your words fill me up, They are yours, yet they are mine, Your thoughts fill the page, They describe your reality, The pressures of being a researcher, Of the responsibilities involved,

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Fig. 3.3  Untitled

Of being captive in a system that demands so much of you, Yet in a way also gives you the opportunity to be, to give, to make, What a gift, What a chore, I am only starting to learn what it means to be a researcher, To have such a responsibility hanging over your head, It is early days for me, As we construct, write and share our autoethnographies, And I thank you, as I am learning from you, I do so with care and consideration, Knowing only too well what it means to share our girl’s stories, Of risking sharing our shame, our hurts, our inner selves,

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Of telling you, and you telling me, our truths, These deserve respect, Telling is risky, for sure. Thanking you for your trust, and care and willingness to risk.

Dawne: Interpersonal Risk Our relationship is not immune to the risks of research. Our interpersonal relationship has evolved from our initial meeting at an autoethnography conference in Florida in 2019. During my presentation, I shared my personal experience of child sexual assault. Following my presentation, Deb approached me and asked if she could contact me to discuss collaborating. We spoke after my return home and agreed to collaborate on a paper, with the view to present it at the next Doing Autoethnography Conference, 2020. When Deb first proposed we collaborate on an autoethnographic project, I was excited yet scared. I realized I am a novice in this space and was afraid that I would be unable to live up to (my) expectations. I soon realized within sharing our vulnerabilities (Raab, 2013, p. 1) that we each bring something different to our collaborative relationship (Fig. 3.4). Evolving from this relationship is a friendship. And despite the physical distance between us, the emotional space between us seems to collapse as our shared experience of sexual assault draws us together. Relationships play a significant role in shaping our lives (Caluori, 2013, p. 7), and trust is an essential element in any relationship. When trust is damaged it can make it more challenging to form healthy relationships. For a sexual assault survivor, trust is often a major issue. Sharing disclosures of sexual assault with another person can be risky business. Ahrens and Aldana (2012) demonstrate that receiving a negative reaction to a disclosure of sexual assault can “have a profound impact on their health and well-­ being” (p. 1). Not everyone can hear survivors’ experiences. Not everyone can maintain relationship with another whose sense of self has been traumatized by the violence of sexual assault. These experiences are scars; “paying attention is an honor system” (Stewart & Berlant, 2019, p. 3). I

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Fig. 3.4  Untitled

am mindful of this, as I know in the past for me personally, I have experienced negative reactions that have impacted my relationships with others when I have disclosed my personal experience of sexual assault. The loss of relationship has caused me much sorrow and heartache. Our shared experience is shaping our friendship (Hurka, 2013). Close relationships thrive when their foundation is trust and commitment (Rusbult, Wieselquist, Foster, & Witcher, 1999, p. 427). Friendships are built on acceptance and generosity, trust and safety, honesty and respect, constancy and mutuality, commitment and support. All these qualities play a role in shaping any ongoing relationship (Tillman-Healy, 2003, p. 731).

Deb: Methodological Risk I collect seashells. My favorite ones are the most delicate ones. Welks, sand dollars, and tiny spotted and speckled crabs; their fragility is frightening, a test of trust. Nestled in the sand, sometimes stuck, sometimes slippery, I rock them, wiggle them; I pull them from the wet, tight little

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seaweed beds they don’t want to leave. After I extricate the shell from its grainy bonds, I gingerly wrap it in paper towels. Now that it has survived its mining, it must survive the journey. It must make it home. A new colleague, a new collaboration, a new research project, an autoethnography about sexual assault, a new friend…much like the shy little girls inside us, we hesitantly, tentatively, oh so gently try to pry each other from the muddy seashore, shielding each other from the sea gulls swooping. We must make it home (Fig. 3.5). Sexual assault causes trauma. Negative reactions to disclosures of sexual assault can cause trauma. Betrayals of faith and trust can cause trauma. How powerful are our words! How powerful is our lack of words! Communication—verbal and nonverbal—is the source of trauma and the mediating beautiful balm to soothe trauma. We are small seashells in each other’s hands, hoping we do not get crushed. Interpersonal conversations around and disclosures about sexual trauma are risky. Even more risky is using these conversations and disclosures as a methodological tool. There may be no other research method

Fig. 3.5  Untitled

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more risky than autoethnography. The leap of faith one makes in telling her own story is always uncertain, but others’ reception, perception, and inevitable judgment of one’s story can also be dangerous. Whenever we share an intimate personal disclosure, we risk. “Will they judge me? Will they still like me? Will they find me damaged, corrupted? Is it too ugly to share? Will they think ME too ugly?” Because trust is such an integral part of not just disclosures about sexual trauma, but also interpersonal relationships, trust and respect become absolutely crucial to collaborative autoethnography in general, but especially when the autoethnography examines traumatic events. Van Maanen (1988) uses the metaphor “tales of the field” in his characterizations of the types of stories that often contextualize and exemplify ethnographic descriptions. His typography of realist, confessional, and impressionist tales provide ethnographers with an epistemology of methodological writing outcomes. We suggest that autoethnography in general makes use of all three of these types of disclosures—and more. When writing autoethnography collaboratively, realist tales provide “experiential authority” (p. 46). “They are often used to try to draw the audience into the world of the people studied” and represent “the native’s point of view” (p.  49). Unlike the confessional tale, self-reflection and doubt are hardly central matters in realist tales (p.  51). Confessional tales present “personalized authority” and “the field workers’ point of view” (pp. 74–78). Impressionist tales are “revisionist forms of art” (p. 101). Their tools are literary in form: dramatic recall, narrative continuity, fragmented knowledge, characterization, and dramatic control (pp. 102–106). Our collaborative work using autoethnography as a site of discovery about the phenomenon of sexual trauma implicates all of these perspectives, yet moves beyond these into a “telling” that is complex, multi-dimensional, and travels through time and space in unconventional ways. Goodall (2000) suggests that the “ethnographic personality” is a “strategically deployed self ” (p.  68). The autoethnographer, the researcher, and the collaborative researcher are also examples of strategically deployed selves. These identities are not only research positionalities; they become identity performances. As a “strategically deployed self,” we contextualize our method but also our ethical positionality. It is a tool, but it is also a morality. It demands and requires intentional action and purposeful

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communication. We choose to listen and speak in particular ways for particular purposes. Empathetic talk, listening, and being are necessary, because they lead to trust, collaborative discourse, and new discovery. Goodall contends that “ethnographic stories have always been rhetorically sensitive cultural performance” (p. 73). We suggest that autoethnographic stories are also rhetorically sensitive individual performances (Fig. 3.6). “Autoethnography is a method that allows for both personal and cultural critique” (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014, p. 17). For them, and for us, “the use of cultural-critical autoethnography and interpersonal/cultural communication practices…provide insight into the messy, complex nature of

Fig. 3.6  Untitled

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diverse sets of lived experiences” (p. 19). Cultural-critical autoethnography shares some of the same goals as interpersonal relationships. Both seek insight that leads to understanding. Both implicate “the Other” within those understandings. Both are culturally bound and contextualized within and outside of a cultural milieu. Within our work, the cocreation and co-construction of the interpersonal relationship between us simultaneously allows for the co-creation and co-construction of an autoethnographic methodology that examines traumatic experience and its aftermath by using multi-layered alternative forms of writing. We employ traditional social science discourse, narrative, poetry, art, photography, monologue, dialogue, and other shared approaches and methods to merge the interpersonal, cultural, and scholarly in order to examine and analyze personal experiences and stories. We work to create visual, aural, and oral texts. The fragmented nature of these choices leads to a whole that allows us to merge, blend, and collaborate (Fig. 3.7).

Fig. 3.7  Untitled

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Dawne: Mutuality, Respect, and Reciprocity I love the notion of a communicative heart. A communicative heart, like your words, really speaks to me as we blend, merge, and collaborate across vast oceans. Sharing our stories, our vulnerabilities, our insights, the success of our collaboration is grounded in a strong foundation of mutuality, trust, and reciprocity, allowing each of us to take risks in the material we share (Ross & Woodfield, 2017, p. 46). Collaborative research is not just risky, it is also tricky (Bossio, Loch, Schier, & Mazzolini, 2014 p. 198). Often the excitement of collaborating on a project wanes after the initial flush, yet our relationship is enduring. I think our commitment to each other is evident in our writing, as we embody what Chua, Morris, and Mor (2012) describe as “affect-laden trust” (pp. 116–117), in our self and with each other. We are learning to feel for, rely on, and have concern for each other. Our collaboration is a mutual affair displaying a communicative heart. Yet as individuals, we each have agency, which allows us to prioritize our collaboration so that it does not detract from each of our individual needs. We are being simultaneously respectful toward each other’s needs, whilst learning to negotiate the relationship between us. Realizing too, as we write, email and talk on the phone, that our collaboration is negotiating us (Gergen, 1991, p. 160), propelling our relationship forward. We are committing to reflexivity in our collaboration, which Spry (2017) calls “a wilful embodiment of we” rather than being just being “about the self ” (p. 48). Through this process we are rewriting our identities and our (embodied) way of being in the world (Mackenzie & Atkins, 2008, pp. 80–92), and with each other. As I reflect on our relationship, I realize we are being considerate of our (own) self (selves) as we exist in relation to each other. Through our writing, we bear witness to each other’s pain and story. We are in a sense telling our story backwards. Our stories are “not just an episode in a remembered past; it is a self-referring construction of the autobiographical narrative” (Mackenzie & Atkins, 2008, p. 276). The autobiographical nature of our stories is like relational testimonials, each containing traumatic memory and affective elements (Douglas, 2010, p. 163). Affective witnessing of traumatic testimonials can be painful to read. Yet through

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our relational reading and mutual sharing, we are respectfully negotiating our relationship and traumatic testimonials. And despite the differences between us—in our stories and life experiences—there exists between us a mutual understanding of the trauma sexual assault causes, which we both respond to empathically. The reciprocal nature of our collaborative writing relationship allows us to give meaning to our stories (Gergen & Gergen, 1988, p. 23), as we put words on the page to share with each other. When we find it too difficult to string a sentence together and our words are not enough to express what we are feeling, we make use of reflexive poetry or visual methods (Fai, 2019, p. 259) to tap into unconscious and subconscious psychological processes. These images become psychological metaphors for the unspoken terror of our sexualized bodies, empowering us to take risks as we story and share our personal narratives of sexual assault (Fig. 3.8).

Fig. 3.8  Untitled

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Deb: Topical Risk The sexually assaulted body is a stigmatized body. The autoethnographic telling is often a stigmatized methodology. Yomtoob (2004) shares a story of watching men watching gymnasts within multiple locales during the 2012 Olympics. She contextualizes their gaze as “objectionable objectification” (p. 146). She describes them “laughing and congratulatory…not with an eye of appreciation, or even an eye of enjoyment, but with a lewd eye, and a feeling of camaraderie because they had succeeded in a way of looking that is a way of taking” (p. 146). This is the gaze which often consumes the sexually stigmatized body. This is the gaze which often consumes the autoethnographic body. This is the gaze of the Other. Our gaze is accepting. We speak kindness with our eyes and our voice. We ask permission. We wait our turn. We take care. We listen. We allow. The sexually traumatized body is objectified, objectionable. It is held responsible for the soil with which it is tattooed. Its invisible tramp stamp is indelible. It cannot be cleansed, as much as all survivors try. We wear it like a blanket—visible—yet hidden, secret. We wear it like a medal, an award for survival. It is dialectical. The endless questions are the needles of the tattoo artist. Continuously sticking, humming, producing pinpricks of blood, the tattoo is deep. It itches. It is ugly to us, to them, but it is there for life. We offer it up like the Pieta. It is sacrificial. It is useful. It is beautiful. It is transformative. Our bodies, our work, our relationship—they allow healing. Ellis (1999) conceptualizes “heartful autoethnography.” We work toward heartful autoethnography; as Behar (1996) describes, we become “vulnerable observers” (Fig. 3.9).

Conclusion Yeats’ (1920) poem, The Second Coming, captures the heart and soul of our collaborative conversations using autoethnographic writing. We have found a place with each other. We made a commitment to write a conference paper, which then became an opportunity to write this chapter. Over the course of this year, we have become collaborative witnesses

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Fig. 3.9  Untitled

(Ellis, 2013) to each other’s story, sharing unspeakable truths about sexual violence. As Yeats writes, “things could fall apart.” This risk has made our collaboration and our research together even more complex. And just that bit riskier for each of us. Yet we both agree it has been a healing journey for us. As we have broken new ground through our writing, our “I” became “we” in our exploration of what topical, interpersonal, and methodological risk means to us in collaborative autoethnographic research. Pacanowski’s (1988) piece, Slouching Towards Chicago, was considered groundbreaking when it appeared in the Quarterly Journal of Speech.

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Invoking Yeats, it was the first narrative allegory published in one of the foundational journals in the field of communication studies. It represented not only the academic angst confronting the author at that time, but it also hinted at the promise of a second coming. We too invoke the promise of a second coming within communication studies. We work toward creating evocative texts that describe communicative events and processes that continue to bedevil us. We work together within a space of mutual respect and acceptance. We invite others to join us as we slouch toward Chicago.

References Ahrens, C.  E., & Aldana, E. (2012). The ties that bind: Understanding the impact of sexual assault disclosure on survivors’ relationships with friends, family, and partners. Journal of Trauma & Dissociation, 13(2), 226–243. https://doi.org/10.1080/15299732.2012.642738 Behar, R. (1996). The vulnerable observer: Anthropology that breaks your heart. Boston: Beacon. Bell, E., Golombisky, K., Singh, G., & Hirschmann, K. (2000). To all the girls I’ve loved before: Academic love letters on mentoring, power, and desire. Communication Theory, 10(1), 27–47. Bossio, D., Loch, B., Schier, M., Mazzolini, A. (2014). A roadmap for forming successful interdisciplinary education research collaborations: A reflective approach. Higher Education Research & Development, 33(2), 198–211. https://doi.org/10.1080/07294360.2013.832167 Boylorn, R.  M., & Orbe, M.  P. (Eds.). (2014). Critical autoethnography. Thousand Oaks, CA: Left Coast Press. Buber, M. (1958). I and thou (2nd ed.). New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Caluori, D. (Ed.). (2013). Thinking about friendship, historical and contemporary philosophical perspectives. Hampshire, England: Palgrave Macmillan. Ceglowski, D. (2000). Research as relationship. Qualitative Inquiry, 6, 88–103. https://doi.org/10.1177/107780040000600106 Ceglowski, D., Bacigalupa, C., & Peck, E. (2011). Aced out: Censorship of qualitative research in the age of “scientifically based research”. Qualitative Inquiry, 17(8), 670–686. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800411415497

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Chang, H., Wambura Ngunjiiri, F., & Hernandez, K. C. (2016). Collaborative autoethnography. New  York: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/ 9781315432137 Chua, R. Y. J., Morris, M. W., & Mor, S. (2012). Collaborating across cultures: Cultural metacognition and affect-based trust in creative collaboration. Organizational Behaviour and Human Decision Processes, 18, 116–117. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.obhdp.2012.03.009 Costley, C., Elliot, G., & Gibbs, P. (Eds.). (2010). Doing work based research: Approaches to enquiry for insider-researchers. London: Sage. Davenport, M., Pradhananga, A., & Nelson, P. (2013). Increasing voluntary conservation practice adoption through research and relationship building. Water Resources Impact, 15(2), 9–12. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/ wateresoimpa.15.2.0009 Douglas, K. (2010). Contesting childhood: Autobiography, trauma and memory. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Ellis, C. (1995). Emotional and ethical quagmires in returning to the field. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 24(1), 68–99. https://doi. org/10.1177/089124195024001003 Ellis, C. (1999). Heartful autoethnography. Qualitative Health Research, 9(5), 669–689. https://doi.org/10.1177/104973299129122153 Ellis, C. (2009). Autoethnography as method. Biography: An Interdisciplinary Quarterly, 32(2), 360–363. https://doi.org/10.1353/bio.0.0097 Ellis, C. (2010). Final negotiations: A story of love and chronic illness. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Ellis, C. (2012). Revisioning an ethnographic life: Integrating a communicative heart with a sociological eye. Studies in Symbolic Interaction, 38, 123–151. https://doi.org/10.1108/S0163-2396(2012)0000038009 Ellis, C., & Patti, C. (2014). With heart: Compassionate interviewing and storytelling with Holocaust survivors. Storytelling, Self, Society, 10(1), 93–118. https://doi.org/10.13110/storselfsoci.10.1.0093 Ellis, C., & Rawicki, J. (2013). Collaborative witnessing of survival during the Holocaust: An exemplar of relational autoethnography. Qualitative Inquiry, 19(5), 366–380. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800413479562 Eyerman, R. (2019). Memory, trauma, and identity. New  York: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-13507-2 Fai, C. Y. (2019). Caring in times of precarity: A study of single woman doing creative work in Shanghai. Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi. org/10.1007/978-3-319-76898-4

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Faulkner, S.  L. (2017). Poetry is politics: An autoethnographic poetry manifesto. International Review of Qualitative Research, 10(1), 89–96. https://doi. org/10.1525/irqr.2017.10.1.89 Gergen, K. (1991). The saturated self. New York: Basic Books. Gergen, K., & Gergen, M. (1988). Narrative and the self as relationship. In Advances in experimental social psychology. Pennsylvania: Academic Press. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0065-2601(08)60223-3 Goodall Jr., H. L. (2000). Writing the new ethnography. Boston: AltaMira Press. Healicon, A. (2016). The politics of sexual violence, rape, identity and feminism. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Hoel, N. (2013). Embodying the field: A researcher’s reflections on power dynamics, positionality and the nature of research relationships. Fieldwork in Religion, 8(1), 27–48. https://doi.org/10.1558/fiel.v8i1.27 Hurka, T. (2013). The goods of friendship. In D.  Caluori (Ed.), Thinking about friendship. London: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1057/ 9781137003997_12 Jago, B.  J. (1996). Postcards, ghosts and fathers: Revising family stories. Qualitative Inquiry, 2, 495–516. https://doi. org/10.1177/107780049600200406 Mackenzie, C., & Atkins, K. (Eds.). (2008). Practical identity and narrative agency. New York: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203937839 Oliver III, J.  D. (2008). Future action research: The relationship of the general and special education teachers in the inclusive setting. Journal of the American Academy of Special Education Professionals, (Winter), 81–91. Retrieved from https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/e500/b0d0118a6ed36ed09c91b3ea80a3f5eafb17.pdf Owton, H. (2017). Doing poetic inquiry (Palgrave studies in creativity and culture). Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-31964577-3 Pacanowski, M. (1988). Slouching toward Chicago. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 74(4), 453–468. https://doi.org/10.1080/00335638809383853 Raab, D. (2013). Transpersonal approaches to autoethnographic research and writing. The Qualitative Report, 18(42), 1–18. Retrieved from https://nsuworks.nova.edu/tqr/vol18/iss21/2 Ronai, C. R. (1994). Multiple reflections of child sex abuse: An argument for a layered account. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 23, 395–425. https:// doi.org/10.1177/089124195023004001

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Ross, F., & Woodfield, S. (2017). Mutuality, metaphor and micropolitics in collaborative governance: A joint venture in UK higher education. Higher Education Quarterly, 71(1), 33–52. https://doi.org/10.1111/hequ.12110 Rusbult, C.  E., Wieselquist, J., Foster, C.  A., & Witcher, B.  S. (1999). Commitment and trust in close relationships. In J. M. Adams & W. H. Jones (Eds.), Handbook of interpersonal commitment and relationship stability. Perspectives on individual differences. Boston, MA: Springer. https://doi. org/10.1007/978-1-4615-4773-0_25 Spry, T. (2017). Who are “we” in performative autoethnography? International Review of Qualitative Research, 10(1), 46–53. https://doi.org/10.1525/ irqr.2017.10.1.46 Stewart, K., & Berlant, L. (2019). Couplets. Women & Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory, 29(3), 199–210. https://doi.org/10.108 0/0740770X.2019.1671105 Tillman-Healy, L. M. (2003). Friendship as method. Qualitative Inquiry, 9(5), 729–749. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800403254894 Van Maanen, J. (1988). Tales of the field. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Yeats, W.  B. (1920). The second coming. Retrieved January 12, 2020, from https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming Yomtoob, D. (2004). Caught in code: Arab American identity, image, and lived reality. In R.  M. Boylorn & M.  P. Orbe (Eds.), Critical autoethnography (pp. 144–158). Thousand Oaks: Left Coast Press.

4 Reconstructing Academic Identities at Risk: Conceptualising Wellbeing and Re-imaging Identities Irina Lokhtina and Mark A. Tyler

Introduction The first decade of the twenty-first century is indicative of the profound changes in the western higher education context that have continued to shape the landscape of academic work. During the last decade academics, entering higher education institutions had experienced a completely different workplace landscape from those who joined higher education thirty years ago. This is because of the existing differences not only in terms of cultural perspectives, but also in terms of exigencies towards academics due to coercive managerialist ideology. A series of studies evidenced the striking transition from elite to mass higher education (Archer, 2008; Kyvik, 2013) that is frequently associated with the changes in the distribution of job roles (McAlpine & I. Lokhtina (*) University of Central Lancashire, Larnaca, Cyprus e-mail: [email protected] M. A. Tyler Griffith University, Mt Gravatt, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_4

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Amundsen, 2009). In particular, there are less permanent positions but more temporary contracts or adjunct positions (Shore & Davidson, 2014; Valsan & Sproule, 2008). Moreover, the influx of managerial practice into higher education as ‘the mode of governance aligned with neoliberalism’ (Lynch, 2013, p. 4) is concerned with much greater control over efficiency leading to increased research productivity (Beckmann & Cooper, 2004; Davies & Thomas, 2002) and a fractured unity between teaching and research (Barnett, 2005). As a result, academics may become the target of both state and non-state stakeholders whose repressive reactions could lead to various forms of manipulative relationships (Tardy & Matsuda, 2009). This neoliberalisation of higher education promulgated consumerism, commodification and materialism and thus, competitiveness and profitability have become hegemonic values that transform the way academics operate (Clarke, 2012; Saunders & Ramirez, 2016). The corollary is therefore, that academics cannot be trusted to work for the common good, but are expected to respond to the preferences of ‘consumers’ (Fredman & Doughney, 2012; Roberts & Peters, 2008). Consumers demand services that are characterised by greater choice and flexibility elucidating their empowering position and thus, transforming academics into service workers (Valsan & Sproule, 2008). However, for education, this model is flawed, due partly to its personal transformative element that has a latent effect on the individual (and society), and partly to, that education was never meant to react to quick changes (in knowledge and skill) based upon consumer whim (Bansel, 2011). These precarious contingencies suggest defining neoliberal press as to some extent a pro-market principle that may legitimately organise the work of academics and reconstitute their identities in an attempt to make their way through a career path. In this chapter, academic identity is conceptualised as complex (Clegg, 2008) and dynamic (James, 2007), involving ongoing deconstruction and reconstruction (Feather, 2016) of the grounded sense of self through reflexive practices that Archer (2000) analyses, but also through the brute experiences of academic life. Thus, this perspective allows us to recognise the process through which structure is mediated by agency (Archer), but at the same time, to consider the impact of brute and social circumstance on academic development, respectively.

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Having acknowledged that academics and neoliberal perspectives are in a state of tension, we will conceptualise academics’ wellbeing and explore the source of impositions on that wellbeing by discussing neoliberal discourses and their impact on the identity positions associated with academic work. In doing so, we adopt Archer’s work on reflexivity, opening up a potential way of examining the identity development of academics and their wellbeing in academic communities, in which changing demands and expectations are prevalent. Consequently, to make sense of how academics navigate precarity and respond to risk-prone situations and challenges of workplaces in constructing their identities, we will present a conceptual model for the exploration of how academics re-image themselves in light of neoliberalism. The development of this model is an attempt to understand better and to elucidate possible proactive strategies that academics develop in order to sustain their wellbeing and to reconstruct robust identities to protect themselves as well as to ameliorate an expressed sense of reduced agency. Finally, we will argue a conceptual framework and possible questions for future elucidation on the topic.

Academic Identity Fenwick and Somerville (2006, p. 249) offer a picture of the ideal neoliberal subject: ‘this is a self-made person, flexible, fast and innovative, infinitely capable and mobile, facing eternal choices and personally accountable for making them and suffering their consequences’. Pervasive and compelling? Maybe, but this type of description is a singularity that does not necessarily represent the complexities of competing identity discourses, nor their interplay with complex and risky social-cultural affordances, nor the subject’s interplay with these affordances, for example, the exercising of agency. The identity work undertaken by academics might be seen as indicative of wider trends, which are underpinned by the neoliberalisation of higher education, and might be concerned with the ongoing reflective construction of the self in response to uncertainty. For most academics, their immediate social context embraces departmental and disciplinary

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communities (Becher & Trowler, 2001). Daily interactions that contribute to the formation of academic identity are not limited to those taking place within the boundaries of disciplines or departments (Kreber, 2010). Alternatively, academics might be considered as ‘cross-boundary professionals’ (Whitchurch, 2008) acting across disciplinary boundaries (James, 2007; Malcolm & Zukas, 2000) or even distancing from the discipline (Clegg, 2008), for example, when academics follow their own pursuits and start their own ventures (Glassman et al., 2003) or engage with non-­ academic spheres of life. As a result, academics may encounter possible tensions between what they perceive as their professional identity and the institutional requirements. Therefore, they may conceptualise themselves as having multiple and sometimes conflicting identities due to the changing sense of academic membership (Wilkins, Busher, Kakos, Mohamed, & Smith, 2012). Archer (2003) acknowledges that the notion of reflexivity as crucial agential capacity to mediate our external world diverges extensively and significantly between people. This has led us to claim that the ways of being an academic could result from the composition of academics’ ‘inner conversations’ about the course of action that articulates the ultimate concerns that define the personal identity (Archer, 2000). Whatever the ‘self-understanding’ (Holland, Lachicotte Jr., Skinner, & Cain, 1998) obtained from these ‘inner conversations’, they are considered by individuals ‘a key means through which people care about and care for what is going on around them’ (Holland et al., 1998, p. 5) and the foundation from which, in this case, academics build new ways of being an academic. Thus, developing an identity, at the same time, is shaped by constant redefinition of self (Davis, 1997) that is seen to be a useful concept in conveying what we mean in relation to academics re-imaging themselves in the face of neoliberal press. Adopting this approach recognises the complexities of identity as part of the development of self that is composed of various competing influences.

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Notions of Wellbeing Seligman’s (2010) five pillars that underpin wellbeing (positive emotion, engagement, positive relationships, meaning and accomplishment) could arguably stand as markers that provide a sense that working life is feeling positive and functioning well. Positive interventions that facilitate the wellbeing of individuals are seen as determined by the environment, for example, when work provides positive feelings and the grist for interest and involvement with valued and connected colleagues; doing worthwhile projects and achieving small victories along the way; and when work constitutes the reality in which individuals are developed. By contrast, precarious academic work and employment may lead to a substantial decline in overall wellbeing. Fredman and Doughney (2012), in considering the impact of neoliberalism on academic life, attest to this position. They have shown how managerial culture, workloads, work status and self-perceived productivity were causal in relation to work satisfaction, and noted that ‘more dissatisfied academics tended to contrast a marketised present to a collegial past’ (Fredman & Doughney, 2012, p. 41). Other authors note alienation from academic roles and a sense of anomie (Beck & Young, 2005) that ruined the sort of work academics want to do in order to feel committed and hence, the experience of real ownership, joy or pleasure is less available. So, if academic wellbeing is considered at risk, what are academics doing in response to this? Some researchers tell that academics are not letting themselves be jeopardised and dispirited by neoliberal culture and practices (Madeloni, 2014; Shore & Davidson, 2014). Some other studies have repeatedly demonstrated that some academics accept, resist and/or work around the perceived or real lack of control, lack of consultation, the greater focus on generating budget surpluses (profit) and an audit culture (Anderson, 2006; Teelken, 2012). There is also evidence that while some academics may express their dissatisfaction with institutional policies, they comply with the demands of performativity in order to stay employed (Leathwood & Read, 2013). Other researchers (see, e.g. Madeloni, 2014; Shore & Davidson, 2014) name academics’ reactions to this state of affairs as

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being degrees of complicity or resistance, suggesting that the latter evokes aggression and sanction from those in administratively powerful positions. If indeed the neoliberal university context implies a turn to consumers, the existing aims, values and governance chain of higher education institutions differ substantially from how things used to work and how academics used to conceive themselves. Academics are turning towards the market demands that universities respond to, in order to differentiate themselves in a competitive marketplace (Saunders & Ramirez, 2016). Consequently, neoliberal-inspired thinking, so dominant in higher education policy discourse, may pose a serious threat to academics’ wellbeing so that academics should work out strategies to mitigate any precarious impacts of neoliberalism on their identity and work. So, if academic identities are ‘under threat’ (Clegg, 2008), what are academics doing to exhibit their ‘sense of self ’ (Archer, 2000)?

Academic Re-imaging We hold the conception that academics re-image their personal and professional identities (Ferguson, 2003) (as opposed to the self-identity, which according to Archer is more fixed) through their ‘reflexive deliberations’, that is, ‘inner conversations’ (Archer, 2000) in response to neoliberal influences. In fact, the conversations individuals have with themselves take the form of an internal dialogue in which they make sense of the world and respond to the wider context that, in turn, may define their attitudes and shape their emerging self (Archer, 2007). Reflexivity for Archer (2007) is an internal dialogue, which regulates the relations of individuals by enabling them to ultimately induce changes in different types of their engagement with and reflecting on the context that surrounds them. The internal conversations are private and unique, containing images and symbols, and the way individuals communicate the outcomes of their internal dialogues with other people will depend on the modes of reflexivity. This is to say that reflexivity is considered to be a common practice to individuals (Archer, 2007), but it is exercised in various degrees depending on the relations people have with their social contexts. From her initial explorative interviews, Archer (2007, 2012)

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distinguishes four modes of reflexivity: communicative, autonomous, meta- and fractured reflexivity. Communicative reflexives are consensus-seeking people who prioritise and value the interests and the opinions that are shared by those who surround them. In other words, their ‘inner conversations’ are strongly intertwined with their external conversations. They seek for opportunities to share their thoughts and receive the approval of others before they act (Archer, 2003). Given the nature of communicative reflexivity, it is often applied in static social contexts (Plumb, 2008). In contrast, autonomous reflexives act in contexts, which are characterised by ‘contextual discontinuity’ (Archer, 2007). They do not require to externalise these conversations and they often rely on their own past experiences and knowledge. They are decisive and self-assured and thus, their inner dialogues are self-contained and outcome-driven. As such, they value less the social order than practical order and their own interest (Archer, 2012). Individuals who encounter autonomous reflexivity prefer embarking on independent courses of actions in order to address their concerns. Meta-­ reflexives, in turn, tend to be sceptical of the external world that often makes them become disconnected from the context (Plumb, 2008). They problematise the social order and tend to find their own position, which might be heavily self-oriented. Fractured reflexivity might be placed in between communicative, autonomous and meta-reflexivity and is considered as involving passivity and inability to chart a course in the world. Fractured reflexives tend to avoid purposeful courses of action (Archer, 2012). In the face of instability and social change, they tend to believe that reflection on actions will not bring any results. While recognising the value of Archer’s conceptualisation of the modes of reflexivity, we argue that academics may determine and amend their actions and begin this re-imaging of themselves through their ‘inner conversations’, including a continuous dialogue about their ultimate concerns, self and commitments (Archer, 2000). Hence, in order to understand what academics do so as to exercise a ‘sense of self ’, it is important to know more about the mode of their ‘inner conversations’ as they may be the tool of re-imaging, deployed by academics in the face of challenges to their wellbeing. Hence, we aim to offer a model that enables the accumulations of answers to the following questions:

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• What are academics’ experiences of neoliberal press?, and • What tools do academics deploy for the maintenance of their wellbeing in the way they perform their work? To seek the answers to these questions we illustrate a proposed conception of how academics might re-image themselves in order to navigate their career. For this reason, we developed a model (Fig. 4.1), which illustrates how academic identity may be formed and developed based on academics’ experiences of precarious and changing work. A detailed explanation of the interrelated parameters follows. At the centre of this model is academic identity, which is serviced through the ‘inner conversations’ that academics have. These ‘inner conversations’ affect academic identity and this influence is conceived as

Performativity

Boundary Work

Accountability

Service worker vs Knowledge Worker

Instrumental Agent vs Individual Agent

Institutional Sanctioning

Consumerism

Other KEY: A neoliberal space Varying sense of wellbeing Varying neoliberal press

Fig. 4.1  Emerging influences of neoliberal practices on academic identity

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flexing across a continuum (possibly robust to fragile) through variations in felt wellbeing. The dual pointed arrows and a broken circle, which circumscribes academic identity in this model, are indicative of this flexing. A way of viewing the nature of this flexing is to consider both the choices and actions of academics that can be premised on a relational interdependence with the context, in which they are involved. The broken circle is highly permeable, suggesting open boundaries between the self and the outside world. Circling academic identity are the practices of neoliberalism. The impact of neoliberal practices on identity may vary significantly between academics due to different modes of reflexivity that they exercise. Neoliberal practices are too circumscribed by a broken circle, which depicts the varying degree of press exerted upon academic identity within various higher education contexts. As previously mentioned, we argue that academics actively position themselves through their ‘inner conversations’, which may induce changes in academic wellbeing and their engagement with the higher education context. Thus, the next stage in the discussion aims to summarise academics’ experiences of neoliberal practices, moving around the circle of the model. According to the model, the neoliberal influences tend to navigate the space between instrumental versus individual agent that accompanies the meaning that academics derive from their work. Given the fundamental transformation of academics into service workers (Valsan & Sproule, 2008) and making them responsive to the outside world appear to challenge their identity whilst attempting to maintain their position as knowledge workers. Research on the neoliberalisation of higher education has revealed that the growing importance of market orientation might induce academic work to be directed towards pre-specified outcomes and financial means (Parker & Jary, 1995; Saunders & Ramirez, 2016; Valsan & Sproule, 2008). Greater managerial power and more emphasis on marketing and competitiveness invite academics to view themselves in a different way that leaves little space for critical scholarship and challenging research activities (Teelken, 2012). The higher education environment looks more daunting under the persistent discourse of ‘publish and perish’ (McGrail, Rickard, & Jones, 2006). In this context, knowledge and freedom may

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remain restricted to the economic realm (Brown, 2015) as a defining feature of neoliberal rationality, which might manipulate integrity issues. Yet, promoting performativity in higher education may lead to increases in the workload of academics by extending their administrative tasks, their focus on customer satisfaction and on the procurement of external funding. Coercive accountability that aims at forcing academics to increase transparency and efficiency of their work does not necessarily result in academic outcomes as worth striving for. Academics are required to obtain new merits and increase the efficiency of all aspects of their work. At the same time, academics might encounter various sanctions (e.g. if they have limited number of publications or these are submitted in low-­ impact journals (Teelken, 2012)). Realising the nature and purpose of publishing, academics may consider this practice intimidating and overwhelming (Tourish, 2011). Another demand of neoliberalism involves an increased massification (Feather, 2016) with unfair distribution of student-teacher interaction and large teaching units leading to more ‘teaching-only’ positions (Locke, 2013). Meanwhile, increased teaching loads of large and diverse groups (Gelade, 2007; Mcwilliam, 2004) require extra professional training for academics at the expense of collegial research. High professional mobility (being voluntary or constrained by institutional demands) contributes to re-imaging academic identities due to the fact that academics are acting as cross-boundary agents being more involved, for example, in multidisciplinary research and different teaching cultures (Malcolm & Zukas, 2000). Even though the proposed model is bounded by a solid perimeter, this is not meant to suggest that the context is closed and impermeable but what it represents is the pervasive, almost given, influence of neoliberal discourse in the higher education context. The model demonstrates that neoliberal practices, which are organised around the constant surveillance, auditing and assessment have left academics negotiating new performance-­based identities. Each example of neoliberal practices, as demonstrated in the model, suggests that the changing nature of academic work continues to actively shape identities as academics experience precariousness and loss of exclusiveness that can impede their

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commitment to workplaces (Davies & Thomas, 2002) and deteriorate their wellbeing. Academics’ choice of how to position themselves depends on the outcomes of their ‘inner conversations’ about who they are and how they consider precarious circumstances around them (Archer, 2003). These ‘inner conversations’ of academics, as a matter of practising reflexivity, have a bearing on identity and, in turn, can be considered as a way of responding to the challenges of neoliberal discourse and navigating precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty about their work. The responses of academics to these neoliberal practices are indicative of the mixed and diverse nature, varying from acceptance and coercive complicity to resistance. We predict that academics experiencing these neoliberal influences may re-image themselves, and that this work is undertaken through the mentioned ‘inner conversations’ that may be conceptualised, on a personal level, as a tool that may help academics to maintain their wellbeing.

Conclusion Evaluating and applying the provided model is important in the efforts to advance a shared research agenda for examining academic identity as a multifaceted phenomenon. Having considered previous studies on academic identity, one element which is often ignored is the dynamic nature of identity that may lead individuals to re-imaging themselves through their constant engagement in reflexive practices or ‘inner conversations’. As a result, the proposed model can help to answer the following research questions as part of future elucidation on wellbeing and identity positions associated with academic work: • What are the main circumstances that lead academics to re-­ imaging of self? • How do academics articulate their ‘inner conversations’ through action? Even though the model opens up a potential way of examining academic identity development that elucidates on academic re-imaging in the face of neoliberal press, we need to consider a number of apparent

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limitations, which could also be addressed by future research. The first problem is that neoliberal practices circling academic identity in this model are diverse but not exhaustive. This is because the focus of this model is not to categorise these practices, but rather to describe how academics may find themselves in a constant struggle of re-imaging their identity in response to uncertainty and precarious employment. In addition, we do not want to constrain the existing neoliberal influences to a predetermined list, because the flow and flux of these practices may depend on national policies and culture. Also, some neoliberal practices may have more relevance to early career stages (e.g., institutional sanctioning, increased teaching loads), whereas other practices (e.g., securing research funding, boundary work) may be more common throughout or at more advanced career stages. Addressing such challenges may result in developing supportive activities that may be essential to academic wellbeing that is negotiated on a daily basis. In conclusion, adding to the wider debate about managerialism in higher education and wellbeing, the conceptual model is suggested as an illustration of possible tensions between what academics perceive as their identity and the institutional requirements, which may put their identities at risk. The next phase of this conceptualising is to bring the model to bear—put it to work with empirical data and test its warrant. By doing so, we seek to add to the existing literature about varying sense of academic wellbeing and the possibility of ‘inner conversations’ (Archer, 2007, 2012) as a tool that may help academics to re-image themselves and maintain their wellbeing.

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5 When Faith is on the Line: Exploring the Personal Risks and Rewards of Transformative Learning Rian Roux

Introduction “I’m intellectually offended by you”. These were the words of a PhD student and objectivist thinker when he realised that I (a then first-year applied science student) believed in God. I was shocked at first. He was comfortable in the academic environment and relished a fervent debate with any and all willing participants. He was broadly read, intelligent and incredibly articulate. Academically speaking he was my superior in many ways, and I felt the weight of his challenges profoundly. He was committed to the task of educating me and delivering me from the faith-based delusions he believed I had unwittingly absorbed from my parents. He had the ability to quote large portions of the work of Ayn Rand from memory and his mission was nothing less than the transformation of my most deeply held assumptions, values and beliefs.

R. Roux (*) University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_5

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One argument at a time, one discipline after the other, through science and empirical evidence, to logic, philosophy and history, to sociology, anthropology and psychology, the reasons why I “may just as well believe in the Fairy God-mother or Santa Claus” were presented to me. I tried to genuinely hear him. To open my mind and to listen. We talked regularly in our college dormitory and the discussions would last for hours, enduring late into the night. He argued persuasively, and sometimes I offered a weak rebuttal, but mostly I had nothing particularly coherent to say. And I knew this. His intellectual challenge was working and the “education” was somehow shifting me. I was feeling disoriented and confused, facing questions that pushed me to the threshold of something unknown (Berger, 2004). It felt like an academic process in some ways, yet it was also intensely personal and meaningful. I was in the throes of deconstructing my own sense of reality and meaning, and re-evaluating what I believed was true and untrue of me, my family and the world at-large. This particular relationship in my first year of university would prove to be significant in my life. It ushered me into a process of personal change, which was at various times painful, confusing, enthralling and rich. Fourteen years later and I find myself in the middle of my own PhD studies whilst working professionally in Higher Education. My research focuses on the development of an evidence-based approach to the place, theory and practice of student leadership development for contemporary Australasian higher education institutions. Central to this study is a critical engagement with transformative learning theory and the philosophical assumptions pertaining to it. Transformative learning theory can be conceived of as an analytic meta-theory which encapsulates a learning phenomenon that results in “significant and irreversible changes in the way a person experiences, conceptualizes, and interacts with the world” (Hoggan, 2016, p. 71). Even though this topic does not focus directly on the subject of personal faith, it is relevant to it, for it explores perceptions of reality and notions of truth and how these ideas might influence the formation of personal identity and worldview. As a scholar I am biographically situated. My background informs how I am placed in the context of my study, how I relate to others and how I interpret and express my findings (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2015). I cannot deny this, and as a researcher, it is my “task and challenge to

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reflect upon this” (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2017, p. 14). Reflexive practice involves turning the lens examination upon myself (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2015) and it poses two important questions. Firstly, have I considered the potential personal cost of researching a topic which relates to my fundamental beliefs and values? Secondly, am I prepared to maintain a professional degree of critical distance from my subject matter, allowing the evidence to guide me and my colleagues to challenge me? Through an autobiographical lens, this chapter will explore the value of an open mind, the potential of personal disorientation, the process of transformation and the emotional and psycho-social risks and rewards associated with researching a topic that may result in transformative learning.

From UQ to USQ—Via the World Sometimes it takes a catalytic event or sequence of events in order to initiate genuine self-reflection and open-mindedness. In my case, the first few months of study at the University of Queensland (UQ) spelt the beginning of a process in which I significantly questioned what I thought I knew, in order to see “familiar things from a different perspective” (Cranton, 2016, p. 143). Yet, this was only the start of my journey, as my initial taste of self-awareness only stirred a hunger for more. I subsequently ventured on a solo around the world expedition in order to further broaden my horizons. The story is long and convoluted, but suffice to say I was thoroughly challenged, and India, in particular, left its mark. After making my way through rural Indian communities on rickety old buses, I finally reached the foothills of the Himalayas. The destination had necessitated a degree of exposure to realities I had never seen before. I witnessed suffering and disease on a scale that distressed me. I was alone, I was vulnerable and the questions which were catalysed earlier in the year were now reaching fever point. I was surrounded by Buddhist prayer flags, Muslim mosques and Hindu temples. There were also Christian churches and a plethora of organisations and governmental initiatives which were simultaneously attempting to engage with the world and its people—in one way or another.

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The power of a worldview dawned on me in a sudden way. What I believed about myself, others and the world at-large was not simply personal, but social. Therefore, I came to realise that there exists a moral gravity to the process of formation and subsequent manifestation of my ideas. For me, India made this crystal clear—ideas have consequences, and must be taken seriously (Nau, 2011). I would later discover that this important connection between beliefs and actions had been highlighted in educational literature by Jack Mezirow (2018), in what has become known as his cognitive-rational conception of transformative learning (Cranton, 2016). This depiction of transformative learning can be described as: the process by which we transform problematic frames of reference (mindsets, habits of mind, meaning perspectives)—sets of assumption and expectation—to make them more inclusive, discriminating, open, reflective and emotionally able to change. Such frames are better because they are more likely to generate beliefs and opinions that will prove more true or justified to guide action. (Mezirow, 2018, p. 116)

After India, my interest in how ideas, people and systems of society interact could not be abated. I continued travelling extensively over the following years, roaming across the Asia-Pacific, Africa, Europe, North America and the Middle-East. I pursued further studies in Education and Divinity, and I spent an eye-opening year at Oxford studying Theology. Again and again, the importance of the process and outcomes of personal formation and indeed, trans-formation were impressed upon me. Perhaps it was in studying the trickle effect of theories that began in the academy (or other institutions of influence), but eventually made their way powerfully into the waters of mainstream society. Maybe it was witnessing kids growing up in rubbish heaps, women caught in sexual slavery, or entire families living in leprosy colonies. Maybe it was the remnants of the holocaust, or the museums that housed grotesque instruments of human torture, or the vast numbers of people seeking refuge from corrupted dictatorships or tribal warfare. Or perhaps, conversely, it was the impact and possibilities of good leadership, or the beauty and wonder that I saw in rich and ancient cultural traditions. Perhaps it was

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something more personal still. Something along the lines of the fierce love and feelings of protection I experienced when my children were born. However it has occurred, I have become deeply invested in the topic of transformative learning, for I believe it is of tremendous personal and social concern. Over the years I began to see some inadequacies in the version of reality that the PhD student had proposed to me in my first year at UQ. The process of genuinely opening my mind to alternative perspectives had taught me that ideas are not as easily parsed out as my objectivist interlocutor had suggested. I found instead that joining the dots of data and making sense of things can be a complicated affair. Ideas, it seemed to me were often formed, not simply through objective evidence and logical thinking, but through the relative experiences of our own lives, not to mention the generations that preceded us. I came to believe that some of our strongest beliefs and values are forged through crucibles of challenge and the practical necessities of survival. They are constructed within the messiness of our interactions with others and within the broader systems of society (Sire, 2010, p. 41). Although I developed a strong sympathy to the constructivist premise that there “are no universal truths” (Taylor, 2017, p. 17), I also came to believe that such a proposition is in itself actually a truth claim about reality. A brief digression into the notion of truth is relevant here, because the topic has had a profound impact on both my personal process of change, as well as the formulation of my current research design. Over time I have learnt that having an open mind is not just about being willing to receive challenges from others regarding my fundamental convictions, but about carefully engaging with the ideas themselves. I discovered that this required a holistic framework for sense making. To this end, I have incorporated a test of truth into a theoretical paradigm of transformative learning, which I am testing as part of my PhD project at the University of Southern Queensland (USQ). The process involves an evaluation of the coherent and correspondent quality (theories of truth) of new or revised beliefs and it has helped me enormously in attempting to evaluate the warrants of various perspectives that I encountered along my path. For instance, it wasn’t enough to say that certain Holocaust deniers were wrong, I needed to explore good reasons why that was actually so.

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Over the years, I have undergone an incremental process of change and now hold a set of revised and reconstructed beliefs, values and perspective on reality, knowledge and truth. Yet, I am not alone in this. Every researcher is biographically situated, as we have all walked a particular path of life (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2017). When it came to reviewing educational research literature, which is my field, I realised that personal perspectives of truth are often neglected, even though they are inherent to discourse (Habermas, 1976; Mezirow, 2018) and research design (Bridges, 1999). To me, this seemed problematic, for surely a researcher’s preconceptions of these matters is a caveat worth acknowledging as we report on our various conclusions, and publish our ideas to the world (Malterud, 2001). In the spirit of transparency, I will briefly outline my own perspective on these issues as they relate to my conceptual framework for student leadership development and transformative learning.

 xiology, Ontology, Epistemology A and Methodology Three interrelated personal beliefs and values provide the basis for the research design of my current study. The first is the belief that all people are inherently free and equal in dignity and status as articulated in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (Assembly, 1948). This belief informs the value of inclusion, which insists that all people, without distinction of any kind, may participate in the peaceful discussion of ideas. This means that, at the “table of conversation”, effort should be made for all voices to be equally heard, for no voices should be privileged nor oppressed. The second belief is that human beings are capable of voluntarily and rationally discussing ideas with free will and creative agency within social environments (Cohen, Manion, & Morrison, 2013). This assumption lays the foundations for meaningful dialogue, which has the potential to change individual mindsets through the contestation of ideas and the encouragement of critical reflection. The third belief is that the Socratic method of learning is beneficial for fostering democratic

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citizenship (Villa, 2001). This belief informs the value of openness and the view that transformative learning outcomes should not be predetermined according to any particular political, religious or corporate agenda. The research design rests on a realist ontology, which assumes an objective nature to reality. With this position, it is supposed that objects have an independent existence that is not dependent on individual cognition (Burrell & Morgan, 1979). Knowledge in this design is approached through the lens of a post-positivist epistemology. With this position, the idea of an objective or detached observer is rejected, and it is assumed that knowledge can be understood only through particular frames of cognitive reference. In this way, knowledge of the world is approached as conjectural, falsifiable, challengeable and changing (Cohen et al., 2013, p. 27). Based upon these philosophical assumptions, a mixed methods methodology is adopted for theory building and theory testing. From this position, quantitative and qualitative approaches are seen as compatible, and even as complementary (Ercikan & Roth, 2006). The risk inherent to this project is in the submission of some of my fundamental convictions to the rigorous process of empirical research and peer review. In other words, it is not just the coherency of my ultimate thesis on the line, but the coherency of some of my most deeply held personal beliefs and values. This leads me back to the initial questions. Am I willing to incorporate a genuinely reflexive element within my research methodology, practicing explicit (though incomplete) self-­ awareness as I prepare for, conduct and report on my research (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2015)? Am I prepared to be challenged in this regard and keep a critical distance from the subject matter, even if it requires me to endure the emotional and psycho-social impacts that may result?

Emotional Risk My research holds the potential to create a personal sense of disorientation, for it might require me to re-evaluate my prior assumptions and perspectives. This may lead to a process of transformation similar to the ones I have previously endured, or it may lead to something more

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extreme, like the dissolution of my sense of self. Herein lies a significant risk, for it has been demonstrated that such experiences do not always lead to personal growth and self-development (Smith & Kempster, 2019). There is often a dark side to the process of transformative learning, a traumatic outcome which is far from positive or benign (Morrice, 2012). The emotional risks of identity deconstruction involves learning not just who and what we are, but who and what we are not—leading to a shift in ontological conceptions of self (p.  267). Such experiences encompass a disturbing and unsettling process of unlearning what we thought we knew and what we believed to be true and important (Dunn, 2011). For these reasons, it is imperative to recognise that transformative experiences involve a significant degree of risk, due to the fact that they are not as straightforward as simply building upon previous learning (Morrice, 2012). The heuristic of “epistemological shudders” has been proposed as a type of “productive aporia” which can serve researchers well as they decontextualise assumptions and shift their personal lens of sense making (Charteris, 2014, p. 105). Similar to what has been described as a “disorienting dilemma” by Mezirow (2018, p.  118) this cognitive dissonance has the potential to illuminate new understandings to enhance practice—although it may also involve personal anxiety and confusion (Charteris, 2014). From a personal perspective, the idea of actively pursuing research that may involve such significant personal consequences feels precarious and somewhat cavalier. The cost, it seems to me must be sensibly considered. From my experience, the process of personal deconstruction can be extremely challenging. The act of questioning a host of my fundamental convictions felt like pulling a thread and watching the sweater unravel around me. What once gave me warmth and comfort was now at risk of disappearing. I found that the cognitive dissonance present during such periods of disorientation would only lessen once I had sat in uncertainty and wrestled long enough to find meaningful answers to my pressing questions. Yet, this required of me a willingness to be patient, and to endure the uncomfortable stages of confusion and doubt. For me, the decision to engage in such a process was, and still is, fundamentally a question about the value of an open mind. Am I willing to broaden my

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horizons, learn from others and admit when I am wrong? Am I willing to change my ways or am I only accepting information which I want to believe or that suits prevailing narratives of which I am a beneficiary? Is my personal bias acting like a dogmatic lens, colouring my world and leading me to prematurely dismiss alternative points of view, however valid they may be? These are difficult questions, and they take an emotional toll. I remember on one occasion I was reflecting on research around the psycho-­ somatic functioning of human beings as I was keen to learn more about how physical experiences related to psychological conditioning. Yet, for me, this question was far more than academic. How many of the personal experiences to which I had ascribed some spiritual or super-natural significance were perfectly explainable by natural processes? To engage authentically with questions like these felt like walking into a pitch-black room, unsure of who or what I would find. Yet, in time, with reflection, discourse, dialogue and support (Cranton, 2016), the sweater of my worldview was knitted together again, albeit with slightly different patterns. And with this, the warmth returned. What began with a personal process disorientation and deconstruction was followed by a slow phase of reconstruction. It wasn’t enough to just uncover what things were not, intuitively, the next step was always to pursue a discovery of what things are. Research has demonstrated that when a person’s biographical repertoire is insufficient to make sense of a situation, a distinct motivation to learn more and to re-establish personal harmony occurs (Jarvis, 2006, p. 77). It has even been argued that the need to overcome “a sense of disjuncture” is the greatest learning need a person can experience (p. 78). I can personally attest to this. For all the challenges associated with undergoing transformative learning, I have also found a rich emotional reward. A feeling of authenticity and honesty and, perhaps paradoxically, I have found an empowering sense of humility. Through my personal experiences I learnt not to fear uncertainty and complexity, but to walk through it very slowly and carefully, and to actively seek personal support and wisdom along the way. The role of my supervising team has been critical in this regard. They assisted me in navigating and validating both the personal and academic nature of my research. I recall an early conversation with my principal

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supervisor in which I attempted to explain how my project came about, and why I felt it was important. Not only was my biographical situatedness respected, but I was encouraged to express and expand upon my learning in a rigorous and authentic manner. I believe the degree to which colleagues and supervisors support not only the academic outcomes of our work, but the researcher themselves positively influences the mitigation of the emotional risks which can be associated with research (Machin & Parsons-Smith, 2019). In my experience a team, or professional community (both formal and informal), can play an important role in providing some academic accountability and guidance in regard to maintaining a critical distance to the subject matter. More personally, they also provide me with conversational partners to discuss questions and concerns as they arise. This is important, for oftentimes, the topics of concern are not as accessible to other friends and family who may not be as exposed to the scholarly disciplines at hand.

Psycho-social Risk In addition to the emotional risks, there is a distinct second risk associated with researching a topic in which one is personally invested. If transformative learning was to occur and the researcher were to undertake a shift in the way that they “experience, conceptualise and interact with the world” (Hoggan, 2016, p. 71), it could create a systemic impact in terms of relational reach beyond the context of the study (Smith & Kempster, 2019, p. 321). In this regard, such projects could also be described as a “pedagogy of the unknowable” (Ellsworth, 1989, p. 321). For me, not knowing how my research might impact the way I relate to others, perhaps even those closest to me, is a seriously uncomfortable notion. Furthermore, the way I as a researcher, may impact the participants in my study is another dimension of risk which must be carefully considered (C. B. Neumann & Neumann, 2017). At this point, it is worth pausing my story to note that for some researchers the psycho-social risk is severe. “Scholars at Risk” is an international network of institutions and individuals whose mission is to protect scholars and promote academic freedom (SAR, 2020a). In the recent

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“Free to think, 2019” report this network describes an alarming frequency with which attacks occur against academics across the world (SAR, 2020b). The report highlights various killings, act of violence and disappearances; wrongful prosecution and imprisonment; loss of position and expulsion from study and improper travel restrictions (p. 2). They also note circumstances of mass imprisonment of students, academics and other members of ethnic minority communities at so called re-education camps (p.  3). According to the Global Coalition to Protect Education from Attack (GCPEA, 2020), these types of events may occur for “political, military, ideological, sectarian, ethnic, religious or criminal reasons” (p. 1). In some contexts, it is clear that the act of researching with an open mind, exploring alternative perspectives and subsequently publishing one’s findings and convictions may entail considerable risk. In my particular situation, I do not fear the extremes of the above-mentioned scenarios, however I am well aware that not everybody who is pursuing research initiatives is as fortunate. Regardless of my comparatively low risk in relation to other scholars, the possibility of pscyho-social consequences from my research is still of concern to me. From the initial challenge I received from the PhD student, through the years of travelling, working and studying, I have always questioned the moral and social dimension of my life—“How then should I live?” Indeed, as I have endured the various transformative experiences over the past fourteen years, I have developed a growing realisation of my privileges, a deeper awareness of my failings and a stronger sense of personal responsibility. These learnings and a desire to make a positive contribution to society impelled me to pursue a career in Higher Education in the first place. I mention this, because the very idea of undergoing significant (and unknowable) change in my psycho-social existence is one which immediately causes in me a degree of hesitation and fear. Herein lies the risk-laden nature of transformative learning for me. It is my contention that personal trans-formation necessitates an explicit and extensive engagement with deeply sensitive subjective matter, and the ramifications could impact not only me, but those around me. When I consider the amount of support and sacrifice that I have received in pursuing my doctoral studies, and reflect upon our collective

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expectations, I would be devastated to think that I could disappoint the people I love the most. If I had the ability to forecast such psycho-social impact—I would find the decision to proceed with my research very difficult indeed. Yet, here I am in the middle of a project which deals explicitly with some of my most deeply held convictions. The reason I am willing to continue is because I have a degree of confidence in the subject matter, and a social network (both professional and personal) which is incredibly supportive, and with which I have established relationships of honesty. Thus, for me, the key mitigating elements against psycho-social risk are a quiet confidence in my work, and the good fortune to enjoy extremely open and authentic relationships. Yet I am aware, nevertheless, that the outcomes and social impact of this project are relatively unknown. In my experience, the potential psycho-social risks and rewards of undergoing transformative learning have been closely connected. Although I feared what could happen relationally if I departed from my fundamental beliefs and values, I have found that the greater my personal openness (with a degree of wisdom), the more meaningful and supportive my relationships have become. Again, I am speaking strictly from my own, very fortunate experience, and I am aware that the psycho-social risks may be far greater for other researchers who find themselves in a different context altogether.

Conclusion It was my intention to explore the personal risks and rewards associated with researching a topic which may result in transformative learning. Although, as I have explained, there are significant challenges to a critical engagement with topics in which one is personally invested, it has also been my experience that there can be considerable rewards. I have learnt the rich value of maintaining an open mind to alternative perspectives, even when I am challenged to reconsider beliefs which are deeply personal to me. I have also become convinced that a general and genuine openness to dialogue with others is particularly important within our broader culture, in which there is increasing discourse of conflict centred on disagreement over values, beliefs and ideologies (McGregor, 2004).

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Indeed, through a professional commitment to reflexivity, which necessitates the explicit, even if incomplete, practice of self-awareness, we can undertake empathetic research and contribute positively to important issues facing our society.

References Assembly, U.  G. (1948). Universal declaration of human rights. UN General Assembly. Berger, J. G. (2004). Dancing on the threshold of meaning: Recognizing and understanding the growing edge. Journal of Transformative Education, 2(4), 336–351. https://doi.org/10.1177/1541344604267697 Bridges, D. (1999). Educational research: Pursuit of truth or flight into fancy? British Educational Research Journal, 25(5), 597–616. https://doi. org/10.1080/0141192990250503 Burrell, G., & Morgan, G. (1979). Sociological paradigms and organizational analysis. London, UK: Heinemann. Charteris, J. (2014). Epistemological shudders as productive aporia: A heuristic for transformative teacher learning. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 13(1), 104–121. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940691401300102 Cohen, L., Manion, L., & Morrison, K. (2013). Research methods in education. Melbourne, VIC, Australia: Routledge. Retrieved from https://ebookcentralproquest-com.ezproxy.usq.edu.au Cranton, P. (2016). Understanding and promoting transformative learning: A guide to theory and practice. Sterling, VA: Stylus Publishing. Dunn, E. (2011). Towards transformation in management education: Telling the managers’ tales. Lancaster, UK: Lancaster University. Ellsworth, E. (1989). Why doesn’t this feel empowering? Working through the repressive myths of critical pedagogy. Harvard Educational Review, 59(3), 297–325. https://doi.org/10.17763/haer.59.3.058342114k266250 Ercikan, K., & Roth, W. M. (2006). What good is polarizing research into qualitative and quantitative? Educational Researcher, 35(5), 14–23. https://doi. org/10.3102/0013189X035005014 GCPEA. (2020). The problem. Retrieved from http://www.protectingeducation.org/what-attack-education Habermas, J. (1976). Some distinctions in universal pragmatics: A working paper. Theory and Society, 3(2), 155–167. https://doi.org/10.1007/ BF00161675

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Hoggan, C.  D. (2016). Transformative learning as a metatheory: Definition, criteria, and typology. Adult Education Quarterly, 66(1), 57–75. https://doi. org/10.1177/0741713615611216 Jarvis, P. (2006). Towards a comprehensive theory of human learning (Lifelong Learning and the Learning Society) (Vol. 1). London, UK: Routledge. Machin, T.  M., & Parsons-Smith, R.  L. (2019). Experiencing the journey together: The role of social support during the doctorate. In Traversing the doctorate (pp. 269–285). Berlin, Germany: Springer Nature. Malterud, K. (2001). Qualitative research: standards, challenges, and guidelines. The Lancet, 358(9280), 483–488. https://doi.org/10.1016/S01406736(01)05627-6 McGregor, C. (2004). Care(full) deliberation: A pedagogy for citizenship. Journal of Transformative Education, 2(2), 90–106. https://doi. org/10.1177/1541344603262319 Mezirow, J. (2018). Transformative learning theory (2nd ed.). London, UK: Routledge. Morrice, L. (2012). Learning and refugees: Recognizing the darker side of transformative learning. Adult Education Quarterly, 63(3), 251–271. https://doi. org/10.1177/0741713612465467 Nau, H.  R. (2011). Ideas have consequences: The Cold War and today. International Politics, 48(4–5), 460–481. https://doi.org/10.1057/ip.2011.19 Neumann, C. B., & Neumann, I. B. (2015). Uses of the self: Two ways of thinking about scholarly situatedness and method. Millennium, 43(3), 798–819. https://doi.org/10.1177/0305829815576818 Neumann, C. B., & Neumann, I. B. (2017). Power, culture and situated research methodology: Autobiography, field, text. London, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. SAR. (2020a). About. Retrieved from https://www.scholarsatrisk.org/about/ SAR. (2020b). Free to think 2019: Report of scholars at risk academic freedom monitoring project. Retrieved from https://www.scholarsatrisk.org/bytype/ resources/ Sire, J.  W. (2010). Why should anyone believe anything at all? Westmont, IL: InterVarsity Press. Smith, S., & Kempster, S. (2019). In whose interest? Exploring care ethics within transformative learning. Management Learning, 50, 1350507618822316. https://doi.org/10.1177/1350507618822316 Taylor, E. W. (2017). Transformative learning theory. In A. Laros, T. Fuhr, & E. W. Taylor (Eds.), Transformative learning meets bildung: An international exchange (pp. 363–384). London, UK: Springer. Villa, D. (2001). Socratic citizenship (Vol. 31). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

6 The Risky Responsibility of Doctoral Writing as Grief Work: Lessons Learnt Whilst Journeying with Trauma in Australia Deborah L. Mulligan

Not all researchers begin their doctoral journeys from a position of physical/spiritual/emotional stability. This chapter provides an evocative autoethnographical (Adams, 2017) account of the author’s traumatic lived experience and the impact it had on my decision to begin a PhD. I offer this storytelling (Adams & Manning, 2015) as a means of expanding our knowledge base around the much underrated sensitivities of the research practitioner. This position of “insider knowledge” (Jones, Adams, & Ellis, 2013, p. 30) enables me to present the lessons learnt from my journey as a series of strategies that may help others engage with the risk for the researcher associated with the duality of psychological tensions—that of experiencing the pressures involved in the multifaceted effects of ongoing traumatic loss (in my case, loss of a child), coupled with the pressures of producing a valuable and rigorous body of scholarship.

D. L. Mulligan (*) University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_6

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Trauma symptomology in the form of grief can include feelings of emotional indifference, incredulity, self-blame, powerlessness, remorse, desolation, loneliness, exasperation, resentment, relationship shifts (headspace.org.au). The expression ‘grief work’ was first used by psychiatrist Erich Lindemann in the 1940s. It refers to the “psychological process of coping with a significant loss” (Blatner, 2005). A decade ago, I unwillingly joined the group that no parent wants to be in. My child, Rory, died of cancer. He had just turned 19. For my son, cancer was a slow and painfully brutal passage to death. A third-party observer could define this time as heartbreakingly emotional. As a mother, there are no words to describe the effect of my son’s illness and eventual death on myself and my family. My husband, my daughter and I cared for him, nursed him, loved him and in the end he died. Four became three and we were left to carry on without his physical presence in our lives. This is my story—I do not presume to write of the emotions of the rest of my family. James (2015) distinguished the difference between the terms ‘trauma’ and ‘grief ’. Nominally, trauma is an event. Grief constitutes the response to the traumatic incident. This is the term of reference that will be utilised within this chapter. Like a silent assassin, the result of a traumatic experience has multiple guises and multiple methods of attack. The physical threat may be gone but no amount of watchfulness will save you from the enemy within. Inevitably, you are left to navigate your way through the maze of terrifying and bewildering emotions as best you can. This was the emotional landscape I was negotiating when I began my PhD six months after my son died. Studying became my grief work in that it became a mechanism through which I could deflect my psychological torment. Grief is precarious in nature. It is a shadowy thing that clings single-­ mindedly to your core. It forces the confident, positive person you once were to acquiesce to the uncertain, fragile being that exists in the aftermath of a traumatic episode. Grief is treacherous in its precarity. At the height of its power, it can literally bring people to their knees with its dominance. Then with time, as its power wanes, it returns full force— unexpectedly, cripplingly—to remind you that peace is an illusion. It

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blasts its way into the forefront of your mind daring you to submit, daring you to push it away. Risk is a shapeshifter. What may constitute risky behaviour one day may be benign the next. Yesterday my writing was a mess of ill-formed argument, should I take a risk and try to send my supervisor a draft today? Yesterday I could not speak intelligibly, today my thought processes are flowing and I am articulate. Should I take the risk and attend the meeting that my supervisor graciously invited me to? I don’t want to embarrass myself or my supervisor if my ability to reason fails and I appear to be an academic neophyte. The aftermath of a traumatic event such as the death of your child is a risky time for a griever. The ground has shifted and emotional landslides are commonplace. Grief and risk form an unholy alliance with a singular goal—destabilisation of mind, body, soul. To subdue (as victory is so seldom an option) this coalition of forces requires the griever to work… hard. It has been my experience that contemporary society regards the process of grief as a pathological condition which must be worked through as quickly as possible for the benefit of all stakeholders and observers. Grief manifestations such as those described in the preceding paragraphs are confusing, uncomfortable and confronting for friends, family members and onlookers who only wish that the ‘afflicted’ individual would ‘get back to normal’ as soon as decently possible. This is the modern Western paradox of grief. We note intellectually that it is essential to grieve but emotionally we do not want to allow the griever the public space to do so. It is one of society’s most persistent myths that time is a great healer. There should be a caveat that time can be constructive or destructive when it comes to grief. Time put to productive use can heal to a point, beyond which the griever is left to continue as best they can. Grief ownership is a fundamental human conundrum. It is similar to a ‘choose your own adventure’ story that I used to read to my son. Many grievers turn to writing their emotions, using their grief as a muse in order to create meaning around the untimely passing of loved ones. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay entitled ‘Experience’ (1844) chronicles his grief around the death of his son Waldo. Christian philosopher

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Nicholas Wolterstorff penned ‘Lament for a Son’ (1987) after his son died from a mountaineering misadventure. Kerry Alderuccio (2018) described the awakening of her mediumship abilities after the death of her son in a car accident. I admire these authors. Grief is paralyzing. I could not frame a cohesive, readable text that would explain the depth of my anguish. I own my grief; it is righteous. It is built on those spider-silk strong intangible webs of love and commitment. But I also deserve to live as best I can with the constant spectre of the absence of his physical presence. Erich Lindemann cited three tasks involved in grief work. These included freeing oneself from the intense relationship bond with the deceased loved one, adjusting to the new situation which includes the absence of the loved one and creating new relationship networks (Williams, 2017). Personally, I find the idea of freedom from my relationship with my son to be an abhorrence. Rather, in order to survive the extreme emotional conditions, I found it necessary to subscribe to Lindemann’s notions of adjusting and creating. These concepts formed the impetus of my enrolment in a PhD. I had found an avenue for my grief work. The creation of writing a thesis unrelated to the death of my son forced me to adjust to the twin traumas of death and loss. The fact that the thesis topic was completely separate from my personal circumstance allowed me brief respite from my reality. After Rory died, I sat at home for six months. The first intense stage of my grief work had begun. My survival routine was fixed. I got out of bed, dressed, took my daughter to school (she was in her final year of high school), came home, and then sat in a chair and mourned my loss. At a certain time, I left the chair, collected my daughter from school, came home, cooked dinner, went to bed and mourned until daylight when it was time for the cycle to begin again. Then, gradually, I realised that I was withdrawing from life and from my remaining family. I had lost my connections to those I hold dearest and to my sense of self. Another loss. Oyserman, Elmore and Smith (2012) claim that “Identities are orientating” (p. 69). They provide an underpinning for the manner in which we make meaning of our lives. They are intentional and purposeful— they are who we are in the past, present and future. Our identity

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is multifaceted and can be shaped by a number of factors in a variation of social and personal circumstances. These include our relationships with others, our profession, our assumptions around spiritualism, our capacity to live a financially independent life, our ability to be physically autonomous and finally, our general philosophies on life (Williams, 2018). Of the six identity factors, I was in deficit of four. Thankfully my finances were stable, as was my general physical condition. So who was I? Well, I was, as ever, a mother. I would pursue my dreams from the ‘before’ and create a place for myself in the ‘after’. My new normal is a life without my son but thankfully and gratefully with my daughter. I will go on because I owe it to her to be my best self so that she can be hers. I will create meaning and identity for myself because, in the end, we have to believe in ourselves. It would do no good to thrust the responsibility of my identity onto my daughter. She does not deserve to have her own stunted by my apathy. I am her mother, not her child. This realisation was the catalyst for stage 2 of my grief work. I took a risk and contacted my previous supervisor and requested a revised doctoral placement. I had begun a doctorate prior to my son’s illness. Fortunately for me, he unreservedly agreed to work with me again and I was duly enrolled. My new doctorate consisted of four units of preliminary course work. I took two full years to complete these units—one each semester. The irony of taking such an extended period of time to complete only four core units was not lost on me. I may have been unemployed at the time but I was still working full time on my mental health. Now my grief work had expanded to include the elements of conquering my inner trauma demons and succeeding in my study, albeit at a slow pace. The latter was not without its own particularlised issues. Whilst I was relearning how to focus on academic writing, my supervisor was exploring options for the engagement of a secondary/associate supervisor. This was a risky business for him as the act of including a third person in my PhD publicly signalled that he was investing in my precarious academic future and inviting others to do so. There were no certainties at that time that I would be able to live up to his expectations. We met with a possible candidate with whom my supervisor had collaborated successfully on numerous occasions. Instinctively I knew that this person was not a fit for me at that time. Bastalich (2017) referred to

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the “delicate balance” (p. 1147) supervisors require when deciding upon the level of intervention they should apply with their PhD students. I realised from the outset that there would be a power imbalance in our relationship that would unsettle the tremulous hold I had established over my mental health and I was uncomfortable about the balance of our future collaboration. I was torn as I greatly respected my principal supervisor and did not wish to question his judgement. Unfortunately, I had allowed the paperwork to be formalised and I felt committed. At the same time, I was sporadically attending a post graduate group run by another professor at the university who was a very busy and highly respected member of the university faculty. As chance would have it, one afternoon during an impromptu after-meeting walk out to the carpark, I told him about my dilemma. He was very positive about my situation and informed me that for various reasons it was not uncommon for students to swap supervisors. And then he took a risk and threw me a lifeline—he offered to take on the role of my secondary supervisor. I now had two mentors who believed in me at a time in my life when I struggled to believe in myself. Stage 3 of my grief work was about to begin. I had no particular topic in mind when I began my PhD. Luckily my principal supervisor had a project in mind, the essence of which dealt with older men and suicide ideation (Mulligan, 2019). I had had no previous experience with this topic but was open to its exploration. After my course work was completed, the date for my Confirmation of Candidature was fixed. Simultaneously, I decided that it was time to resume paid employment. So I went back to teaching for four years until I turned 60 years old. This had been my lifelong employment goal. During those four years, two major situations evolved. Both impacted my doctoral progress. The first incident involved the completion of my first significant milestone—the Confirmation of Candidature. It was not without its problems. The reviewers were not convinced of the validity of my project and as such, amendments were required. This tested my resilience and my commitment to the process. (As a sidebar to this, I am now a devotee of the reviewing process. Whilst at the time the process was uncomfortable, the resultant further work that was imposed strengthened my thesis and provided an added depth I may not have had the foresight to consider on my own.)

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I also found that the actual event (which consisted of a 20-page written mini thesis, a 30-minute presentation and a 30-minute panel interrogation with three university personnel) was quite unpleasant, even though I had prepared assiduously. This was the first public outing of my newly acquired PhD candidate identity. Imposter syndrome (Abrams, 2018) loomed large and as ‘luck’ would have it, my chairman was assiduous about time. He stopped my presentation three minutes before I had planned to finish. This threw me because the other five Confirmation of Candidatures that I had observed to prepare for mine were quite flexible with the time limit. My secondary supervisor, who was in the audience, disagreed with my declaration during our debrief that I was incompetent and the whole thing was a nightmare. The triangulation of paid employment, study and trauma recovery ensured that my grief work was a constant effort and was extremely tiring and emotionally draining. That was when I took my first six-month leave of absence from the university. I needed to rest. The second incident involved my principal supervisor. Not long after my return from leave of absence he informed me that he had terminal cancer. This caused a huge backslide in my grief work. I deeply respected this man and trusted him implicitly. He had rescued me from the depths of despair and taken me on as a PhD student at a time in my life when I could barely string two coherent sentences together. He believed in me. How could I keep going academically without his guidance? How could I physically and emotionally stay and watch his eventual decline into the very illness that robbed me of my son? Wasn’t once enough to witness the death of a dear one? Wasn’t the loss of my son enough for me to cope with, let alone the loss of my mentor and my friend? What about university protocols? Could I carry on with just one supervisor? Would my secondary supervisor be able to make room in his busy schedule to move to principal supervisor? I simply couldn’t take on another supervisor, another voice in my head. All of these thoughts swirled around in my mind. Some practical, some self-centred—but I had fought an intense and tumultuous battle for partial recovery of my fragile mental health and I could not afford to let it slide any further. There was still work to be done on my grief recovery and it was far from nearing completion. I kept replaying the moment my supervisor told me he was dying—tears for both of us. He, broken

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hearted for his own predicament and additionally saddened by the impact on me of another cancer death. That was the kind of man he was—steadfast, committed, loyal and decent. The world, and my small part of it, would lament the loss of this good, moral man. That was when I took my second leave of absence from the university. I needed to think. When I returned, I had an emergency meeting with my secondary supervisor. After seeking assurances that he could and would assume more responsibility on my behalf, we agreed that the two men would swap roles. The original primary supervisor would shoulder a lesser managerial burden and the secondary supervisor would step up to essentially become my sole supervisor as time went on. The paperwork would be filed. It was imperative to me that we not entertain the thought of a third party. This was so for a couple of reasons, one purely altruistic on my part and one purely selfish on my part. Firstly, I did not want to replace my original supervisor. I owed this man a debt of gratitude that I could never repay. When referring to adult relationships as influences of shaping the self, Aron and Nardone (2012) claimed that our “working self-concept is shaped by significant-other associations” (p. 525). I was intangibly bound to this ‘significant’ man. Without his generosity of spirit, I could not have begun my PhD. He saw beyond the ravaged individual that I had become after Rory’s death. Without him, my grief work would have stalled, and I could only imagine the effect on my psyche of an existence played out with less opportunity for academic enquiry and less richness of experience offered by my study under his guidance. Secondly, I did not want any more voices in my head. Grief work requires tenacity and dedication. It is exhausting and all-consuming. The addition of a higher degree, whilst fulfilling, was an added burden. In my mind’s eye, at least 80% of my mental capacity was (and continues to be) filled with trauma recovery for myself and my immediate family. This 80% also contains cherished memories of my son. I have accepted a major proportion of my mind will always be focused on grief work and I will have to work harder in my professional and personal life. This is a given and I am prepared to carry this for the rest of my life. As I see it, this leaves around one fifth of my brain to devote to other life experiences. PhD study exists as a fraction of that one fifth. I could not  be

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distracted by unnecessary noise in my head, particularly if the situation arose where my new, additional supervisor wanted to take my study in another direction. So we met and conferred—a united threesome with one goal—an authentic, rigorous and valuable investigation leading to the ultimate academic prize of graduation. Eventually three became two as the insidious fingers of the cancer took hold. Plans of supervisory meetings were made for three, cancelled and then rescheduled for two. Drafts were sent to two but only read by one. Even though my original supervisor was slowly withdrawing from my study, we made sure that he was always recognised as an important member of my supervisory team. I can only imagine the pressure my other supervisor was under as he too grieved the loss of a valued colleague but unwaveringly supported me. I was indeed fortunate—my mentors were both dedicated academics and committed to my intellectual growth. During what was to be the final year of my teaching career, I took time out to gather my data. This was a risky endeavour for me as grief had ensured that I had become timid and overwhelmed in large groups, particularly when I did not know anyone. My confidence a shadow of its former assertiveness. However, from the initial contact with my first group of men, it proved to be a joyous and rewarding experience. My participants welcomed me into their male-only organisations and took their role in my investigation seriously. They never challenged the incongruity of an older woman studying older men. They answered my questions with a genuine respect for the topic and for me as a researcher. At times their light-hearted banter was a salve to the seriousness of the study and my private never-ending grind of grief work. I playfully received several offers of marriage which I had to respectfully decline. One group spontaneously sang to me when I mentioned that it was my birthday. This was particularly poignant for me as I was missing my son even more keenly on that day. Of course, none of my participants were privy to my back story. The following year, I returned to work with the intention of staying for three weeks until my 60th birthday. The goal had been sighted and set. It was not to be. My body had had enough. Within two days of the new school year, I had unaccountably lost the power of speech. My doctor

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informed me that the risks to keep going were too great for my health. The physical effect of the trauma (Raymond, 2020) was being played out in full. Phase 4 of my grief work was about to commence. It was time to actually write my thesis. Again, I felt the pressure of imposter syndrome keenly. Grief ate away at my self-esteem. I was acutely aware that my professional life, of which I was so proud, was abruptly over and now my future was filled with the emptiness of a dead career and a dead son. Was attempting to write this thesis too great a risk? Could I actually dare to deliver on my unspoken promise to those who had invested in my success—my supervisors, my family, myself? I learnt a lot about myself in the 16 months it took me to write to completion and then on to graduation. Lessons about risk and resilience and daring to succeed. I learnt the meaning of the patience that comes from striving for a long-term goal (Schwarzer & Taubert, 2002). For me, time does not heal but it does provide trade-offs if I am open to them. If I could do this (study) then I could do that (live with my grief ). Simply put—if I could write this one word, one sentence, one paragraph, I could (just for that instant) put aside my grief and focus on this project, one step at a time. Gradually, those moments were to become incrementally longer as I made my way through my thesis. Grief was not forgotten—never that— but it was pushed aside momentarily and ignored as best I could. Dare to endure. I learnt the power of belief. Not just from my supervisors, but from my family as well (Aron & Nardone, 2012). They were unwavering in their support and their belief in my ability to get it done. My husband brought me endless cups of tea and crept in to close the curtains and turn on a soft light when I had not even noticed the darkness invading my study, too immersed in my thoughts. My daughter in particular would proudly tell her friends and workmates that her mother was a PhD candidate. Her face on the day of my graduation was filled with a kind of love and happiness that had been mostly absent since the death of her brother. She had been battling her own demons. In my determination I had not realised how invested she was, how hopeful she was for me to achieve. Dare to believe.

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I learnt the power of being a role model for my daughter (Bell, 1970). If I can struggle, strive for and accomplish this after such a momentous life-altering event, then so can she. Life can still provide positive opportunities and can gift the promise of a fulfilling future. What happened to Rory does not have to overshadow the rest of her life. Milestones do not have to be filled with sorrow such as the anniversary of Rory’s death, they can also be vibrant occasions filled with success such as my (and eventually her) graduation. Dare to dream. I learnt that the PhD journey is long—both mentally and physically (Guthrie et al., 2018). Health awareness should be a priority. Rory’s death exacerbated any incipient health problems that were lurking in my body. Grievers do not heal as proficiently as we once did. Our immune systems are burdened by stress. We need to take extra special care of our physical wellbeing. My back began to ache as a by-product of long periods of physical inactivity from sitting in front of a computer. Pain caused by a sedentary lifestyle is not just the domain of the griever of course but it can become magnified for us and harder to recover from. I began to take regular breaks. Dare to practise self-care. I learnt the gratification of having a pet (in my case a golden Labrador dog) who lies beside your desk or under your feet and provides silent companionship through the protracted, solitary writing hours. I appreciated her willingness to give herself over to the moment whether that be a quick walk around the yard to escape the stifling intensity of a paragraph that refuses to cooperate, or the soft snores emanating from her as the day writes itself into the night. She is old, my dog, and has been a part of our family for many years. I am cognisant that she also gave the gift of companionship and love to my son as he lay in his bed and confronted his mortality in the long lonely hours when everyone else was asleep. Dare to be grateful. I learnt that there is hope for society and that there are good men, honest men in our community (Mulligan, 2019). Not just my supervisors but other older men who care for our world and respect knowledge, and for whom age is not a barrier to self-fulfilment. Worthy civic-minded men who keenly engage in communal activities for no other reason than the betterment of their local areas and their peers. Dare to network.

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Fig. 6.1  Untitled

I learnt that writing can be a social event. Thanks to the virtual world of Facebook messenger, I was able to network with a group of industrious like-minded people all striving for a higher degree (Jordan & Weller, 2018). We would write for 45 minutes and then chat for 15 minutes. I learnt about international politics from ground zero. I learnt the whimsical nature of worldwide weather zones. I learnt about academic practices around the world and gleaned an insight into family life in far flung countries. We were a global group who shared our frustrations and triumphs and championed one another towards a common goal. Dare to reach out. I learnt that even though I am alone in my particular grief, my story is not unique (Howarth, 2011). There are others who grieve and suffer the heartbreak of the loss of a child. We each deal with the trauma to the best of our ability. One path is no better than another. We choose our own direction in which to steer our grieving and we enact our own passages of

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mourning. Grief work is arduous, filled with challenges, and it is eternal. There is no denying that beginning my PhD was a risk that involved others as well as myself. It was potentially an emotionally dangerous endeavour. There were times when I thought about giving up. I could have failed, even with the unstinting support of those around me. I’m glad I didn’t. Dare to try. Finally, I learnt that I am optimistic for a future that offers a viable strategy for dealing with the past. Studying has granted me the grace to reframe my life and become more purposeful (Brailsford, 2010). I will always grieve the loss of my son—that is my privilege and my right. But alongside the increasingly loose shackles of bereavement is the glimpse of a life filled with the optimism of hope. Dare to succeed. Both grievers (Kubitz, 2013) and doctoral writers (Pollak, 2017) tend towards detrimental self-isolation. PhD writing provided an opportunity for personal growth and an opportunity for an identity shift from the singularity of a grieving mother (Sharma & Sharma, 2010). Strategies around engaging with grief as well as issues encountered on the doctoral journey are offered to readers as personal learnings in the hope that they may act as reflections for the reader’s consideration when they are presented with occasions of risk of this nature. Dare to endure, to believe, to dream, to practice self-care, to be grateful, to network, to reach out, to try and ultimately, to succeed.

References Abrams, A. (2018). Yes, impostor syndrome is real. Here’s how to deal with it. Time. Retrieved from https://time.com/5312483/ how-­to-­deal-­with-­impostor-­syndrome/ Adams, T. E. (2017). Autoethnographic responsibilities. International Review of Qualitative Research, 10(1), 62–66. https://doi.org/10.1525/ irqr.2017.10.1.62 Adams, T.  E., & Manning, J. (2015). Autoethnography and family research. Journal of Family Theory and Review, 7, 350–366. https://doi.org/10.1111/ jftr.12116 Alderuccio, K. (2018). A mother’s journey: A story of everlasting love and evidence of life after death. Summer Hill, NSW, Australia: Rockpool Publishing.

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Aron, A., & Nardone, N. (2012). Self and close relationships. In M. K. Leary & J. P. Tangney (Eds.), Handbook of self and identity (2nd ed., pp. 520–541). New York, NY: Guilford Press. Bastalich, W. (2017). Content and context in knowledge production: A critical review of doctoral supervision literature. Studies in Higher Education, 42(7), 1145–1157. https://doi.org/10.1080/03075079.2015.1079702 Bell, A.  P. (1970). Role modelship and interaction in adolescence and young adulthood. Developmental Psychology, 2, 123–128. https://doi. org/10.1037/h0028613 Blatner, A. (2005). Some principles of grief work. Retrieved from https://www. blatner.com/adam/psyntbk/grief.htm Brailsford, I. (2010). Motives and aspirations for doctoral study: Career, personal, and inter-personal factors in the decision to embark on a history PhD. International Journal of Doctoral Studies, 5, 15. Emerson, R.  W. (1844). Experience. In Essays: Second series (pp.  49–128). Boston, MA: James Munroe. Guthrie, S., Lichten, C.  A., Van Belle, J., Ball, S., Knack, A., & Hofman, J. (2018). Understanding mental health in the research environment: A rapid evidence assessment. Rand Health Quarterly, 7(3), 2. Howarth, R. (2011). Concepts and controversies in grief and loss. Journal of Mental Health Counseling, 33(1), 4–10. https://doi.org/10.17744/mehc.33. 1.900m56162888u737 https://headspace.org.au/assets/Uploads/Trauma-­web.pdf James, A. (2015). What is the difference between trauma and grief? [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://www.griefrecoverymethod.com/blog/2015/02/ what-­difference-­between-­trauma-­and-­grief Jones, S. H., Adams, T. E., & Ellis, C. (2013). Coming to know autoethnography as more than a method. In S. H. Jones, T. E. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (pp. 17–48). London, UK: Routledge. Jordan, K., & Weller, M. (2018). Academics and social networking sites: Benefits, problems and tensions in professional engagement with online networking. Journal of Interactive Media in Education, 1(1), 1–9. https://doi. org/10.5334/jime.448 Kubitz, M. (2013). The isolation of grief [Web log post]. Alive in Memory. Retrieved from http://www.aliveinmemory.org/?s=isolation#.XddxrVczbIU Mulligan, D. (2019). “Time to find a new freedom”: TOMNET and men’s sheds— Meeting older men’s contributive needs in regions within South East and South West Queensland, Australia? (Unpublished thesis). University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD.

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Oyserman, D., Elmore, K., & Smith, G. (2012). Self, self-concept and identity. In M. K. Leary & J. P. Tangney (Eds.), Handbook of self and identity (2nd ed., pp. 69–104). New York, NY: Guilford Press. Pollak, S. (2017). I don’t think there’s anything darker than doing a PhD. Irish Times. Retrieved from https://www.irishtimes.com/news/education/ i-­don-­t-­think-­there-­s-­anything-­darker-­than-­doing-­a-­phd-­1.3309625 Raymond, C. (2020). How to cope with the physical effects of grief. Verywell Mind. [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://www.verywellmind.com/ physical-­symptoms-­of-­grief-­4065135 Schwarzer, R., & Taubert, S. (2002). Tenacious goal pursuits and striving toward personal growth: Proactive coping. In E.  Frydenberg (Ed.), Beyond coping: Meeting goals, visions and challenges (pp.  19–35). London: Oxford University Press. Sharma, S., & Sharma, M. (2010). Self, social identity and psychological well-­ being. Psychological Studies, 55(2), 118–136. https://doi.org/10.1007/ s12646-­010-­0011-­8 Williams, L. (2017). Grief work: The theory of Erich Lindemann. [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://whatsyourgrief.com/grief-­work-­grief-­theory­erich-­lindemann/ Williams, L. (2018). I don’t know who I am anymore: Grief and loss of identity. [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://whatsyourgrief.com/dont-­know­anymore-­grief-­loss-­identity/ Wolterstorff, N. (1987). Lament for a son. Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. Wortman, C. B., & Silver, R. C. (1989). The myths of coping with loss. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 57(3), 349–357. https://doi.org/ 10.1037/0022-­006X.57.3.349

Part II Risks Related to the External Dimensions of Researchers (Researchers’ Professions): Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan

The four chapters contained in the second section of this book focus on the external dimensions of researchers. They present a juxtapositioning of the first section which related to the internal dimensions of researchers. This section traverses the professional terrain that researchers at risk must navigate in order to produce and publish an authentic and rigorous body of work. From that conceptual narrative, Section 2 elucidates risks incumbent in career issues and scholarly leadership strategies. The former, position risks in the form of a limited power base and falling prey to institutional and political forces beyond their control. The latter, providing solutions that may help early career researchers (and others) establish themselves within the academic world. In Chap. 7, Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón present an insight into the financial and mental health precariousness for research students in Spain. They suggest that even though research seems to be an appealing professional path for young graduates with salient academic records, it is fraught with risk. The authors contend that young researchers often face a number of substantial obstacles at the beginning of their careers, including being exposed to job insecurity and other economic risks.

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In Chap. 8, Lara McKenzie examines precarity in relation to emerging risks to early career researchers’ careers, as well as to research itself. She argues the widely accepted notion that academics are increasingly at risk of losing their jobs (or of never gaining jobs), thus fostering fear and compliance in the face of growing contingency. The author focuses on the precarious positioning of employed Australian early career researchers working on short-term, low-paid contracts. In Chap. 9, Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek and Gerrit Weitzel remind the reader that the future is a time of risk in that it is an uncertain construct. The authors suggest that contemporary knowledge, however flawed, lays the foundation for future research. Concentrating on the uncertainty of Germany’s academic environment, the authors present a theoretical framework in which they conceptualise the future as a hyper-phenomenon, a form of transcendence that needs to be bridged by symbolic representations. In this context, they depict a typology of different ways of dealing with the uncertainty of life in the academy. In Chap. 10, David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi and Melissa T. Sasso explore the concept of sensitive research. They expand on the idea that researchers who are involved in this type of precarious enquiry could be affected by a multitude of risks within an institution of higher education, a research think tank or another agency. They suggest that risky researchers should adopt a leadership role when conducting studies that might be too perilous for others. In doing so, they will advance their competitive edge in grants, and uncover solutions to problems facing our societies, politics and world events. They compare this positionality with researchers who remain within a safety zone and who consciously do not engage in risky research.

7 “No Future for You”: Economic and Mental Health Risks in Young Spanish Researchers Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón

Introduction One morning, in the office that we share with four PhD students, we started a smooth conversation. We barely knew each other, as we had just been assigned there, but quickly we agreed on something: we all felt that writing a thesis is like an emotional roller coaster. Sometimes you are on top, maybe your study is showing promising results, or you just published a paper in a good journal. Sometimes you are on the bottom, stuck doing tasks you will not get credit for, or waiting for funding that never comes. Soon, another interesting idea emerged: if you do not know what the thesis of a PhD student is about, you do not know them at all. We

I. Martínez-Nicolás (*) University of Salamanca, Salamanca, Spain e-mail: [email protected] J. García-Girón University of León, León, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_7

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spend a lot of time speaking about our thesis like it is the centre of our lives and there is nothing else. Therefore, our whole life is transformed into that roller coaster. And we are the fortunate ones, we have enough money to buy a ticket for a ride. The reality for most PhD students in Spain is precarity. On one hand, those who have a work contract with the university find that labour conditions leave a lot to be desired. On the other hand, those who have no contract, which comprises the vast majority of the PhD students, face a much worse situation. The latter must either work, which makes the process of writing a thesis extremely difficult, or depend on the support of their families. This situation can be demeaning, as the students cannot become independent and they feel that they are an economical burden. Sadly, this situation will last at least until the student is 25, when everybody is expected to be economically self-sufficient. The idea for this chapter arises from our experiences as PhD students and the observations of our colleagues. Pessimism about our future is common among predoctoral researchers, and we tend to constantly worry either about the future or about the present. In a context of extreme competition where “publish or perish” is the maxim from the very beginning, the pressure is sometimes so high that it affects our mental health. With these ideas in mind, we will explore the economic and mental health situation of young researchers, specifically PhD students, in the context of Spanish universities. The aim of this study is to screen mental health issues related to depression, anxiety and stress disorders and relate them to work conditions and common beliefs among young researchers. This chapter is organized in two sections. First, we will introduce the key factors of the situation of predoctoral researchers in Spain and the mental health risks that they face. Next, we will present the results of a questionnaire that aims to assess the students’ economic limitations and the mental health, and the possible relationships among Spanish PhD students.

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 n Overview of the Situation of PhD Students A in Spain For obvious reasons, there is an important difference between having a contract with the university or not. This difference is not only economic. The basic statutes that regulate the cycle of studies to obtain the title of doctor in most universities are limited to the right to a good supervision. However, in many cases, essential aspects such as providing a work place or minimum means for conducting research are in the hands of the research group to which the supervisor belongs. This leaves the student unprotected and, ultimately, affects the quality of the research. This group of students (i.e. those who have no contract) comprises the majority of those who do their thesis in Spain. It is hard to give exact numbers, since each region and university has its own contracts apart from those offered by the central government. However, taking as an example the data from the University of Salamanca, in the academic course 2016–2017, only 6.01% of PhD students secured a contract, and 8.65% did so in the years 2017–2018 (Unidad de Evaluación de la Calidad, 2018). Predoctoral contracts are regulated by a law approved on the 1st March 2019, “Estatuto del Personal Investigador Predoctoral en Formación” (Real Decreto 103/2019), the Statute of Predoctoral Research Staff in Training. The previous law considered a two-year period of internship with two more years of labour contract, while the new one considers the predoctoral researcher as a worker of the University from the very beginning. This new law has also included situations (considered basic rights in every job) such as maternity leave, lactation period or for being a victim of gender violence. The regulation of a minimum salary for predoctoral researchers became a controversial aspect. This law caused a salary increase that was not accompanied by a rise in the budgets, resulting in the universities having difficulties in paying, which was answered by demonstrations and legal claims by groups of researchers. Furthermore, the salary increase was considered insufficient. This law states that a predoctoral researcher in training may earn from 56% to 75% of the salary established for his profession in the Collective Bargaining Agreement. This translates into the fact that the real salary received by a young researcher

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barely exceeds €1000. To make an approximate idea of the precarity that it implies when it comes to salary, the mean price of renting only one room in a shared flat in Spain in the year 2019 was €287.45 per month. As a matter of fact, in the most populated cities, where more PhD students live, the mean price was about €450 (Manso, 2019), which means that they have to spend almost half of their money to pay the rent. Although out of the scope of this chapter, this has terrible consequences when it comes to establishing a life as a couple or a family.

PhD Students and Mental Health There is a growing concern about the mental health of doctoral students, as it is a correlate that directly affects the quality of research (Nature’s Editorial Team, 2019). The high levels of anxiety and stress cause PhD students to disengage with their work by hindering the completion of tasks. This also affects personal well-being and causes bad moods, feeling of loneliness and even physical health issues such as migraine (Barry, Woods, Warnecke, Stirling, & Martin, 2018). This pressure and stress causes two thirds of the doctoral students to consider dropping out at some point (Nagy et al., 2019). It is noteworthy that, when compared with similar samples of highly educated general population or highly educated employees, PhD students show more psychiatric symptoms (Levecque, Anseel, De Beuckelaer, Van der Heyden, & Gisle, 2017). This has led to conducting many studies with the aim of identifying the potential stressors that cause distress among young researchers. The most common are time pressures, uncertainty of doctoral processes, social isolation resulting in feelings of loneliness (Cornwall et al., 2019) and the uncertain relationship with supervisors (Bazrafkan, Shokrpour, Yousefi, & Yamani, 2016; Wang, Wang, & Wang, 2019). Another major group of potential stressors are those related to precarity. Financial problems are usually exemplified as a source of concern (Cornwall et  al., 2019; Wang et  al., 2019) and generate specific social problems for PhD students, who would like to be independent at their age. Labour prospects are another recurrent stressor found in the studies about mental health in doctoral students. In their study, Dufty-Jones

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(2018) found that almost half of a sample population of Geography doctoral students harboured negative feelings about their future opportunities, and barely a third felt positive about them. Another factor derived from the economic situation is actually a general problem that universities usually face, that is the lack of resources. In this regard, poor training and failing or inadequate computing and data collection equipment was recently pointed out as one of the main sources of stress (Barry et al., 2018).

 Study of Precarity and Mental Health A Among Spanish PhD Students There have been many approaches to the problem of young researchers’ mental health. However, most of them were exploratory and included a variety of potential stressors. Only recently, some authors have tried to provide detailed explanations on certain aspects. Our objective with this study is to explore one of these stressors: the possible relationship between precarity and the poor mental health of most PhD students. Specifically, we aim to explore the position of university contracted predoctoral students and their emotional state. Following this, we will analyse the role of common beliefs about their economic and labour situation and their influence on mental health.

Instruments This study was based on an anonymous online ad hoc questionnaire comprising 20 items. It raised questions about whether the students thought that their economic situation had influenced their thesis and personal well-being. For this, the questionnaire was divided into two parts. In the first part, the questions focused on labour status, labour prospects, whether they had encountered limitations due to economic causes and, if applicable, what they were. In the second part, the participants had to answer questions about their emotional state and fill in the Spanish version of the DASS-21 questionnaire (Bados, Solanas, & Andrés, 2005). This is a short self-administered test that screens for symptoms of

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depression, anxiety and stress. It has been validated in a Spanish sample and it is commonly used in studies about mental health in college students (Beiter et al., 2015; Kulsoom & Afsar, 2015).

Sample The study aimed to include any PhD student who was doing their thesis in a Spanish university—regardless of whether they have a contract or not. We contacted the associations that are part of the Federación de Jóvenes Investigadores (FJI, Federation of Young Researchers) and we requested that they disseminate a questionnaire among their members. This federation includes associations from several universities in different areas of Spain. A total of 77 PhD students answered the survey. There were 53 women, 22 men and two non-binary people, with ages ranging between 23 and 47 years (M = 29.06; SD = 5.65). About 63.7% had a contract with their University at the moment of responding. In order to explore the beliefs about labour prospects after the completion of the PhD, the sample was divided in four groups according to their responses: “I want to continue in academia and I think I will be able to do so” (N = 22), “I want to continue in academia but I think I will not get a place” (N=28), “I want to continue in academia but I cannot afford the expenses that implies” (N = 15) and “I do not want to continue in academia because private sector offers better positions” (N = 12). The option: “I do not want to continue in academia because of other reasons (specify)” was discarded as none of the respondents chose it.

Statistical Routines The emotional state of those who have a contract and those who have not was compared using the Mann-Whitney U test for their scores in all three subscales (depression, anxiety and stress) of the DASS-21 questionnaire. The same scores were analysed using the Kruskal-Wallis test for the beliefs about labour prospects. Significant main effects were explored using Dunn tests with Bonferroni correction.

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We used fuzzy correspondence analysis (FCA; Chevenet, Doléadec, & Chessel, 1994) to assess how economic and mental health risks varied across the student population (i.e. only those students having a contract directly related to their research activity). We further examined relationships among depression, anxiety, stress, economic limitation and the FCA scores for axes 1 and 2 (20.6% and 13.4% of the overall variance, respectively) using Kendall’s correlation coefficients. FCA was conducted on the [samples x scores] matrix using the ade4 package (Dray & Dufour, 2007) in R version 3.6.0. (R Development Core Team, 2013). Hierarchical clustering (Ward’s method) of the study population (based on self-report items and significant correlation coefficients) was run to identify population clusters with similar mental health risks and economic situations. To do this, we calculated a distance matrix with the mixed-variable coefficient of distance (i.e. a generalization of Gower’s distance) to account for the use of fuzzy coded variables (Borcard, Gillet, & Legendre, 2018). The number of cluster groups was then selected on the basis of the “Gap Statistic Model”, an iterative procedure that uses Monte Carlo simulations and the output of any clustering algorithm to compare the change in the within-cluster dispersion with that expected under an appropriate reference null distribution (Tibshirani, Walther, & Hastie, 2001).

Results and Discussion The Mann-Whitney test suggested that predoctoral students with no contract reported higher scores (Mdn = 11) for the depression subscale than those who worked for the university (Mdn = 6; U = 464.5, p = 0.032, r = 0.24). Non-hired students (Mdn = 10) also showed greater anxiety scores than the hired ones (Mdn = 6; U = 479.5, p = 0.048, r = 0.22). However, both hired (Mdn  =  7) and non-hired (Mdn  =  10) students reported similar levels of stress (U = 541, p = 0.188, r = 0.15). This result suggests that job security and having a source of income directly related to the research activity is associated to lower risks of developing anxiety and depression problems. There was a significant difference in the depression subscale depending on the beliefs about labour prospects according to the Kruskal Wallis H

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test (χ2 (3, N = 77) = 9.186, p = 0.027). Post hoc comparisons showed differences between the “I want to continue in academia, and I think I will be able to do so” group and the “I want to continue in academia, but I think I will not get a place” group (p = 0.025). Neither anxiety (χ2 (3, N = 77) = 4.854, p = 0.183) nor stress (χ2 (3, N = 77) = 6.197, p = 0.102) showed interaction. Importantly, our findings suggest that pessimistic views about the future in academia are related to the appearance of depressive symptoms. Consistent responses of population individuals (i.e. all of them having a contract directly related to their research activity) occurred across gradients of depression, anxiety and stress (DASS), and fuzzy correspondence analysis (FCA) axis 1 scores decreased significantly towards high DASS values (Fig. 7.1a). Similarly, increasing FCA axis 2 scores was associated strongly with economic precarity. Hierarchical clustering and the “Gap Statistic Model” selected k = 4 as the “optimal” number of clusters, ranging from groups of individuals with mild to severe DASS and variable economic situations to groups of students with normal to extremely severe DASS and economic self-sufficiency (Fig.  7.1b). Surprisingly,

Fig. 7.1  (a) Individual scores on fuzzy correspondence analysis (FCA) axes 1 and 2 and relationships between FCA axes and gradients of depression, anxiety, stress and economic precarity. The colour scales represent different groups of individuals as represented in Fig.  7.1b. (b) Dendrogram plot for hierarchical clustering algorithm (k = 4 after the Gap Statistic procedure) on Gower’s distance matrix of fuzzy coded variables (here depression, anxiety, stress and economic situations). The height at which the links form (horizontal axis) is the distance between the two linked clusters

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associations between DASS and economic situations showed that, once individuals get a contract directly related to their research activity, some self-sufficient PhD students had higher odds of perceived severe depression, anxiety and stress compared to other students suffering economic precarity. There are some potential caveats in our study which may be taken into consideration for generalization possibilities and future research studies. First, our dataset is relatively small (N = 77), meaning that further studies are needed to assess the uncertainty of our main results. Second, our sample counts with a higher proportion of predoctoral researchers with a contract than without it, despite the fact that data show that they represent a small number of the total. This might be due to the sample collection method. It is possible that those hired have a greater tendency to organize and belong to associations of researchers. Further studies with a bigger sample of students without a contract will be needed in order to better explore this group.

Conclusion This study shows a relationship between precarity and mental health among predoctoral researchers. We have explored both their objective situation and their subjective beliefs about their present and future. The fact that being hired as a researcher by a university is linked to the emotional state of PhD students is an indicator of the importance of material security, but also of the importance of own work being recognized as that of a professional and being considered as an equal member of the university community. Additionally, the opportunity to belong to that community in the long term is related to greater well-being in terms of mental health. Low wages and job insecurity are a widespread evil among young people of any profession. In the case of PhD students, the idea that their situation has an expiration date is ever present. Furthermore, these young researchers usually do not receive payment, but they must devote their time to fulfilling tasks for which other colleagues receive a salary. This situation may contribute to creating the feeling that their work is not

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valued and an overall dissatisfaction with their profession, a factor commonly known to contribute to higher mental health risks (Allan, Dexter, Kinsey, & Parker, 2018). This is added to the unusually high rates of mental health issues, derived from the previously mentioned particularities of the profession. Some measures that can be taken to improve this situation include increasing budgets for universities, especially those designated as the training ground of future researchers. In the particular case of Spain, which allocates 1.2% of the GDP to research, groups of scientists have requested that it be raised to 2.2%, which corresponds to the average investment in R&D of the member countries of the European Union (Mediavilla, 2019). Other measures of easier application fall under the influence of the universities themselves. The vast majority of those who start their career in research want to continue it, and more than half want to do so in academia (Edwards, Bexley, & Richardson, 2011). A direct manner in which to reduce the problem of future prospects would be to provide information on possible job opportunities both inside and outside academia, thus reducing concerns about the lack of prospects and diversifying the possibilities of young researchers (Levecque et al., 2017). Similarly, creating a comfortable working environment should be a priority. Some approaches propose the creation of peer support systems and measures for introducing the students to the work environment (Stubb, Pyhältö, & Lonka, 2011). This perspective could be useful to address the problems of loneliness and lack of information, and provide a social support network. It is worrisome that highly motivated young people, who love their field of study so much as to consider dedicating their lives to expanding their knowledge about it, suffer from their mental health and economic well-being compromised while taking the first steps in the world of research. Passion and love for research is essential for happiness and productivity in this environment, but that can only be built on economic bases that allow independent, constant and long-term research.

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Levecque, K., Anseel, F., De Beuckelaer, A., Van der Heyden, J., & Gisle, L. (2017). Work organization and mental health problems in PhD students. Research Policy, 46(4), 868–879. Manso, C. (2019). Compartir piso en España: bueno, bonito y ¿barato? ABC. Retrieved from https://www.abc.es/economia/abci-compartir-pisoespana-bueno-bonito-y-barato-201909090119_noticia.html Mediavilla, C. (2019). Medio millar de personas marcha por la ciencia en Madrid. El País. Retrieved from https://elpais.com/elpais/2019/10/19/ciencia/1571489101_912942.html Nagy, G. A., Fang, C. M., Hish, A. J., Kelly, L., Nicchitta, C. V., Dzirasa, K., et al. (2019). Burnout and mental health problems in biomedical doctoral students. CBE—Life Sciences Education, 18(2), ar27. Nature’s Editorial Team. (2019). The mental health of PhD researchers demands urgent attention. Nature, 575(7782), 257–258. Real Decreto 103/2019, de 1 de marzo, por el que se aprueba el Estatuto del personal investigador predoctoral en formación. Boletín Oficial del Estado, 64, 15 March 2019. Retrieved from https://www.boe.es/eli/es/ rd/2019/03/01/103/con Stubb, J., Pyhältö, K., & Lonka, K. (2011). Balancing between inspiration and exhaustion: PhD students’ experienced socio-psychological well-being. Studies in Continuing Education, 33(1), 33–50. R Development Core Team. (2013). R: A language and environment for statistical computing. Tibshirani, R., Walther, G., & Hastie, T. (2001). Estimating the number of clusters in a data set via the gap statistic. Journal of the Royal Statistical Society: Series B (Statistical Methodology), 63(2), 411–423. Unidad de evaluación de la calidad. (2018). Seguimiento de titulaciones de doctorado. Universidad de Salamanca. Retrieved from https://indicadores.usal.es/portal/ resultados/actividad-academica/seguimiento-de-titulaciones-de-doctorado/ Wang, X., Wang, C., & Wang, J. (2019). Towards the contributing factors for stress confronting Chinese PhD students. International Journal of Qualitative Studies on Health and Well-Being, 14(1), 1598722.

8 The Risks of Precarity: How Employment Insecurity Impacts on Early Career Researchers in Australia Lara McKenzie

Introduction In recent years, precarious academic employment has received a growing amount of scholarly attention, and much has been written about its dramatic rise across the global North (Courtois & O’Keefe, 2015; Jones & Oakley, 2018; Lopes & Dewan, 2015; May, 2012; Thwaites & Pressland, 2017). Research ranges from that exploring precarity, inequality, hierarchy, and academic conflict (Ivancheva, Lynch, & Keating, 2019; Kimber, 2003; McKenzie, 2017, 2018, in press; Peacock, 2013), to investigations of precarious mobility (Cangià, 2018; Schaer, Dahinden, & Toader, 2017), to navigations of the varied histories and emotions of precarious academia and work more broadly (Gill, 2009; Gill & Donaghue, 2016; Loveday, 2018; Neilson & Rossiter, 2008; Thorkelson, 2016). Those studying emotions suggest that academics—at risk of losing their jobs or of never gaining them to begin with—are increasingly fearful, compliant,

L. McKenzie (*) The University of Western Australia, Perth, WA, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_8

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and academically stifled in the face of growing contingency (Gill, 2009; Gill & Donaghue, 2016; Kalleberg, 2009; Kimber, 2003; Loher et al., 2019; McKenzie, 2018; Sparkes, 2007). These circumstances are said to have implications for the kinds of research that is conducted. In particular, the degree of “riskiness” that researchers are willing to accept in their studies (Kohn & Shore, 2017; Loher et al., 2019; Shore & Wright, 2017). In the humanities, arts, and social sciences, precarious working conditions are understood to especially limit scholars’ ability to undertake long-term, high-risk, or expensive projects, as well as to develop individual topic or regional expertise related to their earlier studies, thus “risking” the future development of research (Jones & Oakley, 2018). In this chapter, I therefore focus on precariously employed academics working on short-term, part-time, and often low-paid contracts. In Australia, these are generally labelled “casual” or “fixed-term” appointments. Based on fieldwork undertaken in three Australian public universities—including in-depth interviews and participant observation of career development workshops—I explore how precarious academics experience and conceive of risk in and to their research. I begin by briefly summarising relevant theorisations of risk and precarity, then move to a description of my research methods and the Australian higher education context. Next, drawing on my fieldwork, I address the career limitations that employment precarity places on early career researchers, encouraging convenient, short-term research that is then often critiqued for failing to meet disciplinary ideals (Thorkelson, 2019). Moreover, the rise of research assistant/associate positions on large, applied projects—and the corresponding decline of independent postdoctoral positions—means that researchers frequently work beyond their interests and expertise, or in teaching-only roles. Following this, I point to issues with undertaking “risky” research as a precarious academic. Interviewees talked of avoiding—and being advised to avoid—projects likely to be unpopular or unaccepted in their fields (for instance, those using non-­ traditional methodologies). While such experiences are undoubtedly not new, the increasing number of precarious researchers, and lengthening period during which researchers remain precarious,

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means this has a profound impact on research. This chapter thus examines precarity in relation to both emerging risks to precarious researchers’ careers and to research itself.

Precarity, Risk, and Vulnerability Both precarity and risk have been extensively theorised by social scientists in recent decades. Precarity is regularly described in fairly general terms, as a sense of anxiety and insecurity brought on by elements of capitalist social life, including environmental destruction, war, and global inequalities (Allison, 2012, 2013; Berlant, 2011; Tsing, 2015). Anthropologist Anna Tsing (2015, p. 10) describes precarity as the “condition of being vulnerable to others… Unable to rely on a stable structure of community, we are thrown into shifting assemblages, which remake us as well as others.” Anne Allison (2013, p. 5), another anthropologist writing on precarity in Japan and worldwide, notes that people are increasingly caught up in the instabilities and inequities of neoliberalism. Yet she elaborates particularly on precarity’s financial consequences, distinguishing it as “the differential distribution of danger by which certain segments of the population are at greater economic, job-related risk” (Allison, 2013, p. 66). Vulnerability, uncertainty, and the uneven distribution of risk are thus key themes in theorisations of precarity. I confine my conceptualisation of precarity to the interrelated elements of employment and economic precarity, with precarious work characterised as part-­ time, irregular, insecure, and poorly- or under-paid. Sociologist Arle Kalleberg (2009, p.  2) defines such work as “employment that is uncertain, unpredictable, and risky from the point of view of the worker.” Here, precarious work is understood as a hierarchical relation. Kalleberg (2009, p. 8) concludes that the rise of precarious work coincides with the transfer of risk “from employers to employees,” for instance, through exercises in cost-cutting whereby workers lose leave and sick benefits and have their conditions and employment rights eroded. Much of the current discussion around precarity presumes precarious work to be abnormal or unusual, and several scholars have criticised this view as reflecting the privileged positions of those from certain class,

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gender, and generational positions in the global North. In such contexts, workers have common, recent histories of welfare provisions and financial security, and thus a lack of exposure to risk (Thorkelson, 2016). Yet precarious work has been the overwhelming experience of those in the global South throughout recent history (Allison, 2012, 2013; Thorkelson, 2016). Moreover, Brett Neilson and Ned Rossiter (2008, p. 65) caution that by identifying precarity as “the norm of capitalist production and reproduction,” we should not presume that it can “simply merge or sew together experiences of contingency, vulnerability and risk across different historical periods and geographical spaces.” Rather, precarity is formulated in contextually unique ways, and experiences of it are highly dependent on one’s positionality (McKenzie, 2017, in press). In addressing how risk is experienced by precarious university workers in Australia, I also draw on sociologist Ulrich Beck’s (1992, 2006) concept of a “world risk society,” focusing particularly on his claims of rising job insecurity and changes to global employment. Beck (2006, pp. 333–334) suggests that modern societies are shaped by new and burgeoning risks—as well as growing perceptions of risks—and that these are not limited to single locations, nor are they calculable or controllable. This notion that risk is increasingly a universal global experience under capitalism is similar to the argument made by Tsing (2015, p. 20), where she describes precarity as “the condition of our time,” characterised by vulnerability, unpredictability, and a lack of control (see also Allison, 2012, 2013; Berlant, 2011). I focus on precarious early career academics’ unequal and conflicting experiences of risk, especially regarding risks to their research and to academic research more broadly.

Australia’s Precarious Scholars I draw on my (2015 to 2017) anthropological study investigating postPhDs in Australia who aspire to academic careers. This included in-depth interviews; participant observation (including of career development workshops and events); an analysis of government and university policy documents; as well as online news, blogs, and social media commentary

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on academic precarity (for instance, “quit lit” accounts of those leaving academia and early career advice literature). This fieldwork was undertaken at three public research-and-teaching universities in Perth (Western Australia) and Adelaide (South Australia), which is the most common institutional arrangement across the country. My analysis here utilises interviews with precarious academics in the humanities, arts, and social sciences, as well as some participant observation. Interviewees were mostly women in their late 20s and 30s, as is fairly typical of precarious academics in Australia and beyond (Courtois & O’Keefe, 2015; May, 2012). Interviews lasted between one and two hours, were analysed thematically, and recruitment occurred through acquaintances and snowball sampling. My analysis highlights the intersections of precarity and risk, and I use pseudonyms when referring to individual people. To retain participants’ anonymity, I avoid using biographical details like subject area, institution, and exact age. I define precarious employment as both casual and fixed-term work. Casual work in Australia is paid by the hour, and employees lack employment rights including paid leave and protection from dismissal. Fixedterm work is undertaken for a specific task or duration, ranging from weeks to years. Fixed-term and ongoing employees share similar benefits—such as leave and protections—although for the former these are time limited. Australian universities’ ongoing roles are similar to the tenured appointments seen overseas, but with continuity being based on performance, the institution’s research or teaching orientation, and financial circumstances. As is the case across the global North, there has been a dramatic increase in precarious work in Australian higher education, with the number of “full-time equivalent” casual university staff nearly quadrupling over the past three decades (Department of Education, 2020). It is estimated that between four and ten actual casual staff members represent a “full-time equivalent” workload (MacDonald, 2016; May, 2012; National Tertiary Education Union, 2016). In Australia overall, slightly less than 50 per cent of workers are employed full-time with leave and benefits (Carney & Stanford, 2018). In universities, 45 per cent of workers are employed casually, 23 per cent on fixed-term contracts, and only 32 per cent on ongoing contracts (National Tertiary Education Union, 2018). Such

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work is unevenly divided along disciplinary, generational, gender, class, and ethnic lines (see also McKenzie, in press). In the humanities, arts, and social sciences, for instance, opportunities are scarce and precarious employment is rife (May, 2012; May, Strachan, & Peetz, 2013). Education scholar Megan Kimber (2003, p. 41) further describes the conflict and division between the tenured “core” and tenuous “periphery” of academics. While tenured (or ongoing) academics are undoubtedly subject to growing “risk,” my emphasis here is on the university workers whose contracts expose them to far greater risk and whose burgeoning ranks arguably present a risk to research overall: precarious academics.

Risks to Researchers In the humanities, arts, and social sciences—where my interviewees worked or had studied—entry-level lectureships and postdoctoral fellowships are rare, and what positions are available are regularly tied to large national grants disseminated by the sole national funding body that funds non-medical and health-related research: the Australian Research Council (ARC). Due to the recent interventions of largely conservative governments, these grants are increasingly narrow and oriented to economic and commercial interests, and yet they are one of the few ways in which to gain paid research experience following PhD study (McKenzie, in press; see also Courtois & O’Keefe, 2015; Jones & Oakley, 2018). Meanwhile, with university managers emphasising research “outputs” over teaching, ongoing staff often engage in teaching “buy-out” where they have the resources to do so (Shore & Wright, 2017). This means effectively delegating their teaching duties to early career, precarious colleagues. I now turn to a discussion of the impact of such precarious research and teaching employment on early career scholars and their career development. Interviewees spoke extensively about undertaking research that was unrelated to their qualifications or being relegated to teaching-only roles. One example is provided by Lisa, who was in her early 30s when we spoke, and had graduated with a humanities PhD a few years ago. She

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was now working in a professional, non-academic role for the same university. While Lisa had previously worked in academic roles—mostly teaching—she said they were too unreliable and offered few prospects for career advancement. She informed me that she had recently reduced her paid hours so she could “do extra research outside of that.” Speaking about her non-academic role, she said: It was too hard, working full-time, and I just didn’t have the energy or the motivation to do really much else after work. But what I was doing at work did include research as well, so I have been doing research… I’ve been doing quite a bit of research around education at this point, which relates to my job, and I’ve gone to a few conferences doing that kind of thing. So I’ve kind of kept up the research, but just not in quite the same way.

Lisa continued that as a part of her current job: I got a bit of funding and went to a couple of conferences [across Australia], and I’ve done a few conferences here. I’ve also done some presentations: just on some of the projects that we’ve done as well. Creating videos and that kind of thing, which are not totally related. They’re more like, this is what we’ve done, this is how it’s worked. But yeah, so there is the opportunity to do research, but you kind of have to create that opportunity.

Lisa told me that her thesis examiners had recommended that she publish her PhD as a book, but to date she had not had time to do so. She explained that this was one reason why she had recently cut back her paid hours: so she could focus on writing and other research. She told me, “I would like to keep doing research, and I’m sort of still doing research in terms of work… but not related to my thesis.” Lisa’s case was typical among those I spoke with, as many others informed me of their struggle to maintain or publish their research while undertaking other forms of paid work. Yet they said they had little choice but to perform such work, as they were dependent on it to earn a living (see also McKenzie, 2017). This, they informed me, was particularly the case after having completed a PhD, as in Australia research students are not considered staff. While a fraction of them receive time-limited stipends, these are well below the

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national minimum wage. Accordingly, the scholars I interviewed were often desperate to earn a salary after many years of low pay. Another interviewee, Luke, was in his mid-30s when we spoke, and was working largely in social science teaching, as well as undertaking some short-term research roles. Luke had completed his PhD several years ago when we spoke, and since then had solely undertaken research and publications unrelated to his thesis, again in the field of education, “not the stuff that actually showcases my own research.” He informed me that his most cited publication was on a topic of little interest to him, and that, while he may have more paid research and writing work coming up, “it’s clear who’s calling the shots with it.” He elaborated: I’ve published a few [papers]… but most of them are second author stuff so I really need to publish my, you know, single author material from my PhD, not… stuff that I’m not interested in at all. And certainly, I’m not going to apply for a job that’s for a research project about [a topic he had previously been paid to work on]. No, thanks [laughs]. That would be hell.

Interviewees were often unhappy working outside their research area, and resented needing to put in extra, unpaid hours to maintain their own research profiles. Luke himself told me that he had been repeatedly advised by senior colleagues to concentrate on his individual research rather than teaching, and yet he told me he needed this work to pay his rent. Meanwhile, the kind of scholarship produced by precarious post-PhDs often appeared to be criticised within their disciplines as methodologically inadequate or too short-term. In cultural anthropology, for instance, Eli Thorkelson (2019) writes that journals’ peer review processes are highly problematic and conflict-ridden for precarious academics. Thorkelson (2019) notes that: [R]eviewers frequently demand that papers must ‘sound more ethnographic’… I have at times wondered why reviewers seem to wish that I would travel to a foreign country—and to scenes several years into the past—for further face-to-face observations… [G]iven that long-term ethnographic fieldwork is extremely resource intensive and thus essentially a

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class privilege, it becomes a form of social exclusion to screen out intellectual work based on less resource-intensive—but equally valid and more modern—research methods. In short, the anonymization (termed ‘blindness’) of peer reviewing allows reviewers to presume that every author has the material resources of a professor.

Thorkelson (2019) here criticises the problematisation and devaluation of less resource-intensive research, a point I return to in the next section. Yet it is evident from their analysis, and the accounts above, that contemporary formations of precarious employment present a substantial risk to early career researchers’ academic futures, insofar as such employment denies the resources and time needed for scholarship that meets disciplinary ideals. Researchers and frame themselves as inadequate for failing to live up to these standards. In humanities, arts, and social sciences disciplines, ideals include scholarship focused on a particular topic or geographical area, conducted over a sustained period, and undertaken as an individual endeavour, resulting in sole-authored publications. Thus, we see that early career academics face shared experiences of vulnerability, risk, and a lack of control regarding their scholarship (Allison, 2012, 2013; Berlant, 2011; Tsing, 2015).

Risks to Research The prevalence of precarious academic employment means that the aforementioned risks—as experienced by early career scholars—also have an impact on academic research as a whole. Nearly three decades ago, Beck (1992, p. 144) predicted that, in future risk societies, “formal and informal labor, employment and unemployment—will be merged… into a new system of flexible, plural, risky forms of underemployment.” Like Kimber (2003), who distinguishes a tenured core from a tenuous periphery of academics, Beck (1992, p.  145) emphasises employment-based divisions among workers, with the so-called flexible underemployed “quantitatively expanding and increasingly dominating” the employment landscape.

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Such unequal employment characterises many postdoctoral roles. In a recent discussion paper on “the precarious postdoc,” humanities scholars Sophie Jones and Catherine Oakley (2018, p. 5) reflect on the move away from independent research in the United Kingdom—similar to what is occurring in Australia—where changes to humanities and social sciences funding has led to a model of postdoctoral employment imported from the sciences. In the science model, “junior researchers are recruited as ‘assistants’ on a large project grant.” Those employed on such grants “face difficulties surrounding research autonomy and intellectual ownership regarding both research and publication practices.” Jones and Oakley (2018, p. 5) emphasise that, in keeping with enduring disciplinary norms, researchers need to “maintain a distinctive research identity in their role[s], including in publications arising from the project.” They observe that this rarely occurs, however. It has been widely suggested that, as employment and research funding are increasingly at risk, and accessible to only a few, researchers tend to become more fearful and risk-averse in their scholarly pursuits (Gill, 2009; Gill & Donaghue, 2016; Kalleberg, 2009; Kimber, 2003; Loher et al., 2019; McKenzie, 2018; Sparkes, 2007). I have observed this in my own research. For instance, in an early career researcher workshop I attended as part of my participant observation, social science scholars were cheerfully advised to begin unpaid research projects years in advance of putting in grant applications, and to base their proposed projects on this earlier work. This was framed as enabling them to establish their experience in the field, as well as being key to anticipating future findings and documenting the practical implications of projects. Such an approach was of course unavailable to those without autonomous research roles, such as Lisa, Luke, and the vast majority of precarious academics that I encountered. Early career interviewees also spoke of avoiding, or being told to avoid, non-traditional methodologies, confirming Thorkelson’s (2019) observation that academic peer review processes tend to favour less “modern” approaches. Again, this was not always possible, with limited funds, few job opportunities, and little time for intensive, long-term research. Others point to a less straightforward relationship between research and risk, and

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discuss apparently traditional qualitative fieldwork methods as risky in their own right. Kees Koonings, Dirk Kruijt, and Dennis Rodgers (2019, p.  12) write that ethnographic methods are inherently high risk, yet highly rewarding. Thus, the idealised research discussed by Thorkelson (2019) is a risk that only some can afford, while other kinds of devalued research methods—those which happen to align with the practice of many precarious scholars—are the product of unequal risk.

Conclusion Risk, vulnerability, and precarity are intimately intertwined in Australian scholars’ experiences of research. Early career researchers commonly experience precarious employment, which both places their research careers at risk and presents a risk to their discipline areas. Here, I have been particularly concerned with scholars in the humanities, arts, and social sciences, where funding models are increasingly shifting to large projects, which then subsidise precarious teaching or topic-limited postdoctoral roles. In Australia, lengthy funding applications are also an ongoing issue, making it difficult, risky, and time-consuming for precarious researchers to apply for these rare grants. While there is discussion around risk to precarious researchers, some of the risks to research brought on by growing academic precarity are less recognised. Here, it is useful to reflect on recent discussions of “academic freedom” in Australian universities. In 2019, the nation’s conservative government undertook a widely criticised inquiry into “freedom of speech” in higher education (French, 2019). Notably absent from this discussion of apparent threats to higher education was the impact that precarious employment has on academics’ so-called freedom of inquiry. This includes the lack of time allowed to undertake independent or original research, limitations on the types of methodologies possible, and constraints on the development of research expertise due to the dominance of large projects. In examining risk, it is thus important to look beyond the impact of precarity on the individual researcher, to the impact of precarity on research broadly.

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Thorkelson, E. (2019). The precarity of peer review. The Abusable Past. Retrieved from https://www.radicalhistoryreview.org/abusablepast/forum-1-5-theprecarity-of-peer-review-by-eli-thorkelson-precarious-ethnographer/ Thwaites, R., & Pressland, A. (2017). Introduction: Being an early career feminist academic in a changing academy. In R. Thwaites & A. Pressland (Eds.), Being an early career feminist academic: Global perspectives, experiences, and challenges (pp. 1–28). Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Tsing, A. L. (2015). The mushroom at the end of the world: On the possibility of life in capitalist ruins. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

9 How to Make the Cut in Academia: Managing the Uncertainty of Time as a Necessity to Have a Research Career Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek, and Gerrit Weitzel

Introduction Modernity can be conceived as a process of civilisation (Elias, 1969). The process of adapting to transformation is the one and only constant structure of the social. It is to be regarded valid for the most complex and demanding as well as the most trivial social phenomena. Yet, civilisation, in this case, must not to be understood as teleological evolution of the social, but merely as a processual adaption of the Self to the possibilities and restrictions of the social order—thus constituting said order itself. Social transformation and adapting to it then becomes a wild and unpredictable process, which can only be understood in retrospect. For example,

J. Kotthaus (*) • K. Krampe University of Applied Sciences and Arts Dortmund, Dortmund, Germany e-mail: [email protected] A. Piontek • G. Weitzel University of Bielefeld, Bielefeld, Germany © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_9

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vaudeville, formerly one of the most prominent and prosperous forms of variety entertainment in the early 1900s, slowly died in Europe and North America due to the rise of electronic entertainment, such as cinema and radio (Cullen, 2007). But at the end of the century its irreverent, unconstrained as well as dramatic and theatrical spirit resurrected and resurfaced in the circus, of all places. New Circus, itself a derivate of its traditional ancestor, incorporates theatrical elements into its narrative, beginning with a changed staging format, use of music and the introduction of a central theme (Carlson, 2004). Extreme Circus goes even another step further, adopting urban aesthetics, performances and narratives. Maybe the best examples of this change are the successes of Cirque du Soleil, founded by street performers, and Blue Man Group, incorporating vaudeville even more clearly. Most of the audience eludes the eclectic and deriving nature of modern circus as well as its processual turns and reversions, for the spectator almost always lives in a now, a present that is rooted in a before, a past, but is only superficially informed by it. It is only in very rare and special situations, that the past as the foundation of the present is actually being reflected upon. With Tait (2011, p. 5), it can be said that in circus all “performances are re-inscribed with beliefs about offstage practices that are brought to the viewing”. In other words, all performances in circus are representations and a realisation of current aesthetics, emotions, knowledge, actions and so on of society. As with every institution, the Self, the individual actor and “man on the street”, experiences the performances as ontological, fallen out of time and valid. But looking at performers-to-be, at those who aspire to participate in circus professionally, the sociological analysis becomes even more interesting. Here, anticipating upcoming changes is essential. In order to have a career in the performing arts the Self must adapt to changes that have not occurred yet. This necessity stems from the fact that performers are highly proficient and professional, executing their respective art with the greatest of skills, grounded in years of training and honing. Whatever change will occur in circus, those will be awarded with jobs who best fit coming demands. With Koselleck, the perception of change is the moment of transformation. But it is only noticeable and only becomes comprehensible when general and structural conditions of change are

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repeated. Only in the continuity of repetition change can become visible so that new decisions can be made (2006, p. 59f.). In order to have a career in circus, the Self must not subscribe to the current ways of performing arts, but, instead, must be willing and able to anticipate future progress—to expect the audience’s prospective expectations and provide innovations. Here, “career is a structuring of time in the past and in the future. It is concerned with justifications, explanations and certain knowledge in the past; and with expectations, anticipations and uncertainties in the future” (Hearn, 1977, p. 276). It goes without saying, that this structure is essential and paradigmatic for all professions that (a) require a long-term amount of training of the body and/or the mind and (b) take place in organisations in which the fulfilment of tasks and duties cannot easily be assumed by some substitute within the workforce. This certainly encompasses the world of the fine and performing arts, sports, as well as science. All those sections of the social are organised and institutionalised quite differently, but they share one common denominator: Individuals cannot be replaced easily as proficiency is highly related to the preconditions, skills and orientation of the professional himself. In sports there will never be someone as exceptional as Babe Ruth. In sociology there will never be another Max Weber. These facts make the planning of one’s own career even more difficult as organisational requirements are diminished by personal expertise, reputation, fame and skill.

 ypes of Risk in Academia: Hazard T and Uncertainty What we are describing here is basically an effect of modernity itself. On the one hand modernity is an age of reason, essentially the option to doubt and thus approve of or disregard socio-cultural norms. On the other hand these possibilities amount to what Beck calls “risk”. As we potentially reason every aspect of the social, we must assess and estimate the effects and side-effects of our decisions. Beck (2009) does not adhere to differentiating risk at all. To him, chance and danger are essentially two

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sides of a coin, forming a dialectical relation. This is plausible because he does not conceptualise risk as a clear and present status or even as a predicator of a social situation at all, but as an epistemological term denoting the character of reflexive modernity (Beck, 1992). Risk encompasses the fact that social institutions do not primarily address classes or social backgrounds, but the individual actor (Beck, 2001). For the purpose of dealing with risk in academia, we propose a line of scrimmage between hazard and uncertainty. Both are defined by time. Hazardous situations are always concrete and present. Either the research itself and its dangers had been underestimated in the first place or the fieldwork got out of hand. This takes place if security measures taken before engaging in research proved to be ineffective, insufficient or futile for other reasons. Depending upon one’s research then there is the danger of bodily harm, sometimes emotional entanglement or traumatisation by sharing the experiences of the field. Uncertainty—the main object of our chapter—in turn is marked by contingency. While all risk pertains an element of time for Esposito (2011) uncertainty explicitly refers to the need of the actor to somehow plan his own future in light of its indeterminacy. There is some information on other actors, organisations and institutions, but the Self always has to deal with the fact that those resources are “imperfect” in two ways: First, some information on other actors simply does not exist. Second, the actions of other actors change reciprocally with the actions of the Self himself. Furthermore, information itself can never be treated as an objective truth, but as an interpretation of action. Thus, the understanding of the meaning of the Other’s actions is always determined by historically bound knowledge. All acts of interpretation are founded in the “positional determination (Standortgebundenheit) of every item of historical knowledge”, a consequence of the fact that “an inner link between aspiration and knowledge exists” (Mannheim, 1952, p. 103). Positional determination must be understood as an epistemological framework, in which only knowledge can be produced (on a macro-level) and action or objects can be understood (on a micro-level). This constitutes a significant limitation of all knowledge, as it is irrevocably a “child of its time”. Its genesis is tied to a specific point and space in history. By limiting the range of possible knowledge a reduction of complexity effectively enables the

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understanding of another actor by sharing one historical era and thus one epistemological point of reference and an increase in imperfect information. In light of this scenario of openness, the actor must adhere to a working knowledge, a theoretical concept of “how things turn out”. But this openness is a historical one, prone to change, effectively levelling the foundation of all expectations and plans. For Beck (2009), non-­knowledge is a key aspect of reflexive modernity, essentially a prerequisite side-effect of new knowledge, primarily by scientific innovation. This non-­knowledge pertains an aspect of knowing and reflexivity. It can be defined and named as a by-product of knowledge and will reveal itself one day and become known. Thus, knowledge and non-knowledge form a dialectical relationship. Non-knowledge is always relative: Relative in its position to knowledge and relative as it constitutes a definable void that can be filled and turned into knowledge. The future, as we understand it, is not non-­ knowledge, as both do not share the same universe of meaning. Knowledge of objects or actions means nothing else but to sediment experiences of them in the course of one’s own biography (Schutz, 1962). One experience correlates with another. Hence, networks of meaning develop. But the future is alien and cannot be experienced. It is always unattainable, as it constitutes a symbolic universe of meaning (Berger & Luckmann, 1991, p. 110). This universe of meaning legitimises everyday knowledge. It commands essentially different cognitive logic. In this understanding of the future, we will now elaborate on the uncertainty of the researcher. In this framework, we understand uncertainty in regard to the general openness of the academic career path in respect to one’s own ambitions and expertise as well as the market’s parameter, opportunities and restrictions. Contrary to hazard being located in the now or the most immediate hereafter, uncertainty refers to a more or even the most distant future—a point in one’s own biography, contingent and indeterminable by a multitude of variables. At first glance, this seems at odds with the common knowledge about academia, a paragon of meritocracy. Those who are willing and able to engage in theory and research, those who establish themselves as excellent, will prevail in academia—a shark tank full of competitors, but one where positions are not bequeathed intergenerationally or by good contacts. So, at least theoretically, there is a chance to shape one’s own future on the basis of and in dependence on skill and

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proficiency. Yet, we propose that this narrative of a possible career in academics and its manageability merely constitutes something else entirely: coming to grips with the contingencies of the Self in time.

Uncertainty as a Matter of Time Before and during the age of traditional modernity, the necessity to think about one’s own career or professional position in the social order in future times was relatively limited, as—by default—it essentially meant vertical ascension. In risk society, however, career must be understood differently. The effects of increased social mobility, lesser relevance of social class and the exemption from historically predetermined knowledge establish the need for the Self to develop an idea and a strategy for one’s own biography (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002; Hitzler & Honer, 1994). Career is “located at the intersection of societal history and individual biography […] within [an] organisational career system in concrete external context” (Rakšnys, Valickas, & Pilkauskaite Valickiene, 2015, p. 122). This biography itself becoming “risky”—and professional alignment a matter of horizontal orientation within the same status groups. This is an important point, hinting on the unrest of professional biographies. For Glaser and Strauss (1971), status is a “resting place for individuals”, a time of relative calm between social ascension and decline. Within reflexive modernity the “transitional status” has become standard, periods of rest the exception. Moreover, the Self is obliged to persistently choose institutions and places of communitisation while navigating on unsteady grounds. To various degrees, risk is imposed upon all researchers in having to establish and advance their career in light of obvious uncertainty. Truth be told, a straight path to professorship is a much greater exception than it is the norm. Projects get cancelled or rejected, funding is always precarious, positions get shifted to other departments or rededicated, theoretical or methodological frameworks become obsolete or fall out of grace. This is demonstrated above all by the flexibility required when it comes to the choice of one’s place of residence, as positions are spread across different universities all over the place. It is almost

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impossible to fathom where the Self will be and what he will work on in years to come. This is why we propose that “career” itself is an institution, a narrative, a relief, easing the Self of the burden of complex choosing between institutions. Talking about one’s career provides relief as it suggests the manageability of the uncertainties of the distant future. In other words, it conquers time itself. We emphasise this point, because while they seem to constitute a series of rational choices predicting the future, the time signatures of human actions are indeed quite complex. Rational choices are based on the estimations of probabilities. While the past provides information about the future, this must not preclude the actor from calculating as to how a certain event will play out based on a rational assessment of possibilities. Thus, there is an experienceable future in the present and it must be distinguished sharply from the past (Hastie & Dawes, 2010, p. 42). Yet, we doubt this concept of time. For Schutz, there is no deliberate planning or courses of action not founded in the past. A future act is imagined as already having been carried out in the future. In this modo futuri exacti the Self looks back at the imagined act and thus ascribes meaning to it. This can only be done with acts that have already been completed, or, treated as if already having been completed (Schutz, 1964). It is obvious that in this concept of time, past, present and future exist to the same extent. However, what will transpire hereafter is impossible to fathom. Exactly how the future is managed, what courses of action are initiated, how a career is going to be situated are highly dependent on the Self ’s knowledge. We already stated that along the lines of Berger and Luckmann the future itself is a symbolic universe of meaning (1991, p. 110), constituently alien and inexperienceable to the effect that it can be described only indirectly, for there is no immediate access to the phenomena (Waldenfels, 2012, p. 170). At the same time, it is legitimising the social order itself. Hence, symbolic universes of meaning are concepts (e.g. love, hate, death, religion, the nation state). They are transcendent and experienceable only by symbol. For us as academics this constitutes a paradox. Of course we can imagine our future: Us in academia in a couple of years at campus, me as a researcher should that proposal be granted, you behind that desk of the chair-holder—but those notions of what is going to be are always empirical to the effect that those imaginations and

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visions relate to us. They are concrete scenes of a possible present, not the future as a broad concept itself. The planability of actions in modo futuri exacti reaches its limits as soon as this span of planning exceeds the temporal implementation of the action (Schutz, 1964). These anticipated conceptions of the future are thus beyond the reach of the self that can be planned and, thereby, acquire a symbolic meaning. This anticipated future as a symbol is constituted from present and past, and, therefore, the actual future lies beyond the realm of experimental knowledge of the subject: It is a great transcendence. As signs help crossing small and medium transcendent areas of everyday life and other realities, symbols however are means which refer to those areas of reality that lie beyond the human experience altogether (Schutz, 1964, p. 148; Berger & Luckmann, 1991, p. 110). We suggest applying this to time as well. Only the Self ’s here and now is present to him—a small ribbon between what already transpired and what will be. This moment in time will move constantly, essentially increasing the “amount” of one’s personal past while not reducing the extent of the biographical future: While for the Self the past effectively is countable, the available remaining lifetime remains a mystery. We now suggest that “career” and “career management” serve to symbolically transcend a symbolic universe of meaning to everyday life, essentially transforming a concept that cannot be experienced into something manageable. “When one deprives the present of all anticipation, the future loses all co-naturalness with it. The future is not buried in the bowels of a pre-­ existing eternity, where we would come to lay hold of it. It is absolutely other and new. And it is thus that one can understand the very reality of time, the absolute impossibility of finding in the present the equivalent of the future, the lack of any hold upon the future” (Levinas, 1987, p. 80). Here we want to avoid a dramatisation of impossibility, as a negation of possibilities. What becomes more important to consider is the location of the subject and its activities of consciousness. As Corsi (2014) states, social structures are no longer concentrated on the past but towards the future of a subject and its lifeworld. In reflexive modernity, it is clear that the subject is not necessarily constituted through its social background anymore. Now it is constituted through present and future actions and decisions—or, in other words, through career management.

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The Future of One’s Own Academic Biography We have now established a typology of risk in academia and proceeded to propose that career management serves as a symbol bridging the transcendence of everyday life to a symbolic universe of meaning, the future, to which the Self has no immediate access. In the last part of our essay we want to present a typology concerning the Self ’s dealings with uncertainty as a special, time-oriented risk in academia. Since we ourselves are active in sociology and the social sciences, we will focus on those disciplines. We understand academia as a market—another feature of reflexive modernity. Almost all markets have been successively deregulated and the boundaries of the welfare states have been moved, leading to privatisation, deregulation, bureaucracy reduction and intense competition (Hammerschmidt, 2014, p. 327). This has changed academia profoundly: Competition has been brought about in the last 30 years (Brinckmann, 1998), making way to the basic idea that competition leads to effectiveness, efficiency and an associated increase in quality (Winter, 2012). But free markets are constituted by the exchange of goods or information, whereby prices are in principle formed by supply and demand. Science and particularly research do not follow this logic entirely, as only very specific findings are utilisable commercially. Thus, a simulated market was developed, implementing management and governance principles including performance and cost comparisons, evaluation procedures, rankings and ratings, application and review procedures for externally funded research, performance-oriented allocation of funds and performance-­oriented payment of employees. For scientists and researchers, this means not only a permanent struggle for financial resources, they are also constantly evaluated—one could say monitored. Along the lines of Beck’s risk society, this leads to an environment where risk is passed on from the institution to the subject (Voß & Pongratz, 1998).

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The Typology Thus, we understand the unfamiliarity of the future as a process of aligning to events that have not yet occurred and maybe never will—the uncertainty of the future in reflexive modernity. As academia is a market and eternal competition for limited resources between all actors, the researcher is required to “make the cut” in order to avoid being pink-­ slipped. Career management means nothing else than adapting to an uncertain future based on obsolete and insufficient experiences, acting with other Selfs that are widely unknown or maybe not even part of the field, and applying for positions that may not be offered or will undergo extensive modifications. In other words, in the perspective of career management, research is a highly volatile and uncertain market. In this market, visibility might be the only thing that perpetually ensures job security. The more one is visible on the market, the more theoretical expertise one shows, the more one publishes outstanding and at the same time compatible results in (for visibility reasons: peer-reviewed) papers, the more it is likely that the researcher will survive in academia. Other than classical organisations, for example in industrial or blue collar work, a relevant trait of the academic career is not to just fulfil the requirement of the work, but to exceed expectations and find one’s own twist or novelty. By far and large, this is true for any profession which is highly depending on personal effort, ingenuity, and last but foremost: artistry. As such, making the cut means nothing else but being visible. The requirement to make the cut and continue doing so holds true for all of our ideal-type. It also does not depend on the job level at all. Every step to climb up the academic greasy pole requires visibility—be it as a student associate, a teaching or research assistant, a graduate student, a lecturer, an associate assistant or full professor. The pay grade, the academic environment and the other actors may change, the need to make the cut, however, does not.

The Acrobat The first main type within the market of science is the acrobat. Acrobats are the most common form of professionals. They are trained thoroughly.

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While often experts in a certain field of the performing arts, their training enables them to more or less comfortably switch to other (sub-)areas of their discipline. Even more importantly, the career of the acrobat is built up through topics that are also recognised as relevant. The acrobat will use established tools at his disposal with great skill. At certain intersections of his career he will take a long hard look at the current discourse in his area of expertise and decide on a specific research topic, founded in established science and thus connectible to current scientific discourses. The chosen field of research is found at the intersection of personal interest, area of expertise and research topics that promise the likelihood of steady grants and funding. As a young professional, acrobats make themselves visible by presenting results, hence engaging employers at conferences and in journals through conversations, discussions or contributions. Because the acrobat is not primarily an innovator, in order to make the cut and be visible he will be under pressure to publish consequently and continuously. Visibility stems from solid work and sheer amount of output.

The Daredevil While the acrobat is oriented towards, and chooses between, “mainstream” and established research topics, the daredevil tries to make the cut by “going all in”. Either by choice of an exotic, daring or sometimes dangerous research topic, an exotic theoretical framework or by association to a special methodology, the daredevil is looking for an explicit niche. But other than the artist, who we will get to shortly, the daredevil is still submissive to the terms and conditions of academia. He adapts, while exploring his options. A daredevil’s research tends to be marked as “explorative” or “hermeneutic”, avoiding the snares of replication studies. As the daredevil’s field of expertise is frequently located on the fringe of the academic mainstream, his management of the future is quite risky. His work is not always connectible to the mainstream discourse, thus the area of expertise cannot be switched as easily as the one of the acrobat. More often than not, it cannot be switched at all. Thus, opportunities of publication and communitarisation are more limited for the daredevil.

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They are relegated to certain journals and conferences specialising in the theoretical framework. Meetings between acrobats and daredevils primarily serve to distinguish boundaries between different approaches— those of the acrobat, the artist and the daredevil. The construction of a scientific in- and out-group enables the confirmation of the own and the alien. Attempts to translate discipline into the other can be seen as an attempt of communitarisation, but this transfer is undermining the scientific self-presentation by softening up the distinctions of exclusiveness. Even if softened, the boundaries are still common knowledge.

The Artist The artist is different from other types of this typology in a most peculiar way: Other ideal types treat academia as a market which they have to adapt to. For them, career is a matter of customising and optimising the Self according to the needs of “the machine”. The artist, however, pursues a different mindset: He is confident that he can make academia adapt to him and his potential for greatness. The artist will try to establish herself or himself as a driving force within the market. In other words, it is the artist’s intent to reverse the balance of power completely. It is the market that will develop a taste for the artist’s special kind of artistry. The foundation for such a reversal is a different conception of time. The artist knows about the future as a great transcendence and the impossibility of anticipating the hereafter. The artist’s actions are thus pervaded by a productive approach of decision-making in the present. He follows his research interests and practices research not for the purpose of distinction, but out of pure love for the discipline and science. Thus, dealing with the future turns uncertainty into creativity. The artist is able to create innovative ideas and be part of the academic discourse at the same time. This may lead to a very specific and hermetic theoretical reputation—his well-placed publications are intended for the object and its research only. The combination of a broad and pragmatic concept of present future bears no or little risk, for the artist is not submissive to time.

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The Sideshow The sideshow is a series of subtypes that somehow grew disenchanted with academia and research in a strict scientific meaning. Those working in the sideshow neither found success in adapting to the academic mainstream nor in the daredevil approach. They may have once tried to assert a certain topic or research theme as idiosyncratic and unique, but—if so— those dreams of artistry have later been grinded to pieces between the whetstones of peer reviews, tenure proceedings and grant applications. In other words, the subtypes of the sideshow never made the cut, never achieved visibility among peers. This by no means implies that those working the sideshows are insufficient as scientist or researchers. It merely points to the fact, that at some point in their career management they decided to exchange uncertainty for the more secure job of the sideshow: the backstage, the lawn in front of the big tent or a place beyond the trailer corral altogether. Neither of those subtypes fails as scientists, but it is uncertainty of time itself that becomes an unbearable burden for them. Firstly, the rigger is responsible for setting up the ring, stage lighting, generally working backstage and making the entire show happen. Riggers took on a job that is still located within the context of science, but in which they will not do research in a stricter understanding, now favouring administration or management instead. Here, the rigger has found an area in the academic world that offers less prestige, but more security, largely avoiding its uncertainties. By far and large, riggers form the backbone of university. They do preliminary or preparatory work without having presence in the audience. While other actors are the stars of the show, the rigger—while still an important part of academia—has traded visibility for certainty. The sideshow’s second subtype is the busker. The busker has left behind the spirit of the big tent. He switched from the universe of meaning of science to the ones of politics, consulting, journalism, economy, trade associations, the criminal system and so on. This does not necessarily include leaving academia altogether; buskers may still hold office in the university. However, the knowledge of their two-a-penny position is omnipresent. Thus, the busker connects to the cognitive logic of a

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different universe of meaning or a different discourse. The subjects and topics are still relevant to himself but located outside the realm of science. Quite often the busker does his research from a highly normative perspective and establishes himself through his political and media visibility. The busker is a force to be reckoned with—just not in academia itself. The busker, at some point in his career, managed to move from the circus ring to the lawn in front of the big tent. There, he either wants to be a part of the circus again and hopes to be brought back into the limelight of the manège due to his street performance or he sees himself as an underdog, who consciously performs off the beaten track. Here he will get paid for playing the songs, or at least gets to play songs of his own arrangement. The third and last subtype is the breakaway. The breakaway has left the academic universe of meaning entirely. He knows very well that the uncertain world of the academy does not correspond to his goals in life. If career management is understood as an institution pertaining the symbolic universe of time hereafter, then the breakaway accepts this by deciding against it. For the breakaway there must be more than a promise of the manageability of the future, or in other words, career management.

Conclusion Starting with and redefining Beck’s concept of risk, in this chapter we elaborated on the imperative for researchers to manage their own academic careers. We argued that dealing with the uncertainty of one’s career in research can be conceptualised as a matter of managing biographical time. We further argued to understand “career” itself as the symbolic link to the great transcendence of the future. We offered a series of ideal-types, dealing with this uncertainty in different ways. What becomes clear is the fact that while academic structures or research itself can be considered risky, there are institutionalised and somewhat standardised ways of dealing with these uncertainties.

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References Beck, U. (1992). Risk society: Towards a new modernity. London: Sage. Beck, U. (2001). Das Zeitalter des “eigenen Lebens”. Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, B, 29, 3–6. Beck, U. (2009). World at risk. Cambridge: Polity. Beck, U., & Beck-Gernsheim, E. (2002). Individualization: Institutionalized individualism and its social and political consequences. London: Sage. Berger, P., & Luckmann, T. (1991). The social construction of reality. London: Penguin. Brinckmann, H. (1998). Die neue Freiheit der Universität: Operative Autonomie für Lehre und Forschung an Hochschulen. Berlin: Edition Sigma. Carlson, M. (2004). Performance: A critical introduction. New York: Routledge. Corsi, G. (2014). Hypertrophie der Zukunft: Scheitern als Perspektive der Karriere. In R.  John & A.  Langhof (Eds.), Scheitern—Ein Desiderat der Moderne? Innovation und Gesellschaft (pp. 301–322). Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Cullen, F. (2007). Vaudeville old & new: An encyclopedia of variety performances in America. New York: Routledge. Elias, N. (1969). The civilizing process, Vol. 1: The history of manners. Oxford: Blackwell. Esposito, E. (2011). The future of futures. The time of money in financing and society. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Glaser, B., & Strauss, A. (1971). Status passage. New Brunswick: Transaction. Hammerschmidt, P. (2014). Zur Ökonomisierung der Sozialen Arbeit. In B. Aulenbacher, B. Riegraf, & H. Theobald (Eds.), Sorge: Arbeit, Verhältnisse, Regime (pp. 325–342). Baden-Baden: Nomos. Hastie, R., & Dawes, R. (2010). Rational choice in an uncertain world. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Hearn, J. (1977). Toward a concept of noncareer. Sociological Review, 25(2), 273–288. Hitzler, R., & Honer, A. (1994). Bastelexistenz: Über subjektive Konsequenzen der Individualisierung. In U.  Beck & E.  Beck-Gernsheim (Eds.), Riskante Freiheiten (pp. 307–315). Frankfurt M.: Suhrkamp. Koselleck, R. (2006). Begriffsgeschichten. Studien zur Semantik der politischen und sozialen Sprache. Frankfurt M.: Suhrkamp. Levinas, E. (1987). Time and the other. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Mannheim, K. (1952). Essays on the sociology of knowledge. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Rakšnys, A., Valickas, A., & Pilkauskaite Valickiene, R. (2015). Transformation of career concept and its effect on career management in organizations. Human Resources Management & Ergonomics, 9(2), 117–128. Schutz, A. (1962). Collected papers I: The problem of social reality. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Schutz, A. (1964). Collected papers II: Studies in social theory. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Tait, P. (2011). Wild and dangerous performances: Animals, emotions, circus. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Voß, G., & Pongratz, H. (1998). Der Arbeitskraftunternehmer. Eine neue Grundform der Ware Arbeitskraft? Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie, 50(1), 131–158. Waldenfels, B. (2012). Hyperphänomene. Modi hyperbolischer Erfahrung. Frankfurt M.: Suhrkamp. Winter, M. (2012). Wettbewerb im Hochschulwesen. Die hochschule, Journal für Wissenschaft und Bildung, 21(2), 17–45.

10 The Need to Be a Leader of Research in the United States: Take the Risk and Move Beyond Your Opponents David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi, and Melissa T. Sasso

Introduction The risks involved in researching sensitive topics could have many impacts on the researchers’ reputations, job preservation, in addition to physical, emotional, and psychological well-being and effects (Fahie, 2014; McCosker, Barnard, & Gerber, 2001). Cleary et al. (2012) mentioned that the reputations of faculty are influenced by publishing innovative research in esteemed journals. The contributors of this chapter, from a perspective within the United States, hope that faculty and researchers worldwide take the risk concerning groundbreaking research regarding topics that others might fear to undertake. Conversely, the contributors of this chapter, who remain unbiased, recommend that researchers and/ or faculty of higher education investigate beyond narrow ideas for topics.

D. B. Ross (*) • G. L. Peyton • V. Nethi • M. T. Sasso Nova Southeastern University, Fort Lauderdale, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_10

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We only comment about possible sensitive topics and one’s reputation for their analyses. The reasons will further be revealed in regard to why investigating sensitive topics are essential and inspire other researchers and/or faculty to take risks with their exploration in order to change and/or enlighten others’ minds of the many possibilities to add research and literature to many fields. Dickson-Swift, James, and Liamputtong (2008) posited that sensitive topics include mortality, sexuality, homelessness, cancer, and other major health issues for all genders. These topics and other related topics that are linked to sensitive and difficult moments bring potential participants, to include the researcher, emotional distress, and other negative impacts (Rodriguez, 2018). Risk perception and risk-­ taking will be addressed to determine how individuals think and conduct themselves when assessing certain situations in their life. These situations in the decision-making process are based upon behaviours regarding many issues (e.g., ethics, social, health, and fianancial) (Anton, 2015). When individuals are researching sensitive topics, there is a propensity for increased levels of curiosity. The curiosity would be within the results of the study, finding willing participants who also engage in non-status quo research, the participants’ reaction towards the study, and a strong inclination for the researchers to hear what pundits and/or the non-­believers would comment. It is said that curiosity killed the cat and that taking risks is dangerous, but does this also hold true for researchers? This statement implies that inquisitiveness could lead any researcher and/or leader in dangerous situations. Kidd and Hayden (2015) explicated that curiosity is considered to be the “noblest of human drives” (p. 450); however, it is just frequently deemed to be risky. William James, a philosopher and psychologist, stated that curiosity is having the desire to increase one’s perception. This indicated that the concept of curiosity is associated with having a desire to gain a higher level of intellect and self-reported aspiration for information (Kidd & Hayden, 2015). Similarly, cognition has many characteristics, of which one is curiosity. Although curiosity has associations with danger, it is also viewed as a vital component to humans’ thirst for knowledge (Adashi, Ahmed, & Gruppuso, 2019; Kidd & Hayden, 2015). James (as cited in Bridier, 2016) suggested fear and curiosity from an antagonistic relationship, produced by the same stimuli and useful to the individual. Curiosity is considered by James to be a primary instinct in which novel objects or

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events evoke both exploratory and avoidance behaviours, whereas fear seeks to reduce the risk or dangers posed by exploration (Bridier, 2016, p. 23).

Risk-Taking as Researchers Leaders possess many styles and personalities when influencing or controlling others, which have the propensity to convey differently from all levels in an organisational culture. An organisational culture either succeeds or falters strictly based upon the values and beliefs, visions, and capabilities of any institutional leader to make sure the organisation performs its procedures (Ahmed & Shafiq, 2014; Tedla, 2016). One value that impacts the achievement of organisational goals is risk-taking (Tedla, 2016). Leaders require a blend of social influence, diverse and critical thinking skills, a strong vision, and the ability to take risks. Prior to understanding the characteristics of leadership, it is critical to know the leaders’ styles and personalities; however, as stated, one important characteristic is to be a risk-taker. Leaders must understand our environment of threats and opportunities as well as internal knowledge of an organisation, which are based on strengths and weaknesses. This should also align with a researcher/educator, as they are leaders in their fields. A researcher needs to take risks by understanding their environment and institution of higher education. To be an effective leader of the research, researchers must understand the rapidly changing world of issues and the complexities of the issues, especially sensitive topics. Risk-taking, by definition, involves engaging in behaviour where there is a predictable potential for unwanted or negative outcomes (Daniel, 2016, p. 3). Risk is associated with raising the bar and being competitive, no matter the project, in order to have an advantage. Decision-making is vital and must be well calculated by learning from it and understanding about which alternative to take to be successful. However, some people are not comfortable with taking a risk, as they are either fearful of a negative outcome or the possibility of not succeeding. Risk perception can be observed from a low-level perspective to a high-level perspective, as individuals understand the risk and how they feel about the risk (Paek & Hove, 2017). The person needs to take into account the intensity and

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many variables when deciding to take a risk, such as researching sensitive topics. As a researcher who wants to take the risk of delving into sensitive topics, they would have to be comfortable with the outcomes of their reputation and other stress factors. Zinn (2017) illustrated that risk-­ taking must be researched and understood as it relates to social institutions (i.e., higher education, health systems, government, family, religion) and practices by protecting meaningful identity and making a valuable contribution to society. Current sensitive issues causing increased death rates in the United States are the homelessness, mental health, veteran suicide, and opioid addiction crises. Why is there such a fear of bringing these issues to the forefront of research compared to other global medical outbreaks? Based on a study conducted by Sasso (2017), participants were very detailed when describing their experience with their leader and did not, at any point, hold back on their true sentiments. As one participant revealed, They are not realistic at all as she decides daily with last-minute decisions to do anything, which is mainly to advance her needs. When a person is supposedly your boss, should create a positive environment. In her case, not at all, unless it is for her gain. Things fall apart and no motivation or drive … bottom line is people start to think, who cares anymore? (p. 102)

This answer, which the participant provided for one of the study’s questions, revealed the willingness to partake in such a study. It is evident that there are participants who are passionate about such sensitive topics. Time and again, we see research conducted on the same old topics with contradictory results. However, we often hear others make statements such as, “No wonder this company is falling apart, there is something wrong with our leader. I bet you if they did a study on our company, they would find out our leader is a narcissist.” We may even find others questioning why media outlets are continuously pushing the same stories and with the same one-sided philosophies. However, how many researchers conduct studies on such sensational topics, if you will? The answer is, not many. These sensational topics are, in actuality, considered sensitive topics and, as such, pose risks to the researcher. These risks include but are

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not limited to emotional and psychological as well as financial. Now by financial risks, it is not a matter of the study itself being expensive to conduct, but rather the aftermath of conducting the study. That said, a researcher is taking a risk with how their reputation may be affected after researching a sensitive topic, and in turn, possibly jeopardise their position within their organisation. When we think of researchers at risk while engaged in their academic work, we tend to think of the natural sciences where scientists work in laboratories and may become exposed to dangerous chemicals or high doses of radioactivity or toxins, and so on. However, in recent years there is a growing awareness that social science researchers too are susceptible to risk and there is a growing body of literature (Brougham & Uttley, 2017; Canter, 2019; Marks & Abdelhalim, 2018; Sampson, 2019; Worley, Worley, & Wood, 2016) that explores this phenomenon. Brougham and Uttley (2017) defined “the concept of risk to researchers” as “the possible harm that may occur to researchers while in the field or after leaving a research project” (p. 1). Contemporary research in the social sciences has pushed back traditional boundaries in the sense that researchers now freely adopt methodologies across disciplines. Various qualitative research designs such as ethnography, phenomenology, case studies, and grounded theory are used in various disciplines such as criminology and criminal justice (Worley et  al., 2016), social research (Sampson, 2019), education (Ohlrich, 2017), and feminist research (Tyagi, 2018), to name a few. Canter (2019) observed that the “impact” of contemporary social science research or the “consequences for those outside of the research community is a growing priority for funding agencies” (para. 1). Thus, conducting social science research necessitates coming into contact with the real world and its potential risks that can range from professional, ethical, emotional to physical (Sampson, 2019). In Worley et al.’s (2016) study, they explored the challenges and ethical dilemmas faced by eight well-­ known ethnographic researchers in the field of criminology and criminal justice between 1975 and 2000. All respondents reported having experienced some form of trauma, stigma that could have led to professional suicide, legal challenges, being in physical danger or “compassion fatigue resulting from over empathising with their research subjects” (p. 304).

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They also found that the only female in the sample seemed to have been the most stigmatised, with the stigmatisation surprisingly occurring in her academic work environment, which should have been her place of refuge. Brougham and Uttley (2017) used an online survey to explore the experiences of 805 researchers who were involved in either social deviance or criminal behaviour research. Of these, 308 (41%) reported having experienced risk in conducting their research. The most common risks they faced from involvement in their research were emotional stress, fear, and ethical dilemma. Tyagi (2018) also poignantly shared her emotional stress in conducting feminist research. Research indicated: In interacting directly with members of the organisation who breathe hatred towards certain ideas and people, every minute becomes a struggle for neutrality. Thus, adhering to the principles of feminist research and research ethics, in general, becomes an arduous task. (Tyagi, 2018, p. 333)

In recent decades, institutions and institutional review boards (IRBs) have come to understand the need to protect participants in social science research. Nevertheless, with the growing awareness that “researchers themselves may be exposed to a variety of physical, emotional, ethical and professional ‘dangers’” (Sampson, 2019, p. 131), there is a need to introduce measures to protect both the researched, as well as the researcher. Academic institutions need to make available training on potential risks and assessment tools to help social science researchers evaluate and minimise these risks. Brougham and Uttley’s 2017 study led them to and recommended that IRBs take on the responsibility to guide the novice researcher towards preparing to face these potential risks.

Conflict and Its Influence on Research Conflict is a state of disagreement and disharmony, which could lead to negative issues of research and reputation. Conflicts are a natural part of living, and without them, life could be boring; however, with too many conflicts, life could be too stressful. A point to this is bullying and

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mobbing in the workplace. It is not expected for people to be cordial with each other; however, mobbing is “detrimental to stress, health, workplace hazards, work productivity, and morale and unethical means of communication to ridicule and humiliate others” (Ross, Sasso, Matteson, & Matteson, 2020, p.  72). As revealed in Ross et  al. (2020), a professor experienced such extreme mobbing of false accusations from his co-­ workers, that it led to a stroke induced by stress, which ultimately killed him. When individuals experience this type of abuse, it reduces motivation and morale with unsatisfying work conditions and one’s reputation. Conflict can have a negative or positive attitude, whether the conflict is internal, interpersonal, or on a larger scale. A positive attitude towards conflict will mostly have a positive interaction for personal growth. The purpose is to clarify the two-valued positions and attempt to decide the alternatives in obtaining a winning resolution to the conflict. This creates a Choice Dilemma situation, which is when an individual is challenged to select one alternative over another. During this risk situation, an individual would have to determine the reasoning for choosing the alternative (Dahlbäck, 2003). Therefore, in the case of a researcher and/or educator deciding to choose or not choose to research a sensitive topic might cause a risk of one’s reputation or job position. It is imperative to note that in William Styron’s Sophie’s Choice, any decision-making process could lead to extreme moral dilemmas. This was a severe case of decision-making while risking her life and her daughter’s while confronting a Nazi guard. The alternatives, no matter the option, were wrong because the sacrifice was so detrimental to one’s morals. The contributors of this chapter want to illustrate that no matter the level of risk-taking, it could cause one’s reputation, health effects, and even choosing between two evils. Therefore, as a researcher and/or educator, we need to determine in our own minds to make sense and meaning of what level of risk should one take to publish an article regarding sensitive issues. For example, Rosner (2017) mentioned that Sophie’s Choice could be used when politicians in the United States were making decisions on national health issues. Researchers explained that there are other sensitive issues to think about that are risky in nature: abortion clinics, pregnancy reduction, oppression, racism, and anti-Semitism (DeMarco, 2012; Durham, 1984). DeMarco (2012) stated other issues that one would have to

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determine where the boundary is concerning “choice and ethics, intense relief and intense guilt, personal freedom, and profound regret” (p. 21).

Researchers and Their Ethical Obligations Earlier in this chapter, we discussed how researchers need to understand the characteristics of leaders when risk-taking. As leaders, we have a duty to take our ethical responsibilities seriously. This is true for researchers as well. Researchers should internalise a strong set of ethics—principles of right conduct or a system of moral values (Hughes, Ginnett, & Curphy, 2019). It is essential that researchers, like leaders, include ethics with their decision-making. Decisions ought to be made based on duty. Duty should play a significant role in our ethical discussion. Researchers need to keep their research and subjects in mind when devising a solution. When making decisions, researchers should act to treat humanity always as an end and never as a means only (Johnson, 2018). We must always demonstrate respect for others and to ask ourselves, “if we would want everyone to make the same choice” (Johnson, 2018, p. 150). Researchers can learn from various leadership strategies on how to solve ethical problems or dilemmas (Zhang, Zhou, & Mao, 2018). Here are a few leadership strategies that can be implemented: (a) identify options, (b) consider possible outcomes, (c) gather information, (d) experiment, and (e) adjust your conclusions in the light of new information (Johnson, 2018, p. 157). A researcher must immerse himself in the details of the situation to gain a better understanding of the challenges a person may face, and in some cases, may need to choose between imperfect alternatives (Johnson, 2018, p. 157). Many individuals who embark on risky research are presented with problems and need to identify ethical solutions. Moral reasoning could be a solution as this is a process leaders use to make decisions about ethical and unethical behaviours (Hughes et  al., 2019, p.  149). Instead of ignoring the situation or deciding on a different, safer topic, researchers can embrace known leadership strategies to guide them through the

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difficult scenario. Such strategies can include: (a) to approach ethical problems as you would other dilemmas, (b) immerse yourself in the details, (c) engage your imagination, (d) acknowledge your limitations, (e) look for creative solutions, (f ) embrace your emotions, and (g) recognise that your ethical choices shape your character (Johnson, 2018, p. 157). Ultimately, a moral, ethical person is seen as a principal decisionmaker who cares about people and the broader society. As a researcher whose job it is to convey knowledge to the educational community, this should be a researcher’s greatest goal. Researchers can face dilemmas that require choices between competing sets of values and priorities (Hughes et al., 2019, p. 148). A researcher may want to conduct their own research on topics that are important to them. However, they may be pressured by their institution to conduct research that is either irrelevant or status quo. Alternatively, the situation could be reversed where the researcher wants to conduct unwarranted research, and the institution is pressuring for more risky, sensitive research. What is a researcher to do? The best researchers face dilemmas with a commitment to doing what is right, not just what is expected (Hughes et al., 2019). Again, this goes back to ethical decision-making and choosing the correct path. Values play a key role in this decision process. Researchers need to learn and embrace leadership skills, theories, and practices to promote themselves to do what is best for both researchers and institutions; neither should settle. There is a technique that leaders use to help problem-solve called dramatic rehearsal. The term dramatic rehearsal describes mental imagination in action (Johnson, 2018, p. 155). Dramatic rehearsal is a useful tool when facing ethical or moral dilemmas. The imagination allows a person to experiment with solutions and engage in perspectives taking both of which are essential to ethical problem solving (Johnson, 2018, p. 157). The person can conduct a series of imaginary thought experiments to visualise the result of their decisions. Researchers need to embrace this leadership strategy when faced with risks. By using this strategy, researchers may identify innovative solutions to problems

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facing our society, distinguish creative results, and recognise steps to be ahead of the competition. All of these factors could help in the ultimate goal: to pursue risky research in a safe environment without hesitation or reluctance.

The Sensitivity of Research The sensitivity of research emerged in the 1960s based on social transformations, where individuals had to reveal private information and topics investigated such as domestic violence, alcoholism, practising safe sex, eating disorders, rape, and miscarriages (Sasso, 2017). Sasso (2017) indicated, “it is essential that the researcher’s method of attaining data does not give participants any doubt of putting themselves in any form of negative risk” (p. 69). Over the years, with changes in generational and social issues as well as the climate in higher education, student entitlement, and the disrespect for faculty has increased (Holdcroft, 2014; Sasso & Ross, 2020). These issues are sensitive in nature, as most researchers and mostly faculty might not take the initiative to study and/or publish this risk due to adverse results from their higher education administration. If researched, this could have detrimental impacts such as a loss of funding as students could leave a programme and/or an institution to enrol at another institute of higher education. Based on student consumerism and entitlement, administrators are challenged to select between supporting their professors and supporting their students, while balancing budgets and learning. Sasso and Ross (2020) indicated that end of semester evaluations are used as a means for students to induce fear in faculty by placing their jobs at risk. Students who believe when their assigned faculty have not appeased them, whether it be through their expectations or answering their demands, the student will defer to negative feedback. According to Raymond Lee, “Sensitive research poses a substantial threat to those who are or have been involved” (1993, p.  4). When a study is conducted, more specifically, a study on a sensitive topic, one often thinks about how the participants may be affected by the research conducted by the researchers; however, less emphasis is placed on the researchers themselves. So, what exactly occurs to researchers once the

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study is over? One would think that the researcher simply moves on to the next project at task, but do they? A study conducted by Fahie (2014) indicated that the researchers face numerous challenges after the research is complete. It was noted that the participants needed to continue contact with the researcher after the survey/interview was completed. The participants felt the need to continue divulging their distress to the researcher, which in turn caused stress on the researcher. In fact, it was noted that one participant contacted the researcher 40 to 50 times in the span of a year after the initial and only interview for the study was already completed. It was illustrated that the distress that the participants were experiencing was contagious towards the researcher. Fahie additionally revealed that the researcher and participant might develop a strong rapport at a quicker rate due to the sensitivity of the topic, as the participant is divulging their personal, and at most times, painful experiences. However, due to the increased rate of building a strong rapport, the researcher was far more easily affected by the participant’s stories. This, in turn, makes it harder for the researcher to detach themselves from the study conducted as well as from the participants. When individuals conduct sensitive research, they are at risk of potentially losing their position within the organisation they are employed, or it may even prevent them from attaining future positions. One of our contributors had various negative experiences during multiple job interviews due to her dissertation topic of narcissistic and toxic behaviour within leadership styles. Potential future employers questioned whether she would analyse their leadership style and determine if they were narcissistic leaders, making them feel uncomfortable. The potential employer felt intimidated and, in turn, did not offer the vacant position. Needless to say, it was difficult to attain a job, as potential supervisors felt threatened by her wisdom and education in the field of leadership.

Conclusion Taking risks and researching sensitive topics could be a challenging endeavour. However, if researchers and/or faculty in higher education fear to add a myriad of topics to their studies and course curricula, this

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could lead to a lack of data that validates literature and for future investigations. We believe that researchers should not fear investigating sensitive topics because of concerns for their reputation and be more curious about the relevant topics needed to investigate in our environment of turmoil and unrest. Some sensitive topics in leadership that we believe need to be studied with an open mind include (a) narcissistic and toxic leadership; (b) Queen Bee, Princess Bee, and Phantom Bee leadership; (c) media bias and political agendas; (d) protestors in higher education who shut down conservative free speech; (e) wrongful accusations of incidents on university/college campuses; (f ) trillion-dollar student loan bubble; (g) violation of due process; (h) hatred towards politicians; (i) prison inmates and race; (j) bullying and mobbing; (k) animal rights, (l) men and women health issues; and (m) ageism in the workplace. Conducting safe research should not be the preferred route for scholars. Instead, they need to be open-minded and courageous in investigating topics that are forbidden, sensitive, or give voice to those seldom heard. This will substantively add to the literature by not merely replicating acceptable findings, but truly expanding knowledge about issues that others are afraid or ashamed to discuss. These sensitive or forbidden topics are needed, as it will peak one’s interests compared to repetitive nonsense in the world of research; sort of the dead-horse syndrome where the research is just not working. No need to keep people uninformed towards world topics and events, as this affects the world regarding how people act and function. If research keeps the world in an ill-informed silo, it will prevent people from behaving in such ways because they will develop a limited outlook and vision of the world, which goes back to leadership characteristics of visionary leaders who are risk-takers.

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Part III Risks Related to the Research Topic (Subject Matter): Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan

The third section of the book contains four chapters concerned with risks related to the research topic—that is, the subject matter of the enquiries. The researchers within this section were engaged in a wide range of fieldwork challenges when conducting their enquiries. This includes the ramifications of publicly revealing the findings of their investigations. These risks included personal/identity risk, emotional/philosophical risk, professional/reputational risk and the risk of intercultural misunderstandings. Gerrit Weitzel outlines the results of his participatory observation in a Salafist educational seminar in Chap. 11. Through his lived experience with the group, the author provides an insight into the life of a Salafist group in Germany, and he reconstructs the knowledge gleaned from his presentation and the subsequent discussion. The chapter provides further reflections on the author’s interactions with the group regarding self-revelation. In Chap. 12, Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser focus on the risks associated with enacting feminist and multispecies research within the confines of the neoliberal academy in New Zealand and Australia. They particularly target qualitative research dealing with the dictomous concepts of love and abuse. The authors highlight both the risks to researchers and the opportunities to create alliances that pursue transformative social change. Their central argument is that the neoliberal university is

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implicated in the reproduction of profoundly destructive forces, including colonialism, speciesism, sexism and heterosexism. In Chap. 13, Jacqui Hoepner reflects on lessons from her own experience with precarity and risk throughout—and following—her doctoral research. She realised that many researchers working in risky fields have found themselves on the receiving end of intense silencing, abuse and threats. Through interviews, she gathered their stories and found disturbing patterns: conflict of interest accusations, claims of misconduct or unethical behaviour, public attacks and institutional reprimand were common. An embargo on her thesis prompted questions around the ideal versus the everyday practice of academic freedom. Finally in this section of the book, in Chap. 14, Susan Janelle Moore addresses the issue of critical inquiry into sensitive social problems that requires risk-taking by researchers and research participants alike. Detailed in this chapter are insights into risks as experienced by the scholar within a study involving Aboriginal participants in remote Australia. She posits that research is both personal and political, requiring researchers to move deftly between each realm as they negotiate their legitimacy as agents of social change through this medium.

11 God at First Place: My First Talk and Dinner with a Salafia Group. What They Talked About and How I Dealt with the Risk Gerrit Weitzel

Introduction This text outlines the results of a participatory field research in the context of a Salafi educational seminar, which I attended after being approached with a request to participate in a survey. I was asked to answer five questions on the topic of victimization. Afterwards they invited me to a presentation of the results in the following days. At the first meeting I already suspected that it could be a Salafist group; this was confirmed at the meeting itself. It is true that Salafist groups do not call themselves Salafists; on the contrary, they mostly reject the term, because it is a kind of foreign designation, which is primarily used by state institutions, press and science. One recognizes them, however, by the fact that they refer in their statements to the “ancestral” preachers Al-Salah and Al-Salih (Schneiders, 2017).

G. Weitzel (*) University of Bielefeld, Bielefeld, Germany © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_11

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This chapter aims to provide an inside view of the life of an organized group influenced by Salafism. It should become clear which topics are specified by the organization and how they are taken up and dealt with in the whole group. Next, the results of the lecture will be discussed and will be examined as to the manner in which they can be integrated into current discourses. Afterwards I will give an insight into the ethnographic field research. Finally, I will discuss the risks that can accompany research on radical groups. The lecture was part of the evening program. A prayer took place before the lecture, followed by a discussion and dinner. For me it was the first meeting with a Salafist group. I have almost no experience with religious groups, church visits during school time excluded. In particular, I have no experience with restrictive groups that consider traditions like the patriach style and religious obedience as important. The opportunity to get to know the group was more important to me than the anticipated risk. After the invitation, my expectation was to potentially fit into the group. One should know that my phenotype also corresponds to the Asian one, which means I have dark hair and brown eyes. I also have a full beard, but that has become universal. However, my personal interest is not religion or membership in a religious group, but motivations and structures that lead young people in Western liberal societies to voluntarily submit to such restrictive rules. I wanted to participate, so I added to my statements that I was interested, since I had generally had little contact with religion so far. The meeting room was an industrial building, about 10 minutes’ walk from a busy main street in a rather socially deprived (social) space. When I arrived, there were already people standing in front of the room. I sat down with a group and it did not take long before I was addressed. What is my name, whether I am here for the first time, nice to get to know me. I was nervous and excited. The room size was about 50 m2. It was simply furnished, cobbled together from old furniture. There were three long rows of tables. At the front of the room there was a lectern made of tables with a portable screen behind it. Behind the lectern was a provisionally furnished prayer room, which was covered with curtains at the sides. Some of those present prayed together before the beginning of the event, while others indicated that they had already done so.

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About 35 people took part in the event, all men. Nearly all of those present were of the Asian phenotype. Among them there were two people of color. About half of the visitors were estimated to be between 20 and 25 years old, 35% between 25 and 30 and about 15% 30 and over. Only one person, presumably one of the organizers, was traditionally dressed in wide trousers and a crocheted hat; the rest of the visitors wore fashionable branded clothes, as often seen in city centres and cafés. The participants seemed to know each other. They greeted each other with a handshake or welcome kiss. Conversations were conducted in German and often covered the topics studied and evening plans. One participant told me that the majority of those present knew each other, and continued that the group met regularly for such events, which were held monthly. The events always included lectures. Over the course of the lecture there were several references to the ancestors Al-Salaf and Al-Salih, from which it can be concluded that it was a Salafist educational seminar—even if it was not explicitly called so. In order to provide a better understanding of the following discussion, the historical roots of the Salafiya movement are presented below and placed in the German context of the phenomenon.

Salafism In Islam, as in other religions, there are different currents (liberal, conservative, fundamentalist). These currents differ in terms of religious sources and their respective interpretations. Salafism belongs to the fundamentalist part of Islam, characterized by the fact that the explanations are taken literally and the historical moment of their origin is elided over. In the strictly Salafist interpretation, the Quranic texts are infallible, as they represent the representation of God’s word. One orients oneself thereby to the norms, values and rules of the ancestral society in the seventh century, that is, to Muhammad and the ancestors “al salah” and “al ahli” (Schneiders, 2014, p. 17). According to the model by Wiktorowicz (2005), the Salafi movement is typified by three currents: (1) purists and quietists, (2) political Salafis and (3) jihadist Salafis.

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The purist way of life, which is mainly characterized by ascetic ways of life far away from consumption, represents a cross-typical element here. While purists and quietists’ ascetic and pious way of life is sufficient as a religious expression, political Salafis rely on missionary work: Da’wa. Jihadist Salafists combine the pious and missionary and are furthermore prepared to use violence to achieve their goals (cf. ibid.). The transitions between the different types are fluid and not always clear-cut. There are also variations within the types; all in all, the spectrum of Salafist groups is relatively unclear. Wiktorowicz’s typology is understood as a heuristic, which on the one hand presents the scene in an overview-like manner, but on the other hand also harbors the danger that the types in performative acts are constantly being overlooked (Hummel, Kamp, & Spielhaus, 2016, p. 10). It is important not to equate the Salafist interpretation of Islamic religious practice with fundamentalism or jihadism, even if there are overlaps. The Salafi teaching is oriented towards the past and does not acknowledge any positive visions of the future for “this world”. It is strict in its interpretation and forbids everything that is understood as fun according to Central European understanding (El-Mafaalani, 2017, p.  77f.). Nevertheless, it is a successively growing movement that seems particularly attractive for young people. Even though these findings, with regard to a youth movement, may seem counter-intuitive at first, there are various analogies to historical youth movements, including punk (Nordbruch, 2017; El-Mafaalani, 2014, 2017; Toprak & Weitzel, 2017), which may explain why Salafism in Germany is an under-30 phenomenon. The appeal of Salafism to young people, mostly socialized in Germany, is manifold: along with protest, young people are drawn to it in terms of provocation, self-efficacy and group membership (El-Mafaalani, 2017; Nordbruch, 2017). Salafism has been publicly present in Germany for about ten years and has been politically and scientifically discussed in the media for the same length of time. It originated as a youth movement, which has made a name for itself, inter alia, from young people who had gone to Syria and

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moved within the spectrum of Salafist groups.1 The suspicion of its radicalizing effect on young people constantly accompanies the Salafi movement. Another reason why Salafist groups are so present in public perception is their active conversion and agitation policy: “In order to make themselves heard, Salafists use both the virtual and the real world” (Schneiders, 2014, p. 16; Inan, 2017). Pro-vocations, also by the Sharia police, and clashes with forces of order, as in Bonn, also contribute to public, political and media confrontation with the phenomenon.2

The Talk In the following section the main points of the observed presentation are introduced. There was hardly any disturbance during the lecture. Only very few people used their mobile phones or spoke. It started with a recitation from the Koran for about five minutes on the topic “willingness to make sacrifices”. This was in Arabic. It was followed by a film of about ten minutes about the prophet Muhammed and his companions. The film was accompanied by Ansheed music. The main message of the film was that Muhammad and his companions were willing to sacrifice everything for their faith, Islam: prosperity, the favour of the family and ultimately life itself. The second main actor in the film was Ibrahim, who sacrificed his youngest son in the name of God. The prophets al salaf and al salih were also mentioned. The film served as a conversation impulse. The theme of the evening was “for which things in life young Muslims have already made sacrifices”, or rather are prepared prospectively to “make sacrifices”. The result: Retrospectively as well as prospectively, they are and were prepared to make sacrifices for career, family and religion. The presentation of the results was supported by two bar charts. The aim seemed to be to convey a targeted message. The tenor of the speaker was: “Career is good, material things are not to be categorically rejected, but the Word of  https://www.verfassungsschutz.de/de/arbeitsfelder/af-islamismus-und-islamistischer-terrorismus/ zahlen-und-fakten-islamismus/zuf-is-reisebewegungen-in-richtung-syrien-irak. 2  https://www1.wdr.de/nachrichten/rheinland/prozess-scharia-polizei-wuppertal-100.html. 1

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God and its formulated values must be above all”. For those present, the argumentation was underpinned with examples close to real life, for example the student who learns for hours every day in the library and does not pray in the process, and the employee who concentrates primarily on his career and neglects Islamic values in the process. Conclusion of the speaker: Despite all career thinking and materialism, it must always be clear that the Word and the values of God are above all. The believer must be prepared to give up everything in the name of God, like Muhammed and his companions, and if necessary to die for God as a martyr; Martyrdom was glorified. There were no objections from the audience; on the contrary, there was even an appreciative nod of the head. During the discussion, the thesis was put forward that it might be better to change the system from within: Muslims are in bad social positions. The aim should be to take better positions and then try to change the norms and values of capitalist society. What this change might look like was not further discussed. The speaker had a clear opinion about this. He repeated that Islamic values should not be neglected. Not even if they serve as a means to an end. Here “role models” are mentioned; the speaker called them “the acquaintances”. The “acquaintances” are not the rich and educated, but conversely those who have nothing and have subordinated their lives to God. He further argued that God makes a difference between those who are willing to sacrifice everything and those who refuse to sacrifice. For the first group the way to paradise is paved. The second group is threatened with punishment: “The punishment remains unspoken [Koran quote sic!]” They do not know what they are threatened with. A metaphor followed about the story of a blind man whose only desire was to serve his Creator and die for him. Thus he entered the Holy War as a standard-bearer. The quintessence of the metaphor was that everyone could do his part to implement divine will, and that the blind man would have understood this. Excuses are obsolete. In the view of the speaker Islam literally and sensually means “submission”. Peace in Islam is complete submission to the word of God and absolute readiness to implement his will without any conditions or resistance.

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At the end of the lecture there was the opportunity for questions and comments. One participant asked about the relationship between family and faith: “Is it okay to neglect faith—for example, praying or visiting the mosque—for the family?” The speaker replied that both points had to be put in relation to each other. Having children and bringing them up in an Islamic way is a duty in Islam. Education according to Islamic values was of high priority, especially in the Diaspora, because there “half of the day” was non-Islamic. Another participant, probably in his early thirties, gave a co-lecture. He recalled the history of Ibrahim: “Ibrahim was old and he had not expected to be given a son again […]; it was his youngest son, his dearest […] and he had these emotions, as we all have them when it comes to our children […] and he was ready to sacrifice this son in the name of God […], the most important thing in his life”. His language was flowery and emotional. The main argument was that Ibrahim, a loving father, was ready to sacrifice the highest and most precious good, his son, in the name of God. He ended his talk with an appeal to all participants, especially the younger ones, to ask themselves what they were willing to sacrifice “in the prime of their lives”. Afterwards they were to eat together. Some of the visitors said goodbye; others went outside to smoke. Most of them, however, remained seated to take part in the meal. The so-called Islamic State was discussed several times during the common meal. Even though the participants agreed that fighting means defending God’s aims, they rejected the style of the Islamic State and considered it an abuse of the Islamic caliphate. However, some of the participants doubted the presentation of the Islamic State by Western media. In the next chapter I will discuss the content discussed in the lecture.

Conclusion I: The Talk The evening was characterized by a contradiction between the radical content of the lecture and the discussion, including the glorification of martyrdom and the relaxed overall mood. The lecture was presented in a

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factual and sober manner and was enhanced by emotionalizing elements such as Ansheed music and exemplary stories (sacrifice and martyrdom). The reference to the ancestors “al salah” and “al ahli” as well as the “radical” interpretation of the theological content suggest that the observed group were followers of Salafist theological interpretation. In view of the Wiktorowicz model, it is not clear to which current it belongs. The glorification of martyrdom, the emphasis on absolute obedience to the Word of God and the definition of Islam with the words “Islam means submission and nothing else” suggest that it is the political current of Salafism that at least shows sympathies with the Jihadist current (Wiktorowicz, 2005). Apart from doubts about the IS, the so-called Islamic state, there were also doubts about its representation by the media. A further explication of the doubts did not occur. Furthermore, the glorification of martyrdom and the reference to asserting God’s aims also through struggle undermines fundamental aspects of the democratic order, such as freedom of the media and freedom from violence. It remains unclear which forms of struggle are considered justified and which unjustified. If one applies the theoretical approaches to the concepts of radicalization and extremism, it turns out that the group can be located on the borderline between radicalization and “cognitive extremism” (Frindte, Boehnke, Kreikenbom & Wagner, 2011, p.  30). Both individuals and organizations are radicalized when they call for far-reaching social and political changes, even though they respect the current system and do not regard violence as a legitimate means of achieving their goals. In this understanding, radicalism represents the threshold to violence—whether and how this threshold is taken depends on other factors. Radicalization ends where the implementation of political, religious and social goals can be enforced by violence or at least where the use of violence can be approved (Zick, 2017, p. 18; Neumann, 2013, p. 4; Frindte et al., 2011). Neumann (2013) distinguishes here between cognitive and violent extremism. Cognitive extremism is located at the level of attitudes and starts where political ideas and goals of individuals/groups contrast with the basic values and norms of a society.

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It is the firm belief in an extremist idea, its messages and aims, narratives and interpretations of reality. Radical ideologies have become entrenched and consolidated. The anchor point in the difference from the concept of radicalism is the relationship to violence. According to Frindte et al. (2011), violence is not (yet) considered a means of achieving goals in the radicalism construct (ibid., p.  30), and in “cognitive extremism” the notion of the use of violence in the name of and for the purpose of ideology is considered legitimate and partly necessary. The criticism of Western norms and values, the reference to the fact that Islam means subjugation and nothing else, the glorification of martyrdom and the statements that goals are to be achieved also in the context of hostilities speak for more than “radical” democratic distance and criticism of the system and refer to forms of “cognitive extremism”. The reference to the fact that education is important in order to “think oneself into the system in order to transform it from the inside and that success and career are not undesirable, but that God comes first” further supports this thesis. Here too the meaning of system transformation remains unclear. The criticism of “Western-inspired capitalist values” suggests that it is a transformation of capitalism, but the extent to which democratic power relations are to be changed cannot be conclusively assessed. The relevance of formal education points to a subversive strategy. Several times it was highlighted that the personal background of individual participants did not play a role; the heterogeneity of the group was emphasized and brotherhood several times. The unifying element was attributed to Islam: “Many nations sit at one table”. The articulation of a collective social identity to enhance one’s own existence and actions was also observed. Here, one’s own social identity follows Islamic values. The distinguished counterpart is represented on the one hand by the “capitalist-­inspired Western values” and on the other by a non-Islamic way of life of Muslims. Lecture, discussion and talks were directed against capitalism and democracy. However, it was criticism from within, since the actors present did not act outside the “system”; some participants told me that they were studying medicine, others that they were studying engineering. In view of the integration dimensions, according to Esser (2001) it can be

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stated that the participants are pro forma integrated above average in the area of structural integration, that is, participation in education. Nevertheless, even if the participants are socially well integrated in some areas, there is a rhetoric of demarcation in their articulations that is manifested through moralization and historical revisionism, for example “live and stay Islamic”, “follow the rules”, “God first” and references to the lifestyles of the old front. Forms of moralization showed themselves in the rejection and devaluation of “western lifestyles”. According to Reckwitz (2017), such an understanding of culture can be described as cultural essentialism. It is characterized by tendencies towards social closure of ways of life and is found in particular identity communities, such as religious or even ethnic groups. Cultural essentialism is very different from its counterpart, hyperculture. Hyperculture is characterized by “a historically exceptional cultural opening of ways of life” (Reckwitz, 2017, p. 1), in which lifestyles, gender norms, consumer norms and individual identities have become increasingly pluralized. In this reading, Salafist offers of identity do not only reactivate the everyday cultures of the pre-­ modern era, but also actively re-valorize them against “the life worlds found in modernity” (Reckwitz, 2017, p. 5f.).

Conclusion II: The Ethnographic Field Research The time before the lecture, the discussion after the lecture and the concluding dinner were characterized by a relaxed atmosphere with lots of laughter and lively discussions. The participants behaved very constructively towards each other, that is, they were friendly to each other and seemed interested in each other. Everyone was also very open minded and friendly towards me. “What’s your name, brother” and “glad you are here, brother” were directed towards me by almost every person. I personally have an interest in social issues, as do some of the participants, so we talked about the gentrification of our hometown during the evening. When I wanted to leave, I was asked several times for my phone number or email address, which made me uncomfortable. When they asked me if I would be back soon, I replied that I would have to think about it but that I had already enjoyed the evening. Which was not a lie; it had been

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exciting. However, the religious concepts did not convince me personally enough to want to be part of this group. But imagining being alone, perhaps having little connection to community, looking for meaningful occupation and answers to the big questions in our society, such as justice, I can imagine that the attention from the group could seem attractive (Frindte et al., 2016). My participation was motivated by my interest in the phenomenon. Prior to the event, I explained that religion had not played a major role in my life so far and that I was interested from a scientific perspective—in how young people in Germany live religion. It was a very exciting group of people. Young people whose parents migrated to Germany, but who themselves were socialized here. Some of the participants I talked to told me that they were studying, for example medicine or engineering. They were young, educated and felt they belonged to a direction of Islam that refers to the traditions of the seventh and eighth centuries. I was interested in which developments in their biographies were responsible for their feeling of belonging to the Salafi interpretation of Islam. I met some of the participants again at a later date, but nobody was willing to give me an interview for the purpose of a scientific work. Due to the content of the seminar I decided not to give my contact details or to participate in further events of the group. Due to the perceived risk, I was unfortunately not able to further develop my research on the topic at this point.

Research at Risk: Research with Radical Groups In the text I have described the group, the process, the research context and my own person in the context of ethnographic field research. Finally, I would like to briefly touch on general risks of research with radical groups. Research on and with radical, extremist groups whose worldview deviates from a democratic order poses several risks. First, there is an emotional risk, because the aim of these groups is to change a society in such a way that its liberal values are lost. This often results in other groups, be

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they “infidels” or “migrants”, being disparaged and degraded in a tasteless way. Sometimes it goes so far as to call for the destruction of these groups. In research with these groups, one is constantly surrounded by these practices, be it research on the Internet, ethnographic field research at public events or conducting interviews in the field. Second, it represents a personal risk, especially in field research, that is, in the context of interviews or ethnographic field research. On the one hand, the groups have no interest in letting non-affiliated people participate in their events and giving them an inside view of their practice. On the other hand, it may be possible to be confronted with threats after the researcher has expressed his or her public opinion. Third, research finds itself in a tense relationship between security research and scientific interest. Security research is of great relevance. For me, however, research with extreme groups focuses on the question of the functionality of extreme worldviews for individuals or the interaction and agitation of groups with their environment. In the foreground of interest is not the espionage of individual groups but the phenomena constitutive of the groups. As a researcher, one is part of public life, with certain attitudes, values and access to information. Extremist groups are often the subject of public debate. However, public discussions on the subject are held to different standards than scientific discussions. For example, concepts and terms are presented in a more simplified way and are used more vaguely. In research work with such groups it is important to permanently reflect on one’s own attitudes as well as on publicly negotiated knowledge, and to follow the academic rules of data generation in order to not simply reproduce knowledge that already exists or to evaluate it too normatively.

References El-Mafaalani, A. (2014). Salafismus als jugendkulturelle Provokation. Zwischen dem Bedürfnis nach Abgrenzung und der Suche nach habitueller Übereinstimmung. In T.  G. Schneiders (Ed.), Salafismus in Deutschland. Ursprünge und Gefahren einer islamisch-fundamentalistischen Bewegung. Bielefeld: transcript.

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El-Mafaalani, A. (2017). Provokation und Plausibilität—Eigenlogik und soziale Rahmung des jugendkulturellen Salafismus. In A.  Toprak & G.  Weitzel (Eds.), Salafismus in Deutschland. Jugendkulturelle Aspekte, pädagogische Perspektiven (pp. 77–90). Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Esser, H. (2001). Integration und ethnische Schichtung. Arbeitspapiere— Mannheimer Zentrum für Europäische Sozialforschung. Frindte, W., Ben Slama, B., Dietrich, N., Pisoiu, D., Uhlmann, M., & Kausch, M. (2016). Wege in die Gewalt. Motivationen und Karrieren salafistischer Jihadisten, HSFK-Report Nr. 3/2016. (HSFK-Reportreihe “Salafismus in Deutschland”, hrsg. von Janusz Biene, Christopher Daase, Svenja Gertheiss, Julian Junk, Harald Müller). Frindte, W., Boehnke, K., Kreikenbom, H., & Wagner, W. (2011). Lebenswelten junger Muslime in Deutschland. Ein sozial- und medienwissenschaftliches System zur Analyse, Bewertung und Prävention islamistischer Radikalisierungsprozesse junger Menschen in Deutschland. Abschlussbericht. Berlin: Bundesministerium des Innern. Hummel, K., Kamp, M., & Spielhaus, R. (2016). Herausforderungen der empirischen Forschung zu Salafismus. Bestandsaufnahme und kritische Kommentierung der Datenlage. Frankfurt am Main: Hessische Stiftung Friedens- und Konfliktforschung. Inan, A. (2017). Jugendliche als Zielgruppe salafistischer Internetaktivität. In A. Toprak & G. Weitzel (Eds.), Salafismus in Deutschland. Jugendkulturelle Aspekte, pädagogische Perspektiven (pp. 103–117). Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Neumann, P. (2013). Radikalisierung, Deradikalisierung und Extremismus. Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 63(29–31), 3–10. Nordbruch, G. (2017). Zum Umgang mit Entfremdung, Verunsicherung und Unbehagen—Ansätze der Prävention salafistischer Ansprachen in Unterricht und Schulalltag. In A. Toprak & G. Weitzel (Eds.), Salafismus in Deutschland. Jugendkulturelle Aspekte, pädagogische Perspektiven. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Reckwitz, A. (2017). Die Gesellschaft der Singularitäten. Berlin: Suhrkamp. Schneiders, T.  G. (2014). Salafismus in Deutschland. Ursprünge und Gefahren einer islamisch-fundamentalistischen Bewegung. Bielefeld: transcript. Schneiders, T. G. (2017). Historisch-theologische Hintergründe des Salafismus. In A. Toprak & G. Weitzel (Eds.), Salafismus in Deutschland. Jugendkulturelle Aspekte, pädagogische Perspektiven (pp. 103–117). Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Toprak, A., & Weitzel, G. (2017). Salafismus in Deutschland. Jugendkulturelle Aspekte, pädagogische Perspektiven. Wiesbaden: Springer VS.

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Wiktorowicz, Q. (2005). Radical Islam rising. Muslim extremism in the West. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Zick, A. (2017). Extremistische Inszenierungen: Elemente und Pfade von Radikalisierungs- und Deradikalisierungsprozessen. In N.  Böckler & J.  Hoffmann (Eds.), Radikalisierung und extremistische Gewalt. Perspektiven aus dem Fall- und Bedrohungsmanagement (pp. 15–36). Frankfurt am Main: Verlag für Polizeiwissenschaft.

12 Doing Feminist, Multispecies Research About Love and Abuse Within the Neoliberalised Academy in Aotearoa New Zealand and Australia Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser

Introduction This chapter highlights the risks associated with doing feminist, multispecies research within the confines of the neoliberal academy, particularly qualitative research about love and abuse. We focus on both the risks to researchers and opportunities to create alliances that pursue transformative social change. As will become evident, we advocate for a critical, justice-oriented and empathic academy and social sciences, rather than the commodified and marketised versions preferred by advocates of neoliberalism. Our central argument is that the neoliberal obsession with privatisation, commercialisation and profit making ultimately involves violent logics and rationalities; rationalities that are linked to the

N. Taylor (*) University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] H. Fraser Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, QLD, Australia © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_12

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reproduction of colonialism, speciesism, sexism, heterosexism and so on. Promoting aggressive individualism among humans, as well as hierarchy and competition, neoliberal and colonial paradigms belittle non-­ monetarised relationships (also see Connell, 2010), human or otherwise, including (or especially) relationships of care, solidarity and empathic connection. Unless care, solidarity and empathic connection can be packaged into saleable goods, they are liable to being dismissed as irrelevant. In this context, critically inclined researchers face several impediments and layers of risk (also see Thornton, 2015). We consider these risks, and others, from our position as working class, vegan feminists who focus on love and abuse with other species.

Doing Critical, Multispecies Research Both of us have worked in the social sciences for decades. One of us is a sociologist (NT), and the other a social worker (HF). We have been writing together for about nine years and, in that time, we have pulled each other into our previously singular orbits. One of us (NT) has a history of researching human-animal relations, largely focused on abuse (Taylor, 2015; Taylor & Fitzgerald, 2018). The other (HF) has a history of researching (the coexistence of ) love and abuse in women’s relationships (see Fraser, 1999, 2008). Over time, our collaboration has led to a focus on love and abuse across species lines (see, e.g., Taylor & Fraser, 2019a), a position that we argue locates us—and researchers like us who focus on ‘troubling’ issues (Haraway, 2016)—at the axes of numerous maligned areas in the modern, neoliberal academy. We both are critical, vegan and feminist. We are also middle-aged, cisgender women whose working-class roots are written into our bodies and onto our clothes. We work on human-animal relations from a critical perspective, conducting scholar-advocacy work that aims to identify, challenge and change the interconnected oppressions between other animals and marginalised humans. As scholar activists, we are interested in the pursuit of justice, not the accumulation of money, whether through lucrative grants or big pay-rises. We did not enter the academy (nor are we here) to build our individual ‘empires’ but to work on rights-based

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projects that have some promise of justice-oriented, intersectional praxis (see for instance, Fraser, 2009; Taylor & Twine, 2014). While we put a lot of thought and emotional energy into the relationships we have with students, research participants, colleagues and managers, we are not afraid to speak out, nor are we shy about calling out injustice when we see it (also Fraser, 2015; Fraser & Taylor, 2016). Together this mix of values, identities and behaviours are often used to position us as marginal, if not outsiders within the academy, at least in terms of research. We write from within neoliberal universities; one of us in Aotearoa New Zealand, and the other in Australia. We are both classified as ‘balanced academics’ meaning that we teach, research, do ‘service roles’ and are involved in ‘community engagement’. All these roles and activities have been reshaped by neoliberalism. In recent decades, funding cuts have been common and extensive across the sector in both countries, as free public education is replaced with a user-pays system. Education has been commodified with students positioned as customers who consume products, not courses. Normative labour market outcomes are prioritised, rather than the development of knowledge or wisdom as a social good. Through the commercialisation of research, knowledge is deemed important when it leads to outcomes that advance the interests of capital, ‘the economy’ and (paid) labour markets. In this context, studies become forms of capital and leverage; vehicles for raising public profile (of researchers and their universities) and future money and acclaim. It is not a coincidence that with the neoliberalisation of the academy, there has been an increasing emphasis on the neoliberalised (read narrow, market focused) Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics (STEM) (Carter, 2016)—usually to the detriment of space, money and attention given to anything that does not fall under the commercialised STEM rubric (also see Thornton, 2015). Instructive is an intersectional feminist reading of neoliberalism and its impacts (see Connell, 2010), including its impact on research, teaching and academic lives. Such a reading, for instance, lets us see that while the reasons behind these unwelcome and largely unwanted changes in modern universities are complex, in no small part, they are due to the “remasculinization of the university” (Thornton, 2013, p. 3). This is a (re) turn to a culture that stresses aggressive competition, individualism and

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managerialism, ushered in and now infused throughout the academy under the auspices of neoliberalism. Aggressive competition, individualism and managerialism are ‘values’ that stand against overtly critical, feminist, social-justice oriented research that often necessitates working with community groups in ways that aim to be inclusive, respectful and transformational (for both researchers and participants). These are often groups that have no (spare) funding to give to universities to ‘buyout’ researcher time. And nor should they, frankly, given how lucrative universities tend to be—the systems we currently work in that overload academics with teaching and administration while expecting them/us to make time for research have normalised the idea of ‘research buyout’. This normalization further distances us from being able to do research with communities and individuals that cannot offer expensive overheads to the university. As a result, and as Acker & Wagner (2019, p. 65) note “Individuals with commitments to social justice objectives—such as feminism’s goal of making the world better for women—may be caught within structures for producing research that replicate traditional power relations that do little for women or persons from oppressed groups.”

When Universities Become (Big) Businesses It is well-established that as government funding has steadily declined, once public universities have now refashioned themselves as multi-­ million-­dollar businesses, often proud of their entrepreneurial efforts to ‘improve their brand’ (see Connell, 2010). The effects have been significant. To quote Margaret Thornton, who is a Fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences in Australia: State disinvestment in higher education has caused the university’s primary role to become more overtly instrumental, for it is now deployed by the state specifically to serve the new knowledge economy… The privatising aspect of the new regime, together with the dramatic increase in the number of students, or so-called ‘massification’, has induced a pronounced shift in terms of both what is taught and how it is taught. In particular, theory and critique are likely to be downplayed, if not discarded altogether, in

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favour of applied knowledge, which better suits the instrumental aims now in vogue. (Thornton, 2013, p. 1)

Neoliberalism has facilitated the de-radicalisation of many aspects of the university, including what is taught and researched. Speaking from the United States, black feminist bell hooks, describes the challenges: By the 1990s, Black Studies, Women’s Studies, and Cultural Studies were all revamped so that they were no longer progressive locations within educational systems from which a public discourse about freedom and democracy could be vocalised. They were, for the most part, deradicalized. And in those locations where deradicalization did not take place, they were ghettoized, deemed a suitable playground for students who wanted to assume a radical persona. Today, professors who refuse to comply with deradicalization are often marginalized or even encouraged to leave academia. Those of us who stay, who continue to work to educate for the practice of freedom, see firsthand the ways that democratic education is being undermined as the interests of big business and corporate capitalism encourage students to see education solely as a means to achieve material success. Such thinking makes acquiring information more important than gaining knowledge or learning how to think critically. (hooks, 2009, pp. 15–16)

It is our contention (and we are not alone) that the neoliberal university narrows the definition of acceptable research and that this disproportionately affects critical scholars within the social sciences and humanities (see Thornton, 2013), who are often women and minorities (Acker & Wagner, 2019; Fraser & Taylor, 2016). A large part of this is the push from senior management, using techniques designed to govern by increasing anxiety, precarity and fear (Peterson, 2019, p. 260), towards repeatedly securing the ‘holy grail’ of large-scale grants that are often government funds and equally resistant to research that sits at the edges of current paradigms. Take, for instance, the vetoing of AUD$4.2 million, or 11 projects, that sit within the arts and humanities at leading Australian universities that occurred as a result of ‘ministerial discretion’ in 2018 (Koziol, 2018). The humanities and some parts of the social sciences are at risk of being cut further, and in some instances removed entirely, especially units

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or courses not viewed as having ‘real world applications’, which mostly means commercial applications that advance narrowly defined national priorities (also see Thornton, 2013). Our location in applied, ‘real world’ disciplines (Human Services and Social Work) gives us some protection of the neoliberal charge of irrelevance, because both disciplines have direct occupational and professional pathways into the labour market for graduates. Yet, this is where our disciplinary protection ends, especially as middle-aged women from working-class backgrounds. Past research has shown that researchers are not treated equally within the academy (see Lipton, 2017). Researchers whose identities do not conform to the assumed white, middle-class, cisgender, heterosexual and abled bodied male face any number of potential problems, from marginalisation, if not exclusion from the canon and often-times the academy itself, to infantilisation, inferiorisation, discrimination and harassment. Yet, as Wilson (2007) writes: In the era of neoliberalism, human beings are made accountable for their predicaments or circumstances according to the workings of the market as opposed to finding faults in larger structural and institutional forces like racism and economic inequality. (p. 97)

For staff, neoliberalism’s push for ‘efficiencies’ usually means casualisation, precarity and work intensification, which are known hazards to health and wellbeing (Fraser & Taylor, 2016). Victim-blaming processes are often more subtle than in the past, with the casualties of this hazardous system cast as those who are not able to ‘keep up’. Microaggressions and more subtle forms of exclusion can be used—sometimes through ignorance rather than intention—to keep directing resources, support and research opportunities to people seen to be the ‘rightful’, ‘traditional’ members of the academy: members who come from privileged ‘good’ backgrounds, often from well-connected families (Connell, 2010)). Likely challenges also await ‘nontraditional’ academics who are seen as ‘uppity’, particularly those who identify as scholar-activists and push for new ways of thinking, including how we think about humans, animals and research (Fraser & Taylor, 2016).

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L essons Learned from Researching Multispecies Love and Abuse Together we have half a century of university experience and during that time we have found the university to be a schizophrenic place. On the surface, universities can espouse very progressive values, such as being bold, courageous and concerned with justice but, in reality neoliberal academy can be very unwelcoming for researchers who remain committed to the idea of ‘transgressive’ education that embodies the ‘practice of freedom’ (hooks, 1994, also see Fraser & Taylor, 2016). Partly this is because such a position involves working with/for marginalised groups in society that do not offer wealthy universities funds for the research. And partly, it is because doing such research often requires direct criticism of the kind of ideologies, structures and practices that modern universities themselves offer even if they claim the opposite in their marketing materials. As a result, this kind of research, and this kind of ethical positioning of ourselves in the academy, is inherently risky. While these problems are serious, and manifest in complex ways, they are at least notionally addressed with, for example, universities and funding bodies offering lip-service to the idea of equality. This is not to suggest a ‘hierarchy of oppressions’ (Lorde, 1983). Nor is it to suggest that classism, racism, sexism and so on do not exist in the modern university setting; the opposite is true. Rather it is to point out that such prejudices are—albeit superficially—acknowledged and so can be challenged publicly. Speciesism—the “widespread discrimination that is practised by man (sic) against other species” (Ryder & Singer, 2011, p.  51) is far harder to challenge precisely because it is so normative. This translates to risky research as it means we are constantly fighting the usual mechanics of the neoliberal university plus the belief that animals ‘don’t matter’, meaning we often have to justify our research for/alongside them. Furthermore, large grants in this area are very rare both because it is deemed unimportant research and also because some funding bodies we would not apply to given their long history of supporting invasive research done on other species’ bodies.

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The belief that research advocating for other species is trivial or worthless is not limited to those outside the academy, or, indeed, outside our own field of ‘animal studies’. There are also tensions to deal with from within. Tensions that occur because no matter how marginal our research area, it still takes place within a masculinised academy, and is still configured with and by those who would seek to authenticate it using the rationalities of that academy, rather than embracing and enacting its alterity. Two important ways in which this plays out are (1) the increase of self-­ proclaimed apolitical animal studies and (2) what Fraiman (2012) and Probyn-Rapsey, O’Sullivan, and Watt (2019) refer to as pussy panic. It’s beyond the scope of the current chapter to fully explore these but we raise them here because both are linked to the masculinised, neoliberal academy. The first, for example, ensures that research into human-animal relationships that does not problematise human dominion over other animals, and instead sees them as aids—inferior aids—to human health and wellbeing, secures media attention, grant incomes and so on. The second, involves “the framing of animal studies in opposition to emotionally and politically engaged work on gender, race and sexuality” (Fraiman, 2012, p. 93). This is also linked to the reification of masculine, post-enlightenment, ways of knowing, and to their neoliberal manifestations that often involve the idea of the “heroic masculinised competitive lone scholar model of research” (Twine, 2014, p.  30). In essence this marginalises, if not silences, the work of scholars ‘at the edge’. In the case of animal studies, it is a refusal to acknowledge the essential ground-­ laying work done by early ecofeminists. Much of this work prioritised an ethic of care approach (e.g., Donovan & Adams, 2007), which is an important part of our own research into love. Historically, love is a phenomenon that science has had trouble trying to capture. In the west, many attempts have been made to measure particular versions of human love relationships or attitudes towards loving, predominantly cisgender heteronormative familial relationships. It is also a genre of narratives, where love is emblematic if not explicitly identified in the plot, involving intimacy, passion and/or commitment (see Sternberg, 1986; Sternberg & Sternberg, 2018). Left to the margins are other accounts of queer, black, disabled and/or multi-species love

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relationships, inclusive of different family configurations, preferences, priorities and conventions. Neoliberal love is that which can be measured, qualified and most importantly, has exchange, not just use, value. In the context of neoliberalism, love is a commodified and predominantly human experience, with associated marketable products that individuals are admonished to purchase and consume. We are all expected to be love entrepreneurs, but especially women. Beauty, weightlifting, weight loss and any number of other products maximise the individual’s chance of improving their love marketability. For women, love is the ultimate prize for the hard work of life-long self-improvement. Culturally it is still often assumed to be the most important marker of a woman’s life well spent. Through the carnival of the market and the false promise of liberation through private, individual love relationships, old heteronormative messages are recycled, with just enough references to gay, elderly and/or people of colour to look inclusive and attract their marketing dollar, but not enough to seriously challenge the assumed normality of white, middle-class heterosexual coupledom. Other species are not immune to the neoliberal commodification of love. In an internet awash with cat and other animal videos, pet love is not just acknowledged by the great corporate marketing machines but turned into a serious market worth billions of dollars internationally. The marketing message is that if you love your pet you show your love by buying special treats, toys, even costumes for the poor target of your affections. Simply being in the presence of your cat or dog, loving the connection you may feel from a cat lying happily on your chest may be sweet images to draw you in to buy products rather than the crescendo of connectedness. Because connectedness, in and of itself, exists beyond markets and money. Capitalism requires profit-making, which requires the exchange of products and processes with monetary value. This applies to ‘pet-love’ as well as other relationships of love and affection (see Nast, 2006). On the face of it, this seems to offer a challenge to prevailing views of animals. Enlightened Science has long posited non-human animals as unfeeling, instinctual machines, rationalizing the truly audacious belief system of human dominion over all others, and allowing for the ongoing

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assumption that the true purpose of animals is to be used by humans as a resource, in any way humans see fit. Contemporary research has challenged these accounts, providing extensive evidence of how animal sentience is expressed by diverse species of animals (e.g., Wynne, 2019) and how animals can make and maintain friendships (Massen, 2018). Despite this, other species are unlikely to be thought to experience ‘love’, and on the rare occasion the idea of experiencing love is extended to them it is likely to be limited to companion animals. Here, it is framed anthropocentrically, as with the recent book asking why your dog loves you (Wynne, 2019). The idea of them loving each other or species beyond humans, seems anathema. In part this is due to a complex constellation of historical beliefs about their lack of emotion. But is also likely due to the fact that we don’t want to ‘see’ other animals having rich internal, emotional lives because this would demand significant changes to the ways they are oppressed and used in modern societies (Taylor & Twine, 2014). There are competing views of what love is, including love across the species. For example, we recently conducted a research project with dairy farmers in Australia, which we refer to as The Cow Project. Most of the 21 farmers we interviewed said they loved their cows, either unprompted or after being asked. We were interested in these parts of their stories rather than wondering how they maximised profit by intensifying herd numbers and driving down labour and veterinary costs. They said they loved their cows, in spite of still separating them from their calves, and ultimately sending them all for slaughter (see Taylor & Fraser, 2019b). Throughout the fieldwork, analysis and writing up of this project we walked a fine line between representing the (exploitation of ) cows and respecting the needs of our human participants, who generously gave us their time, emotions and ‘data’ (Taylor & Fraser, 2019b). We deliberately work with these complexities because studying (non-commercial forms of ) connection, alliances and love—as alternative ways of knowing and being—can be an important form of resistance. We give this brief overview to show how our research does not align with the commercial interests of the modern university, and how that can lead to difficulties for us and for the kinds of research we want to do. Before finishing, we want to reflect then on why we press on. Why not

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surrender to the prevailing norms and protocols and experience an easy life? Some colleagues might wonder why we ‘insist on being vegan’ and including vegan feminist values into our research agenda. The answers are quite simple: we know that pursuing justice sits at the heart of our role as ‘public intellectuals’. Using our knowledge, skills and expertise for such ends is right and true, real and worthwhile, and urgently needed. It is a position that so many people are taking in spite of the risks. So the more important question is: how can we do this within so many constraints? Perhaps the most important ‘tips’ we have for looking forward to a career as a critical scholar are to: a) Take on conventional service or teaching roles and do them well. This helps to achieve performance indicators and often pleases management, who are more likely to give you some space to pursue ‘different’ research topics b) Go ‘under the radar’ in ways that do not matter to you. For instance, complete all compulsory training requirements (online if you can) so as not to draw unnecessary negative attention to yourself. c) Prioritise the creation and sustenance of supportive alliances with others who share similar values, principles and goals, within but also outside your institution. The third suggestion is the most important. Allegiances forged in the academic margins can serve multiple purposes for scholar-activists. At the most basic level they prevent isolation and the loneliness that can come from it. They can be fun and uplifting as well as intellectually and emotionally nourishing. Feelings of care and connectedness help us to remain steadfast in our deployment of research expertise for social change rather than commercial or self-interested ends (Fraser & Taylor, 2016).

Conclusion As we have suggested, neoliberalism’s takeover of the university system has had a dramatically negative impact, particularly for critical researchers studying areas considered irrelevant to commercial markets. For some

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of the reasons we have described, being cast as an outsider can be difficult. However, in our experience, even within these strictures, it is still possible for critical research to occur if collective alliances and support are prioritised. Navigating some of the contradictions and standing firm in the value of social justice, we can and must continue to dissent from the neoliberal imperative to commercialise all aspects of life. This is crucial if: there is to be any hope of more than just survival for women, people of color, the working poor, immigrants, the non-religious, queer folks, refugees, the otherly abled and disabled, young people, and nonhuman animals chiefly among them, those of us who are able must dissent, always and often. We must identify each and every oppressive force that acts upon and through us, whether in our name or against us, in order to destroy that which destroys us. (Adamescu, in Trzak, 2019, p. 39)

References Acker, S., & Wagner, A. (2019). Feminist scholars working around the neoliberal university. Gender and Education, 31(1), 62–81. https://doi.org/10.108 0/09540253.2017.1296117 Adamescu, J. (2019). Modeling dissent: Teachers as protectors, activists, and public intellectuals. In A.  Trzak (Ed.), Teaching liberation: Essays on social justice, animals, veganism and education (pp. 37–50). New York: Lantern Books. Carter, L. (2016). Neoliberalism and stem education. Journal for Activist Science and Technology Education, 7(1). Retrieved from https://jps.library.utoronto. ca/index.php/jaste/article/view/26825 Connell, R. (2010). Understanding neoliberalism. In S. Braedley & M. Luxton (Eds.), Neoliberalism and everyday life (pp. 22–36). Montreal: McGill Queen’s University Press. Donovan, J., & Adams, C. (2007). The feminist care traditions in animal ethics: A reader. New York: Bloomsbury. Fraiman, S. (2012). Pussy panic versus liking animals: Tracking gender in animal studies. Critical Inquiry, 39(1), 89–115.

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Fraser, H. (1999). Considering the needs of children who are exposed to domestic violence: A feminist perspective for practitioners. Women Against Violence: An Australian Feminist Journal, 6, 34–40. Fraser, H. (2008). In the name of love: Women’s narratives of love and abuse. Toronto: Women’s Press. Fraser, H. (2009). Trying to complete socially just, politically sensitive social work research. Journal of Social Work, 9(1), 87–98. https://doi. org/10.1177/1468017308098433 Fraser, H. (2015). A hooligan in the hallway? In D. Michell, J. Z. Wilson, & V. Archer (Eds.), Bread and Roses: Voices of Australian academics from the working class (pp. 139–146). Rotterdam: Springer. Fraser, H., & Taylor, N. (2016). Neoliberalization, universities and the public intellectual: Species, gender and class in the production of knowledge. London: Palgrave. Haraway, D. (2016). Staying with the trouble: Making Kin in the Cthulucene. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. New York and London: Routledge. hooks, b. (2009). Teaching critical thinking: Practical wisdom. New  York: Routledge. Koziol, M. (2018). Former education minister vetoed $4.2 million in recommended university research grants. The Sydney Morning Herald, October 26. Retrieved February 3, 2020, from https://www.smh.com.au/politics/federal/ former-education-minister-vetoed-4-2-million-in-recommended-universityresearch-grants-20181026-p50c3a.html Lipton, B. (2017). Measures of success: Cruel optimism and the paradox of academic women’s participation in Australian higher education. Higher Education Research & Development, 36(3), 486–497. https://doi.org/10.108 0/07294360.2017.1290053 Lorde, A. (1983). There is no hierarchy of oppression. Bulletin: Homophobia and Education, 14(3/4), 9. Massen, J. (2018). Animal friendships. In J.  Vonk & T.  Shackleford (Eds.), Encyclopaedia of animal cognition and behavior (pp. 2–7). New York: Springer. Nast, H. J. (2006). Loving… whatever: Alienation, neoliberalism and pet-love in the twenty-first century. ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies, 5(2), 300–327.

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Peterson, A. (2019). Working in the neoliberal university: Other-regarding virtues and hope. In P. Gibbs & A. Peterson (Eds.), Higher education and hope (pp. 259–274). New York: Springer. Probyn-Rapsey, F., O’Sullivan, S., & Watt, Y. (2019). ‘Pussy panic’ and glass elevators: How gender is shaping the field of animal studies. Australian Feminist Studies, 34(100), 198–215. https://doi.org/10.1080/0816464 9.2019.1644605 Ryder, R., & Singer, P. (2011). Speciesism, painism and happiness: A morality for the twenty-first century. London: Andrews, UK. Sternberg, R.  J. (1986). A triangular theory of love. Psychological Review, 93(2), 119–126. Sternberg, R.  J., & Sternberg, K. (Eds.). (2018). The new psychology of love. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, N. (2015). Suffering is not enough: Media depictions of violence to other animals and social change. In N. Almiron, M. Cole, & C. P. Freeman (Eds.), Critical animal and media studies: Communication for nonhuman animal advocacy (pp. 56–69). London and New York: Routledge. Taylor, N., & Fitzgerald, A. (2018). Understanding animal (ab)use: Green criminological contributions, missed opportunities and a way forward. Theoretical Criminology, 22(3), 402–425. Taylor, N., & Fraser, H. (2019a). Resisting sexism and speciesism in the social sciences: Using feminist, species-inclusive, visual methods to value the work of women and (other) animals. Gender, Work & Organization, 26(3), 343–357. https://doi.org/10.1111/gwao.12246 Taylor, N., & Fraser, H. (2019b). The cow project: Analytical and representational dilemmas of dairy farmers’ conceptions of cruelty and kindness. Animal Studies Journal, 8(2), 133–153. https://doi.org/10.14453/asj.v8i2.10 Taylor, N., & Twine, R. (2014). The rise of critical animal studies: From the margins to the centre. London: Routledge. Thornton, M. (2013). The mirage of merit: Reconstituting the ‘ideal academic’. Australian Feminist Studies, 28(76), 127–143. https://doi.org/10.108 0/08164649.2013.789584 Thornton, M. (2015). Introduction: The retreat from the critical. In M. Thornton (Ed.), Through a glass darkly: The social sciences look at the neoliberal university (pp. 1–15). Canberra: ANU Press.

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Twine, R. (2014). Review: Defining critical animal studies – An intersectional social justice approach for liberation. In A. Nocella II, J. Sorenson, K. Socha and A. Matsuoka (eds), Animal Studies Journal, 3(2), 30–35. Retrieved from http://ro.uow.edu.au/asj/vol3/iss2/6 Wilson, B.  M. (2007). Social justice and neoliberal discourse. Southeaster Geographer, 47(1), 97–100. Wynne, C. (2019). Dog is love: Why and how your dog loves you. New  York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

13 Irony Sandwich: Reflections on Research Silencing from an Australian Silenced Researcher Jacqui Hoepner

Introduction This chapter reflects upon lessons from my own experience with precarity, dangerous enquiry and risk throughout and following my doctoral research. Despite my best, naïve intentions, anti-wind lobbyists and a major Australian newspaper ultimately sabotaged my attempts to interview sufferers of “wind turbine syndrome”, ill health reported among some who live near wind farms. While tending to my bruised ego, I realised many researchers working in contested or controversial fields have found themselves on the receiving end of similar—or much worse— silencing, abuse or threats. I ultimately interviewed 20 such academics, each one sharing their trauma, particularly candidly when they learnt I was “one of them”. I gathered their stories and found disturbing patterns: conflict of interest accusations, claims of misconduct or unethical behaviour, public attacks and institutional reprimand were common. J. Hoepner (*) The Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_13

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Soon after my thesis was available open access came a claim of defamation to the Vice-Chancellor of my university. For months I waited—thesis embargoed, future uncertain—for a resolution, or a chance to speak on my own behalf. Finally, there was an academic misconduct enquiry, of which I was cleared. The complaint had remained unresolved because the university’s misconduct rule covered undergraduate plagiarism, not a PhD thesis about research silencing and academic freedom at risk of being silenced by a complaint to the Vice-Chancellor. The “irony sandwich” was all too much and key decision-makers were unsure what to do. This chapter is structured around these three stages: the initial sabotage of my “wind turbine syndrome” study; the opportunity to use this experience productively in interviews with other silenced researchers; and the post-PhD complaint, thesis embargo and misconduct enquiry. In each section of the chapter I aim to explore the various ways researchers working in polarised spaces can be at risk of sanction or silencing: by their colleagues, their institutions, interest groups and sometimes themselves. I briefly explore strategies to both process and defend against such risks. Broadly following other scholars in the field (Martin, 2015, 2016; Dreger, 2015; Gottfredson, 2010) I employ a reflexive, auto-­ ethnographical approach throughout this chapter, critically analysing my own missteps, opportunities and lessons learnt, as well as the structural, institutional conditions that both exacerbate or alleviate risks to researchers working in contested fields.

The Environment of the Study In this section of the chapter, I reflect on my initial naïve attempts to study the phenomenon of “wind turbine syndrome”, ill health reported by some living near wind farms. I believed that this problem had been reduced to two equally unhelpful, polarised positions: either this was a physiological health condition remedied only with the abolition of the wind industry; or it was a psychosomatic “nocebo” effect—people were sick because they expected to become so. Emerging research at the time suggested peoples’ susceptibility to health problems from wind farms might be based on a complex range of physical, psychological, economic

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or aesthetic concerns (Hall, Ashworth, & Devine-Wright, 2013). Without understanding what these anxieties were and how they might manifest, there was little hope of addressing them. Anecdotal reports from residents said, “I couldn’t enjoy my home…” and “Over and above all this, is the anxiety that your home is worthless and you’re going to have to move on. The dream is shattered” (Stop These Things, 2013). That existing researchers in the field did not deem these concerns important or worthy of enquiry seemed strange. I believed I could be the researcher to finally get to the bottom of it. I thought by really listening to people, I could begin to uncover why anyone would believe something science says is benign would be making them sick. Despite my hope to conduct nuanced and open-minded research, 18 months into my candidature I had still not recruited a single interview participant. Using a range of methods, I had deliberately targeted towns with the most virulent anti-wind sentiment and health complaints, based on Chapman et al’s study into the “nocebo effect” hypothesis for health complaints (Chapman, St George, Waller, & Vince, 2013). Around this time, major daily newspaper The Australian, published Environment Editor Graham Lloyd’s front-page article “Turbines may well blow an ill wind over locals, ‘first’ study shows” (Lloyd, 2015a). The story reported acoustician Steve Cooper’s study with Pacific Hydro, the owner of the Cape Bridgewater wind farm. The study was yet to be peer reviewed and involved self-reported data from just six participants in three households. The participants had all previously complained about the wind farm and knew the aim of the study. The Conversation approached me to critique this study and put its findings into a broader context (Hoepner & Grant, 2015). I did not comment on the validity of the acoustic findings— Cooper identified a wind farm “signature” which could well be useful for future studies into wind farm noise and health. I did comment on the inability of the study to prove causation, as Lloyd’s article had suggested. I also questioned whether this sensationalist coverage in an already fraught issue was appropriate. I argued that if and when quality research showed a cause-effect relationship between wind farms and health problems, it should be taken seriously. But in the meantime, poorly designed studies and misleading media coverage would only create more anxiety and health concerns. The initial response to The Conversation article was

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positive. It was not until the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) news media critique program Media Watch used it to support their critique of The Australian’s coverage and the study itself that the backlash really hit (Lloyd, 2015b). I was accused of being a paid spokesperson of the wind industry, not to be trusted. If I tried to contact anyone claiming to suffer from wind turbine syndrome, they should hang up on me, delete my emails and report me to the Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency (Stop These Things, 2015). This reaction to my work was baffling—and deeply upsetting—at the time. I couldn’t understand why I was considered so dangerous, when I thought I’d done “all the right things”.

Reflexivity of Field Conditions Reflexivity or partisan observation is a method drawn primarily from anthropology. It argues researchers must be persistently aware of and reflect on their own position—socially, institutionally and epistemologically—and the role this positionedness plays in their research (Engels-­ Schwarzpaul & Peters, 2013). Using a reflexive approach, I learnt several key lessons about why my initial research into “wind turbine syndrome” was always going to be precarious. First, it appears that the timing of my research could not have been worse. At the same time I was trying to recruit participants, then Prime Minister Tony Abbott (Akerman, 2014; Glenday, 2015) and Treasurer Joe Hockey were publicly attacking wind farms (Bourke, 2014); there were numerous Senate Committees (Department of Health, 2012; The Select Committee on Wind Farms, 2015); National Health and Medical Research Council reviews (NHMRC, 2015); and rolling, polarised media coverage. I can now see how my position as a young, city-dwelling, academic from one of Australia’s most prestigious universities might not be the most trustworthy figure to enter largely rural communities who believe wind power has been forced upon them by powerful people “in the city”, removed from their suffering.

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I can acknowledge how my candidature at a Science Communication department that promoted outreach may have inadvertently encouraged my participation in a highly politicised debate too early, when I was most at risk, both in the fledgling stage of my career, and in the project itself, having not yet recruited participants or published any findings. I can now recognise how expected adherence to a rigid ethics protocol demanding objectivity and forbidding me from doing anything that would validate my participants’ concerns hobbled my ability to overcome a highly hostile and polarised space, in which “you’re either with us or against us”.

Research Design Following the realisation that my initial project was no longer viable, I began to look for other researchers whose work had been silenced, attacked or curtailed in some way. Partly as a coping mechanism, and partly to find a new, fruitful line of enquiry, I sought out other examples of controversial or contested research and began to recruit interview participants through my own desk research, tips from colleagues and supervisors and eventually snowball methods. During and following the PhD, I interviewed 20 researchers in total, from Australia, the United States, United Kingdom and Canada. These participants had all experienced some form of pushback, either in the conduct of their research, or following publication. They came from a range of disciplines including anthropology, biology, nutrition, sociology, economics, public health and epidemiology and covered a range of topics, such as smoking, sugar, obesity, racism, sexism, mammography and vaping. I sought to only recruit participants whose work had been silenced on moral grounds, rather than because of a legitimate case of wrongdoing or misconduct. This was to ensure the attacks fell beyond reasonable expectations. All research is subject to practical constraints, such as peer review, ethical review boards, funding requirements and intellectual property laws. I only interviewed those whose work was primarily silenced because it was seen as “dangerous”, “irresponsible” or “unorthodox”.

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Reflexive Relations Between Actors at Risk Reflexivity allows me to see how my position both shapes how others see me and empathise with their experience. This is a kind of embodied empathy. In the same way my position as an academic coded me as untrustworthy in the wind farm and health field, my experience of research silencing allowed me to inhabit a position of understanding and empathy with other beleaguered academics. Individuals are seen as actors playing a game, negotiating, attributing, and defending their social status, their social “identity”. How can the anthropologist be different from these actors? How can he or she be unbiased, without interests, without negotiating, without sympathy or antipathy? How can people accept a stranger without considering his characteristics: nationality, gender, age, economic power… when it is the normal way of meeting and relating to people in everyday life? (Guillermet, 2008)

Knowing how traumatising my experience in the wind farm research field had been, I knew it might be necessary for me to share my experiences with some academic participants in order to build a rapport. I understood viscerally how upsetting it is to have your work and integrity called into question, and how difficult it is to know whom to trust once this has happened. Indeed, during several interviews, I could audibly or visually perceive the way participants opened up after they heard my story. Many of my participants had been attacked and traumatised by the experience. That they could see I was “one of them”—and therefore unlikely to perpetuate the trauma, reputational damage and slights against their character—allowed them to open up and trust me. If I had not been able to build this rapport, it is unlikely my data would be anywhere near as valuable or rich as it is. One participant was extremely reluctant to speak to me. She said she’d have to think about it carefully. Even after she’d cautiously agreed, she sent me a newspaper article that defended her research, wanting to ensure I was familiar with her side of the story before we spoke (Snowdon, 2014). In the opening 10 or 15 minutes of the interview, her answers were brief and matter-of-fact. It was clear she didn’t feel comfortable

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giving more detailed, open responses. I told her that I understood how hard it was; that I had experienced something similar. The change in her voice and depth of responses was striking. She could trust me. The data elicited from her interview was among the richest and most critical I collected. Her ability to articulate the lasting effects of the backlash against her was pivotal. What she went through—sustained harassment, calls from journalists that still haven’t let up, the several-years long research misconduct inquiry that revealed nothing more than a few semantic errors—haunts her to this day. She says it has forever altered the way she thinks about her career and her worth: I also think that it’s really a sad way to end your career… And without [what happened], you know, I think, I would have finished my career with a lovely sense of achievement. But because of [it], you know, there’s a feeling, that a few people, at least, might think the worst of me… So I still walk around thinking, ‘Oh perhaps that person doesn’t want to talk to me because they’ve heard about this inquiry into research misconduct.’

Acknowledging how I am embodied and positioned in ways that might code me as either trustworthy or suspicious is central to why I have employed a reflexive methodology. It allows me to not only recognise why I was able to build trust with academics that have been attacked and silenced, but why polarisation in the wind farm field dictated how I was perceived by other players. A participant from a hospital ethnography background explained the relationship between trust, embodiment and reflexivity this way: There’s always going to be topics that people won’t talk to you about. Not every field is open to every researcher. And some of them are really logical, you know—like I’m a medical anthropologist, I work in public health frameworks, and it’s really important to know what gay men do in cruising places. You know, it’s really important from a public health perspective and a sexually transmitted disease perspective, to know what behaviours go on in public toilets that are cruising grounds. Now as a middle aged, white woman, I’m not going to get access to that…. I can know where the cruising grounds are, but if I rock up there, no one’s going to pull their cock out, you know. Whereas I’ve got a PhD student at the moment who’s part of

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that demographic and so he can go in and get the most amazing data. He would really struggle to get people talking openly at a nursing mother’s meeting, whereas I could rock in there and get really open data…. We are embodied positioned human beings doing research. We’re not robots, we’re not automatons, we’re not all interchangeable. That we are, in all sorts of embodied ways, we’re going to be positioned in our research. That’s going to happen in all sorts of unembodied ways as well. And some of those we can control. And some of those we have no control over. So no matter how well intentioned you might have been wanting to go talk to people who were protesting the wind farms, if they perceived you as somebody who would be hostile to them, even if you weren’t, but if you coded in some way, as somebody who would be hostile—and just the fact that you’re from a university might have, for them, coded you as somebody who was going to be hostile to them. And sometimes you can break through that, but sometimes you can’t.

Findings From an iterative thematic analysis, I identified 42 silencing behaviours, ranging from self-censorship, private cautioning and misinformation in peer review, through to public attacks, conflict of interest accusations and misconduct enquiries. For more detailed discussion of these behaviours and my findings, see Hoepner, (2017, pp. 32–75; 2019, pp. 31–41). Participants working in contested fields faced a range of risks; to their reputations, their livelihoods and self-worth. These silencing experiences often informed their willingness to engage in other difficult research: some saw it as validation of the importance of their work and were resolved to continue, while others were reluctant to keep going, preferring instead to “keep their heads down”. Participants learnt many lessons from these experiences. For some, it was about how to be more careful in how they approached research questions, asking themselves whether some topics are just off-limits and shouldn’t be pursued at all. “Should I stick to something safer? Is there a more palatable way to ask these kinds of questions?” For others it was about how they published or communicated their findings, ensuring it was framed in particular ways or disseminated through particular

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channels to mitigate the risk of backlash. “Could the media or the public get a hold of this and use it against me?” At the conclusion of my doctoral research, post-submission and examination, I was elated. I had managed to salvage what at first seemed hopeless, finding others who shared similar experiences and contributing meaningfully to academic freedom scholarship. The week following confirmation and publication of my thesis, I enjoyed positive feedback from strangers around the world, and saw downloads climb into the hundreds.

“Irony Sandwich” My understanding of research silencing and the risks it poses to academics—especially those who are vulnerable for other reasons, such as youth and lack of resources—was further developed when my doctoral thesis came under exactly the kind of silencing behaviours described in my thesis (Hoepner, 2017, p. 60). Just one week after my thesis was published open access, a disgruntled critic of one of my participants complained to my university’s Vice-­ Chancellor that I had defamed him. The critic in question was not named in the thesis, but he had nonetheless recognised a quote attributed to him as false. The complaint was forwarded to me from a supervisor, warning me to discuss it with the department before doing anything. I immediately contacted the head of the department with an explanation of the section in question, and why the statements made were fairly reported and not defamatory. At some point in the next 24 hours, without any warning or discussion, my thesis was removed from the online repository. It was no longer accessible to read or download. When I asked my supervisors and the head of the department if there was anything I could do, I was told to sit tight, that the complaint had been forwarded instead to others in the executive responsible for higher degree research. Over the next four months I repeatedly pushed for more clarity, for a chance to defend the thesis, to clear my name. I heard nothing. It all came to a head when I was in the middle of a conference presentation alongside a strategic communications executive from the university, discussing research silencing and academic freedom. While I

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spoke—not mentioning my embargoed thesis or the complaint, lest I make matters worse for myself—I received an email from the university library urging me to immediately upload a copy of the thesis, or risk not being eligible to graduate. I quickly responded—copying everyone from the university Registrar, various Deans and even the Vice-Chancellor’s office—that I had indeed uploaded the thesis, but it had been removed without my knowledge or consent, and that I sincerely hoped I could still graduate despite the embargo. This was apparently the push needed. I was quickly told that according to university policy, the complaint would need to be resolved through an academic misconduct enquiry, words that scared me as much as they had my participants (Hoepner, 2017, p. 72). I went through with the enquiry, glad to finally have a chance to speak on my own behalf and relieved to have a resolution either way. I told the enquirer I would be willing to redact, rather than retract the section in question, as long as I could use the blacked out section to make a cogent point about the irony of the silencing within the broader context of the thesis. After assessing the evidence, the enquirer eventually concluded that I had fairly reported the participant’s words, that the participant had consented to that representation and that the complainant had contradicted themselves in their email to the Vice-Chancellor, suggesting the statements were not defamatory. I had been cleared of any misconduct, and they would make that finding clear to the complainant. I was happy with the fairness of the enquiry and relieved with the outcome; however, my thesis was still embargoed. I arranged a meeting with the Registrar, the person I was told had removed the thesis. Before the meeting, I sent a letter of complaint about how long it had taken to resolve the issue, and the lack of transparency throughout the process. When the meeting began, the Registrar immediately apologised and acknowledged the distress that I had experienced. She said that university policies around academic misconduct were “concerned with things like undergraduate plagiarism, not a PhD thesis about academic freedom and research silencing, subject to a defamation complaint to the Vice-Chancellor”. The Registrar said, “It was an irony sandwich. We didn’t know what to do or how to handle it. We were worried anything we did would upset the complainant more and put you and the university at more risk. So it just sat on a desk for four months”.

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I was taken aback by the Registrar’s candour. I had expected defensiveness or even pressure to withdraw the complaint, but instead I was met with compassion and understanding. The Registrar was happy for me to proceed with the complaint so “this kind of thing doesn’t happen again”. The Registrar assured me the thesis would be immediately restored to the open repository; I would indeed be eligible to graduate; and no changes to the thesis, such as redaction or retraction, would be necessary. I have since spoken with several other key decision makers in this case and they have all been equally humble and apologetic. My experience, while incredibly frustrating and demoralising at times, is nothing compared with some of my participants who were sacrificed or attacked by their institutions (Hoepner, 2017, pp. 71–73). After public scrutiny over several high-profile cases in the year following the embargo, the Vice-Chancellor made a number of public statements defending academic freedom. The Academic Board held open submissions and a town hall event to gather the university community’s perspective on how ANU can better defend academic freedom. This eventually culminated in a new Statement on Academic Freedom (Academic Board, 2018). This public commitment to academic freedom is highly laudable and in many ways provides a best practice model for the Australian university sector (Bankovsky & Hoepner, 2018). My recounting of the embargo and misconduct enquiry is not intended to criticise the ANU, nor to suggest these recent commitments to academic freedom are anything short of highly commendable progress. It is, however, intended to suggest that sometimes the head does not always know what the tail is doing. In large, complex, highly bureaucratic organisations such as universities, it is inevitable that even with the best top-­ down intentions, archaic policies or opaque processes will continue to perpetuate the kind of “everyday silencing” I experienced. I realised that my status as a PhD student, rather than a high-profile academic or provocative public figure, meant I lacked the gravitas to attract attention to my cause, clarity around my status, or resources to adequately defend myself. Doctoral candidates are especially vulnerable in Australia, as they are in something of a no-man’s land when it comes to policies: not quite students and not quite faculty.

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Conclusion This chapter has presented three dimensions of risk and precarity researchers face when working in contested fields. The first section critically examined the inadequacy of my own good intentions when attempting to conduct research in a highly polarised and politicised field, concluding that who we are and how we are perceived can demonstrably impact the research we are able to do. The next section explored the opportunities afforded by adopting a reflexive framework, allowing me to use my experience as a silenced researcher as a productive and highly meaningful research tool. The final section contrasted the ideal and practice of academic freedom in a university context, concluding that despite high-­ minded principles, vulnerable researchers can still be silenced in mundane ways, for mundane reasons. This research has several implications for higher education institutions, policymakers and individual academics. Despite broad commitment to academic freedom in many university codes of conduct (Hoepner, 2017, pp.  98–102), many researchers feel pressure to avoid certain topics, downplay unorthodox findings or limit dissemination of their work, lest they jeopardise funding, promotion or reputation. As Lara McKenzie highlights in Chapter 8, early career researchers in Australia are especially concerned with making research choices most likely to secure grants and stable employment, rather than “pursue knowledge for its own sake”. Reinforcing existing studies (Kempner, 2008) participants noted that they and other colleagues aware of their silencing were more reluctant to conduct research in areas prone to controversy, such as those that criticised public health orthodoxies, opting instead to “keep their heads down”. This has real implications for policy, as my research suggests some findings that challenge the status quo are being ignored, silenced or openly attacked, limiting our pool of knowledge about complex issues. While my interviews with academics yielded significant patterns and themes regarding the risks of overt research silencing, it would be worthwhile to ascertain how widespread more insidious and subtle forms of silencing problem are. For instance, we have no data whatsoever on how many academics self-censor: why academics choose not to pursue certain research for fear it will harm their career or reputation.

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References Academic Board. (2018). Statement on Academic Freedom. The Australian National University. Retrieved from https://www.anu.edu.au/files/committee/ANU%20Statement%20on%20Academic%20Freedom.pdf Akerman, P. (2014, January 10). Abbott backs review of wind farms. The Australian, p. 1. Bankovsky, M., & Hoepner, J. (2018, December 17) We need to talk about the actual threats to academic freedom on Australian campuses, The Conversation. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/we-need-to-talk-about-theactual-threats-to-academic-freedom-on-australian-campuses-108596 Bourke, L. (2014, May 2). Joe Hockey says wind turbines “utterly offensive”, flags budget cuts to clean energy schemes. ABC News. Retrieved from http:// www.abc.net.au/news/2014-05-02/joe-hockey-wind-turbines-utterlyoffensive/5425804 Chapman, S., St George, A., Waller, K., & Vince, C. (2013). The pattern of complaints about Australian wind farms does not match the establishment and distribution of turbines: Support for the psychogenic, “Communicated Disease” hypothesis. PLOS ONE, 8(10), 1–9. Department of Health. (2012). The social and economic impact of rural wind farms. Retrieved from http://www.health.gov.au/internet/main/publishing. nsf/Content/36DB83157C4BE82FCA257BF0001B7544/$File/WindFarm Response.pdf Dreger, A. (2015). Galileo’s middle finger. New York: Penguin Press. Engels-Schwarzpaul, A., & Peters, M. (2013). In M.  Engels-Schwarzpaul & A.  Peters (Eds.), Of other thoughts: Non-traditional ways to the doctorate: A guidebook for candidates and supervisors. Rotterdam, NLD: SensePublishers. Glenday, J. (2015, June 18). Tony Abbott launches another attack on “ugly”, “noisy” wind turbines. ABC News, pp. 0–1. Retrieved from http://www.abc. net.au/news/2015-06-12/tony-abbott-launches-another-attack-againstwind-farms/6541952 Gottfredson, L.  S. (2010). Lessons in academic freedom as lived experience. Personality and Individual Differences, 49(4), 272–280. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.paid.2010.01.001 Guillermet, E. (2008). Reflexivity—A tool for the anthropologist. An example: The fieldwork of a French PhD student. Antropoweb, 16–21. Hall, N., Ashworth, P., & Devine-Wright, P. (2013). Societal acceptance of wind farms: Analysis of four common themes across Australian case studies. Energy Policy, 58, 200–208.

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Hoepner, J. (2017). “You need to shut up”: Research silencing and what it reveals about academic freedom. Open Access Theses, Australian National University. https://doi.org/10.25911/5d690afdaf719. Retrieved from http:// hdl.handle.net/1885/121823 Hoepner, J. (2019). Silencing behaviours in contested research and their implications for academic freedom. Australian Universities Review, 61(1), 31–41. Hoepner, J., & Grant, W. J. (2015, January 22). Wind turbine studies: How to sort the good, the bad, and the ugly. The Conversation. Retrieved from https:// theconversation.com/wind-turbine-studies-how-to-sort-the-goodthe-bad-and-the-ugly-36548 Kempner, J. (2008). The chilling effect: How do researchers react to controversy? PLoS Med, 5(11). https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pmed.0050222 Lloyd, G. (2015a, January 21). Turbines may well blow an ill wind over locals, “first” study shows. The Australian. Lloyd, G. (2015b, February 23). In response to the media watch report about the Australian’ s coverage of wind farms. The Australian. Retrieved from http://www.theaustralian.com.au/business/media/in-response-to-the-mediawatch-report-about-the-australians-coverage-of-wind-farms/news-story/ ea7e13660d70930785876c412a97917c Martin, B. (2015). Censorship and free speech in scientific controversies. Science and Public Policy, 42(3), 377–386. https://doi.org/10.1093/scipol/scu061 Martin, B. (2016). Judy Wilyman, PhD: How to understand attacks on a research student. Retrieved from http://www.bmartin.cc/pubs/16jw.html NHMRC. (2015). NHMRC statement and information paper: Evidence on wind farms and human health. Retrieved from https://www.nhmrc.gov.au/healthtopics/wind-farms-and-human-health Snowdon, C. (2014, August 27). Groupthink attack on scientists has a long history. The Australian. Stop These Things. (2013). Cape bridgewater: Sonia. Australia: YouTube. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lx1rRxMUwvc&list=PL AktpgushkOMxKByCxZ5ZvwxfALpC3v1x&index=4 Stop These Things. (2015). Simon Chapman, Will Grant & Jacqui Hoepner: The wind industry’s health “Expert” great pretenders. Retrieved March 16, 2015, from https://stopthesethings.com/2015/03/16/simon-chapman-willgrant-jacqui-hoepner-the-wind-industrys-health-expert-great-pretenders/ The Select Committee on Wind Farms. (2015). Wind Turbines. Retrieved from http://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/Committees/Senate/Wind_ Turbines/Wind_Turbines

14 Embracing the Knot: The Importance of Personal Risk-Taking Within Intercultural Research in Aboriginal Australia Susan Janelle Moore

Introduction Based on the critical reflections of research involving Aboriginal participants from remote Australia, this chapter emphasises the necessity for white scholars to anticipate, recognise and manage the ethical tensions associated with intercultural research. Being attuned to internal and relational precarious states, the scholar must forge space to incorporate the alternative worldviews that reveal innovative solutions for complex and sensitive social problems. Respectful navigation of risks involves a willingness to sit with vulnerability and appropriately ceding control. Developed alongside a PhD study into community-driven approaches to combating child sexual abuse within Australia’s Northern Territory is a road map for navigating such risks. The chapter signposts several of the junctures within the research process that require ethical decision-making. Skills and strategies that S. J. Moore (*) Charles Darwin University, Darwin, NT, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_14

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support the scholar throughout the research revealed through the research project in the Northern Territory incorporates knowledge and skills drawn from the scholar’s professional social work practice, constructivist grounded theory methodology and the guidance of Aboriginal research mentors and participants.

Research for Social Change Social work is a profession where practitioners can be found in direct practice with individual, families and communities, in indirect practice such as research, policy and programme development in positions of leadership across the human services and as educators in academia. Core values that underpin social work include the pursuit of social justice. Regardless of the social worker’s role, they will be involved with continuous critical analysis of a problem and the range of strategies for addressing the problem at the micro, mezzo and macro levels. Such critical analysis recognises the socio-cultural and historical constructs that contribute to the marginalisation of Aboriginal peoples and others. Underpinned by critical theories of anti-oppressive practice, social workers aim not to replicate the systems and processes that leave such groups at the margins. Arguably, the power is limited for social workers to effect change from within the systems responsible for structural oppression and disadvantage. Notwithstanding the limitations, social work is a profession that daily anticipates and navigates such ethical dilemmas while moving forward to progress positive outcomes for those at the margins. Social workers will be on the front line, continuing to reflect upon their place and contribution to resolving complex problems, albeit those where they too represent intergenerational systems and structures of oppression. As a scholar with over three decades of experience as a social worker, I have found that a professional practice skillset supports the navigation of research risks. Social work roles have included support to those in crisis, those impacted by intergenerational poverty and trauma, along with those who have been subject to direct physical harm by others through violence such as sexual assault. The latter experience aligns with the

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research topic seeded from the problems recognised through working with children and communities impacted by sexual abuse. I have been privileged to walk beside Aboriginal peoples from urban, regional and remote Northern Australia, who are expert at navigating and surviving the multiplicity of threats to their culture and families. Throughout my careers, Aboriginal clients, colleagues and communities have patiently and graciously guided the development of professional practice. Social research into problems seeded through the many years of being at the frontline or in leadership roles serves to galvanise efforts of more in-depth focus on solutions to the problem continues in contemporary society, that of child sexual abuse. The culmination of the long-term professional intercultural relationships and subject matter expertise well positions the social work scholar to experience to anticipate, recognise and navigate the associated risks. Social workers bring to research a suite of skills and knowledge shaped within professional practice. Bearing witness to human suffering and triumph over adversity supports the social work researcher to anticipate and navigate the many ethical, emotional, physical, spiritual and political tensions. Arguably, social work research can be a more powerful vehicle for social change than that available to a social worker in practice. The experience informs practical strategies for scholars to anticipate and navigate the risk-taking for research involving Aboriginal peoples from Australia’s remote Northern Territory. Incorporated into each step of the research process, from the development of the topic through to the publication of findings is an ethical responsibility beyond the ethics approval process. At every step, the scholar can be supported in their navigation of the risks to self and participants through adhering to principles of reciprocity, respectful relationship and humility through skills of ongoing self-reflection and reflexivity as supported by a team of critical friends, including Aboriginal research advisors, academic advisors, colleagues and professional supervision.

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Social Work Tools for Risk-Taking in Research Social work research aims to explore avenues for addressing social injustice in its various forms. Social workers bring to research a suite of skills and knowledge shaped within professional practice. Bearing witness to human suffering and triumph over adversity supports the social work researcher to anticipate and navigate the many ethical, emotional, physical, spiritual and political tensions. Arguably, social work research can be a more powerful vehicle for social change than that available to a social worker in practice that can be constrained by the political and organisational parameters of their employment. Practical strategies for anticipating and navigating the risk to scholars engaged with research into complex and sensitive social problems incorporated into the framework that follows as informed by the experience of undertaking research involving Aboriginal peoples from Australia’s remote Northern Territory. Incorporated into each step of the research process, from the development of the topic through to the publication of findings is an ethical responsibility that extends beyond the ethics approval process. At every step, the scholar can be supported in their navigation of the risks to self and participants through adhering to principles of reciprocity, respectful relationship and humility through utilising skills of ongoing self-reflection and reflexivity as supported by a team of critical friends, including Aboriginal research advisors, academic advisors, colleagues and professional supervision.

Methodological Rigour Contemporary research involving Aboriginal peoples requires a methodology that recognises the impacts of colonial oppression and the subsequent attempts through Western research methodologies to colonise knowledge. Indigenist methodologies contribute to the liberation of oppressed peoples through privileging the varied Aboriginal perspectives and input into the topics explored and the way of researching such problems. Constructivist grounded theory (CGT) aligns with Indigenist

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research by requiring reflexive rigour throughout the study, making explicit the power and privilege of the scholar and amplifying the voice of participants as experts. It is through ongoing reflexivity that the scholar shapes the research topic, considers their contribution, engages with participants and reviews the data and findings.

 esearch Design to Support R Intercultural Research Constructivist grounded theory, as developed by Charmaz (2017) from the traditions of grounded theory is the method utilised for the PhD study into remote Aboriginal community insights for combating child sexual abuse within the Northern Territory. Constructivist grounded theory requires the scholar to recognise their power and privilege. Being attuned throughout the study to the unfolding realisations of nascent privilege while engaged with Aboriginal participants requires a constant state of vulnerability and even discomfort. Realised through deep listening to the overt and subtle nuances of participant contributions is the uncomfortable realisation of personal, cultural and professional complicity in the genesis of social problems experienced by Aboriginal peoples. Constructivist grounded theory provides process and protocol for explicitly incorporating the scholar’s knowledge and experience throughout the study as new theory begins to emerge. The research design supports the scholar to anticipate and manage the unfolding personal risks associated with vulnerability while also mitigating risk for participants. Required of intercultural research is the scholar’s recognition of the limited cultural knowledge and expertise of the white researcher who can only understand the experiences of Aboriginal participants from the position of an outsider. Where the scholar is descendent from Australia’s white settler culture, it would be justified to take the ethical decision to self-exclude from intercultural research. Indeed, many Aboriginal scholars, commentators and participants of the research challenge the continued colonisation of Aboriginal culture and knowledge with research building the careers of academics or bureaucrats with no

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discernible improvement in the circumstances of Aboriginal peoples. An early decision-making juncture from the outset is to determine the relevance of the research and the legitimacy of the scholar embarking on the study. What follows are the critical junctures of ethical decision-making in intercultural research that should be anticipated by the white scholar, each requiring the recognition of power and privilege.

Authority and Legitimacy Two examples of practical strategies for determining the legitimate involvement by a white scholar in research with Aboriginal peoples are outlined below and supported within constructivist grounded theory methodology. The first is through critical reflection as informed by research participants and the second, a commitment to deeper exploration of self through recognising the cultural genesis of the scholar’s cultural heritage. Firstly, critical reflection on the process of research includes explicitly privileging the voices of research participants and Aboriginal research mentors. Being open to challenges includes a willingness by the scholar to modify their approach continuously, or if feedback suggests for the study to end. Research can be curtailed for many external reasons, or even through a lack of participant engagement. The first 18 months of seeking participants for the research suggested that the study would not be viable. The early difficulty in attracting participants, however, served a powerful reminder of the need to undertake a research road trip that involved physically engaging with networks and potential participants to discuss the study and gauge its relevance. It is at this juncture that the power of Aboriginal peoples determines and shapes the progress of the study, in their place and on their terms. The researcher must be accessible to participants and allies to allow the assessment of the scholar, or more importantly the person behind the academic mask, as to their suitability to discuss such a sensitive topic while honouring the vulnerability of participants who risk involvement. Revealing self involves risk for both scholar and participants, but it is

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only through such personal connection that each can move towards the other to engage safely in conversations and sharing of perspective. The interpersonal connection can be precarious, requiring well-­ developed communication and interpersonal skills, presence, respect and self-awareness. It can be a make or break moment that influences the viability of the study. Required of the scholar are confidence, openness, authenticity and vulnerability. The point of connection where consent to interviews is secured and flows spontaneously for each participant is when there is shared conviction in addressing child sexual abuse within the strengths of Aboriginal knowledge and culture. Such conviction extends beyond cultural difference and reveals the shared human connection for deeply troubling social problems. The point where both worlds meet during engagement and interviews reveals the power of possibility less recognised when working at solving the problem alone. A research approach of humility is progressed through such conversations that reward the risk-taking by the scholar to move into less familiar spaces. Through a stance of openness, the scholar must demonstrate continuous responsiveness to suggestions for improving the cultural safety of the study parameters and interview locations, processes and skills for intercultural communication. Preparedness to modify or even move away from involvement with the study assists with focus on improvement. Recognising the investment of the scholar with the research, the possibility of suspending the study brings with it another suite of ethical decisions about the promises or commitments to participants and the need to honour the time and risk they have taken to be involved that based upon such commitments for anticipated outcomes.

 ecognising Nascent Power and Privilege— R Knowing Yourself Exploring ancestry, gathering stories of self and tuning in to emotions can be activities that support the location of the scholar within complex social research. Deep insight into the history and cultural constructs of self are required where the scholar is from the dominant white settler culture. The identification early in the PhD of the scholar’s epistemology,

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ontology and axiology is core to social research and can provide an opportunity for in-depth exploration of the drivers, values and motivation of the scholar to the topic, design and research methods. Aboriginal peoples recognise and require an engagement that is relational and serve to locate the scholar with their own family, community and heritage. Within social work and white culture more broadly, the practice of self-disclosure is less valued than objectivity and professional distance. Building a family tree with the support of online ancestry software, family stories and ongoing conversations with family members can serve as a tool for re-examining the factors that shape identity, values and the opportunities afforded to and through our ancestors. Revisiting or continuing to build a picture of our ancestry reveals the characters and events that shape us. The discovery that one ancestor, a convict, arrived on the First Fleet, and was granted freehold land title on Aboriginal land in Sydney, was a case in point. Even though her standing in society was low, she gained the privilege of land title over Aboriginal custodians. It is the uncomfortable discovery of this fact that serves as a reminder to the privilege and opportunity gained through the actions of forebears and their systems of law and governance that deny Aboriginal people their rights. Such revelations contribute to the scholar’s discomfort through the study, experienced as the tightening of the knot. Questions of legitimacy throughout the study are ongoing. Responses to such anxiety include flight, fright or freeze. It is important to process and re-evaluate throughout the study the question of legitimacy as a scholar within a study involving Aboriginal peoples. Such knowledge can serve to position the scholar with humility to listen more deeply, with all senses, to the words and actions of participants, Aboriginal research mentors and professional allies. Discovered also through the exploration of my ancestry include stories of hardship, high rates of infant mortality, poverty, marriage breakdown, alcoholism leading to death, violence and fifteenth-century beheadings of Scottish/British royals. The stories of self serve as a reminder to consider the contexts of human behaviour concerning the socio-cultural historical constructs of the particular time. Greater appreciation of ancestral stories supports the scholar to approach their study with humility and an openness to recognising

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common ground with the human stories of Aboriginal peoples. It also supports the scholar to appreciate the reasons for being viewed by Aboriginal peoples with caution. The recent history of Aboriginal peoples since colonisation is one impacted by individual violence and systemic genocide. British colonisers considering themselves to be civilised bring with them to Australia a heritage steeped in cultural beliefs and practices that run counter to modern constructs of human rights. With such insights, the scholar approaches research with humility and respect, being open to recognising the risks being taken by participants to engage in such sensitive conversations. The commitment to positive research outcomes is galvanised by the two strategies of reflection on self and the ongoing evaluation of legitimacy as informed by participants and Aboriginal mentors.

Participants, Mentors and Critical Friends Aboriginal collaborators are essential to the research process, supporting the scholar to undertake respectful and safe research. Developing a formal network of Aboriginal research mentors involves engaging with those who throughout the years of the PhD study consider they can serve as critical friends to the scholar. Some are available early in the study and are integral to challenging the legitimacy of the scholar, commenting on research design, participant identification, guidance relating to appropriate communication, feedback on conference presentations and encouragement to claim the information as it is being discovered. Revealing writing or ideas to such cultural mentors can be nerve-wracking. Questions of legitimacy that inform anxiety peak are taken tentatively to the cultural experts for guidance, criticism and cautioning. There is palpable relief when such mentors affirm the progress of the study. Experienced by the scholar as hesitancy, and an ongoing crisis of legitimacy, it is Aboriginal mentors and participants whose broad encouragement to keep going serves to buoy the scholar in their progress through the research. Constructivist grounded theory requires throughout the data collection and analysis stages for the scholar to be checking back with

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participants. Through the interviews, those participants who are available comment on the scholar’s interpretation of the data and findings as theoretical categories emerge. Grounded theory is an abstract concept not easily explained to peers and participants who are seeking practical solutions. Grounded theory supports positive outcomes through building from the ground up, an understanding of the problem that may shape alternative innovations to solutions. Engaging participants in the discussion of the abstract concepts involves the translation of the concepts. In its essence, explanations of the research include an approach that involves talking together about ways to understand sexual abuse as it impacts children within remote Aboriginal communities and the ways that such children are, or could be better afforded protection from such danger. It is a conversation that externally locates child sexual abuse as a hypothetical possibility but draws participants to connect if they so choose with knowledge or experiences of family and cultural practices that can support protection. By adopting from narrative therapy, the approach to externalising problems, sensitive topics become accessible without inference of blame. Talking about protection is also a positive way to engage with the topic of child sexual abuse. It opens rather than shuts down conversation where blame is assumed, or shame exposed.

 egotiating Safe Spaces in Remote Contexts—For N Scholar and Participants Establishing relationships throughout the research requires sound skills of interpersonal communication. Social work values that underpin engagement with people include those of positive regard, respect for the person and a recognition of the power differentials and potential for exacerbating the experience of racism or oppression. Negotiation with participants about the most appropriate spaces for an interview often requires travel to remote, isolated locations in harsh climatic conditions. Within such remote locality, participants determine the appropriate safe space and timing for private conversations. Taken into account by participants is the proximity to others and strategies for ensuring the engagement with the scholar to onlookers, which considered part of regular routines.

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It is the identification of such spaces by participants that demonstrates their agency for managing the risks associated with involvement in the research. Ceding of control is arguably the most necessary of the risks to be embraced by the scholar and participant together. Where the English language for many participants is not the first language and there exist significant chasms between both cultures within the moment, the scholar must trust the process and the participants as to the most appropriate ways that such conversations can take place. Remote Australia provides a fieldwork backdrop that through its isolation and extremes challenges the worldview of the white urban scholar. Vulnerability to the elements of vast open spaces requires the scholar to prepare both physically and psychologically for its impact. It encourages the scholar to engage with Aboriginal peoples, being open to the power of place as a context for participant experience and perspective, but also for the power of remote experience in opening up all senses that support deep listening. It is the personal connection by the visitor to Aboriginal country that is pivotal to shared problem solving across both worlds. Power imbalances are levelled in that place and that moment. Even if only a visitor, the power of being within remote Australia can be transformative to the research outcomes aimed to achieve positive change. As experienced by the scholar, the spaces are unfamiliar, requiring of them the ability to trust the process. Examples of spaces identified include inside buildings, in the car, outdoors, on verandahs, sitting on milk-crates or broken chairs. Such places serve as an ongoing reminder of the power and expertise of participants of their own lives, culture and comprehension of complex social problems and if invited, moving into the unknown physical spaces of remote Australia during research. A preparedness by the scholar to be out of their comfort zone is essential to navigating the real physical risks of research and step confidently towards the unknown. Risks experienced within fieldwork are now elaborated.

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Navigating Safety in Data Collection Physical Risks The data collected are guided and informed by participants involved 8000 km travel by road or air over 18 months. While some interviews commence as opportune encounters, many of the 20 participants’ interviews were negotiated over time, requiring in-person, relationship building, networking with service providers and referrals of those best placed to contribute to the research. The research is one of the very many other projects, consultations and two Royal Commissions requiring input from Aboriginal peoples within the NT, so why should my research warrant the time and involvement from those whose voices are in such demand? Strategies for supporting the scholar to prepare for the physical hazards of fieldwork in remote locations include remote travel safety planning, four-wheel-drive training, skills for minor vehicle maintenance, survival supplies of water and food. For the scholar involved with remote travel, there are inherent risks along the way. Travel, over 8000 km in total by road and air, required for the promotion of the research and interviews included Darwin, Katherine, Tenant Creek, Alice Springs and more remote community, representing peoples from diverse geographic locations. The pursuit of interviews involved the scholar’s experience of climates between 0 degrees and 40 degrees in desert regions, desert flowers in bloom, Uluru’s cascading waterfalls during the rain, flooded river beds, camp dogs, red dirt, horses, road trains, corrugated dirt roads and dingoes. Interviews took place in  locations and at times, identified by research participants that ensured their anonymity and safety. Such is the vulnerability for the participant within the study. The responsibility of the scholar for navigating the physical safety of the scholar and participants is considerable.

Emotional Risks Trusting and privileging the guidance of research participants and mentors in the data collection phase requires the researcher an ability to take

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a one-down approach, sit with vulnerability and relinquish some power over process and presence. Potential participants also elected not to be involved in the research after some consideration—sometimes over six months, however, it is essential to honour commitments and obligations to be available when and where negotiated, with no assumption that consent will be ongoing. Such ceding of control through the data collection process, although the right thing and with many rewards can, and perhaps even should within intercultural research be uncomfortable and unfamiliar. The geographic isolation of fieldwork can pose a physical risk, and the place of interviews can cause emotional challenges for reasons stated above that are each critical factors to the scholar in listening more deeply and challenging their mindsets and nascent privilege. Equally, however, connection to country by the scholar proves to be deeply nurturing, and is experienced viscerally as a continually growing knot, that through more profound listening is now spliced with poignancy, lament, complicity and a new appreciation of Aboriginal ways of knowing and being systematically expunged from Western society and its structures in Australia. Risk-taking by the scholar requires a willingness to design research in ways that take the scholar, where invited, to the psychological, cultural and physical spaces identified by participants. Such spaces require of the scholar a willingness to sit with vulnerability and allow the shifting power differential between scholar and participant to move and influence deeper listening, ceding control and the making way for the privileging of Aboriginal knowledge that can underpin positive social change. Most important to remote intercultural field-work is an appreciation of the cultural protocols when visiting Aboriginal lands and communities, or when engaging with Aboriginal peoples within regional centres. Equally important is an appreciation of the competing demands on participants to engage with the many diverse research projects, the government-­ initiated community consultations, employment obligations and attention to their anonymity that determines if, when and where conversations about the research can occur. The interpersonal skills required for intercultural research can be intense, due to the sensitivity of the topic, but also the differences between the cultures in language and communication. Although interpreters are

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available for interviews, many participants are themselves Aboriginal interpreters. Some participants speak English as their first language, and for others, it was one of up to five languages spoken. It is likely to be no coincidence that those who elected to participate in the research are both English language proficient but have an appreciation of Western culture, systems and play themselves of the role of caring and leadership within their own families and communities—the protection of children being core to their knowledge and expertise. The skills of social work can support a scholar to manage the sensitivities of the subject, tune into their own and the participant’s emotional responses to discussing the topic while at the same time consider the broader context of any risks posed in the social and natural environment. Some things are hard to say and hard to hear. It is the action within this third intercultural space of the research interview that results in a powerful joining of knowledge and understanding between the two worlds.

The Emotional Hazards of Data Analysis As is recognised to this point in the research process, the knot already is spliced with poignancy, lament, complicity and a new appreciation of nuanced power. The 18 months between the first and last interview in part is through the balancing of PhD study with full-time work as an academic. However, such a time frame served to be invaluable in allowing for the scholars processing of deeper meaning. Constructivist grounded theory (CGT) has provided the scaffold for ensuring a scholar’s ethical practice and decision-making that requires ongoing recognition of researcher power and privilege, both evident and nascent. Nascent privilege is by far the most difficult, and the most uncomfortable, to identify. CGT data analysis and iterative interview development processes formally require recognition of such privilege. Supporting a deepening of privilege recognition is supported by ongoing analysis of interview transcripts and checking back with some participants and Aboriginal research mentors as the subsequent interviews are iteratively shaped. Realisation by the scholar of critical statements overlooked or missed within the interview sees the need for revisiting transcripts and audio

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recordings to appreciate better what is being communicated by participants. Western frameworks for gathering and compartmentalising information can interfere with our hearing and comprehension. Pursuing some lines of inquiry and overlooking others denote the scholar’s unconscious bias and cultural filters to hear. The realisation of the cultural and personal limitations rise to the fore when immersed in the rich data, nervous about drawing from this anything other than the actual words, statements and sentiments of the participants. Further support by participants and Aboriginal research mentors are pivotal to determining if the research should continue and the value of such research. Again, the reassurance comes to continue. An Aboriginal mentor shapes one piece of encouragement during the data analysis stage of the study. Amidst stern caution by her about the significant responsibilities for a non-Aboriginal scholar undertaking such sensitive research came the encouragement when identifying such finding to claim it.

Navigating Professional and Political Tensions Informed by social work practice, the research of Aboriginal community-­ driven approaches to protecting children from sexual abuse draws from a strengths-based approach to learning more about how Aboriginal worldviews may differently shape conceptual frameworks for responding keeping children safe. The topic of sexual abuse is itself one that jars, resonates and has the potential to open personal wounds. In the context of Aboriginal people’s experience of colonisation and the violations of children, adults and cultural genocide, social issues for Aboriginal peoples are inherently political and often politicised. Significant political intervention into the lives of Aboriginal peoples of the Northern Territory has been masked as responses to concerns about child sexual abuse of children in communities. As identified by the research, the impacts of such politicisation of sexual abuse and remote communities have caused some within remote areas to stop talking about the problem, with less opportunity for children to disclose harm should this occur.

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As a professional social worker in roles that represented the government of the day, I too am complicit in child protection practice and policies and Australian government welfare reforms associated with the Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER) that commenced in 2007. Social work roles include working alongside children, adults, families and communities impacted by sexual abuse. Personal and professional tensions of care and control permeate the research project. Key factors that urge the ongoing pursuit and completion of the study are the voices of those impacted by sexual abuse over decades of practice, the capacity for CGT methodology to recognise and explicitly incorporate researcher knowledge and experience within the research data collection and analysis process. It is an approach that lends itself well to intercultural collaboration and making meaning about the problem and possible solutions. Cautioned by the first research participant of the study, the significance of the topic is one that potentially leaves people exposed and uncomfortable for a variety of reasons. “You are taking a big risk. People will not want to hear this.” While at first appreciating the sensitivity of the research for Aboriginal peoples, as was touched upon above, it is not until later that professional peers, researchers and others from mainstream culture could see the relevance of the study. It has become clear over the years that there are careers built upon the traditional ways that we see and respond to child sexual abuse. Suggestions for a community-empowered approach to protection are not considered, with the rigidity of ongoing consultation processes that drive government programmes. Resisting the temptation to align more closely with political or government approaches to addressing child sexual abuse is a crucial decision for an independent researcher in giving back the research findings to Aboriginal peoples in order to grow their repertoire of responses for keeping children safe. Researcher autonomy is possible where the research remains independent. It takes considerable time to appreciate the multiplicity of factors that contribute to the knot experienced by the scholar.

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Courage and Skill to Embrace the Knot Scaffolding is provided by CGT methodology in undertaking sensitive intercultural research. CGT involves strategies for pragmatic research that take “a deeply reflexive stance called methodological self-­ consciousness, which leads researchers to scrutinise their data, actions, and nascent analyses” (Charmaz, 2017). The method informs the process of collaboration between scholar and participant in the co-construction of meaning and the exploration of alternate conceptual approaches to framing complex social problems and solutions. There are many natural barriers to forging the space required for intercultural communication, including language, geographic distance and those barriers created by unrecognised privilege and power of the scholar. Risk-taking by already vulnerable participants engaging in social research is considerable. Mitigation of participant risk is the responsibility of the researcher. Social work can offer skills and experience to hold safe the participant amidst the shifts and changes of the research process and in contexts that may themselves exacerbate risk to participants. Skills of reflexivity, interpersonal skills and a commitment to ethical decision-­ making throughout the research process are relevant to anticipating and managing participant risk but also the risk to the scholar. “Reflexivity” is generally understood as an awareness of the influence the researcher has on the people or topic being studied, while simultaneously recognising how the research experience is affecting the researcher (Gilgun, 2010 as cited in Probst, 2015).

Conclusion The metaphor of a knot depicts the deeply experienced impacts of social research involving Aboriginal peoples from remote Australia. Less recognised is the importance for scholars to recognise the risks to themselves as they navigate the ethical tensions, spaces and places required for research conversations. The emotional and physical impacts of researching remote locations and less familiar settings should be anticipated and embraced

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by the scholar as a core component of forging space to better hear the cautious, tentative, powerful and forthright voices of participants. Strategies adopted by the scholar to anticipate and navigate the risks within intercultural research in remote Australia provide the opportunity for the fruitful exchange of ideas and expertise across both worlds. Skills of reflexivity, checking back and ongoing feedback from cultural mentors will support the scholar to embrace the knot and claim their small part on progressing understanding of complex, sensitive social issues. It is only through the courage of scholars and research participants who move respectfully towards the risks of intercultural research that the knowledge and expertise from both worlds can impact positive outcomes for Aboriginal children. The following poem was penned at a critical juncture of the study during fieldwork in remote Australia as a response to the scholar’s crisis of legitimacy. It is an aid memoir of the reflections of intercultural research. The poem provides an avenue for locating the scholar within the research, promoting transparency of purpose and motivation for the study. Creative expression is one tool available so support the scholar to embrace the knot—the myriad of insights and overwhelming emotions evoked throughout the study. Through reflection the scholar can then continue to listen deeply to the voices of Aboriginal participants as the research process brings together the wisdom from both worlds to reimagine solutions and positive social outcomes.

 aking Way for Both Ways: Reflections M on Research Being pounded by waves in a stormy ocean Confronting, powerful, relentless The shifting sands of self and meaning Uncomfortable, triumphant Knowing less, knowing more, knowing less

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In the calmer waters of the tropical wet season flood plains A sense of knowing but also foreboding—what lies beneath? What lies ahead? Exposed, vulnerable and watching the return of the familiar wet season rains Comforting, reassuring, consolidating The crack of lightning piercing and fracturing the tightly bound constructs of the mind – Bound by constructs of history, privilege, professionalism Self, greed, status and individual achievement Making way now for a new consciousness Locating self and own philosophy in researching others But coming back continually to self. Humility. My complicity in the perpetuation of the systems meant to keep your children safe from harm Broken, fractured systems. I have shared with you your pain at the bedside of a little one struggling for life, The violation of such small bodies and souls Attended with you the funeral where the coffin was too small for me to bare I cried with you, I cried for you I could not keep her safe. I turn to you for wisdom and direction. I work with your communities. I sat with you when you were unable to speak of what had happened, of who had done this While you saw the doctor to be treated for infections As they tried to piece together your story of harm and violation. My limitations parallel those of my culture, my systems and my laws In keeping you safe

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Why? Can we not hear you when you speak? Why? Can we not trust your wisdom and knowledge? A knowledge that is informed by culture, law, language, kinship Over time and place. Why did I not understand the importance of such culture to caring for your children? What made us think we could do better? The tracks of my own ancestors, prisons, workhouses, poor laws, Flotillas, penal colonies, rum corps, The Forgotten Australians, children removed from country to build a new colony Children? Childhood? An accident of modern history driven by an awakening of human rights. Children commodified, exploited and as adults now reveal the latency of sexual violations in care. Moral high ground? Civilised society? Perhaps not. The rights of a child to be free from sexual violation—still working on that one. A rickety milk crate or chair, red dirt, camp dogs, children, bush tucker Compelling conversation. A wash of light overwhelms my heart, fires my senses. Learning to listen—deeply. Agency, complexity, mutual responsibility, care, activism. Ongoing customary law, roles, obligations. Lamenting the fractures and challenges heralded by drugs and grog. A twinkle in your eye recalling memories of close family, movement between communities. Donkeys. Humpies. Clear roles, responsibilities, accountability. Grandparents involved with school and teaching both ways. Safety. Ripping through the structures that afforded safety to children. Consequences and justice community owned and administered. Restorative justice. Pastoral life—risks, safety Moving to safety—away or to homelands or remote communities Christianity. Ideology. Solutions? Christianity the problem?

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Women and mothers to blame? Girls to blame? Promised marriage—the choice for the girl Promised marriage—protection of the girl? Violence masquerading as culture to disarm and silence victims Culture as protection. Red dirt conversations. Continue. Innovation, Exhaustion. Hope. Despair. Absent family. Here for the long term. Patience. Time. Step by Step. You matter, we matter. Community politics, power, conflict and the silencing of victims. Leaving country for safety. Disconnected in urban centres. Legacies of white sexual predators deceased at the cusp of accountability. Children, young men, young women. Burdened by secrets still unlocked to carry with them to adulthood. Red Centre, monolith. Solid. Haunting. Where it all began—the world stage A crisis A national emergency An intervention unprecedented. But now, 10 years on Overwhelming sadness, lament, regret. Imaginings. What could have been? What if my First Fleet ancestors had recognised your people, your wisdom, your culture? I am sorry. But there is hope. Together we can do this. Together we must do this. Our kids must be safe.

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References Charmaz, K. (2017). The power of constructivist grounded theory for critical inquiry. Qualitative Inquiry, 23(1), 2017. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1077800416657105 Gilgun, J.  F. (2010). Reflexivity in qualitative research. Current Issues in Qualitative Research, 1(2). https://www.scribd.com/document/35787948/ Reflexivity-and-Qualitative-Research Probst, B. (2015). The eye regards itself: Benefits and challenges of reflexivity in qualitative social research. Social Work Research, 39(1), 37–48. https://doi. org/10.1093/swr/svu028

Part IV Risks Related to the Research Setting (Conflict-Laden Locations): Introduction Patrick Alan Danaher

The five chapters in the fourth and final section of this book elaborate the specific risks pertaining to research settings, and in particular to the risks that arise when those settings are situated in conflict-laden locations. Such risks can include physical danger confronting researchers and/or the participants in their research. In other cases, risks related to research settings can traverse emotional and psycho-social stress derived from competing assumptions, imperatives and pressures. Yet engaging with these settings can generate effective strategies that facilitate rigorous research that in turn yields fresh insights into the causes, character and effects of conflict-laden locations in which that research is enacted. In Chap. 15, Syed Owais presents a reflective account of the professional and reputational risks for his research that emerged when the non-­ government organisation in a conflict area in Pakistan at which his fieldwork had been conducted responded negatively to his research findings. This response created several challenges for the author, including a lengthy delay in the conferral of his doctorate. The chapter analyses the broader issues facing researchers who encounter this kind of situation. Chapter 16, written by Paola Colonello, articulates the multiple forms of risks that she encountered when pursuing ethnographic research in Iran and Iranian Balūchistān, locations of continuing conflict. The author traces the impact on her research of cultural differences and political pressures over which she had limited control. At the same time, the chapter

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highlights the success of skills such as mediation, respecting interlocutors, complying with the host country’s laws and communicating one’s intentions transparently in assisting the conduct of research projects in these circumstances. Nikki Jamieson uses Chap. 17 to interrogate some of the ethical questions posed by current approaches by the relevant interdepartmental committee to assessing applications for ethics approval to conduct research about moral injury related to suicidality among Australian veterans. The author identifies instances of miscommunication and concomitant mistrust that exacerbated the risks attending researching with individuals who work in conflict-laden locations. Her experience raises important questions about the crucial relationship between researchers engaged in risky research and human research ethics committees. Chapter 18, written by Anne Macdonald, also takes up the complexities of researching about moral injury with Australian veterans, albeit from a different perspective. Having obtained the relevant ethics approval, the author found that her challenges related to confirming participants in her study, including being the subject of suspicion by some potential participants, and being positioned negatively in particular ways via social media. The author experienced a certain kind of moral injury herself as a consequence of these events, arising from seeking to conduct research with a population profoundly affected by serving in armed conflicts in different parts of the world. Finally in this fourth and final section of the book, in Chap. 19, Zibah Nwako seeks to redefine scholarly risk in a conflict-laden West African research context by interrogating the professional and reputational risks that she encountered when researching the personal and mental risks faced by female undergraduate students in certain West African countries. For the author, the conflicts created by patriarchy-generated risks are connected with gender inequalities and stereotypes. On the other hand, she found that these researcher and participant risks could be mitigated—at least to some degree—by mobilising the affordances of postcolonial feminist theory and participatory research methodologies.

15 “Horrified by the Experience”? Reflections on a Pakistani Organisation’s Feedback About Doctoral Research Findings Syed Owais

Introduction This chapter is a reflexive account of the professional risks that I encountered between February 2017 and September 2017. I experienced the risks and insecurities after sharing research findings with the Centre for the Advancement of Rural Livelihoods (CARL)1, a Pakistani NGO that I examined as an extended case study (Burawoy, 1998, 2009) for doctoral research at a UK University. I was interested in researching social structural, organisational, and political-economy factors influencing NGOs’ efforts for grassroots change in rural Pakistan. CARL fitted with this Disclaimer: The views and data mentioned in the chapter are the author’s alone, and should in no case be considered the views or opinions of the publisher and/or the editors of this book. 1  This is a pseudonym for the case study NGO. For the purpose of anonymity and confidentiality, the organisational documents cited in the text are not included in the reference list.

S. Owais (*) University of Peshawar, Peshawar, Pakistan e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_15

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research agenda in three ways: it was big, it had been working in rural areas for around three decades, and most importantly, it was grounded in the utopian socialist approach to rural development in Pakistan pioneered by Akhtar Hameed Khan (Boyatzis & Khawaja, 2014). CARL allowed me to collect data from its staff members and from the communities with which it was working in return for my agreement to share a copy of the thesis with the organisation and to incorporate its feedback in the manuscript. Consequently, after submitting the thesis for doctoral defence, I posted a copy of the manuscript to CARL.  I expected a mere formal acknowledgement receipt along with some notes of disagreement regarding the presentation and interpretation of data. However, within five days of returning to Pakistan, I found myself embroiled in controversy because CARL had sent a letter to the UK university awarding my doctorate. The letter challenged the veracity of my PhD findings. The chapter begins by giving the background of the rationale for signing an agreement with CARL and highlights some of the allegations levelled at my PhD thesis. Subsequently, the chapter describes the historical and socio-political factors that, I argue, have resulted in almost complete lack of support for researcher’s safety and security in Pakistan’s universities. The final section of the chapter is a personal reflexive narrative on the various risks and vulnerabilities that I experienced both during the management of the crisis and afterwards. The section particularly describes the following risks: 1 . The risk of being labelled as “incompetent” and a “failure” 2. The inability to write 3. The feelings of loneliness experienced between February 2017 and August 2017 4. Taunts by some relatives 5. The loss of relationships previously developed with the research participants

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 ackground: Ethical Agreement B and Unethical Research The Terms of Reference (ToRs) signed with CARL stipulated that besides following the principles of informed consent, anonymity, and confidentiality (Bryman, 2012), I was also required to “share a copy of the research report with research participants … [and with the organisation’s management to] … ensure that its point of view or any finding is incorporated into the report.” I had offered to share a copy of my thesis with CARL for methodological and pragmatic reasons. According to O'Reilly and Dhanju (2010, p.  286), “[f ]eedback and dissemination are not prioritised within academic institutions” (p. 286). So it seemed ethically appropriate to give an opportunity for the research participants to provide feedback about the findings of the project. Secondly, the offer helped to elicit permission from CARL’s General Manager (GM) for data collection at the organisation. There was also sort of philanthropic urge to share research findings with CARL: despite providing services such as basic health, education, and nutrition as well as working on the longer-term goals of empowerment and democratisation (Jafar, 2007, 2011), academics (e.g., Bano, 2008c; 2012) and the general masses largely perceive Pakistani NGOs negatively (e.g., Bano, 2008a, 2008b; Jamal & Baldwin, 2017). Conducting research in conflict zones is said to pose multiple risks (Baele, Lewis, Hoeffler, Sterck, & Slingeneyer, 2018), but I had the lived experience of post-9/11 Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan. As such, firstly, I did not see it as actually or potentially “dangerous” or “risky.” Secondly, I thought myself prepared for managing unpleasant contingencies that could arise during the research. Likewise, NGOs are generally cautious in sharing information with outsiders (Mosse, 2001; O'Reilly & Dhanju, 2010), but being “native” to the area, I rarely experienced glitches in data collection. In preparation to enter the world of NGOs, I had consulted works such as Mosse (2005; 2006), but in retrospect, I naïvely thought that my research would not have that backlash because I was not a high profile academic; the naïve stoicism could have developed out of reading the “how to” guides of, for example, Desai and Potter (2006) and

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Scheyvens and Storey (2003), none of which elaborate on or caution about the risks arising as a result of sharing one’s research findings with NGOs or research participants. In retrospect, this casual posture was potentially dangerous because my employer, the University of Peshawar, had funded my PhD studies abroad. For reasons that become clearer in the following section, it was a risky enterprise in that if the management of the university were to know about any of the charges, my reputation would suffer, at least in the short run. Yet, as stated in the introduction, I expected CARL to contact me via email to share its feedback on some aspects of data analysis. However, to my overwhelming surprise, CARL’s management reacted in January 2017 by writing a three-page fiery letter of complaint to the head of the “research governance” of the UK University from which I had recently returned after defending my PhD in Sociology with minor corrections. The letter stated that CARL was “horrified by the experience” of reading a manuscript that raised “serious ethical, methodological, analytical generalisation and wider learning issues” and that these “lapses would not have been possible had it not been for apparent institutional collusion between the supervisors and the researcher.” I had also collected data on a project that CARL implemented in partnership with another NGO. In this regard, the management threatened that “permission from the organisation contracted by the donor was needed to be sought before studying its work. The organisation has already informed us that it would like to take up this case with the University both from an ethical point of view and is thinking of pursuing it legally [emphasis added].” In response to this, in early February 2017, the University informed me about withholding its decision for the conferral of PhD Degree until the clearance of all the allegations hurled at my thesis. A series of email correspondences ensued from the University’s ethics committee asking me to answer each allegation stated in the letter. The matter was finally resolved in August 2017 through a decision whereby I was advised to do as much further anonymisation as possible and to add CARL’s feedback as a “Postscript—An extract from the anon NGO’s Response to Mr. Owais’ thesis.”

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 he Historical and Socio-political Context T of “Professional” and “Reputational” Risks in Pakistan’s Academia I believe that no Pakistani social scientist would reasonably disagree with the claim that common academics—that is, the academic underdogs—in Pakistan live in an almost perpetual state of mild fear or precarity. I guess I might not have felt that much under pressure or in danger if I were based at a university in a developed country. I do not imply that the universities in the developed countries have appropriately tailored programmes for dealing with every possible contingency (Benoot & Bilsen, 2016; Bloor, Fincham, & Sampson, 2010; Bracken-Roche, Bell, Macdonald, & Racine, 2017). Nevertheless, researchers—whether PhD students or faculty members—are relatively better positioned and have at least designated offices in the universities to rely on for some socio-psychological support. I say so because in developed countries there has been a gradual recognition that social researchers also need protection and safety (Dickson-­ Swift, James, Kippen, & Liamputtong, 2007). In Pakistan, however, universities have yet to develop codes of ethics or protocols for researchers’ safety. Since the lack of structured occupational support triggered feelings of insecurity and precarity in me, therefore, before elaborating my professional and reputational insecurities, I would like to take the readers on a detour of the historical and socio-political context of academic environment in Pakistan.

 he Colonial Legacy of the Institutional Structure T of Pakistani Universities Institutional structures tend to develop deterministic properties over time (Mahoney, 2000). That is, once a government programme or organisation begins following a certain path, an inertial tendency sets in so that the initial policy choices or regulatory mechanisms persist (Peters, 2005).

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This viewpoint has validity, particularly when applied to the institutional structure of universities in Pakistan.2 Non-concern for researchers’ safety and security, and the perpetual lack of organisational structures and research protocols about researchers’ safety and security, owes its persistence to the colonial legacy of higher education in Pakistan. Pakistan has continued to implement the legal framework of the higher educational institutions bequeathed to it by Colonial Britain. The British Raj needed a workforce that would be trained in the Western (British) liberal tradition to the extent that they could be effective and obedient workers for the colonial bureaucracy. Following this strategy, the Raj did not establish the first university in India—the University of Calcutta—in 1858 along the same lines of autonomy as the universities were in England at that time: the act [sic] establishing the University of Calcutta declared that the Governor-General would be the Chancellor and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court the Vice-Chancellor of the University. Its fellows would include the Lieutenant Governors of Bengal and the North West Provinces, the Bishop of Calcutta and Members of the Supreme Council of India. … [the colonial university] did not have the psychological, economic, social or legal potential to confront the powers that be. (Rahman, 1998, pp. 670–71)

Yet, despite the passage of more than 150 years after the establishment of the first colonial university and despite more than 70 years after partition, Pakistan’s public sector universities are still largely structured along the colonial lines. For instance, the governor of a province still functions as the Chancellor of all the public universities of that province. Likewise, some top-level bureaucrats from various government departments are exofficio members of the governing bodies of universities. Even after massive reforms and restructuring of Pakistan higher education in the last two decades (HEC, 2017), the legal-organisational framework through 2  “Institutional inertia” is not the characteristic feature of a post-colonial state such as Pakistan. Developed countries could equally have sub-optimal (formal and informal) normative structures in place (see, e.g., Pierson, 1994, 2004), but its discussion is beyond the scope of this chapter.

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which the public sector universities are run is still based on the nineteenth-century colonial model. Hence the lack of protocols and nonconcern for researchers’ security and safety. Recently, I had the first-hand experience of open declaration by a university’s administrator about the lack of research ethics protocols. I approached the official to provide me with the university’s approved policy for research involving human participants. I needed this as a supporting document for a research grant application to the UK’s Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC). He simply said, “you are going too high here; our university has only recently developed research ethics protocols only [emphasis original] for research in pharmacy and those too have not yet been officially approved. I am afraid, I can’t help you.”

The Precarity and Vulnerability of “Outcast” Academics The classic lack of measures and support for comforting a researcher at risk is also due to another factor that is closely related to the preceding point. For most of their history, universities have been under-budgeted, and as a result, the academic profession has been perpetually branded as having the lowest social prestige vis-à-vis other fields such as medicine, engineering, and law. It might not be too exaggerated to state that the academic profession is mostly considered a domain for the “failed” or “unsuccessful” people. So much so that even a military career is considered superior to and prestigious than academic life. On the whole, academics are viewed with an attitude that Rahman (1998) has dubbed as “saint syndrome.” That is because the profession is viewed in saintly terms, “there is little concern for the conditions under which an academic can be effective”3 (Shils, 1970 cited in Rahman, 1998, p. 671). To demonstrate how academics are generally at risk and that there is no supportive mechanism for them to cope with insecurity, I shall give the most recent example of Pashtun Tahaffuz (protection) Movement

 Some private sector universities might be exceptions to this.

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(PTM)4. PTM is a non-electorate civilian social movement that came to the public forefront in early 2018. It developed in response to the allegedly extra-judicial staged police killing of Naqeebullah Mehsud, a 27 years old Pashtun. PTM demanded civil rights for Pashtuns who, inhabiting the provinces of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Baluchistan, have been affected most in the military’s “war on terror” in post-9/11 Pakistan (see, e.g., Yousaf, 2019; Kamran, 2018; Zaidi, 2018). Being averse to the cause of the movement, the political/military establishment issued “memos” to the universities forbidding academics from expressing their views to the newspapers, television, or other media. If anybody wished so, she/he would share the script of the views for approval by the “competent authority.” For instance, Ammar Ali Jan, a Lahore-based academic and PTM supporter, was “picked up by law enforcement agencies from his house in Lahore in the middle of [the] night on charges of supporting the PTM” (Khattak, 2019). In a nutshell, to work as an academic in Pakistan is always to live with, or attempt to cope with, mild feelings of insecurity. Although I did not research aspects of the Pakistani state or the military, the general environment of insecurity weighed heavily on me for “reputational” and “professional” reasons, which I discuss below.

 he “Reputational” Risk of Being Called T a “Failure” and “Incompetent” The University’s withholding of the examiners’ decision for the award of PhD (with minor corrections) exposed me to professional and reputational risks at my home institution, the University of Peshawar, and beyond. The risks of being called a “failure” and “incompetent” were the most vivid and obvious. A PhD researcher may fail to complete her/his studies for a variety of reasons including the lack of requisite skills and cognitive abilities to accomplish the task of producing a manuscript that is 4  Readers interested in understanding the broader contours of the state of social sciences research in Pakistan, including state-censorship, could consult Zaidi (2002). The reference is old, but the arguments still carry validity.

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potentially worth publishing. Yet, in the sub-culture of Pakistan’s academia no matter how detailed and articulate the reasons one gives for the delay in completing PhD research, the researcher is always interpreted as “incompetent.” There is a circumstantial factor in labelling an incomplete PhD as “failure.” In 2001, the government of Pakistan, with the technical assistance of the World Bank, restructured higher education by establishing the Higher Education Commission (HEC). To ensure that the universities were internationally competitive, HEC funded thousands of young Pakistani researchers for PhD studies abroad. The idea was that the PhD graduates will work within universities and research institutes in Pakistan upon their return. Some scholarship holders did not complete PhD studies in the stipulated period or failed altogether (Lodhi, 2011). Coincidentally, when I returned to Pakistan in 2017, I heard about some academic acquaintances in other universities of Pakistan who had returned from abroad without a PhD degree certificate. Since many of my colleagues knew about those cases, they would at times suspiciously and at times tauntingly ask about the status of my PhD. For reasons of anonymity and confidentiality, I could not divulge the actual story behind the delay in my PhD Degree; I was also poor at concocting a suitable story. So, in the initial weeks after joining my duties at the University of Peshawar, whenever a colleague asked about the “status” of my PhD, I simply replied, “I am working on the corrections.” But after a while, I could not even say that because I was afraid that I would not have anything to say if one of them offered to practically help me in addressing “corrections” in the thesis, particularly as the whole process was actually in limbo. Likewise, my supervisors fully supported me, emailing constant reassurances. Still, I found myself not just emotionally disturbed, but I felt lonely too. I occasionally felt at risk of losing the harvest of four and half years of labour by a letter. The days when I was drafting my response to allegations were emotionally taxing, which at times mixed with feelings of self-pity and sometimes anger at every word of the letter that I found not only groundless but disrespectful in many ways. The emotional precarity was particularly palpable in the first few weeks of the receipt of the complaint letter because, as explained above, there was no office or

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official in the university whom I could access for comfort or advice as to how I could write a letter of response to the University’s ethics committee. To ease the stress a little, I told the whole story to a close friend and colleague. He not only gave me company for long hours but also assisted me by giving detailed editorial suggestions for improvements in my response letter. Yet there were times when I could not escape the unnecessary questions, especially from my senior colleagues. For instance, after repeated questions by a senior professor regarding the “status” of my PhD, I informed him about the allegations levelled against my thesis. The professor had also researched an NGO for his PhD research. So he began the narrating the “wise” strategy of his fieldwork and paternalistically concluded: You could have been wiser….You could have consulted me before even thinking to share your PhD thesis with CARL.…See, you need [a PhD] Certificate. You could have received it without ever sharing your thesis with CARL irrespective of the question whether you had an agreement with it or not.

Like most doctoral candidates, I had planned to begin editing thesis chapters for publication in academic journals. Owing to the messiness of the whole situation that I was in between February 2017 and August 2017, I could not comfortably sit down to do that as I was simply unable to concentrate. At times, even if I would convince myself about it as a feasible thing to do, the intractable question was how could I write papers out of the data which was shrouded in controversy and complaints. Consequently, it was long after I received a certificate of declaration of result in September 2017 that I gradually began writing for academic journals. This severely impacted on the timeline I had constructed to build my academic career and reputation. In addition to the professional and reputational risks described above, I also occasionally felt at risk of saving my reputation with my relatives. Pashtun social structure is characterised by tarboorwali or cousin rivalry (Ginsburg, 2011). Thus, it is common to find Pashtun cousins taunting

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and cynically talking to each other. Being Pashtun myself, I experienced a few taunts from my contemporaries and a couple of older relatives, when I told them (after six months of my return to Pakistan) that I was (still) working on corrections in my thesis. Finally, the event also had a toll on my relationships with the community members and the staff members whom I had befriended during the fieldwork. Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, the province of Pakistan where I collected data, is inhabited by Pashtuns. Pashtuns have a “tribalistic” social structure and as such, they generally practice entertaining a stranger as a guest. During the eight-month long fieldwork I developed very close and friendly relationships with some of the community members and few staff-members of CARL. But I seem to have lost those as a result of my temporary loss of reputation. During the fieldwork, I would customarily schedule an interview with community members through a single phone call and they would readily sit with me for hours until I had nothing more to discuss or ask. I have been often put off by the thought of visiting them or calling them because most of them might still be working with CARL. I do not entertain the idea of calling on them out of fear that if it were to be known, the NGO might discriminate with them in service delivery. Likewise, after the controversy around my thesis was settled in August 2017, I tried to contact those members of staff at CARL who had been very friendly and supportive. However, CARL’s lower level staff jested about it and advised me to stay away from the organisation. A couple of senior managers rather angrily refused to see me because they reportedly found my writing about CARL too open and critical.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have described the variety of professional and reputational risks that I faced as a result of a long letter of complaint. The chapter especially highlighted the significance of the institutional environment of Pakistan universities, which is almost ignorant of issues about researcher safety and security. In this regard, the chapter described the continuity of colonial legacy of keeping universities under the government’s control

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and the post-9/11 security context of Pakistan as the two most significant factors creating or at least contributing to researchers’ precarity. This being the case, the chapter described the multiple professional and reputational risks that I encountered while managing to clear myself off the allegations levelled at my doctoral research findings. This chapter has described the risk of being called a failure or incompetent due to the non-completion of research as emotionally the most challenging. The strategy adopted to overcome this challenge and its limited efficacy has been highlighted. Likewise, the inability to draft papers for academic journals between February 2017 and August 2017 has been described as the second challenge that I faced. The whole process culminated in infused feelings of self-pity, anger, and loneliness. There were no institutional avenues on which to rely, thus I subscribed to rely on personal relationships with colleagues to ease the tension. In addition to the precarity experienced in the professional domain, as an afterthought, the chapter also highlighted the loss of relationships which were established with the community members and the staff members of the NGO during the fieldwork. It was not just CARL that was “horrified by the experience.” I too have become wary of researching issues in Pakistani society that seem sociologically intriguing. After enduring the social and psychological travails of having to manage the risks discussed above, I am now more inclined to research issues that are marginal, and that would not drag me into some sort of battle with the powers that be. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank the editors of this volume, especially Dr Deborah L. Mulligan for her continuous support and patience. I would like to thank Dr Razia Sadik at the Pakistan Institute of Fashion Design (PIFD) in Lahore, Pakistan, for a meticulous review of an earlier draft of this chapter, and for candid suggestions about anchoring it more clearly. I am also immensely thankful to Dr. Noor Sanauddin (University of Peshawar) from whose constructive criticism I have always learned. All errors and omissions are exclusively mine.

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16 Where the Map Turns Red: The Multiple Expressions of Risk in Ethnographic Research Paola Colonello

Introduction Ethnographic research has the merit of offering us an alternative perspective, but every route change or exploration it provides presupposes a risk and risk is a complex issue, since it manifests itself in multiple forms. Handling it, we realize that it looks like a macrocosm which includes many microcosms, represented by different levels of intensity of the same apprehension: an anxiety that is connected to a shift from a comfort zone to a state of imbalance and uncertainty which, potentially, can cause tribulations, pain, worsening living conditions and even the interruption of life itself. In order to control the risk associated with this shift, the same excessive prudence, ambiguously, results in having its own risk in turn: that of interrupting the process of growth and understanding which is so dear to the researcher.

P. Colonello (*) Università degli Studi di Milano Bicocca, Milano, Italy e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_16

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In order to stem the danger, ethnographers should find a place, in their backpack, for a safety net, woven with skills such as the awareness of one’s personal and imposed limits, the abilities of mediation and overview; care and respect for interlocutors and for the laws of the country or the rules of host institutions; ethic of research and a sufficient dose of transparency of intentions that allows them to be considered trustworthy. It is necessary to keep an eye on the contents declared in the project, without neglecting the importance of the peripheral vision, so often blessed by serendipity. An adequate preparation to handle the expected and unexpected is an indispensable skill, as is a support network that could be contacted in case of emergency. In the following pages, I reflect on the ethnographer’s risks and required skills, mentioning some situations I have directly experienced. This is the reason why, for consistency, I narrate events and thoughts in the first person. I will consider some frames of my fieldwork in the Islamic Republic of Iran, especially in the Balūchistān region, through which I try to highlight the polymorphic occurrence of danger lurking in a certain type of field research, which could easily discourage inquiry.

Risks and Limitations in Data Collection It was the winter of 2017. It had been a light rainy season and Tehrān dust was perpetually creeping into my nostrils and under my nails. I was conducting ethnographic research in Education, screened by the Government of the Islamic Republic. The alarm clock often rang at 4.30 a.m.; I had to meet my local collaborators before dawn, to drive to some schools in the region before the traffic made the roads impassable. The Iranian government had asked me to communicate which institutes I was about to visit. During a meeting, it happened that a representative of the Security Services appeared without any warning. He told me he had been instructed to verify if the authorized dialogical contents would be respected. My research project had been approved but I was advancing with the balance of a tightrope walker, as each step of the work required much transparency on my part and the continuous monitoring of possibilities and boundaries. During my conversations, a good dose of

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intuition was essential to discern which words were spontaneously uttered by the informants and which were included in their speech for complacency or self-protection—considering the intimidating presence of the officer of the Security Services. Participants do not deliver a magical skeleton key to penetrate their most significant thoughts; rather, they usually offer the researcher interpretative paths, punctuated by contradictions, deflections and the unsaid. Often, they employ defensive strategies to minimize speech risks (Olivier de Sardan, 1995, p. 9). In that context, I had to consider a surplus of manipulation, aimed at avoiding the arrest or the suspension of adopted didactic strategies, possibly considered subversive. The penetrating Orwellian fear of a tip-off to the Security Services led to the suspicion that anyone, if not well known, could be a random informant (Copertino, 2017, pp. 59–60) and the eventuality of a report was the precondition of each conversation. One of the most probable risks for the researcher then was to gather information which would be polluted by manipulation and, therefore, at least “differently” relevant. In the meantime, a good dose of the implicit was a lifesaver and the effective fil rouge of any conversation; it was evident in the non-verbal, in broken sentences, in the tone of the voice, in the hasty answers. In its supposed silence, the implicit assumed a considerable expressiveness. I was observing the scrupulous collection of information practiced by the government regarding my travels and the curricula of my informants and I wondered if its modus operandi was expressing the interest of the officials for my work, or if it was instead complying with that “paradigm of suspicion” (Manoukian, 1998, p. 42) which induces Iranian institutions to avoid any hidden plots, to collect ambiguous signals, seeking correspondences with eventualities perhaps occurring elsewhere. Every compression of freedom has, as first feedback, the instinct towards decompression and centrifugal movement; at the same time, each pressure directed to the escape receives in counter-feedback an increase in control and containment of the action. What I was perceiving seemed to be a huge waste of energy spent for control and containment, with the aim of preventing the aforementioned shift.

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Manifest and Unmanifest Risks In the following months, while travelling around some regions of the country, farther out from Tehrān, the meetings gradually became more informal. The presence of the Security Services became less evident and authorizations were not always requested, especially if I was working at private institutions. Paradoxically, it was precisely there—where the perception of risk became less pressing—that my interlocutors had to be protected with even more sensitivity. The responsibility for this care became a personal commitment, a responsible choice of the researcher. If the fear of being monitored in any exclamation or confidence prevented my previous contacts from answering my questions fluently, in areas geographically far from the centres of governance, the relative freedom of expression could induce participants to assume considerable risks: precisely because those risks were less readily manifest. When participants did not perceive any direct control, they were less encouraged to protect themselves and restrain communication. During the video interviews, I sometimes had to turn off the video camera, because some out-of-context comments, which spontaneously emerged while talking, could be interpreted as ambiguous, and their ambiguity could be overestimated by the officials, during possible subsequent checks. The risks, at that point, would have concerned possible measures against the participants or towards my person—I could be accused of exporting information considered harmful to the regime. I knew that, as long as I had respected the agreements of trust and communicated my movements and internal flights, I would feel safe and protected by the system. Through private channels, however, I had agreed to visit some schools in Balūchistān, in the southern part of the country, near the Pakistani border: a place where the safety risks would multiply exponentially. One morning, I was sitting in the room of the head of the Cultural Office of the Italian Embassy in Tehrān, when he stood up and indicated a political map of Iran hanging on the wall. On the map, the country seemed to be gushing blood from the south-east. “I cannot forbid you to move around the country but take a good look at this map. There is one

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region from which you should stay away: it is the one painted in red. There have been recent attacks by a Pakistani terrorist group. Some people have been kidnapped”. I thanked the diplomat for the valuable advice and remembered Salzman recounting how he had spent long months in Tehrān, before the Revolution, trying to get permission to go to Balūchistān, and how he was later expelled from Balūchistān by the police, for moving too freely in the tribal territory (2000, p. 56). In 2017, the situation in the region had become even more complex. Nevertheless, danger has a greater chance of playing a central role when the risk is unmanifest and, consequently, less predictable. The unawareness of the limited perception available and the possible eclipse of precarity expose the researcher to a more insidious peril. Manifest jeopardy allows one to organize prevention or countermoves; the deferred emergence of an unmanifest risk can instead surprise even the most conscientious researcher.

Safety at Risk Through the intercession of an acquaintance, I had meanwhile managed to obtain, from a senator of the Islamic Republic, the permission to fly to Zāhedān and to drive to Sarāvān, even if the armed escort he was told to reserve for me, once arrived in Balūchistān, proved to be the most deceptive mirage that desert could present. Probably, my intermediary did not tell the whole truth about the private conversation with the senator. All I could do then was to ask Baluch for their direct protection. We stopped for lunch near Mīrjāveh, where, during those months, Jaish al-Adl had made and would make further raids, killing dozens of young Iranian soldiers who were guarding that border area. I had the privilege of being the guest of the man who would personally take care of my transfer. At the end of the meal, he grabbed a submachine gun and asked me to follow him to his pick-up. The road to Sarāvān was immersed in the nothingness of a flat desert on the right, while, on the left, a long chain of earthy hills outlined the geographical boundary with Pakistan. It would take several hours to reach my destination. We stopped only at sunset, for the prayer (ṣalāt al-maghrib), then continued until we arrived

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near Gosht, a little town on the verge of the meridian 62° east of Greenwich. In that specific context, my physical safety was in jeopardy. Walking on the streets, my local collaborators preceded or surrounded me, while I was trying to camouflage myself among their wives, wrapped in long black chadors. I was told that decades had passed since the last Westerner had been seen in the town. During a dinner, while I was trying to swallow the lamb, despite a certain lump in my throat, a man, who was sitting on my left on the Persian carpet, confided to me his worry. “I am thinking of moving. Half of the families in this town are Taliban and are threatening us. All of us are Sunni, but they accuse us of not being true Muslims and say they are going to kill our children. I am very scared”. He told me to be careful, because the word regarding my presence would spread quickly and it could be dangerous for me; “You-are-pale!”, he whispered to me with great apprehension, spelling out the words. That case was one of an expected risk, of a complication that had a high probability of occurring. I needed to keep a clear mind of what my situation was and what my protections were. The first considerations that came to my mind were the following: (1) I was perceived as “pale”, female, non-Muslim, Western and even unmarried. The latter condition, in particular, aroused much perplexity and an embarrassing, intrusive interrogation by the heads of the town families. In short, I held a set of characteristics which were not considered very recommendable. (2) My being European was a double-edged sword: although I had repeatedly pointed out that I had no personal financial resources to invest in local structures, in their eyes I likely had easier access to money. I therefore represented a resource to be protected. The same assumption could make of me an attractive prey for that kidnapping risk I had been warned about. (3) I had been introduced to them by a man who was considered an authoritative voice: because of his knowledge, his level of education, his place of residence and his promises of collaboration. If something bad happened to me, they would have to respond to him. (4) The closest airport was in Zāhedān, on the border with Afghanistan, many hours of travel north, along a single road through the desert; the only way to reach it was by car.

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Dangers are manifold and omnipresent—wrote Mary Douglas—and action would be paralyzed if individuals attended to all of them; this is the reason why anxiety has to be selective (as cited in Alaszewski, 2015, p. 216) and an overview of the situation, together with the definition of protections and priorities, is necessary to simplify decisions as the danger approaches. The stay in the town had to be short: just the time to collect the material I needed for research, in the two towns and in neighbouring desert areas. I had to consider the unpredictability of events and the speed with which they could happen.

Baluchism In that remote area of the country, in the meantime, the anniversary of the Revolution was being celebrated and, despite the usual tensions between the Sunni Baluch and the Shi’a clergy of Tehrān, patriotic songs were raising from the courtyards of primary schools, where children, while staying in ordered rows, were singing loudly with their right hand resting on their heart. The songs ended with the takbīr, before children ran back to their classrooms. At least, that happened where the schools were built with bricks and where the children had a voice. Part of my interest, however, was focusing on the schools where some classrooms were reserved to pupils with a severe hearing deficit, whose number was quite high on site. They were the voiceless children of Gosht. My Iranian collaborator got to know a teacher from this small town not far from Sarāvān, where schools did not have adequate tools to teach such recipients and, while accompanying me, he brought with us some Montessori learning tools which would be helpful. The teacher was a tall, robust man in his forties; he had black eyes, a thick black beard and a gentle smile. In his classroom, children sat with their big toes sticking out of holes in their socks: it was evident that not every family could afford the expense of a cochlear implant or hearing aid. Through a friend, I tried to ask a group of audiologists and doctors from Tehrān to create an e-learning platform in Fārsi, which could act as

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support to parents and teachers for a first-aid intervention and a better communicative interaction with deaf children, but the last message about the matter, that came to me via Telegram, was: “this is a tough project because our people do not care about Baluch who live there (…) Persians think that Baluch have come to this world to be smugglers and they do not want to help them”. Primary school children, born with prelingual deafness, were perceived as potential threats. They were possibly perceived as not worthy of help or, more likely, the mere fact of helping them could be interpreted as risky and leading to undesired results. Due to that context, I gave a second interpretation to the “paradigm of suspicion”: I was observing a private activation of prevention of social osmosis; the underage representatives of that ethnic group, once grown up, could be perceived as agents of mobility, suspected of representing the threat of crime (Shamir, 2005, p. 201). The fear of mobility did not seem to be that of a supposed future migration from Balūchistān to the northern regions; rather, it seemed to concern the expansion of an exogenous way of living and believing. Some northern people seem to fear a factual integration of the fate of this peripheral region of their country, while ethnic identity claims still persist among the Baluch themselves—who have never appreciated the impositions of the Shi’a government. In a nation as The Islamic Republic of Iran, the tendency to reify cultural uniformity among the population could be misleading (Salzman, 2009). The “Persians” of the message, while defining themselves as such, were advocating a cohesive “we” that excludes from itself the Baluch residing in their same nation. This identity claim is a cultural construct, capable of producing a collective definition of the self as detached from the rest. An aim that is achievable through the simulation of an internal homogeneity, considered sufficient to generate a contrasting and oppositional relationship between the parts (Fabietti, 2013, pp. 21–22, 27, 47). The refusal of the audiologists to collaborate seemed to me to be powered by a stereotype which introduces a concept that—using a derogatory suffix—I call baluchism. Baluchism presupposes the risk of proliferation of a reality which is perceived as a plague, characterized by elements such as crime, poverty, religious, political and cultural conflicts. A perception which seems to be vitiated by a Manichaean dualism which invades the secular dimension of the human,

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reproducing simplistic dichotomies such as law/crime, respectable life/ abject existence, according to a mystical topographical logic in which good is set in the centre and evil in periphery (Caillois, 2001, pp. 46–47): and there it is expected to remain. Unfortunately, one of the risks of the simplification induced by intolerant thinking is the reciprocity that it fosters.

Immunizing Education The ethnographic observation of such educational contexts highlighted the importance and effectiveness of a school education promoted by trained and motivated teachers. A caring education can act as a compass, especially in conditions of such insecurity, perceived marginalization and relative isolation; even more so in an area which is highly exposed to the risk of youth’s adherence to violent radicalization. Unfortunately, while writing about the educational system of an Islamic country, it is easy to find a strong resistance from the non-Muslim public. The biases conveyed by mass-media generalizations induce the hasty expression of a judgement, which is issued—once again—for suspicion towards what we consider “other”: a non-us who is supposed to play the role of competitor or adversary. In cultural conflicts, one condition of feared shifting is the questioning of one’s habits. Ethologically speaking, every violation of a habit produces anxiety and fear. Whatever the physiological mechanisms of these phenomena may be, they form the basis of all the processes that are at the service of a supposed preservation of one’s cultural knowledge, once it is achieved (Lorenz, 2007, p.  101). Every shift from this attainment is perceived as a threat to the reassuring illusion of identity, which tries to offer us a sense of belonging and coherence. Minor, and relegated to less informal contexts, are the occasions for reflection on how Islamic education could be the first deterrent towards the process of joining armed groups of terrorists. Educated people are supposed to discern between religion and extremist narratives that involve the Qur’an as a support to justify their violent actions. They are trained to gather information from different sources and weigh it; they understand how the violent education that is imparted by Islamic extremism

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positions itself alternatively, when not antithetically, to Islamic teachings. It is precisely the most cultured scholars of Islam who meticulously consult the Sacred Text, in order to invalidate the presumptions of violent extremism. A significant example is the fatwa of Shayk Tahir-ul-Qadri (2010), which amounts to 600 pages of references from the Qur’an, the Ḥ adīth, the opinions of the Companions and the classical texts of Islamic scholarship (2010, p. 5). This fatwa announces categorically that attacks against civilian targets are not only condemned by Islam, but that they render the perpetrators totally out of the fold of Islam. The Shayk declares that “terrorism, in its very essence, is an act that symbolises infidelity and rejection of what Islam stands for” (2010, p. 35) and that “Islam does not allow and advocate the use of violence against and killing of peaceful and non-combatant citizens under any circumstances. Those indulging in attacks on peaceful non-Muslim citizens, kidnapping them for ransom, and torturing them mentally or physically, or keeping them under unlawful custody, are in fact committing serious violations of Islamic teachings” (2010, p.  37). In parallel with the opinion of the scholars, the approach of Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) suggests paying attention to the resource represented by Muslim mothers. Mothers are often well placed both in their emotional relationship to their children, as well as in their strategic location within the home; they represent a starting point of building resiliency within their children’s early years of development and are often the first to recognize signs of distress including anger, anxiety and withdrawal. This dual capacity, to pre-empt and respond to radical influences, makes mothers essential actors in prevention (Schlaffer & Kropiunigg, 2016, pp. 54–75). Their care and teachings are supposed to start from the womb. It is from the uterus that children acquire the concepts of good and evil, of right or wrong—obviously, the meaning of each term of both dichotomies has to be intended from a contextual, Islamic religious and cultural perspective. Pregnant women begin their teaching to the foetus by reciting verses from the Qur’an, singing to their womb, preparing him/her to receive a spiritual predisposition, through which, once grown up, he/she can approach religion.

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Elsewhere, paramilitary organizations rely on religion to gain consensus and the main part of their political strategy focus on educational processes of indoctrination and recruitment. Islamic education itself is not merely a resource of peace or a smithery where cruel weapons are forged: what makes the difference, is the way through which education is intentionally transmitted, possibly received and fortuitously or consciously reworked. Rather, it is the ignorance of ethical and religious teachings that leads to their misunderstanding: an eventuality which is deceptively promoted by extremist groups through an attentive and opportunistic use of persuasion. In hot areas such as this geographic outgrowth of Sunni Balūchistān, sinking into the Pakistani region, Ministerial curricula can be supported by irenic Islamic teachings, beginning from within the families. Religious education becomes, in this way, the pivot for the construction of the person, starting from childhood. Baluchi teachers’ request of Montessori tools and workshops to learn how to use them has further demonstrated their intention to simplify, also for children with disabilities, the access to the activities required by the school curriculum approved by the theocratic regime. One possible benefit of this care and attention to inclusion could be that school education itself may act as immunizer, as counterbalance, at least for part of the manifest risks of the context. An event that could have domino consequences also on other risk microcosms, including the one inhabited by the Western researcher.

Conclusion What happens during the research is not entirely predictable a priori. Jeopardy expresses itself in many forms and is not always avoidable, especially when prudence comes to terms with an exuberant desire for knowledge, with the awareness of the unrepeatability of contingent research conditions and with the doubtful future availability of key informants. As Mary Douglas pointed out, the sense of subjective immunity is adaptive only if “it allows humans to keep cool in the midst of dangers, to dare to experiment” (Douglas, 2003, p. 30). The ability of self-centring

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allows one to balance anxiety and find effective solutions in all those perilous circumstances that—metaphorically or not—situate us “where the map turns red”. This Iranian experience, briefly narrated, will hopefully offer a stimulus for reflection on the precarity of our supposed persistence, on the plurality of expressions of risk and on the risk of not taking a risk. I knew that my inquiry could be hazardous; I knew that, sometimes, asking questions could be tricky, both for me and for my interlocutors. However, trying to avoid one, I would have assumed another risk: that of losing the rare opportunity of observing a quite hidden and misunderstood reality, which could offer me new insights; a reality that, despite its supposed hostility, showed itself to my gaze, while seeking a not taken-for-granted exchange with the manifold extraneousness I was representing—educational perspective included. Renouncing the strenuous defence of one’s cultural purity, we simplify the recognition of the role of otherness, which is formative, not simply additional or oppositional (Remotti, 2001, p.  99); a healthy curiosity about whatever the other could teach us can be a healing balm for cultural conflicts. Ethnographic research can surely help with it. Furthermore, the choice of responsibly coping with risk, instead of avoiding or minimizing it, could be an opportunity to learn more about the risk itself. It could grant a more conscious understanding: a depth that is allowed only by experience. The centaur Chiron, whose story is told in Greek mythology, was the most renowned among thaumaturgists. He is remembered for being a tireless researcher in the field of medicine and the precursor of herbal science. He became skilled at healing wounds since he had been wounded; he knew what a disease was, because he had gotten sick: because he had had the experience himself. By this, I certainly do not mean to wish healers to be hit by a poisoned arrow or researchers to find themselves in risky conditions; I simply observe the opportunities for reflection which experience offers to researchers and the awareness of the multiple expressions that risk can take, which a first-­ person observation is better able to provide. Acknowledgements  The author thanks Fondazione Fratelli Confalonieri for funding.

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References Alaszewski, A. (2015). Anthropology and risk: Insights into uncertainty, danger and blame from other cultures  – A review essay. Health, Risk & Society, 17(3–4), 205–225. https://doi.org/10.1080/13698575.2015.1070128 Caillois, R. (2001). L’uomo e il sacro. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri. Copertino, D. (2017). Antropologia politica dell’Islam. Da’wa e jihad in Tunisia e nel Medio Oriente contemporaneo. Bari: Edizioni di Pagina. Douglas, M. (2003). Risk and acceptability according to the social sciences (Mary Douglas: Collected works) (Vol. XI). Abington: Routledge. Fabietti, U. (2013). L’identità etnica. Storia e critica di un concetto equivoco. Roma: Carocci. Lorenz, K. (2007). Conoscenza ed evoluzione. Acireale-Roma: Bonanno Editore. Manoukian, S. (1998). L’informatore, la guida, il traduttore. In Fabietti (Ed.), Etnografia e culture. Antropologi, informatori e politiche dell’identità. Roma: Carocci. Olivier de Sardan, J. P. (1995). La politique du terrain. Sur la production des données en Anthropologie. Enquête, No. 1. https://doi.org/10.4000/enquete.263 Remotti, F. (2001). Contro l’identità. Bari: Edizioni Laterza. Salzman, P. C. (2000). Lo straniero solitario nel cuore dell’ignoto. In R. Borofsky (Ed.), L’antropologia culturale oggi. Roma: Meltemi. Salzman, P. C. (2009). Persians and others: Iran’s minority politics. Retrieved from http://blogs.harvard.edu/mesh/2009/04/persians-and-others-iransminority-politic Schlaffer, E., & Kropiunigg, U. (2016). A new security architecture: Mothers included! In Hedayah and the Global Center on Cooperative Security (Ed.), A man’s world? Exploring the roles of women in countering terrorism and violent extremism (pp. 54–75) Retrieved from https://www.globalcenter.org/wpcontent/uploads/2016/07/AMansWorld_FULL.pdf Shamir, R. (2005). Without borders? Notes on globalization as a mobility regime. Sociological Theory, 23(2), 197–217. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.0735-2751.2005.00250.x Tahir-ul-Qadri, M. (2010). Fatwa on suicide bombings & terrorism. London: Minhaj-ul Quran International.

17 The Ethics of Ethics: A Help or Hindrance When Conducting Sensitive Research with Australian Veterans? Nikki Jamieson

Introduction Researchers can experience multiple challenges when researching with populations who are considered vulnerable including those at risk of suicide, people with disabilities, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and children. Australian veterans are also a population that can experience heightened vulnerabilities. Some veterans will encounter mental health problems when they leave ADF service (Van Hooff et al., 2018). Veterans in Australia are defined as individuals who have served at least one day of service in the ADF and not determined by current service status. Approximately 75% of transitioned members of the ADF were estimated to have met the diagnostic criteria for at least one mental disorder (Van Hooff et al., 2018). Moral injury is an emerging concept in military trauma research that is gaining

N. Jamieson (*) University of New England, Armidale, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_17

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traction through its links to suicide in veteran populations (Litz et al., 2009; Shay, 1994). Suicide and self-harm cause more deaths and injury post-service than overseas operational service. Between 2001 and 2017, there were 419 suicide deaths in serving, reserve and ex-serving ADF (AIHW, 2019) compared to 60 deaths during deployment (2001–present) (Australian War Memorial, 2020). Veteran suicide in Australia has doubled from 19 suicide deaths in 2001 to 42 in 2017 (AIHW, 2019). The incidence of rising suicide by veterans in Australia continues to be an issue demanding national attention. For me as a researcher, it was the suicide death of my son Daniel in 2014 (a serving member of the ADF) that triggered my determination to better understand the factors contributing to military suicide. Subsequently, I decided to do a PhD with veterans who had experienced suicidality. As a bereaved mother and PhD researcher, I was aware that I would be considered vulnerable to psychological distress (Evans, Bira, Gastelum, Weiss, & Vanderford, 2018). That said, upon reflection, I would argue that the unpreparedness for the ethical process and subsequent challenges that I faced heavily influenced any perceived or actual vulnerabilities. Research challenges in this field include: establishing and maintaining professional and research credibility, obtaining multiple ethics approvals; developing trust and confidence with veterans and supervisors; and, ensuring the ongoing feasibility of researching a vulnerable population especially if the research can negatively impact psychological wellbeing. This chapter describes my research journey in heightening understanding of moral injury and its relationship to suicide with former members of the ADF. Specifically, the chapter outlines the ethical implications and challenges of sensitive research such as this. As I progressed through my investigation, it became apparent that the lack of collaboration, communication and trust was at the core of obstructing and endangering my research, ultimately heightening vulnerabilities, all of which led me to question “the ethics of ethics”. It is hoped that future researchers can take these nuggets of experience to inform their future research journeys. This information could also be used as a resource for shaping teaching and learning.

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Background Jonathan Shay (1994) first coined the term “moral injury”, and it was later examined in-depth by Litz et al. (2009). Moral conflict and morality are at the heart of military-related suffering (Molendijk, Kramer, & Verweij, 2018). Moral injury refers to those events that invoke moral conflict (the intrapersonal dissonance one may experience when one’s morals are conflicted) and has gained momentum in the last decade due to its links to suicidality (suicide ideation, thoughts, plans and or attempts), particularly in veteran populations (Jamieson, Usher, Maple, & Ratnarajah, 2020). Moral injury’s core features include spiritual/existential conflict, shame, guilt and self-condemning behaviours that can lead to increased suicidality (Jinkerson, 2016). Most existing literature stems from the USA with very little from Australia. As suicide rates continue to rise in Australian veteran populations, so does the need for more research. Work is currently underway to deepen our understanding of what constitutes and contributes to a moral injury in Australia (Jamieson, Maple, Ratnarajah, & Usher, 2020).

The Research Project  War Within: Making Sense of Suicide Through A Narratives with Former Australian Defence Force Veterans I came to research moral injury and its relationship with suicide with regard to former Australian Defence Force members following the suicide death of my son Daniel in 2014. Daniel was a serving member of the Australian Army and when he died, like most others who are bereaved by suicide, I was continually searching for the “Why?”. It didn’t make sense to me, nothing did, so, to grasp for meaning and reason, I embarked on a research journey to learn as much as I could about suicidality (thoughts, plans, behaviours and or attempts) with a specific focus on veterans. The

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more I researched, the more I felt the personal, professional and academic “pull” to explore veteran mental health, wellbeing and suicide with those who actually experience it—the veterans! Through these experiences, I became a qualified Suicidologist and now a PhD researcher. At the time of writing, my research was a new academic field in Australia. My hope then, as it is now, is to build and share knowledge and support others facing the devastating phenomenon that is suicide.

The Ethics of Ethics Several ethical codes or frameworks exist in Australia to guide research ethics processes. Documents such as the National Health and Medical Research Council (NHMRC) National Statement on Ethical Conduct in Human Research (2018) and the Australian Code for the Responsible Conduct of Research are designed to support researchers and professionals navigating the ethics journey. Each outlines a broad set of values that include respect, autonomy, research integrity, justice (e.g. procedural justice) and beneficence (the potential harm and benefits of research to participants and or the wider community). These broad principles provide a guiding ethos for all human research (Commonwealth of Australia, 2007). PhD students are also required to complete university/institutional specific ethics processes. In Australia, all research involving veterans both serving and ex-serving also requires a Department of Defence and Veterans’ Affairs Human Research Ethics Committee process. These processes can be lengthy, complex, confusing and complicated, often with numerous concerns for the researcher to address. Most issues raised by ethics committees reported aligning with the values endorsed by codes such as the National Statement on Ethical Conduct in Human Research (2018) (Andriessen, Krysinska, Draper, Dudley, & Mitchell, 2018). However, a lack of standardisation in the manner in which ethics committees assess ethics applications also exists and is problematic for those trying to navigate the system (Andriessen et al., 2018). A lack of standardisation suggests that assessments of similar applications may vary across committees (Hom, Podlogar, Stanley, & Joiner,

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2017). These variances create further dissonance for sole researchers and research teams. This lack of standardisation was evident when conducting my research, for example receiving opposing feedback from different committee members, further adding to the complexity and confusion of an ethics process. This uncertainty and complication have detrimental impacts on both the research project—such as timelines, cost, administrative burden (Andriessen et al., 2018), and the researcher-increased stress, psychological distress and poor mental health (Evans et  al., 2018). Such impacts lead to further questioning of the integrity and balance of the ethics process on vulnerable PhD students. To understand an ethical process there is a need to understand ethics from a theoretical perspective. When deconstructing ethics I am instinctively drawn to the definition of “ethics” itself. The definition implies there is an obligatory set of societally acceptable standards of behaviour. Ethical behaviour, therefore, can be based on written or unwritten codes, principles or values held in society which serve as a guide to personal, professional and academic behaviour. Thus ethics may be viewed as the moral principles that guide behaviour relative to what is considered or perceived as right, wrong, good or bad (Broad, n.d.). According to Broad (n.d.), the moral phenomenon of ethics encompasses judgement, emotion and volition. For my research, the ethical administrative process included all three. The subjectivity of judgement, emotion and volition can be problematic for researchers. For example, what if one of my ethics committee members felt it was ethically wrong to interview veterans about their suicide journey (judgement); or disapproved of the study topic of suicide (i.e. for religious reasons) (moral emotion); or felt it was against a person’s will—as in, feeling obligated to partake for whatever reason (moral volition)? Suppose that I, as the researcher, then had to decide whether or not to proceed with my research based on these beliefs, even though I thought it was the morally right thing to do (moral volition). The researcher is then thrust into the ethically tricky situation of whether or not moral judgements, emotions and volition should be applied to beliefs, and if so, how these beliefs shape ethical decisions.

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The situation can be challenging when attempting to separate the human condition from decision making. Similar considerations were raised in a study by Andriessen et al. (2018), who subsequently recommended that ethical committees should exercise balance: “to mitigate any compounding by underlying issues from moral views” (p. 1). Relatedly, Mishara and Weisstub (2005) added to the debate by claiming: “because such moral stances may influence researchers and members of ethics committees alike…it is paramount to be aware of one’s own moral attitudes. Clarifying such issues may be necessary to reach a consensus about what constitutes ethically sound research” (p. 28). Although there exists complexity and subjectivity of the ethics process, there is also the underlying notion of power that needs to be considered. In this case, the power bestowed to institutional ethical review boards and/or university stakeholders. All of which had the authority to decide how or if my PhD journey would progress. Personally, I had to advocate strongly for a qualitative methodology. I also had to repeatedly convince universities of the value of this type of research. One might argue that the use of excessive advocacy and justification opposes the values of autonomy that ethics bodies ascribe. Others may argue an imbalance of power might have existed. The imbalance of power in my early days was significant enough to imperil my journey and was the deciding factor for significant institutional changes. Others have previously highlighted this power imbalance that researchers may experience (Connor, Copland, & Owen, 2018; Okyere, 2018). Institutional review boards and ethics committees are designed to facilitate ethically sound research, yet a growing body of literature views them as excessively bureaucratic, insensitive and ineffective. Similarly, research conducted by Lakeman and Fitzgerald (2009) also highlighted resistance from research ethics committees to conducting suicide-related research. Some committee members stated that in their view, ethics committees tended to be too paternalistic (Lakeman & Fitzgerald, 2009). Connor et al. (2018) were also highly critical of an ethics review regime that produced “[t]he infantalized researcher and research subject” (p. 400). They encouraged “fundamental changes to the modern research ethics processes…and desire for …a system that treats participants more as research collaborators rather than [as] victims in waiting” (p. 400).

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This concern was also encapsulated by Okyere (2018) when conducting ethnographic research about children’s involvement in artisanal gold mining work in Ghana. He stated: Reflecting on dilemmas and obstacles encountered in the UK during the fieldwork, the discussion brings to attention some of the problems that can arise when ethical guidance is not anchored in the lived realities or value systems of the setting in which fieldwork is conducted. (p. 623)

These findings could be indicative of tensions within Australian ethics committees and relate to heightened sensitivities around issues related to the safety and wellbeing of participants, and/or researchers failing to adequately describe these concerns in their ethics applications (Andriessen et al., 2018). As little research currently exists on the researcher’s ethical journey, further research would be beneficial.

Tensions In addition to the issues presented above, the notion of trust was a key tension in my ethics journey. This manifested through the numerous ethical judgements questioning their trust of me, and in turn, my trust of the ethical administrators. Such mistrust can negatively impact and disempower researcher identity. It can also create multiple tensions, and quite frankly, can be incredibly frustrating and time-consuming for all concerned. These adverse circumstances, correlated with research delays, additional cost or unavailability of staff (Andriessen et al., 2018) can place an unnecessary and additional psychological, financial and emotional burden on researchers and project teams. However Andriessen et al. (2018) further suggested research designs that could be followed by the ethics committees. This eventually led to an improvement in the design of my research. Researchers undergo rigorous scrutiny from their peers, supervisors, colleagues and other stakeholders before they are officially accepted on a PhD programme. This level of scrutiny includes a comprehensive

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methodology and risk and benefit analysis acts as an additional tension as it underpins the Confirmation of Candidature. This process is in part to ensure the health and safety of participants and researchers are prioritised. Pragmatically, the process of obtaining ethics is undoubtedly fundamental for any researcher. However, for some, the critique of and numerous iterations required to address issues can be ill-informed, nonsensical and at times disabling and oppressive. Additionally, a lack of standardisation, the absence of staff knowledge, expertise and training in research areas and/or the ethics administrative processes can also be problematic and arguably unethical. As mentioned, PhD students undergo rigorous scrutiny before ethics approval, therefore fairness dictates that ethics committee members should also be scrutinised. My own experience with the ethics process, albeit understandable in its objective to protect, seemed to do little to highlight or understand the benefits of veteran suicide research. Quite the opposite. An ethics panel was chosen for their experience in ethical reviews yet the members had very little knowledge or understanding of suicide nomenclature. This lack of knowledge and understanding was demonstrated twice during my ethics process. Firstly, administrative responses used language that is considered stigmatising and damaging in Suicidology. The word “commit” before suicide is not appropriate or ethical when discussing suicide. Most media outlets across Australia are provided with a range of guidelines on how to discuss suicide appropriately (Mindframe, 2020). As a professional Suicidologist, I alerted the ethics panel to these discrepancies. Andriessen et al. (2018) suggest that not only should researchers gain a better understanding of how ethics committees work, but they should “educate” their committee by providing relevant information and advice. This also reflects the National Statement’s notion of shared responsibility in the ethical design of research studies (Australian Government, 2017), which endorses recommendations for further collaboration between researchers and ethics committees. Tensions were also highlighted on the subjective nature of qualitative research (Chase, 2011). I applied to conduct a qualitative research study examining the lived experiences of veterans’ moral injury and suicidality.

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Given the nature of my study, I learned quickly I was wading into some very deep and murky waters that few had attempted. This was apparent during the early days of my research when I experienced a strong push towards quantitative research approaches. In addition, the choice of methodology was also questioned with a few passive nudges from the ethics committee towards incorporating quantitative approaches into my design. This preference may stem from a lack of knowledge or understanding, but ultimately illuminates a need for more, not less research of this nature to alleviate concerns that seem to exist more so when undertaking qualitative, sensitive research. This type of complex research needs to be anchored in the lived experiences of those involved in the research— thus necessitating qualitative research (Okyere, 2018).

Positionality Tensions are not only evident in the ethical review board process; they can also exist in supervisory/managerial relationships. Researchers must juggle their commitment to the research, the participants, the ethical requirements and the requirements and guidelines of funding bodies (McQueeney & Lavelle, 2017). Understanding positionality and boundaries are key when considering the ethics of ethics. My qualitative research focused on understanding the experiences of veterans who self-identified as having a moral injury and had experienced previous suicidality. Thus, understanding boundaries, both professional and personal was fundamental and strictly adhered to, particularly the positionality between the social worker and researcher. Understanding positionality also heightens research trust and rigour, especially in qualitative research (Chase, 2011). The major concerns identified by DDVA HREC centred around emotional impacts on both researcher and participant in undertaking the research. Therefore, participants were to be referred to other appropriate mental health professionals if required, and I as the researcher undertook regular self-care and accessed support as needed. Both are recognised as important factors in sensitive research areas such as suicide (Elmir, Schmied, Jackson, & Wilkes, 2011; Sherry, 2013).

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Researcher positionality within the research power structure can also be a source of emotional distress. As mentioned, the ethical process can be disabling if inappropriate. Further, strong emotional reactions concerning balancing participants’ lived experience representations with outcome-driven research such as a PhD have been noted in previous studies (McQueeney & Lavelle, 2017). It is therefore important for researchers to feel as if they are trusted within the research team and the ethical bodies. They should be further trusted to look after their own emotional safety and mental health.

Emotional Safety In alignment with the research methodology, in-depth interviews with participants were used to discuss veterans’ lived experiences. This research paradigm can elicit strong emotional responses in both participants and researchers. This was the first study of its kind so protecting both parties was fundamental in the research design and ethics process. Due to the risky and sensitive nature of my research, a key ethical consideration was ensuring that the psychological and emotional demands placed on participant and researcher were identified and addressed. This was acknowledged and justified by citing findings from similar research using interviews in Australian and international studies that suggested participants’ distress could, in reality, be minimal and that participants often welcomed the opportunity to feel included (Dyregrov 2004; Dyregrov et al., 2011). Paradoxically, ethics committees may raise participant safety concerns resulting in participants being excluded from studies. Similarly, ethics committees may believe that asking participants questions about suicidality may increase the risk of suicidal behaviour, despite evidence to the contrary (Andriessen et  al., 2018). For both participants and the researcher, the benefits of discussing and researching suicide are arguably powerful and cathartic (Andriessen et al., 2019; Blade Stritzke Page and Brown 2018; Dyregrov et al., 2011; Maple, Wayland, Sanford, Spillane, & Coker, 2020). Experiences of people participating in trauma-focused research, such as suicide-related research, suggests that such participation

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is generally positive (Campbell, Raisch, Sather, Warren, & Segal, 2007; Maple et al., 2020; Moore, Maple, Mitchell, & Cerel, 2013). The veterans researched for my project were enthusiastic, willing and thankful for the opportunity to participate even after disclosure of all potential risks and benefits. This altruistic desire to help others has been documented by Ruzek and Zatzick (2000). The benefits far outweigh the costs of participation in sensitive research (Dyregrov et al., 2011). Dyregrov (2004) linked positive experiences in the granting of agency to tell their complete story and hope that they might help others. Thus, veterans felt altruism and positively “paying back” the people who treated them was more important than financial compensation for volunteering. This was echoed also by the participants in my research.

Conclusion Little qualitative research in Australia has been conducted in my topic area, and from the outset, I realised I would be facing a tsunami of push back. Regardless, as I was bobbing along in a metaphorical dinghy in the middle of an ethical tsunami, I was determined to fulfil my purpose of understanding veteran suicide. Undoubtedly, the ethical process impacted on both my mental health and my research journey simultaneously. Ethics was most definitely, for me, a one step forward, two steps back kind of journey encountering numerous bumps along the way yet emerging, albeit battered and bruised, into an ethically approved researcher in a critical content area. On balance, though, what is lacking, and must be acknowledged in all ethical processes, is that researchers are the content experts in their chosen areas of research. Researchers have often already undertaken intensive and rigorous scrutiny before ethics applications are submitted. Thus when ethical committees dissect a researcher’s intent, even though well-­ intentioned, the scrutiny is ill-informed and creates distrust. This can be disempowering and disabling for researchers. For me, even though I acknowledge its importance, the ethical process at times felt more like a power play prioritising outcomes instead of being a cooperative and positive collaboration.

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Understandably risk management is of paramount importance; however risk aversion is not always conducive to (a) positive mental health and (b) creation of new knowledge. Similarly, Belur (2014) adds that “guidelines to resolve ethical dilemmas rarely provide solutions to tricky field research situations” (p. 184). Although useful as a guide, codes of ethics are not cure-alls for ethical problems. There are pitfalls to navigate. The very idea of bundling ethics into a formal “code” is dangerous, especially if it results in an attitude that ethics itself is a separate part of the research process. It should be meaningfully viewed as a holistic process, individually and collectively, which requires positive collaboration and negotiation. Lastly, there is a misleading underlying assumption that ethics can be not only fully articulated but conveyed into a set of instructions and recommendations that can be understood by a broad range of people in an institutional context. This philosophy requires further challenge. Of course, the articulation of ethical values is of immense importance. However, there are times when emotions and situations are immeasurable. This is likely to be the case, when dealing with dynamic situations where there is a rapid and sometimes unidentified change concerning the fundamental ways in which we relate to each other demonstrated in the complex interactions between human beings. The feelings of distrust were systematic failures in my research journey. The researcher was driven to research and the veterans were very willing to be involved in the research. However, a mistrusting system created an environment that could have been damaging to all stakeholders. Researchers provide new and insightful ways to consider a particular phenomenon. This exploration can then guide further research and/or interventions in the future. At a time when suicide and mental health problems are increasing, ethical processes should not be burdensome and disabling. Instead, we should be supporting researchers in doing what they do best—re-searching. Up to eight people are dying every day in Australia by suicide (Life in Mind, 2020). For every suicide death, it is estimated that up to 30 people will also attempt to end their lives (Lifeline, 2020).

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Veterans are a diverse population with unique experiences. Researchers and participants alike need to be advised of, and protected from, risks. Fundamentally, the ethics process is beneficial. The administration and implementation of the process, however, requires review. Such reviews could consider the qualifications and experience of ethics board members to ensure they are fit for purpose, thus reducing power imbalances and minimising the potential for significant distress on researchers and their sensitive research projects. In addition, maximising trust through open and collaborative communication, within ethical systems and supervisory teams, may also help to alleviate the heightened stress of the research process and help to prepare researchers for the ethics journey. Research ethics is not always a simple process and the ethics of ethics can be problematic. I have learned a lot on my research journey and having to wade the murky ethical waters has shown me many ways to adapt to the situation, but not without emotional cost. Thus, we as researchers need to use our skills and continue to challenge the status quo if it is not conducive to positive mental health and wellbeing, and help to reshape research directions. Future researchers would benefit from measuring the ethicality of the process and the consequences/impacts of such processes. Researchers often share valuable advice with others such as the concerns an ethics committee may have raised. Improved understanding of how ethics committees work, a standardised approach to applications and increased dialogue between researchers and ethics committees would help to sustain and improve the quality of sensitive research such as suicide research. Paradoxically, moral dissonance is a key feature of moral injury. I was deeply committed to researching moral injury and veteran suicide. I wanted to make a positive difference to those who suffer from it. However, encountering numerous procedural obstacles has contributed to my own moral dissonance. I believe that the research I want to do (indeed, was being driven to do) has the potential to unlock valuable knowledge about the current epidemic of veteran suicide. All the while, I was being thwarted by the very body whose key objective is to protect the wellbeing of individuals. However, I am hopeful, that with these new learnings, positive changes will occur in this area of risky research.

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References Andriessen, K., Krysinska, K., Draper, B., Dudley, M., & Mitchell, P. B. (2018). Harmful or helpful? A systematic review of how those bereaved through suicide experience research participation. Crisis, 39, 364–376. https://doi. org/10.1027/0227-5910/a000515 Andriessen, K., Reifels, L., Krysinska, K., Robinson, J., Dempster, G., & Pirkis, J. (2019). Ethical concerns in suicide research: Results of an international researcher survey. Journal of Empirical Research on Human Research Ethics, 14, 383–394. Australian Government. (2017). The National Suicide Prevention Leadership & Support. Retrieved from http://tinyurl.com/yxo2euwb Australian Institute Health and Welfare. (2019). National suicide monitoring of serving and ex-serving Australian Defence Force personnel: 2019 update. Retrieved May 1, 2020, from https://www.aihw.gov.au/reports/veterans/ national-veteran-suicide-monitoring/contents/summary Australian War Memorial. (2020). Deaths as a result of service with Australian units. Retrieved May 15, 2020, from https://www.awm.gov.au/articles/encyclopedia/war_casualties Belur, J. (2014, April). Status, gender and geography: Power negotiations in police research. Qualitative Research, 14(2), 184–200. https://doi. org/10.1177/1468794112468474 Blades, C. A., Stritzke, W. G. K., Page, A. C., & Brown, J. D. (2018). The benefits and risks of asking research participants about suicide: A meta-analysis of the impact of exposure to suicide-related content. Clinical Psychology Review, 64, 1–12. Broad, C. D. (n.d.). Some of the main problems of ethics. Retrieved May 13, 2020, from http://www.ditext.com/broad/smpe.html Campbell, H., Raisch, D., Sather, M., Warren, S., & Segal, A.  R. (2007). A comparison of veteran and nonveteran motivations and reasons for participating in clinical trials. Military Medicine, 172, 27–30. Chase, S. (2011). Narrative inquiry: Still a field in the making. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), SAGE handbook of qualitative research (pp. 421–434). Los Angeles, CA: Sage Publications. Commonwealth of Australia. (2007) (Updated 2018). National Statement on Ethical Conduct in Human Research. The National Health and Medical Research Council, the Australian Research Council and Universities Australia,

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Canberra, Australia, 2018. Retrieved May 5, 2020, from http://tinyurl. com/y6jfgwn2 Connor, J., Copland, S., & Owen, J. (2018, August). The infantilized researcher and research subject: Ethics, consent and risk. Qualitative Research, 19(4), 400–415. https://doi.org/10.1177/1468794117730686 Dyregrov, K. (2004). Bereaved parents’ experience of research participation. Social Science & Medicine, 58, 391–400. Dyregrov, K., Dieserud, G., Straiton, M., Rasmussen, M., Hjelmeland, H., Knizek, B., et al. (2011). Motivation for research participation among people bereaved by suicide. OMEGA—Journal of Death and Dying, 62, 149–168. Elmir, R., Schmied, V., Jackson, D., & Wilkes, L. (2011). Interviewing people about potentially sensitive topics. Nurse Researcher, 19(1), 12–16. https://doi. org/10.7748/nr2011.10.19.1.12.c8766 Evans, T., Bira, L., Gastelum, J., Weiss, L.  T., & Vanderford, N.  L. (2018). Evidence for a mental health crisis in graduate education. Nature Biotechnology, 36, 282–284. https://doi.org/10.1038/nbt.4089 Hom, M. A., Podlogar, M. C., Stanley, I. H., & Joiner, T. E. (2017, March). Ethical issues and practical challenges in suicide research. Crisis, 38(2), 107–114. Jamieson, N., Usher, K., Maple, M., & Ratnarajah, D. (2020, April). Invisible wounds and suicide: Moral injury and veteran mental health. International Journal of Mental Health Nursing, 29(2), 105–109. https://doi. org/10.1111/inm.12704 Jamieson, N., Maple, M., Ratnarajah, D., & Usher, K. (2020, December). Military moral injury: A concept analysis. International Journal of Mental Health Nursing, 29(6), 1049–1066. https://doi.org/10.1111/inm.12792 Jinkerson, J. (2016). Defining and assessing moral injury: A syndrome perspective. Traumatology, 22(2), 122–130. https://doi.org/10.1037/trm0000069 Lakeman, R., & Fitzgerald, M. (2009). The ethics of suicide research. Crisis, 30(1), 13–19. Life in Mind. (2020). Suicide facts and stats. Retrieved May 17, 2020, from https://lifeinmindaustralia.com.au/about-suicide/suicide-data/suicidefacts-and-stats Lifeline. (2020). Statistics on suicide in Australia. Retrieved May 17, 2020, from https://www.lifeline.org.au/about-lifeline/lifeline-information/statisticson-suicide-in-australia Litz, B. T., Stein, N., Delaney, E., Lebowitz, L., Nash, W. P., Silva, C., et al. (2009). Moral injury and moral repair in war veterans: A preliminary model

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and intervention strategy. Clinical Psychology Review, 29(8), 695–706. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.cpr.2009.07.003 Maple, M., Wayland, S., Rebbecca, S., Spillane, A., Coker, S. (2020). Carers’ Motivations for, and Experiences of, Participating in Suicide Research. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health. 17(1733). McQueeney, K., & Lavelle, K. (2017). Emotional labor in critical ethnographic work: In the field and behind the desk. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 46(1), 81–107. https://doi.org/10.1177/0891241615602310 Mindframe. (2020). Communicating about suicide. Retrieved May 14, 2020, from https://mindframe.org.au/suicide/communicating-about-suicide Mishara, B. L., & Weisstub, D. N. (2005). Ethical and legal issues in suicide research. International Journal of Law and Psychiatry, 28(1), 23–41. Molendijk, T., Kramer, E. H., & Verweij, D. (2018). Moral aspects of “Moral Injury”: Analyzing conceptualizations on the role of morality in military trauma. Journal of Military Ethics, 17(1), 36–53. https://doi.org/10.108 0/15027570.2018.1483173 Moore, M., Maple, M., Mitchell, A. M., & Cerel, J. (2013). Challenges and opportunities for suicide bereavement research: The experience of ethical board review. Crisis, 34, 297–304. Okyere, S. (2018, December). ‘Like the stranger at a funeral who cries more than the bereaved’: Ethical dilemmas in ethnographic research with children. Qualitative Research, 18(6), 623–637. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1468794117743464 Ruzek, J., & Zatzick, F. (2000). Ethical considerations in research participation among acutely injured trauma survivors: An empirical investigation. General Hospital Psychiatry, 22, 27–36. Shay, J. (1994). Achilles in Vietnam: Combat trauma and the undoing of character. New York: Scribner. Sherry, E. (2013). The vulnerable researcher: Facing the challenges of sensitive research. Qualitative Research Journal, 13(3), 278–288. https://doi. org/10.1108/QRJ-10-2012-0007 Van Hooff, M., Lawrence-Wood, E., Hodson, S., Sadler, N., Benassi, H., Hansen, C., et al. (2018). Mental health prevalence, mental health and wellbeing transition study. Canberra: Department of Defence and Department of Veterans’ Affairs. Retrieved from http://www.defence.gov.au/Health/DMH/ ResearchSurveillancePlan.asp

18 Friend or Foe: The Perils of Conducting Research on Moral Injury in an Australian Veteran Population Anne L. Macdonald

Introduction The challenges faced by civilian researchers undertaking research on military and veteran populations are well known (Bulmer & Jackson, 2016; Caddick, Cooper, & Smith, 2017). These challenges revolve around establishing and maintaining credibility, developing trust and confidence and generally ensuring the ongoing feasibility of researching a population that can be characterised by distrust, suspicion and in some cases, elevated levels of psychological distress. These challenges are magnified when the researcher is female, is investigating a topic that may challenge the dominant masculine narrative and the population of interest is predominantly male (Atherton, 2016; Williams, Allen-Collinson, & Hockey, 2020) and embodies the notion of a hegemonic militarised masculinity (Atherton, 2009). When contemporaneous external events are shining a

A. L. Macdonald (*) University of Melbourne, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_18

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bright light on the possible failings of the military and the structures in place to support its members, the research becomes fraught with risks. This account documents the risky and difficult journey of my efforts to better understand the experience of moral injury in ex-serving members of the Australian Defence Force (ADF). Moral injury describes the psychological, emotional and spiritual distress which arises following exposure to an event which challenges one’s sense of what is right. I came to this as an experienced clinical psychologist who had treated both serving and ex-serving members of the ADF for nearly 25 years. I was, as a consequence, familiar with military culture and ways of being, and my interest in moral injury came from a place of deep respect and concern for those who had served our country. As will become clearer, these comfortable feelings of concern and familiarity that motivated my research journey left me vulnerable to the harms which I later experienced.

Background The Australian Veteran Population The ADF is a relatively small force in comparison to other nations’ armed forces with approximately 58,000 permanent members and 21,000 active reservists including the elite special forces (the Special Air Services Regiment and the Second Commando Regiment). The special forces are involved in some of the most challenging and dangerous missions in their roles in combat and counter-terrorism operations Australian Government Department of Defence (2019). The relatively small numbers in each service and the multiplicity of contacts and associations between them can be both a bonus and a curse to researchers, particularly the latter in that word of suspicion around motives and credibility can spread rapidly.

Inquiry into Alleged War Crimes in Afghanistan In 2016, the same year that the research was commenced, rumours were circulating of potential breaches of the Laws of Armed Conflict by

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members of Australia’s special forces in Afghanistan. In response to these rumours, the Chief of Army ordered a special commission of inquiry be set up by the Inspector General of the Australian Defence Force (IGADF) to investigate these allegations more fully. In the course of the inquiry, evidence was sought from a number of serving and ex-serving members of the Special Forces as well as Afghans who witnessed these alleged events. Given the closely knit bonds and fierce loyalty which characterise special forces units, the inquiry was experienced by some as an attack on the integrity of the special forces resulting in suggestions that it was politically motivated and a “witch-hunt” that was a “stitch-up” by the nation’s politically correct military leaders (McKenzie & Masters, 2018a). Deep divisions emerged within the community, both civilian and veteran. At the time of writing, the inquiry is ongoing with it being recently reported that 55 potential breaches are under investigation (Grattan, 2020). When the Perth-based headquarters of the Special Air Services Regiment (SAS) received several threatening letters warning against members giving evidence to the inquiry (McKenzie & Masters, 2018b), it was clear that things had moved beyond verbal abuse and division to something more sinister. It was also clear that the conduct of the inquiry was taking a significant emotional toll on those who may be under investigation. A former Commando who had given evidence to the inquiry on how he had helped cover up the murder of an Afghan prisoner (and later gave an interview on the public broadcaster’s news channel asking his former colleagues to also come forward) later took his own life (Greene, 2019). The antagonism towards the IGADF inquiry would have significant ramifications for the progress and ultimate completion of my research. It was unfortunate timing that events which had a high probability of being morally injurious such as the killing of unarmed civilians had become the subject of an official inquiry. As such, any research which had the potential to reference these events was seen as threatening, especially by some ex-members of the special forces.

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 he Veterans’ War Against the Department T of Veterans’ Affairs Concurrently, there was also increasing disquiet and concern being expressed within the veteran community about the operations of the Commonwealth Department of Veterans’ Affairs (DVA). The Department of Veterans’ Affairs develops and administers a range of programmes to support both serving and ex-serving members. The Department had been the target of anger and hostility with complaints in recent years that the mishandling of claims had led, in some instances, to veterans taking their own lives (Wroe, 2017). This anger was especially on display in social media as was evidenced by the number of pages set up specifically for individuals to complain about DVA.

 he Research: Towards a New Model T of Moral Injury It was in this somewhat toxic atmosphere of suspicion and distrust that my research into moral injury was initiated. In my clinical work, I had observed a constellation of features in patients who had been deployed on peacekeeping and combat operations that did not conform with the conventional diagnostic criteria for post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). These patients were not fearful of death or injury but were often tortured by high levels of shame and guilt. They were afraid of who they had become or what they had either done or failed to do. This combination of features was best captured by the term moral injury—a relatively new concept first examined in detail in a seminal paper by Litz et al. (2009). Most of the extant empirical literature was based on the combat experiences of U.S. armed forces in Iraq and Afghanistan which indicated a need for a better understanding of how moral injury was experienced in the ADF and particularly how events other than those related to combat, such as bullying or harassment, may result in moral injury. My research was quantitative in nature with a focus on developing a clearer understanding of the underlying mechanisms of moral injury.

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Initially, because there was a concern that the nature of the research would be too sensitive for an online methodology to be employed, the research protocol involved face-to-face interviewing and testing. Given the focus on possible war crimes at the time, it was vital that any risk of disclosure of events which might be categorised as a war crime, was minimised. This was important to (a) protect the participants from becoming unwitting or unwilling providers of evidence against their colleagues; (b) protect the researchers from the possibility of being subpoenaed in regard to evidence—particularly in relation to the IGADF inquiry and (c) protect the viability of the research project—had the research team been required to report a possible war crime, any credibility or trust held by them within the veteran community would have been shattered immediately. In Australia, all research involving serving and ex-serving members of the ADF must be approved by the Departments of Defence and Veterans’ Affairs Human Research Ethics Committee (DDVA HREC). Their? concerns centred around protection for prospective participants against the threat of investigation for potential war crimes and it took some time for these concerns to be allayed and the protocol approved. Unfortunately, the National Statement on Ethical Conduct in Human Research (Australian Government National Health and Medical Research Council, 2018), the guide for the conduct of human research in Australia, is unhelpfully vague in its recommendations for researching populations that may be involved in illegal activities. It stresses that it is not in the remit of an ethics committee to provide legal advice on the obligations of researchers to report such activities. What is made clear in the National Statement is that the onus for managing any subsequent risks to participant confidentiality is firmly on the researcher rather than any approving HREC or the institution (Olsen & Mooney-Somers, 2017). Thus an added degree of both responsibility and risk was imposed. The approved protocol required that potential participants initially contact the lead researcher (myself ) either by phone or by email and be screened for their eligibility to be part of the study. Very quickly, the flaws of that approach became apparent. In initial email contact before being warned about not disclosing any details of their potentially morally injurious events, some individuals provided detailed descriptions and

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requested those details be kept confidential out of fear of reprisals. While none of those accounts amounted to a war crime, it became clear that email contact could result in the details of such an event being disclosed. The email address was immediately closed down to prevent this from happening. An unfortunate consequence of this was that in order to avoid one threat to the integrity of the study, another threat was exposed by the required solution. Members of the ADF are trained to be highly professional—incompetence puts lives at risk in combat and as such, veterans can become angry and frustrated when others’ actions suggest ineptitude. I received several phone calls and messages from veterans who had tried to make contact via email and were scathing about what appeared to be my disorganisation. The shutdown of avenues of contact to avoid the risk of further disclosures was perceived as bungling, thereby jeopardising my credibility and reputation. A greater risk, however, was to unintentionally acquire knowledge of a possible war crime and potentially need to report that—this action would have inevitably destroyed the project as word would have quickly spread that we could not be trusted. An even greater risk was that either the informant or I and my supervisors may have been subjected to the same type of threats that had been made to members of the SAS in terms of giving evidence to the inquiry.

Online Harassment Simultaneously, another threat had become apparent as a consequence of attempts to recruit participants via social media. Veterans are enthusiastic users of social media for communication (Pedersen, 2015) and it seemed sensible to try to capitalise on this to recruit participants. Given the apparent popularity of Twitter in the veteran community, an account was set up to publicise the project. By both “pinning” the recruitment flyer and posting relevant and interesting articles about moral injury, the Twitter account rapidly gained followers in the veteran community. Feedback was initially positive, and a number of individuals expressed interest in the research as a consequence. Shortly after the Twitter account was activated, it was reported in the media that the IGADF inquiry had

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commenced taking evidence from witnesses to alleged war crimes in Kabul (Oakes, 2019). Within hours, the suggestion was made in the Twittersphere that it was not mere coincidence that my research had commenced at the same time as the inquiry was widening its investigations. It was proposed that perhaps people needed to reconsider thoughts of participating in light of the possibility that I was either a potential “spy” for the inquiry or “working for some ambulance-chasing lawyer” (quotes from tweets). These comments were quickly re-tweeted leading to a number of negative and harassing comments. Others suggested that I was associated with DVA and was in fact collecting information on their behalf, again resulting in some hostile responses and several intimidating private messages. I was left with no choice but to deactivate the Twitter account. This action further created an impression of disorganisation and incompetence. The research project had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. While this was done to protect the project and the researchers, it created confusion and frustration in potential participants who continued to make contact. Any attempts to try to correct these false assumptions and accusations would have been futile and also left me vulnerable to further harassment. Online harassment was something that none of the researchers involved in the project had foreseen or considered as a potential risk in terms of the recruitment strategy. According to Marwick, Blackwell and Lo (2016), with the increasing use of online methodologies, researchers undertaking research in sensitive areas are vulnerable to a range of harassment which are designed to threaten and/or shame individuals. The authors describe the action of “brigading” as: “when a group of people work together to harass an individual” (p. 3). This captures my experience. Consequences can include damage to the researcher’s reputation and negative impact on their emotional wellbeing, both of which I experienced. Marwick et al. (2016) also suggest institutions might downplay the impact of such harassment and tend not to take it seriously. My initial reaction was to suspend the research altogether as I could see no way to regain both my credibility and the trust of the population which I wanted to study and nor, as will be detailed later in this chapter, was I feeling disposed to continue the project. After some time and reflection, I chose to completely revise my research protocol, re-designed the

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study and re-submitted for ethics approval from the DDVA HREC. Recruitment for the study, which now takes the form of a completely anonymous online survey with no opportunity for personal contact, is currently underway.

Reflections The multiple obstacles and threats which have been encountered during this research were disappointing and discouraging. While the difficulties of recruiting from a military veteran population were known and anticipated (Bayley et al., 2014; Littman, True, Ashmore, Wellens, & Smith, 2018), I was unprepared for the possibility of being personally threatened or harassed for undertaking research in this sensitive area. There are, however, known characteristics of some veterans which all, with the benefit of hindsight, posed a potential risk to the study.

Moral Injury and Shame The topic of moral injury itself is challenging and difficult to come to terms with for many veterans who may misunderstand it or may already know that this is what they are struggling with but choose to deny it. Moral injury is primarily associated with feelings of deep shame (Gaudet, Sowers, Nugent & Boriskin, 2016) which itself generates intense fear of being exposed (Tangney, Wagner, Fletcher, & Gramzow, 1992). It may be that the thought of this being revealed could be fearful for some people and in such circumstances, reacting with hostility and aggression is, if not reasonable, understandable.

 High Prevalence of Psychological Distress A in Transitioned Members of the ADF A significant proportion of ex-serving members of the ADF struggle with mental health issues. According to a major report released in 2018, almost

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75% of transitioned members of the ADF are estimated to have met the diagnostic criteria for at least one mental disorder at one or more points in their lives (Van Hooff et al., 2018). Over 25% of them qualify for a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), a condition associated with high levels of anger and hostility. Van Hooff et al. (2018) also reported that over 20% of those studied experienced suicidal ideation, plans or attempts in the 12 months prior. When individuals are in distress and believing that the help they need is unavailable, it is understandable that some may react with hostility and resentment. These issues are also likely to be aggravated by the difficulties experienced by many ex-­ serving members transitioning from the military world to the civilian world which some find difficult to navigate after years of immersion in a military culture (Tyson Smith & True, 2014).

On Being a Member of the Out-Group The nature of military training and particularly that of the special forces instils a strong sense of unit cohesion and loyalty to one’s colleagues and unit (Christian, Stivers, & Sammons, 2009). This unit cohesion is crucial in combat, when having other than complete trust and faith in those fighting beside you, can be fatal. While this unit cohesion is essential in battle, the fierce “in-group” mentality of some military units can result in intense levels of distrust in those who are not members of the group (e.g., civilian researchers). This phenomenon is known as identity fusion (Gómez & Vázquez, 2015), and is described as “a visceral feeling of ‘oneness’ with the group … The result is a potent feeling of connectedness … [which] allows fused individuals to …. Derive reciprocal strength from group membership” (pp. 482–483). According to Gómez and Vázquez (2015), identity fusion, once it occurs, tends to remain a permanent part of the individual’s identity. Perceived threats to the in-group are met with hostility and occasionally out-group members may be marginalised to the point of being dehumanised so that no regard is given to the impacts of the in-group’s actions on individuals (Castano, 2008).

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Militarised Masculinity Much has been written about the nature of militarised masculinity and its implications for those in the military and those who have interactions with them (Talbot, 2012). As noted by Bulmer and Eichler (2017), “militarized masculinity is embodied and experienced, and has a long and contradictory afterlife in veterans” (p. 161). The hegemony of male masculinity and the “soldier-hero” stereotype in the military present potential problems with research into moral injury in that not only does the concept itself challenge that stereotype (Farnsworth, 2014; Fox & Pease, 2012), in this case it was also being investigated by a female. Potentially the possibility that one’s weakness may be exposed by this female generated both fear and shame. It is conjecture but, with one exception, all those who were involved in the online harassment and brigading were males—it is conceivable that had I been a male, the level of threat and intimidation may have been less. In some of those harassing social media posts, I was addressed as “girlie” or referred to as a “bitch” or a “so-called woman”—terms which would not have been used with a male investigator and which were clearly intended to diminish me and reduce my status. According to Veletsianos, Houlden, Hodson and Gosse (2018), females are significantly more likely to be the object of online harassment and this may be particularly the case when “polarizing sociocultural and socio-political issues” are involved (p. 4691).

Personal Vulnerabilities Hardest to deal with has been the erosion of my positive feelings of concern and familiarity in relation to members of the veteran community. Almost without exception, my experience within a clinical setting treating military clients had been deeply rewarding and I had felt privileged to be so trusted by those who sought my help. Never had I experienced intimidation or even condescension, and so I was enormously trusting and possibly naïve in terms of what I believed would be the reaction of the veteran community to a request to participate in my research.

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When I encountered rejection, hostility, suspicion and even attempts at intimidation, I became angry—internally railing against those who had attacked me, and veterans in general. Upon reflection, this anger ironically came from a place of deep resentment that those individuals had not realised that I was doing this research to benefit them. When they were ungrateful for my efforts, I became angry—a part of me felt entitled to that gratitude. I had to work hard to remind myself of those original benevolent emotions and that those who attacked me were representative of a small and angry group who carried both grudges and in some cases severe emotional scars from their experiences in the military. To expect gratitude and feel resentment toward all veterans was totally irrational and ultimately self-defeating. Such introspection about my emotional response to my harassment was a valuable and enriching experience. It has been a demanding task, but one that has highlighted for me the importance of developing a deep awareness of what motivates the decision to conduct research on a particular topic. Such reflections are encouraged in the qualitative research journey (Mallon & Elliott, 2019) but rarely, if ever it seems, when the research is quantitative. It occurred to me that no one had ever asked me two important questions—“Why is this research important to you?” and “What if you can’t complete it?” Careful consideration of responses to those questions would have helped me identify the emotional vulnerabilities presented by my research and perhaps better prepare for the negative events that I experienced.

Conclusion This journey has highlighted how little control one has over external events that can disrupt research. In this case, feelings of suspicion and hostility were already prevalent in the veteran population due to such events and it was unfortunate timing that they impacted so significantly upon the progress and potentially the outcomes of the research. The attention given to these events by both mainstream media and social media was a complicating factor which would not have been foreseen in the development of the project and yet had profound impacts.

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The characteristics of the population of interest cannot be altered, but on this journey there have been significant learnings about the need for consideration of these characteristics in terms of the choice of methodology. Veterans are a unique population for the reasons previously identified and researchers need to be aware of these and the risks that may be inherent in researching veteran populations. Online harassment was never raised as a potential threat—Marwick et al. (2016) make specific recommendations for departments and institutions to have policies and procedures in place for dealing with online harassment and providing protection to the researcher undertaking research in sensitive topics. Given what was concurrently being reported in the media, this may have been apposite. It also highlights a significant gap in the literature given the apparent absence of few papers addressing the issue. Like any journey that has involved exposure to danger and risks, the learnings have been extensive particularly in terms of what not to do. Some might say that is one of the outcomes of the PhD journey but when those risks and dangers have resulted in feelings of anger, anxiety and defeat (which on occasions they have) it is hard to balance those with the learnings. The question has been asked, “Knowing what you do now, would you do this again?”—I have to say that the answer would be “No”. Research can be a source of pleasure and satisfaction—the joy of discovering new knowledge, insight and understanding can be immense—but when one embarks on a journey to find knowledge to benefit a particular group and that group turns on you, that is difficult to reconcile and ironically can feel like betrayal—itself a form of moral injury.

References Atherton, S. (2009). Domesticating military masculinities: Home, performance and the negotiation of identity. Social and Cultural Geography, 10(8), 821–836. https://doi.org/10.1080/23337486.2017 Atherton, S. (2016). Researching military men. In A. J. Williams, N. Jenkins, R.  Woodward, & M.  F. Rech (Eds.), The Routledge companion to military research methods (pp. 243–255). London: Routledge.

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Australian Government Department of Defence. (2019). Annual report 2018–2019. Retrieved from https://www.defence.gov.au/annualreports/18-19/DAR_2018-19_Complete.pdf Australian Government: National Health and Medical Research Council. (2018). The national statement on ethical conduct in human research 2007 (Updated 2018). Retrieved from https://www.nhmrc.gov.au/about-us/publications/national-statement-ethical-conduct-human-research-2007updated-2018 Bayley, P. J., Kong, J., Helmer, D. A., Schneiderman, A., Roselli, L. A., Rosse, S. M., et al. (2014). Challenges to be overcome using population-based sampling methods to recruit veterans for a study of post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury. BMC Medical Research Methodology, 14(1), 48. https://doi.org/10.1186/1471-2288-14-48 Bulmer, S., & Eichler, M. (2017). Unmaking militarized masculinity: Veterans and the project of military-to-civilian transition. Critical Military Studies, 3(2), 161–181. https://doi.org/10.1080/23337486.2017.1320055 Bulmer, S., & Jackson, D. (2016). “You do not live in my skin”: Embodiment, voice and the veteran. Critical Military Studies, 2(1–2), 25–40. https://doi. org/10.1080/23337486.2015.1118799 Caddick, N., Cooper, A., & Smith, B. (2017). Reflections on being a civilian researcher in an ex-military world: Expanding horizons? Critical Military Studies, 5(2), 95–114. https://doi.org/10.1080/14649360903305 Castano, E. (2008). On the perils of glorifying the in-group: Intergroup violence, in-group identification and moral disengagement. Social and Personality Psychology Compass, 2(1), 154–170. https://doi.org/10.1111/ j.1751-9004.2007.0040.x Christian, J. R., Stivers, J. R., & Sammons, M. T. (2009). Training to the warrior ethos: Implications for clinicians treating military members and their families. In S. M. Freeman, B. A. Moore, & A. Freeman (Eds.), Living and surviving in harm’s way – A psychological treatment handbook for pre- and post-­ military personnel (pp. 27–49). Hoboken: Taylor & Francis. Farnsworth, J.  K. (2014). Dialogic tensions in heroic military and military-­ related moral injury. International Journal for Dialogical Science, 8(1), 13–37. Fox, J., & Pease, B. (2012). Military deployment, masculinity and trauma: Reviewing the connections. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 20(1), 16–31. https://doi.org/10.3149/jms.2001.16 Gaudet, C.  M., Sowers, K.  M., Nugent, W.  R., & Boriskin, J.  A. (2016). A review of PTSD and shame in military veterans. Journal of Human Behaviour in the Social Environment, 26(1), 56–68. https://doi.org/10.1080/1091135 9.2015.1059168

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Gómez, Á., & Vázquez, A. (2015). The power of ‘feeling one’ with a group: Identity fusion and extreme pro-group behaviours. International Journal of Social Psychology, 30(3), 481–511. https://doi.org/10.1080/0213474 8.2015.1065089 Grattan, M. (2020, February 25). Inquiry probing 55 matters relating to special forces’ alleged misconduct in Afghanistan. The Conversation. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/inquiry-probing-55-matters-relatingto-special-forces-alleged-misconduct-in-afghanistan-132454 Greene, A. (2019, December 19). Defence insists it is looking after veterans forced to testify to secret war crimes inquiry, now entering its fourth year. ABC News. Retrieved from https://www.abc.net.au/news/2019-12-19/defencesupporting-veterans-forced-to-testify-afghan-war-crimes/11810894 Littman, A. J., True, G., Ashmore, E., Wellens, T., & Smith, N. L. (2018). How can we get Iraq- and Afghanistan-deployed US Veterans to participate in health-related research? Findings from a national focus group study. BMC Medical Research Methodology, 18(1). https://doi.org/10.1186/ s12874-018-0546-2 Litz, B. T., Stein, N., Delaney, E., Lebowitz, L., Nash, W. P., Silva, C., et al. (2009). Moral injury and moral repair in war veterans: A preliminary model and intervention strategy. Clinical Psychology Review, 29(8), 695–706. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.cpr.2009.07.003 Mallon, S., & Elliott, I. (2019). The emotional risks of turning stories into data: An exploration of the experiences of qualitative researchers working on sensitive topics. Societies, 9(3), 62. https://doi.org/10.3390/soc9030062 Marwick, A. E., Blackwell, L., & Lo, K. (2016). Best practices for conducting risky research and protecting yourself from online harassment (Data & society guide). New York: Data & Society Research Institute. McKenzie, N., & Masters, C. (2018a, September 23). Defence Force inquiry into war crimes under attack. The Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from https://www.smh.com.au/national/defence-force-inquiry-into-war-crimesunder-attack-20180923-p505iv.html McKenzie, N., & Masters, C. (2018b, September 23). Fresh threat to SAS soldiers assisting war crimes inquiry. The Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from https://www.smh.com.au/national/fresh-threat-to-sas-soldiers-assisting-warcrimes-inquiry-20180923-p505ic.html Oakes, D. (2019, August 6). Investigators travel to Afghanistan to interview witnesses over alleged Australian war crimes. ABC News. Retrieved from https://www.abc.net.au/news/2019-08-06/investigators-travel-toaghanistan-over-alleged-war-crimes/11383212

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Olsen, A., & Mooney-Somers, J. (2017, February 23). ‘Except as required by law’: Australian researchers’ legal rights and obligations regarding participant confidentiality. Australian Human Research Ethics Consultancy Services. Retrieved from https://ahrecs.com/human-research-ethics/except-requiredlaw-australian-researchers-legal-rights-obligations-regarding-participantconfidentiality Pedersen, E. R. (2015, June 9). Social media as a tool for reaching veterans in need of mental health care. The Rand Blog. Retrieved from https://www.rand. org/blog/2015/06/social-media-as-a-tool-for-reaching-veteransin-need.html Talbot, S. (2012). Warriors, warfighting and the construction of masculine identities. Proceedings of the Australian Sociological Association (TASA) Conference, Brisbane. Tangney, J. P., Wagner, P., Fletcher, C., & Gramzow, R. (1992). Shamed into anger? The relation of shame and guilt to anger and self-reported aggression. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 62(4), 669–675. Tyson Smith, R., & True, G. (2014). Warring identities: Identity conflict and the mental distress of American veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Society and Mental Health, 4(2), 47–61. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 2156869313512212 Van Hooff, M., Lawrence-Wood, E., Hodson, S., Sadler, N., Benassi, H., Hansen, C., et al. (2018). Mental health prevalence, mental health and wellbeing transition study. Canberra: Department of Defence and Department of Veterans’ Affairs. Retrieved from http://www.defence.gov.au/Health/DMH/ ResearchSurveillancePlan.asp Veletsianos, G., Houlden, S., Hodson, J., & Gosse, C. (2018). Women scholars’ experiences with online harassment and abuse: Self-protection, resistance, acceptance and self-blame. New Media and Society, 20(12), 4689–4708. https://doi.org/10.1177/1461444818781324 Williams, R. K., Allen-Collinson, J., & Hockey, J. (2020). Researching retired ex-servicemen: Reflections on ethnographic encounters. Qualitative Research in Sport, Exercise and Health. Retrieved from www.tandfonline.com/doi/ pdf/10.1080/2159676X.2020.1713204 Wroe, D. (2017, October 25). Australia let soldier Jesse Bird down, government concedes. The Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from https://www.smh. com.au/politics/federal/australia-let-soldier-jesse-bird-down-governmentconcedes-20171024-gz75mj.html

19 Activist or Advocate? Redefining Scholarly Risk in a West African Research Context Zibah Nwako

Introduction My doctoral research project problematised the wellbeing of female undergraduate students in West Africa through the experiences and voices of said students, using a university in Nigeria as a case study. This chapter will focus on the mental, emotional, physical and professional risks to my wellbeing and that of my participants during the fieldwork process. I will elaborate on the implications of these risks in patriarchal societies such as Nigeria. The chapter will also explore my conflicting roles as activist or advocate during and beyond the study. Nigeria was one of the countries in West Africa colonised by Britain from 1900 until 1960 when she gained independence (Ocheni & Nwankwo, 2012). However, women in the country and in many other African states still endure “the continuing legacy of… colonialism and… [struggle] against its lingering effects” (Tikly, 2004, p. 173). Postcolonialism

Z. Nwako (*) University of Bristol, Bristol, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_19

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highlights the ways in which women in countries such as Nigeria are still affected by the cultural, political, economic and environmental legacies of colonialism, as well as the misrepresentation of the experiences of women that live in non-Western contexts (Okeke-Ihejirika, 2019; Raymond, 2015). Female students are particularly exposed to precarious conditions that are challenging to their wellbeing. This chapter illustrates the ways in which I managed to re-define and re-conceptualise the study by navigating certain relationships in the face of these challenges, which often presented as risks to myself and the participants of the study. Wellbeing is a fundamental aspect of the life of a human being as it impacts on other areas including education, physiology, work, psychology and economy. My interest in this research topic stemmed from my desire to understand how female undergraduate students identify wellbeing and the wider factors that influence their experiences. I also adopted a wellbeing framework to ascertain the risks faced by these students in relation to gender justice. This was important to be able to mitigate the effects of the unfair practices that affect them as women both individually and collectively, as espoused in Hanisch’s (1969) essay entitled “The personal is the political”. Hanisch explains that her political participation of a group is not with an aim to solve her personal problems, but to contribute to collective action for solutions that will impact on the personal problems of the people in the group. The merging of personal and political action in this study is therefore significant, as is the collaboration of the female students who were my primary data sources and co-constructors of knowledge, hence I used a participatory research methodology to plan the study, collect and analyse the data.

 ctivist or Advocate? A Scholarly A Identity Conflict In my initial approach to the case study institution in Nigeria, I contacted a senior leader of the university whose reply to my research proposal was “this is a good topic but are you coming to teach our girls how to disrespect their husbands?” I pondered if this reaction characterised a

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male ego that was seemingly threatened by the proposed study, or whether it stemmed from a mindset that is steeped in the traditional and patriarchal beliefs typical in many West African contexts. I further reflected on my (mainly positive) childhood and educational experiences, then wondered how young female students (whether married or not) are currently impacted by such patriarchal views. That question from the senior leader therefore challenged my own beliefs and values and strengthened my resolve to conduct the research. It led me to consider how to position myself as advocate or activist in the context of study. The role of advocate would involve putting myself forward on behalf of female students either publicly or through private dialogues with the university authorities, to support their cause with tactful strategies. As an activist, I would campaign for political and social change for these students that continually face discrimination and injustice because of their gender (Creswell, 2013). As a researcher, I was not sure that it was my place to be and do either of the above, however it was necessary to be aware that these situations could occur. I decided therefore to remain sensitive and perceptive as a “human instrument” (Fetterman, 1998, p.  31) or researcher-asinstrument, an identity that used my own situation, background, values, skills and experiential knowledge, even biases, as a source of data collection and analysis (Nwako, 2020).

Women in the West African Academy The university is not a gender-neutral environment. Rather, gender disparity within the larger civil society also permeates the university space and determines women’s positionality. (Ukpokolo, 2010, pp. 1–2)

The undergraduate years of study constitute a vital bridge between adolescence and adulthood, thus the experiences obtained during this transition have the potential to shape the lives, decisions and futures of young people (Baum, Ma, & Payea, 2010). These experiences can either enhance or hinder a student’s wellbeing. Equally relevant is the context, group and culture being studied. Due to cultural, religious, socio-­ political, historical and colonial, economic and patriarchal reasons,

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women in Nigeria are unequal to men and therefore disempowered, marginalised and oppressed (Asiyanbola, 2005; Makama, 2013; Para-Mallam, 2010). As a result, issues of gender equality and mainstreaming, access to employment and earnings, political participation, development, educational enrolment, parity and attainment, inclusion, violence and the oppression of women continue to dominate the gender justice discourse. Citing Giddens and Duneier (2000), Anele (2010) defined patriarchy as “male dominance in a society”. They further argued that “there are no known societies that are not patriarchal, although the degree and character of inequalities between the sexes varies considerably cross-culturally” (p. 66). Patriarchy is believed to have emerged from colonialism (Guerrero, 2003). Thus, cultural norms and historical influences from the colonial period have not only translated to gender exploitation, but also impacted on education systems in West Africa. Female staff in universities experience precarious situations such as unequal pay and conditions, lack of research opportunities and poor productivity (Ogbogu, 2009). Other areas of disadvantage include being treated as subordinates, unequal access to training and resources (Bakari & Leach, 2007), and in their aspirations to promotion and leadership positions. There are further risks faced by female students from bullying and harassment including verbal abuse and sexual violence, to the biased expectations of them in comparison with their male peers. An example of this was encapsulated by a senior official at one such university [all names withheld or anonymised to protect identities]: [He]… also buttressed the need for students of the University to get committed to their studies, as this he said, is the basis for being in the University. He further advised female students of the University to live an upright and responsible life. (University Bulletin, 2016)

This highlights the gendered differences in the ways in which the sexes are viewed and treated by the university authorities. It implies that the lifestyle of female students is normally dishonourable and irresponsible. Such comments also depict the patriarchal gender stereotypes and the persistent oppressive colonial legacies on women and students that stem from the wider cultural and societal context.

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Wellbeing: A Framework for Risk Management As the substantive topic of study, the subjective wellbeing of young female students in higher education covered the mental/emotional and physical aspects for them as well as professional risks for myself. According to Diener (2006), subjective wellbeing is: an umbrella term for the different valuations people make regarding their lives, the events happening to them, their bodies and minds, and the circumstances in which they live. (pp. 399–400)

In Western societies, wellbeing is described as autonomy, life’s purpose, positive relationships, the recognition of potential, fulfilment of goals, happiness, engagement and life satisfaction (Dodge, Daly, Huyton, & Sanders, 2012). These terms encapsulate wellbeing as an intrinsic phenomenon that is relative to each person, whereas in low/middle income contexts such as West Africa, wellbeing is conceptualised in relation to the circumstances and conditions that are external to an individual or group. Here, the commonly used term is “welfare” and for a student, this refers to the basic facilities or amenities that ensure the comfortable survival and conducive atmosphere for students’ learning (Alani, Okunola, & Subair, 2010). That notwithstanding, the subjective wellbeing framework provided an empowering platform for managing the personal, contextual and ethical risks encountered during fieldwork process. For example, the framework enabled an understanding of the cultural and historical aspects of African societies, and the ways in which collective wellbeing might enhance or hinder individual identities, values and development (Jones, 2011; Lomas, 2015). As Ndlovu-Gatsheni (2015) posits in his text on the history of precolonial Africa, “individualism was not promoted in African indigenous education” (p. 53). This raises questions about the precarious nature of individual perceptions and human rights, as well as the risks to wellbeing development particularly for women in such postcolonial and patriarchal contexts.

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Postcolonial Feminism and Participatory Research Conducting research in certain West African societies deemed as patriarchal is rife with challenges of gender inequalities, stereotypes and maledominated influences (Olabisi, 2014) that poses risks for women in general. For research participants, these risks include maintaining anonymity and confidentiality, preventing further risk, victimisation or marginalisation to participants (Creswell, 2009) due to being female, extended loss of agency and autonomy, and a misrepresentation of contextual issues. To mitigate these risks, I made important decisions about the philosophical underpinnings and methodologies used for the study. Postcolonial feminism was used as an epistemological lens through which to acknowledge the voices of disadvantaged and vulnerable young women who remain subject to patriarchal power (Mestry & Schmidt, 2012). It presented a way of knowing and understanding the wellbeing issues that female students face in West African universities. Similarly, a participatory methodology offered a means of conducting research for the voiceless or powerless in society (Nind, 2011). It is carried out collaboratively with the research subjects, rather than on or about them. Thus, participants were enabled to take some form of ownership over the issues discussed, given a platform with which to express their wellbeing needs or challenges, and an opportunity to co-produce experiential knowledge. This methodology further supported my chosen methods of data collection including campus walks and participatory mapping sessions.

Ethical Considerations Given the substantive topic and the target group of my study, ethical issues inevitably permeated the research process. The main considerations were the potential threats to the wellbeing and physical safety of participants as well as the security and management of their data in relation to confidentiality and anonymity. I therefore tried to maintain our safety while simultaneously facilitating a delicate balance in hierarchy between myself and the participants, as detailed below at the start of fieldwork:

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When it was time to leave, Prisca and MissQ asked if we could return to the hotel where I was staying. I did not feel entirely comfortable with this suggestion because I was concerned that it would distort the professional researcher image that I felt I should maintain. My mind ran quickly over the layout of the hotel and several questions sprang to mind—Is there a meeting room where we can hang out? How ethical is it to ‘host’ them in my room? What are the power dynamics that I need to consider? Then I told myself to relax and agreed for the following reasons: • there was no other option or venue at which to meet, • I reasoned that today was not the formal start of fieldwork but rather an informal reunion from my last visit, • I was reluctant to break the trust we had built up over the last 8 months when we first met. On reflection, it was a difficult decision but one that I did not regret. (Reflections, 2017)

Apart from this meeting and those that occurred in the participants’ hostels with their permission, all other interactions took place in various public spaces to ensure their physical safety. During the campus walks however, one participant expressed that she felt uncomfortable visiting certain areas due to previous negative experiences, a decision which I respected and complied with. Pseudonyms were used in reporting direct quotes for data confidentiality and participant anonymity, however this did not entirely remove some potential risks during the study. For example, co-interviewing members of staff meant that a student faced a precarious situation where her identity would be exposed as a participant in the study. Prior to each interview therefore, we would conduct a risk assessment in order to balance her willingness to waive her anonymity with possible benefits she would receive from conducting the interview.

The Precarity of Wellbeing for Researchers During fieldwork, there were three areas that threatened our wellbeing. Firstly, on a mental and emotional level, my participants faced daily risks of violence through bullying, verbal abuse and sexual harassment,

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denoting that being female put them in a more precarious position than their male peers. Secondly, there were physical risks to their health and safety, for example, from the places and spaces that they frequented as students. Thirdly, as an external researcher coming into the context there were issues around trust, the reputation of the university as well as my own professional aspirations and development.

Mental and Emotional Trauma The participants reported both positive and negative wellbeing experiences through their feelings and emotions on topics, activities, situations and places. They used terms such as happy, trust, worried, pleasant, angry, surprise, hate, upset, boring, hungry, bad, powerful, jittery, afraid, sad, healthy, frustrated, fine, dangerous, shock and annoying/ed. Positive feelings are derived from their personal interests and activities. These help to develop their wellbeing and give them a sense of identity and worth. However, their mental/emotional health was affected by the ways in which they were spoken to, talked down on and bullied by university staff: Our departmental lecturers are really annoying. We have one very abusive man. He calls us “stupid, fool, carton-head girls…” He tells us that “you will fail my course plus the next 4 years before you graduate.” It’s very demoralising. I am afraid of him. (Marian)

This example of verbal assault indicates a worrying trend of singling out female students to ridicule them. It is inevitable from the students’ perspectives that such abuse and insults would create a culture of fear for students in the department or the overall institution. I observed a situation at the university library where a male security officer accosted two female students about their dressing. They each wore a pair of jeans which were ripped at the thighs and knees: How on earth… look at your laps… how on earth can you, a lady, wear this type of thing? So you enter market to buy this? Is it for everybody’s eyes? Only one person should see this [I wonder whom he is referring to here—her boyfriend/husband, I guess].

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[He turns to the second student] See you now? Dis ya tear tear trouser that you are wearing. Is it in vogue now? Rubbish! Your dressing portrays who you are. (Fieldnotes, October 2016)

Although this was part of an overall attempt to enforce institutional rules about indecent dressing, it affirmed Odejide’s (2007) conclusion that such treatment results in the “infantilisation and control of women” (p. 51). It also reveals the underlying cultural assumption that a female student’s morality is expressed through her dressing. Further, it indicates that “women’s sexuality is constructed as ‘seductive’ and perceived as threatening to men’s superior status” (ibid., p. 43). Similarly, participants cited instances of their experiences of sexual harassment, as one stated that rather than risk being accused again of using her body to attract favours and good grades from lecturers, she makes every effort to keep a low profile to remain unnoticed. During a period of staff industrial action by the Academic Staff Unions of Universities (ASUU), MissQ shared her conflicting thoughts about a safe and suitable meeting venue with her supervisor to discuss her final year research project: The thing is if I don’t go, I will suffer because of it … because only God knows when these ASUU people will come back to work. Then my project will not be ready …My friend and other supervisees do meet with their supervisor at Sweeters or any other eatery in town. One said she had to go to the man’s house. But she said she was lucky because a few minutes after she got there, the man’s wife and kids came back home. I told her she’s lucky that the man is married; my own supervisor is still a bachelor and nothing will save me if he asks me to do likewise. I will call my fellow supervisees, I can’t afford to go alone.

According to Ofole and Agokei (2016), young females in higher education are three times more likely to experience sexual harassment than those of the same age in the wider populace; further defining such victimisation to include “rape, forced vaginal, anal or oral penetration, forced sexual intercourse, inappropriate touching, forced kissing, …or the torture of the victim in a sexual manner” (ibid., p. 264).

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The issue of female sexual harassment by male staff and students in West African universities is well-documented—for instance, see “Sex for grades: undercover inside Nigerian and Ghanaian universities” (BBC News Africa, 2019)—however, it remains a taboo subject. This results in most cases being unreported and therefore its effects on the wellbeing of the victims are largely still not addressed. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), victims do not report cases due to feelings of shame, fears of not being believed, receiving blame, stigmatisation, retaliation, bullying and maltreatment, or social exclusion (WHO, 2012). In addition to the negative impact on their wellbeing, female students risk contracting up diseases and other health problems from ignorance or carelessness. A greater risk stems from the dearth of provision of guidance and counselling services within the research context which meant that these students have nowhere to turn to for support or guidance when they experience these feelings of failure, stress, fear or are powerless to respond to threats to their wellbeing. Even if they were available, participants shared that they would be reluctant to seek help as they risk being detained from progressing academically or graduating, victimisation and cultural reprisals. Furthermore, a lack of discourse around mental and emotional wellbeing does not only result from the pervading institutional culture in West African universities but also represented wider systemic failures in the health sector (Chukwuka, 2018). I often experienced some emotional trauma from hearing these stories from my participants and often felt sad, helpless and frustrated at my inability to offer any help as a researcher. As a result, I surmised that I had underestimated and oversimplified the emotional risks involved in researching such a topic.

Threats to Physical Wellbeing Using the methods of campus walks and participatory mapping, the health, safety and security of my participants were paramount. We visited the places and spaces that they enjoyed frequenting and they described

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the spaces that they considered to be dangerous or unsafe. These included their hostel accommodation, study spaces and the health centre: Parents believe that girls should be protected. I think that’s why our hostel is oversubscribed. It is safe and there is a strict curfew of 10 pm. Unlike my brother’s. He can stay off campus or change accommodation whenever he likes and mummy doesn’t mind that… there are two reading rooms here so we can study at night safely. (Nina)

Likewise, there were many discussions of the physical health of female students in terms of their bodily integrity. The university’s health centre represented a space intended to provide medical care and attention; however, its practice did not meet the students’ needs. This was not only due to poor provision of working equipment but also due to the attitudes of staff at the centre, as shared by one participant: While she was doing a vaginal swab, the nurse hurt me. I shouted from the pain. She said I should stop shouting that ‘this thing and your boyfriend’s penis, which is more hard {sic}, so why are you shouting? Don’t insult me! Just stay and let me do what you came for because so many people are waiting for me’. …She didn’t even tell me sorry. Nothing. Not empathetic or remorse {sic} …Since then anytime I see her, I don’t answer or greet her or anything. To me, first impressions matter a lot! And I will never go back there. (MissQ)

This narrative is one of many that demonstrated some participants’ feelings of being violated, devalued, disrespected and intimidated by the adults in the university whose responsibility it was to care for them. MissQ, for example, was not reassured in any way; rather she recounted experiencing deep mental and physical pain. Female students do not have the capability to preserve their bodily integrity because they are not safe from violent or sexual assaults whether on or off campus. According to Loots and Walker (2015), bodily integrity and safety includes “having freedom of movement and expression of self on campus” (pp. 366–367) and is a core capability which should be taken seriously by university authorities to inform gender policies.

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Risk to Professional Reputation In obtaining consent from the university authorities to conduct the study, I believed that I was a doctoral researcher who would be professional and fair in reporting the findings of my study. It therefore came as a surprise to me to find out that a senior leader at the university stated that he did not trust me and was worried that I would destroy their reputation by publicly criticising their performance in my research outputs. This statement of distrust concerned me for several reasons: firstly, that it could present a potential risk for the identities of my participants who wanted to be involved in the study and secondly, that it could distort the data that is collected from university staff. Furthermore, it threatened my own reputation as a budding academic scholar due to the flawed recruitment processes in many similar public institutions where appointments are based on the corrupt political effects of nepotism and favouritism (Yaro, 2014). Hence, it could eventually jeopardise my professional development should I aspire to work in the West African academy. Conversely, I determined that these risks were worth considering through professional roles outside academia, particularly in areas that could critically influence female students’ wellbeing policy and practice from the wider postcolonial context. This would mean establishing solidarity with the students to reject patriarchal influences and achieve gender justice (Darder, 2017), while using this study as an act of agency, of resistance, of activism through which I would continue to advocate for positive changes to their wellbeing.

Conclusion In the context of West African universities, women inevitably face patriarchal challenges resulting from the legacies of colonial rule. These were depicted through my study of the wellbeing of female undergraduate students at a university in Nigeria, using a postcolonial feminist epistemological stance and participatory research as methodology. Given the substantive topic of wellbeing, ethics was a critical consideration to ensure

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that the participants were not subjected to further marginalisation, risk or disadvantage from the study. The findings covered the mental, emotional, physical and professional risks to researcher wellbeing for myself as well as the participants as co-­ constructors of knowledge. In conclusion, I was able to reconsider and reconcile my own scholarly identity often as an activist or an advocate on behalf of female students, and through the merging of the personal and political aspects of my work.

References Alani, R. A., Okunola, P. O., & Subair, S. O. (2010). Situation analysis of students’ welfare services in universities in South-Western Nigeria: Implications for students’ personnel management practice. Online Submission, 7(10), 42–50. Anele, K. A. (2010). Patriarchy and institutionalised sexism in the Nigerian university system: The case of the University of Port Harcourt. African Anthropologist, 17(1–2), 63–80. Asiyanbola, A. (2005). Patriarchy, male dominance, the role and women empowerment in Nigeria. In Poster presentado en la XXV International Population Conference Tours, Francia. Bakari, S., & Leach, F. (2007, March). Hijacking equal opportunity policies in a Nigerian college of education: The micropolitics of gender. Women’s Studies International Forum, 30(2), 85–96. Pergamon. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. wsif.2007.01.006 Baum, S., Ma, J., & Payea, K. (2010). Education pays, 2010: The benefits of higher education for individuals and society. Trends in higher education series. College Board Advocacy & Policy Center. BBC News Africa (Producers). (2019). Sex for grades: Undercover inside Nigerian and Ghanaian universities [Video file]. Retrieved from https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=we-F0Gi0Lqs Chukwuka, C. (2018). Mismanagement of mental health in Nigeria. Retrieved from https://www.wellbeingwomen.org/mismanagement-of-mental-healthin-nigeria Creswell, J.  W. (2009). Research design: Qualitative, quantitative, and mixed methods approaches. SAGE Publications.

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Creswell, J. W. (2013). Qualitative inquiry and research design: Choosing among five approaches. Sage Publications. Darder, A. (2017). Reinventing Paulo Freire: A pedagogy of love. Routledge. Diener, E. (2006). Guidelines for national indicators of subjective well-being and ill-being. Journal of Happiness Studies: An Interdisciplinary Forum on Subjective Well-Being. Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10902-006-9000-y Dodge, R., Daly, A. P., Huyton, J., & Sanders, L. D. (2012). The challenge of defining wellbeing. International Journal of Wellbeing, 2(3). https://doi. org/10.5502/ijw.v2i3.4 Fetterman, D. M. (1998). Ethnography: Step by step (4th ed.). SAGE Publications. Guerrero, M. J. (2003). “Patriarchal colonialism” and indigenism: Implications for Native Feminist spirituality and Native womanism. Hypatia, 18(2), 58–69. https://doi.org/10.1353/hyp.2003.0030 Hanisch, C. (1969). The personal is political. Retrieved from http://www.carolhanisch.org/CHwritings/PIP.html Jones, J.  L. (2011). Adolescent wellbeing in West Africa: Subjective wellbeing of adolescents in Cote d’Ivoire. Doctoral dissertation, Tulane University, Payson Center for International Development. Lomas, T. (2015). Positive cross-cultural psychology: Exploring similarity and difference in constructions and experiences of wellbeing. International Journal of Wellbeing, 5(4). https://doi.org/10.5502/ijw.v5i4.437 Loots, S., & Walker, M. (2015). Shaping a gender equality policy in higher education: which human capabilities matter? Gender and Education, 27(4), 361–375. https://doi.org/10.1080/09540253.2015.1045458 Makama, G. A. (2013). Patriarchy and gender inequality in Nigeria: The way forward. European Scientific Journal, 9(17). Mestry, R., & Schmidt, M. (2012). A feminist postcolonial examination of female principals’ experiences in South African secondary schools. Gender and Education, 24(5), 535–551. https://doi.org/10.1080/0954025 3.2011.628926 Ndlovu-Gatsheni, S.  J. (2015). Decoloniality as the future of Africa. History Compass, 13(10), 485–496. https://doi.org/10.1111/hic3.12264 Nind, M. (2011). What is participatory research? SAGE Publications Ltd. Nwako, H. (2020). In our own voices: A critical participatory study of the wellbeing of female undergraduate students in Nigeria. Doctoral dissertation, University of Bristol. Ocheni, S., & Nwankwo, B. C. (2012). Analysis of colonialism and its impact in Africa. Cross-Cultural Communication, 8(3), 46–54.

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Odejide, A. (2007). “What can a woman do?” Being women in a Nigerian university. Feminist Africa, 8. Ofole, N. M., & Agokei, S. P. (2016). Sexual victimization among University of Benin fresh female students: Intervention implication. Benin International Journal of Sciences: Basic and Applied Research, 29(1), 263–278. Ogbogu, C. O. (2009). An analysis of female research productivity in Nigerian universities. Journal of Higher Education Policy and Management, 31(1), 17–22. https://doi.org/10.1080/13600800802558841 Okeke-Ihejirika, P. E. (2019). Exploring the experiences of female graduate students in African universities: Questions about voice, power, and responsibility. Gender and Women’s Studies, 2(3), 1. Olabisi, A. (2014). Women in the Nigerian University system: Achievements, challenges and prospects. Ado Ekiti, Ekiti State University, Nigeria: Centre for Gender and Development Studies. Para-Mallam, F. J. (2010). Promoting gender equality in the context of Nigerian cultural and religious expression: Beyond increasing female access to education. Compare, 40(4), 459–477. https://doi.org/10.1080/0305792 5.2010.490370 Raymond, A. (2015). Pastoral community perspectives on formal education for girls: An ethnographic study of Monduli District in Tanzania. Doctoral dissertation, University of Bristol. Tikly, L. (2004). Education and the new imperialism. Comparative Education, 40(2), 173–198. Ukpokolo, C. (2010). Academic freedom and dual career academic couples: The complexities of being a woman academic in the university space. Journal of Higher Education in Africa/Revue de l’enseignement supérieur en Afrique, 8(1), 49–71. WHO. (2012). Understanding and addressing violence against women: Overview (No. WHO/RHR/12.35). World Health Organization. Yaro, I. (2014). Recruitment and selection in the Nigerian public service: Nature, challenges and way forward. Journal of Economics, Management and Trade, 1005–1017. https://doi.org/10.9734/bjemt/2014/7941

20 Dangerous Decisions: The Precarity of Real-World Research—A Provocation Deborah L. Mulligan

Introduction Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts. (Albert Einstein, 1879–1955)

Einstein’s aphorism reminds us that not everything can be accounted for in a tangible, audited manner. How do we then apply this notion to the performance of scholarly praxis? The preceding thought-provoking chapters in this book offer an insight into the intangible outcomes of performing research, particularly the reality of persisting in an area which can be classified as risky/precarious/dangerous. Perhaps it didn’t start out that way, but then the journey skewed into unforeseen consequences. Perhaps the research was always going to be of a risky nature. Whatever the circumstance, the courageous spirit of the researcher is highlighted so eloquently within the pages of this book.

D. L. Mulligan (*) University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_20

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This chapter is designed to contribute to the multidimensional process of conceptualising the diverse risks researchers encounter in their efforts to deliver authentic and valid investigations. To that end, I pose the question—What value do we place on the significance of the personal risks faced by researchers? Comprehensive engagement with this issue provides situational voices for those researchers who have lived experiences of risk when tasked (by higher learning institutions, funding bodies, or indeed— the researchers themselves) to produce a scholarly and rigorous representation of the research. Ethics applications focus mostly on the risk to other stakeholders and are directed at participant wellbeing with beneficial intent to the participants and society at large as imperatives. However, there is a growing recognition that researchers themselves are at times confronted by ethical risks in the form of various physical, mental, reputational and/or spiritual challenges. Currently, discussion around this topic consists of a small body of literature in a fledgling state. It is my contention that it is more than timely to raise this issue in a public forum. In other words—it is time to make danger visible and in so doing, extend the discourse pertaining to the narrative of researchers at risk. Canagarajah (1996) stated: “For all practical purposes, the researcher is absent from the report… how the research activity shapes the researchers’ subjectivity is not explored—even though research activity can sometimes profoundly affect the researchers’ sense of the world and themselves” (p.  324). Nearly two decades later, Sherry (2013) commented: “It is generally understood that the research process can evoke highly emotional responses in the participant, however, relatively little attention has been given to research team members’ experiences” (p. 279). Clearly the discourse around the challenges to researchers has unwanted longevity and, disappointingly, has not reached a satisfactory completion, in that researchers continue to feel that their personal struggles are underrated and undervalued. In an effort to address this complex and highly nuanced dilemma, I attempt to add understanding and timely acknowledgement to the following topics:

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• The significance of the difference between the terms ‘precarious’ and ‘dangerous’ when representing researcher risk. • The concept of the researcher as a vulnerable agent. A case study provided by Emily (a pseudonym) highlights the issue of insider research in a small community. • A general discussion of the global situation and the silencing of the voice of the researcher. • Further reading for those who wish to learn more is presented in a list of some challenges that researchers may confront.

Is Danger Precarious? Marks and Abdelhalim (2018) argue that precariousness differs from dangerousness in that precarious environments are typically those that reflect “…uncertainty, unpredictability and even instability” (p. 306). They posit that a dangerous environment is one that is characterised by widespread violence. Theoretically, does it add to the discussion around risk to distinguish between dangerous and precarious? Both are hazardous and both constitute the negotiated tension which some researchers experience whilst acting as representatives of social change. What should society expect from researchers when more is needed than merely factual evidence? Are the ethics committees concerned with semantics when applied to the researcher and not the researched? They should be. Increasingly the social sciences and the humanities are recognised as the essential front-line agents to resolving policy challenges through delivering knowledge and understanding of social injustices and inequities that plague our communities. “Social Science and Humanities study the human aspects of the world and they generate important new knowledge which has a deep and intrinsic value” (LERU, 2012, p. 3).

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 he Researcher as a Vulnerable Agent: T A Case Study “Qualitative research presents researchers with an opportunity to listen to people tell their life stories, and the method yields rich and complex data” (Sherry, 2013). These life narratives may enrich the research but may elicit a cost to the researcher in personal terms. This is especially so when the research topic is sensitive or covert. Additionally, it is made more convoluted and nuanced when the researcher is threatened by the very group being represented in the study or by an institutional representative who is tasked with supervision of the investigation. Indeed, the researcher’s precariousness of life circumstances may even be apparent prior to the commencement of the investigation. When ethics committees fail to recognise the researcher’s vulnerable humanity (as required, justifiably, for the participants) there is an unspoken supposition that protection of the researcher is inconsequential. The concept of the researcher as a vulnerable agent is an important one. Owing to the relational nature of most forms of investigations, increasingly researchers are deliberately, either intentionally or accidentally, placing themselves in hazardous situations in order to draw attention to societal issues. The following case study considers insider research from the perspective of Emily as she reviews her positionality as both a researcher and an embedded member of the participant community: It is well known that insider researchers must be exceedingly careful in their interactions with their respondents (Danaher, Cook, Danaher, Coombes, & Danaher, 2013; Hinze, Romann-Aas, & Aas, 2015). The advantages of being an insider researcher, such as increased access to respondents, higher trust and greater rapport, need to be balanced with higher responsibilities to honour that trust (Bhopal, 2010; Taylor, 2011). The risks of harm to respondents include: the possibilities of self-revelation and memories triggering emotional distress and/or the risk of recorded and utilised information identifying either the respondent or people they mentioned, with attendant physical, material or emotional harm (Hewitt, 2007).

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Less often investigated are the risks to the researchers involved in insider research. These risks are like those for the respondents. The following list of potential risks is by no means exhaustive. Before I start, I will signal that I am writing this piece anonymously, and, as I do with the stories of my respondents, I will attempt to minimise self-­ identification as much as possible. Consequently, there will be no indication of what my topic is, what geographical area this study encompasses, or who my respondents are, other than the information that I am one of them. I am socially involved with my respondents. We are a relatively tight-knit community. Some of them are family friends: we brought up our children together, and we attend the weddings of each other’s children. Others are friends of those friends, and still others are friends of the friends of friends, as per my snowballing technique. We are all connected, and anything I did that was noteworthy, either positively or negatively, would be quickly known to all. The risks include being socially rejected or “ousted” (as one of my respondents put it) by the community. There is the fear of being metaphorically tarred and feathered and driven into the imaginary forest to be consumed by wolves. One of my respondents was stopped by the police and turned away at the border of her physical community. There is also the prospect of shaming or embarrassing my own family, including my children, my spouse, my parents and extended family, the parents and extended family of my spouse. This has the added risk of bringing financial risks to my family, as well as the emotional risks. Shaming or embarrassing or even exposing slight flaws in the community itself is not pleasant to contemplate, particularly when that community is close to my heart. Even if no-one said a word, I myself am deeply embedded in the community and would suffer the hurt I would imagine that others suffered at my words. Thus, listening to the interview tapes and re-reading transcripts causes me a great deal of emotional turmoil. An academic colleague of mine, when I mentioned how I was struggling with one of my data chapters, due to prolonged re-exposure to the transcripts, expressed empathy. She, too, had struggled in her candidature. The situation of her respondents was untenable and unjust, and every time she revisited her transcripts, she was filled with anger about the ordeals these marginalised people had to face every day. I thought—no, that is not what happens to me when I re-enter the transcripts. My respondents are not marginalised in that

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way. They are not Other. They are myself. I cannot separate from them. I cannot leave them. I am inextricably enmeshed with them for the rest of my life. I not only relive their lives every time I revisit their interviews, I revisit my life. We are cautioned by the ethics department to have a list of counselling services handy in case our probing questions bring up sad or uncomfortable feelings. None of my respondents asked for the list. I am the one who has needed the list. When I get pulled into the transcripts, I feel a range of complex emotions. I am sad for those having severe difficulty, and anger on their behalf for their troubled situations, usually beyond their control. I also feel admiration and respect for all of them, for the way they cope, and how they rise to unexpected challenges, and in some cases, go beyond what anyone could have imagined. Sometimes I am shocked by the injustices and humiliations some of them endure. I rejoice with those who have navigated their way successfully through complicated labyrinthine adversities to triumph, and I am pleased when they express their contentment, pride and happiness. I am blown away by the glorious, larger-than-life stories of some of my respondents. Mixed into these feelings are less salubrious emotions such as nostalgia and envy, criticism, discomfort and irritation. I have been told to note and reflect on these feelings as they can help me to make sense of my data, as well clarify the lens through which I collected and am now analysing this data. I am fine with reflecting upon and revealing these feelings to myself and to my supervisors, with the proviso that not one word of it ever reaches public consumption, that is, runs the risk of becoming known to any of my respondents or the community we inhabit. That could invoke too many consequences. The issue of insider research, from my perspective, overlaps with the complexities of researcher identity. There are many tensions between the role of researcher and the role of member of the researched group (Dwyer & Buckle, 2009; Taylor, 2011). Fortunately, I subscribe to feminist post-structuralism which offers a way to consider these issues without incurring too much self-­ flagellation. Following Barrett (2005), I understand myself to be a subject in a range of context-specific discourses. For many years, I have been a wife and mother, as well as a professional, within the community I am currently researching. I am, in Barrett’s words, “simultaneously being produced by discourses” (Barrett, 2005, p. 82) of my gender, my community, motherhood,

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my professional affiliations, my political worldviews and activism, and now of my research candidature. Barrett goes on to explain, citing Weedon (2004) that within “…poststructuralism, discourse is conceived as a set of beliefs and understanding, reinforced through daily practices, which frame a particular understanding of the ways we are in the world” (Barrett, 2005, p.  82). Barrett, who is an environmental educator, illustrated these ideas with examples from her own situation. When she is in the classroom, she performs the role of environmental educator who encourages environmental care and activism. However, when at a conference where the dominant discourse is of unbiased scientific inquiry, she is “…pushed to promote herself as an objective evaluator” as part of a discourse that produced her as an educator (Barrett, 2005, p. 83). Rather than seeing herself as hypocritical, she recognises that she is positioned within conflicting discourses and that this is not a failing of herself as an individual. Instead, she looks squarely at those discourses, recognises what they are and how they are produced and reproduced, and although she negotiates to reposition herself within them as much as possible, and pushes against them when appropriate, she accepts that she is likely to continue to operate within conflicting discourses. Similarly, I am positioned in several discourses. Ethically, my greatest loyalty is to my respondents, and I will protect them first and foremost. Secondly, my own interests will prevail. Thirdly, my fledgling position as a researcher must be navigated carefully in order to satisfy the requirements of my new discourse of formal intellectual curiosity and investigation. However, understanding that I live simultaneously in several often diametrically opposed discourses helps me to understand the emotional distress I feel when entering the lifeworld of my respondents through their transcripts. I view their lives, and by extension parts of my own life, through at least six different lenses from the many and varied discourses that I inhabit or have inhabited. There is no consolidation of views. This is one of the risks of insider research. You might perceive your own life from a multiplicity of angles, which may be very uncomfortable. If I could take just one or two perspectives, and roundly condemn the lifeworlds and dominant views held by my respondents, or even more satisfying, perceive them as marginalised victims with myself as the empathetic outsider, that would be very comforting. Unfortunately, I simultaneously condemn their dominant paradigms, accept and approve of their dominant paradigms; see

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my respondents as marginalised in some respects, see them as far too entitled and privileged in other respects; feel empathetic and sympathetic for their difficult lives, feel admiring and respectful for their magnificent lives; wish I could separate myself from them, and at the same time, desire to embed myself even more deeply within their/our community. This brings me to the last risk in this list: the risk of being re-inscribed more comprehensively into a discursive reality that you might have thought you had left, or at least, managed to minimise. This is dangerous territory, and I warn you—tread carefully… Post-structuralist theory helps me to understand that I have not fragmented into multiple identities. Nor do I have to choose one identity. Instead, my post-structural understanding is that we all live in multiple discursive realities, and I witnessed my respondents themselves adroitly traversing several discourses as I recorded them. It isn’t just me. But I must learn how to cope with this. I must sit quietly with these realities; I must hold each of these competing and overlapping discourses gently, give each of them room to breathe, accept them and accept my own participation in each of them. Perhaps researchers are one of the groups that are more aware than others about this multiplicity.

The Global Situation The liberty to learn and to possess an enquiring mind, in some counties, is still non-existent where scholarship at best is suppressed, at worst it is decimated. In the year 1997, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO, 2017) defined academic freedom as the right to: • • • • •

teach and openly discuss these teachings in any and all forums; research, distribute and widely publish findings in any and all forums; free expression of opinion in any and all forums; an absence of knowledge suppression in any and all forums; unbiased professional development available to everyone.

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What then of academic freedom in first world, so-called enlightened countries that promote the highest educational aspirations through academic equality and autonomy? Indeed, as demonstrated in the preceding chapter contributions, academic challenges abound and dangerous decisions are made by researchers throughout the world regardless of the social or political environment they inhabit. This was played out in Asia during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. China-based researchers were required to seek approval from China’s Ministry of Science and Technology before releasing any publication focused on the virus (Cooper, 2020). There is a case to be made that the quest for knowledge, and the process through which authentic academic enquiry is achieved, represents a valuable contribution to scholarship in and of itself and should not be considered as simply a means to an outcome. Most scholarly publications ignore the grassroots methodology of research data gathering in that they do not pay attention to the pressures and ordeals suffered by the individual researchers to bring their findings to publication fruition. These factors can weigh heavily on the scholars’ efforts to produce rigorous and valid investigations. In some cases, researchers may be stigmatised and threatened by the very institutions in which they work. In other cases, they may be politically persecuted. Alternatively, they may suffer from emotional distress sourced from their own personal lives or as a result of interacting with their participants and bearing witness to their anguish. Canter (2019) posits that: For social science to have impact it must, at some point, engage with what people actually do outside of the relatively safe corridors and laboratories of academic institutions. Once researchers do step outside into what is often characterised as ‘the real world’ they are faced with challenges that natural scientists never have to cope with. These range from challenging potential conflicts of interest, to emotional upheavals and on to real physical danger. (n.p.)

Academic publications frequently ignore the physical hazards and personal traumas researchers may suffer in the construction of their research. Yet there are many environments that possess unstable political regimes and social instability. Scholars are frequently targeted for their generation

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of new knowledge through interaction with local populations and the resultant articulation of new concepts. Repressive regimes seek to control the production of knowledge and suppress the power it generates within that society. Thus, the role of the scholar may be diminished and individual researchers may be threatened, persecuted and imprisoned or killed outright.

Researcher Challenges The research landscape is pitted with challenges, particularly for those researching in the social sciences and humanities. These can involve risks to the researcher in the form of the community, ethnicity, fieldwork, gender, institutions/universities, personal, philosophical and politics. Community or political challenges may take the form of the researcher as a covert agent who investigates a cohort of people unaware that they are sources of data. Such research, as described by Roger Homan (1980), is potentially risky to the researcher in whom particular unsavoury characteristics, whilst adopted in the field, may endure long after the conclusion of the research. Challenges may also arise when the researcher is branded with the same moral code as those being studied. This may work in the researcher’s favour if the group is treated sympathetically by the general public. However, if the group is a political outlier, the researcher may become a victim of guilt by association and may be accused of similar prejudices and ideologies. The researcher may also be drawn in to enact the culture being examined such as Michael Agar (2006) who detailed his use of heroin when investigating the drug scene in America. There is a risk that the researcher’s data gathering and findings may be misappropriated and misrepresented by powerful political lobbyists within the community being studied. Such was the situation Teresa Whitaker (2019) experienced when lobbying for the safety of sex workers in Dublin, Ireland. The issue of gaining the right to research within a community or about a contentious issue may be dictated by influential gatekeepers and stakeholders who set boundaries around the nature of the research or the

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process under which it is conducted. Gokah (2006) experienced this issue when collecting data for her research on child sexual exploitation: As a Ghanaian, my familiarity with the environment gave me the advantage of being able to identify potential respondents, but my background as a journalist made some government policy officers portray me as not only an ‘outsider’, but also an ‘intruder’, whereas in the other countries I was only seen as a doctoral student doing research.

Researcher race/ethnicity may be a challenge to conducting research. Participant bias and preconceptions may hamper the effectiveness and validity of the data gathering. When reflecting on the chasm that may exist between an ethnic minority researcher and a wider “White” participant cohort Derald Wing Sue remarked: “...it is important to understand that our professional roles are not isolated from the wider social forces” (p. 244). Researchers who investigate in corrupt and volatile environments place themselves at great risk of physical and mental harm when performing fieldwork. Such was the experience of Saira Mehmood (2019), who is a “...visible woman of colour” (n.p.). Her fieldwork was conducted in her hometown of New Orleans. Not only was she traumatised by the pervasive gun violence that afflicted the town, the shared stories of her participants acted as a trigger for her own previous traumatic past. Sherry (2013) documented interview venues that provided panic alarms and visible escape routes. She also noted the precarity of shaking hands with participants with communicable diseases. “It was after a few of these interviews that I began to buy sanitising hand wash” (p. 280). Gendered power imbalances pose a risk to researcher. This may be particularly so when women exclusively study men or vice versa. They may face criticisms in the form of others questioning their capability to conduct valid and authentic research. Eichler (1991) wrote of four key issues when referencing the occurrence of sexism in research—androcentricity, overgeneralisation, gender insensitivity and double standards. Institutional challenges abound in the form of risks associated with limited or terminated funding, lack of support or integrity from supervisors, deliberate sabotage of research by peers and misrepresented ethical

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practices by the institution itself. Löfström and Pyhältö (2017) examined the ethical issues encountered in supervision from the perspectives of the students and the supervisors. A researcher’s mental health is an underrated but extremely important consideration. Those who choose or are forced to study overseas, away from family and friends are faced with multiple dilemmas. Loss of intimate connection, fear of failure or disappointing family are particular concerns if the family is supporting the researcher financially  and/or emotionally. Personal life changes may occur during the research journey such as the death or injury of a loved one. It should be acknowledged that emotions influence research as much as they influence life. Even more so for the social scientist. There may be times when the researcher, so immersed in the project, has difficulty separating the PhD from the rest of their  life. Each may bleed into the other. Oftentimes a researcher’s philosophical stance influences research design, outcomes and interpretations. Philosophical assumptions to do with epistemology, ontology and axiology shape the nature of our research. Researcher identity is enmeshed with how we view the world.

Conclusion Authentic research demands rigorous and unfailing commitment and an obligation to perform in the best interests of the target participants, whether human or non-human. Unprecedented risks can occur in all research. Researchers are generally left to their own devices in terms of establishing safety protocols. This is partly due to the notion of research as an individualised pursuit. At best, researchers are activists for social justice and the betterment of the world as a global neighbourhood. At their most flawed, they can be perceived as misguided individuals with no clear purpose. Indeed, poor decision-making on the part of researchers may actually inflict more damage than benefit on themselves and on the participants and other stakeholders in their research. Danaher et  al. (2013) warned that lack of authenticity and academic rigour could lead to misunderstandings and misrepresentations, and damaged reputations, and could harm the very group that it was supposed to assist (p. 125).

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Such a discourse would invite a number essential questions around the notion of researcher positioning. Firstly, how are researchers positioned within the structure of power in their respective universities? Secondly, how are researchers positioned within the confines of the community from which they gather data? Thirdly, how are researchers positioned within the research community itself? Finally, how are researchers positioned within themselves?

References Agar, M. (2006). Dope double agent: The naked emperor on drugs. Mornsville, NC: Lulubooks. Barrett, M.  J. (2005). Making [some] sense of feminist poststructuralism in environmental education research and practice. Canadian Journal of Environmental Education, 10(Spring), 79–93. Bhopal, K. (2010). Gender, identity and experience: Researching marginalised groups. Women’s Studies International Forum, 33, 188–195. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.wsif.2009.12.005 Canagarajah, A.  S. (1996). From critical research practice to critical research reporting. Tesol Quarterly, 30(2), 321–330. https://doi.org/10.2307/3588146 Canter, D. (March 2019). The risks of doing research that has impact. Social Science Space [Weblog]. Retrieved from https://www.socialsciencespace. com/2019/03/the-­risks-­of-­doing-­research-­that-­has-­impact/ Cooper, G. (2020). Chinese state censorship of COVID-19 research represents a looming crisis for academic publishers. Retrieved from https://blogs.lse. ac.uk/impactofsocialsciences/2020/04/24/chinese-­s tate-­c ensorship­of-­covid-­19-­research-­represents-­a-­looming-­crisis-­for-­academic-­publishers/ Danaher, M., Cook, J., Danaher, G., Coombes, P., & Danaher, P. A. (2013). Researching education with marginalized communities. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Dwyer, S. C., & Buckle, J. L. (2009). The space between: On being an insider-­ outsider in qualitative research. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 8(1), 54–63. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940690900800105 Eichler, M. (1991). Nonsexist research methods: A practical guide. New York, NY: Routledge.

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Gokah, T. (2006). The naïve researcher: Doing social research in Africa. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 9(1), 61–73. https://doi. org/10.1080/13645570500436163 Hewitt, J. L. (2007). Ethical components of researcher researched relationships in qualitative interviewing. Qualitative Health Research, 17(8), 1149–1159. https://doi.org/10.1177/1049732307308305 Hinze, D., Romann-Aas, K. A., & Aas, H. K. (2015). Between you and me: A comparison of proximity ethics and process education. International Journal of Process Education, 7(1), 3–19. Retrieved from http://www.ijpe.online/2015/ proximity.pdf Homan, R. (1980). The ethics of covert methods. The British Journal of Sociology, 31(1), 46–59. https://doi.org/10.2307/590062 League of European Research Universities (LERU). (2012). Social sciences and humanities: Essential fields for European research. Advice Paper no. 11. Retrieved from https://www.leru.org/files/Social-­Sciences-­and-­Humanities-­ Essential-­Fields-­for-­European-­Research-­and-­Horizon-­2020-­Full-­paper.pdf Löfström, E., & Pyhältö, K. (2017). Ethics in the supervisory relationship: Supervisors’ and doctoral students’ dilemmas in the natural and behavioural sciences. Studies in Higher Education, 42(2), 232–247. https://doi.org/1 0.1080/03075079.2015.1045475 Marks, M., & Abdelhalim, J. (2018). Introduction: Identity, jeopardy and moral dilemmas in conducting research in ‘risky’ environments. Contemporary Social Science, 13(3–4), 305–322. https://doi.org/10.1080/2158204 1.2017.1388463 Mehmood, S. (2019, August 17). The challenges of conducting fieldwork in a place you call home [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://anthrodendum. org/2019/08/17/the-­c hallenges-­o f-­c onducting-­f ieldwork-­i n-­a -­p lace-­ you-­call-­home/ Sherry, E. (2013). The vulnerable researcher: Facing the challenges of sensitive research. Qualitative Research Journal, 13(3), 278–288. https://doi. org/10.1108/QRJ-­10-­2012-­0007 Sue, D. W. (1993). Confronting ourselves: The white and racial/ethnic-­minority researcher. The Counseling Psychologist, 21(2), 244–249. https://doi. org/10.1177/0011000093212008 Taylor, J. (2011). The intimate insider: negotiating the ethics of friendship when doing insider research. Qualitative Research, 11(3), 3–22. https://doi. org/10.1177/1468794110384447

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United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). (2017). Protecting academic freedom is as relevant as ever. Retrieved from https://en.unesco.org/news/protecting-­academic-­freedom-­relevant-­ever Whitaker, T. (2019). How prostitution and sex work created conflict in public discourses in Dublin. In P. Collins, V. Igreja, & P. A. Danaher (Eds.), The nexus among place, conflict and communication in a globalising world (pp. 99–120). Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan.

21 Reconstructing Researchers at Risk and Risky Research: Some Answers to the Organising Questions Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher

Introduction This chapter concludes this book about researchers at risk and the precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty that researchers face when carrying out their academic investigations. Their voices have been heard within the pages of this book. Building on those voices, this chapter represents selected responses to the eight organising questions that were outlined in Chap. 1: 1. What are the different kinds of risk that contemporary researchers encounter when conducting their research? 2. Why do some researchers encounter risk, and what are the effects of that risk on the successful conduct of their research? 3. How can researchers engage effectively and ethically with the risks attending their research?

D. L. Mulligan (*) • P. A. Danaher University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6_21

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4. How do researchers at risk navigate the world after completion of their research? 5. Which specific strategies are effective in assisting researchers to engage with the risks that they face, and why are those strategies effective? 6. Which roles are played by other stakeholders (such as doctoral supervisors, ethics review committees and university policy-makers) in supporting researchers to engage with the risks that they encounter? 7. What do researchers’ precarious positions signify about the character, possibilities and limitations of contemporary research? 8. How can researchers’ uncertain enquiries contribute to reconceptualising and reimagining the work and identities of contemporary scholars? When considering and reconnecting with these eight inquiries, it is appropriate to revisit the four parts that framed the conceptual foundation of the book: • Chapter 1 orientated the reader and presented a variety of conceptualisations of researchers’ risks and of strategies for engaging with those risks. • Part I focused on risks related to the internal dimension of researchers (researchers’ identities). • Part II engaged with risks related to the external dimension of researchers (researchers’ professions). • Part III dealt with risks related to the research topic (subject matter). • Part IV explored risks related to the research setting (conflict-laden locations). • Chapter 20 presented a provocation in the form of an essay that explored the concept of the researcher as a vulnerable agent.

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 elected Themes Arising from the Preceding S Chapters’ Content This understudied and undervalued topic elicits a vast array of risks that researchers (along with the participants in their research) may encounter as they journey through the research process. These include a list such as the following: • • • • • • • •

Emotional risk Mental risk Personal risk Physical risk Professional risk Reputational risk Spiritual risk Wellbeing risk

When compiling this list, the editors are fully cognisant that this is not a complete representational depiction of the precarious and nuanced situations that many researchers find themselves navigating. We further recognise that one category of risk is not exclusive to another. Indeed, many of them are interwoven and interconnected, as risk is such a multifaceted experience. With this complexity in mind, the editors have selected four themes from the preceding chapters that we feel do justice to the widely ranging and intensely personal issues traversed by the researchers as they courageously presented their lived experiences of the precariousness and dangerousness of conducting risky research: • An appreciation of the risks related to the internal dimensions of researchers—that is, researcher identities. • An acknowledgement of the risks related to the external dimensions of researchers—that is, researcher professions. • An acceptance of the risks related to the research topic—that is, subject matter.

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• An awareness of the risks related to the research setting—that is, conflict-­laden locations.

Researcher Identities In Chap. 2, Dr Anonymous persuasively began the contributions to this book by recounting her doctoral experience through the lens of a sex worker. She wrote about the marginalisation experienced by workers in the sex industry and of the discrimination that they encounter in mainstream society in the form of a lack of access or limited access to finances, internet platforms, housing, health, justice, education, travel and immigration. The author highlighted the plight of the academic practising sex worker and the multiple risks that she navigated whilst performing her doctoral study. In Chap. 3, Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede explored topical, interpersonal and methodological risk in collaborative research relationships. Applying the notion of a relational association, they contended that collaborative research represents an environment of substantial risk. The chapter used autoethnography, poetry, art and photography to explore research as “risky business”. They asserted that, when a shared framework and language are embraced, collaborative research has the potential for co-learning, eliciting new knowledge and perspectives. They argued that such collaborative research necessitates openness, honesty, respect and commitment, and that, while challenging, such research can be transformative. In Chap. 4, Irina Lokhtina and Mark A. Tyler presented a conceptual model for the exploration of academic identity, which is in a multifaceted relationship with academics’ experiences of precarious working conditions. The chapter adopted the concept of reflexivity, and posited it as a means to examine the identity of academics at risk, and how they re-­ image themselves through “inner conversations” in response to neoliberal influences. This work contributes to the literature about the varying sense of academic wellbeing, and it helps to elucidate proactive strategies that academics develop in order to sustain their wellbeing and to ameliorate an expressed sense of reduced agency.

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In Chap. 5, Rian Roux explored the potential of disorientation, the process of transformation and the challenges associated with researching a topic in which one is personally invested. The author found that, when reflecting on these experiences is applied to deeply held values and beliefs, the academic landscape can be precarious, and that there can be significant emotional and psycho-social consequences of undergoing transformative learning. It is in this space that the identity and occupation of the researcher interact in significant ways, thus raising important questions relating to reflexive practice. The author asked himself the question, “Have I considered the potential personal cost involved in my research; and am I prepared to maintain a professional degree of critical distance from my subject matter, allowing the evidence to guide me and my colleagues to challenge me?” In Chap. 6, Deborah L. Mulligan reminded us that not all researchers begin their doctoral journeys from a position of physical, spiritual and emotional stability. The author provided an evocative autoethnographic account of her traumatic lived experience, and of the impact that it had on her decision to begin a Doctorate of Philosophy. She offered this storytelling as a means of expanding the knowledge base around the much underrated sensitivities of the research practitioner. This position of insider knowledge enabled her to present the lessons learnt from her journey as a series of strategies that may help others to engage with the risk for the researcher associated with experiencing the pressures involved in the multifaceted effects of ongoing traumatic loss, coupled with the pressures of producing a valuable and rigorous body of scholarship.

Researcher Professions In Chap. 7, Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón presented the reader with an insight into the financial and mental health precariousness of research students in Spain. They suggested that, even though research seems to be an appealing professional path for young graduates with salient academic records, it is fraught with risk. The authors contended that young researchers often face a number of substantial obstacles at the beginnings of their careers, including being exposed to job

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insecurity and other economic risks. Even those with scholarships receive low incomes that sometimes barely cover their minimum needs. Moreover, the stress associated with the lack of future prospects often leads to unusually high rates of mental health issues. The authors discussed the problems that doctoral students and other young researchers face on a daily basis in the context of Spanish universities. Their comprehensive review suggested that the future of research may be compromised by the lack of job security and poor care for the welfare of young researchers. In Chap. 8, Lara McKenzie examined precarity in relation to emerging risks to early career researchers’ careers, as well as to research itself, in Australia. She argued that it is widely accepted that academics are increasingly at risk of losing their jobs (or of never gaining jobs), thus fostering fear and compliance in the face of growing contingency. The author focused on the precarious positioning of employed Australian early career researchers working on short-term, low-paid contracts. Based on fieldwork undertaken in three Australian universities, she explored how these precarious academics experience and conceive of risks in, and to, their research. Her chapter drew on interviews, participant observation of career development workshops and “advice literature” targeted at early career academics. In Chap. 9, Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek and Gerrit Weitzel reminded the reader that the future is a time of risk in that it is uncertain. The authors suggested that, whatever we want from life, we must plan on the bedrock of today’s knowledge, which is insufficient and flawed, but the only knowledge at hand. Concentrating on the uncertainty in academia in Germany, the authors developed a theoretical framework in which they conceptualised the future as a hyper-­ phenomenon, a form of transcendence that needs to be bridged by symbolic representations. They argued that “career” and its planning must be considered such a symbolic representation, inherently a set of strategies by which the actor masters time. In this context, they presented a typology of different ways of dealing with the uncertainty of life in the academy. In Chap. 10, David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi and Melissa T. Sasso explored how researchers, when conducting sensitive inquiries, could face many risks within an institution of higher education, a research think tank or another agency, drawing their examples from the United

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States. They suggested that researchers need to take on more of a leadership role when conducting studies that might be too risky for others, while other complacent researchers explore repetitive and irrelevant issues. They hypothesised that status quo researchers remain within a safe course of action and never address some of the most important, yet sensitive, issues, which include problems facing organisations, communities and even possible medical breakthroughs. The authors entreated researchers to combine leadership strategies with research to take risks. In doing so, they will advance their competitive edge in grants, and uncover solutions to problems facing our societies, politics and world events.

Subject Matter In Chap. 11, Gerrit Weitzel outlined the results of participatory observation in a Salafist educational seminar. The host was a Salafist group that organised itself at several universities in large German cities. The author was asked to take part in a survey about the willingness to make sacrifices. After the survey, he was invited to present the results. The theme of the evening was the question of Muslim life in the capitalist system. Through his lived experience with the group, the author provided an insight into the life of a Salafi group, and he reconstructed the knowledge gleaned from his presentation and the subsequent discussion. The chapter further provided reflections on his interactions with the group regarding self-revelation. In Chap. 12, Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser focused on the risks associated with enacting feminist and multispecies research within the confines of the neoliberal academy. They particularly targeted qualitative research about love and abuse. The authors highlighted both the risks to researchers and the opportunities to create alliances that pursue transformative social change. Their central argument was that the neoliberal university is implicated in the reproduction of colonialism, speciesism, sexism, heterosexism and so on. Unless care, solidarity and empathic connection can be packaged into saleable goods, they are liable to be dismissed as irrelevant. In this context, critically inclined researchers face several impediments and layers of risk. The authors considered these

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risks, and others, from their position as working class, vegan feminists who focus on love for and abuse of other species. In Chap. 13, Jacqui Hoepner reflected on lessons from her own experience with precarity and risk throughout—and following—her doctoral research. Despite her best, naïve intentions, anti-wind lobbyists and a major Australian newspaper ultimately sabotaged her attempts to interview those suffering from “wind turbine syndrome”—ill health reported among some people who live near wind farms. In the aftermath, she realised that many researchers working in risky fields have found themselves on the receiving end of much worse silencing, abuse and threats. Through interviews, she gathered their stories and found disturbing patterns: conflict of interest accusations, claims of misconduct or unethical behaviour, public attacks and institutional reprimand were common. An embargo on her thesis prompted questions around the ideal versus the everyday practice of academic freedom. In Chap. 14, Susan Janelle Moore addressed the issue of critical inquiry into sensitive social problems requiring risk-taking by researchers and research participants alike. Detailed in this chapter were insights into risks as experienced by the scholar within a study involving Aboriginal participants in remote Australia. She posited that research is both personal and political, requiring researchers to move deftly between each realm as they negotiate their legitimacy as agents of social change through this medium. Rather than avoiding personal vulnerability, the scholar can navigate personal and professional risks positively. Arguably, through actively embracing the knot of discomfort associated with risk-taking, researchers open themselves to deeper engagement with Aboriginal participant voice and expertise, thereby discovering innovative solutions to complex problems.

Conflict-Laden Locations In Chap. 15, Syed Owais provided a reflective account of the professional and reputational risks that he encountered after sharing his Doctorate of Philosophy research findings with the Frontier Organisation for Rural Development (FORDP), the non-government organisation in Pakistan

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at which his fieldwork was conducted. FORDP’s management provided feedback by writing a three-page letter to the British university where he was enrolled. The letter stated that FORDP’s management was “horrified by the experience” as “the report raises serious ethical, methodological, analytical generalisations and wider learning issues”. As a result, the university withheld its decision for the conferral of his doctoral degree for eight months. The chapter analysed the broader issues of research risk arising from this personal experience. In Chap. 16, Paola Colonello discussed the choice of coping responsibly with risk, instead of avoiding or minimising it. She advanced the idea that this action could be an opportunity to increase knowledge, and to learn more about the risk itself. In this regard, the author hypothesised that ethnographers should instead acquire specific skills, such as the awareness of one’s personal and imposed limits; the capacities of mediation and overview; care of and respect for interlocutors, and of and for the laws of the host country; the ethics of research; and a sufficient dose of transparency of intentions that allows the researchers to be considered trustworthy. This chapter explained what could occur during fieldwork in countries where cultural conflicts and political pressures can create precarious and dangerous conditions for the researcher. It recounted the author’s experiences in Iran and Iranian Balūchistān. In Chaps. 17 and 18, Nikki Jamieson and Anne L. Macdonald each discussed the relationship between their respective research projects with the Australian veteran community and the concept of moral injury, which is a relatively new term in the lexicon of harms that can be inflicted on those serving in the military. Such injuries can incur significant psychological and emotional harm, yet little is known about moral injury in the context of the Australian military. These two chapters documented the struggles of two researchers striving separately to add to this body of knowledge, and outlined the difficulties involved in their research—in the first case, the doubts and uncertainties raised by the journey through the military human ethics review committee; and in the second case, the pushback and harassment from the population being studied. In both cases, a lack of trust in the researchers was the core issue, and posed the greatest threat to the continuation of the projects.

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In Chap. 19, Zibah Nwako explored her roles as reflexive researcher, scholar and a blend of advocate and activist. The chapter illustrated the ways in which she managed to redefine and reconceptualise her study through navigating relationships in the face of cultural, political and environmental challenges. Conducting research in certain West African societies deemed as patriarchal poses risks for women owing to gender inequalities, stereotypes and male-dominated influences. Her study explored the subjective wellbeing of female undergraduate students in higher education, resulting in an emphasis not only on personal and mental risks for the participants, but also on professional and reputational risks for herself as the researcher. Mitigating these risks involved decisions about the epistemological approach of postcolonial feminist theory and the participatory methodologies used in the study. In Chap. 20, Deborah L.  Mulligan examined the multidimensional concepts involved in the notion of risky research. She contended that ethics applications focus mostly on the risks to research stakeholders, and are directed at participant wellbeing and beneficial intent. However, there is a growing recognition that researchers themselves are at times confronted by ethical risks in the form of physical, mental and/or spiritual challenges. She raised the point of view that currently discussion of this topic is in a fledgling state, and she proposed that the concept of the researcher as a vulnerable agent is an important one. Owing to the relational nature of most forms of investigations, increasingly researchers are either knowingly or unknowingly placing themselves in hazardous situations. Authentic research demands rigorous commitment and an obligation to perform in the best interests of the target participants, whether human or non-human.

 ligned Themes to Address the Book’s A Organising Questions In this section of the chapter, we build on the four themes explained and exemplified in the previous section, and we align them with the book’s eight organising questions. This textual approach is devised to synthesise

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responses to those questions that engage with some of the variety and complexity of the book’s preceding chapters. The editors also hope to invite readers to reconnect with those chapters, and thereby to experience a deeper level of that variety and complexity.

 hat Are the Different Kinds of Risk that W Contemporary Researchers Encounter When Conducting Their Research? How does one define risk to researcher identity? Our personal identity is deeply affected by various elements, including gender, ethnicity, lifestyle, religiosity and age. Thus, researcher identity/academic identity—as one of our many identities—is intrinsically bound to our philosophical assumptions about life at a certain life stage. Perhaps identity is the hardest hit of all of the facets of risk, as it cuts to the very heart of our researcher humanity. Consider Dr Anonymous and her struggle to forge an academic identity amidst the marginalisation and stigmatisation of her profession. Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede collaborated and revealed pieces of past lived experience that shaped their separate and shared academic identities. Irina Lokhtina and Mark A. Tyler offered a re-imaging of academic identity through their model based on scholarly inner conversations by way of reflections around the burden of the impact of neoliberalism. Rian Roux questioned the manner in which his personal identity has influenced his worldview and effectiveness as a researcher. Deborah L. Mulligan was conflicted about the trauma to her personal identity that seeped into her identity as an academic. Professional risk is measured by the hazards encountered when navigating the opinions and actions of other professionals both within and without a research area of expertise. Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón reflected on the economic and mental health risks of young researchers when considering their future (or lack thereof ) in their chosen careers. Similarly, Lara McKenzie explored the professional risks to early career researchers who are denied the security of permanency in their profession. Adding to this notion of precariousness in contemporary professionalism, Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek

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and Gerrit Weitzel offered a series of ideal types as a measure of dealing with career uncertainty. Relatedly, David B. Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi and Melissa T. Sasso presented a compelling discussion of professional risk-taking when researching sensitive topics. Environmental risks during fieldwork constitute a major barrier for the researcher. Gerritt Weitzel recounted the evening that he spent with a German Salafi group, and the accompanying reflections prompted by that evening that encapsulated broader complexities derived from the context of his research. Nik Taylor and Heather Fraser wrote about researching human–animal relationships and the professional obstacles that they have encountered when illustrating the moral imperative to recognise the impact of the abuse to which animals are subjected in neoliberal institutional settings. Jacqui Hoepner narrated the professional silencing that she endured when attempting to publish findings from her doctoral research fieldwork. Susan Janelle Moore described a respectful navigation of intercultural fieldwork when researching sensitive topics in an ethnically diverse region. Physical risks to individuals when conducting research in volatile conditions highlight issues around security and safety. Syed Owais discussed the precarity of researching in a third world country and the lack of support that he received to ensure his protection. Paola Colonello proposed a researcher “safety net” when carrying out an investigation in a conflict zone. Anne L. Macdonald considered the intimidation that she encountered when seeking to conduct research with Australian veterans, a complex situation related to external events over which she had no control. Zibah Nwako recounted the physical dangers of being a female researcher studying women and girls in a male dominated, patriarchal environment. Deborah L. Mulligan reminded the reader that some things in life cannot be empirically measured. This applies to the effect of risk on those researchers who go beyond the normal boundaries of research praxis in order to highlight social injustice. She further elucidated the notion of the researcher as a vulnerable agent who, as such, should be ethically insured and protected in the same way that participants and funding bodies are safeguarded against undue or unforeseen risk.

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 hy Do Some Researchers Encounter Risk, and What W Are the Effects of that Risk on the Successful Conduct of Their Research? There are instances when researchers, owing to political and/or institutional bias, cannot avoid becoming embroiled in a risky circumstance that is not of their making. Yet they are forced to navigate this environment in order to produce an ethical and authentic body of research. Such was the example of Dr Anonymous, who entered her field from a position of marginalisation, and who was preyed upon by a male in a position of authority. The stigma associated with her profession as a sex worker presented multiple barriers to her research in the form of the recruitment of willing supervisors and participants, media over-interest, managing personal and doctoral life, and a lack of financial support. In a different way, Zibah Nwako encountered political bias in Nigeria, where there is a decided power imbalance between men and women. Her research triggered potential threats to herself and the participants in her research. In order to contain these risks, she carefully managed meeting venues based on the knowledge of safe spaces that her participants shared.

 ow Can Researchers Engage Effectively and Ethically H with the Risks Attending Their Research? Intercultural studies broaden our perspectives and alert us to the value of otherness gleaned from researching beyond our immediate environments. Interaction with those who have different lifestyles and beliefs from our own presents ethical challenges that the researcher must navigate with sensitivity and an open mind. Susan Janelle Moore detailed her experience when researching with Australian Aboriginal people, and she implored her fellow researchers to accept the unknown circumstances encountered when risk-taking in a foreign environment. From a different perspective, Nikki Jamieson elaborated her efforts to secure ethics approval for her research with Australian veterans about the highly charged issue of veteran suicides. Her chapter highlighted the concomitant responsibilities of institutional bodies to work closely with individual scholars in order to maximise the ethical soundness of proposed research projects.

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 ow Do Researchers at Risk Navigate the World After H Completion of Their Research? What insights do researchers who have been placed (either deliberately or accidentally) at risk during their research carry with them upon completion of that research project? Paola Colonello conjectured that strategising about and surviving risky research environments enables researchers opportunities to reflect on unpredictability, and to deliberate upon the knowledge gained in the field, thereby creating a more purposeful understanding of themselves and of the risk itself.

Which Specific Strategies Are Effective in Assisting Researchers to Engage with the Risks that They Face, and Why Are Those Strategies Effective? Effective strategies employed by the researcher facilitate the completion of an investigation in a timely and successful manner. Deborah L. Mulligan reflected on the burden of trauma that she carried prior to beginning her doctoral study. She offered the reader learnings from her lived experience that enabled her, if not to overcome her feelings of grief and loss, then certainly to manage them in a way that enabled her to carry out her research and to produce a rigorous and authentic thesis. From a different perspective, Jochem Kotthaus, Karsten Krampe, Andrea Piontek and Gerrit Weitzel presented a number of ideal types and associated strategies for constructing knowledge in particular research fields.

Which Roles Are Played by Other Stakeholders (Such as Doctoral Supervisors, Ethics Review Committees and University Policy-Makers) in Supporting Researchers to Engage with the Risks that They Encounter? The production of knowledge in a research setting is seldom achieved by an individual working unaided. Research is not produced in a vacuum.

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Often it is through the support of other stakeholders that researchers bring their studies to fruition when they begin from a position of precariousness. Dawne Fahey and Deborah Cunningham Breede exemplified the support and efficacy that a strong collaboration between two researchers with similar life experiences can deliver to a research project. Likewise, Deborah L. Mulligan recalled that, without the support of her supervisors, her thesis may not have been completed. However, not all researchers are supported by their funding institutions. In these cases, other stakeholders may erect barriers to the timely production and publication of the doctoral thesis. Such was the case with Jacqui Hoepner, whose university actively worked against the publication of her thesis. Similarly, Syed Owais recounted the professional and reputational risks to which he was subjected when the organisation that had sponsored his study raised concerns about his research.

 hat Do Researchers’ Precarious Positions Signify W About the Character, Possibilities and Limitations of Contemporary Research? Issues to do with identity, self-narration, mental health and career derailment are just a few of the characteristics of researchers at risk. Rian Roux spent a considerable portion of his adult life pondering his philosophical assumptions about life and faith and the manner in which these doubts can be woven into his doctoral thesis as an authentic expression of his doctoral research. Israel Martínez-Nicolás and Jorge García-Girón expressed concern over the future of early career researchers in Spain and the institutional support deficit in their career trajectories. They eloquently discussed the resultant mental health risks attending these researchers.

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 ow Can Researchers’ Uncertain Enquiries Contribute H to Reconceptualising and Reimagining the Work and Identities of Contemporary Scholars? The reimagining of leadership and the activist roles of researchers have been presented in a number of contributions. David B.  Ross, Gina L. Peyton, Vanaja Nethi and Melissa T. Sasso presented a case for ethical leadership when conducting sensitive enquiries. A call to activism and the continuation of the act of advocating for marginalised and oppressed groups was likewise articulated by Dr Anonymous and Zibah Nwako.

Conclusion As was alluded to in the beginning of this chapter, the notion of risk is multifaceted and interwoven. It is also subjective in that it is influenced by reactions to individual lived experience. Thus, what constitutes risk for one researcher may not do so for another. With this in mind, the editors humbly acknowledge the courage of the authors in revealing their personal stories and wish them well with their future research endeavours. More widely, and building on the selected responses to the book’s eight organising questions distilled above, this volume’s focus on researchers at risk, and on the accompanying phenomena of precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty in academia, elicits broader questions about the academic and research environments of contemporary universities, and also about the research methods that researchers working in those environments deploy. Regardless of whether the risks that individual researchers encounter pertain to their identities, their professions, the subject matter of their research and/or researching in conflict-laden locations, it is clear that there are serious and significant systemic and often global challenges that these researchers need to confront. It is equally clear that such researchers need to be able to employ a wide range of effective conceptual, methodological and practical strategies if they are to survive, and even to thrive, in these challenging environments.

Index

A

Aboriginal, 209–229 Abuse, 179–190 Academic freedom, 196, 203–206, 318, 319 Academic identities, 55–66 Academic misconduct enquiry, 196, 204 Academic work, 116 Academic workplaces, 57 Activist, 295–307 Actors at risk, 200–202 Advocacy, 22 Advocate, 295–307 Afghanistan, 280–282 Africa, 299 Agency, 29, 56, 57, 273 Al-Salah, 165, 167, 172 Al-Salih, 165, 167, 169 Altruism, 273 Anonymity, 300, 301

Anti-wind lobbyists, 195 Anxiety, 104, 106, 108–111 Assumptions, 71, 72, 74, 76–78 Australia, 12, 13, 15, 21–31, 55–66, 85–97, 115–125, 179–190, 198, 199, 205, 206, 209–229, 263–266, 270, 273, 274, 281, 283 Australian Defence Force (ADF), 265–266, 280, 282–284, 286–287 Australian Department of Veterans’ Affairs, 282 Australian Special Air Services Regiment, 280 Authentic, 80, 82 Autoethnography, 36, 37, 41, 43–46, 49, 85, 196 Awareness, 250, 259, 260 Axiology, 76–77

© The Author(s) 2021 D. L. Mulligan, P. A. Danaher (eds.), Researchers at Risk, Palgrave Studies in Education Research Methods, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-53857-6

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344 Index B

Baluchism, 255–257 Balūchistān, 249–260 Beliefs, 71, 73–77, 82, 94 Biography, 135, 136, 139 Brigading, 285, 288 Bullying, 152, 158 C

Career, 131–144 Challenges, 71–73, 75, 79, 81, 82, 312, 313, 316, 319–321 Child sexual abuse, 209, 211, 213, 215, 218, 223, 224 Civilian researchers, 279, 287 Collaborative research, 36–39, 44, 47 Colonial legacy, 238, 243 Communication, 264, 275 Community challenges, 320 Compassion, 37 Competition, 139 Confidentiality, 300, 301 Confirmation of Candidature, 90, 91 Conflict, 152–154 Conflict-laden locations, 328, 330, 334–336 Conflict of interest accusations, 195, 202 Constructivist grounded theory (CGT), 210, 212–214, 217, 222, 224, 225 Contested research fields, 199 Convictions, 75, 77, 78, 81, 82 Corrupt environments, 321 Courage, 225 Cultural conflicts, 256, 257, 260

Culture, 211, 213, 215, 216, 219, 221, 222, 224, 228, 229 Curiosity, 148 Cyprus, 55–66 D

Dangerous, 311–323 Data gathering, 93 Death, 86–88, 91, 92, 94, 95 Decision-making, 148, 149, 153–155 Decisions, 311–323 Deconstruction, 78, 79 Depression, 104, 108–111 Dialectics, 37 Dilemmas, 151–155 Disclosure risks, 25–27 Discrimination, 21, 27–29 Disorientation, 73, 77–79 Distress, 264, 267, 272, 275, 279, 280, 286–287 Dis/trust, 264, 269, 271, 273–275, 279, 282, 283, 285, 287 Doctoral student/s, 106, 107 Doctoral supervisor/s, 89 E

Early career researcher/s, 115–125 Economic risk, 109 Education, 250, 254, 257–259 Embodied empathy, 200 Embodiment, 201 Emotion, 37, 39, 41 Emotional, 147, 148, 151, 152 Emotional risk, 4, 329 Emotional safety, 272–273

 Index 

Emotional wellbeing, 285 Emotions, 86, 87 Environmental risk, 338 Environment/s, 4, 5 Epistemology, 76–77 Ethical, 151, 152, 154–156 Ethical decision-making, 209, 225 Ethical dilemma/s, 4 Ethics, 263–275, 306, 312–314, 316 Ethics approval, 264, 270 Ethics codes, 266, 274 Ethics committees, 266–272, 275 Ethnicity, 320, 321 Ethnographic research, 249–260 Evidence, 72, 73, 75 F

Faculty, 147, 148, 156, 157 Faith, 71–83 Family, 315, 322 Fear, 147–150, 152, 156–158, 251, 252, 256, 257 Fieldwork, 320, 321 Friendship as method, 42 Future, 133–142, 144

345

Health, 89–91, 94, 95, 148, 150, 153, 158 Hegemony, 7 Higher education, 55–57, 60, 63, 64, 66, 116, 119, 125, 147, 149, 150, 156–158 Higher education institution, 55, 60 Hyperculture, 174 I

Identity, 5, 9, 11–13, 88, 89, 91, 97, 256, 257 Identity fusion, 287 Ideology, 173 Imposter syndrome, 91, 94 In-groups, 287 Inner conversations, 58, 60–63, 65, 66 Insecurity, 233, 237, 239, 240 Insider knowledge, 85 Insider research, 313–317 Intellectual property, 199 Intercultural, 209–229 Interest groups, 196 Interpersonal communication, 45 Islam, 167, 169–173, 175, 258 Isolation, 27, 30

G

Gender, 186, 316, 320, 321 Gender justice, 296, 298, 306 Germany, 131–144, 168, 175 Grief work, 85–97

J

Jeopardy, 327, 342 Job insecurity, 111, 118

H

K

Harassment, 22, 23, 201, 282, 284–286, 288–290 Harm, 280

Knowledge, 132–138, 142, 143 Knowledge dissemination, 27–29 Knowledge production, 21

346 Index L

Labour, 123 Labour conditions, 104 Layered account, 39 Leader/s, 147–158 Leadership, 149, 154, 155, 157, 158 Legitimacy, 214–217, 226 Lived experience, 39, 46 Love, 179–190

Neoliberalism, 56, 57, 59, 60, 63, 64, 117, 179, 181–184, 187, 189 Neoliberal practices, 62–66 Network/s, 88, 95–97 New Zealand, 179–190 Nigeria, 295, 296, 298, 306 Non-disclosure, 27 Northern Territory, 209–213, 223 O

M

Macro, 6, 8 Map, 249–260 Marginalisation, 22, 25 Marginalised communities, 7 Marginalised individuals, 4 Martyrdom, 170–173 Men, 90–93, 95 Mental health, 23, 263, 266, 267, 271–275, 322 Mental health risk, 103–112 Mental risk, 4, 329, 336, 337, 341 Meso, 6, 8 Micro, 6, 8 Militarised masculinity, 279, 288 Military trauma, 263 Misrepresentation, 322 Mobbing, 153, 158 Modernity, 131, 133–136, 138–140 Moral code, 320 Moral dissonance, 275 Moral injury, 263–265, 270, 271, 275, 279–290 Mothering, 86, 89, 94, 97 N

Narrative, 39, 44, 46–48, 51, 218 Navigating risk, 209, 212, 219

Objectivity, 30, 199 Online research, 283, 285 Ontology, 76–77 Open minded, 73, 75, 78, 81, 82 Otherness, 260 Out-groups, 287 P

Pakistan, 233–235, 237–241, 243, 244 Pakistani universities, 234, 237–239, 243 Paradigmatic differences, 10, 11 Participant recruitment, 25, 199, 284 Participant/s, 3, 4, 6–8, 10, 15 Participatory research, 296, 300, 306 Pashtun social structure, 242 Patience, 94 Patriarchy, 298 Performativity, 59, 64 Periphery, 257 Personal risk, 4, 15, 329, 334, 336 Pet/s, 95 Physical risk, 4, 329, 338 Polarisation, 201 Political, 296–298, 306, 307 Political challenges, 320

 Index 

Positionality, 271–272 Positioning, 196, 198, 200 Postcolonial feminism, 300 Postcolonialism, 295 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), 282, 287 Power, 210, 213–219, 221, 222, 225, 229, 268, 272, 273, 275 Power relations, 63 Precarious, 3–17 Precarity, 115–125, 195, 206, 311–323, 327, 332, 334, 338, 342 Professional risk, 4, 329, 334, 336–338 Protection, 218, 222, 224, 229 Provocation, 311–323 Purposeful living, 88, 97 Q

Qualitative research, 125, 270, 271, 273 Quantitative research, 271, 282, 289 R

Radicalization, 172 Real world, 319 Reconstruction, 79 Reflexivity, 47, 57, 58, 60, 61, 63, 65, 83, 198–199, 201, 211–213, 225, 226 Relationships, 3–7, 86, 88–90, 92 Remote Australia, 209, 219, 225, 226 Remote community, 220, 223, 228 Reputation, 147, 148, 150–153, 158, 302, 306 Reputational risk, 4, 329, 334, 336, 341

347

Research as relationship, 37 Research design, 199 Researcher challenges, 320–322 Researcher reputation, 285 Researcher risks, 327, 328, 337, 340–342 Researcher/s, 147–158 Researcher safety, 243 Researcher silencing, 29 Researchers’ identities, 328 Researchers’ professions, 328 Research ethics, 266, 268, 275 Research methods, 116, 123, 125 Research questions, 202 Research risk/s, 22, 30, 195, 203, 206 Research silencing, 195–206 Research subject matter, 328, 329 Risk, 115–125 Risk aversion, 274 Risk management, 274 Risk of being labelled as a failure, 234 Risk/s, 3–17, 147–158 Risk-taking, 148–154, 209–229 Risky research, 327–342 Role models, 95 Rural communities, 198 S

Safe spaces, 218 Salafi group, 165–176 Salafism, 166–169, 172 Self, 131–134, 136–140, 142 Self-disclosure, 35–51 Self-isolation, 97 Self-pity, 241, 244 Sensitive research, 155–157, 263–275 Sensitive topics, 147–151, 153, 156–158

348 Index

Sexism, 321 Sexual assault, 36, 39, 41–43, 48 Sexuality, 186 Sex work, 21–31 Shame, 23, 265, 282, 285, 286, 288 Shift, 249, 251, 257 Silencing behaviours, 202, 203 Situated, 9 Social media, 282, 284, 288, 289 Social science, 313, 319, 320 Social work, 210–212, 216, 218, 222–225 Solo researchers, 3 Spain, 104–106, 108, 112 Spiritual risk, 4, 329 Stigma/s, 21–31 Strategies, 4–6, 8–12, 16, 17 Stress, 104, 106–111, 150, 152, 153, 157 Structural conditions, 196 Suicidality, 264, 265, 271, 272 Suicide, 263–268, 270–275 Suspicion, 251, 256, 257, 279, 280, 282, 289 T

Tensions, 209, 211, 212, 223–225 Thesis embargo, 196 Threats, 283, 284, 286–288, 290 Time, 131–144 Transformative learning, 71–83 Transitional status, 136 Trauma, 39, 43, 44, 48, 85–97, 195, 200 Trust, 37, 41–45, 47, 200, 201, 264, 269, 271, 275 Truth, 72, 75, 76 Types of risk, 133–136

U

Uncertainty, 131–144, 327, 332, 335, 338, 342 Unconscious bias, 223 United States, 147–158 Universe/s of meaning, 135, 137–139, 143, 144 Universities, 116, 118–121, 125 V

Values, 71, 73, 75–78, 82 Veterans, 263–275, 279–290 Volatile environments, 321 Vulnerabilities, 22, 31, 203, 205, 206, 263, 264, 288–289 Vulnerable, 7, 12, 313–318 Vulnerable agent, 328, 336, 338 W

Wellbeing, 55–66, 295–297, 299–307 Wellbeing risk, 4, 329 West Africa, 295, 298, 299 Wind farms, 195–198, 200–202 Wind turbine syndrome, 195, 196, 198 Women, 295–300, 303, 306 Work, 115–124 Working class, 180 Worldview, 72, 74, 79 Y

Youth movements, 168