What Contributions,if Any,Can Non-Indigenous Researchers Offer Toward Decolonizing Health Research?

Background

Decolonizing research, according to prominent Maori and Indigenous studies scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2013), does not aim to wholly discard Western knowing, but rather to critically dismantle colonial constructs to acknowledge many “ways of knowing” as equitably valuable (Bainbridge, Whiteside, & McCalman, 2012). Furthermore, decolonizing research “places Indigenous voices and epistemologies in the center of the research process” (Datta, 2017, p. 11), actively acknowledges that Indigenous land was never ceded, and works to reestablish pillars that strengthen Indigenous sovereignty (Tuck & Yang, 2012). The appropriateness of and capacity for non-Indigenous participation in this process has been widely debated, with harmful attempts at non-Indigenous involvement caused by, for example, ignorance, paternalistic activism, or misinformed research methods (Kendall, Sunderland, Barnett, Nalder, & Matthews, 2011).

One cause for previous and ongoing harm is researchers’ enmeshment with “conditioned” ways of knowing, which often become enacted in behavior or “ways of doing,” as highlighted by Aboriginal Australian scholar Roxanne Bainbridge and colleagues (2012). Consequently, many Indigenous representatives, for example, Aboriginal Canadian academic Verna St. Denis (2014), have called upon non-Indigenous people to do the critical work of looking at our own colonial histories to begin to grasp the nature of present-day relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples. Maori public health physician and senior lecturer at University of Auckland, Dr. Rhys Jones (2014), highlights the presence of unconscious bias in health settings and calls upon individual practitioners to consider the ways that our implicit associations perpetuate the colonizing ideologies of the political, academic, and medical institutions we operate within. Non-Indigenous researcher Patrick Lewis (2018) refers to this process as “decolonizing of the self” (p. 47), an ongoing critical acknowledgment, examination, and ideally loosening of individual enmeshment with the colonial systems within which we live. Lewis (2018) reasons that a commitment to “decolonizing of the self” is a prerequisite for any attempt at non-Indigenous “allyship” (p. 47). Non-Indigenous allyship is the ceaseless process of self-analysis and ownership of power and privilege in an effort to support and work alongside Indigenous peoples (Max, 2005). It is also a commitment to taking contributive actions toward and advocating for Indigenous equity (Brown & Ostrove, 2013; Lewis, 2018) and will be later explored in relation to this study.

In Australia, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander academics have long called for non-Indigenous researchers to participate in the critical work of self-interrogating our contributions to, and alignments with, ongoing colonizing practices by way of conducting research—particularly health research—on (as opposed to with) Indigenous peoples (Blair, 2016; Moreton-Robinson, 2000, 2006; Nakata, 2007). Aboriginal Australian academic Aileen Moreton-Robinson (2000) highlights how efforts to decolonize feminism in Australia “will require more than including voice or making space for Indigenous women . . . it will require white race privilege to be owned and challenged by white feminists engaged in anti-racist pedagogy and politics” (p. 351). Moreton-Robinson (2006) also declares that doing so will necessitate non-Indigenous women initiating and engaging in dialogue with each other, rather than inappropriately requesting or expecting direction regarding demeanor or race-related challenges from Indigenous colleagues (a declaration that has informed the participation and authorship of this article, i.e., our not including Indigenous partners from our broader research program in the current reflective study; instead, we have drawn deliberately and carefully on Indigenous scholarship, rather than requesting involvement from our Indigenous Australian coresearchers and inappropriately burdening them with the task of guiding our reflective process).

Proposed methodologies and theoretical frameworks for facilitating critical analysis of dominant Western theorizing, thinking, and knowing in Indigenous health research include (but are not limited to) critical race theory (Ford & Airhihenbuwa, 2010a, 2010b; Nakata, 2007), participatory action research (PAR; Boulton & Gifford, 2018; Cochran et al., 2008; Guilfoyle, Coffin, & Maginn, 2008), and (for gender-specific research) feminist participatory action research (FPAR; Gatenby & Humphries, 2000; Ponic, Reid, & Frisby, 2010; Reid, Tom, & Frisby, 2006). Although it is beyond the scope of this article to provide a full review of the ways these theories and methodologies have been applied in Indigenous research settings, extensive literature has been published on these areas in the current publication and elsewhere (see Chambers et al., 2018; Denzin, Lincoln, & Smith, 2014; Doyle, Cleary, Blanchard, & Hungerford, 2017; Drawson, Toombs, & Mushquash, 2017; Kendall et al., 2011; Kyoon-Achan et al., 2018; Martin et al., 2019; Waterworth, Dimmock, Pescud, Braham, & Rosenberg, 2016; West, Stewart, Foster, & Usher, 2012). What is of more interest to us (and arguably of novelty to the field) is a consideration of whether/how Western ways of knowing, more broadly, might contribute to decolonizing health research, and if so, what directions may non-Indigenous researchers and Indigenous stakeholders take to facilitate and enable decolonizing efforts within our individual and collective health research practices. The use of self- and collective reflection to access these insights has also been widely encouraged in Indigenous health research settings (Bennett, Power, Thomson, Mason, & Bartleet, 2016; Chambers et al., 2018; Wear, Kumagai, Varley, & Zarconi, 2012).

Although the aforementioned Western methodologies and theories (PAR, critical race theory, and FPAR) attempt to create conditions for raising consciousness and creating equity, Aboriginal Australian academic Nerida Blair (2017) explains that these theories and methodologies can still been seen as “bricks” within, what she refers to as a rigid, linear, “brick wall” of Western ways of knowing. She describes paradigms as bricks, the brick maker as the academy, and the bricklayers as the disciplines (Blair, 2017). Although arguably some bricks (by their very design) attempt to integrate Indigenous perspectives, they ultimately sit at odds with Blair’s (2017) description of Indigenous ways of knowing, which she identifies as patterned, organic, “Waterlily” ways of knowing. ¹ She explains that in her role as a scholar, “I didn’t feel that I was able to express myself and think differently, and I became frustrated, as I know our [Indigenous] reality and expressions cannot be accommodated within the bricks of the wall” (p. 154). In exploring Blair’s metaphor throughout our work (which is elaborated below), we were prompted to consider the ways that we are bound to the “brick wall” by our non-Indigenous, Western ways of knowing and how non-Indigenous methodologies can only ever be additional bricks in what is a colonizing wall.

While looking critically at our positioning as members of Australia’s dominant non-Indigenous majority and engaging with Blair’s (2017) metaphor throughout our reflexive process (which will be outlined shortly), a fundamental question continuously arose: namely, whether it is ever possible for non-Indigenous researchers to conduct decolonizing health research. ² This article seeks to offer a contextual example of how non-Indigenous researchers’ acknowledgment of our personal roles in perpetuating colonial cycles of violence and oppression, as individual agents operating within the broader systems of a colonized Australia and Western academia, is an uncomfortable but necessary starting point for the possibility of any shift toward decolonizing allyship. In many ways, this article is a response to Moreton-Robinson’s (2000) call for non-Indigenous women to initiate race-related dialogues with other non-Indigenous women (as opposed to burdening Indigenous colleagues) and also Blair’s closing question, “for you the reader, the author, the thinker, how do you position your voice, yourself, in the contested space, the space in between Indigenous and non-Indigenous intellectual traditions?”(p. 156). In what follows, we offer our learnings to other non-Indigenous researchers, inviting them to consider the roles of self-awareness, discomfort, and nondualistic thinking on their own lifelong allyship journeys, and to consider the question of what contributions, if any, non-Indigenous researchers can offer toward decolonizing health research as a continual touchstone.

Context and Process for a Reflection of What Contributions, if Any, Non-Indigenous Researchers Can Offer Toward Decolonizing Health Research

The reflexive research project, from which the current discussion was drawn, was borne out of an invitation by Indigenous Australian colleagues to collaborate on a program of research addressing menstrual health and hygiene (MHH) inequities among Indigenous Australian girls and women (Hall, 2017, 2018). In addition to the non-Indigenous reflexive project on which this current article reports, the research partnership and program of work included cofacilitation of a collective yarning circle (a culturally defined method of engaging in conversational dialogue; Bessarab & Ng’andu, 2010) as well as ongoing fieldwork in partnership with Indigenous Australian communities. In reconciling the seemingly paradoxical calls to critically look at ourselves while not centering ourselves, we undertook reflexive work to formally assess our own roles in the broader MHH research program. Our reflexive project served as the designated space to discuss our experiences, challenges, and thoughts with one another, without imposing on the broader research program or our Indigenous coresearchers (Moreton-Robinson, 2006).

Despite the aforementioned critiques of applying Western methodologies in research with Indigenous partners, we also acknowledge that our non-Indigenous positioning tethers us to the use of Western knowledge paradigms, as adopting non-Western ways of knowing is arguably a form of appropriation and exploitation. Thus, we are to some degree constrained in our selection of methodological frameworks within which to work. Nonetheless, we consciously sought a framework that allowed us to critically reflect and report on our process of undertaking health research with Indigenous partners as ethically as possible (Australian Council for International Development [ACFID], 2014; National Health and Medical Research Council, 2018; Osborne, Baum, & Brown, 2013), while accounting for the gendered and racial aspects of the broader research program. Using feminist and critical race theory lenses, we undertook a reflexive journey to (metaphorically) hold up a “mirror” to ourselves and one another to investigate our positioning, emotions, thoughts, and actions before, during, and after the yarning circle (Ford & Airhihenbuwa, 2010b; Mauthner & Doucet, 2003; Max, 2005; McPhail-Bell, Bond, Brough, & Fredericks, 2015).

Following ethical clearance from the authors’ university research committee, Emily conducted one-on-one semistructured interviews with the other three authors both before and after the yarning circle to account for temporal changes (Mauthner & Doucet, 2003). Verbal consent was obtained from each participant at the beginning of each interview and later written consent was obtained permitting identifiable excerpts from the interviews to be disclosed for the purposes of this article. Emily also compiled personal reflexive journal entries as a way of participating in the process and producing her own reflexive data (all authors were also participants in this supplemental case study). By outlining key elements from our reflexive experiences as illustrated by interview quotes and journal excerpts, we invite the reader to consider the functions of self-awareness, discomfort, and nondualistic thinking throughout our contextualized self- and collective observations. We also ask the reader to consider the role of allyship in relation to our experiences and non-Indigenous researchers’ capacities more broadly to contribute toward decolonizing health research as a foundational point of reflexive inquiry as well as a continual touchstone.

What Contributions, if Any, Can Non-Indigenous Researchers Offer Toward Decolonizing Health Research?

Three key features of our reflexive process are highlighted; namely, prioritizing “decolonizing of the self,” consideration of the role of discomfort, and movement through nonbinary and toward nondualistic thinking. The first feature is a personal and collective commitment to iteratively prioritize a process of “decolonizing of the self” (Lewis, 2018, p. 47) through self-awareness, acknowledging power and privilege, questioning and abandoning assumptions, and laying a foundation of honesty and humility with ourselves and each other (DiAngelo, 2011). Beginning early on in our process, external requests for clarification on the methodological approach of our broader research (i.e., participatory yarning circle) caused us to continually revisit and defend our commitment to avoid proposing Western protocols or non-Indigenous “solutions” (although this methodology still essentially represents a “brick” in the “brick wall” of Western knowledge paradigms).

Despite pushing against “traditionally scientific” Western ways of doing research, we continued to acknowledge how we ourselves embodied Western ways of knowing within the research partnership (Sharma, Reimer-Kirkham, & Cochrane, 2009). In one reflexive journal entry, Emily wrote,

I suppose the very act of us being invited to the yarning circle indicates our partners’ welcoming of some level of [non-Indigenous] influence, but also raised concerns over the impact of being in a Western academic environment and presenting barriers and options from our own “toolkits.”

In doing so, we recognized the value in not knowing, acknowledging our personal and professional limitations and, therefore, vast room for learning. Admission of “not knowing” is not typically celebrated among Western “brick wall” academic systems (Blair, 2017), which are designed to pursue and attain comprehensive knowledge. As such, Applebaum declares that “[o]ne of the significant features of white ignorance is that it involves not just not knowing but not knowing what one does not know and believing that one knows” (in Moreton-Robinson, 2011, p. 413). Nina reflected on her lack of exposure to Indigenous Australian history despite being highly educated within the “brick wall” educational system:

. . . this is kind of embarrassing to have got to this stage in life without . . . this knowledge about this country that I live in and the people who were here. Like, I’ve got a PhD and I have got none of this knowledge.

In acknowledging our non-expert roles, especially in regard to something as nuanced as Indigenous Australian experiences of menstruation, often our most appropriate contribution was to simply keep quiet, in avoidance of adding any unnecessary, uninformed dialogue. Tamzyn emphasized,

. . . all of us non-Indigenous practitioners, we don’t have the answers to what’s needed in Indigenous communities. So even if we think we have the technical things to offer, we do not have the answers so we need to shush.

Because of the cautious awareness of how power dynamics may be affected at the yarning circle, we each self-monitored how often we spoke up and chose to leave space for conversation to flow (Bennett et al., 2016), with Britta emphasizing, “I’m aware . . . I’m so aware of the privilege—privileges that I carry. And managing that in really subtle ways. Like not talking so much. Doing more listening.”

Nina highlighted her non-expert status by explaining that “because this is all so new to me, the humility is really easy because I really, truly do not know much at all. And the more I, that I learn, the more I realize what I don’t know.” Nina’s use of the word “humility” mirrors a term shared by Tamzyn during her post-yarning circle interview, which was developed by Tervalon and Murray-Garcia (1998). The authors introduced the concept of “cultural humility” as an improvement upon “cultural competency” education, which implies that a person can achieve a sense of knowing about any given cultural community (Tervalon & Murray-Garcia, 1998). Tamzyn explained,

. . . talking about cultural competency is—may not actually be useful cause . . . it implies that you can do a little course and suddenly I know everything about Mexicans and Indians and African Americans and English . . . It’s ridiculous, no one could ever know that . . . cultural humility is about recognizing and appreciating multiple cultures but recognizing that every individual that’s in front of you probably straddles multiple cultural groups.

In stepping into a place of cultural humility, one acknowledges that simply knowing basic traditions or “facts” about a culture (as would be taught in a competency course) cannot possibly offer insight into understanding every person from that culture or every piece of their identity, as they would prefer it to be shared (Tervalon & Murray-Garcia, 1998). R. Jones (2014) shares in his Royal Australasian College of Physicians (RACP) Congress Redfern Oration that cultural competency is not entirely unnecessary in health settings, but that when used exclusively, it is incomplete and can perpetuate stereotypes instead of raising critical consciousness (Kumagai & Lypson, 2009). To ideally identify and “unlearn” the unconscious biases that we individually perpetuate through enacting (or being complicit in) colonizing power dynamics and actions (Wear et al., 2012), practicing cultural humility and holding intentional silence creates space that can facilitate the avoidance of preconceptions and make room for identities to be shared, not assumed (Tervalon & Murray-Garcia, 1998). Cultural humility builds upon the cultural competency framework and encourages health practitioners to become informed about common aspects of cultural groups to practice more safely, but to use mindfulness and self-awareness (Yeager & Bauer-Wu, 2013) to reflect upon our assumptions, unconscious biases, and intrinsically narrow ability to understand any culture in its entirety, including our own (Wear et al., 2012).

A second key feature of our process was a result of this heightened self-awareness and constant questioning of our interactions, namely, an ever-present sense of discomfort. Attempting to stay conscious of our positioning while also staying present within the research practice—including during the interviews, the yarning circle, and in our weekly research meetings—added a level of critical self-consciousness that often instigated visceral discomfort and uncertainty (Kumagai & Lypson, 2009). For example, each of us expressed moments of physical discomfort in sometimes clumsily relearning how to communicate without using the deeply embedded colonizing/“othering” language of our dominant societies or exhibiting dominating mannerisms including our placements in rooms or ways of greeting one another. The invitational nature of this research partnership occasionally offered a ground to stand on when we frequently questioned the appropriateness of our participation or presence in Indigenous Australian MHH dialogues, but it certainly did not alleviate the discomfort of our involvement. A pivotal moment in the trajectory of the MHH research program was noted by Nina in her pre-yarning circle interview, when she describes her first conversation with National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Women’s Alliance (NATSIWA) CEO. After receiving negative reactions from several peers, Nina was anticipating apologizing for the initial article she published on the subject (Hall, 2017). Instead, she received appreciation from the CEO for highlighting an important issue that was apparently rarely discussed yet caused difficulties for girls and women:

I had this little, very humble apology on the tip of my tongue and then I almost missed her next words, which were, “This is such an important issue. Any barrier that stops our children going to school, which is the way that we are going to change our trajectory, then we need to remove those barriers. And if this is a barrier, then will you work with us to remove that barrier?” And whoa! (laughs) I feel actually emotional even just—there’s the relief of my personal ego going “ok, wow, I didn’t totally insult the whole world.”

Similarly, Tamzyn shared that she experienced “ongoing sort of ambiguity about being involved” adding that

I love the idea of working in partnership, but the dangers given the traditional kind of, dominance of, well, of colonization and of Western ways of dealing with the world—given that power imbalance it’s so, uh, it’s so, so tricky.

The feeling that it was not our place to participate in the MHH research program was common among each of us, acknowledging that we, as “liberal white women,” are precisely the demographic critiqued for perpetuating furthered colonial actions under the guise of social justice activism (Moreton-Robinson, 2000, 2006).

In her post-yarning circle interview, Britta introduced and summarized her awareness of and personal dissatisfaction with Western “brick wall” research, exploring Blair’s (2017) metaphor as a way of describing her experiences:

. . . this is my discomfort in this space, because um, like I’m not Indigenous so I can’t do the “Waterlily,” and that’s appropriate. That’s a sacred “Waterlily.” So, I’m stuck with this bloody “brick wall” which I’m, I even hate, and I’ve tried pulling in you know, different theories, feminist theory, um, you know, critical race theory, . . . but the “brick wall” is deeply dissatisfying (laughs).

Another area that caused unrest was the anticipation of Western methods appearing in unintended ways during the yarning circle. For instance, prior to the yarning circle Britta expressed,

. . . [it’s] kinda nerves, and concern around . . . yeah, even just simple things like the methodology stuff, and recording [the yarning circle]. There’s little things to think about and to think through all our assumptions about how we—we’ve typically done research.

Tamzyn also reflected on this issue, but in relation to dynamics:

I mean the whole thing about a yarning circle, we didn’t just call it that cause it was a cute name, it’s the process of people needing to talk normally, chat. But in that is a whole lot of richness that’s coming out and when you do the Western directing people like that and go, “right now we’re talking about this for five minutes.” Like it changes everything.

The ways that the “brick wall” could appear, heedfully described by Britta and Tamzyn, manifested in explicit ways during the yarning circle when non-Indigenous attendees began to discuss the possibility of conducting randomized control trials. The proposal to conduct highly positivist research in a space where we and NATSIWA researchers had laid foundations for a qualitative, constructivist approach (Mannell & Davis, 2019) caused Tamzyn to reflect that,

. . . we really need to be mindful of how this happens, how this thing that happens where, you, you give over the expertise to Indigenous women cause that’s . . . where it should sit. And then suddenly, non-Indigenous people are taking over and . . . before you know it, it’s not Indigenous solutions or steps. It’s suddenly something that’s been driven by the non-Indigenous crew . . .

Britta shared similar concerns and explained how her reaction was to exit the room when the discussion of conducting such research arose noting that,

I just went to the toilet. I was so uncomfortable with it but I didn’t know what—why, like I was so—there was so much happening that I was like oh! That the conversation had gone that way, I was just kind of frustrated.

This moment of “discomfort” that Britta reflects upon, offers insight into a key aspect of our individual and collective journeys. Although Britta (as well as Tamzyn and Emily) described their anticipation of discussions of this nature, the reality of being “part of,” and therefore complicit in, such discussions was clearly an entirely different experience. Her “exit” from the room highlights that, at this point in her research journey, Britta did not feel she could sit in the room with her discomfort any longer (DiAngelo, 2011). This also illustrates our initial dualistic thinking, in that, the only options apparent to Britta at the time, were to stay and potentially escalate or diffuse the situation or to leave.

Tamzyn points out one of the factors she believes contributed to this appearance of the “brick wall” noting that, “we all met in a university. How did we not guess? Of course, it’s going to be obvious, that, that, that kind of dominant, uh, Western approach that sounds so legitimate, was going to overshadow anything else.” From Tamzyn’s perspective, the proposition of conducting quantitative research breached the understanding we had with our Indigenous coresearchers:

There needs to be a constant awareness now, like an acute awareness, of when we are doing that thing—when we’re pushing that white agenda, because then we need to step back . . . we said we weren’t going to do that and that’s exactly where we ended up.

This appearance of the “brick wall” (in the form of discussing randomized control trials) despite efforts to mitigate it as much as possible, and discomfort when it was raised, led each of us to reflect on how what happened could have been avoided. Indeed, this prompted our questioning of whether non-Indigenous involvement in Indigenous research could ever contribute to decolonizing practices, ultimately sparking the foundation for this article. Britta shared that,

[participatory research] is like the, you know, (gasp) (laughter) It’s romanticized. Well, I romanticize it . . . and then to do it and still be implicated by these problems, these Western traditions and agendas . . . got me to a point of almost pushing me to a—dur!—Like should I just like pull out completely cause I don’t know if I can . . . ?

Notably, these illustrations of the ways colonizing actions manifested during the yarning circle were self-identified criticisms, not concerns expressed by any of the Indigenous Australian coresearchers involved in the broader MHH research program. In her reflective journal, Emily wrote about reaching this point of reflection, “we can’t exactly grade ourselves on this. I guess it’s not really up to us to decide if anything was ‘ruined,’ it’s up to the [Indigenous] women we’re working with to decide who they want to invite back.” This notion of non-Indigenous researchers identifying potentially colonizing aspects of the research experience based on our own perceptions, in avoidance of leaning on or appearing to seek self-gratifying approval from Indigenous partners, introduces one of the many complexities of non-Indigenous researchers attempting to act as what is often referred to as “allies,” the nuances of which will now be explored.

As defined by Brown and Ostrove (2013), allies are “dominant [and non-dominant] group members who work to end prejudice in their personal and professional lives, and relinquish social privileges conferred by their group status through their support of [all] non-dominant groups” (p. 2211, brackets added). Brown and Ostrove (2013) also note, however, that although allyship is acted upon and sometimes self-declared by dominant group members, only non-dominant members can define or identify the qualities that make a person an ally. During our interviews, Nina shared her observation that the conversations that provoked the most self-doubt and shame for her often derived from other non-Indigenous researchers seeking to act as allies with Indigenous partners. She cited that negative interactions with some of these non-Indigenous individuals included harshly delivered and unconstructive criticisms, interrogations on critical race theory knowledge, quizzing about our Indigenous partners, and apparent accusatory questioning of our intentions. Undoubtedly, it is an important role for non-Indigenous researchers to have critical discussions about these issues with other non-Indigenous people (so much so, that it was the underlying premise for this reflexive project and article; Max, 2005), but it is the tone and manner with which these conversations were experienced that is of interest here. We did not find aggressive examination from non-Indigenous individuals as a helpful starting point for exploring these issues. By shaming one another, possibly from a place of well-meaning critique, the conversation loses any chance for transformative dialogue (Carey & Prince, 2015; Max, 2005; McGloin, 2009). These self-appointed non-Indigenous gatekeepers also run the risk of “veering out of their lane” and defending or preaching from a place of personal ownership or anger (Lewis, 2016; Sky & Rae, 2018). In addition, as Tamzyn noted,

. . . there’s this dilemma, which is maybe always the dilemma for non-Indigenous people working around Indigenous research projects or interventions is, you know—to what extent are you perpetuating paternalism and by deciding what’s okay and what’s not okay for Indigenous people?

These are issues in need of reflection for anyone attempting to act as an ally (Lewis, 2016), and introduces yet another question to consider: Who should be determining what “good allyship” looks like (Brown and Ostrove, 2013; Kowal & Paradies, 2005)?

We also experienced another side of non-Indigenous dialogue that created space for nonincriminating, constructive criticisms and self-awareness (Carey & Prince, 2015). By providing each other with room and support for learning, which was also a gift kindly offered by our NATSIWA partners, we attempted to create space to admit when we made mistakes or did not know something—two disclosures that are often discouraged in Western knowledge systems. By engaging in nonjudgmental, shared reflexive dialogues, we facilitated a space where learning could happen for each of us, regardless of what stage of “decolonizing of the self” (Lewis, 2018) we found ourselves. This nuance is ultimately the premise for this reflexive project, which considers whether and under what conditions self- and collective reflection can be a factor in shifting white settler positioning away from colonizing action, as a precursor for any attempt at conducting decolonizing health research. As quoted by Dunbar (2008), “[w]hen you author a script, often more about you is revealed than is revealed about the person(s) about whom it is written” (p. 97). Shifting blame and losing sight of personal faults can so quickly devolve into competitions of self-righteous indignation, a quality seen in many of our non-Indigenous colleagues who took a more accusatory approach to critical race discussions.

Another source of discomfort was identified in our removal of the divisions that are often held in professional relationships. A sense of vulnerability was expressed about the exposure and disclosures we shared; however, they, in turn, fostered experiences of authenticity and deepened connection. The nature of critically reflexive work is inherently vulnerable, because it involves examining personal views, faults, and challenges (Max, 2005) without the privileged shield of “accepted” or “acceptable” dominant societal “norms” (Magnusson & Marecek, 2015). The seemingly small risks that are taken in sharing about personal experiences can have large impacts on the development of personal and professional relationships (Boulton & Gifford, 2012). Britta, who aligns with the feminist tenet that “the personal is political” (Campbell & Wasco, 2000) and expressed comfort in blending her personal and professional worlds, shared that her view on vulnerability is one of harnessing human connection, “I feel like presenting oneself as invulnerable is an act of power . . . By presenting yourself as human, as vulnerable, it’s a point of connection. And it’s not claiming power, it’s claiming connection.” Areas of growth and learning appeared more accessible when facades were not there to “protect” identities. Nina expressed this most explicitly in her reflection that,

I think we’re allowed in kind of urban, modern culture to be a different person in each setting. You know, at home I’m a certain person and if I’m going to something that’s really formal I’m a different person and in my work I have a work personality. And what this engagement with [our partners] and all the wonderful women that they’ve introduced me to is, it’s actually still the same person . . . and actually it’s a bit dishonest to actually be a different person in those different settings.

The concept of “still being the same person” that Nina presents, and its relation to blurred boundaries, also appeared in Emily’s personal reflections alongside notions of embracing her “humanness,” noting the ways that her personality and identity felt uncertain and “under construction,” causing moments of feeling out of touch with herself:

. . . so often I have found myself at a loss for words, scrambling to piece together ones that don’t seem to fit together the way I intend . . . My goal is to be more selective with my words without losing my authenticity or humanness.

Tamzyn also reflected on her experience of being at a loss of words describing, “there’s a real kind of nervousness around that stuff (cultural sensitivity), like I’m walking on eggshells. Which is probably how it should be but yes, sometimes I get sort of so tied up in it, it almost becomes paralyzing.” It was not only cultural sensitivity that caused these “paralyzing” moments for Tamzyn but also “a huge sense of awe and privilege that we actually get to sit with these women. Like almost the kind of awe that could render me just sitting in a corner, you know? (laughs).” The sense of being honored to be a part of this work was another experience shared by all of us, with Britta reflecting that, “ . . . the privilege for me to work on this project, it almost casts all previous work that I’ve done in this like ‘oh my gosh, what was I even doing?’” In Emily’s reflective journal, she described physical manifestations of the simultaneous discomfort and privilege felt about being a part of the yarning circle:

At the yarning circle, I found myself feeling quite tongue-tied. I felt the physical weight and complexity that filled the room . . . I felt unsure that I even should have held a place at that table. I still feel unsure that there is a place for white people in this work at all . . . but even more apparent is my inability to “unknow” what I have learned through this journey.

The third and final key feature in our process, and where we have “arrived” in our thinking since, relates to the transformative nature of the discomfort felt in nonbinary, liminal spaces, with nondualistic thinking serving as a possible way forward. Here, nonbinary is used to acknowledge a spectrum of placements in the space between apparent opposites, whereas nondualistic refers to the subsequent uniting of this spectrum as one entity. The limiting and irreconcilable use of binary thinking (Indigenous/non-Indigenous, Western/non-Western, etc.), which mirrors the “sterile” positivist approach of traditional Western scientific inquiry from which we seek to distance ourselves, lead us to explore what Nakata (2007) refers to as “the cultural interface,” the liminal, nonbinary space where paradigms meet. After the yarning circle, we considered and questioned the possibility of fostering another creative way of knowing at “the cultural interface” in light of our contextualized experiences (Nakata, 2007). In exploring our discomfort while engaging with the cultural interface, we felt how we are inextricably bound to the colonizing “project” by direct consequence of our non-Indigeneity and the “brick wall” to which we are tethered, and yet wholeheartedly committed to engaging in an ethically sound partnership with our Indigenous Australian colleagues. However, by shifting to a nondualistic view (made possible through acknowledging, engaging with, and staying with the discomfort of the nonbinary, liminal cultural interface), it became clear that our fundamental binding to the “brick wall” arguably also makes us candidates for contributing to the broader decolonizing project through ongoing, critically reflective self-decolonizing practice. In other words, with a nondual lens, it becomes possible to see how continuously working to decolonize ourselves (i.e., getting uncomfortable and staying there [Finlay, 2018]) may itself be (one of) the contribution(s) that non-Indigenous researchers can offer to the collective project of decolonizing health research.

In moving away from binary “othering” notions, resisting the temptation to diffuse the discomfort of nonbinary placements, and transitioning toward a nondualistic understanding of Indigenous and non-Indigenous interactions, the possibility of non-Indigenous self-reflective work to perhaps contribute to the broader decolonizing movement becomes accessible. Fostering nondualistic thinking has also allowed us to begin to work with some of the paradoxes and inconsistencies in our experiences, which cannot be explained or resolved with binary reasoning or dialogue, that is, “linguistic incongruence” (DeVault, 1990) experienced by shifting from notions of “either/or” toward “both and” (A. Jones & Jenkins, 2014; McKenzie-Mohr & Lafrance, 2011). Nonbinary and nondualistic thinking encourages us to broaden our scopes beyond simplistic labeling and then consider our own roles and connections to the broader human community from a more holistic perspective. Such a process is admittedly messier than using a binary model, but is arguably a more accurate representation of the uncomfortable and complicated reality left in the wake of colonization. When discussing the residual impacts and broad-reaching effects humans have upon one another, Tamzyn shared,

I’m just constantly reminded of . . . what human beings can do to each other that not only affects one person through their life and just keeps reverberating, but that affects generations and generations of people . . .

These reverberating influences can be harmful, healing, or otherwise, with cascading effects on individuals, families, communities, and (no matter how indirectly) ultimately ourselves, our own families, and collective future generations. The reflective work explored in this article has led us to deeply consider what reverberating influences we intend to impart in our world (through our work and otherwise), reinforcing our collectively felt desire to offer more healing than harm. Nina remarked on noticing changes in the way that she has begun to engage and interact with all people since beginning this research journey sharing that, “I reckon, there’s something for me personal that’s happening because of all this, which is reflection on being a good person.” By acknowledging and appreciating the ways we affect one another, we begin to touch upon our inherent connectedness, or what Aboriginal Australian educator and activist Lilla Watson has referred to as our “bound up [liberation]” (Wright & McCoy, 2012). Watson is cited as stating, “if you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. If you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, let us work together” (in Wright & McCoy, 2012, p. 120). Through this work, by way of self-awareness, humility, and mutually enduring necessary (and ongoing) discomfort, we have brushed up against the nonduality that Watson (in Wright & McCoy, 2012) refers to, gaining a contextualized understanding of how non-Indigenous researchers’ attempts to “decolonize the self” may be considered a necessary preliminary contribution to any eventual collective liberation.

The Importance of Continuously Asking That Question

Initially, raising critical consciousness of our non-Indigenous positioning in this research was (at the very least) deemed necessary for minimizing harm within our interactions with Indigenous partners and privileging Indigenous Australian perspectives on research questions and solutions—elements essential to the ethical standards and success of any health program or policy (ACFID, 2014; National Health and Medical Research Council, 2018; Osborne et al., 2013). However, critically reflecting on the process of this research program also allowed each of us to embody and identify the challenges and discomfort we individually and collectively came up against and continue to come back to the ambiguity at the hinge of our involvement: namely, what contributions, if any, non-Indigenous researchers can offer toward decolonizing health research. Throughout the process we experienced how conscious engagement with discomfort offered a fertile starting point for ongoing reflection and served as an indication of making contact with the moral and political textures of our collective past, present, and future. Although this research project focuses more on the personal than the political, we of course acknowledge that comprehensive decolonization will require collective and systemic changes to shift away from the broad-reaching colonizing ideologies visible in Australian institutions, which we have analyzed on a smaller scale.

Our experience illustrates how the iterative process of critical reflection facilitated a persistent and often shared acknowledgment of discomfort that led to developing a collective point of inquiry for continued learning. Revisiting the invitational nature of the research program periodically temporarily soothed confusion over involvement in Indigenous health research, but inevitably the question of the appropriateness of our presence would re-emerge and the reflexive cycle would repeat. By engaging in collective reflexivity, we encouraged one another to verbalize changing thoughts, found common language to describe our experiences, and gained insights from one another’s challenges; all rich places of learning that would not have been available if we had exclusively conducted individual reflexive practices.

Instead of offering a single, definitive answer to our original provocation—to which, by the way, we do not have any finalized answers—we suggest that there are several aspects required to support the process of ongoing questioning of our place as non-Indigenous partners in an Indigenous health research program, namely, heightened self-awareness, mindful investigation of discomfort, and movement through nonbinary and toward nondualistic thinking. In presenting the question of what contributions, if any, non-Indigenous researchers can offer toward decolonizing health research, we share our experiences to invite other non-Indigenous researchers to consider themselves candidates for ongoing decolonizing reflexive practice. Our intention is for the very question posed in the title of this article to serve as an iterative touchpoint for all non-Indigenous researchers in an effort to (continue to) remain conscious, reflective and appropriately uncomfortable in our positioning in Indigenous spaces and places, which is to say, everywhere.