Abstract
Emma Hutchison’s Affective Communities in World Politics: Collective Emotions After Trauma seeks to investigate how emotions underpin political communities. 1 The book contributes to a larger discussion about the role of emotion and trauma in international politics, and does a particularly good job of being attuned to the interdisciplinary nature of work on this subject. The role of trauma in understanding international relations is understudied and often misunderstood, Hutchison argues. Although there is a wide context of recent work on the subject, from Jenny Edkins’ seminal work Trauma and the Memory of Politics 2 to more recent edited collections such as Duncan Bell’s Memory, Trauma and World Politics: Reflection on the Relationship Between Past and Present 3 and Dovile Budryte and Erica Resende’s volume Memory and Trauma in International Relations: Theories, Cases, and Debates, 4 Hutchison draws on the recent ‘emotional turn’ to develop her discussion of trauma. Although much of the work on the memory of traumatic events has focused on how such memorialisation practices function in legitimising particular forms of national politics, much of this has come from a context of historical memory. 5 Although Hutchison positions herself differently than work on national memory, much of her focus on community devolves into a similar focus on the state, but she does draw increasing attention to the way in which emotion and representation of those emotions function to produce community. Her focus is less on how these forms of feeling, suffering and remembering challenge and resist the political structures that produce dominant representations and narratives of those traumatic events. 6 For her, then, the dominance of representations or the play between alternative resistant narratives is not an issue, since she seeks to focus on the process by which emotions, specifically trauma, get translated into representations that structure communities, their memories, and their politics.
Hutchison’s focus is specifically on emotions and their collective scope. She argues that ‘seemingly individual emotions are always already collective and political’. 7 Specifically, she is interested in how representations make traumatic events collectively meaningful, 8 identified as a struggle given the difficulty of representing trauma. 9 Her focus is largely on linguistic representations, as she notes that ‘even while modes of representations are of a visual or visceral nature, language remains an instrumental component of how individuals make sense of aesthetic sources and what they perceive to be their meaning’. 10 It is these thrusts of the book that this contribution takes up as a means of engaging its arguments. First, I illustrate some of the limitations of Hutchison’s definition of community as a means to raise some questions about the exclusionary practices of communities. I argue that Hutchison’s assumption that trauma is only political if it becomes collectively meaningful is a problematic point, and examine this utilising some brief examples. Second, I examine the issue of representing trauma at the heart of the book to illustrate that representing trauma is itself a form of politics that may not always be politically restorative for survivors of trauma. Lastly, this engagement also hopes to offer up some of my own emotional responses to the arguments, cases, and ideas presented in the book as a means to reflect on wider considerations of methodology and writing trauma.
As will become evident in this contribution and in the larger conversation in this symposium, Hutchison’s well-written and rigorously executed book has done precisely what a successful book should do in the field: spur discussion and raise more questions than it has answered. The breadth and depth of my questions in this piece, then, should be taken as an indicator of the success of the book’s provocations; I am certain that this book will surely be the basis of conversations in the field for many years to come.
Constructing Communities
As mentioned earlier, the book examines how media images, political speeches, and historical narratives, as forms of representation, make traumatic events collectively meaningful. 11 Yet the book begins with the presumption that it is important that events become collectively meaningful for some idea of what politics is. The very idea of politics here seems to be one that is collective in scope, to the extent that individual emotions, in Hutchison’s interpretation, cannot be themselves political without being mediated by representations that gather them together. That is, by assuming the importance of traumatic events being collectively meaningful, we are told that emotion and trauma can only be political if collectivised. Beyond this, there is an implicit ethics in the book that articulates representation of trauma as a ‘good’, despite Hutchison’s own reference to the way ‘communities grapple to reassert political boundaries and a corresponding sense of power and control’. 12
Unfortunately, in my own research on Rwanda, the aftermath of the genocide there, and the process of memorialisation, 13 I have seen some of the issues with such a collectivist approach. The focus on collective memory tends to privilege particular types of memorial narratives, largely state-level ones. In this vein, community may simply be acting as a proxy term for state. This is a larger issue with approaches to emotion more generally, as Ty Solomon has identified: there is a levels of analysis problem in work on emotion in International Relations, in that it has tended to focus on state-level emotions, keeping us from understanding the visceral and embodied politics of security. 14 This becomes a problem because Hutchison does not tell us in the book how to determine the type or scope of community that is being constructed, although the underlying argument invokes a political community and the implicit referent in the cases seems to be the state. For example, in the Bali Bombing case, she examines how media coverage constructs Australian victims as grievable: as she notes, ‘representations of the bombing appealed to and arguably resonated with the Australian people because of the emotions that shared understandings of the bombing implied’. 15 While Hutchison offers an excellent empirical analysis of how such an affective community is created through these representations, there is less attention paid to the exclusionary nature of this community and the way much of this narrative sought to co-opt trauma towards political ends. This becomes problematic in the discussion of community as a balm to traumatised persons, because not all traumatised persons may be included in this community that is formed. Hutchison argues that a communal environment is vital to the survivors of trauma for healing. Yet it is not clear that such a ‘communal environment’ is the same as the ‘community’ being referred to in the majority of the book, and the idea of community tends to map onto the idea of state, as in the focus on Australia in the Bali Bombing case, and the overt focus on China and South Africa in the context of the other cases addressed. In this vein, much of the focus seems to be on statecraft: how states use memory and trauma to generate affective communities that perform political meanings.
To return to the Rwanda example I discussed above, most of the work on genocide memory focuses on national memorial sites or national-level commemoration ceremonies. Yet this elides the fact that much of the process of memorialisation occurs at the individual and small-scale community level. Indeed, at these levels, there are often practices of resistance that seek to shift and adapt the national-level narratives, and at times, to resist their totalising impetus altogether. Hutchison’s book does not address these local-level practices of resistance and memorialisation in the empirical cases in the book, even though scholars of memory and IR have noted that local narratives tend to do greater justice to the dilemma of representing trauma, by allowing people to live with their trauma, to encircle it, in the words of Jenny Edkins, 16 rather than overcome it, as the larger community and national narratives attempt to do through the medicalisation of trauma. More specifically, at national level commemoration ceremonies in Rwanda, those survivors who ‘get trauma’ are dispatched to medical tents for treatment, despite their trauma being the main reason why commemoration ceremonies are occurring, and despite the ceremony itself and the stories it tells being the main reason for the upsurge of emotion and the reappearance of trauma. This has also formed the basis for the ability of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) to exert control over the country through the suppression of dissent in the name of preventing genocide ideology. That is, the way the Rwandan state has reasserted its political boundaries and sense of power and control has generated difficulties for democratic institutions and respect for rule of law in the country, as well as created a sense of marginalisation for survivors, especially if, as is often the case, their trauma narratives differ from the prevailing memory narrative in the country.
Hutchison argues that when traumatic experiences are represented using a language that is able to be understood by all in the community, this event becomes meaningful to this wider community. 17 She notes that this process is politically restorative. 18 Yet there is not much said about why such experiences must become meaningful to the wider society. Where does this get us politically? At times it seems as though such a process uses individuals’ trauma as a means to an end of construction of community in a way that is precisely the opposite of restorative. In other words, what happens when traumatised persons are told that their trauma is inconsistent with the wider community narratives, and does not fit without being repurposed so far that they no longer recognise it? In the Rwanda example, one could say that the trauma of moderate Hutu who were also victims of the Hutu perpetrators of the genocide, or the trauma of victims of RPF violence, has not been legitimated. In the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) case, which Hutchison characterises as a case of acknowledgement of multiple narratives and reflection on historical trauma as a means to work through divisive emotions, 19 many scholars have agreed that the TRC had problematically exclusionary practices. 20 For example, Mamdani has argued that by individualising the victims of apartheid rather than focusing on the wider issue of crimes against humanity, the TRC actually focused on political reconciliation between the state and other political actors, not on reconciliation or national unity. 21 In this vein, the trauma of individual victims was co-opted into a larger political narrative that simply repurposed these traumas to build a specific form of community that still excluded anyone except the fractured political elite at the heart of the process.
Thus, even if we can agree that trauma becomes collective through social performance, a key component of this is who chooses which traumas are sufficiently legitimate or important to be translated and represented in public ways. In this vein, when trauma becomes collectivised through performance in the way Hutchison traces, traumatised individuals may lose ownership over their own interaction with the traumatic event. Indeed, there has evolved a veritable trauma industry in which trauma is commodified and commercialised. James Young, for example, has written of the way in which vendors at Auschwitz hawk concentration camp memorabilia to visitors, 22 while Michela Wrong describes how the guides of gorilla safaris in Rwanda always include a stop to the main genocide memorial in Kigali, and say that their tours often ask to visit additional genocide memorials. 23 These brief examples indicate that when trauma becomes collectivised, it may actually lose the very emotional component that is at the heart of Hutchison’s analysis, as it is incorporated into larger political and economic processes.
Hutchison argues that traumatised individuals and witnesses both need to speak of trauma. 24 But what if the victims want to remain silent because their trauma is debilitating? What if witnesses want to silence victims or to ignore trauma out of guilt or complicity? In this sense, an important question may be about the causes of trauma, because in some cases the very community that would represent the trauma may be the same community perpetrating the trauma against its own marginalised members or against outsiders. As Edkins argues, sovereign power produces and is itself produced by trauma, but it conceals this involvement by claiming to be a provider of security. By rewriting these traumas into a linear narrative of nationalism or heroism, the state is able to conceal its role in the production of the trauma and indeed the trauma itself. 25
To speak more about this issue, the formation of collective narratives about trauma raises the question of which forms of trauma are political. All of Hutchison’s cases in the book focus on national narratives, contemporary and historical. They are cases of natural disasters or terrorist attacks or colonial trauma that are situated as traumatic nationally, focused on narratives of national threat or identity. But how does a trauma become defined as political? There seems to be a notion that if it impacts national identities, such as the construction of an Australian ‘national affective community’, 26 it is political. Even in the discussion of the Asian tsunami case, where she articulates the formation of a transnational community and focuses on the marginalisation of local actors, this is tangential to her use of the case to focus on how images of the tsunami resonated with the Western viewer. The question that needs to be asked here is whether a focus on this dimension of the case replicates the marginalisation of local narratives, since there is no focus on how local representations in tsunami-stricken areas generate affective communities.
There is a missing discussion, then, of the tension governing how and which narratives of trauma get adopted into wider community narratives. In numerous cases of memorialisation of trauma, narratives of survivors become co-opted into larger national or transnational narrative wherein the state enacts social meanings that tell victims that their stories are unimportant or inaccurate, or silence them altogether, as in each of the cases Hutchison describes, where media representations become more significant for affective responses than the choices of victims as to how to represent or not represent their traumas. Victims may be told that their experiences of trauma are not that traumatic after all, while the state emphasises reconciliation and rebuilding, and the community has a vested interest in not defining these experiences as traumatic to maintain a particular configuration of power and control, as we see in Rwanda. Hutchison seems to assume the community as a benevolent actor that will facilitate healing of trauma and attempt to cultivate empathy between witnesses and those who directly experienced trauma. But what happens when this is not the case?
This may be because of Hutchison’s conceptualisation of community as a socially constructed entity. Although the title of the book focuses on affective communities, her focus is in fact on how individual emotions are already collective and political, and on how we can understand this by examining representations, not on communities per se. This results in lingering questions about the collectivisation of emotion and of the conceptualisation of community. First, how do we know when the community is large enough that emotion has been made collectively meaningful? To what extent does the political community being referenced in the book map on to the state? The book seems to gesture to an idea of community beyond simply survivors of atrocity, in examining how these events can become meaningful to those who do not experience trauma directly, 27 yet it does not conceptualise how the boundaries of this community are formed. What are the parameters for knowing that emotion has been collectivised? Are there ever cases when an affective community does not emerge after a trauma? What differs between those cases and the ones discussed in Hutchison’s book (less savvy memory entrepreneurs, perhaps)? Indeed, in the three cases presented in the book, it is not always clear why and how these have been defined as cases of trauma, and perhaps more importantly, trauma for whom? What individual narratives must be subsumed or silenced in the name of the collectivisation of emotion? That is, in the process traced in the book of emotion becoming political, what types of politics of exclusion are practised in the creation of one single narrative of representation, and by whom?
Representing Trauma
The last question in the previous section, about the construction of a single narrative of representation, raises the second focus of my remarks here: the dilemma of representation, from how it is defined to its presumed relationship with collectivity. My concern is that because Hutchison presumes that processes of representation make events collectively meaningful, it becomes feasible for anyone who has not experienced an event to become part of the same post-trauma emotional community as those who have. What is the relationship between emotion and experience? What types of experience count? Only direct ones? Can a community have a shared emotional understanding of others’ tragedy such as the role the Ethiopian famine plays in the memory of many Americans? Does the experience precede and structure the emotion? If so, how can we reckon with those who do not have the same experience of the event being part of the same emotional community as those who have? Is there an ethical question involved, related to the valuing of experience?
At times the idea of affective communities seems to take trauma and repurpose it for the larger community, to treat it as a means to an end where everyone can be part of the same emotional community regardless of their direct experience. As noted earlier in the Rwanda example, I worry that this has the effect of constraining individuals’ experiences of their trauma and emotion, and cheapening it by making it accessible to everyone. Perhaps more specifically, I should say that it is not simply making it accessible to everyone, but requiring that it be framed in terms that are accessible to everyone as a means of community building. If trauma cannot be represented, then what must necessarily be lost in the effort to generate community-level meanings out of traumatic events, to allow those who have not experienced the events to access them in ways that are meaningful to them?
My concern, then, is that the focus on the collective and on representation elides the aporia of trauma, the idea that it may be fundamentally unrepresentable, and cannot be understood by those who have not experienced it. One exemplary discussion of this issue has been surrounding Claude Lanzmann’s film Shoah, a film that relies on interviews with survivors, perpetrators, and witnesses, yet one that does not use any historical footage. Dominick LaCapra notes that in the film, ‘trauma becomes a universal hole in Being or an unnamable Thing’. 28 Andreas Huyssen describes Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah as avoiding the ‘delusions of presence’ and thus his refusal to represent becomes the grounds for its very claim to authenticity in Holocaust memory. 29 What much work in Holocaust memory has concluded is that there may be an ethical injunction against speaking or showing when representation is inadequate, and thus the only authentic representations of trauma are those that do not even try to represent it. 30
I would have liked to see this ethical struggle with the idea of representation played out in Hutchison’s argument. Instead, we seem to be told that representation is productive because of the role it plays in collectivising emotion. Indeed, the negative potentialities of representation are not explored in the book. In the context of the idea of the aporia of trauma I have discussed here, I wonder whether it would be more accurate to say that those who have not directly experienced trauma can empathise, but this may not make us part of the same post-trauma emotional community. In this vein, while Americans can empathise with the victims of the Asian tsunami, and this can spur donations and speed the humanitarian aid process, I am not convinced that this renders them part of the same emotional community as those who experienced the tsunami. In this sense, is the emotional community that gets constructed between viewers of the trauma and other viewers of the trauma, rather than between viewers of the trauma and those who have experienced it?
I was left wondering, then, why the community needed to take on trauma as a mechanism of consolidation of the community itself. Hutchison notes that some strategies of representation ‘socialise trauma, in an important way normalising an encounter that seems far from normal’. 31 Yet this seems like an ethical issue that should be problematised. Normalising the trauma of survivors may be one reason why we currently exist in a system where global humanitarian traumas simply do not receive the attention as crises that they may merit. Jenny Edkins has used the example of how children starving to death in Brazil is so commonplace that the dead are not even mourned, and that some people remain invisible to our gaze. 32 Yet as she astutely argues throughout her book Missing, the question we should be asking ourselves here is about how our gaze is constructed, not only about who is seen and unseen, but about who is seeing. Edkins provocatively argues that we are all potentially missing persons, pushing us to bridge that distance between the other and the self. 33 Indeed, even as news reports of various global crises focus on the normalisation of death as if it is something shocking, over time the shock seems to subside and when we are told that in Raqqa ‘seeing dead bodies is normal now’, we seem to accept that as the status quo. 34 In this vein, I am not suggesting that Hutchison herself is normalising traumas, but rather that as scholars we have an ethical responsibility to point to the political and ethical effects of such normalisation and to label it as the political problem that it is. In other words, why shouldn’t the community encounter the rupture at face value, rather than attempting to subsume it into already existing social structures through forms of representation and normalisation? Can’t we take trauma on its own terms and legitimise the victims rather than trying to understand what cannot be understood? If ‘processes of representation give trauma the ability to be narrated’, 35 perhaps we should be asking ourselves why traumatic experiences need to be narrated in the first place? Such narration may serve a purpose for the community that is situating these narratives within wider political aims, but what purpose does it serve the survivors and victims of trauma to have their experiences narrated by others and described in ways that render them banal?
Narrating Trauma: The Lost Art of Storytelling
In the acknowledgements section of the book, Hutchison is vulnerable and transparent about her own life experiences related to suffering, pain, and trauma. She tells the story about her health issues and the ensuing encounters with incomprehensibility, something likened to those who have experienced political violence and trauma. I found this section of the book to be quite emotional, which led to a struggle in the body of the book itself, as I felt as though the emotion of a book about emotion was largely missing from the discussion. In probing the reason for this, it may be because of Hutchison’s scholarly commitment to the objectivity of emotion that structures the introduction and that she returns to in the conclusion. She notes that ‘the emotional nature of trauma poses significant challenges to understanding its political impact’. 36 There seems to be a desire to systematically analyse emotion 37 to overcome the binary between reason and emotion. In this vein, it seems as though the solution presented is to attempt to systematise emotion and remove the specter of subjectivity from it. This emerges in the desire to resolve the ‘crisis of representation’ induced by trauma by trying to ‘make sense of it’. 38
Indeed, while Hutchison’s main focus is on how emotion gets translated through representation to construct communities, she also acknowledges that representations evoke feelings and affects. 39 One of her key conclusions is that representations of trauma can create socially and ‘emotionally meaningful understandings of trauma and its loss and pain’, 40 yet this is not really the focus of the book. There is not an investigation of the emotional impact of these representations in terms of how people felt when they saw the images of dead children after the Asian tsunami. Hutchison does not tell us how she feels looking at these images, and there seems to be something unsaid that anyone who looks at these images would feel the same way. Yet as Susan Moeller has noted, viewers see so many images of and hear so many stories of human suffering, that compassion fatigue has set in, and so what we see is precisely that people may not have an emotionally meaningful understanding of the trauma they are encountering secondhand. 41 For this reason, it may be even more important to hear how Hutchison navigated her own emotional encounters with the material under analysis.
I had hoped to see more attention to the book itself as a form of representation, or to the possible emotions evoked by the stories therein. The very depiction of emotion, then, is emotionless, which leads the reader to conclude that it is possible to embark on a scholarly inquiry on emotion without actually feeling emotion. Or at the very least, we are told that such emotion on the part of the researcher has no part to play in scholarship of emotion. As Linda Åhäll and Thomas Gregory detail, ‘emotion is not simply the object of study, but can also form part of the actual methods used to gain/create knowledge’. 42 I was disappointed, then, that Hutchison’s book was not itself an exercise of emotion, given the possible insights that could have been generated about the range of emotional responses to the empirical cases in particular, particularly given the recent turn to autoethnography in IR. 43
I thus finish this contribution by calling for additional focus on emotion within the scholarly self as a means to engage the study of emotion, in line with recent work on autoethnography that emphasises how the personal experience of the researcher can offer insight into politics. 44 Patrick Thaddeus Jackson has articulated precisely such a vision of the field of international relations that focuses on how the researcher is implicated in her research. As he notes: ‘the great ethnographic insight is that in some sense, the researcher is the research instrument; it’s not just true for people who travel to villages’. 45 Neumann and Neumann have similarly argued that the scholarly self is tied to the world, and encouraged a framing that focuses on the scholar as data producer rather than as data collector. 46 Briggs and Bleiker have similarly advocated for autoethnography, arguing that methodological use of the self should be evaluated by their contributions to the opening of new perspectives on political questions and problems. 47 In this vein, work such as that of Sarah Naumes and Dean Caivano, who articulate their own encounters with pain, can be a model for engagement with the self, its embodied practices, and emotions, as a means of gaining further insight into the politics of emotion and affect. 48 Such ethnographic work encourages us to shift our writing, to become storytellers, as a way to engage emotion in our own work. For example, Roxanne Doty details how she is ‘haunted by the questions: Where is the soul in our academic writing? Where is the humanity in our prose? Where are we as writers?’ 49 I found myself asking the same questions of Hutchison’s book since the emotion that appears in the acknowledgements section is not found again in the remainder of the text, and this may be a missed opportunity to engage the politics of emotion and affect in a project such as this.
Footnotes
Funding
This research received no specific grant from any funding agency in the public, commercial, or not-for-profit sectors.
1.
Emma Hutchison, Affective Communities in World Politics: Collective Emotions After Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
2.
Jenny Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).
3.
Duncan Bell, ed., Memory, Trauma and World Politics: Reflection on the Relationship Between Past and Present (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006).
4.
Dovile Budryte and Erica Resende, eds., Memory and Trauma in International Relations: Theories, Cases, and Debates (London: Routledge, 2013).
5.
See Richard Ned Lebow, Wulf Kantsteiner, Claudio Fogu, eds., The Politics of Memory in Postwar Europe (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Jan-Werner Muller, ed., Memory & Power in Post-War Europe. Studies in the Presence of the Past (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Maja Zehfuss, Wounds of Memory: The Politics of War in Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
6.
Maria Mälksoo, ‘The Memory Politics of Becoming European: The East European Subalterns and the Collective Memory of Europe’, European Journal of International Relations 15, no. 4 (2009): 653–80.
7.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, xii.
8.
Ibid., xi.
9.
Ibid., 13.
10.
Ibid., 116.
11.
Ibid., xi.
12.
Ibid., 30.
13.
Jessica Auchter, The Politics of Haunting and Memory in International Relations (London: Routledge, 2014).
14.
Ty Solomon, The Politics of Subjectivity in American Foreign Policy Discourses (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015), 59.
15.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 180.
16.
Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics.
17.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 31.
18.
Ibid., 32.
19.
Ibid., 295–6.
20.
Mahmoud Mamdani, ‘Amnesty or Impunity: A Preliminary Critique of the Report of the TRC of South Africa’, Diacritics 32, no. 3–4 (2002): 33–59; Kazeem Adebiyi, ‘A Critique of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation in John Kani’s Nothing But The Truth’, Okike 53, no. 1 (2015): 94–110; Wilmot James and Linda van de Vijver, eds., After the TRC: Reflections on Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2001); Alex Boraine, A Country Unmasked: Inside South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).
21.
Mamdani, ‘Amnesty or Impunity’.
22.
James Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994).
23.
Michaela Wrong, ‘“It was sobering – but in a good way”: Memorials for the victims of genocide in Rwanda are helping the country’s reconciliation process’, The Financial Times, 29 April 2006, p. 12.
24.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 59.
25.
Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics.
26.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 181.
27.
Ibid., 3.
28.
Dominick LaCapra, ‘Lanzmann’s “Shoah”: Here There Is No Why’, Critical Inquiry 23, no. 2 (1997): 231–69, 246.
29.
Andreas Huyssen, ‘Of Mice and Mimesis: Reading Spiegelman with Adorno’, in Visual Culture and the Holocaust, ed. Barbie Zelizer (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001), 28–44, 30.
30.
Ibid.; LaCapra, ‘Lanzmann’s “Shoah”’; Jessica Auchter, ‘Imag(in)ing the Severed Head: ISIS Beheadings and the Absent Spectacle’, Critical Studies on Security 6, no. 1 (2018): 66–84.
31.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 129.
32.
Jenny Edkins, Missing: Persons and Politics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011), 6.
33.
Ibid, 15.
34.
35.
Hutchison, Affective Communities, 129.
36.
Ibid., 12.
37.
Ibid., 14.
38.
Ibid., 13.
39.
Ibid., 19.
40.
Ibid., 276.
41.
Susan Moeller, Compassion Fatigue: How the Media Sells Disease, Famine, War, and Death (New York: Routledge, 1999).
42.
Linda Åhäll and Thomas Gregory, eds., Emotions, Politics, and War (London: Routledge, 2015): 229.
43.
Naeem Inayatullah, ed, Autobiographical International Relations: I, IR, (London: Routledge, 2001); Oded Löwenheim, ‘The “I” in IR: An Autoethnographic Account’, Review of International Studies 36, no. 4 (2010): 1023–45; Morgan Brigg and Roland Bleiker, ‘Autoethnographic International Relations: Exploring the Self as a Work of Knowledge’, Review of International Studies 36, no. 3 (2010): 779–98; Roxanne Doty, ‘Autoethnography – Making Human Connections’, Review of International Studies 36, no. 4 (2010): 1047–50; Sarah Naumes, ‘Is All “I” IR?’ Millennium 43, no. 3 (2015): 820–32.
44.
Briggs and Bleiker, ‘Autoethnographic International Relations’.
45.
46.
Cecilie Basberg Neumann and Iver Neumann, ‘Uses of the Self: Two Ways of Thinking About Scholarly Situatedness and Method’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 43, no. 3 (2015): 798–819.
47.
Briggs and Bleiker, ‘Autoethnographic International Relations’.
48.
Sarah Naumes and Dean Caivano, ‘Vignettes of the Banal’, Journal of Narrative Politics 3, no. 2 (2017): 152–68.
49.
Roxanne Doty, ‘Maladies of Our Souls: Identity and Voice in the Writing of Academic International Relations’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs 17, no. 2 (2004): 377–92, 37.