Dilemmas of the activist-researcher: Balancing militant ethnography,security culture,and reflexive ethics in Australia

Abstract

Ethnographic practice in contentious and high-risk spaces raises important ethical and methodological questions. When working with grassroots activists who actively avoid forms of surveillance, the boundary between consensual observation and potentially harmful documentation becomes difficult to discern. This article aims not only to identify the gaps in qualitative research methodologies for scholars working with grassroots activists, but also to think of practical ways in which researchers should mitigate concerns both for participants and themselves. Based on fieldwork in Australia, the author explores the ethical, methodological, and emotional dilemmas of conducting research with activists as a militant ethnographer. The article argues that activist-centred project designs must consider the challenges between the researcher's mandate to collect data and their responsibility to uphold security culture both in and outside activist spaces. Reflexive research ethics, further, should be a part of ongoing research engagement to address the emotional tensions overlooked in standardized ethical protocols.

Introduction

Grassroots activists are individuals who seek to undermine power from the bottom-up to achieve social or political change on a given issue. In this sense, their resistance originates and grows from the roots, that is, the most basic level or fundamental starting point. This distinguishes grassroots activism from formal and semi-formal types of activism, including NGOs, lobbyists, and professional activists. When grassroots activists not only operate outside dominant power structures, but also actively resist them, they navigate different realms of risk and precarity. Government authorities, mainstream media, and in some cases, researchers, have contributed to the stigmatization of grassroots activists by misrepresenting their intentions and perpetuating damaging stereotypes about their character (Bashir et al., 2013: 614; Rowlands, 2021).

Despite drawbacks caused by the COVID-19 pandemic, mass protests transpired globally in 2020 and 2021 both over-familiar grievances (e.g. corruption, police brutality) and newfound dissent over virus-related issues (e.g. economic hardship, government mismanagement) (Press and Carothers, 2020). As rising polarization in democratic and semi-democratic countries increases, so does the likelihood of political unrest and protest among citizens (Griffin et al., 2020: 14). This stresses the importance of studying grassroots activists and the ways in which they perform resistance. As an anthropologist, my research relies on rich human interactions, achieved through key ethnographic practices including semi-structured interviews and participant observation. To better understand grassroots activist cultures, it is crucial to open dialogue with these activists and inquire into their daily activities, stories, and reflections. I achieve this through my role as a scholar-activist (Dawson and Sinwell, 2012) and a practitioner of militant ethnography (Juris, 2008: 20), which I will discuss later. This figures as part of a wider, cross-cultural research project, locating Do-It-Yourself and feminist care ethics (Clement, 1996; Gilligan, 1982; Held, 2006; Tronto, 1993) in grassroots activist communities of Australia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. For the purposes of this paper, I will only be drawing on experiences from fieldwork in Australia.

When I began designing my research project, I felt confident that grassroots activists would participate because (1) they are proud of their involvement and eager to share experiences, (2) they believe in the value of archiving grassroots activism through academic publishing, and (3) they are willing to engage with me because I am also an activist. What I failed to consider, however, are barriers that might deter participation, such as (1) the potential legal, political, social, and economic risks that could arise if identities are disclosed, (2) the cultural clash between grassroots activist values and the hierarchical, neoliberal and corporate structure of academia (Acker and Wagner, 2019; Chatterton et al., 2010; Morley, 2016; Thornton, 2013), and (3) the lack of direct benefit to participants versus the cost of their time and energy, especially during a pandemic. These additional concerns came to the fore during a 5-month negotiation with my university's HREC (Human Research Ethics Committee) to obtain ethical clearance for the project. This lengthy process prompted the following questions: How can I ensure that my project design compromises neither the trust of activists nor the interests of their collective? How can I reconcile the clashes between the institution of academia and grassroots activist values? How will I negotiate my insider status and my personal commitment to activist struggles while carrying out the responsibilities of a researcher?

While many scholars of cultural sociology and anthropology have discussed the challenges of insider research, these accounts generally do not offer a thorough analysis of participant precarity and risk management. Though limited in scope, I have drawn on literature from social movement studies (SMS) scholars that address my methodological concerns.

Diani and Eyerman's edited collection on the study of collective action probes the tension between social movement actors and representatives of the university, (Diani and Eyerman, 1992; Esseveld and Eyerman, 1992; Melucci, 1992), most notably articulating the risks that research can entail for those under study (Kriesi, 1992). Graber's ethnographic account of direct action movements features brief methodological considerations and insights into his positionality, revealing the sensitivity of documenting activists during meetings and training so as to not wrongfully disclose information (2009). Hintz and Milan's thorough reflection on activist research, which is based on their work with cyber activists, offers valuable criticism of the nature of scientific investigation as a form of surveillance (2010). They argue that social science research in grassroots activist settings should be founded on trusted relationships, dialogue and collaboration, and a critical reflexivity on behalf of the researcher.

Furthermore, an issue of the Social Movement Studies journal on the ethics of activist research featured articles discussing the limits of ethics review processes (Gillan and Pickerill, 2012), advocating for reflexive research ethics (Cordner et al., 2012), the ethical and political challenges of activist research (Dawson and Sinwell, 2012; Lewis, 2012; Santos, 2012; Smeltzer, 2012), and the emotional burden inflicted on oneself when undertaking research (Creek, 2012). Recent work from scholars exploring the frictions of engaged activist research (Apoifis, 2017; Boni et al., 2022; Russell, 2015; Sztandara, 2021; Valenzuela-Fuentes, 2019) expand on Juris’ concept of ‘militant ethnography’, which suggests a mode of action and engagement on behalf of the researcher to break down the divide between themselves and their object (Juris, 2008; Juris and Khasnabish, 2013). This methodological approach also hinges on an embodied, emotional understanding, given that affective dynamics ‘are central to sustained processes of movement building and activist networking’ (Juris, 2008: 21). These accounts propose relevant methodological tools for qualitative inquiry in activist spaces and invite an authentic reflection the risks of conducting ethnography for all affected actors – including the researcher.

The primary goal of this article is to explore the dilemmas of safety, surveillance, and sensitivity in qualitative research with activists through my experience as a researcher who not only has insider status, but also engages in militant ethnography. More specifically, I look at the predicament that emerges between ethnographic research and activist security culture. I draw on excerpts from my 2021 fieldnotes in Australia to address some of the ethical, methodological, and emotional tensions of conducting research with individuals who navigate precarity in their every day, and most of whom are also my close peers. The secondary goal is to critically look inwards at the impacts of research on my personal well-being, and to frankly discuss the realities of burnout and imposter syndrome in contentious research spaces.

I will begin by situating the context of grassroots activism in Queensland and identify some of the regional factors of risk and precarity that activists face. Next, I will introduce the concept of security culture and position myself in relation to the literature on insider research. Subsequently, I use my own experience to discuss both the benefits and the challenges of this project. I consider, with transparency, the implications of my role as a militant ethnographer, and how this may pose a risk not only to my participants’ safety, but also to my own mental welfare.

Context: situating activism in Queensland, Australia

Despite what some of my participants and author Donald Horne (1964) describe as a culture of complacency among Australians, there are very lively activist scenes across Australia. These are found both in urban centres like Sydney and Melbourne, and in rural areas, especially where industries like coal and mining hold a significant presence. Brisbane is the third largest city in Australia, situated in the southeast of Queensland, the sunshine state. Brisbane appears from the onset as being a much less interesting site to observe grassroots activism in comparison to Melbourne, which boasts greater potential from the arts and culture scenes for political awareness and countercultural engagement, or Newcastle, the world's largest coal exporting harbour in the world, or the Galilee Basin, where mining giants threaten to destroy the ancestral lands of the Wangan and Jagalingou people. Brisbane, however, offers a valuable cross-section of environmental, human and animal rights campaigns and movements. The city has a particularly interesting history of repression and resistance, which peaked over the 1970s and 80s, and gradually eased once Joh Bjelke-Petersen (aka the Hillbilly Dictator) was removed from office. This spurred a lively punk scene, a network of anarchist organizations, and a significant civil liberties movement, and created all the right conditions for alternative spaces to proliferate and spread leftist politics among the young, the angry, and the disenfranchised (Evans and Ferrier, 2004; Piccini et al., 2018; Stafford, 2006; Willsteed, 2019).

Today in 2021, despite a decrease in overall participation, ¹ targeted grassroots campaigns and movement-based groups are still in effect. Familiar grievances over land rights, environmental degradation, war, refugees, Indigenous deaths in custody, poverty, and housing rights still make up the bulk of street marches, outreach campaigns, occupations, blockades, and other forms of civil disobedience.  

Although I did conduct some fieldwork outside of Queensland, I cannot disclose the location for reasons of security. As such, I focus on the regional context of Queensland here, but I recognize that each Australian state has a particular relationship with protest as well as different laws that regulate levels of tolerance and repression towards activists. In the next section, I discuss some of the risks that grassroots activists can face in Australia to help illustrate the precarity that both participants and the researcher navigate in activist-centred research.

Gauging risk in activist realms: the hazards of protest and direct action

The consequences that grassroots activists may face as a result of their political engagement include social stigmatization, emotional burnout, alienation, online and offline harassment, physical and verbal abuse, loss of employment, arrest, fines, jail time, criminal convictions, deportation, and in the most extreme of cases, death (Davenport, 2007; Flesher Fominaya and Wood, 2011; Hasler et al., 2020). Recently documented accounts of activist repression in Australia are mainly carried out by police, the media, and the government (Garnham, 2019; Heath and Burdon, 2017; Paris, 2019; Rowlands, 2021). It is beyond the scope of this article to explain activists’ motivations or to offer historical context about the repercussions of grassroots resistance. Rather, the article considers and questions the lack of guidelines around safer research practices when working with grassroots activists.

In general, grassroots activists in Australia are less vulnerable than their counterparts in Southeast Asia, Latin America, and Africa because they benefit from the perceived ‘freedoms’ of a Western government and the protections of a ‘fair’ legal system. Nevertheless, there is still police brutality against protestors and so-called political agitators across Australia: for recent examples in Queensland, see a comprehensive report by the legal support group Action Ready of police violence at a peaceful demonstration in Brisbane (Action Ready, 2021). The experience of being harassed by bystanders, threatened online, or being arrested can be distressing for anyone, but it may be more triggering and dangerous for an Indigenous person, a transgender person, or a survivor of domestic violence if they regularly experience microaggressions or have lived through other situations of trauma by reason of their identity or social environment. ² Australian police, it has been argued, have engaged in ‘selective coercion’ when confronted with socially marginalized and isolated groups (Findlay, 2004: 12). As such, the grassroots activist experience is not only shaped by a particular spatial and temporal context, but it is also deeply linked with identity politics, class, and hegemonic attitudes in ‘Othering’.

Indigenous Australians are particularly susceptible to racist profiling, mistreatment, and violence: since the end of the royal commission into Aboriginal deaths in custody in 1991, over 500 Indigenous Australians have died under police watch (Australian Institute of Criminology, 2022). Cases of excessive violence by police against Indigenous people have drawn the attention of international bodies. Amnesty International, for example, called for accountability of the Queensland Police Service (QPS) in the late 1990s after receiving numerous incident reports involving Indigenous juveniles and members of other minority groups (1997).

Over the period of 2020–2021, I witnessed several dozen incidents of police brutality during non-violent demonstrations in Queensland, and countless others were documented and shared online. Activists from several different grassroots groups (Refugee Solidarity Meanjin [RSM], Solidarity and Resistance Collective, Blockade Australia [BA], Warriors of the Aboriginal Resistance [WAR], Extinction Rebellion [XR], Direct Action Everywhere [DxE], etc.) have either been assaulted by members of law enforcement during peaceful protests or have been targeted in other ways, such as having their homes raided. Police are known to use intimidation tactics to incite activists to comply with orders: despite being morally questionable, it is not illegal for police to lie, search individuals without their consent, apply unnecessary and unlawful use of force, and use strategic incapacitation tactics (Action Ready, 2019, 2021: 3–4). They may further dehumanize individuals in custody through tools of dominance like strip searching, a particularly terrifying and humiliating experience for Murri (Indigenous Queenslander) women (Lucashenko and Kilroy, 2005: 17). Although it would be politically contentious to suggest that the QPS discriminates people on the basis of gender, ethnicity or sexual orientation, I will simply point out that this police force been under investigation for several problematic incidents over the 2020–2022 period, such as: widespread participation in an overtly sexist, racist, and homophobic Facebook group (McKenna, 2021; Smee, 2021); allowing individual officers to promote the Thin Blue Line movement – which has been linked to right-wing extremism – while on duty at protests (Action Ready, 2020); and most recently the ‘sickening and disturbing’ racist remarks officers made about black people held in custody, which were exposed in a watch-house ³ audio recording (Smee and Gillespie, 2022).

Court systems in Australia, similarly to those in the UK and North America, do not operate in favour of grassroots activists. Besides the emotional distress that can accompany the experience of arrest, activists usually leave the court room with hefty fines (typically AUD$500 to AUD$1500). Recurring offenders receive criminal convictions and eventually face jail time if they are repeatedly arrested. Until 2021, it was uncommon for non-violent activists to receive jail sentences, but in the midst of a government crackdown on protesters, this has been the case for multiple direct-action climate activists ⁴ (McGowan, 2022; Parkes-Hupton, 2022; Rachwani, 2021).

It should be noted that state authorities and police are not the only perpetrators of harm to grassroots activists. Unfortunately, researchers studying activist groups have also been guilty of this, even if they began with honest intentions. As Kriesi notes: ‘Social science research may contribute to the criminalization of the movement or to its stereotyping; it may contribute to the condemnation of the movement in a very general way’ (1992: 198). Potential harm however can be minimized through proper research design, informed consent, and meaningful engagement with participants throughout each step of the research. It is also essential, in my view, that researchers delving into these contentious spaces are equipped with a suitable understanding of activist culture and practices. In the following section, I discuss the principles of activist security culture and showcase the importance of implementing these tenets into research design. Drawing on the complexity of activist research, I subsequently make a case for using militant ethnography as the method of inquiry and engagement in activist spaces.

Activist theory, research praxis: key terms

Security culture

An overview of security culture is important to contextualize the ethical and methodological dilemmas that qualitative research poses in activist settings. A thorough understanding of activist security culture should be a prerequisite for anyone studying activist practices, as this relates to consent and boundaries. As will be discussed, the tenets of security culture complicate research in activist spaces because they seek to reduce surveillance, which is the basis of ethnographic practice. Later in the paper, I will explore through my own experience how to walk the shaky line between cautious activist observation and damaging activist surveillance.

Ethnography requires observation. Yet, many activists work hard to evade surveillance in their everyday praxis. A key activist convention is to engage in security culture, a set of measures implemented across the group to reduce the chances of information disclosure, incrimination, and infiltration. The central creed of security culture is that ‘people should never be privy to any sensitive information they do not need to know’ (CrimethInc Ex-Workers Collective, 2004). Regardless of the type of activity, activists should be taking precautions to safeguard their identity and others’ when sharing information online or in-person about an action. Humans (e.g. undercover police) and technological devices (e.g. smartphones) can access sensitive information if they are unnoticed or treated as innocuous by activists. As Bratich notes, we increasingly find ourselves in a surveillance ecology (2018: 259). This begs the question: how can we observe activists without breaching security culture? Hintz and Milan address this dilemma in their article on research with cyber activists, recognizing that social science can pose as a ‘police science’, thereby amplifying the risk of exposing group connections and revealing tactics (2010: 842).

The presence of a researcher observing and taking notes during a meeting will cause some level of disruption to the usual order of things, even if it is just a stirring of curiosity. A good security culture would posit that activists refrain from discussing anything potentially sensitive around someone who is not a trusted member of their collective. It is essential in this context to have a degree of insider knowledge and rapport with the group, because an outsider with ambiguous intentions would immediately raise suspicions and likely be excluded from most – if not all – gatherings in the activist space. Even if the researcher is an activist, like myself, who understands security culture and recognizes the collective's boundaries, any person subject to observation should receive a transparent overview of the research project's goals, procedures, and expected outcomes as part of informed consent. ⁵

Grassroots activists can face an array of moderate to severe consequences if they are incriminated, and the mere act of documenting only heightens this risk. To illustrate this, I suggest watching Heidi Lee Douglas’ documentary about grassroots activism in Tasmania, called Defendant 5: How Activism Saved Tasmania's Old Growth Forests (2014). In the documentary, Douglas recounts how her role as a filmmaker helped a major forestry enterprise build a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against a group of 20 activists, including herself. Despite her intentions to help the community, her footage was used as evidence to identify activists and legally incriminate them. Her visibility as a filmmaker brought significant attention to the cause, but also subjected her peers to higher levels of surveillance and varying degrees of emotional and financial strain throughout the court case. Although Douglas was not a researcher and did not require ethics clearance for her work, her story attests to the importance of ethical considerations for any project involving grassroots activists, especially those on the frontlines. To quote Curtis: ‘The greater the vulnerability of the participant, the greater the obligation of the researcher to protect the participant’ (2014: 67). Examples such as these confirm the following two arguments: first, grassroots activists – especially those on the frontlines – should be treated as high-risk individuals, meaning that research methodology must be designed appropriately. Second, good intentions are not enough to protect participants: risk management measures that involve a thorough understanding of a group's boundaries and security culture practices are crucial to informed consent and should be the crux of ethical research conduct. That said, this type of high-risk research not only favours but practically requires a degree of insider status and intimate knowledge in order to be conducted as safely and appropriately as possible. This leads to my next point, which examines the costs and benefits of insider research, and ultimately suggests a more participatory mode of ethnography.

From insider research to militant ethnography

As someone who actively participates in grassroots activism, I have considered at length how my insider status has both helped and hindered me in my pursuit of critical analysis. There is no clear dichotomy between the position of insider and outsider when conducting research since it is likely to shift during the process, based on the interactions with other actors and the ever-changing dynamics of the field (Breen, 2007; Hodkinson, 2005; Sherif, 2001). A number of contemporary feminist scholars, notably, have advocated for a more nuanced view of the boundaries between insider and outsider in research contexts (Merriam et al., 2001; Paechter, 2013; Sharp, 2020; Zavella, 1993). I am far more familiar, for example, with the cultures of grassroots activism in Australia than those in Indonesia and the Philippines, because I have first-hand experience in the Brisbane activist scene, and very little in the other two countries. Although I have spent varying lengths of time in each country, I grew up in North America, which undeniably impacts my outlook.

Rather than being a researcher ‘going native’, I follow the idea of being an insider ‘going academic’ (Armstrong, 1993: 27; Hobbs, 1988: 15; Hodkinson, 2005: 144), which places me in a favourable position to develop rapport with participants and critically evaluate their experiences. Insider researchers have a privileged access to knowledge because they have additional resources available to them (Chavez, 2008: 482; Hodkinson, 2005: 142), and an ‘empirical literacy’ informed by their prior experience (Roseneil, 1993). As such, this may grant greater admittance to participants and spaces for observation, which is considered by a number of ethnographers to be advantageous in the field (Bennett, 2002: 460). Furthermore, insider researchers have the lived experience, affiliations, and understanding to more effectively communicate with participants in the field (Mazzetti, 2016: 312; Taylor, 2011: 6), and to later unpack the complex contents of qualitative research data (Hodkinson, 2005: 143; Kacen and Chaitin, 2006: 212).

However, insider researchers run the risk of becoming so entrenched in the experience of fieldwork that they assume ‘the role of “subcultural” spokesperson’ (Bennett, 2003: 193). In so doing, they may find themselves speaking on behalf of others rather than allowing their participants to speak for themselves. While building trust and rapport are crucial in qualitative research settings (Bono, 2020; Bussu et al., 2021; Glesne, 1989; Palmer et al., 2020), the familiarity shared between a researcher and their participants could lead them to confess personal information more readily. A researcher's insider status can prompt excitement, openness, and credence from their participants, but this should under no circumstance replace the duty to follow ethical conduct and maintain consistency in consent procedures (Bennett, 2003: 195; Taylor, 2011: 14). It also carries the risk that participants may withhold information that they deem obvious, leading the researcher to overlook particularities of experience (Berger, 2015: 224). Further questions of accountability arise for the insider researcher who has an intimate knowledge of their participants’ personal history. As Taylor says: ‘Omission is political; it is also tricky, yet it is often necessary’ (2011: 14). This becomes even more difficult when rapports of intimacy between the researcher and their participants are additionally tied up in a wider collective responsibility to practice security culture and to demonstrate a level of solidarity with the activist collective. I argue, therefore, that being an ‘insider’ is insufficient in the context of such research: I advocate for more engaged and political practice through militant ethnography.

A militant ethnographer, de facto, bears a degree of insider status, and experiences many of the benefits and challenges mentioned above. Beyond possessing intimate knowledge, however, a militant ethnographer is an active contributor to social movement in physical (i.e. taking to the streets for demonstrations) and other meaningful ways (i.e. helping to organize meetings and events). This requires an inversion of participant observation into what Thrift calls ‘observant participation’, a notion that emphasizes profound engagement over neutral observation in the pursuit of social change (2000). This method combines research with political action to produce valuable analysis and critical reflection for social and political practices beyond the academic realm (Apoifis, 2017: 5; Boni et al., 2022: 6; Valenzuela-Fuentes, 2019: 722). In other words, research projects must generate knowledge, material, or collaborative avenues that benefit social movement actors – they should not remain confined to the academy. Rather than seeking to reconcile two worlds and two roles deemed separate, activists using this method are more concerned with the ‘extent one can conduct militant research within the university’ (Russell, 2015: 227), as the academy creates dissonance with their personal political values. Most militant ethnographers harbour a degree of anti-authoritarianism, which shines through both their practice and their writing, rather than being obfuscated (Apoifis, 2017; Juris, 2008). This applies in my case, as I am more interested in the accommodations that the academic realm should make for activists rather than the other way around. In the following sections, I provide further into my experience as a militant ethnographer among grassroots activist communities in Australia.

Fieldwork dynamics and dilemmas: navigating precarity as an insider

Respecting security culture and the privileges of access

My existing engagement with activist communities allowed me to have a-priori access to many spaces that would otherwise be difficult – maybe impossible – to access if I was not already a part of the group. Because of security culture principles, an outsider would not be privy to the same spaces. Further, my intimate knowledge of local grassroots activist spaces allowed me to follow conventions to keep interactions and activities running as smoothly as possible without my presence largely disturbing its natural proceedings.

My research project was expected to discover illegal activity, even though it seeks neither to analyse nor expose it. In Brisbane, participants were involved in varied forms of protest and resistance, including non-violent direct action (NVDA) and civil disobedience (CD). Many forms of NVDA and CD are considered illegal, the extent of which will vary based on the type of activity and the severity of regional laws. Because NVDA and CD are common tactics in many grassroots activist groups, certain participants discussed their engagement – or that of their peers – in unlawful protest acts (e.g. roadblocks, blockades, unauthorized marches, disruptive street theatre). This reinforces the importance of protecting participants’ anonymity. Whether an action was public or private, there is always a risk of incrimination. In the case of public exposure, ‘[a] person's reputation may seriously suffer and, in the case of a conflict situation, [they] may be subjected to serious harassment and punishment’ (Kriesi, 1992: 197). None of my participants chose to discuss actions or events that were still in the planning phases. The disclosure of important details like the time and place of an action could have jeopardized both its success and its safety if security culture was breached during or after an interview, notably through tapped phones or unsecure online platforms. Discussing future actions was thus discouraged, as it could put the participants themselves or others at risk if details were somehow mishandled or confiscated by authorities.

For example, when taking notes during a private, tech-free action planning meeting, I had to be very cautious of the information that I was documenting, because any leaking of this information would risk the upcoming action and potentially incriminate those involved. Notes, therefore, remained generic, but still worked to convey a sense of the organizing style:

9 people (8 women, one man) have shown up in the park for the affinity meeting today. This group has been trying to organize a highly disruptive red (arrestable) action for about a month, and has run into obstacles preventing them from going forward with one solid plan. Today, it has been decided to go back to plan A, which had been proposed weeks earlier. After multiple scouts of the location for the action, some individuals decided plan B had too many risks and less potential for reward, making it less effective overall. The facilitator suggests that we discuss the action plan, roles, and messaging so other groups can start creating props and writing media content. It's a tedious and lengthy process, but this kind of organizing allows for more people to air out their concerns and share their ideas along the way. Most people seem happy that we have returned to plan A and express that they are comfortable carrying out their respective roles for the action. (Fieldnotes, February 2021)

During fieldwork in Brisbane, I announced at the start of meetings my intention to take observational notes. I took a few moments to explain the research and offered copies of the project information sheet ⁶ to everyone present. I also clarified the type of information that I was noting. If there were any objections, I would refrain from taking notes. However, this never happened: I received collective enthusiasm from activists to participate in the space as a researcher. Overall, this approach was effective in gaining the trust of my peers as research participants. This is crucial to my praxis as a militant ethnographer, because it not only abides by the group's broad security culture, but it also aligns with my personal understanding of security culture, which further includes: respecting individual boundaries and vulnerabilities, avoiding subtle coercion tactics, protecting the confidentiality of others, and maintaining transparency about my positionality.

Becoming a better activist: personal growth, purpose, and side projects

Despite the challenges of this project, which I will unpack later, the interviews were very helpful in streamlining my understanding of Brisbane activism beyond my own bubble. Through speaking with a variety of activists, I gained a new outlook on the dynamics of local grassroots collectives. It also helped me identify some of the key actors who I had not yet met, and provided insight into their background, personality, and organizing style. This is significant not only for my analysis, but also for my role as an activist since it has allowed me to develop a more nuanced outlook of the grassroots activist community in Brisbane and created future avenues for participation and collaboration. Some participants, additionally, have prompted noteworthy themes throughout their interviews that I did not previously consider, which has led to some important reflection about the research. For example, one of the women discussed the challenges of motherhood as a grassroots activist, which opened up a rich terrain exploring the intersection of parenthood, DIY, and activism. It has also helped me to cultivate a deeper sense of compassion and empathy for my peers, as they all face different barriers in their activist praxis, ranging from work pressures to mental health struggles.

As a militant ethnographer, I strongly believe that theory and practice must go hand in hand. As Juris notes, militant ethnography in the social movement space can imply participation in a range of activities, including ‘organizing actions and workshops, facilitating meetings, weighing in during strategic and tactical debates, staking out political positions, and putting one's body on the line during direct actions’ (2008: 20). As my rapport grew with participants, I found myself increasingly inspired to put Do-It-Yourself and feminist care ethics – the two main axes of my project's theoretical framework – into practice. Throughout the year 2021, I spent my free time organizing a grassroots crafting project, which offered free skill-sharing workshops to community members and initiated several fundraising campaigns in collaboration with other local Brisbane collectives. Another outcome of this side project was the opportunity to meaningfully give back to two of the grassroots collectives that were part of my research; one in the Philippines and the other in Indonesia. These two solidarity campaigns involved organizing an art exhibit, hosting various social nights, and selling DIY upcycled shirts for donations. While these initiatives were time-consuming and laborious, they were extremely rewarding experiences, and allowed me to strengthen the relationships that I was developing from a distance with participants. Since the beginning of 2022, I have been one of the main facilitators for a grassroots solidarity fund, which supports a network of Brisbane activist groups by offering financial and material resources as well as a functional collective space for organizing. Though I have temporarily shifted away from higher-risk activities, I continue to dedicate a significant portion of my time to grassroots initiatives, both locally and internationally. These collaborations contribute to the development of ‘thick trust’ with participants, which is anchored in empathy and friendship (Palmer et al., 2020).

Too much, too fast

The perks gained through intimacy and proximity as an insider researcher and militant ethnographer are offset by equally burdensome consequences (Berger, 2015; Nelson, 2020; Shaw et al., 2020). Primarily, I struggled to separate the responsibilities of an activist from those of a researcher. This was a difficult terrain to navigate in Brisbane since my research goals align with the greater pursuit of social justice, and I believe that change is most effectively achieved through forms of community organizing and direct action. Though my pedagogic training in anthropology recommends neutrality and non-interference in the field, I do not believe that ethnographers can (or should) be passive observers. The deeper I delve into leftist spaces and grassroots activism, the harder it is to entertain a detached and impartial stance from the people with whom I interact, be they my peers or my research participants. I believe this is completely justified, but it raises some considerations about research conduct.

I began fieldwork with the ambition to compartmentalize my activist intentions while conducting interviews and observing phenomena. I kept two physical journals and recorded audio memos. One journal consists of my activist notes while the other consists of research notes. The latter journal also included entries relaying personal thoughts and challenges. Audio memos spanned a combination of all three, with a few personal recordings using the ‘stream of consciousness’ technique suggested by Van Heugten to mitigate insider status (2004: 207). Another outlet was to discuss the feelings and frustrations of fieldwork with friends, as this activity provides both a sounding board and a safe space to process different dilemmas faced during the research (Jain, 2017: 580). Since most of my friends are activists, however, I tried to air out my concerns with close colleagues. This was effective, as it provided a neutral space to talk about fieldwork without the risk of burdening or inflicting bias on potential and existing participants.

The biggest hurdle that I faced during fieldwork in Australia was my own error of judgement. Upon beginning data collection in early 2021, I believed I could be a full-time researcher and a full-time activist. I was sorely mistaken. In attempting to perform both roles daily, I was weakening my ability to do either. I experienced dual burnout, from both the activist and the academic worlds. This resulted in fatigue, irritation, heightened stress and anxiety, waves of intense self-doubt, and even resentment towards the movement that I was contributing to. My activist peers noticed it first, and my colleagues soon after.

To illustrate, an average day consisted of 4–5 h in my campus office (scheduling interviews, responding to e-mails, writing, etc.), followed immediately by 4–5 h in the activist office (meetings, debriefs, making art, keeping the space in some state of organized chaos, etc.). Some days were shorter, some longer. Sometimes I spent all-day on the ground at an action or providing support to arrested activists. Weekends provided little relief, since they are considered a prime time for public events, outreach opportunities, and large group meetings. Since all activist gatherings provided an opportunity for participant observation, I struggled to pass them up. Additionally, I had already committed to a few organizing roles before fieldwork has begun and did not deem it justifiable to offload these responsibilities – partially because everyone else was at capacity with their own tasks. However, this was also due to my conviction that being an organizer would be effective in gaining more intimate insights into the activist cultures and praxes unfolding around me. I was not entirely wrong, but I greatly under-estimated the workload. The consequences of my burnout were mostly inflicted on myself, but the fatigue and the mental frenzy also led to a few irresponsible mistakes. For example, bringing my activist notebook to an action where there was a huge police presence. This was especially imprudent because I was on bail at the time for a previous protest-related charge, and I could have been arrested simply for being associated with the action unfolding nearby. In that case, the police would have taken my notebook (containing past action plans and ideas) into custody, making their job unnecessarily easier. These oversights, combined with the feeling of running on adrenaline for multiple consecutive weeks, finally led me to step back. The following is a short excerpt from my fieldnotes during this time.

It's disheartening, discouraging, and I think it reinforces my need to just back off for a little bit. […] I don’t really know. I feel confused by it all. Maybe I just need to step back and be more of the researcher and less of the actual activist, which … I don’t know if it's possible at this point. (Audio fieldnotes, February 2021)

After seeing through a large action in Brisbane that I spent around 6 weeks coordinating, I took a few weeks off to recover from burnout and refocus on my research. While I felt that stepping back from activism temporarily helped to ease the burden, the effects of burnout persisted throughout the following months. This was usually triggered when witnessing situations of repression or violence against my activist peers, but also when reading incident reports on social media, or even case studies for my literature review. The omnipresence of injustice against activists – my friends particularly – both in Australia and abroad, continued to weigh heavily on my conscience and impacted my capacity to regulate emotions in my everyday life.

I've spent the last few days reading non-stop about police brutality and activist repression, case studies and research about the sheer violence and injustice that protesters and land defenders and advocates face – more so in the Philippines and Indonesia than in Australia – but still. I’m just getting really overwhelmed with the extent of it. And even though it's just me reading words on paper, it really, really, emotionally weighs on me. And maybe that's part of the burnout of doing this project. In conjunction with that, when I see actual reports, like, these two people murdered for spray painting a message. ⁷ The reality of it, kind of, then sets in. And I just feel extremely useless. But it's also having interviewees who haven't been able to settle on an interview date with me, because their group is under persecution, and they're in hiding. I’ve perhaps bitten off much more than I can chew, but I'm in it now so I don't think there's much I can do about that. The violence I read about, the violence I see, and then people in my interviews talking about that… it really wears me down. (Audio fieldnotes, July 2021)

As this passage reflects, researchers are affected by the stories that their participants share (Shaw et al., 2020: 289), and these can especially [re]traumatizing when dealing with sensitive, familiar topics (Nelson, 2020: 919). The feeling of inadequacy and uselessness echoed above leads me to the next discussion point, which focuses on imposter syndrome. I consider this to be another risk of insider researcher, given the intimate sense of responsibility towards the group under study.

My experience of burnout is only one example of the complex emotional tensions that can derive from deep ethnography, and more specifically in this case, from militant ethnography. These tensions, albeit very legitimate, are not discussed in the ethics process. While reflexive practices in ethnography focus on mitigating the effects of the researcher, they fall short of recognizing the effects on the researcher (May, 1993: 75–76). The intimate and visceral conflicts that arise from deep ethnography – or a profound commitment to a research project – are often overlooked by the university (Guillemin and Gillam, 2004). There is little to no pedagogical attention on the causes and effects of imposter syndrome ⁸ in the academic realm, which can have substantial impacts on a researcher's emotional well-being. According to estimates, around 20% of university students suffer from imposter syndrome (Abdelaal, 2020: 62). My existing imposter syndrome was significantly exacerbated during fieldwork, as I was constantly confronted with self-doubts about my capacities as an activist, which fuelled a sense of obligation to invest more time and energy in activist responsibilities. Moreover, I felt compelled to prove through my actions that I was more than a self-interested researcher to deflect anti-research attitudes held by some activists. The nagging feeling that you may be burdening your participants, acting against their wishes, or misrepresenting their voices in your work can be incredibly debilitating and isolating. This is an oft-neglected reality in qualitative research, perhaps because it does not fit the scope of any official consultation or clearance processes in safe and ethical research design. Beyond the individual responsibility to engage in reflexive research ethics, there should be an institutional responsibility on behalf of universities to offer training, mentoring, and support for early career researchers undertaking sensitive and contentious projects (Shaw et al., 2020: 289–290).

Conclusion

This article has explored some methodological concerns regarding the safe and ethical conduct of qualitative research with grassroots activists. Despite the various situations of precarity that grassroots activists navigate in their everyday lives, there has been minimal methodological inquiry on this topic. Drawing on my fieldwork experience with grassroots activists in Australia, I have addressed some of the tensions between the researcher's mandate to carry out ethnographic practice, and their responsibility to uphold security culture. Through my experience not only as an insider researcher, but as a militant ethnographer, I raised some considerations about the benefits and risks of deeply engaged research both for participants and myself.

Given the contentious nature of activism and political protest, a further discussion on partisanship and the challenges of taking sides merits to be explored in future publications. Many scholars have already provided insight on this topic, ultimately responding to Becker's argument that researchers inherently take sides when conducting research due to existing personal and political biases (1967: 240). I additionally believe, as Lubit and Gidley illustrate in their case study of a walking ethnography, that the act of participating in a group's activities, and sharing similar embodied and visceral experiences further persuades the researcher to take a side (2020). However, this becomes more complicated when personal and collective beliefs conflict with legal statutes. I find the existing research on the topic of working ethically with ‘criminals’ unhelpful, because I do not consider my participants to accurately fit this label. On paper, some of my participants would be identified as criminals – and they are treated as such in the media and by the legal system – but my existing beliefs and moral codes do not align with those of the law on this matter, and I find it wrongful to regard them, as well as myself, as criminals for engaging in protest activities. Potter and Potter suggest that researchers who occupy a membership role with criminals ‘may adopt their participants’ view that law enforcement are ‘the enemy’, and additionally run the risk of arrest and prosecution (2020: 13). As I have already mentioned, my work as an activist has landed me in high-risk situations, though I have willingly assumed the risks and accepted the consequences. It is part of the ethnographer's mandate, in my view, to recognize the power of terminology and be critically attentive to the way our word choice (e.g. referring to activists as criminals) impacts on discourse and representation.

Regardless of their degree of engagement, researchers who work closely with grassroots activists should be prepared to face potential legal, social, economic, and political repercussions just like their participants. They could be targeted by authorities or the state for their association with a given group, which could result in personal and professional consequences. This is a crucial factor for researchers to consider from the onset of their research design; it may be skimmed over in the ethics review process, but merits in-depth reflection and consultation with other members of the research team.

Researchers have a responsibility to strive for safe and appropriate research praxis, but this is something we must exercise and reflect upon continuously throughout our research endeavours. Ethical clearance alone does not guarantee research integrity nor ethical practice: it offers a sanitized account of ethnography that lacks regard for the complex and emotional character of the field (Calvey, 2008: 912).

Mistakes will be made, but minimizing the risk for our participants, especially those on the frontlines, should be at the top of our priorities when designing research methodologies. The fact of being an insider may increasingly blur the lines between the researcher's institutional obligations and their personal commitments, but this should also provide an additional incentive to traverse the precarious landscape of fieldwork with a duty of care. Ultimately, the researcher must assume responsibility for the choices they make in navigating ethical dilemmas, which extends beyond institutional structures and protocols (Ferdinand et al., 2007: 540). If we accept that vulnerability is part of the human condition and that risk is a common feature of research (Shaw et al., 2020: 289), then our responsibility to participants lies in a careful balance between consent, agency, sensitivity, and protection, rather than a guarantee that our projects are ‘safe’ according to an arbitrary clearance document. Reflexive research ethics (Cordner et al., 2012: 163) and ethics of care (Bussu et al., 2021: 668; Santos, 2012) are integral to a practice of embedded and adaptable ethical practice.

As the spotlight on protest and activism increases, it is important that scholars of social movements platform the voices of activists without subjecting them to greater vulnerability and prejudice. I strongly encourage scholars of this field to contribute to ethics-based and methodology-centred discussions to develop more effective and safer research practices for our participants and for ourselves. I also advocate for transparent, sincere, and emotional reflections on ethnographic practice. As Ruth Behar (1996) highlights in her revealing memoir about anthropological research, sentimentality and vulnerability belong in qualitative research: ethnography can be heartbreaking and it still has a place in academic writing.