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Interviewing Victims of State Violence

In: The SAGE Handbook of Criminological Research Methods

By: Elizabeth Stanley

Edited by: David Gadd, Susanne Karstedt & Steven F. Messner

Pub. Date: 2012

Access Date: November 17, 2019

Publishing Company: SAGE Publications Ltd

City: London

Print ISBN: 9781849201759

Online ISBN: 9781446268285

DOI: https://dx.doi.org/10.4135/9781446268285

Print pages: 231-243

This PDF has been generated from SAGE Research Methods. Please note that the pagination of the

online version will vary from the pagination of the print book.

https://dx.doi.org/10.4135/9781446268285

Interviewing Victims of State Violence

ElizabethStanley

Introduction

Criminologists have increasingly turned their attention to state-led violence against civilian and military

populations. Authors such as Green and Ward (2004), Parmentier and Weitekamp (2007) and Rothe (2009),

among others, have enhanced criminological thinking with writings that question the fundamental nature

of states, violence, human rights and justice. These authors have identified the criminological reticence to

engage with crimes conducted by state officials; they have also exposed the massive suffering and harm that

often results from state violence.

Fortunately, given criminology's stance to ‘explain crimes and the behaviour of offenders and victims’

(Parmentier and Weitekamp, 2007: 110), and given the diverse methodological skills held by criminologists,

the discipline is well positioned to advance thinking on a whole range of violent acts, including those directed

by state agencies. To give just one example, criminologists Hagan, Rymond-Richmond and Parker (2005)

have recently used victimization survey data from third-party sources to show how the Sudanese Government

directly supported the killings and rapes of Darfurians. Through statistical and regression analyses, they

illustrated the racial targeting of African Darfurians by state actors and, in doing so, bolstered the case

for naming these events as state-sponsored genocide. Their study presented a unique analyses of crime

(genocide) that has strong theoretical and policy implications; it exemplified the usefulness of criminologists

to the area of state violence.

This chapter focuses on the author's own qualitative contributions to debates on state violence. In particular,

it examines my research on/with victims of torture. This work has emerged over the last decade with projects

that have focused on the implementation of ‘transitional justice’ bodies within South Africa, Chile and Timor-

Leste. Transitional justice bodies refers, in my studies, to the court processes and truth commissions that

are established to provide truth and justice in states that are ‘transitioning’ from extensive (often state-led)

violence to more democractic situations. My focus has attended to how these truth and justice mechanisms

have been experienced by the individuals who have suffered the most serious of state violence, torture, and

who are still alive to ‘tell the tale’.

The following section evaluates the ways in which torture has been researched by criminologists, as well

as by colleagues in related disciplines such as law, psychology and history. This broad-brush overview is

followed by a reflexive exploration of doing research ‘on’ those who have survived torture. Given that the focus

here is a population made vulnerable by state actions and structural forces, the repercussions regarding the

practical approaches of doing research are detailed. Attention is paid to some of the challenges and questions

raised in my most recent interviews, with victims of torture in Timor-Leste. Finally, the chapter establishes

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some future methodological challenges of pursuing this kind of work, especially in terms of questioning the

transformative potential of producing knowledge about state-led violence and oppression.

Researching Torture

Torture is a specific form of state violence. According to the UN Convention against Torture and Other Cruel,

Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (Art 1.1), to be defined as torture, an act must encompass a

number of factors: (i) it must cause severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental; (ii) it must be inflicted

by a public official or person of official standing, or undertaken with their consent/acquiesence or at their

instigation; (iii) it must be intentionally inflicted, for a purpose such as to obtain a confession or information, or

to punish, intimidate or coerce a person or another party; and, (iv) the pain or suffering should not arise from,

or be an incidental or inherent feature of, any lawful sanction. In practice, the boundaries of torture are subject

to vigorous debate–for instance, does a tortured person have to be detained? Can rape be a form of torture?

Where does psychological pressure, or degrading treatment, end and torture begin? These questions cannot

be answered here but they illustrate the ongoing contentious nature of how torture is defined, legitimized or

challenged.

Many academics will ‘know’ about torture through reading social literature–media reports, ground-breaking

exposés (such as Danner, 2004), documents from human rights bodies (like Amnesty or Human Rights

Watch) or books (such as Ortiz, 2002) that highlight personal experiences of torturing regimes. Fewer

academics have actually studied this violation in more detail. One reason for this is that doing research on

torture is, as Rejali (1994: 2) noted, something of ‘a methodologist's nightmare‘. If torture is ongoing, countries

can be ‘black boxes to the outside world’ (1994: 2). States tend to deny their involvement in torture. The

vast majority of perpetrators do not wish to be identified, and those who attempt to expose them can find

themselves subject to threats, attacks and even death. For different reasons, victims of torture are also often

hidden, they can be in positions of extreme vulnerability and many victims prefer to remain silent about what

has happened to them. Doing primary research on this topic is not easy. Nonetheless, academic attention to

torture has continued to grow and develop. Box 15.1 highlights some of the perspectives that can be found in

the criminological, and related, literature.

Box 15.1 Academic Research on Torture

Academic writings on torture are largely positioned around a number of approaches,

including analyses on:

• The historical use of torture. Rejali (1994) undertook documentary analysis to

illustrate the historical use of torture (and subsequent reforms) within Iranian

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punishment systems while, in an analysis of the documentary archives from ‘S-21’

(a torture and death prison in Cambodia), Chandler (1999) establishes how torture

can be institutionally legitimized.

• Torture and the law. Evans and Morgan (1998) chart the development of European

law and administrative services to counter torture while Sands (2008) shows how

law can be circumnavigated in the support of torture.

• The institutional, societal or structural basis of modern torture. Huggins (2010)

provides a ‘torture essentials’ model that illustrates the conditions in which torture

operates, across all kinds of political states; Rejali (2007) establishes how stealth

techniques of torture have become entrenched within modern democratic states;

the edited collection by Crelinsten and Schmid (1995) highlights the institutional,

social, political and psychological frameworks in which torture is practiced.

• The socio-psychological underpinnings of torture. The experiments of Milgram

(1974), who highlighted the propensity of individuals to follow orders from those

presumed to be in authority, as well as Zimbardo (Haney et al., 1973) who

exposed how individuals could enact authoritarian/sadist or rebellious/passive

(prison officer or prisoner) personalities, are well known in this regard. While these

studies would struggle to advance beyond current University Ethics Committees,

researchers continue to focus on how individuals can be drawn into torture. For

instance, from interviews with ex-military policemen and their victims in Greece,

psychologist Haritos-Fatouros (2002) develops an analysis of the psychological

origins of torturers and their supporters while Huggins et al. (2002), in work on

Brazil, show how torturers make sense of, or justify, their violence.

• Studies on victims' health and social needs. The journal Torture advances research

on the range of social, medical and psychological repercussions faced by torture

victims, their families and communities.

My work has built upon many of the approaches identified in Box 15.1. It has focused upon the social,

political, legal and cultural impact of experiencing torture, and it has assessed the specific needs of victims

in relation to the concerns of truth and justice. With regards to the latter, I have sought to understand

the official ‘justice’ responses to torture. Truth commissions and international courts are now relatively

commonplace bodies; indeed, they are now almost a knee-jerk response to deal with state violence. Yet, while

academic analyses on transitional justice has developed, it tends to focus on debates of international law, the

institutional difficulties of gathering ‘truth’, the problems that transitional justice professionals will face, and

so on. Strangely, victims' experiences–or community-wide experiences–of these mechanisms are regularly

absent. Thus, my research has examined how victims of torture have experienced these commissions and

courts.

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Overall, my research has aimed to address a number of research questions:

How has torture been experienced by victims? (How was torture used? What was the impact of

torture on victims, their families and communities? How was torture resisted?)

How, if at all, have transitional justice institutions provided ‘truth’ and ‘justice’ for victims? (What do

victims know about these institutions? How have they experienced them? Have these institutions

fulfilled victims' needs?)

How do torture victims experience life in the wake of violation? (On a longer-term level, how does

torture link with other forms of violence?)

Given these aims, my research centralizes victims' experiences and needs. Subsequently, my work operates

at a personal, interpretive and contexual level–a position that is relatively rare within the torture literature.

Research as a Challenge to Torture

At a personal-political level, my research has been based on a belief that human suffering in all its forms

should be acknowledged and, preferably, responded to in ways that will alleviate its causes and conditions. It

reflects a consideration that research may assist towards breaking down the ‘cultures of denial’ that surround

acts of violence (Cohen, 2001). Over recent periods, when the methods and calibration of torture have

been discussed with seemingly little concern for victims, as if there is no terror or pain, such research on

torture may have value. I have consequently aspired to write ‘against rather than simply about’ human rights

violations (Sim, 2003: 247).

Critical criminologists (such as Scraton, 2007; Sim, 2003; Tombs and Whyte, 2003) have exposed the need

for research that emphasizes ‘the view from below’, to highlight the experiences of those who are silenced

or misinterpreted through popular and official channels. The reason for this approach is that ‘mainstream’

ideologies frequently work to conceal ‘the processes which oppress and control people’ (Harvey, 1990: 6).

In relation to torture, for instance, victims can be denied their victimhood through common depictions that

they are deserving of their treatment because they are ‘terrorists’, ‘subversives’, ‘dangerous prisoners’, and

so on (Huggins et al., 2002; Stanley, 2004). My research position has been that these ideological boundaries

are unhelpful, at the very least, and that there is a need to ‘dig beneath the surface of historically specific,

oppressive, social structures’ (Harvey, 1990: 1) to illustrate violations and victims for what they are.

A critical analysis also requires an understanding that events, identities and the formation of knowledge

are ‘derived and reproduced, historically and contemporaneously, in the structural relations of inequality and

oppression that characterise established social orders’ (Chadwick and Scraton, 2001: 72). Subsequently,

within this critical approach, it is apparent that torture, as a form of state violence, cannot be examined

in isolation from other forms of ‘structural violence’ or ‘pathologies of power’ that underline and obscure

violations (Farmer, 2003). State violence is often ‘embedded in entrenched structural violence’ (ibid. 219). It

tends to be directed to those who hold the most vulnerable positions–for instance, towards those who may

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be poor, or marginalized on ‘racial’, gendered or other grounds. Torture can also be directed to those who

are made vulnerable by political or social exclusion; for instance, many Chilean torture victims were middle-

class professionals–academics, health professionals, legal or media workers–who were depicted as political

‘subversives’ by the Pinochet regime (Stanley, 2004).

It also soon becomes apparent that these forms of violence are sustained across global power dynamics. For

example, the lived realities of Indonesian-led torture in Timor-Leste could not be understood without analytical

tracking of the Indonesian Government, political organizations in Timor-Leste, other states, the UN, the World

Bank, corporations, militia members, among others, as well as of the structural priorities that give rise to gross

inequalities across the world.

As shown in Box 15.2, a critical approach presents an opportunity to unpack the ways in which torture is

undertaken, experienced, talked about and resisted. It is an opportunity to counter the taken-for-granted

attitudes about torture, truth and justice. However, acknowledging such ‘views from below’ is difficult when

faced with a hidden and often silent group of respondents.

Box 15.2 A Critical Approach to Researching Torture

Taking a critical framework, researchers can:

• ground their work in historical, political, social, economic and cultural analyses;

• reflect on the structural determining contexts (for instance, linked to class, ‘race’,

gender, age, ability or political status) that underpin the use of torture;

• examine how political and ideological factors obscure the reality of torture, and

lead to its legitimization;

• expose the ‘voices’ of those who are commonly silenced, ignored or obscured

within discourses on torture;

• be self-conscious about their own values and status, and the political purposes of

their research;

• engage in strategies of resistance, such as to direct their research to struggles of

prevention, acknowledgement or accountability.

The Silencing Context of Torture

I have previously detailed how and why torture victims often remain silent about their experiences (Stanley,

2004). There are a host of reasons for this silence, including that many victims want to protect themselves and

others, or they may not want to be recognized as a victim. In addition, victims face problems in communicating

their experiences to others. This, of course, raises a fundamental methodological challenge.

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To understand this silencing requires some reflection on torture's use. Torture is often used to spread fear,

humiliate, control or punish particular groups or individuals. However, it also focuses on communication–one

common understanding is that torture is used to retrieve information from individuals. Through the application

of physical or psychological pain, torturers seek to control who says what, when and how. In these respects,

the ‘voice’ of the victim is simultaneously directed and destroyed by the torturer (Scarry, 1985). Through pain,

torturers can make victims ‘talk’. For the victim, talking (or not talking) can become an issue of survival–and

silence can be a chosen form of resistance (Ross, 2003). In this context, talking about torture–even in the

safest of spaces–is difficult. The experience of this violence, that can destroy the body, mind and voice, is

such that speech becomes useless to provide an insight into pain. The experience can become impossible to

re-tell (Stanley, 2004).

This ‘impossibility of telling’ about torture represents a personal position in which victims can find no way

to explain their experience. Yet, the language to explain torture only really exists ‘within a collectivity’ (de

Saussure, 1974: 14). Communicating about torture is not just about the victim's ability to articulate pain and

stress, it is also about the ability of others to listen. Stories of torture can be silenced as victims sense that

listeners cannot take in their account of what happened. There can be a social and institutional retience to

hear painful or chaotic stories that challenge common-sense notions of state protection. The ‘public’ also want

testimonies to be easily digestible, chronological and sensical yet how victims talk about state violence can

be scattered, ad hoc and disjointed; some things do not ‘make sense’. Silence can be attributed to the way

in which audiences shut out or do not hear difficult stories. It might also derive ‘much more from the others’

need to forget and to not have to deal with the pain involved in encountering survivors of violence' (Rosenthal,

2003: 926).

This silencing may also result from continued fears about renewed victimization from the state. For example,

in work on a recent Chilean Commission on Torture, Bacic and Stanley (2005) showed that many Chilean

torture victims continued to maintain their silence, decades after their violation. Despite changes in

government, and the seemingly benign attempt by the state to expose testimonies of torture and to make

amends, victims continued to remain fearful and suspicious of government initiatives. Many victims felt that

government officials could not be trusted to represent their needs and that, to talk, would compromise their

future safety. Such an example illustrates the very different implications of being a victim of state violence

compared, for instance, to being a victim of ‘ordinary’ violence. After all, when individual state officials engage

in violence, they represent the whole state system. Trust is broken on individual, social and institutional levels.

In these circumstances, there is a concern that public attention on torture might just augment state power.

Following evidence of torture at Abu Ghraib, for instance, the exposure on torture did not readily equate to

increased support for, or understanding of, victims. Instead, the discourse (dominated by politicians, military

officials, legal personnel, academics, corporate workers and the few highlighted perpetrators) revolved

around the questions of the deviance or limited training of officers and the legitimacy of torture or ‘torture lite’

in the face of threats to the state. Little was reported from the victims' perspectives and connections were

more clearly drawn with the perpetrators–seen, for example, in the websites that allow individuals to post

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photographs of themselves in poses similar to those taken by particular torturers (Stanley, 2009).

A related issue is whether research and subsequent writing on torture actually serves to insulate bystanders

from the horror of state violence. Any publications on torture might have ‘the effect of softening and cleaning

what went on’ (Chandler, 1999: 144). Certainly, in describing agony and emotions, writers struggle to depict

torture in a way that correlates with how it is experienced. In this context, the role of critical research may be

just that of ‘bearing witness’, of ‘breaking the silence and calling … atrocities … by the name they deserve’

(Becker, 2004: 9).

The ‘Storytelling’ Remit

Storytelling is a foundation for human interaction. The stories people tell about themselves and their lives both

constitute and interpret those lives (Ewick and Silbey, 1995). Indeed, the act of attempting to tell a story is

part of the process of making sense of situations, it is ‘at the core of constructing interpretation and memory’

(Hackett and Rolston, 2009: 360). Stories do not occur naturally; rather, they are shaped and told and re-told.

In their re-telling, they provide an opportunity for less powerful actors to build or regain control over definitions,

experiences and discourses. Further, a storytelling approach can counteract the tendency to fracture peoples'

experiences–in avoiding a reduction of individual experiences to a ‘question and answer’ format, storytelling

can demonstrate the complexity of peoples' lives in ways that relate individuals, and their experiences, to their

social and structural contexts.

In this sense, stories are ‘saturated with meaning’ (Lawler, 2002: 252). They have the potential to reveal truths

that have previously been silenced or denied. For instance, stories of life in places such as Timor-Leste, Chile

or South Africa, have exposed the ‘breadth of degradation’ (Ross, 2003: 48) during periods of repression.

State violence–from direct acts of physical violence through to the everyday intrusions of the state and the

continuing, normalized fear of state officials and their powers–can be uncovered.

Nonetheless, storytelling is not without its ‘troubles’. As a researcher, I have been faced with stories that

contradict each other, that expose misunderstandings of events or are just factually wrong. Further, all stories

are mediated and victims will always be engaged in some form of self-presentation (Hackett and Rolston,

2009). Like any teller, victims will speculate on what a researcher wants and tailor their stories to meet a

receptive audience. They sometimes downplay events or mask the wider political, social and ideological

realities in which their lives are contextualized (Huggins et al., 2002). Stories, like all forms of collated data,

are imperfect. Yet, taken together, ‘multiple stories … have the capacity to undermine the illusion of an

objective, naturalised world which so often sustains inequality and powerlessness’ (Ewick and Silbey, 1995:

198–9).

Storytelling can, then, be problematic for researchers. However, this is equally so for the teller. If done

carelessly, the experience of storytelling might contribute to the victim's sense of inequality or alienation.

Victims of state violence can face numerous repercussions in exposing their story. For instance, in drawing

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attention to themselves as ‘victims’, they simultaneously highlight that they, or their friends or family, were

implicitly regarded by the state as being threatening or suspicious. In turn, they may face future mis-

recognition as being potentially polluted or dangerous figures (Ross, 2003).

Moreover, stories made public can contribute to fixing the teller's identity–the torture victim becomes forever

known as ‘the torture victim’. Specific acts of violence, that in real time might account for a fraction of a life,

begin to dominate a whole life story. Stories can freeze identities and victims may lose the nuance of their

range of identities as survivors, family members, lovers, workers, and so on. Victims also sense that they

may be subsequently regarded as being weak, damaged, emotional, biased or non-analytical (Hackett and

Rolston, 2009). Similarly, the recorded story can also become ‘freeze dried text’ (Plummer, 2001: 234). That

is, the experience of torture can be fixed so that the victim's interpretation, at a particular time and in a specific

context, becomes the defining story of violence. In the face of these problems, many victims choose not to be

identified as having suffered (Stanley, 2009).

Nonetheless, many victims do want to tell their stories. Part of the reason for this is that storytelling also looks

to the future–what people say, how they say it, and who to, is often dependent on emotive, political, legal

or moral expectations. The process of storytelling becomes a social practice itself, demonstrating cultural

values, power relations and aspirations (Ewick and Sibley, 1995) and victims can have clear motivations with

regard to their participation.

During my research, individuals frequently connected the wider acknowledgement of their stories with social

change. Numerous victims told their story to me in a bid to tell ‘Western states’ of their collusion in violence.

Timorese victims, for instance, continually highlighted the role of the British Government in the ideological and

military support of the Indonesian Government; similarly, Chilean victims were quick to point out the British

bolstering of the Pinochet regime. Victims also used the opportunity to argue for prosecutions, reparations

and social change.

So, while storytelling has an emotional and personal resonance, it is also intensely political. In some

instances, stories can even be used to send messages to a wider ‘community’. For example, in Timor-

Leste, Antonio agreed to be interviewed on the proviso that it was to take place in the yard outside his

office. The actual story was then related not just to myself and the interpreter, but to approximately 20

other individuals. As Antonio told his story, the audience would listen, sometimes nod, and occasionally add

further comment. Politically attuned, Antonio turned his storytelling into a public narrative; a means to express

opinion, persuade others and progress social debate (Stanley, 2009).

At the same time, a story marks the boundaries of what individuals are prepared to tell (Graham, 1984). In

seeking out victims of state violence, I have met numerous victims who have refused to engage with my

project, sometimes because they had already told their story (to aid agencies or lawyers or truth commissions)

and they felt disillusioned about the lack of subsequent action. Other victims saw that stories can just be re-

appropriated by others for their own ends, stories can be used for the advancement of others, and there is no

personal benefit to be gained from relating a painful past once more.

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Interviewing Victims of Torture in Timor-Leste

My primary research on Timor-Leste was conducted, over three fieldwork visits to the country, from February

2004 to December 2005. During this period, I undertook interviews with 74 individuals (21 victims of torture,

18 legal workers, 16 truth commission workers and 19 workers from human rights groups and other non-

governmental organizations (NGOs)). In addition, I directed a project for a local NGO, the Judicial System

Monitoring Programme, in which outreach staff conducted interviews with 15 torture victims. Alongside

interviews, I observed criminal justice and truth commission proceedings, and undertook informal meetings

with victims, transitional justice workers and other individuals. Of course, such data belies the messy reality

of actually doing the research.

In many ways, this research was often a case of ‘making it up as I went along’; however, there were some

particular concerns that I faced. In particular, these revolved around how I might access respondents, respond

to power differentials, deal with difference and distance, communicate with speakers of different languages

and cope with emotions.

Accessing Respondents

The journey from Wellington to Dili is reasonably long, and it would generally take me over 24 hours from

leaving home to standing on the Dili tarmac. In retrospect, this journey was relatively easy compared to some

of the interview travel within Timor-Leste. Within Dili itself, the standard US$1 cab fare for short trips around

town–while unattainable for many locals–was relatively cheap for me. These taxis were not, however, always

reliable as drivers did not have the money or skills to repair broken cars (which were often damaged from very

poor road conditions or the heat). On one occasion, when I was late for an interview about a kilometre away,

I travelled in five taxis to get to my destination; the first four all broke down en route. Over 90 minutes late,

after consolingly inspecting each broken car with its driver, I jubilantly arrived to discover that my interviewee

had gone for a long lunch. I walked back. Outside Dili, the roads are much worse and often inaccessible,

particularly when it rains. All journeys were hot and slow, and regularly accompanied by ‘logic problems’

of building makeshift bridges to cross certain sections. Yet, besides the company of fellow travellers, the

beautiful scenery more than compensated for protracted, winding drives.

Of course, the issue of ‘access’ is not just about travel, it also involves convincing others to spend their

time with you and ‘open up’. In this regard, access to professional workers was relatively easy. The main

issue, here, was that they were all incredibly busy so timing and flexibility on my part was crucial. However,

negotiating access to victims was, as one might expect, considerably more difficult. I primarily negotiated

access through two local NGOs (the Judicial System Monitoring Programme and the International Catholic

Migration Commission) that operated outreach programmes with survivors of serious violations. After a range

of informal vetting procedures, through which organizational workers basically ‘sussed me out’, I was provided

with a list of potential interviewees and their general location.

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Following this, I would attempt to find the individuals and explain the research. This was, by no means, simple:

most Timorese have no access to phones, there is no effective postal service, most roads do not have names,

directions were often vague, given names would sometimes be unrecognizable to local people (as it is not

unusual for Timorese people to have a variety of names) and potential interviewees would be at work or

had moved. And, of course, when I did find some individuals, they did not always want to talk to me. This

latter response resulted from a variety of factors–it reflected the personal stance of individuals (why, after all,

would anyone really want to talk about their torture to a complete stranger?), however it could also emerge

because people were sceptical about my credentials. Occasionally, my work could also be downgraded by

association–for instance, one respondent would not speak to me because he did not like the person who had

put me in touch with them.

Connections also came through other unlikely sources including from the cleaners of the small hostel in

which I twice stayed. While I generally enjoyed a good relationship with them, these three women ‘warmed’

to me on the thirteenth anniversary of the massacre at Santa Cruz; principally, I suspect, because I was an

‘international’ who knew about it and had tried to talk to them about it, through poor Tetum and mime. When

they subsequently discovered my research topic (and found out that I had also had a Catholic upbringing),

they escorted me to their friends and family who had been victimized. In these instances of direct connection,

interviewees were always open to the research. Trust, in these circumstances, is a crucial factor.

The range of interviewees, and their own personal circumstances, meant that interviews were conducted in

various settings: offices, homes, restaurants, my hotel room, school rooms, courtyards, gardens, under trees

and even on a beach. Essentially, if the interviewee was comfortable with the situation, I would speak with

them anywhere. With the exception of six interviewees (principally legal workers) all interviews were recorded.

Unanimously, victims were happy to be taped and often stressed the importance of the recording.

Responding to Power Differentials

The economic, social and environmental conditions in which this research progressed has inevitably

advanced reflexive questions about my own position within the research. After all, ‘What we do and how we

do it is informed by who we are, how we think, our morals, our politics, our sexuality, our faith, our lifestyle,

our childhood, our “race”, our values’ (Clough and Nutbrown, 2002: 70).

The ability of Western researchers, to ‘give voice’ to people's suffering and to re-write stories for their own

ends, illustrates privilege. The reproduction of victims' stories reflects the researcher's own status and power.

Indeed, that most researchers can ‘study, rather than endure’ torture is a reminder of the benefits that follow

for some from the ‘nature and distribution of assaults on dignity’ (Farmer, 2003: 224). Research has to be

undertaken with an acknowledgement of the positioning and status of those involved. Even in the best of

circumstances, this can be an unequal exchange (Skeggs, 2002).

Historical experience indicates that Western researchers can readily position themselves as ‘those who

know’. ‘Data’ can be readily re-appropriated into a commodity and interviewees can lose ownership over their

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stories. There are significant questions on who ‘owns the story’ as the dissemination of painful experiences

can become ‘wholly cut off from the life of the teller’ (Plummer, 2001: 216). This issue is intensified by unequal

resources and access to global information flows in which stories (that are repeatedly circulated in the media,

on the Internet and reproduced by scholars around the world) are not accessible to interviewees (Ross, 2003).

These realities led to a situation in which, unsuprisingly, many victims were outspoken with regards to their

concerns and scepticism about the cultural capital that western academics, with ready access to publishing

sources, possess. They understood the nature of the work–that I would return to a prosperous country and

then produce publications that, while having next-to-no direct impact on their lives, would probably deepen

my cultural resources further. In addition, a number of victims also challenged me on how my status had been

achieved thus far. For example, Fransisco remarked that my education had probably been paid from monies

derived from British Ministry of Defence sales. For him, my status, as an academic born and educated in the

UK, was clearly linked to the suffering of the Timorese people. This argument, that I could not contest given

extensive weapon sales from the UK to Indonesia, illustrated the everyday expressions and enactment of

power relations. There were times in this research when power relations changed and the interviewee held

more power than I, the researcher (Huggins and Glebbeek, 2003). In this instance, Fransisco claimed power

in response to the values and meanings he attributed to me, as a white, British, academic female.

In the midst of such challenges, I took on the mantle of an ‘involved outsider’, ‘one who is personally

connected’ to victims through a stance that violations are wrong, and that victims' demands for truth and

justice are paramount (Hermann, 2001: 79). I approached with ‘a sort of political certificate of honesty’ (ibid.

84) in which I emphasized that my research did have an academic ‘agenda’, that it would admittedly ‘not

change the world’ but I would communicate findings in diverse ways and push for change for Timor-Leste.

I, like Bell (2001), maintained criteria of ensuring that the work had practical value and that respect for

interviewees would override any of my own research objectives. In terms of the latter, I prioritized victims'

needs during, and in the wake of, interviews. In many respects, Timorese people thought this too and

individuals regularly asked for some financial or social assistance. At its bluntest, I had indicated that I wanted

to expose and change ‘the view from below’, so how committed was I? In response, aside from my academic

contributions, I gave money to individuals and organizations, put victims in touch with rare support groups

and also helped out with domestic chores. These actions never, however, felt adequate.

My status raised tensions with some victims; however, it permitted far clearer access to professional workers.

While this was not a homogenous group, my background was generally viewed as a mark of approval

and, indeed, some Timorese individuals later claimed that they had failed to access some of these workers

because, as they saw it, they did not share my international, professional status. As Green (2003: 173) notes,

‘Being foreign, always to some extent on the outside looking in, is probably more of a help than a hindrance’.

Further, I am also certain that being a relatively young woman combined with other features ‘to help secure

some interviewees and to produce among them some greater openness’ (Huggins and Glebbeek, 2003: 372).

It was evident, particularly with some male professional interviewees, that I was viewed as an unthreatening

character, one that would not merit suspicion or a guarded approach.

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Dealing with Difference and Distance

Throughout the research, I faced the generic research issues of building rapport, being non-judgmental,

assuring confidentiality and establishing trust. Part of my strategy, here, was to establish active listening

principles. Thus, I took an approach to ‘decipher what the interviewee has said’, signal my ‘interest in

understanding more’ and show a ‘willingness to be open to the other's feelings' (Rosenthal, 2003: 919).

Nonetheless, given the cultural, social and economic differences between our ‘worlds’, interviews were

inevitably fractured. Similar to the human rights research undertaken by Lambert et al. (2003: 42), I

sometimes found myself in a situation in which ‘Words slipped and fell about … [because] we did not have

shared meanings built from shared histories.’ Our very identities, understandings and experiences meant that

the research was limited as it lost the nuance and complexity of life. Active listening strategies could not

always break through our differences so that I might fully understand the meanings of what was being said.

Agger and Jensen's (1996) landmark text, on interviewing torture survivors and Chilean therapists (many

of whom had been traumatized by political repression), provided a guide for my thinking on responding to

difference. They establish the distinction between ‘empathetic listening’ (that any individual might do) and the

listening required in research practice. The latter requires empathy with the listener, however it also needs

the researcher to continually reflect on their place within the research, and to acknowledge the difference and

distance between research parties.

The difference between our lives meant that I was not always sure how far I might ‘push’ or ‘probe’ into

victims' experiences. Moreover, sometimes, questions that I would anticipate to be ‘difficult’ for victims–such

as on sexual torture–would be directly and fully answered while other questions, that I would consider to be

‘lighter’–say, on political connections–would endure strained responses. These events highlighted the limits

of my understanding about the long-term harmful, or discomfiting, outcomes of repression. Acknowledging my

ignorance, the best I could do was to take care not to ‘work against the interviewee's defenses' (Rosenthal,

2003: 919).

Communicating across Languages

The storytelling approach allows individuals to speak in their own language and in their own words (Graham,

1984). Many of the professionals working in the truth commission and serious crimes process were English-

speakers, making communication comparatively straightforward. While I learnt Tetum (a principal indigenous

language in Timor), clear communication with Timorese people was not so easy. There are different reasons

for this. First, my Tetum was very basic and I regularly mistook words with Te Reo MāBori, which I had

also been learning after arriving in New Zealand. Second, despite the relatively wide use of Tetum, there

are over 20 indigenous languages in Timor-Leste and many are quite localized. Third, at the time of my

research, there was some conflict over official languages–Portuguese, Bahasa Indonesia and English were

each used by administrators (the former two languages now have ascendancy). Given all this, my much-

needed interpreters regularly struggled to circumnavigate the discussions, and they had to hold a strong

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knowledge of numerous languages.

The interpretation of discussions brought its own issues which skewed the research process. Even the best

translations can be problematic, as they ‘unavoidably impair the authenticity of the data, and hence the validity

of [the] analyses’ (Hermann, 2001: 83). Translations can regularly fail to expose the cultural nuances and

complexity of language or meaning that may be more apparent in direct communication (ibid.). This is an

issue that researchers using interpreters always face.

Concerns about the use of interpreters were intensified in the context of this research on torture in a still-

decimated country (in which over 90 per cent of all infrastructure had been destroyed when Indonesia

left the region). In Timor-Leste, there are few professional interpreters and these individuals were already

occupied under more lucrative UN contracts. Added to this, given recent circumstances, Timorese people

were suspicious of those they ‘do not know’–there were continual questions about what people had done or

not done, who they were related to, could they be trusted, and so on. As Brounéus (2008: 64) comments,

‘Two risks arise if there is a relationship of distrust … first, the interviewee may choose to not speak freely;

second, the interpreter may hide facts or distort information according to their own opinion. In both cases the

interview material will lose its value.’

The withholding of facts is, undoubtedly, one of the most serious of risks in the use of interpreters. This

occurred during this research, although it emerged from the sensitivity of an interpreter who managed his

translation so as not to offend. During one interview, a torture victim spent a few minutes in an animated

flow of speech. During this time, Casimiro, the interpreter, nervously glanced at my expression and smiled

at me. He then started to look agitated as the speech continued. Finally, I intervened and asked him to

translate. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled again, and quietly said, ‘She says that your country has caused

much destruction in Timor. She says that the UK is responsible too.’ Casimiro later admitted that he had not

wanted to translate the parts that he saw as an affront to my nationality as he thought it would make me

upset. This occurred despite the fact that I had previously spoken to him about my critical approach and my

understanding of the role of the UK Government. His personal and cultural commitment to ease tensions, and

look after me, overtook his focus on a neutral translation.

Coping with Emotions

Within the storytelling approach, it is hoped that while interviewees might relate painful or problematic pasts,

they will finish their story by talking about good, secure areas of life (Rosenthal, 2003). Yet, Timorese people

have little personal security; during interviews, Timorese victims talked about their constant economic worries,

health problems, housing troubles, and many were anxious about the possibilities of renewed violence.

Insecurities included threats of direct physical violence and structural violence (linked to the lack of food,

water, shelter, health services, and so on). Most interviewees continued to have an uncertain future. This

was clearly illustrated in the surge in violence during 2006–after the completion of my data collection–which

left many Timorese in refugee camps and without homes once more. These insecurities frequently led to a

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questioning of research ethics–for instance, should I actually undertake research in situations of continuing

insecurity? In response, I clearly answered ‘yes’ as I saw that my work might assist Timorese people, or other

populations who have faced torture. However, this led to a second question: how can I do research that does

not cause further harm?

While interviews were always conducted to create the least pain possible (for example, by encouraging

interviewees to bring along support people, or by connecting interviewees to social or religious support

organizations), the exposure of torturous events undoubtedly brought feelings of anguish and trauma to the

fore. After all, it is impossible to conduct research that details exactly what state violence means and ‘feels

like’ to victims, without emotion and to some extent harm. This is intensified when victims, having opened the

trauma, have to return to a difficult environment in which violence continues albeit in different forms.

Emotional involvement means that researchers need to acknowledge the ‘unpleasant emotions and self-

doubts’ that are generated by requesting such accounts of harm and violence (Huggins and Glebbeek,

2003: 378). These feelings affect everyone involved–the teller, the interpreter and the researcher. This

research was, then, attentive to the forces of emotionality as a central methodological issue. Like Pickering's

(2001: 498) experiences in Northern Ireland, I have experienced a wide range of emotions through these

interviews–including joy, pain, horror, sadness, shame, disgust, fear, guilt, amusement, anger, disbelief and

outrage. I have also been confronted with strong emotional expressions by interviewees and interpreters that

could not go unacknowledged.

Furthermore, I have been forced to re-invigorate my conscious engagement and to continually question my

ideas about what interviewees ‘are like’. Certainly, I have been confronted by the vast differences between

victims. Despite what I have read and thought I understood about violence and victimhood (for instance,

that victims of political violence may also be perpetrators of violence within the private sphere), I have been

challenged by the ambiguous status of some interviewees, who could be both oppressed and oppressing.

During one interview, I had to rein in my despair and disgust to one male victim of torture who would

occasionally ‘bark out’ instructions to his bruised and sullen wife. Alternatively, in other instances, I have had

to question the ‘seduction’ of certain interviewees' stories (Robben, 1995). That is, some interviewees have

been thoroughly engrossing, persuasive and moving in their stories, so much so that I am certain that my

critical engagement was diminished.

While my experiences have made me somewhat hardened to hearing about state brutality, confronting

reactions can emerge at the most unexpected times. Like Agger and Jensen (1996), I also faced days during

the research process when I had an urgent and overwhelming need to sleep, my body essentially shut

down. Now, years after my primary research, I often wonder about whether I said or did the right things in

relation to particular victims; I regularly struggle to watch television news about state violence elsewhere

without wondering about the human experiences of those on the ground or how particular interviewees are

faring today; and I often feel (poor me!) status-based guilt about my pleasant life while Timorese populations

continue to face survival struggles on a daily basis.

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This emotionality has had a number of outcomes. On a personal level, it has pulled apart my own ‘expert’

status (Pickering, 2001). It gave me concerns about my own inadequacies as a researcher, as my

experiences certainly did not fit with mainstream social research texts that often cast researchers as being

efficient, objective and non-emotional. Yet, at the same time, my basic ‘human’ responses have meant that

I have retained my attention on victims, and their human experiences. In many ways, our emotions have

ensured that I have little trouble in formulating and sustaining my analytical framework and focus.

Future Methodological Challenges

Human rights research, and studies that traverse geographical, political, social and cultural boundaries, are

becoming more common within criminological literature. Increasingly, criminologists are doing research with

marginalized communities within their own state or are packing their bags to travel abroad for research

outside their nation-state borders. In this way, criminologists are undertaking interviews with groups

representing diverse cultures, languages, histories and experiences; and, research on state violence is

developing. With this in mind, there are some methodological issues that are worthy of further consideration.

First, criminologists might be mindful of maintaining a critical agenda. Research about state violence has

expanded exponentially over the last decade or so. However, doing research on human rights, or torture,

or transitional justice does not necessarily equate with critical analysis. For instance, the advance of

governments, transnational agencies and corporations to fund such research adds a layer of concern that

researchers can be used to build non-reflective and ‘state-approving’ knowledge that enhances power

inequalities. Further analysis of state power is required here. Moreover, the ‘cheerleading’ that often exists

about the benign nature of human rights or international justice measures can ‘blind’ researchers into thinking

that these advances are unproblematic. A closer inspection can reveal that institutions like truth commissions

or international courts may actually make matters worse for victims and their communities–they can entrench

global discrimination, and inequalities of power or access to justice in new ways (Stanley, 2009). Thus, critical

reflection is imperative–particularly on the things that, as a researcher, you might support most.

Second, criminologists might continue to hone an honesty, or awareness, about the political nature of their

work. After all, ‘Research that focuses on serious civil disorder … and the use of state-legitimated force, and

negligence by those in authority, is conceived, formulated and realised in volatile circumstances. Its agenda, a

priori, is political’ (Scraton, 2007: 11). State violence is politicized–and this will impact on any kind of research

regardless of whether it is undertaken with a critical agenda or not.

Third, criminologists might re-invigorate their thinking on how research really impacts on the people and

communities that they research. Through this research, I have faced many questions on this, such as: How

might research be ‘improved’ to ensure that people (interviewees, researchers) feel supported and safe,

and that they are not unduly stressed or harmed by research? How may interviewees be engaged in more

hybridized research ventures, in which respondents truly guide and participate in the project? How can

projects be structured so that they do not result in colonizing or ethnocentric research? How can research

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be undertaken in a way that has clear boundaries about the ‘ownership’ of stories? Further, in a world in

which academics are increasingly forced down a route to disseminate their work in specific spaces, how might

research on state violence be used to propel positive change at individual, community, national or global

levels? That is, how can research be undertaken in a way that moves beyond good analysis? All of these

questions need to be asked before, during and after the research.

Conclusion

In many respects, the critical methodology that has underpinned this author's work brought an ‘additional

burden of high expectations’ for continual direct action during the research process (Sim, 2003: 248). How

far I might ‘stand on side’ with those facing troubles came down, ultimately, to daily personal decisions. The

issue of actually doing this research revolved around a consolidating awareness of global politics; the process

was certainly not a ‘hygienic affair’ but one that evolved from my ‘own personal values’, understandings and

aspirations (Clough and Nutbrown, 2002: 68).

At an individual level, the research has encompassed change. However, the question remains whether such

work can lead to ameliorative actions for respondents. As Farmer (2003: 226) details, the role of academic

researchers can be called into question,

No more adequate, for all their virtues, are denunciation and exhortation, whether in the form

of press conferences or reports or harangues directed at students. To confront, as an observer,

ongoing abuses of human rights is to be faced with a moral dilemma: does one's action help the

sufferers or does it not?

My research has attempted to bolster the idea that we are implicated in each others' lives and to progress

the stance that the first act to take against torture is an acknowledgement that it is not acceptable … even

for those who might challenge us with their own violence. This recognition of commonalities, as well as

differences, is what enables individuals to take steps to progress social, political and economic change, and

to take actions that demonstrate care for others (Cohen, 2001). Conversely, ‘Not to look, not to touch, not to

record, can be the hostile act, the act of indifference and of turning away’ (Scheper-Hughes, 1992: 28).

In summary, this work has been based on a transformative recognition, not just for the struggles that continue

in Timor-Leste but also to those that will duly ‘flourish’ in future ‘brutal regimes’ (Huggins et al., 2002: 18).

In this regard, criminologists have positive skills to offer, and extensive opportunities for further analysis and

action.