Trauma to self and other: Reflections on field research and conflict

Abstract

Researchers who wish to engage with survivors of conflict and violence face a range of complex ethical issues – including psychological dimensions of research – often with few resources or little support. This article draws on the author’s reflections as both a trauma therapist and field researcher and bridges the fields of mental health and conflict studies to explore two questions: 1) How can a researcher reduce the possibility of retraumatizing or causing psychological harm to study participants? 2) How can she diminish the possibility of being psychologically harmed herself? The author argues that a researcher must have a foundational understanding of psychological trauma, cultivate an awareness of the differences between research and healing, sharpen her interviewing skills, and identify means of co-producing knowledge to reduce the possibility for retraumatization. Researchers can prepare themselves for the psychological impacts of research by increasing self-awareness, engaging a variety of social and professional supports, and limiting exposure to traumatic material. The author argues for institutions to increase their responsibility for the well-being of researchers. This article begins to sketch the contours of ‘trauma-informed methodologies’ and contributes to the broader discussion of research ethics of fieldwork and conflict.

Keywords

Conflict ethics field research methods trauma violence

Introduction: Toward trauma-informed methodologies

I recently faced a dilemma when a group of masters and doctoral students approached me looking for support as they prepared for field research in a range of conflict-affected countries. These students, from an international policy school, were headed for careers in humanitarianism, diplomacy, peacebuilding, and the academy, and felt ill-equipped to conduct their research projects. They were looking for concrete guidance on how to practice trauma-sensitive interviewing, and how to keep themselves healthy in the face of anticipated emotional hardship. In searching my archives and reviewing university guidance and protocols, I was struck by the paucity of resources available to them as students and to us as researchers working in and around conflict and violence.

The following pages are meant to address their inquiries which are twofold: How can a researcher reduce the possibility of retraumatizing or causing psychological harm to study participants? And how can she diminish the possibility of being psychologically harmed herself? To answer these questions, I draw on over 20 years of experience – first as a psychotherapist with trauma survivors and later as a researcher studying civilian responses to conflict. I attempt to distill and consolidate what I have learned from interviewing those who have been touched by violence and war, and the impacts of such work on the researcher. These reflections are drawn from a catalogue of my own internal reactions after listening to the unimaginable and unspeakable in the course of psychotherapy and research interviews. In essence, what I present here is a type of ‘autoethnography’, where my experiences serve as ‘data’. The method does not assume objectivity, and is ‘both process and product’ (Ellis et al., 2011: 273). As a psychotherapist, I specialized in working with USA-based individuals and families who had fled war zones. They had experienced phsyical, sexual, and psychological violence linked to one or more of their identities. Later, as a researcher, I have sought to understand how civilians adapt to violence during and ‘post’ conflict, and how international humanitarian, development, and stabilization initiatives hamper, buttress, and interface with such adaptations. This research has taken place with conflict-affected populations in Colombia, Uganda, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, South Sudan, Greece, Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, Iraq, and Syria.

My reflections attempt to weave together two sets of disciplines that are often siloed – mental health including social work, psychiatry, and psychology, and social sciences concerned with conflict such as security studies, international relations, political science, and sociology (hereafter ‘conflict studies’). As such, I intend to advance our critical thinking on field research with those affected by violence and conflict, and to call attention to the role of trauma and traumatic processes for the researcher and the research participant. As such, I add to the broader discussion on the ethics of field research by considering the psychological dimensions of research – the psychological risks that arise for both the ‘self’ and ‘other’ when engaging in field research with people who have experienced trauma. In the following pages, I present a set of reflections and possible mitigating actions to assist the researcher in navigating this thorny territory, contributing to what I coin ‘trauma-informed methodologies’.

(In)security and trauma in conflict studies

I place trauma-informed methodologies, which consider both the experiences of the researcher and the researched, within the larger field of human security studies, and particularly the body of scholarship underpinned by a critical feminist perspective. Security studies have evolved over time to encompass broader and deeper understandings of security – a greater range of threats is recognized, and the ‘referent object of security’ has shifted downwards to consider impacts on the person, as opposed to an exclusive focus on the state (Krause and Williams, 1997; Tadjbakhsh and Chenoy, 2006: 13; Wibben, 2008). Security from a human security perspective concerns ‘the protection of individuals from risks to their physical and psychological safety, dignity and well-being’, (Tadjbakhsh and Chenoy, 2006: 3). Thus, security, and the experience of it, is highly personal, subjective, and situated ‘in the eye of the beholder’ (Wibben, 2008: 456). Critical feminist scholars also recognize the centrality of power and politics to understandings of security – including the co-existence and intersection of gender, race, class, ethnicity, and sexual orientation, among other identities (Hudson, 2005; Wibben, 2016a).

Scholars in international relations have recognized the political role of trauma, pushing us to view traumatic experience beyond a narrow, medicalized, individual experience and to consider how traumatic experiences can constitute and influence communities and the politics within them, as well as the memories created (Auchter, 2014, 2019; Edkins, 2003; Fierke, 2004; Hutchison, 2016). Such work has demonstrated the role of the state and other authorities in influencing, controlling, and creating representations of traumatic experiences (Auchter, 2014; Edkins, 2003). Theorists also warn about the dark side of unprocessed trauma, which may lead to the provocation or prolongation of insecurity (Fierke, 2004; Schick, 2011). And yet, trauma, even if experienced individually, may have a positive momentum, supporting the formation of social attachments and creating communities, referred to by Hutchinson as ‘affective communities’ (2016). These scholars show us how traumatic events, even if they occurred to individuals, are embedded in power and politics, and have communal implications for security and healing.

Borrowing from these theories, it follows that researchers using trauma-informed methodologies cannot determine who has been traumatized given the subjective experience of insecurity, nor can they fully predict their own distress in advance of the research process. In other words, while events are real (e.g. a bomb explodes, a child suffers from malnutrition), the meaning made from these events are differential and personalized. Who experiences insecurity, and the meaning made from events – including what is felt as traumatic and the pathways to healing – are thus not orthogonal to power and politics. This feminist approach to research fits squarely with constructivist schools of psychotherapy, which concentrate on how individuals make meaning from their lived experiences, and how these meanings shape their worlds, positively and negatively (Neimeyer, 2009).

(Un)ethical fieldwork

Field research or fieldwork, for the purposes of this article, refers to a range of methods including participant observation, focus group discussions, in-depth interviewing, and surveying people in their own environments.¹ It may also include more distant forms of research, including remote interviews, reviewing transcripts and self-administered questionnaires, contact with study participants after fieldwork is completed, as well as analysis and the writing process (Knott, 2019; Krystalli, 2021; Nikischer, 2019). I focus on the ‘field’ because it connotes an environment where the researcher is outside of her element, and as such, faces a unique set of ethical considerations and responsibilities, with few(er) institutional supports. While the ‘field’ may also exist domestically, my students, colleagues, and I conduct fieldwork in locations where we are foreigners, and generally do not share the same culture, language, ethnicity, or experiences as those we research.

There is a growing body of literature that seeks to unpack the ethical and security dimensions of fieldwork in conflict contexts (e.g. Krystalli, 2019; Lekha Sriram et al., 2009; Malejacq and Mukhopadhyay, 2016; Mazurana et al., 2013; Pachirat, 2009; Peritore, 1990; Sluka, 1990; Thomson et al., 2013; Wibben, 2016b; Wood, 2006). Some ethical critiques focus on the historical roots of field research and the links with colonial practices and other forms of exploitation (Smith, 1999; Tilley, 2017). Despite advances in decolonizing fieldwork, ‘knowledge continues to be extracted in the same sense of oil through a pipeline to be refined in the Global North’ (Tilley, 2017: 37). Even if not overtly ‘piratic’, field researchers may engage in other ethical blunders, including being ignorant of structural inequalities, undermining the respect and dignity of participants, or treating them as a ‘means’ to an ‘end’.² Participants are often not included (at all) in (any part of) the research process, they may be presented with superficial processes of informed consent (or none at all), and may not be included in dissemination, or benefit from findings (Hugman et al., 2011; Močnik, 2019; Mwambari, 2019; Tilley, 2017). These dynamics, I argue later, contribute to the possible (re)traumatization of research participants.

At the same time, our institutions, supervisors, and colleagues provide little systematic support for navigating the perilous terrain that is field research. Institutional Review Board (IRB) protocols, including provisions for informed consent, provide little guidance for researchers who work in conflict-affected countries (Bhattacharya, 2014; Campbell, 2017). As Cronin-Furman and Lake so aptly state, ‘IRBs assume regular structures and sociopolitical norms that quickly lose relevance outside Europe and North America’ (2018: 607). When IRBs do require researchers to consider ‘potential harm’ to research participants, such harms are at once ill-defined and all-encompassing, straddling physical insecurity, psychological injury, and breaches in data security. Researchers are asked to distinguish between ‘minimal risk’ and other levels of risk, and to balance this against the benefits of research, despite the absence of an equation to provide us with a clear, unambiguous answer. A more nuanced appreciation for risk embodies a feminist approach, which includes an analysis of the power of the researcher and participant. It also examines the im/possibilities for reciprocity, and the utility of one’s research for a population assumed to be vulnerable but, as yet, unknown.

The psychological distress of fieldwork

Scholars have begun to appreciate that participants can experience psychological distress and traumatic reactions through the research process itself (Mwambari, 2019; Zgoda et al., 2016). A separate but parallel set of writing has sought to understand the psychological and emotional impacts of the research process on the researcher (e.g. Coles et al., 2014; Dickson-Swift et al., 2008, 2009; Etherington, 2009; Grimm et al., 2020; Loyle and Simoni, 2017; Močnik, 2020; Nikischer, 2019; Pihkala, 2020; Sexual Violence Research Initiative, 2015; Sherry, 2013; Williamson et al., 2020; Wood, 2009). However, rarely have theorists considered the well-being of the researcher and the researched in the same body of work.

I follow in the footsteps of scholars from diverse fields who call for ‘do no harm’ principles and other ethical considerations to be applied to all individuals involved in a research process, regardless of position, power, or status (Eriksson Baaz and Utas, 2019; Kaplan et al., 2020; Mwambari, 2019). Researcher, for the purposes of this discussion, refers to research assistants, interpreters, transcribers, data collectors, fixers, and what Eriksson Baaz and Utas refer to as ‘research brokers’ —or those ‘key agents’ situated ‘in-between the researcher and researched who regulate access and flow of knowledge between them’ (2019: 160). Many brokers are essential to the research process and ultimately shape how knowledge is produced. However, they are largely invisible in discussions on ethics, security, and methods, and are absent from the publications themselves. Evidence shows that in addition to security risks, exploitation, and other potential harms, research brokers and all members of research teams can be adversely affected by traumatic material (Dickson-Swift et al., 2008; Eriksson Baaz and Utas, 2019; Kaplan et al., 2020; Mwambari, 2019; Nikischer, 2019; Williamson et al., 2020).

Discussions of Secondary Traumatic Stress (STS), vicarious trauma (VT), compassion fatigue, and burnout tend to be more advanced and better recognized as occupational hazards in helping professions. However, in conflict studies, the space to consider emotions and fieldwork is exceedingly small, save for some dimensions of feminist and reflexive qualitative approaches (Etherington, 2009; Laliberté and Schurr, 2016; Punch, 2012; Wimark, 2017). Such discussions are ‘frequently relegated to conference gossip’ (Loyle and Simoni, 2017: 141) and rarely disclosed beyond the confines of an advisor’s or therapist’s office. Institutional blind spots, ‘scientific standards’, and academic culture certainly contribute to this lacuna.

Scientific endeavors have traditionally been legitimized by notions of objectivity, neutrality, rationality, and measurement. This may lead researchers to believe they ‘are not supposed to feel anything (other than perhaps satisfied or frustrated) about the work they undertake’ (Williamson et al., 2020: 56). The disavowal of emotional impacts in research often leads researchers be ‘badly prepared, poorly informed and often unable to prevent and/or recognize the dangers of the transmission of trauma’ (Močnik, 2020: 2). Certain methods, therefore, including those based on feminist and interpretivist fundaments, which are more relational, participatory, reflexive, and/or dialogical, may be better suited to considering psychological impacts for researchers (and the researched).

Academic culture also plays a role in provoking psychological distress. Certain disciplines may see fieldwork itself as a rite of passage – an activity that separates the weak from the strong. Field research may be glorified and romanticized, despite (or because of) the physical and psychological dangers faced by researchers – many of whom have received little to no training on the hazards they may face. As described by Grimm et al., ‘scholars are often eager to work on “hot topics” because of the recognition, and even potential celebrity, that could come from such research. Publishing pressure and ambitions to build a personal brand can prompt scholars to conduct fieldwork in overly dangerous situations or with the most vulnerable communities’ (2020: 3). Junior researchers may not be comfortable disclosing emotional difficulties with managers for fear of being seen as incapable or weak (Williamson et al., 2020). More senior researchers face pressures to remain competitive in the academic job market, which might lead them to ‘self-sabotage and deny signs and symptoms of burnout, emotional fatigue and vicarious traumatization’ (Močnik, 2020: 6). Moreover, IRBs and institutional protocols rarely consider the well-being of the researcher and the research team (Dickson-Swift et al., 2008; Williamson et al., 2020). These forces together place the burden exclusively on the shoulders of individual researchers themselves.

Trauma 101

In the following paragraphs, I attempt to demystify from a mental health perspective how trauma impacts individuals, and identify potential pathways to healing. These basics, I believe, are foundational to the practice of trauma-informed methodologies – both as we interact with research participants and as we grapple with our internal reactions. An elemental understanding of trauma is also essential for those of us who support others as they navigate the psychological distress of fieldwork.³

Researchers who conduct fieldwork in places touched by conflict should expect to encounter people who have experienced physical, sexual, or psychological trauma. While once believed to be an unusual occurrence, trauma is unfortunately a regular feature of life in all societies (Van der Kolk, 1987). One study, conducted in several countries at peace, found that between 54 and 64% of the population had experienced one or more traumatic events (Atwoli et al., 2015). This proportion increases during conflict, as do rates of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), one negative psychological consequence of experiencing trauma (Atwoli et al., 2015).

The field of psychiatry is helpful in defining trauma and describing its potential lasting ramifications on the mind and spirit. Judith Herman describes traumatic events as those that

. . . overwhelm the ordinary systems of care that give people a sense

of control, connection and meaning . . . Traumatic events generally

involve threats to life or bodily integrity, or a close personal

encounter with violence or death. They confront human beings with

the extremities of helplessness and terror, and evoke the response

of catastrophe. (1997: 33)⁴

Other common descriptions of traumatic events are those that provoke intense fear coupled with complete helplessness, or the threat of annihilation – experiences commonly described as both overwhelming and uncontrollable (Herman, 1997; Van der Kolk, 1987).

Traumatic events are extremely varied, and may involve physical, sexual, and psychological violence, as well as harm caused by accidents, conflict, and natural disasters. They may be experienced directly, witnessed, or occur to loved ones and learned about after the fact.⁵ ‘Experiencing repeated or extreme exposure to aversive details of traumatic event (s)’ – such as being a first responder, psychotherapist, or as I argue, a field researcher – can also be experienced as traumatic (American Psychiatric Association, 2013: Exhibit 1.3–1.4).

The consequences of traumatic experiences may be severe, as Herman describes, and ‘produce profound and lasting changes in physiological, arousal, emotion, cognition and memory’. She explains that ‘trauma tears apart a complex system of self-protection that normally functions in an integrated fashion’ (Herman, 1997: 34). Beyond these physiological dimensions, is the impact of trauma to the relational aspect of ourselves, including attachment and trust, and belief systems that provide meaning, organization, and order to one’s life (Herman, 1997). Manifestations of trauma may also include psychological disorders (including but not limited to PTSD), substance abuse, mood disorders, self-harm, changes to personality, and physical illnesses, among others. However, there is a growing recognition that traumatic reactions are highly variable across contexts and cultures (Marsella, 2010). Furthermore, ‘trauma’ may not be in the vernacular of conflict-affected people as they describe their experiences. There is also a tendency to pathologize, medicalize, and interpret psychological reactions under the umbrella label of trauma, even if the event was not actually experienced in this way.⁶

In my own experiences as a psychotherapist and a researcher, I have seen a wide range of responses to what we would broadly consider to be traumatic events. I have watched people nearly jump out of their skin in response to a soft but unexpected sound, and others who relived their traumas through flashbacks, almost as if watching a horror film. I have listened to survivors recount, in minute detail, unimaginable events robotically, with complete detachment and lack of affect. These expressions are all part of the common profile of PTSD, but just as often, I have seen people who had experienced extreme trauma without these symptoms. One Colombian woman who had been taken hostage by the FARC had chronic stomachaches and headaches. A girl who escaped female genital mutilation in West Africa was lost in magical thinking and seized by hallucinations. A male survivor of childhood sexual abuse was severely depressed and abused alcohol. And yet, others had integrated their traumatic experiences and had drawn strength from the adversity – such as a young Algerian woman who was the victim of gang rape, based on her lesbian identity, and later became an advocate for survivors of sexual violence. These anecdotes are meant to highlight the complexity of traumatic responses, and to sensitize the researcher to some of the possibilities she may be confronted with when interviewing people affected by conflict. But I also hope to warn researchers against a false sense of confidence that such responses to trauma are predictable, recognizable, uniform, or ubiquitous.

Bearing witness to others’ trauma

Secondary Traumatic Stress (STS), vicarious trauma (VT), burnout, and compassion fatigue are all related concepts that describe the psychological, emotional, and physical toll taken on professionals who work with people affected by trauma. There is a fair amount of overlap between these four conditions, although there are a few important distinctions. STS specifically mirrors the symptoms of PTSD and shares the same diagnostic criteria. Rather than a reaction to direct trauma, STS arises from ‘experiencing repeated or extreme exposure to aversive details of traumatic events’ (American Psychiatric Association, 2013: Exhibit 1.3–1.4). VT refers to ‘changes in worldview’ and ‘distress that arises from experiences that shake one’s deeply held moral beliefs’ (Kerig, 2019: 615). VT can also occur outside the professional realm, as has been documented, for example, amongst Asian and Black populations in the United States following the police killing of George Floyd (Fowers and Wan, 2020). Compassion fatigue relates to emotional exhaustion ‘arising from affective engagement with traumatized individuals or the processing of trauma-related information’, and the absence of being able to rest and restitute oneself (Kerig, 2019: 615). Burnout is more specific to ‘a general sense of emotional and physical exhaustion that arises when workers perceive low levels of personal control and appreciation’ (Kerig, 2019: 615), but is not necessarily related to exposure to traumatic material.⁷

Putting terminology aside, a core tenet of these conditions is that indirect exposure to traumatic events – as with direct traumatic experiences – can impact one’s physical health, thought patterns, mood, intimacy, sense of trust, safety, and control (Bercier and Maynard, 2015; Molnar et al., 2017; Turgoose and Maddox, 2017; Zgoda et al., 2016). Such reactions have been well documented in professionals working in mental health, human rights documentation, humanitarian aid, child protection, first response, hospice, emergency rooms, and courts, among others. Research on Truth and Reconciliation Commissions found that court staff and journalists who were present for victim testimony also suffered from STS (Hayner, 2001). Similarly, healthcare workers working with the COVID-19 pandemic are showing high rates of psychological distress congruent with burnout and STS (United Nations, 2020).

A strong risk factor for developing one of these conditions is having one’s own history of trauma (Turgoose and Maddox, 2017). An additional correlate relates to the quantity of exposure – the more a professional interacts with traumatic material, the more likely he or she is to develop compassion fatigue and related syndromes (Turgoose and Maddox, 2017). Protective factors are generally assumed to relate to quality of supervision, professional skills training, and self-care and mindfulness, although evidence is inconsistent (Bober and Regehr, 2006; Ivici and Motta, 2017; Turgoose and Maddox, 2017). A critique of the ‘mindfulness solution’ is that it individualizes both the problem and the solution rather than focusing on systemic organizational factors, such as caseloads and work culture (Bober and Regehr, 2006). Furthermore, these syndromes, at their ‘core’, are traumatic responses that necessitate specific trauma-focused treatments (such as EMDR, CBT, critical stress debriefing, psychological first aid) that go beyond health support and wellness (Molnar et al., 2017).

The researched

How necessary is the story?

Many researchers, journalists, and legal advocates carry the belief that exposing and documenting violent events and ‘assisting’ disempowered peoples to tell their story (to an international audience) is a fundamental good, and in line with international social justice and human rights agendas.⁸ There is also a general assumption that truth-telling can facilitate a personal catharsis, and that talking leads to healing. However, evidence for these assumptions outside a therapist’s office is both mixed and uneven.⁹ I argue that these beliefs, albeit well intentioned, may lead a researcher to wade into dangerous waters, risking retraumatization and/or impeding, interrupting, or muddling the natural healing process of research participants.

Uncovering the horrors of violence is not necessarily the goal of every research project in conflict studies. Still, past traumas have a way of infiltrating conversations, whether discussing politics, migration, health, economics, land rights, or social ties. We cannot know the histories of our interviewees in advance, and we cannot know how our inquiries may impact them after our departure. We can, however, prepare for such encounters, and balance the ease with which people in fragile contexts are accessed (Cronin-Furman and Lake, 2018), with ethically sound and trauma-informed interactions.

In concrete terms, how does a field researcher navigate this delicate space? The first step is not to conflate interviewing with therapy, and not to equate the telling of traumatic experiences with healing. This is not to deny that narrative processes can be therapeutic, and that bearing witness may facilitate healing for certain individuals. But rather, this effect is not universal, and field researchers are unlikely to have the professional skills or deep relational connections with their research participants to support this process. Even within a therapeutic space, telling the traumatic story may have healing potential, but only after earlier stages of recovery have been mastered (Herman, 1997). Psychiatry also tells us that traumatic stories should be told both slowly and with measure, and within the context of a trusted therapeutic setting – something that is at odds with the researcher’s role. Soliciting the retelling of traumatic events in the absence of these conditions can lead to retraumatization, which is a ‘conscious or unconscious reminder of past trauma that results in re-experiencing of the initial trauma event’ (Zgoda et al., 2016). Retraumatization can thus undo healing that may have already begun, and can lead to a return to (or development of new) psychological symptoms including PTSD, depression, a loss of trust, higher rates of self-injury, and physical illness (Brounéus, 2008; Zgoda et al., 2016). Retraumatization may occur during the retelling, soon after, or much later, and negative repercussions can last well into the future.

Trauma-informed research thus requires us to ask if our projects are scientifically necessary and ethically sound given the real risk of retraumatizing participants. Might there be other ways of learning about events that do not require us to ask for a full, pointed, and detailed disclosure based on personal experience? Alternative sources of data may be available, or there may be spokespersons in field sites with relevant knowledge to describe historical and contemporary patterns of harm. Inquiries could be also designed to focus on groups or communities, rather than on individual experiences.

Informed consent and the co-production of knowledge

Trauma-informed methodologies apply an expansive view of informed consent with participants. Following the positive example of some conflict researchers, this includes both having a firm grasp on the local context, and seeing informed consent as a relational process, rather than a rote, one-time event (Fujii, 2018; Hugman et al., 2011; Wood, 2006). In line with feminist approaches to research, Fujii encourages us to comprehend structural inequalities and local conditions ‘to understand why some participants say yes when they prefer to say no’, and to seek ‘protections that are meaningful in the local context’ (2018: 22). This should be complemented by a multilayered, multi-tiered informed consent process, passing ‘a degree of control and responsibility over interview content to the interviewee’ (Wood, 2006: 381). While I agree that more nuanced and active forms of informed consent can certainly decrease the possibility of psychological distress, it is not foolproof. Given that retraumatization is usually invisible to the outsider, and may occur long after our interactions have ceased, we, as researchers, need to face the possibility that we may be harming those we research. Additional safeguards are therefore needed.

One way of decreasing the likelihood of retraumatization is to bring the participant directly into the research process. In her study on survivors of rape, Močnik (2019) used an engaged research approach to invite potential participants to co-design the research, from determining the actual research question through the process of how it should be answered. Other researchers have suggested the importance of recognizing and engaging participants in the co-production of knowledge, whether through advisory committees, co-designing the project, co-analyzing data, or co-authoring results (Hugman et al., 2011; Poopuu, 2020; Tilley, 2017).

Interviewing skills: Using the brake

I have been alarmed by how frequently professors encourage (read: pressure) their students to enter fragile contexts and engage conflict-affected individuals in research, with little to no research skills and experience. I argue that a fundamental aspect of trauma-informed research involves having a strong foundation in interviewing skills. For me, Fujii’s (2018) conception of ‘relational interviewing’ which prioritizes dignity and respect for the participant, as well as reflexivity on the part of the researcher, could help researchers navigate some of the ethical dilemmas described above, and increase their attunement towards participants. Relational interviewing can equally be part of quantitative methods, particularly in the design phase of surveys. One additional skill, borrowed from the mental health field, relates to the pacing of interviews.

Pacing is extremely useful when the interviewee insists on telling the whole traumatic story, even if unsolicited, and even when the researcher has actively tried to avoid it. With psychological risks always present, I have found that the way forward is not always clear. Do I silence someone because I am aware of the risks of retraumatization, or do I respect someone’s agency and autonomy? Using the brake is the term I use to capture a host of techniques, from subtle to direct, which can slow down an interview that accelerates too quickly, or one that feels like it is spinning out of control. Using the brake can provide space for the researcher to catch her breath, check-in with interlocutor (and herself), and make critical decisions that help protect against retraumatization and vicarious traumatization.

Using the brake is illustrated in the following description of an experience I had with Mohammad,¹⁰ a young male, Iraqi refugee I interviewed in Jordan. We discussed his legal status, his constant waiting and praying for a resettlement opportunity, and his worry that he would be sent back to Iraq. As the interview progressed, Mohammad asked me if he could recount his story, to explain his intense fear of forcible return. I could not deny my intrigue but exhuming the trauma story was not the point of my research, and I felt concerned about possible retraumatization. But rather than say ‘no, don’t tell me your story’, I used a diversion tactic that allowed me to stay empathically connected while slowing the interview down. I asked him why he wanted to share his story with me. By focusing on this meta-level, Mohammad told me the motivation for his request. He had never met an American civilian and wanted to be heard by someone from the country that had occupied his own. He believed me to be kind and thought he could recover from his past if he could share his story with me.

Concerned that Mohammad was invested in the best-case-scenario idea that truth-telling would lead to healing, I continued to engage him at this meta-level by asking if he had revealed his story to others. Mohammad explained that he sometimes spoke to a Jordanian counselor at a local health center, and that together, they had gone through his trauma history. Prior to having had a counselor, Mohammad had suffered from nightmares, flashbacks, and intense shame. He felt isolated and depressed. He explained that he had gone through his history slowly with his counselor, over a long period of time. Symptoms got worse in the short term but had since dissipated with her help. I explained that while I wanted to hear what he had to say, I was worried that his symptoms might resurface as a result of our conversation. He explained that he would seek out his counselor right away if he had negative reactions. I then allowed him to proceed. Throughout the retelling, I slowed Mohammad down, paused him to see how he was doing, and suggested periodic breaks. The trauma was horrific and very difficult to listen to. He cried periodically, as did I. As we finished up, Mohammad thanked me for listening, and promised he would check in with his counselor later that day.

I do not know if Mohammad had a long-lasting cathartic or transformative experience through his narration, nor am I confident that I did the ‘right’ thing. I present this snippet to show how easily interviews can veer into traumatic material, and to demonstrate how using the brake can respectfully slow an interview down to allow space for us to be vigilant of potential negative effects. I am also aware that very few of my research participants over the years have this type of formal psychological support, and many do not necessarily have the language or awareness to connect their traumatic histories to current life difficulties. In other circumstances, I needed to abruptly interrupt and cut off the participant, but always with a clear explanation.

Contextualizing trauma

One additional measure that may protect research participants against psychological distress, involves first, a pointed investigation of how trauma is conceived of in the communities of focus, and second, identifying the relevant resources available to support participants. Cultural constructs of trauma and healing are particularly important to grasp given how subjective and politically laden they are. In terms of resources to support research participants, they may be formal, such as psychological assistance provided by government and non-government organizations, or less formal, like support provided by local civil society organizations, religious organizations, doctors, healers, elders, or social networks. Depending on what is found during this stage of inquiry, a researcher might choose to reconsider their research location, participant population, or overall design. Equipped with the basics of trauma, and contextualized knowledge about local resources, a researcher can help an interviewee anticipate potential negative reactions following the divulgence of traumatic material. The researcher can also engage in a discussion of supports should the interviewee need assistance after the interview is over.

Here I share a less successful experience which took place in Karamoja, Uganda, where I was researching contemporary patterns of post-conflict violence. With the help of an interpreter, I conducted group interviews with women in several villages, asking a series of questions about the type of violence ‘women in this village’ faced. I took care not to ask about the research participants’ individual experiences but pursued an indirect line of questioning focused on violence that ‘happens around here’. The inquiry began with a discussion of insecurities present outside the village, then within the village, and lastly within the household. Much to my surprise, when I asked about partnership violence, the group erupted into peals of laughter. A lively discussion ensued with many women pointing and laughing at an older woman who was missing an eye and had severe facial scarring. My interpreter appeared to join in their ridicule. I was speechless and fought hard to keep my calm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of heckling, my interpreter explained that the woman in question had been attacked by her husband – he had gouged out her eye and set her on fire. Scandalized by the severity of the trauma and the group’s reaction, I choked back my tears and quelled the urge to scream at the group to stop. Noticing my distress, the interpreter playfully slapped my thigh, and assured me that this reaction was totally normal for the context. She explained that people from Karamoja often used laughter in the face of this type of tragedy, and there was no harm felt by the woman in question. In a state of shock, I accepted this as a reasonable explanation. Now, however, I count this incident as a personal failure on several fronts. I did not, but should have, spoken to the woman privately to see how she was, to try and find out what, if any, support she needed, and to connect her with what was available. I could have asked my interpreter for help in making such a conversation culturally appropriate. Moreover, I should have conducted much more pre-field research to understand the culturally sensitive ways to inquire about violence, how trauma is locally understood, how people manage traumatic pasts, and the supports available.

The researcher

‘You will be changed by your research; that is one of the legacies’ (Theidon, 2014: 3)

Field research has the potential to transform – to humble, shift beliefs, fracture conviction, atomize, reconfigure, expose, thrill, gut, and energize. Studying people affected by conflict and the spaces they inhabit can be as rewarding as it is distressful. As described above, emotional reactions to fieldwork are often misunderstood, silenced, or ignored, and tend to be viewed with shame, or as an aberration stemming from personal deficiencies, rather than a predictable, occupational hazard. In the following paragraphs, I normalize and encourage the recognition that researchers are psychologically affected by fieldwork.¹¹ I describe potential warning signs and plans for mitigating distress. I argue that this type of work fundamentally blurs boundaries, and the professional becomes personal. Ignoring these realities not only weakens our research process and product but impedes our ability to recognize warning signs and to access our own innate coping strategies. Given how tied a researcher’s distress is to academic culture and institutional indifference (or negligence), I encourage shifts in these domains as well.

In addition to VT, STS, compassion fatigue, and burnout, exposure to traumatic material may lead to anxiety, depression, and/or the re-emergence of underlying health problems. But it is not just clinically diagnosable symptoms that signal negative reactions to field research. The field researcher may notice differences in the way she connects to loved ones, shifts in her cognition and behavior, or unusual emotional reactions to both small and large events. She may increase alcohol consumption, smoking, or the use of other recreational drugs. She may have a shorter fuse than normal, feel weepy, or spaced out. These changes lie on a spectrum – from subtle to substantial – all of which suggest a shift away from equilibrium. Such reactions may be warning signs of an overwhelmed psyche, and may signal impending STS, VT, burnout, or compassion fatigue.

One compounding factor relates to the role of researcher and how it fundamentally differs from that of a ‘helper’, who may be in a position to provide support, resources, or services. Witnessing the suffering of others, without being able to provide anything concrete in return, is linked to a researcher’s sense of powerlessness, guilt, and the inability to make the lives of participants better (Etherington, 2009; Sexual Violence Research Initiative, 2015; Williamson et al., 2020). As Nikischer describes, ‘researchers take time, energy, and personal stories from participants while offering little . . . [this] can leave a researcher feeling helpless’ (2019: 911). One consideration is to follow Hugman et al.’s (2011) recommendation to question the appropriateness of conducting research on human suffering if the purpose of the research is not to try and alleviate such suffering. Poopuu focuses on ensuring her research ‘has a positive outcome’ which she defines as ‘negotiating its usefulness, fostering a more collaborative spirit (bearing in mind structural impediments), and seeking to co-produce’ as a way to decrease researcher distress (and make research more responsible) (2020: 38).

Self-awareness and social connection: Empathy partners and field allies

Researchers have a role to play in their own psychological preparation for fieldwork. Being self- aware or deeply ‘knowing oneself’, also a hallmark of reflexive research, provides the researcher with two assets. It supports the preparatory phase of research and provides an eventual benchmark against which to monitor possible negative changes throughout the course of work. Researchers who have their own history of trauma may be particularly vulnerable, as demonstrated in other professions (Turgoose and Maddox, 2017). This may mean planning for fieldwork alongside a professional skilled in trauma, designing the project to minimize exposure to traumatic material (e.g. using existing data sets), or forgoing the work altogether.

Knowing yourself also means being aware of your baseline in terms of appetite, sleep, energy, thoughts, attitudes, mood, and so on. Within this is understanding your psychological limits. I have a colleague who cannot conduct research where she observes the acute suffering of children. Another cannot work on topics of sexual violence. It is not always easy, however, to recognize the moment at which we begin to lose balance. Several scholars have also noted that the risks of VT and STS also increase with social isolation (Nikischer, 2019; Sexual Violence Research Initiative, 2015; Williamson et al., 2020), which underscores the importance of academic and clinical supervision. In addition, I have learned that a useful tactic is to identify a close friend, colleague, relative, or partner who can help monitor our equilibrium during the course of work. This person can act as a mirror and can reflect changes she perceives. These empathy partners are a vital access point to keeping us connected to ourselves, and to reveal what we might not see.

Being connected to others is as important as being connected to the self. Hearing stories that are unthinkable or viewing traumatic material tends to provoke two polar reactions in the listener. One is an almost compulsive need to retell the gory details of what was heard to anyone who will listen. The other is to seal the horror completely inside, and to banish it from consciousness. Both reactions tend to block the integration of such traumatic exposure, and the impulse to tell others may actually traumatize the listening. To mitigate both reactions, I recommend identifying a field ally, such as a professor, supervisor, or colleague, or someone who knows first-hand the vagaries of field research. The field ally should be identified before your travel and should be different from your empathy partner, but similarly, should be someone with whom you have frequent and regular check-ins. This is the person to help you digest the traumatic material you have witnessed. I have found that my best field allies are friends and colleagues and not my superiors, as I could be more open and vulnerable in their presence. Such social connections – ranging from less to more formal – are thankfully easier to facilitate with access to social media in many corners of the world. In managing the emotional impacts of fieldwork, Poopuu (2020) described her reliance on a chat group specific to fieldwork experiences, a strategy that I have also found useful.

Boundary setting and the role of self-care

Boundary setting is particularly pertinent for mitigating risks related to STS and VT (Etherington, 2009; Močnik, 2020). And yet, fieldwork tends, by definition, to blur the boundaries between the personal and professional. Boundary setting is a skill that can be supported by field allies and empathy partners, as well as more formal types of supervision or psychotherapy.

Limiting exposure to traumatic material is one of the most concrete and effective precautions a field researcher can take. This includes allowing for time between interviews and taking days off from interviewing, as well as from data analysis and writing. Working in teams may also reduce exposure, as researchers can share various tasks, or rotate time spent exposed to traumatic material (Nikischer, 2019; Sexual Violence Research Initiative, 2015). Remote methodologies also create a specific set of boundary-setting issues. As described by Käihkö (2020), the use of social media as a central platform helps to create proximity without being in the same physical space on the one hand, but on the other, blurs boundaries and can invade one’s private life. I similarly struggled with adequate boundary setting after moving my research on girls’ early marriage to remote interviews (via WhatsApp) following the COVID-19 outbreak.

Given the research that links mindfulness with protection against VT and STS, the researcher could routinize such practices before, during, and after fieldwork. Cook-Cottone and Guyker (2018) have developed a ‘Mindful Self-Care Scale’ where 33 questions are posed to identify scores on six dimensions of mindfulness. This tool might be useful in strengthening self-awareness, identifying areas for improving resilience, and tracking changes from your baseline. Beth Hundall Stamm has developed the ‘Professional Quality of Life Measure’, which provides background information on vicarious trauma and related items, a scoring system, and suggestions for strategies to improve self-care.¹² Patricia Kerig (2019) has developed a workshop curriculum specifically to protect against STS for non-mental health professionals, which may help to fortify field researchers working with conflict-affected populations. Humanitarian organizations have also increasingly recognized the incidence of STS, burnout, and various trauma-related reactions in aid workers. Many have developed their own support mechanisms and interventions, and such materials are available online.¹³ While self-care practices are essential, they continue to situate the responsibility of psychological distress and its solutions on individual researchers.

Kittens and revolutionaries

Working in Karamoja, Uganda – a region I returned to annually – I found myself conducting interviews in a village that had been particularly hard hit by a drought. The person I usually traveled with was on maternity leave, and I spent five weeks alone in a remote, highly undeveloped, conflict-affected corner of the world. Everyone I encountered was visibly suffering from food shortages, and acute hunger, especially children. One woman approached me with a severely malnourished baby. She pushed this baby into my arms, lifted her torn t-shirt and showed me her thin, flat, breasts, which she explained no longer produced milk. She pleaded with me: ‘Please please take this baby, you can see she is sick, and she will have a better life with you.’ I was both speechless and numb. I gave the baby back abruptly, said I was sorry and continued my day as if nothing were unusual.¹⁴ The next morning, while walking down a dirt path, I heard the cry of an animal in distress. There in the dust was a kitten, newly born, scrawny, dirty, scared, with its eyes still closed. Fueled by panic and an excessive amount of empathy, I frantically searched for the mother. Unsuccessful, I took this kitten back to my tukul, and cancelled my interviews for the day. I spent hours online (struggling with an intermittent internet connection) trying to acquire the skills to feed a motherless kitten. I set out on foot in search of a lactating cat, as I had discovered that mother cats are sometimes willing to adopt kittens from other litters. It was only after I had indeed found a surrogate cat mother, after an eight-hour search, that I realized what was going on internally. My feelings of powerlessness, privilege, and horror at being confronted with a starving child had been so overwhelming, that these emotions were banished from my consciousness. These emotions, which I had made inaccessible, resurfaced later, and were projected onto the kitten, which I could more easily ‘save’ from starvation and death. Fascinatingly, a close colleague had a similar reaction towards an abandoned kitten after she spent a day in Srebrenica. She had hired a group of enumerators, many young and some Muslim, to conduct research at the site. My colleague had brought the enumerators there –most had not returned since the massacre – to confirm they were comfortable working at the site. That evening, she came across a kitten screeching for its mother, and in her words, ‘I totally lost it; I was inconsolable. I couldn’t stop screaming at my colleague to find the kitten some milk’.

A contrasting situation relates to my research on the Syrian civil war from a Turkish border town that I visited frequently over a period of several years. Here I interviewed young, ambitious, freedom-fighting Syrians who were active in the revolution and the humanitarian response. Many became friends. I learned about the effects of the war on their families, friends, and communities – in real time – as chemical weapons and barrel bombs fell, loved ones were jailed and tortured, and communities were occupied by ISIS. Each day, I consumed huge amounts of social media and followed news sources on how the conflict was unfolding in Syria. I became emotionally and psychically intertwined in the revolution and the war, tracking battlelines and bombing sites on a paper map I carried with me. Simultaneously, I had become more distant and disconnected from those outside my research circle. When home in Europe, I felt isolated from my closest friends and family because I felt they ‘could not possibly understand’. Over time, I became bitter, and found myself looking down at people having fun, wanting to shout ‘How can you be so selfish; don’t you know what is going on in Syria?’ I felt that I did not belong at the field site (after all, I am not Syrian and I am not a part of the revolution), nor did I belong at home. The content of my dreams became more violent, and I began to have back pain. It took me many months to realize that I was exhibiting serious signs of burnout, secondary or vicarious trauma, and that I needed to do something urgently.

These sketches show the cumulative effects of various factors that nudged me toward vicarious trauma: a general lack of self-awareness, too long in the field for one case, and too frequently exposed to other people’s trauma in the other, and a very specific type of social isolation – the absence of empathy partners, field allies, and institutional supports. These experiences provoked shifts in my worldview, relationships, thoughts, mood, and sleep. Warning signs were there early on, but I either missed them or chose to ignore them. I suffered, and I am sure the quality of my work did as well.

Institutional safeguards

Institutions have done little to formalize supports for field researchers, no matter their stage of career. Scholars have, however, begun to call attention to this void. Nikisher, for example, views research protections as a ‘collective responsibility’, and one that should be integrated within broader academic and institutional systems (2019: 913). She and others have called on ethics committees, senior faculty, and administrators to meaningfully and systematically consider the emotional safety of researchers (Nikischer, 2019; Sexual Violence Research Initiative, 2015; Williamson et al., 2020). This stance requires institutional representatives to be skilled in the basics of trauma and the psychological risks of fieldwork. It also necessitates the development of formal guidelines, and that minimum requirements are met by students and junior and senior researchers (Dickson-Swift et al., 2008; Etherington, 2009). Such changes require political will, time, and financial investment by universities as well as granting bodies (Williamson et al., 2020). In addition to institutional supports, several scholars have described the positive role of clinical supervision during fieldwork, and the need for institutions to support research projects with this cost (Poopuu, 2020; Williamson et al., 2020). These are all positive steps towards enhancing the ethics of fieldwork, but more gains need to be made.

Concluding remarks

In the preceding pages, I have sketched the contours of trauma-informed research methodologies, which consider the well-being of both the researcher and the researched. My goal has been to bridge diverse fields of study to provide readers with foundational knowledge of the basics of trauma, and to provide a space to (re)consider the roles and responsibilities of individuals and institutions, and our academic culture in the transmission of trauma. While international relations and security studies have largely focused on trauma as a factor in producing memory, constituting community, and influencing politics, this article advances the field by drawing attention to the ways in which researching trauma embeds the researcher within these larger processes and structures.

I have suggested that researchers and institutions engage in a variety of actions and reflections to mitigate the possibility of retraumatizing research participants. These include understanding the differences between truth-telling and healing, designing more expansive processes of informed consent, honing interviewing skills to be more relational and attentive to power dynamics, using the brake to pace interviews, and contextualizing trauma for the populations under study. For researchers, I encourage us to recognize that researching conflict-affected populations is fundamentally emotional, and often blurs boundaries between the personal and professional. We should consider how research design influences our well-being (and those we research), recognize the importance of boundary setting (including limiting exposure to traumatic material), and be intentional in designing supportive structures – be it clinical supervision, or soliciting the assistance of field allies and empathy partners. I also implore institutions to step up and take better care of the psychological needs of their students, faculty, and all members of research teams.

I acknowledge that there are many gaps in this piece. Perhaps the most significant is the neglect of the many rewards that this type of work can bring.¹⁵ An equally important omission is the growing recognition that traumatic experiences are not only forces of destruction. They may also be transformative, build resilience, spur growth, and for some, facilitate empowerment.

My reflections are not meant to discourage researchers from embarking on their projects. Nor am I suggesting that all research with conflict-affected populations conducted to date has traumatized participants and researchers. Instead, I make a plea to us as individuals, institutions, and to the larger field of study, to acknowledge the psychological perils that we face as researchers, and those we may provoke, without intention, in those we seek to interview. I wish to help demystify the unseen vulnerabilities that may lie within the souls, bodies, and minds of those who have survived conflict. I wish, as well, to decode some of the reactions we have when we connect to those who have suffered. I urge us to be more transparent about how imperfect, unpredictable, ad-hoc, and messy field research is,¹⁶ and to promote trauma-informed research methods as a means to make field research ‘safer’.¹⁷ Rather than shy away from complexities, I encourage us to acknowledge, expect, prepare for, and embrace them – both individually and collectively as social scientists, and as institutions that support such work.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Karen Brounéus, Bryan Cassella, Roxani Krystalli, Enzo Nussio, and Patricia Rieker for their reviews and invaluable input to earlier drafts. I would also like to thank Dipali Mukhopadhyay for her continued willingness to be my thought partner on all things related to methods and ethics.

Funding

The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

ORCID iD

Kimberly Howe

Notes

Kimberly Howe is a Research Professor and directs the Feinstein International Center’s Research Program on Conflict and Governance at Tufts University. Her work is focused on the effects of humanitarian and political interventions on civilians, armed groups, and political structures. Kimberly has designed and conducted mixed-methods research projects in several war-affected countries around the world in Africa, the Middle East, and South America. She is a trained trauma psychotherapist and is currently a Marie Skłodowska Curie Research Fellow. Email: Kimberly.howe@tufts.edu

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