Studying conflict-related sexual violence: What does it mean for researchers’ well-being?

Anger and frustration

Respondents’ anger and frustration appear largely prompted by systems of abuse and inequality that foster CRSV, as well as the inability or unwillingness of policymakers to respond effectively. ⁶ For example, Anika remarked: ‘It was [. . .] frustrating to realize how [little] will there was/is to improve the situation of survivors and hold perpetrators accountable’. ⁷ Similarly, Jules reported being distressed and angry about the ‘apathy of those with power to address the violence [and the] disinterest of [the] international community to respond’. Both articulate the anger and frustration that is directed outward toward others’ unwillingness or inability to end CRSV and care for those affected. When confronted with the prevalence and severity of sexual violence in conflict, and the damage such violence does to survivors, perpetrators and entire communities, it is easy to understand scholars’ frustration over domestic and international actors’ inaction.

However, 20% of all respondents also expressed helplessness, guilt and frustration over their own inability to intervene on behalf of or provide direct, meaningful relief to those suffering. This was more common among those whose research methods included direct contact with CRSV survivors.

The kinds of emotional responses shared by our respondents are common among practitioners and ‘pr-academics’ who provide legal, social or healthcare services to victims of sexual or gender-based violence (Campbell, 2002; Nikischer, 2019; Voth Schrag et al., 2022). CRSV scholars are, however, distinct from practitioners and ‘helping’ professionals in that they are not able or trained to provide direct assistance or services to study participants. Coles et al. (2014) hypothesize that the risk of what they call secondary trauma may be greater for researchers of sexual violence than for clinicians precisely because researchers are not in a position to provide treatment or other services to reduce survivors’/study participants’ suffering.

As a practitioner-turned academic, Andrea Nikischer’s reflections are particularly insightful here. She writes:

In my previous work, I offered the survivors I worked with something meaningful to them, such as counseling, advocacy, information and/or referrals. [Working with research participants like] Kim [. . .] was different. She was giving to me, and I was taking her story to inform my research. She was helping me to get my PhD, but I did not feel like I was giving her anything in return. [. . .] This notion that I was taking from women who had already been victimized was deeply troubling. It compounded the feelings of distress [. . .] Whereas therapeutic professionals can potentially see their work directly benefit their clientele, [. . .] researchers generally exit from their sites with the hope that the data will someday contribute to larger structural changes that will benefit all of society (2019: 910–911).

It is evident that CRSV scholars bring a deep thoughtfulness, care and reflexivity to their research. And, like Nikischer (2019), these values sometimes raised difficult questions for our survey respondents regarding the ethics of continuing their CRSV work. Respondents shared how they struggled with the relative privileges they held in comparison to study participants, and their own (or more generally, academia’s) inability to affect change. Claire commented:

Going back and forth between my university and field site triggered a lot of anxiety and stress around the ethics of my research and the ethics of my presence in the field, especially being in academia with little money or power to apply the research and genuinely advocate for real change.

Some feelings of helplessness and the resultant frustration may be inevitable. As scholars, we exercise little control over the environments and issues we study. Moreover, even among other human rights crises, sexual violence appears particularly intractable. It is not unique to armed conflict and is seemingly difficult to prevent or end, even in peacetime.

Loneliness

Academic work is often solitary in nature and may entail frequent travel, including prolonged periods of field research where scholars do not have access to their usual support systems. For our respondents, feeling isolated or lonely had more to do with their home institutions, disciplines or programs. CRSV is not ‘small talk material’ and several respondents reported feeling that colleagues could not relate to their work or research experiences, as Ava commented:

Others who are doing research (like other PhD students) do not understand what it is like to research a topic such as this. Their topics do not compel the level of personal and emotional involvement and response that this subject matter implies for the researcher. That was lonely at times as your student cohort cannot identify with why you are feeling ‘heavy’ after a day of reading rape testimonies, for example.

In some cases, scholars, like Ava, may choose to not discuss affective aspects of the research process with peers who they worry may not understand. In other cases, CRSV scholars experienced isolation and subsequent loneliness due to explicit efforts by colleagues to marginalize them or devalue their research. We discuss this latter point further in Institutional-level factors.

Fear and hypervigilance

Generally, our findings reflect those from prior studies on the effects of doing ‘sensitive’ research on researchers’ well-being. For example, Glasius et al. (2018) discuss the fear and paranoia that comes from working in authoritarian states, where researchers may be surveilled, harassed or subjected to violence by government agents. However, there may be some outcomes that are unique to, more pronounced, or take on particular qualities among those working on sexual and gender-based violence. Campbell (2002) finds studying sexual violence often increased researchers’ fearfulness and feelings of personal insecurity. She argues that ‘[i]nterviewing rape survivors challenges researchers’ beliefs about safety and justice; we learn, because we hear it over and over again, that the world is not safe for women’ (Campbell, 2002: 66).

While we did not ask our study participants about fears over their personal safety, several brought up this concern in their open-ended responses. For example, Marie commented: ‘sexual violence is an experience that many women have in their lives, that can happen to any woman at any time because it is not something that is unique to war’. Another respondent, Elise, wrote: ‘[l]earning about the prevalence of [gender-based violence] around the world made me feel very unsafe in my daily life’. Claire reflected on the pronounced gender inequality and prevalence of sexual and gender-based violence, including a harrowing incident where she witnessed and intervened to stop a sexual assault. Her feelings of insecurity were profound enough to prompt her to consider ending her fieldwork and research on CRSV.

In sum, our findings show that research-related distress manifests in different ways and with different impacts on personal and interpersonal dimensions. ⁸ Many of the experiences CRSV scholars report may be similar to those working on other grave human rights violations and suffering. However, as Marie, Elise and Claire note above, the ubiquity of sexual violence and harassment in many countries may make it more likely for CRSV scholars to feel their vulnerability daily, while other scholars of genocide, political imprisonment or torture may be at less risk of suffering such violence.

Researcher identities and positionalities

With few systematic studies on research-related distress, there is no conclusive evidence of differential risk among scholars of varied socio-demographic backgrounds. Among our respondents, we find no difference in the likelihood of reporting research-related distress based on age or race, or one’s relationship status, student or employment status. However, additional research with a larger sample is necessary before drawing definitive conclusions.

Some studies suggest that when researchers and research participants share attributes or life experiences, researchers may identify more with the participant, and as a result may experience greater negative emotional reactions to hearing participants’ narratives of violence or trauma. Particularly relevant here is a shared gender identity (cis woman) between scholars and victims of CRSV. This shared identity may help many researchers build a rapport with participants, but, as a few respondents noted in their qualitative feedback, it may also be a painful reminder of a shared risk of harm. For example, as described above, Marie discussed how distressing it was to be reminded of women’s constant vulnerability to sexual violence at any time, in any place. Her reflection continues: ‘This feeling was compounded by the revelations of #MeToo, when I spent my working time working on CRSV and would then go home to read about sexual harassment and sexual violence in women’s everyday lives’.

Similarly, scholars who have lived in countries affected by conflict may experience strong emotional reactions to narratives and imagery of conflict-related violence. If distance (physical or social) grants some protection against distress, we might expect scholars studying conflict-related violence in their countries of origin to be more at risk. For Ines, this positionality presented unique challenges:

I was doing research on my *own* conflict. This means that I was in a double position of coping with the conflict as a civilian and mother [. . .] and as a researcher that was gathering evidence about the daily experiences of other women [. . .] I live in a post-traumatic society. Genocide and war are part of my students’ and colleagues’ social and cultural repertoire. (Emphasis in original.)

Notably, Ines is the only respondent in our sample who is studying CRSV in their country of origin. There is a rich literature on researcher positionalities and its potential impacts on one’s scholarship (see Parashar, 2019; Porisky and Glas, 2023). While thorough consideration of this literature is beyond the scope of our study, we do not believe that scholars with shared identities or life experiences with the populations they work should be discouraged from engaging in CRSV research. Rather, being aware of the factors – including, but not limited to, one’s own positionality – that may contribute to research-related distress and finding the supports and resources to address it are key.

Repeated exposure to the details of violence and trauma

Unsurprisingly, working with traumatic or violent imagery and material is one of the principal factors associated with research-related distress (Whitt-Woosley and Sprang, 2018). Among CRSV scholars we surveyed who reported experiencing distress: more than a quarter attributed this to reading or hearing about others’ traumatic experiences and/or the details of acts of violence. The brutality of wartime violence is unsurprising, and one might suggest scholars should anticipate hearing upsetting and graphic narratives. Still, some respondents felt unprepared. They commented that their graduate coursework or other professional training had not exposed them to such graphic narratives of violence. Elias explained:

[T]he [. . .] graphic descriptions of sexual violence against both men and women that frequently accompany NGO advocacy documentation on the subject [caused me distress]. Whilst the academic literature obviously contains descriptions of specific acts of sexual violence, that still does not prepare you for the absolute brutality described by NGOs in their documentation.

That said, even among those with significant preparation, including prior experience working with trauma-affected populations, there was shock and pain at hearing or reading survivors’ testimonies.

Repeated exposure to traumatic content increases the risk of distress (Beale et al., 2004; Coles et al., 2014: 96–97; Coles and Mudaly, 2010: 58, 62–63; Wray et al., 2007). For example, Campbell (2002: 66) writes ‘[w]hereas individual cases [of rape] may have shocked or surprised us, unleashing specific bursts of fear or anger, it is the cumulative effect of hearing all of these stories that defines what it feels like to study rape’ (emphasis in original). Among CRSV scholars we surveyed, several commented on the distress caused by accumulating or amassing story after story of individual harms and having to face the enormous scale of sexual violence in war (and peace).

For example, for Ava the number of cases she investigated, and the enormity of the crisis was distressing:

[G]iven my long career in working with women victims, I had thought I had heard it all [. . .] then you sit with a PhD and read everything there is on sexual violence and you learn more [. . .] and more [. . .] and more about what is done to women and women’s bodies. It is like it is never ending and you get overwhelmed.

Prior studies note the risk presented by repeated exposure to traumatic content that comes through in-person contact with study participants, such as via interviews, focus groups or participant observation (Beale et al., 2004; Campbell, 2002; Coles and Mudaly, 2010; Lischer, 2021; Nikischer, 2019). Less commonly recognized is the risk posed by repeated exposure to the same kinds of content through desk research, document analysis (like that described by Elias above) or transcribing public hearings. In order to generate the Sexual Violence in Armed Conflict dataset, coders spent months reading thousands of US State Department and Amnesty International reports on countries’ human rights abuses (Cohen and Nordås, 2014). Such large-scale data collection projects require ‘double checking’ of how material is coded to demonstrate intra- and inter-coder reliability. In CRSV research, this requires a team to take on additional exposure to difficult source material. Moreover, the research process itself requires repeated and different modes of engagement with the material, from collecting and (re)analyzing data, writing, and presenting one’s work.

Twelve percent of the CRSV scholars we surveyed commented in their qualitative remarks that repeated exposure to descriptions of violence and trauma caused them to become desensitized. Rather than providing relief, feeling desensitized or numb compounded these researchers’ distress. Elias continued his reflection on the graphic content of NGO reports:

I believe I have become somewhat desensitized to the subject in recent years. Whilst graphic descriptions do still provoke a negative emotional response, this does not occur to the same extent as it has in previous years. However, this is also accompanied by some emotional turmoil stemming from an internal debate over whether this desensitization is a good thing or not.

Desensitization may be an inevitable outcome of repeated exposure to different kinds of CRSV data. But, as some of our respondents noted, this can come with its own negative feelings or worries. Some may fear being seen as uncaring or being judged for not responding ‘appropriately’ to grave human rights violations. To prepare for and normalize this possible reaction, we need to acknowledge that desensitization can occur at different stages in the research process.

Methodological and epistemological orientation

Most studies on research-related distress focus on qualitative, ethnographic and/or feminist research methods. Scholars engaged in interview-based research, focus groups or participant observation are likely to have frequent face-to-face interactions with study participants, sometimes over several years. Because such approaches often require a strong rapport between the researcher and study participants, the boundaries between the researcher and study participants may be more flexible, and more conversational and reciprocal interview styles may be adopted. Methodological and epistemological orientations that encourage connection over distance, subjectivity over objectivity, and reflexivity may therefore increase the risk of distress to researchers studying violence (Voth Schrag et al., 2022; Whitt-Woosley and Sprang, 2018).

However, reflecting on her own interview research, Inger reminds us that connection to study participants and approaches that aim to capture a fuller account of survivors’ lives may also provide relief from the distress caused from the endless collection of wartime trauma narratives. The author’s interviews with survivors of CRSV during the Bosnian war meant hearing stories about their lives before, during and after the conflict. The stories of CRSV were just one element of several experiences that defined study participants’ lives and who they were. For some interviewees, CRSV was foregrounded in their narratives about themselves, whereas for others it was in the background. Through these interviews, survivors became more complex individuals with multiple stories and experiences. Had her study been based on written or oral testimonies that focused only on their victimization (such as declarations made to criminal tribunals), the totality in which the survivors lived and situated themselves would have been harder to see. Reading about survivors’ CRSV experiences in isolation might be more traumatic than talking to survivors about these events in the broader context of their lives.

Michele’s work with archived testimonies from truth commissions and human rights organizations is illustrative here. Each testimony file provides a partial accounting of a person’s lived experience during war. The fixed nature of documentary evidence means that all the researcher can know about the person’s life is that which has already been committed to paper. In fact, some of her strongest emotional reactions came after reading sparse or incomplete records, where a family member was providing testimony about a disappeared loved one. It is hard to accept that a person’s life (at least insofar as what is recorded in the archives) could be reduced to a thin manila folder with a few sheets of paper and a 2- × 2-in. black-and-white photograph (see Figure 1). ⁹

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 1.

Sample archival record.

What is striking in this case file, as in so many of the testimonies provided to human rights organizations during active conflict, is the dearth of information. All we know of what happened to the victim is the single sentence written under ‘circumstances of their detention’. Michele often felt haunted by files whose incompleteness prevented any sense of resolution or the modicum of relief that may accompany closure. Conversely, for other scholars, fuller records that provide more detailed descriptions of the violence may cause greater distress (Fincham et al., 2008).

For her part, Kim reflected on her migration from legal representation of CRSV survivors as a practitioner to now studying systems of protection and accountability for communities affected by CRSV as an academic. In both spaces, she has combined in-person interviews with extensive documentary, legal and open-source research. This variety of stimuli may provide some internal respite: she notes that the weight of taking intimate testimonies from individual survivors for half of each week – documenting details of physical and psychological terror and the long-term impacts of their CRSV experience – often felt balanced by an equal measure of legal research. Motivationally, it also helped to work toward an asylum grant or a war crimes conviction. Now studying survivors’ access to healthcare and justice mechanisms more broadly, she combines desk research on statutes, case law and court records with interviews with service providers and policymakers who themselves work with CRSV survivors. Taking more of a population-based and systems-oriented lens to CRSV prevention and response is less emotionally taxing for Kim, though the impact of this work can feel more abstract.

Based on our survey data, CRSV scholars who engaged in primary document analysis, interviews, participant observation or focus groups were more likely to report feeling distressed ‘most of the time’ compared to those engaged in secondary document analysis, survey research or statistical analysis. However, the vast majority of CRSV scholars (87%) employed multiple methods and research approaches in their studies (see Table 5 in the Online Appendix for a complete breakdown). As a result, it is not possible to isolate the effect of any individual methodological approach on research-related distress.

Impacts of field research

Fieldwork as a methodology warrants closer discussion. It can present unique challenges to physical safety, well-being or mental health (Clark and Sousa, 2018; Glasius et al., 2018; Hummel and El Kurd, 2021). Scholars doing field research must contend with time and resource constraints, which can create pressure for them to ‘maximize the productive value’ of their trip at the expense of their well-being. At the same time, they are removed from their support systems, and sometimes working in ‘precarious’ fieldwork sites that pose significant risks to safety and well-being. ¹⁰

Fifty-three percent of the CRSV scholars we surveyed completed some fieldwork as part of their research, most of which was carried out in states in conflict, transitioning from a period of conflict to peace or experiencing a political transition. On average, respondents were in the field for 4.5 months, often over multiple trips.

CRSV scholars who conducted fieldwork were only slightly more likely than those who did not to say that they were distressed ‘most of the time’. However, some symptoms of emotional and physical distress – namely, loneliness, hypervigilance and having a heightened startle response – were particularly prevalent among those who did fieldwork. Due to data limitations, we cannot assess whether these differences are statistically significant or generalizable to all CRSV scholars. However, even our suggestive finding indicate that scholars and their supervisors should develop strategies to support researchers’ well-being and safety while in the field.

Researcher roles

Finally, researchers’ roles vary considerably across projects, teams and over time. Roles on a research project may include team supervisors, hired student research assistants, data coders and analysts, interpreters and interlocutors. These roles come with variable levels of power and security, as well as different forms of engagement with study participants and data. Each of these factors may affect one’s risk for research-related distress, and the willingness to communicate these to colleagues and supervisors. This is a grave concern for further recruitment to the field and should be a concern for senior faculty.

Academic cultures and poor institutional supports

It has been argued that academia is a masculinized space and one that increasingly reflects neoliberal ideologies, including hyper-individualism and the atomization of scholars and teachers (Clegg, 2001; Lund and Tienari, 2019; Smith and Ulus, 2020). These institutional characteristics may contribute directly to the high incidence of mental health disorders and physical illness among academics, including exhaustion and burnout (Bisaillon et al., 2020; Clark and Sousa, 2018: 1). They may simultaneously discourage individuals from discussing openly their experiences and/or seeking support for research-related distress (Butler-Rees, 2021; Smith and Ulus, 2020). In the neoliberal academy, institutional programs purportedly designed to support researcher well-being (if they exist at all) place responsibility on the individual to provide for their own wellness and care (e.g. workshops on stress and time management) and do little to reform the structural work conditions that may exacerbate distress (Hurd and Singh, 2021). Satterthwaite et al. (2019: 448) make similar critiques of some human rights practitioner spaces as well.

Many studies stress the importance of institutions or workspaces to destigmatize discussion of work-related distress by actively creating spaces for individuals to share openly their experiences (see Bisaillon et al., 2020; Satterthwaite et al., 2019; SVRI, 2015; Smith and Ulus, 2020). In our survey, we asked CRSV scholars what, if any, spaces were available in their disciplines or programs to speak about researcher well-being. Most respondents concurred that little space for such conversations existed. Ava replied simply: ‘NONE. None whatsoever’.

Participants indicated that conversations on researcher well-being occur irregularly and are not integrated and normalized in the academic community. Respondents also named the absence or marginalization of such spaces as contributing to others’ reluctance to report issues or seek support. For example, Marie commented: ‘I have rarely seen or heard people openly discuss specific challenges they have faced, which also inhibited me from openly speaking about some of the problems I have encountered’. Ava shared: ‘I would like to feel empowered and secure in saying out loud how hard my research is, the emotional toll it takes and to not experience any backlash or punitive measures for expressing that (given tenure concerns, etc.)’. Most academic programs do not encourage (and, as Ava noted, may actively disincentivize) researchers to openly discuss safety and well-being concerns.

Perhaps as a result, only 29% of CRSV scholars we surveyed said they ever spoke about their experiences regarding research-related distress in a public, professional venue. The vast majority did not view their colleagues, and much less their supervisors, as sources of support on such matters (see Tables 6 and 7 in the Online Appendix). Finally, almost one-third believed that those who do speak openly about their experiences were less likely to be seen as ‘serious’ scholars.

Scholars who belonged to feminist research communities represent a notable exception. These scholars commented on feminism’s greater reflexivity and openness to considering affective aspects of the research process. Irina explained:

There is some [space], as I think feminist IR is open to discussing the personal dimensions of the work. But it’s limited, as I think we still suffer from a ‘cowboy’ mentality in terms of putting ourselves at personal risk (physically, sexually, emotionally).

Unfortunately, feminist scholarship is still marginalized in some disciplines and programs. Consequently, early career scholars who have had less time to build professional networks may be particularly vulnerable if their home departments are unsupportive. Claire reported overt hostility from her department:

[There is] a lack of recognition of the importance of [CRSV] work. In my department and [. . .] more generally in my field (political science), I knew that this type of research and any research on gender was seen as unimportant. I want to give a few specific examples [. . .] On one occasion our then director of graduate studies referred to my research as ‘esoteric’ in front of a class of my peers; a person in my graduate cohort asked me if the reason I studied CRSV was because I was raped; and a [. . .] senior [. . .] faculty member in my department told me that feminists ‘belong on another planet’ while at a dinner with an outside faculty member who was invited to a workshop to present on CRSV. I felt as if I constantly had to defend the subject matter of my work, which was exhausting.

Claire’s narrative describes persistent mistreatment and professional misconduct. Ultimately, CRSV research became unsustainable for her, and she left the academy. When academic work environments are toxic, unsupportive or fail to recognize the impacts of CRSV research on scholars, it is much more likely that scholars will experience distress, not report problems when they arise and/or not seek services when needed (SVRI, 2015: 7).