Untitled

i
‘Organizational Ethnography sets a new standard for scholarly reflection and theoretical inquiry.
The editors have assembled a smart and engaging set of essays on ethnographic methods in
diverse organizational contexts. Readers will find traditional topics assessed with a fresh lens,
as well as some issues –exiting the field, studying sensitive issues –that have received far less
attention than they deserve. For newcomers to the craft as well as seasoned practitioners, this
volume on “hanging out” in organizations is a must read.’
Sudhir Venkatesh, Columbia University, USA
ii
iii
ORGANIZATIONAL ETHNOGRAPHY
This textbook explores practices, first-hand experiences and emerging ideas within organiza-
tional ethnography, providing a toolkit that prepares ethnographers for the uncertainties and
realities of fieldworking.
Students faced with the complexities of qualitative observational techniques and consider-
ations, such as the scope of the research, the personal and professional intertwined life of the
qualitative research or the decision of when to leave the field, will find the book an extremely
useful, practical guide. A range of experiences from a variety of academics at different stages of
their career, to highlight the differences in practices, approaches and encounters, are presented.
The themes of the individual chapters cover three main areas: aspects to consider and reflect on
before undertaking an ethnography, the process and experiences of conducting ethnographic
work and considerations for after the fieldwork. Particular attention is given to appreciating
the complexity and practicalities of ethnographic work, providing a more experience-driven
text, and understanding perspectives from a range of different approaches to organizational
ethnography.
This book should be a recommended text for advanced undergraduate and post-
graduate students studying research methods within Business and Management. It is par-
ticularly important for all students and academics undertaking qualitative research, especially
ethnography.
Jenna Pandeli is a senior lecturer at University of the West of England (UWE), Bristol, UK.
Neil Sutherland is a senior lecturer at UWE, Bristol, UK.
Hugo Gaggiotti is a professor at UWE, Bristol, UK.

iv
v
ORGANIZATIONAL
ETHNOGRAPHY
An Experiential and Practical Guide
Edited by Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland

and Hugo Gaggiotti
vi
Cover Image: Getty Images

First published 2022
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business
© 2022 selection and editorial matter, Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland, and
Hugo Gaggiotti; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland, and Hugo Gaggiotti to be identified
as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters,
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks,
and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Pandeli, Jenna, 1989–editor. | Sutherland, Neil, 1987–
editor. | Gaggiotti, Hugo, editor.
Title: Organizational ethnography: an experiential and practical guide /
edited by Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland, and Hugo Gaggiotti.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY: Routledge, 2022. |
Includes bibliographical references and index. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2021043468 (print) | LCCN 2021043469 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780367898670 (hardback) | ISBN 9780367898687 (paperback) |
ISBN 9781003021582 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Organizational sociology. | Business anthropology. | Applied anthropology.
Classification: LCC HM711. O7274 2022 (print) |
LCC HM711 (ebook) | DDC 302.3/5–dc23/eng/20211013
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043468
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043469
ISBN: 978-0-367-89867-0 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-0-367-89868-7 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-02158-2 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582
Typeset in Bembo
by Newgen Publishing UK
vii
CONTENTS
Contributors ix
1 Outlining a practical, emotional and reflexive approach to

organizational ethnography 1
Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland and Hugo Gaggiotti
PART I
Emotions, ethnography, and fieldwork 13
2 Check yourself before you wreck yourself! Are you cut out for
ethnographic fieldwork? 15
Christian Johann Schmid and Paul Eisewicht
3 Too close for comfort? The challenges and unexpected consequences of

immersed ethnography 34
Sarah-Louise Weller
4 Removing the rose-tinted glasses: Fear, risk and being uncomfortable in

ethnographic fieldwork 50
Jenna Pandeli and Rafael Alcadipani
5 Choosing to reach beyond academic goalposts: Ethnographer as

compassionate advocate inside an immigration detention centre 66
Joanne Vincett
viii
viii Contents
PART II
Ethnography in the field 81
6 Learning and doing autoethnography: Resonance, vulnerability and

exposure 83
Ilaria Boncori
7 Rapid ethnographies in organizations: Ensuring rich data and timely

findings 99
Stephanie Kumpunen and Cecilia Vindrola-Padros
8 Deception as a moral project: Covert research and the construction of

the ethical self 115
Chloe Tarrabain
9 Ethnography on sensitive topics: Children’s sexuality education in Spain 126

Bruna Alvarez, Estel Malgosa and Diana Marre
10 Reflexivity in audio-visual ethnography: Thinking through practice 141

Miguel Gaggiotti and Hugo Gaggiotti
PART III
Beyond the field 155
11 Exiting the field: When does an ethnography finish? 157

Vanessa Monties
12 Jotting it down: Writing and analysing fieldnotes 170

Neil Sutherland
13 Making sense of field material: From euphoria to despair and back 186
Barbara Czarniawska
14 Learning to fly: On teaching the ethnographic craft 195

Monika Kostera,Tomasz Ludwicki and Anna Modzelewska
15 Futures of organizational ethnography: (Post)pandemic reflections and

new possibilities 213
Katherine Parsons, David Courpasson and Rick Delbridge
Index 227
ix
CONTRIBUTORS
Rafael Alcadipani is a professor of Management at FGV-

EAESP in Brazil. He received
his PhD from Manchester Business School, where he undertook fieldwork in a newspaper
printing factory. He is associate editor of the journal Organization. His research has been
published in journals such as Organization; Management Learning; Human Relations; Journal of
Management Studies; Organization Research Methods; Gender,Work and Organizations and Academy
of Management Learning and Education. He confesses that he is ‘addicted to fieldwork’. He is
currently undertaking fieldwork in police organizations (which have been ongoing for over
eight years!). He loves a good beer with friends and his latest achievement has been keeping a
goldfish alive in a fish tank at his home for more than a month! Raphael’s three favourite eth-
nographies are: Innes, Martin. (2003) Investigating Murder. Detective Work and the Police Responses
to Criminal Homicide. Oxford: Oxford University Press; Kunda, Gideon. (1993) Engineering
Culture: Control and Commitment in a High Tech Corporation. Pennsylvania: Temple University
Press and Braga, Fernando. (2004) Homens Invisíveis: Retrato de uma Humilhação Social. Rio de
Janeiro: Ed Globo.
Bruna Alvarez is a lecturer in Anthropology at Autonomous University of Barcelona (UAB) and

a member of AFIN Research Group and Outreach Centre (UAB). Her main areas of research
are motherhood, reproduction and sexualities. Her doctoral research explored the politics of
motherhood in Spain. After an intensive mothering experience (research and breeding) she
worked in applied anthropology projects about family diversity at primary schools and assisted
reproductive technologies in a private clinic. For the last four years, Alvarez has coordinated
the SexAFIN project, which explores how children in primary education discuss sexuality
with their parents and school teachers. Trying to consolidate her academic career, while her
children are growing up and her family includes more members, she still has not found the
time for horse riding, something she enjoyed. Bruna’s three favourite ethnographies are: Imaz,
Elixabete. (2010) Convertirse en Madre: Etnograf í a Del Tiempo de Gestaci ó N. Madrid: Cátedra;
Sclavi, Marianella (1994). La signora va nel Bronx. Milan: Anabasi and Scheper-Hughes, Nancy.
x
x Contributors
(1992) Death Without Weeping. The Violence of Everyday Life in Brazil. Berkeley, Los Angeles,
London: University of California Press.
Ilaria Boncori is a professor in Management and Marketing at the University of Essex, secretly
dreaming of an alternative career running a small Italian bistro by the beach in a warm and
sunny place. Currently serving as a Faculty Dean in the Arts and Humanities, Ilaria is passionate
about teaching, scholarship and mentoring that is interdisciplinary and premised around
ethics of care. Her research thus far has explored various topics under the broad umbrella
of inequality in organization, with a keen interest in the academic context and a focus on
embodiment, affect and writing differently. As a qualitative researcher, she has expertise in
ethnographic and narrative methods, but has recently started experimenting with arts-based
methods. Ilaria enjoys the continuous learning process that is provided by her work environ-
ment, particularly through collaborations with colleagues, editorial work and the examination
of doctoral students. Ilaria’s three favourite works on ethnography are: Ellis, Carolyn. (2004).
The Ethnographic I: A Methodological Novel About Autoethnography. Rowman Altamira; Kostera,
Monika, & Harding, Nancy. (Eds.). (2007). Organizational Ethnography. Edward Elgar Publishing
and Spry T. (2011) Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography, Walnut Creek,
CA: Left Coast Press.
David Courpasson is a professor of Sociology at Emlyon Business School and director of

OCE Research Centre (oce.em-lyon.com). He is also a professor at Cardiff University. He is
interested in issues of work and politics, especially resistance and solidarity relationships. He
has also recently developed research on the relationships between ethnography, journalism and
screenwriting as forms of investigation and writing. Currently he is writing a ‘social thriller’
as his first feature-length drama; he is also a rock drummer but that has nothing to do here.
David’s three favourite ethnographies are: Linhart, Robert. (1978) L’ tabli, Paris: Editions de
Minuit; Favret-Saada, Jeanne. (1985) Les mots, la mort, les sorts, France: Gallimard and Wacquant,
Loïc. (2006) Body & Soul: Notebooks of an Apprentice Boxer. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Barbara Czarniawska holds an MA in Social and Industrial Psychology fromWarsaw University

and a PhD in Economic Sciences from Warsaw School of Economics. She holds the title of
Doctor honoris causa from Stockholm School of Economics, Copenhagen Business School,
Helsinki School of Economics and Aalborg University. Currently, she is a senior professor of
Management Studies at Gothenburg Research Institute, School of Business, Economics and
Law at University of Gothenburg, Sweden. She takes a feminist and processual perspective on
organizing, recently exploring connections between popular culture and practice of manage-
ment. She is interested in techniques of fieldwork and in the application of narratology to
organization studies. His latest publications (in English) include Robotization of Work? Answers
from Popular Culture, Media and Social Sciences (with Bernward Joerges, 2020). Barbara’s three
favourite ethnographies are Mol, Annemarie. (2002) The Body Multiple: Ontology in Medical
Practice. Durham, NC: Duke University Press; de Rond, Mark. (2017) Doctors at War: Life and
Death in a Field Hospital. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press and O’Doherty, Damian. (2017)
Reconstructing Organization:The Loungification of Society. London, UK: Palgrave Macmillan.
Rick Delbridge is a professor of Organizational Analysis at Cardiff Business School. He joined

Cardiff University as an undergraduate in 1985 and never made exit velocity. He has held
xi
Contributors xi
various research leadership roles in the school and university, culminating in seven years as
University Dean of Research, Innovation & Enterprise when amongst other things he led
the conception and development of SPARK, the world’s first social science park. Escaping
university management and keen to work on research that ‘makes a difference’, he is now
co-convenor of the interdisciplinary Centre for Innovation Policy Research and leads the
university’s role in the design and delivery of the Cardiff Capital Region Challenge Fund.
Rick is a Cornishman, sports lover and very occasional golfer and sailor (once crewing in a
Fastnet race: 4 days, 16 hours, 39 minutes and 52 seconds since you ask). But mostly these days
he enjoys eating good food and drinking good wine. For his doctoral studies, he made wind-
screen wipers and assembled TV printed circuit boards as an ethnographer of ‘plant life’. Rick
remains a committed advocate of ethnography and occasionally wonders if he might have
another extended stint in the field –maybe as a restaurant critic or sports journalist. Rick’s
three favourite ethnographies are: Burawoy, Michael. (1979) Manufacturing Consent: Changes
in the Labor Process under Monopoly Capitalism, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL; Roy,
Donald. (1952) Restriction of Output in a Piecework Machine PhD Thesis, University of Chicago,
Chicago, IL and Glucksmann, Miriam (aka Ruth Cavendish). (1982/2009) Women on the Line,
Routledge, London.
Paul Eisewicht is currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Social Sciences at

TU Dortmund. His sociological research focuses on modes of consumption and belonging,
as well as qualitative research and especially lifeworld analytical ethnography. He became an
ethnographer by accident but stayed one by heart. He is forever grateful for the fact that eth-
nography enables him to explore, discover, wonder and to even make a living from this. He
would certainly be a poorer researcher and a less refined person without ethnography. Paul’s
three favourite ethnographies are: Ferrell, Jeff, and Hamm, Mark S. (eds) (1998) Ethnography at
the Edge: Crime, Deviance, and Field Research. Boston: Northeastern University Press; Reinharz,
Shulamit. (1979) On becoming a Social Scientist. From Survey Research and Participant Observation to
Experiential Analysis. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass and Becker, Howard S. (1998) Tricks of the Trade.
How to Think about Your Research While You’re Doing It. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Hugo Gaggiotti is a professor at UWE, Bristol. He received his PhD in Social Anthropology
from the University of Barcelona and his PhD in Management Studies from Ramon Llull
University-ESADE. The focus of his writing is on the intersections between rhetoric, rit-
uals, liminality and the symbolic construction of work and labour in organizations. He has
conducted fieldwork for many years in the industrial regions of Brazil, Argentina, Mexico and
Kazakhstan and currently in the US-Mexican borderlands (British Council-Newton Fund
Grant). His own passions are the uses of abductive reasoning (Peirce) to DIY improvisations
and spontaneous cooking. Hugo’s three favourite ethnographies are: Orr, Julian E. (1996)
Talking About Machines: an Ethnography of a Modern Job. ILR Press, Ithaca, NY; Sclavi, Marianella.
(2007) An Italian Lady Goes to the Bronx. Milan: Italian Paths of Culture and Warner, William
Lloyd. (1959) The Living and the Dead: A Study of the Symbolic Life of Americans. New Haven,
Conn:Yale University Press.
Miguel Gaggiotti is a filmmaker and a lecturer in Film and Television at the University of
Bristol. His research specialism is on film and television aesthetics and screen performance.
Miguel’s PhD examined the performances of nonprofessional actors in films ranging from
xii
xii Contributors
the early silent period to contemporary digital cinema. His most recent film, Maquiladora
(2020), is a reflexive video-ethnography on labour conditions in assembly plants in Ciudad
Juárez, Mexico. Currently, Miguel is working on a monograph on non-professional actors
derived from his doctoral research and finishing post-production on an observational docu-
mentary that explores the practice of artisanal pig slaughtering in Mallorca, Spain. Miguel’s
three favourite ethnographies are Moi, un noir (Jean Rouch, 1959); The Doon School Quintet
(David MacDougall, 1997-2000) and In Vanda’s Room (Pedro Costa, 2000).
Monika Kostera is Titular Professor in Economics and the Humanities. She works at the
Faculty of Sociology at the University of Warsaw and at Södertörn University, Sweden. She
writes and publishes texts on organization theory as well as poetry. Her current research
interests include organizational imagination, disalienated work and organizational ethnog-
raphy. She is a member of Erbacce Poets’ Cooperative. She believes in kindness and imagin-
ation. More about her can be found at www.kostera.pl. Monika’s three favourite ethnographies
are: Leidner, Robin. (1993) Fast Food, Fast Talk: Service Work and the Routinization of Everyday
Life. Berkeley: University of California Press; Petersson Mcintyre, Magdalena. (2016) Att ä
Lska Sitt Jobb: Passion, Entusiasm Och Nyliberal Subjektivitet. Lund: Nordic Academic Press and
Sulima, Roch. (2000) Antropologia Codziennosci. Kraków: WUJ.
Stephanie Kumpunen divides her time between the Nuffield Trust, where she contributes
to qualitative research, policy analysis and evaluations as a senior fellow, and the Department
of Applied Health Research at University College London where she is undertaking PhD
studies funded by THIS Institute. Her PhD research is developing reporting standards for
rapid ethnographies in collaboration with a wonderful team of supervisors including Cecilia
Vindrola-Padros. Stephanie’s favourite work on ethnography is Armstrong, Pat. and Lowndes,
Ruth. eds. (2018). Creative Teamwork: Developing Rapid, Site-Switching Ethnography. Oxford
University Press.
Tomasz Ludwicki is a director at The International Management Center at the Faculty

of Management, University of Warsaw. He is a Ford and Mellon Foundations scholar
and Marie Curie fellow (EU Programme). Besides his managerial role, he also teaches
strategy, international strategy, and organizational consulting; he is supervisor of master
thesis and consulting projects at MBA Programme. His research interests include organ-
izational consulting and strategy. He taught courses at the University of Illinois at Urbana-
Champaign, Lund University and Hochschule fur Philiosophie in Munich. He is also the
assessor in the Association of MBAs based in London. Tomasz plays tennis and enjoys skiing
in the winter and jogging all year long. Tomasz’s three favourite ethnographies are: Alvesson,
Mats. (1995) Management of Knowledge Intensive Companies. New York: Walter de Gruyter;
Kunda, Gideon. (1991) Engineering Culture: Control and Commitment in Hi-Tech Corporation,
Philadelphia: Temple University Press and Jackall, Robert. (1988) Moral Mazes: The World of
Corporate Managers. New York: Oxford University Press.
Estel Malgosa is a PhD candidate in Anthropology at the Autonomous University of Barcelona

(UAB) and a member of AFIN Research Group and Outreach Centre (UAB). The SexAFIN
project, which Malgosa helped design, develop and implement is the primary framework
of her doctoral research. Her thesis explores how boys and girls from public schools in the
xiii
Contributors xiii
province of Barcelona (Spain) construct, live and narrate sexuality. She combines her thesis
with her recent maternity, hiking in the mountains and climbing. Estel’s three favourite ethno-
graphic works are: Davies, Bronwyn. (1989) Frog and Snails and Feminist Tales. Boston: Allen &
Unwin; Leinaweaver, Jessaca. (2008). The Circulation of Children: Kinship, Adoption, and Morality
in Andean Peru. Durham: Duke University Press and Rabinow, Paul. (1977). Reflections on
Fieldwork in Morocco, Berkeley: University of California Press.
Diana Marre is professor of Social and Cultural Anthropology and the director of the AFIN
Research Group and Outreach Centre at the Autonomous University of Barcelona (UAB),
Spain. Her research focus is on the social, cultural and political aspects of assisted human repro-
duction. She has authored over 80 publications in her field, including books, edited volumes,
book chapters and peer-reviewed articles. She has been Visiting and Invited Professor at several
universities around the world. Diana frequently serves as advisor for government, civic and
users’ institutions and associations on issues related to assisted human reproduction, children
adoption, gamete and embryo provision and surrogacy. Diana’s three favourite ethnographies
are: Delaney, Carol Lowery. (1991) The Seed and The Soil: Gender and Cosmology in Turkish
Village Society. Berkeley: University of California Press; Rapp, Rayna. (1999) Testing Women,
Testing the Fetus. London: Routledge Press and Speyer, Amy. (2016) Fertility Holidays. IVF
Tourism and the Reproduction of Whiteness. New York: University Press.
Anna Modzelewska is an assistant professor in the Department of Management and Social

Communication at the Jagiellonian University and holds a PhD in management science. She
is a graduate of journalism and social communication at the Jagiellonian University. Her scien-
tific interests focus on issues of organizational structures, leadership, as well as the functioning
and social impact of the media. She has published a book entitled Organizational Structures in
the Self-Governing Labour Union ‘Solidarity’ between 1980 and 1980, which contains qualita-
tive research, utilizing scientific methods and techniques inspired by the ethnography of the
organization. Anna’s three favourite ethnographies are: Kostera, Monika. (2007) Organizational
Ethnography: Methods and Inspirations. Lund: Studentlitteratur; Van Maanen, John. (2011)
“Ethnography as work: some rules of engagement”, Journal of Management Studies, 48/1,
p. 218-234 and Kostera Monika. & Harding Nancy. (2021) (Eds.), Organizational Ethnography.
Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing.
Vanessa Monties, after studying existential dilemmas of fictional characters in English and
French literature, decided to investigate real people in real organizational life and how they
constructed their identity: to be or not to be… to do so Monties carried a one-year ethnog-
raphy in the police force during her PhD. Her research now focuses on identity work, dirty work
and emotions more particularly at the group level in extreme organizational contexts. For her,
learning is an exciting continuous process.Vanessa’s three favourite ethnographies are: Manning,
Peter K., & Van Maanen, John. (Eds.). (1978). Policing: A View from the Street. Santa Monica,
CA: Goodyear Publishing Company; Chetkovich, Carol A. (1997). Real Heat: Gender and Race
in the Urban Fire Service. Rutgers University Press and Effler, Erika S. (2010). Laughing Saints and
Righteous Heroes: Emotional Rhythms in Social Movement Groups. University of Chicago Press.
Jenna Pandeli is a senior lecturer at UWE, Bristol. Her research interests focus on prison
labour and other form of invisible work. She is particularly interested in using ethnographic
xiv
xiv Contributors
approaches to provide a greater understanding of the experiences of marginalized and

exploited groups. Her recent publication, ‘Cycles of Invisibility: Prisoners’ Work for the
Private Sector’, published in Work, Employment and Society, was awarded the SAGE prize for
Excellence and Innovation 2020. Her non-research interests were previously box set bingeing
and browsing online restaurant menus to prepare for exciting meals out. But, most recently,
these have been replaced with perfecting the art of nappy changing the world’s most wriggly
baby and debating favourite Hey Duggee characters with her husband (it’s Roly obviously).
Jenna’s three favourite ethnographies are: Venkatesh, Sudhir. (2008) Gang Leader for a Day: A
Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets. New York, NY: Penguin Press; Goffman, Alice. (2014) On
the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City. London: The University of Chicago Press and Willis,
Paul E. (1977) Learning to Labour: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs. Farnborough,
Eng: Saxon House.
Katherine Parsons is a doctoral student at Cardiff Business School. Her current research
project takes a processual perspective of the very earliest stages of start-up creation, paying
particular attention to the conflicts, paradoxes and tensions of start-up creation. This follows
Katherine’s previous research project, a narrative analysis of the process of ‘becoming’ an entre-
preneur, the practical implications of which Katherine has blogged and recorded a podcast
series on for nascent entrepreneurs. Prior to embarking on her PhD, Katherine has taught
on a range of under-graduate and post-graduate programmes as a University Teacher and
Lecturer both within HE settings and within the workplace. In addition she has worked
operationally within leadership and management development in both the public and private
sectors. Katherine has a passion for understanding more about our identities – who we are,
and specifically, who we are when we are at work – and loves to see the practical application
of her teaching and research within the organizations and individuals she works with. Apart
from work, Katherine enjoys spending time with her husband and three daughters, adven-
turing, cooking and holidaying, but can also often be spotted escaping the business of family
life enjoying her other passion in life, running. Katherine’s three favourite ethnographies are
Pink, Sarah. (2007) Walking with video. Visual Studies. 22 (3). pp: 240-252; Scott, Rebecca,
Husemann, Katharina. C. and Hill, Tim. (2019) Identity verification through pain in extraor-
dinary consumer experiences. In: Handbook of Research on Identity Theory in Marketing. Business
2019 Edward Elgar Publishing, pp. 255-269 and Field-Springer, Kimberley. (2020) Reflexive
embodied ethnography with applied sensibilities: methodological reflections on involved
qualitative research. Qualitative Research. 20 (2). pp:194-212.
Christian Johann Schmid is currently a postdoctoral researcher and coordinator of the

research area ‘Academic Change’ at the International Centre for Higher Education Research
(INCHER) at the University of Kassel. His sociological research focuses on the governance of
higher education institutions, the social organization of deviants in the outlaw biker subcul-
ture, and more recently deviants within academia (‘academic misfits’). Besides being passionate
about his academic teaching and research, he loves cuddling puppies (preferably Bull-type
Terrier breeds). His guiding motto in life is ‘giving is more blessed than receiving’, especially
when he puts his boxing gloves on. Christian’s three favourite ethnographies are: Hallett,
Tim. (2007) Between deference and distinction: Interaction ritual through symbolic power in
an educational institution. Social Psychology Quarterly, 70(2): 148–171; Wacquant, Loïc. (2006)
Body & Soul: Notebooks of an Apprentice Boxer. Oxford: Oxford University Press and Wolf, Daniel
R. (1991) The Rebels. A Brotherhood of Outlaw Bikers. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
xv
Contributors xv
Neil Sutherland, after spending his formative years touring across the world in DIY punk
bands, has now taken the not-so-obvious career progression of teaching and writing about
the practices of organizations. His favourite place in the world is the classroom (prefer-
ably with others) and he particularly loves discussions around challenging the roman-
ticization of leadership, and how more flexible, egalitarian and democratic forms can be
created. He ticks off most millennial 101 habits: Co-hosts a podcast (‘The Red Print: Your
Wellness Podcast’).Vegan. Mario Kart enthusiast. Slightly behind the time on memes. Proud
Hufflepuff. Childfree. Nostalgic for 2001–2003 pop culture. Loves writing in the third
person. He’s probably looking out of the window for neighbourhood cats right now. Neil’s
three favourite ethnographies are: Miller, Daniel. (2008) The Comfort of Things. Cambridge,
UK: Polity Press; Venkatesh, Sudhir. (2008) Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to
the Streets. New York, NY: Penguin Press and Matthews, Gordon. (2011) Ghetto at the centre of
the world: Chungking Mansions, Hong Kong. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Chloe Tarrabain is a senior lecturer at UWE, Bristol, with research interests that include
temporary forms of employment, labour migration and identities. Her personal interests
include gritty crime dramas, Jennifer Lopez and watching CBEEBies with her daughter.
Chloe believes that her real-life calling was to be a detective, but ethnographic research has
come as a less dangerous and arguably less stressful consolation. For her PhD fieldwork she
completed a 12-month ‘covert’ ethnographic study of temporary agency work. She didn’t
get to solve any murders but learnt a great deal about her own identity and privilege and
the lived experiences of migrant agency workers as well as how to fold napkins and make
a mean cappuccino. Chloe’s three favourite ethnographies are: Toynbee, Polly. (2003) Hard
Work: Life in Lowpay Britain. London: Bloomsbury; Bourgois. Philippe. (1995) In Search
of Respect: Selling Crack in El Barrio. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press and Kondo,
D (1990) Crafting Selves: Power, Gender, and Discourses of Identity in a Japanese Workplace.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Joanne Vincett was first introduced to ethnography by one of her postgraduate research
tutors, Martyn Hammersley. His qualitative research module opened her eyes to a whole
new world of opportunities for doing research in a way that resonated with her as her pre-
ferred way to better understand lived experiences and world views. Her focus is to research
‘with’, rather than ‘on’. She is intrigued by approaches to ethnography research that go against
the grain in academia and challenge our assumptions of what may/may not be considered
‘valid’ and ‘rigorous’ and what ‘counts’ as data. For Jo, her multiple selves as a mother of two
sons, immigrant, ethnic minority (Chinese) living in England, pacifist, egalitarian, Buddhist,
educator, writer, qualified coach, former aid worker and survivor of three life-threatening
experiences are woven together to shape who she is today. These multiple selves have also
influenced her role as a researcher/ethnographer and compassionate approach to conducting
research. When she’s not researching or thinking about research, she is coaching senior leaders
in public sector organisations (leadership and career development) or cycling, walking, playing
tennis, gardening, playing board games, puzzling, reading and watching films with her family.
Joanne’s three favourite ethnographies are: Whyte, William F. (1981) Street Corner Society.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press; Powdermaker, Hortense. (1966) Stranger and Friend:The
Way of an Anthropologist. New York: W.W. Norton and Company and Salzinger, Leslie. (2002)
Manufacturing Sexual Subjects: ‘Harassment’, Desire and Discipline on a Maquiladora Shop
Floor. In S. Taylor (Ed) Ethnographic Research: A Reader. London: Sage.
newgenprepdf
xvi
xvi Contributors
Cecilia Vindrola-Padros is a medical anthropologist interested in applied health research and

the development of rapid approaches to research. She works across five interdisciplinary teams,
applying anthropological theories and methods to study and improve healthcare delivery in
the UK and abroad. She has written extensively on the use of rapid qualitative research and
currently co-directs the Rapid Research Evaluation and Appraisal Lab (RREAL) with Dr
Ginger Johnson. Cecilia works as a senior research fellow in the Department of Targeted
Intervention, UCL and as a social scientist at the NIAA Health Services Research Centre
(HSRC), Royal College of Anaesthetists (RCoA). Cecilia’s three favourite ethnographies
are: Scheper-Hughes, Nancy. (1992). Death without weeping:The violence of everyday life in Brazil.
Univ of California Press; Bluebond-Langner, Myra. (1978) The private worlds of dying chil-
dren. Princeton University Press and Farmer, Paul. (1992). AIDS and Accusation: Haiti and the
Geography of Blame. University of California Press.
Sarah-Louise Weller is associate head of the Department for Postgraduate HRM programmes
at UWE, Bristol. She still can’t quite believe how doing an immersed ethnography completely
changed her career path and brought her into academia after 20 years of working in the banking
industry, as well as for the Royal Navy and the National Health Service. Her research interests
include identities, identity work, narratives, masculinities and performativity. By her own
admission, Sarah-Louise is slightly obsessed with ethnographic research and can’t resist going
native when the opportunity presents itself. Fieldwork with search and rescue volunteers in
the UK and the Philippines has only strengthened her own commitment to volunteering and
helping others in times of need. In her spare time, Sarah-Louise adores being with her family
and young grandson,Teddy. She dreams of one day owning a smallholding in West Wales, with
space for donkeys and alpacas, and time for daily walks along the beach. Sarah-Louise’s three
favourite ethnographies are: Lois, Jennifer. (2003). Heroic Efforts:The Emotional Culture of Search
and Rescue Volunteers. NYU Press; Vincett, Joanne. (2018) Researcher self-care in organiza-
tional ethnography: lessons from overcoming compassion fatigue. Journal of Organizational
Ethnography, 7(1) pp. 44–58 and Wacquant, Loïc. (2005). Carnal connections: On embodiment,
apprenticeship, and membership. Qualitative Sociology, 28(4), pp.445-474.
1
1
UTLINING A PRACTICAL, EMOTIONAL
O
AND REFLEXIVE APPROACH
TO ORGANIZATIONAL ETHNOGRAPHY
Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland and Hugo Gaggiotti
First and foremost we want this book to be a practical guide.We want to show readers the real
experiences of ethnographers conducting this type of research, particularly as a vast majority
of contemporary texts centred on ethnographic work still present it as much “cleaner” than
our experiences would suggest. Elements such as gaining access, gathering data, or exiting
the field are spoken about as straightforward once-and-for-all events, and it is rare to read
of the complexities and dilemmas behind building relationships within communities. Rarer
still are insights into feelings of vulnerability and anxiety from ethnographers, which at best
obscures an important discussion, and at worst creates the image of ethnographers being all-
knowing connoisseurs in the field; and emotionally grounded “ideal-type” individuals. This,
for newcomers and experienced fieldworkers alike, is problematic and provides the counter-
point for this book.
We hope to give a raw insight into doing ethnography, but we do not give any objective
answers or claim to have solved the illusive mysteries of ethnographic work. We instead offer
a rare glimpse behind the curtain. What are the stories that ethnographers do not tell about
their process? What about their experiences that were written “out” of their official articles,
books and thesis in favour of a cleaner narrative? What is their advice for those embarking into
the field for the first time? What about the tales that we fear would expose us as imposters?
Did they have specific strategies or did they simply make it up as they went along? How did
they cope with the inherent uncertainty of fieldwork? These are the conversations that we
have found ourselves having in recent years that have really got to the heart of the experience
of doing ethnographic work. Interestingly, whilst there has been a long history of ethnog-
raphy within the social sciences, particularly anthropology and sociology, the same appetite
for this method has not been as strong in Organization Studies (Cunliffe, 2010). Indeed,
many Organization Studies PhD programmes do not cover ethnography in the curriculum.
We believe that because of this lack of exposure to this approach, some have shied away from
ethnography or have felt they needed to conform to (some) institutional views that more
“objective” methodological approaches are more rigorous, valid and thus superior. But we
have been lucky to have been exposed to forums, research groups, conferences and networks
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-1
2
2 Jenna Pandeli et al.
that champion ethnographic approaches and celebrate the emotional, experiential, subjective
and reflexive practices that go hand-in-hand with ethnography.
In reading the chapters in this book we hope to provide you with the following:
• An honest look into what it is like to do ethnographic work, written from a range of
colleagues, from early career researchers to seasoned ethnographers
• Informal, conversational and friendly writing that guides you through the internal issues
that contemporary ethnographers have contended with
• An understanding into the unfolding, messy and chaotic ethnographic process, rather than
just the sanitized outcome of the research project
• Advice on how to approach tricky situations –from covert research to difficult
conversations to keeping level-headed and analytical in the heat of the field
• Reassurance that as long as you are paying due consideration to your approach, you are
probably not doing it “wrong”, and that a plurality of appropriate approaches exist
In this introductory chapter we set about outlining the core philosophy of this book, par-
ticularly focussing on the several key intersectional points that are weaved throughout each
chapter. First, we discuss the importance of providing practical, real-life insight into under-
taking ethnography, and moving beyond only theoretical understandings. Second, we intro-
duce the concept of reflexivity and its central role in ethnography, as well as placing emphasis
on the centrality of emotions. Finally, using examples from our chapters, we show how ethical
questions are inherent in ethnography, and look to the future and what could be done in cre-
ating brave spaces to discuss our experiences of ethnography. Let us start on our adventure.
First stop? Defining that elusive term.
Defining ethnography
In writing this introduction, we always knew that we would be forced to undertake the
unenviable task of “defining” ethnographic work. Ask any ethnographer to tell you what
they do, and you will have a different answer. During our many editorial meetings, where
the task was to discuss our esteemed colleagues’ projects, we found ourselves exploring the
similar and contrasting ways each author framed and understood the concept of ethnography.
Interestingly, the main consistency came from the idea that ethnography is inherently plural-
istic, and in this book you will not read about a “one best way”; no magic recipe; no bureau-
cratic steps to follow; no tick-list to complete. Instead, you will hear about a variety of different
styles and forms that are inherently influenced by the context surrounding the project, by the
community, by the researcher and by the overall aims. The joy of ethnographic work comes
from the idiosyncratic and hyper-specific approaches that individuals have taken, but despite
this delightful mixture, there is nevertheless still some value in us attempting to put our fingers
on the similarities that underpin these approaches.
Let us start with some words that summarize the Greatest Hits of ethnography definitions –
of it being understood as the “study of social interactions, behaviours and perceptions that
occur within groups, teams and organisational communities” (Reeves et al., 2008: 512).Whilst
this doesn’t quite capture the grit and peculiarity that you will be presented with in this book,
it at least gives us a starting point in helping us understand that the task of ethnography is to
longitudinally investigate some aspects of the lives of people within a particular community,
3
Organizational ethnography 3
regarding how they think, act, understand themselves and understand the world (Atkinson and
Hammersley, 2007). To do this, ethnographers act as cartographers in creating interpretations
and descriptions of human experience within that community –studying events, language,
ritual, institutions, behaviours, artefacts and interactions. Cunliffe underscores the importance
of context, culture, temporality and meaning-making here by noting:
It differs from other approaches to research in that it requires immersion and translation.
Ethnography is not a quick dip into a research site using surveys and interviews, but an
extended period time in which the ethnographer immerses herself in the community
she is studying: interacting with community members, observing, building relationships,
and participating in community life.
(Cunliffe, 2010: 230)
Anthropologists, who are credited for the creation of ethnography as an indissoluble from par-
ticipant observation, point towards its etymological root (ἔθνος (ethnos), meaning “people”,
“nations”, “group of people”, and -graphy, meaning “writing”). Possibly the contemporary
anthropologist who most reflected on ethnography as a writing practice has been Clifford
Geertz, who asked and answered himself: “What’s does the ethnographer do?…. […] writes”
(Geertz, 1974: 19). The analogy to considering ethnography as a literary genre, such as the
novel or poetry, could be used to suggest that there is no single way of doing ethnography, just
as there is no single way of writing poems or novels.
In fact, classical anthropological research has always recognized the production of two
outputs: first, the ethnographies themselves, that is, the writings, testimonies, observations
and all kinds of material produced in the field, classified or displayed as the ethnographer
wants; second, the analysis of this material, based on the reflections of the ethnographer. The
researcher becomes an ethnographer when he/she is in the field, and the literature on organ-
izational ethnography emphasizes that what is experienced in the field must be translated into
a coherent text. We quote in extension here to illustrate the point:
The primary and most complex feature of ethnographic writing is to translate ethno-
graphic material (field notes and supplementary data) into an ethnographic text. In order
to achieve this translation, ethnographers usually carry out a form of indexing. First,
ethnographers need to organize their material into a coherent form. This might involve
going through their field diaries of observations to make sure they make senses, tran-
scribing interviews (if they have carried out interviews) and organizing any documents
they have collected so that they make sense (that is, the ethnographer understands where
they came from and what organizational role they played).
(Neyland, 2008: 126)
As we can see from these early points, we cannot define ethnography as a data collection method
(as it is often confused for/as), but rather ethnography is itself the methodology; conceived of
as an approach; a way of imagining the social; our relationship with others practices and the
way we inquire about it (Gaggiotti et al., 2017), but also the artefact that we produce when
experiencing the field. The most common “method” within ethnographic work would be
participant observation, which involves “being there” in organizations, hanging out in order
to “observe, to ask seemingly stupid yet insightful questions, and to write down what is seen
4
and heard” (Fetterman, 2010: 9). Throughout this, ethnographers “attempt to understand
phenomena through accessing the meanings participants assign to them” (Orlikowski and
Baroudi, 1991: 98–99). All in all, the intention of participant observation is to get a much
richer picture than other approaches might allow for, and throughout this book you will read
about the varied experiences of the authors and their encounters, observations, triumphs and
challenges when engaged in participant observation settings.
Through this move towards the ethnographic methodology, we see an epistemological and
ontological shift. In the case of the former, researchers eschew the search for “objectivity”
and instead “practice a reflexive way of knowing the world [they] inhabit in relation to […]
others” (Hussey, 2002: 45). Emphasis is placed on relativism and subjectivity, where know-
ledge (from participants and researchers) is understood as socially organized and constructed,
and as a product of specific social, cultural and political environments (Doucet and Mauthner,
2004). Regarding the ontological shift, rather than understanding reality through abstract,
generalized and universalistic explanations, researchers instead turn to the “concrete, sensuous
world of peoples’ actual practices and activities” (Hussey, 2002: 634) and attempt to understand
these specific experiences. In this book, we do not intend to show how ethnography creates
generalizable, valid, or “true” knowledge; instead, we embrace the subjectivity. We appreciate
Gherardi’s (2018) thoughtful insight into ethnographic research that she describes as “affective
ethnography” – ethnography that is performative in style and relies on the researcher’s cap-
acity to affect and be affected in order to produce interpretations that may transform the things
that they interpret. This understanding of ethnography moves beyond only understanding
what it is that people do but acknowledges a vast array of experiences in the field of both the
researcher and the researched.This approach stresses that elements such as texts, actors, materi-
alities, language and agencies are already entangled in complex ways and that they should be
read in their intra-actions, through one another, as data in motion/data that move.
Whilst not wishing to enter the murky realm of generating our own quick two-sen-
tence definition, this section has helped to clarify some of the key elements of ethnographic
work as you will read about in this book: it being an approach rather than a method, as a
way of doing and writing, focused on understanding people, and as something that is inher-
ently subjective that the ethnographer is inexorably weaved within. Putting the magnifying
glass on this final point is important, because what you will discover in this book are tales
from several ethnographers about their experiences of doing ethnographic work –how they
planned their projects, how they experienced fieldwork and how they approached the task
of leaving, writing up and discussing their discoveries. Whilst there are a plurality of different
voices, perspectives and experiences on display, there are a number of intersectional discus-
sion points that are raised throughout which are essential for our contemporary framing and
understanding of ethnographic projects, and will offer you an opportunity to reflect on your
own experience. In the remainder of this chapter we will outline some key discussion points
that will regularly be returned to throughout the chapters.
Discussion points
What can I do with this advice in this book? How will it help me
prepare for an ethnographic project?
Above all, this book functions as a practical guide. However, it is not the typical compendium
of recipes and steps you need to follow to conduct a “proper” ethnography. In our experiences
5
of preparing for the field we found that whilst other ethnographic texts offered us consider-
able knowledge and pointers, there was a lack of real, lived and honest experiences from the
writers –almost like the grit, imperfections and nuances had been written out or forgotten.
It made “doing” an ethnographic project sound like a relatively straightforward and linear
process, whereas the reality felt quite different: feeling our way along, navigating through the
dark and making often unidentifiable steps. What we all wished for was a guide that would
make the tacit explicit, and seek to offer actionable, operationalizable and practical guidance
for those dealing with fieldwork.Throughout this book you will hear from many authors who
align with Browne’s take that:
Despite the relatively uncomfortable aspect of exposing one’s personal limitations,

I maintain that making visible the invisible processes of fieldwork would undoubtedly
assist inexperienced fieldworkers, especially those who are hoping to collect data in
places considered unstable or insecure.
(2013: 424)
Indeed, fieldworkers always benefit greatly from learning from other people’s triumphs and
mistakes, and may feel better equipped and empowered to deal with the challenges they may
personally encounter. You will not read sanitized approaches to doing fieldwork, but instead
hear about the more intuitive, chaotic, messy and inductive perspectives. The ethnography
encourages the investigation of unforeseen findings as they arise, allowing the researcher to
adapt the research and its aims to what develops in the field. For example, according to
Atkinson and Hammersely (2007: 3), “It is expected that the initial interests and questions that
motivated the research will be refined and perhaps even transformed, over the course of the
research”. Thus, an insight into the non-linear will prepare the reader for the messiness that
they are likely to experience.
If you are reading this, the likelihood is that you have been, or soon will be, in the field and
trying to not only make sense of the phenomena that you are researching, but also about your
own place within the research. Whilst the stories that you hear from the authors will tell you
of very particular and idiosyncratic settings (from prisons to hotels to mountain rescues), the
insight that you will gain is how these ethnographers have made sense of their situation and
worked with uncertainty in their projects. In creating a practical guide then, one of our key
aims when initially approaching authors was to ask for an open and honest account where
they were front and centre, to really accentuate the experience of what it feels like to do an
ethnography. That is, we have asked for reflexive accounts…
What part does reflexivity have in an ethnographic project?

What part does the researcher play?
The necessity for reflexive practice is magnified in areas of research that require self-scrutiny
and the careful theorizing of claims made (Howe, 2009), hence its importance within ethnog-
raphy. In simple terms, reflexivity involves considering “the way in which research is carried
out and understanding how the process of doing research shapes its outcomes” (Hardy et al.,
2001: 533) but it can often be more complicated than this. For Bourdieu, a truly reflexive soci-
ology must make transparent how ethnographers produce “truth” claims and facts (Foley, 2002;
Townsend and Cushion, 2021), highlighting the social and intellectual conditions that shape
6
research practice. Throughout this book, you will read about the central place of the ethnog-
rapher in an ethnographic project. Primarily this is because, like all researchers, ethnographers
bring their “intellectual baggage” with them into the field, in that they are “making sense
and completing their research with their own community traditions, assumptions, language
and expectations in mind. Their research accounts are therefore influenced as much by these
traditions as by the ‘data’ from ‘natives’ ” (Cunliffe, 2010: 78). Therefore, an ethnographic
approach means that, for better or worse, the outcomes will be shaped by the ethnographer.
With this in mind, this text therefore moves away from seeking out “realist tales” (considered
to be dispassionate and “factual” accounts that minimize the presence of the researcher), and
instead moves towards “confessional tales” where the ethnographer is written “in” as intim-
ately present, reflecting on their role in the research process. Liebling (1999) argues that the
researcher is vitally important to the research end result, and that their experiences should
be situated inside the research findings and analysis. Rather than seeing this as something to
be decried, we argue that researchers should not be afraid of “contaminating” the data with
subjective interpretations as it is the subjectivity of the interactions that makes this approach
stand out from other techniques:
The researcher’s lived experiences, including her or his situated emotions and feelings,
are the central methodological tools available to ethnographers. This should be
acknowledged and used to the fullest both while in the field and when writing up the
research afterward.
(Ugelvik, 2014: 476)
Reflexive methodologies have gained increasing attention in previous years (Duncan, 2001;
Park-Fuller, 2000), and have been praised for “opening up new ways of writing about social life”
(Reed-Danahay, 1997: 2–3); bestowing a certain legitimacy to findings (Spry, 2001); breaking
down the boundaries between academic and non-academic spheres (Connelly and Clandinin,
1994); and encouraging the researcher to open up reflective lines of thought, impacting on
analyses of personal experience, as well as what others go through in their day-to-day lives
(Ellis and Bochner, 2000). Furthermore, Hibbert and Cunliffe (2013: 8) suggest that reflexive
accounts allow us to “engage[e]‌with the world around us and recognis[e] that feelings of dis-
comfort and anxiety can offer opportunities to open up actions and behaviours to reflexive
examination”. It is hoped that by writing ourselves into the world that we have investigated
and introducing our emotional and experiential accounts then ethnographic analysis can be
deepened. It is also important to explore our roles within the research environment so that we
can present problems, issues and advantages that can offer guidance to future ethnographers,
or help others to make sense of their experiences. This is most evident throughout this book
with the role that emotions play in the written text…
Should we read and write about the emotions of ethnographers?

Is that relevant?
Despite our interest in reflexivity and bringing “in” emotion to ethnographic work, critiques
of ethnographers becoming overly emotionally involved have a long history in methodo-
logical debates. Indeed, although recent years have seen an upturn in auto-ethnographic
and reflexive writing, some have rallied against the overwhelming presence of the researcher
7
within data, noting such reflexivity as “navel-gazing” (Maddison, 2006) and self-absorbed
narcissism (Anderson, 2006). Elsewhere, ethnographer’s confessions are belittled under the
tag-lines of “going native”; failing to abide by rigorous social scientific standards; resulting in
a potential distortion, dilution, or weakness of research findings (Punch, 2012). Consequently,
at risk of critique, we may self-censor our accounts in order to portray the image of not only
the all-knowing connoisseur in the field, but also the wholly emotionally grounded “ideal
type” ethnographer. Anxieties, concerns and fears of failure may be written out in favour of a
cleaner narrative.
Others argue that ethnographers should not only keep themselves “out” of their writing, but
also adopt a less emotionally invested approach whilst conducting fieldwork.Various theorists
note that we run the risk of getting too “close” and being “unable to see the wood from the
trees” (Nandhakumar and Jones, 2002: 334), and that perhaps “it is better to investigate a
setting where the researcher is not [emotionally invested]” as they inevitably “bring their own
preconceptions” and skew data (Bouma and Atkinson, 1995: 78). Similarly (although some-
what less pointedly) Kanuha (2000: 444) highlights that “for each of the ways that being an
[ethnographer] enhances the depth and breadth of understanding a population […], questions
about objectivity, reflexivity, and authenticity of a research project are raised because perhaps
one is too emotionally attached”.
Despite researchers often being expected to sideline their personal feelings and experiences
in the name of “objectivity” (Punch, 2012), we agree with those who call for a greater recog-
nition of emotions during the research process.We firmly argue that, far from making research
illegitimate and flawed, emotional reactions are a significant part of the process that should not
be “hidden” for fears of weakness and failure in academic spheres. More importantly,“ignoring
or hiding […] emotions” can “have a negative effect on the research and the researcher”
(Warden, 2013: 45). Nilan (2002) emphasizes that it is not only necessary to talk about our
experience of fieldwork, but also important to discuss the emotions that are generated, par-
ticularly feelings of assuming you have not managed the situation “correctly”. Already the
field is flooded with “how-to” texts that pay little to no attention to the mental and physical
well-being of researchers, but instead treat them as an abstract tool for data collection. In doing
so, there is a risk that ethnographers will enter the field under the assumption that it is (or
should be) a neutral and value-free environment, and not one that can be the source of much
emotional upheaval. Kleinman et al. (1993) argue that, just like any other occupational group,
fieldworkers learn how they are supposed to feel in and about their work.
Within the coming chapters you will find the theme of reflexivity and emotions weaved
throughout. Ilaria Boncori outlines the auto-ethnographic approach, whereby the researcher
places himself/herself at the centre of the research project –demanding a great deal of self-
reflection and critical analysis. In an exploration of her work as a compassionate advocate,
Joanne Vincett examines how we may come to understand our emotional ties in the field, and
methods for dealing with this. Elsewhere, chapters on field note writing from Neil Sutherland,
and rapid ethnography from Cecilia Vindrola-Padrous and Stephanie Kumpunen, note the
value of understanding the self in any ethnographic project. Finally, Christian Schmid and Paul
Eisewicht provide us with a “self-assessment guide” for understanding the emotional impact of
ethnographic work –asking the question: is ethnography right for you?
We will learn that researchers accepting the deeply emotional aspect of ethnographic work
does not happen overnight; in fact, this process can be a gruelling experience where we may
find ourselves worried that our emotions are not the “right” ones or that to have any emotions
8
or feeling during field work is “unprofessional”. Thus, the proposition that there are ways that
we “should” and “should not” feel only serves to exacerbate the difficulty of discussing our
emotions in the field. Therefore, although there may exist a general disdain for such personal
narratives and reflexivity, we position ourselves against this in the hope that more confessional
tales will help to raise awareness amongst ethnographers of the emotional consequences of
research and how important it is that reflexivity be included within the overall project. In
doing so, however, we also open the door for wider discussions around ethics and ethno-
graphic work –and the dilemmas, challenges and tricky situations that ethnographers may
find themselves emotionally grappling with. In acknowledging the deeply personal nature of
ethnographic work, questions around ethics are never too far behind…
Is ethnographic research inexplicably linked with ethical dilemmas?

Ethical regulation has been largely inspired by biomedical research which has meant that
when it comes to ethnographic research, the ethics process is most often not fit for purpose.
Atkinson (2009) explains that, given their nature, the social sciences are involved in ethical
review and approval more than any other field of research outside of biomedicine. Yet the
models and their implicit assumptions about the nature of research are themselves sociologic-
ally or anthropologically deficient, and they rarely apply in any satisfactory way to the con-
duct of ethnographic research. The strict, explicit procedures demanded by university ethics
committees do not work well with the fluid, emergent, people-focused nature of ethnography:
The nature of the research itself is so profoundly an emergent property of the processes
of data collection and research design, that are themselves emergent, unfolding processes,
that it becomes all but impossible to solicit consent to the research that is “informed”
in the sense of being predictable and explicable before the research itself is carried out
at all. If the outcomes of an ethnography were entirely predictable, then there would be
virtually no point in conducting the research at all.
(Atkinson, 2009: 21)
Any research that involves human participants raises alarm bells for reviewers on ethics panels;
therefore, it is unsurprising that ethnographic research is put under close scrutiny, given its
inherently people-centred approach.Whilst it might seem practical in some research scenarios
(when administering interviews or a questionnaire, for example) to obtain formal, written
participant consent, this is not always straightforward in ethnographic research. The cracks
begin to appear in terms of black and white ethical scenarios that we often learn about in
research methods training. As it will become clear within the chapters in this book, the eth-
ical dimension of the ethnographic practice is not limited to obtaining consent forms, com-
municating clearly the nature of the research or defining clearly how the data will be stored.
Most of the chapters suggest other dimensions that need to be taken into consideration when
discussing an ethical dimension that transcends the limits of the research itself.
Throughout each chapter within this book, each author, in some way or another, draws
attention to an ethical problem (or most likely problems) that arose as a result of their
ethnographic approach. Chloe Tarrabain tackles the issue of covert research and the moral
conundrums that the researcher faces with regard to secrecy and power. Miguel and Hugo
9
Gaggiotti raise issues related to the involvement of participants in the sense-making process of
data analysis. Jenna Pandeli and Rafael Alcadipani discuss the risk that the ethnographer takes
in the process of fieldwork. Bruna Alvarez, Estal Malgosa and Diana Marre draw our attention
to the ethical considerations needed when undertaking research on sensitive topics, particu-
larly with participants considered to be vulnerable. In separate chapters, both Sarah-Louise
Weller and Vanessa Monties pick up on our relationship with participants and the ethical
decision-making in managing these relationships in and out of the field. And ethics is even
discussed by Monika Kostera, Anna Modzelewska and Tomasz Ludwicki when considering
how supervisors and teachers can support their students to undertake ethnography. These are
just some brief examples of how prominent ethical considerations are throughout the ethno-
graphic process.The ethical dilemmas encountered in ethnography are multivarious and com-
plex and require thoughtful (sometimes in-the-moment) consideration. In bringing many of
these ethical dilemmas to light, we hope to engage in the debate regarding the purpose of eth-
ical approval procedures at our universities. Illustrating the experiences of researchers should
demonstrate the difficulty in our current systems. As Atkinson (2009) argues:
We are in danger of allowing the quite proper concerns for research ethics in general
to transform the entire research process into a formulaic one, such that there are only
a very limited number of permissible research designs, determined not by their gen-
eral epistemology, nor by their validity, but by their capacity to yield simple research
protocols that can be checked against a set of simple (but often inappropriate) criteria.
Anticipatory audit is the tail that wags the research dog.
(Atkinson, 2009: 24)
We hope that making visible the complex decision-making involved in the ethnographic
studies within each chapter will demonstrate the need to create procedures that accommodate
and support this. The process of ethnographic education is needed amongst our university
ethics colleagues and committees, emphasising issues such as access are processual and dialogic
and this spirit needs to extend to the ethics committees themselves to ensure that the models
that are created and developed are no longer “wholesale” and inadequate (Atkinson, 2009).
These are difficult discussions to have, and are grateful to the authors for their honesty and
transparency, which highlights the importance of having an appropriate “safe” space to discuss
such difficult conversations…
How can we create spaces to discuss these tensions?

Within our emotional and practical focus it has been our intention to encourage the creation
of spaces for ethnographers to discuss their own complexities around emotion, immersion,
risk and ethical dilemmas. This book itself functions as one such space for the discussion
of the realities of ethnographic research: an encouragement to embrace uncertainty and
question the rigidity often found in other methodologies. In considering the type of spaces
we want to encourage for discussing ethnographic experiences, we initially felt the need to
articulate “safe” spaces. A “safe” space refers to an environment which we create that allow
us to engage with others over controversial issues with honesty, sensitivity and respect (Arao
& Clemens, 2013). In our search for safe spaces, we are looking to open up areas to allow
10
us to be “fully human”, to provide freedom to be ourselves, “to speak and be heard, to learn
and develop cognitively, to be emotionally expressive” and invoke safety in terms of cogni-
tive freedom or “intellectual safety” typified by dialogue and debate (Lewis et al., 2015: 7).
Through doing this, individuals can experience cognitive and emotional freedom that enables
exploration of our potential as human beings. It has the potential to provide us with freedom
to speak and to debate in a supportive, yet challenging environment that is often in marked
contrast to mainstream spaces which can at times be destructive or simply overlook these types
of conversations, views and ideas.
However, upon reading the work of Arao and Clemens (2013) our understanding of “safe
spaces” has shifted slightly. The word safe is defined as being free from harm or risk and per-
haps it seems naïve that we might explore emotion-heavy, creative and affective styles of
ethnography with no controversy, contradiction, or risk. As such, “safe” spaces may lure us
into a false sense of security that our discussions will be filled with rainbows, sunshine with
no critique and debate. Instead, as Arao and Clemens (2013: 141–142) suggest, we will move
towards talking about “Brave Spaces”: “by revising our framework to emphasize the need for
courage rather than the illusion of safety, we better position ourselves… to more accurately
reflect the nature of genuine dialogue regarding these challenging and controversial topics”.
Thus, we hope that this book itself is considered a brave space that will encourage others to
feel not just safer but braver to discuss the backstage processes of ethnographic research. We
hope that this might then also become a catapult for building further, tangible brave spaces
for ethnographers.
We can begin by building brave spaces amongst our friends and colleagues informally –
developing an unofficial community with those individuals that we meet along the way during
our research journeys, who share our attitudes towards ethnographic research. We are blessed
with a kind, burgeoning and agile ethnographic community –full of individuals wanting to
share, converse and help others –and you only have to look at the increasing number of ethno-
graphic streams and conferences to find this, with other opportunities awaiting within our
places of work, in online communities, and creating our own debates within research papers,
chapters, books, videos and blogs to encourage the creation of a “new normal”, where a deep,
honest and transparent look at this complicated methodological approach is appreciated.
A final note
We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we have enjoyed editing it. As with so many
projects, it began as a seemingly innocuous chat about our experiences of doing ethnographic
work, and then blossomed into the text you are currently holding. We are so grateful to all of
the authors for their time, patience and writing skills, but most of all we are grateful for their
honesty. Each chapter is full of personal anecdotes, real-life reflections and rich stories. None
of the chapters present an image of being an “ideal-type” ethnographer, but instead bring you
backstage to understand the questions that they asked themselves, the ethical debates they
encountered, the playful and experimental approaches, and the practical steps that they took.
So, whoever you are –a seasoned pro; somebody taking their first tentative steps “into” the
field, or just with a passing interest –we hope that through this book you will find something
interesting, useful, funny and insightful. As you will see, these chapters represent the start of
discussions, and we are excited to hear them continue.
11
References
Anderson, Leon. (2006).‘Analytic Autoethnography’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4): 373–395.
Arao, Brian, and Clemens, Kristi. (2013). ‘From Safe Spaces to Brace Spaces: A New Way to Frame
Dialogue around Diversity and Social Justice’. Available online: https://tlss.uottawa.ca/site/perspect
ive-autochtone/1d-_From-Safe-Spaces-to-Brave-Spaces.pdf.
Atkinson, Paul. (2009). ‘Ethics and Ethnography’, Journal of the Academy of Social Sciences, 4(1): 17–30.
Atkinson, Paul, and Hammersley, Martyn. (2007) Ethnography: Principles in Practice. London: Routledge.
Bouma, Gary. and Atkinson, G. (1995) ‘A Handbook of social science research’ Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Browne, Brendan. (2013). ‘Recording the Personal: The Benefits in Maintaining Research Diaries
for Documenting the Emotional and Practical Challenges of Fieldwork in Unfamiliar Settings’,
International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 12: 420–435.
Connelly, F. and Clandinin, D. (1994). ‘Personal Experience Methods’. In: Denzin, N. and Lincoln, Y.
(Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research. London: Sage, pp. 413–427.
Cunliffe, Ann. (2010). ‘Retelling Tales of the Field: In Search of Organisational Ethnography 20 Years on’,
Organisational Research Methods, 13(2): 224–259.
Doucet, Andrea, and Mauthner, Natasha. (2004). ‘Reflexive Accounts and Accounts of Reflexivity in
Qualitative Data Analysis’, Sociology, 37(3): 413–431.
Duncan, Margot. (2001). ‘Autoethnography: Critical Appreciation of an Emerging Art’, International
Journal of Qualitative Methods, 3(4): 2–14.
Ellis, Carolyn, and Bochner, Art. (2000) ‘Autoethnography, Personal Narrative, Reflexivity’, In: Denzin,
N. and Lincoln,Y. (Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, pp. 733–768.
Fetterman, David. (2010). Ethnography: Step-by-Step Guide. Los Angeles, CA: Sage.
Foley, Douglas. (2002). ‘Critical Ethnography: The Reflexive Turn’, International Journal of Qualitative
Studies in Education, 15(4): 469–490.
Gaggiotti, Hugo, Kostera, Monika, and Krzyworzeka, Pawel. (2017).‘More Than a Method? Organisational
Ethnography as a Way of Imagining the Social’, Culture and Organization, 23(5), 325–340.
Geertz, Clifford. (1974). ‘From the Native’s Point of View: On the Nature of Anthropological
Understanding’, Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 28(1): 26–45.
Gherardi, Silvia. (2018). ‘Theorising Affective Ethnography for Organisation Studies’, Organisation,
26(6): 741–760.
Hardy, Cynthia, Phillips, Nelson, and Clegg, Stewart. (2001).‘Reflexivity in Organisation and Management
Theory: A Study of the Production of the Research Subject’, Human Relations, 4(5): 531–560.
Hibbert, Paul, and Cunliffe, Ann. (2013). ‘Responsible Management: Engaging Moral Reflexive Practice
through Threshold Concepts’, Journal of Business Ethics, 127: 177–188.
Hussey, Roger. (2002) ‘Business Research: A Practical Guide for Undergraduate and Postgraduate
Students’ New York, NY: Palgrave.
Howe, David. (2009) ‘Reflexive Ethnography, Impairment and the Pub’, Leisure Studies, 4: 489–496.
Kanuha, Valli. (2000). ‘Being Native versus ‘Going Native’: Conducting Social Work Research as an
Insider’, Social Work, 45(5): 439–447.
Kleinman, Sherryl, Copp, Martha, and Henderson, Karla. (1993). ‘Qualitatively Different: Teaching
Fieldwork to Graduate Students’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 25: 469–499.
Lewis, Ruth, Sharp, Elizabeth, Remnant, Jenni, and Redpath, Rhiannon. (2015).‘Safe Spaces: Experiences
of Feminist Women-Only Space’, Sociological Research Online, 20(4): 9–16.
Liebling, Alison. (1999). ‘Doing Research in Prison: Breaking the Silence’, Theoretical Criminology,
3(2): 147–173.
Maddison, D. Soyini. (2006). ‘The Dialogic Performative in Critical Ethnography’, Text and Performance
Quarterly, 26(4): 320–324.
Nandhakumar, Joe, and Jones, Matthew. (2002). ‘Development Gain? Participant Observation in
Interpretive Management Information Systems Research’, Qualitative Research, 2(3): 323–341.
12
Neyland, Daniel. (2008). Organisational Ethnography. London: Sage.

Nilan, Pamela. (2002). ‘Dangerous Fieldwork Re- examined: The Question of Researcher Subject
Position’, Qualitative Research, 2(3): 363–386.
Orlikowski,Wanda,and Baroudi,Jack.(1991).‘Studying InformationTechnology in Organisations:Research
Approaches and Assumptions’, Information Systems Research, 2(1): 1–28.
Park-Fuller, Linda. (2000). ‘Performing Absence: The Staged Personal Narrative as Testimony’, Text and
Performance Quarterly, 20: 20–42.
Punch, Samantha. (2012). ‘Hidden Struggles of Fieldwork: Exploring the Role and Use of Field Diaries’,
Emotion, Space and Society, 5: 86–93.
Reed-Danahay, Deborah. (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the Self and the Social. Oxford: Berg.
Reeves, Scott, Kuper, Ayelet, and Hodges, Brian. (2008). ‘Qualitative Research Methodologies:
Ethnography’, BMJ, 337–360.
Spry, Tami. (2001) ‘Performing Autoethnography: An embodied Methodological Praxis’ Qualitative
Inquiry, 7(6): 706–732.
Townsend, Robert and Cushion, Christopher. (2021). ‘Put that in Your Fucking Research’: Reflexivity,
Ethnography and Disability Sport Coaching’, Qualitative Research, 21(2): 251–267.
Ugelvik,Thomas. (2014).‘Prison Ethnography as Lived Experience: Notes from the Diaries of a Beginner
Let Loose in Oslo Prison’, Qualitative Enquiry, 20(4): 471–480.
Warden, Tara. (2013). ‘Feet of Clay: Confronting Emotional Challenges in Ethnographic Experience’,
Journal of Organisational Ethnography, 2(2): 150–172.
13
PART I
Emotions, ethnography, and

fieldwork
14
15
2
HECK YOURSELF BEFORE YOU WRECK
C
YOURSELF! ARE YOU CUT OUT FOR
ETHNOGRAPHIC FIELDWORK?
Christian Johann Schmid and Paul Eisewicht
Little did we know! This thought comes to our minds when we think back to the moment
when we both started working with ethnography over a decade ago. And little could we
know! Ethnography in practice is, indeed, a lot messier than ethnography in theory (Plows,
2018). With this contribution1, we hope to invite our readership to reflect on the many intri-
cacies that are specific to fieldwork –as exemplified by our studies on outlaw motorcycle
clubs (OMCs; Schmid, 2021) and the illegal graffiti writing scene (Eisewicht, 2020a).You may
question the applicability of insights drawn from such ethnographies “at the edge” (Ferrell
and Hamm, 1998) for a book on organizational ethnography. First, we are interested in the
social organization of deviants or deviance (Schmid, 2006, 2012). Second, our more extreme
experiences are particularly revealing for issues in fieldwork per se.
As social scientists, we have come to strongly believe in ethnography as the empirical
study of meaningful human interaction or social practices. There is hardly any way around
the methodology of ethnography to experience “what it’s really like to be” and to understand
“what’s really going on” in any field of investigation. However, we are also convinced that
(1) ethnography is not for every kind of social researcher and (2) not every ethnographer is
well suited for every kind of ethnography. These two caveats to the practice of ethnography
are widely ignored in the scholarly literature, academic training, and supervision (Schmid,
2021). Our colleagues do a great job of teaching their methodology with great conviction
but they often fall short of telling you about the inadequacies and risks involved in applying
their research approaches to your studies. They may hint at critique or shortcomings but they
will eventually remain passionately biased in their work, which they want to be read, learned,
applied, and cited.
Ignorance may also be bliss in fieldwork. Novice ethnographers in particular are likely
to fall into the fallacy of fatalistically diving into muddy waters head first and they often
unabashedly keep on muddling through it – against all odds. We are also guilty of such a
beginner’s naivety and, with blowbacks and bruises, we somehow succeeded to reap the aca-
demic profits. But what if you fail to overcome the adversities that often jeopardize successful
fieldwork? Our advice is, “do not expect anyone in academia to get you out of your misery
once things go wrong with your research, your academic career, or your personal well-being”.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-3
16
16 Christian J. Schmid and Paul Eisewicht
Failed or heavily compromised fieldwork is the story less told. Hence, the title of our article
and our main concern as fellow ethnographers –check yourself before you wreck yourself!
With this chapter, we cordially invite you to a self-assessment for ethnography. We want
you to question and reassure yourself about your (next) research project. This will only work
when you take your time, curb your research enthusiasm, and allow yourself to reflect on this
key question: Do you (still) think that you qualify for your (next) ethnography?
We will commence as follows. In the first section, we will discuss “ethnography in theory”
versus “ethnography in practice”. This leads us to Section 2, where we will introduce a genre
of ethnography that asks for deep immersion. Our aim is to direct your attention to the prac-
tical implications that are specific to variants of existential field research. In Section 3, the
consequences of doing ethnography in this style will be clustered around the ethnographer as
the academic, the fieldworker, and the (private) citizen.Throughout this chapter, we offer con-
fessional anecdotes and speak on some of the practical challenges that we have experienced.
After having put you through all these deterrents of engaging in ethnography, in Section 4 we
will release you with some encouraging thoughts in favour of just doing it anyway.
2.1 Ethnographic research: easier said than practically done!

Let us not beat around the bush: ethnography is the most erratic, and the least coherent or
methodified, approach of social research. For a long time, ethnography was just done somehow
(Whyte, 1993: 287). Half a century ago, the ethnologist Gerald D. Berreman (1972: XVII)
labelled it as a “conspiracy of silence”: between ethnographers who held their craft secret.
Since then, the situation seems to have changed. Today, the impression is that there is more
methodological talk about doing ethnography than is actually being done.2 Try doing a quick
literature or web search and you will rapidly be overwhelmed by a plethora of references to
books, articles, blogs, guidelines, and tutorials on ethnographic research. Nevertheless, besides
all this noise, there are still many obscurities, lies, and taboos in ethnography (Fine, 1993). We
still suspect significant (self-)unawareness, (self-)censorship, or (self-)deception when it comes
to disclosing how the fieldwork was actually conducted. Other than informal backstage talk,
we are seldom provided with unrestricted information and strong reflexivity on the side of the
ethnographers. The “new transparency” of doing fieldwork still knows its limits for epistemo-
logical reasons, and also for professional and personal considerations. Besides a few traitors or
informants, the omertà in ethnography –as once attested by Berreman –is still intact.
We do feel a great deal of sympathy for beginners in ethnography, who are nonetheless
expected to put in the heavy work and face the challenge of becoming familiar with the
“carnivalesque variety of approaches” to ethnography (Coffey et al., 1996: 1; Eisewicht and
Kirschner, 2015: 685–660). They must plough through the theoretical, the methodological,
and the ethical hoopla of ever-contentious debates in the literature –often with hardly any
practical benefit for their own ethnographic endeavours.Why are we so cynical here? Because
there is no review of the literature and no academic training that can sufficiently prepare you
for the lived chaos of situated fieldwork. Do not allow yourself to get fooled or confused by
all that has been written or presented: ethnography remains a rather methodless method of
social inquiry (Ploder and Hamann, 2021: 4–7; Schmid, 2021: 34–36).You must embrace this
fact or consider resorting to more standardized and coherent research methodologies instead.
Eventually, the practice(s) of ethnography must be acquired practically. To cite John van
Maanen (2011a: 219): “one becomes the ethnographer by doing it”. However, some aspects of
17
Check yourself before you wreck yourself 17
doing ethnography are still excluded from or neglected in methodological reflections (Ploder
and Hamann, 2021: 4–5). Those who are covered in textbooks and teaching must still be
translated into practice. The shared fieldwork experiences, the methodological instructions,
ethical guidelines, collegial advice, and best practices are all either too vague or too specific.
For example, what can be transferred from reading about the conduct of qualitative research
on US street gangs, police paramilitary units, or Albanian Mafiosi (Ferrell and Hamm, 1998;
von Lampe, 2008) to a study on German outlaw bikers or graffiti writers? Let us put it this
way: there is no ethnography like any other, there is no ethnographer just like any other, and
there are no situations in fieldwork like any others. From reading, we may learn a lot about
how it could or should be done, as well as the many problems involved in ethnography. Then
again, we rarely find applicable solutions that can instruct us on how to navigate through our
very own fieldwork.
Not every strategically promising fieldwork role can be dramaturgically performed at your
free will without risking misrepresentations in “face-work” or “cultural fatigue” (Goffman,
1967: 5–45; Jones, 1973). A “wrong face” may either prevent you from entering the field, get
you constrained in your participation and observation, or get you banned from the field for
good. There are hardly any chances of rehearsing “methodological impression management”
(Gengler and Ezzell, 2017). More often than not, we must improvise on the spot. The spon-
taneous stagings of the “ethnographic self ” (Coffey, 1999) in the field are, however, always
enabled and/or constrained by the culturally inscribed dispositions of our habitus and our
bodily characteristics (Schmid, 2021: 41–47). You cannot just play ethnography! Or, can you
imagine yourself successfully bonding with outlaw bikers, illegal graffiti writers, or top man-
agement executives in various contexts over prolonged periods of time to conduct fieldwork
in fruitful ways?
In general, the adequate choice of methodology has to be determined by the research
interest, theoretical preferences, the feasibility of the research design, the access options to data
sources, or the type of extant data available. In ethnography, the researcher is the main research
instrument (Coffey, 1999; Lipson, 1991). We understand that statistics are not everyone’s cup
of tea, but they can be taught and learnt. Interviewing is more of an art, but once again it can
be acquired and improved considerably through academic training. There are some methods
in social research whose application is less contingent on the researcher’s social dispositions,
social skills, or corporeality. For ethnography, the ethnographers themselves must be assessed
for their fitness with the method and the field of research.This is the reason why ethnography
is so socially discriminating in regard of the researcher and this is also why ethnography must
be taken personally. A long-term immersion in deviant or criminogenic settings may not be
suited to an anxious personality. For the immersive study of elites in investment banking or the
high fashion industry, a researcher with a lower working-class habitus is probably not your best
choice (Harrington, 2016: 139).Without the capacity to achieve and continuously renegotiate
good rapport with the people in the field, the gathering of data either fails or it remains on a
perfunctory level. In talking about success or failure in fieldwork, we think of access to data.
At best, this consists of preferably unfiltered conversations with all of the participants in the
field, full access to documents, and unrestricted possibilities for long-term participation and
observation at any events of interest (Schmid, 2021: 36).
There is some knowledge to be gained by keeping a relational distance to the people
studied or by observing from the periphery of the field (Horowitz, 1986). However, our own
ambition is to sneak into the backstage regions of the field. These are oftentimes neatly cut
18
off from the front stage and guarded from intruders to segregate the attending audience into
insiders and outsiders (Goffman, 1959: 106–140). We certainly do recognize the ethnographic
insight gained via the cultural transgression of otherness or strangeness (Fine and Hallett,
2014). But what about the critical access barriers premeditated by a significant sociocultural
misfit between the researchers and their field of research? Social scientists are (arguably!) better
equipped for the self-reflection and, thus, the malleability of their social agency (Hilgers,
2009) –but they too cannot and should not deny it completely (Bourdieu, 2003). We always
bring our culturally inscribed “habitus” (Wacquant, 2016), our social interests and passions
with us into the field, which shape our fieldwork interactions in advantageous or disadvan-
tageous ways in regard of the informational yield of our studies. When evenly matched with
the field, the researcher’s socialization and symbolic body can become a beneficial resource for
their fieldwork (Collins and Gallinat, 2010; Schmid, 2021: 42–47; 52).
However, researchers can tend to get deceived about their positioning by the sheer fact that
they are allowed any access to the field and the welcoming façade of courteously behaving
people. Please do not fool yourselves! Just being granted the presence to be there does not
equal being fully accepted and being allowed unrestricted access to “where the [real] action
is” (Goffman, 1967: 149–270). Your colleagues in academia –who are not familiar with the
research setting and its people –may give you a free pass but the people in the field may not
and may instead expose you: “Real recognize real!” Our advice is to please check yourself
before the field wrecks yourself.
To continue with our elaborations on the possible wreckage that can come your way when
conducting an ethnography, we need to first introduce you to the disciplinary heritage that
informs our highly committed approach to fieldwork.
2.2 Deep immersion: under the influence of pioneering

engagements in ethnography
The most distinctive feature of classical ethnography is the researcher’s close proximity to the
people in their natural settings. Welcome to the close combat division of social research! The
ethnographer’s involvement with the field –either as the participating observer, but even more
so as the “observant participator” (Honer and Hitzler, 2015: 552–554) –is methodologic-
ally, ethically, professionally, and personally challenging. The argument is that distinct research
programmes demand different degrees of involvement (Bryman, 2012: 440–447) and, thus,
cause different levels of adversity. Ethnography generally gets more complex, complicated,
and consequential when ethnographers devote themselves more existentially and long-term
to their fields.
The history of ethnography features many pioneering (Adler and Adler, 1998) and con-
temporary versions (Wacquant, 2005) of immersive or enmeshed ethnography. We can best
relate to two precursors to our ideal of conducting fieldwork, which were first formulated
in the 1990s without knowing of each other. The first is Anne Honer’s “life- world-
analytical ethnography” (Eisewicht and Kirschner, 2015; Hitzler and Eisewicht, 2016; Honer,
1993; Honer and Hitzler, 2015), which is in the theoretical tradition of Alfred Schütz’ mun-
dane phenomenology of the social world.The second is Jeff Ferrell’s agenda of “criminological
verstehen” (Ferrell, 1997), which is in the tradition of Max Weber’s interpretive theory of social
action. Although these approaches are informed by different theorizing and research interests,
they both argue for similar research strategies –an “existential” (Honer) or “radical” (Ferrell)
19
engagement of the ethnographer in the immediacy of where the action is. The exploitation
of the researcher’s own carnality, perception, and vulnerability are the means for the ends of
first-hand experiential accounts of the phenomena being studied.
2.2.1 A.k.a. “life-world-analytical ethnography”

Influenced by the writings of Thomas Luckmann and Alfred Schütz, as well as the supervision
of Benita Luckmann, the German social scientist Anne Honer developed a methodology that
is now known as “life-world-analytical ethnography” (Honer and Hitzler, 2015). Her empir-
ical research covered the “small social life-worlds” of DIY enthusiasts, dementia caregivers, and
reproductive physicians.3 For her Master’s thesis Körper und Wissen [Body and Knowledge],
Honer (1983) participated in the craft of becoming a bodybuilder herself. The utilization of
her own sensuality and carnality allowed for unprecedented thick data on lived experience
from an insider’s view (Honer and Hitzler, 2015: 552).
Honer, who was later joined by her colleague Ronald Hitzler, built her methodology of a
phenomenology-based ethnography on the proto-sociological premise that any social reality
that is not understood as a “subjectively experienced world” (Honer and Hitzler, 2015: 546) is
nothing but a fiction. In line with Husserl’s and Schutz’s “egology”, the social construction of
subjectively experienced everyday life-worlds develops epistemologically from the nucleus
of the definition of the situation (Honer and Hitzler, 2015: 546–547). Our life-worlds are
always negotiated in the social realm of situations in which humans experience, appresent, or
(inter)act meaningfully in the co-presence of others (Goffman, 1967: 5–45) –this is where all
the action and its consequences get “real”!
The methodological relevance of the life- world concept lies in the request that
ethnographers must situationally devote themselves to the goal of achieving complete inte-
gration into the field or full membership –“as unconditional as possible” (Honer and Hitzler,
2015: 553). Ideally, and to the point that it is feasible, we are to do so with an attitude of “exist-
ential engagement” (Honer and Hitzler, 2015: 549–552). Successful fieldwork is accordingly
measured by the degree to which we become similar to the people that we study, and thus get
rewarded with an insider’s perspective and knowledge.
2.2.2 A.k.a. “criminological verstehen”

The US sociologist Jeff Ferrell caught our attention with his fieldwork for a study on the graf-
fiti writer underground at close range (Ferrell, 1997), which eventually landed him in court
for the destruction of private property. Together with Mark S. Hamm, Ferrell published the
edited volume Ethnography at the Edge (Ferrell and Hamm, 1998). This book features the con-
fessional tales and reflections of fellow ethnographers who all share the methodological stance
of radical immersion into deviant life-worlds, such as homeless housing communities, street
gangs, police paramilitary units, or rural marijuana subcultures.
Referencing Max Weber’s interpretive sociology of the emphatic understanding of social
action (verstehen), Ferrell argues for a researcher’s “subjective understanding of crime’s situ-
ational meanings and emotions—its moments of pleasure and pain, its emergent logic and
excitement—within the larger process of research” (Ferrell, 1997: 9).This can only be achieved
through attentiveness and participation, which requires the ethnographer to “situate them-
selves as close to the (inter)action as possible—perhaps even inside the interaction—if they are
20
to catch the constructed reality of crime” (Ferrell, 1997: 11). To conclude his methodologic-
ally strong programme of “criminological verstehen”, Ferrell makes the compelling case for
the admittedly risky affair of co-participating inside the immediacy of deviant or delinquent
activities as they evolve situationally.
2.2.3 A.k.a. “ethnographic gameness”

It has been a few years since we (the co-authors Christian Schmid and Paul Eisewicht) first
engaged in a lively conversation about fieldwork in a hotel room at the outset of an ethnog-
raphy conference. To be honest, we critiqued some colleagues for allegedly (!) not achieving
the degree of immersion that is necessary for them to know “what is really going on” in
their fields. We do understand that the fieldworker’s “credibility” as the immersed participant
observer –who implicitly or explicitly claims the “authority” to speak as a cultural insider
(Clifford, 1983) –is a sensitive and inherently troublesome issue in ethnography. Colleagues
will not easily reveal if their access strategies or negotiations of rapport did not work out as
planned.4 However, what is the surplus value of ethnographic fieldwork if we do not succeed
at getting the insider’s perspective, hidden knowledge, or first-hand experiences of “living the
life”? What is the aim of organizational ethnography if not “to penetrate the surface layers of
an organization [… and] being able to find out what an organization is ‘really’ like, as opposed
to how it formally depicts itself ” (Bryman, 2012: 446)?
In the course of this night’s debate, we heavily referred to Honer’s and Ferrell’s approach
to fieldwork. Eventually, we discussed the prerequisites that are necessary to fully immerse in
deviant, criminogenic, or otherwise culturally elitist settings –and so the concept of “ethno-
graphic gameness” (Schmid, 2021) was born. “Gameness” is a term that stems from the milieus
of early bare-knuckle boxing and dog fighting. Goffman (1967: 218–219) once defined it as
“to stick to a line of action and to continue to pour all effort into it regardless of setbacks,
pain, or fatigue […] not because of some brute insensitivity but because of inner will and
determination”. As exemplified by Christian’s confessional reflections on studying the outlaw
biker subculture, successful fieldwork requires an “extra-methodology” (Schmid, 2021: 34–
36) that is (1) rarely talked about in full disclosure and (2) can hardly be acquired through
academic training. This “practice surplus” (Ploder and Hamann, 2021: 4) inherent in ethno-
graphic research can be compensated with the “ethnographic gameness” (Schmid, 2021: 53)
that is imposed in the mind and the body of ethnographers who are accordingly socialized
for specific fields of inquiry (“game-bred”). Christian’s habitus formation in a dysfunctional
working-class family, his recreational interests (e.g., boxing and Pitbulls), and his personal his-
tory with outlaw bikers prior to research (Schmid, 2021: 38–41) proved to be highly beneficial
for his immersion into the outlaw biker milieu. His distinct sociocultural socialization also
contributed to a dedication to the field (“married to the game”) which fuelled his fatalistic
determination to not give in when confronted with adversity (Schmid, 2021: 48–52). The
question is: are you “game” enough for your ethnography?
2.2.4 There is no “playing it safe” in any ethnography

Although we all should be well aware of the epistemological issues of “over-rapport” or “going
native” (Bryman, 2012: 445; O’Reilly, 2009: 87–92), Paul and I are taking sides with the
21
advocates of the superior insight that only immersive or insider ethnographies can provide.
Our very own ethnographies “at the edge” have taught us that deep involvement with the
field and its people usually comes at a price that you do not have to pay with less immersive
approaches. However, the ostensibly harmless working life in the more conventional settings
of a reputable commercial or non-profit organization also has its “dark side” (Costas and Grey,
2018; Linstead et al., 2014;Vaughan, 1999). If you dig deep enough, it is not that uncommon to
witness workplace behaviours such as corruption, drug abuse, unsafe work practices, stealing,
bullying, destructive leadership, fraud, discrimination, exploitation, (sexual) harassment, or
straight up violence. In addition, the recent waves of political debates, new social movements,
and (social) media outrage about phenomena such as #METOO, whistleblowing, corporate
social responsibility, ethical leadership, micro-aggressions, institutional racism, workplace har-
assment, or gender inequality have affected organizational life and its discourses. They cause
a heightened awareness of the labelling and the stigmatization of hitherto widely ignored or
suppressed forms of organizational deviance.To conclude the argument –the difficulty of par-
ticipant organizational research increases to the degree that the social order of organizations
becomes ever-more negotiable, contested, or vulnerable to critique. Analogous to what Ferrell
(1997: 18) claimed for criminological research, organizational scholars must therefore also
anticipate the changing contours of law, enforcement, and public debate, which can all impact
the contours of research.
When getting intimate with the members of an organization, you will be exposed to
hitherto concealed knowledge, strategies, and practices deemed as confidential, illegal, illicit,
unethical, or unsafe. In bonding with informants and gatekeepers, you will be drawn into the
battlefield of feuding individuals, rivalling groups, or competing organizational subcultures.
Game ethnographers must be prepared for contamination by “dirty knowledge” and they
must accept that they will get “their hands dirty” somewhere in the process (Honer and
Hitzler, 2015: 552–554). If you manage to eventually stay squeaky clean, then you might
want to question your fieldwork efforts. By cognitively, conatively, and affectively (Wacquant,
2014: 8–9) subjecting yourself to the field and its habitués, ethnography will touch, seduce, or
test you –which will have minor, major, or dire consequences. Eventually, there is no “playing
it safe” in any ethnography!
2.3 The triangle chokehold of ethnography: confessional tales from

academia, the field, and private life
Ethnography has a greedy propensity to draw the researcher into a conflict-laden “triangle
chokehold” of scientific, field-specific, and private demands. The roles of the scientist, the
participant in the field, and the (private) citizen are interrelated with differing accentuations
in the process of research. Eventually, it is the ethnographer who always ends up being
strangled – You!
2.3.1 The scientist: let’s talk about … academic stigmatization!

As a scientist, the ethnographer must apply methodological rigor. However, as reiterated before,
ethnography lacks unified and precisely defined standards: you are the main research instru-
ment and you cannot hide behind “objective” methodology. Immersive fieldwork requests the
22
ethnographers to interact with the people or “peopling organizations” (Hallett et al., 2007).
This makes the ethnographer particularly vulnerable for criticism from inside or outside of
academia in regard to their research ethics or positionality.
Although there is a strong case to be made for not ignoring everyday (organizational) lives,
ethnographers are seldom interested in the obvious, the formal, the mundane, the innocent,
or the convenient. Instead, we are usually concerned with the demystification and critique
of authority relations, the hidden agendas and practices that draw us into slippery ground in
enmeshed fieldwork. If research touches on controversial issues, then the ethnographer risks
“courtesy stigma” (Goffman, 1963: 28–31). Just like any other discreditable or discredited
person, the ethnographer has to engage in “information control” or “tension management”
to prevent, cover up, or correct a “spoiled [academic] identity” (Goffman, 1963: 41–104). This
is why we must carefully weigh how confessional we are about our persona and involvement
with the field to avoid the negative consequences of stigmatization. Would you fully disclose
your troubled sociobiography (Schmid, 2021: 39–41) or publicly confess to drug abuse with
graffiti writers (Eisewicht, 2020b), even if it significantly helped you to build good rapport
with the people that you study? Ferrell and Hamm (1998: 4–9) discuss these issues as “dis-
ciplinary dangers” (1998: 4–9). It is perhaps not advised to be too open about your fieldwork
entanglements—at least, not before your reputation is well established and your job position
permanently secured in academia. And once acquired, a label such as the “buddy-researcher”
to outlaw bikers can be a sticky one (Schmid, 2021: 42–43, 51). The social sciences are argu-
ably much more orthodox than you may have come to believe –especially if you hang out
too often with rather heterodox ethnographers.
Alice Goffman’s immersion with the lives of young black men in the ghetto of West
Philadelphia prominently showed that even a highly insightful and best-selling study can
come at the cost of harsh ethical accusations or academic discrimination (Lewis-Kraus, 2016).
These allegations will often come from colleagues who have not walked your walk but who
nevertheless talk the superior talk from the security of their offices –it is always easier to scru-
tinize than do. When thinking of investigative fieldworkers, we are reminded of undercover
agents or liaison officers who are appreciated for their skills and their sacrifice to do the “dirty
work”. Then again, the mainstream shies away from openly associating or sympathizing with
such a clientele.
We also had rather unpleasant experiences within academia when presenting the concept
of “ethnographic gameness” and, thereby, allowing for an unvarnished insight into our field-
work activities. At a conference, we were confronted with heated critique from a powerful
senior colleague and his followers. Words such as “pretence”, “self-indulgent”, “coming of
age”, “full of testosterone” were thrown at us without addressing any of our methodological
reasoning. Later on, an email was sent which alluded to our scientific reputation and career
chances.You do not want to deal with the anxiety caused by that sort of academic blackballing
as an early career scientist! Edgy or existential fieldwork is prone to trigger (hard) feelings or
misunderstandings. The disclosure of intimate relationships in fieldwork runs the risk that the
ethnographer will be misidentified with the persons investigated. Practical accomplishments
in fieldwork may provoke critique over the lack of reflexivity or research ethics. This criti-
cism is hard to tolerate for the fieldworker who knows about their practical hardships, their
true intentions and ethics, or the sometimes-inevitable intricacies of co-participation (Ferrell
and Hamm, 1998; Schmid, 2021: 46–47). The courtesy stigma –which is attributed to those
who associate with and speak about (or for) stigmatized others (Goffman, 1963: 28–31) –can
23
marginalize you as a misfit within academia. This may cost you career opportunities or even
ruin scientific careers (Ferrell and Hamm, 1998: 8). Depending on the controversy surrounding
your research subject, you are advised to consider the potential adversity that it causes. Are
you ready to face such contestation or stigmatization within an academic milieu that is more
competitive, risk-averse, and unapologetic than ever before?
Further speaking of academic career advancement, successful ethnographies generate pro-
found research insights, and therefore allow for distinctive professional benefits. Then again,
they are probably not your best choice where high-impact journal publications are the most
efficient and effective means to accumulate scientific reputation. The process of breaking
down extensive observations of months or years into an article of just a few pages is challen-
ging in its own right.Writing up ethnographic research in book-length is no less troublesome
and is also very time-consuming (van Maanen, 2011b; Wolcott, 2009). This is when you wish
that you had chosen instead a better manageable interview study, a document analysis, or a
statistical analysis of some extant data set. The latter can arguably be conducted and published
with less workload, moral implications, or practical adversity. Extensive ethnographies often-
times require time spans that are not covered by a PhD tenure or third-party grants. For
example, Christian has never applied for research funding for his ethnographic work, which
started during his Master’s thesis in 2006. His ethnography was cross-financed by the salary
of his consecutive employment contracts as a higher education researcher. Establishing and
maintaining fieldwork relationships required the investment of considerable leisure time and
money for travel expenses or gifts.The same applies to Paul’s project on graffiti writers, which
dates back to a research grant from 2012 to 2014. Although his work has not been funded
since, he has continued with his fieldwork (off and on). Eventually, and we hate to say this,
long-term immersive ethnographies are not worth your research investments and risk-taking
if you expect to receive a pay-off that is measured in terms of making it in contemporary
academia5.
Just in case you should toy with the idea of a plan B career outside of academia, your
core competencies in ethnography may not be appreciated either. After completing his
PhD, Christian considered an alternative career pathway in higher education consulting.
Unsurprisingly, he was suspiciously interrogated about his involvement with the outlaw bikers
in his job interviews. What got him into the application procedures in the first place was his
survey-and interview-based research about managerialism in higher education institutions. As
an aspiring ethnographer, do you strategically reflect on how your past and present research
will predestine your professional future inside or outside academia? Especially for the case of
highly committed ethnographers, we have seen these academic career trajectories evolve from
initial enthusiasm, through disillusionment and to outright regret.
2.3.2 The fieldworker: Let’s talk about … academic (self) exploitation!

As a field participant, the ethnographer must build on and continuously negotiate the cooper-
ation of the people that they study. They need to be trusted in order to be granted privileged
co-participation in the life-worlds of their research subjects. Other than the classical interview
study, where we usually only meet the interviewee once in an office, any prolonged fieldwork
interactions –the doing of things together with people in their naturalistic settings –lead to
much deeper feelings of empathy or liability6. This is where research gets complicated beyond
any theoretical, methodological, or analytical issues.
24
First, you must show up in person and deal with the people’s judgments about you. Not
all social worlds will appreciate your status as a scholar or your naïve academic interestedness.
Oftentimes, gatekeepers must be tracked down and talked into cooperating. Many attempts at
brokering contacts will be friendly but declined or simply remain unanswered, while already
initiated contacts may get shut down again. In the worst cases, you will be told to not even
show up (again).
Take the example of an editorial in a German soccer-ultra’s fanzine (Grossmann, 2016:
4–5), which openly called out researchers as unwanted academic “parasites”. In another
example, when Christian reported on his Master’s thesis for the Bikers News magazine (Schmid,
2009), a cynical guest commentary was added. Sociological research on the outlaw biker sub-
culture was subtitled as the “next plague of mankind”. His findings were surprisingly ridiculed
as overall “meaningless work” or the “crude theses of a student”, which might only impress
his “clueless professor”.7 On occasion, Christian has repeatedly experienced that the outlaw
bikers would observe and treat him to his own discomfort. Although being on good terms
with most club members, there have been others in attendance who signalled that they do not
approve of his presence at their clubhouse (yet). They either just ignored him or they rebuked
him more aggressively over minor remarks or ritual violations, such as touching their sacred
motorcycle club colours/patches (Kuldova, 2019: 124–134) as a non-member.
Just imagine visiting an outlaw biker event –which is supposedly “open to the public” –
without a personal invitation or in the company of a reputable gatekeeper to introduce you.
At the very least, you may instantly have the alienating feeling of “all eyes falling on the
stranger”. Now try to mingle with the crowd and start a conversation with a group of bikers
who turn their backs on you. This is exactly the scenario that Christian once found him-
self in. He was then approached by an authoritative-looking, mean-mugging president who
rudely checked him about his persona, affiliation, and intentions: “Who [the fuck] are you?
Some [bastard] journalist or [undercover] cop?” In another example, when Paul met one of
his informants, he was threatened with a beating because of unknown personal relationship
issues with the person who helped Paul to initiate the contact. Because of this background
story, Paul’s approach was seen to be inappropriate and disrespectful. In situations like these,
you must be able to appease and win over the people in the field, who oftentimes do not see
much sense in being researched at all. In conflict-laden, culturally elitist, deviant, or crimino-
genic social settings, the chances are that they just will not like any outsiders nosing around
their territory. To enter fields without prior notice and agreement often feels like a “home
invasion” –you intrude on others’ privacy and, understandably so, you cannot expect a warm
welcome – “not everyone will like you” (cf. Pandeli and Alcadipani, Chapter 4).
Even if you have successfully established first contact via email or telephone calls, you must
enter the social arena of your research field and make a good impression at first sight, right on
the spot. Although less threatening or rude than face-to-face encounters with outlaw bikers,
the unmitigated immediate presence of others is always a tricky dramaturgy of interaction
(Goffman, 1967, 1959) –with all the misunderstandings and emotional disturbances attached
to it! The ethnographer is ideally very sensitive in the perception and treatment of others, but
on the same token they should not expect equal deference and demeanour.
Bikers are notorious at engaging people in strategic interactions (Goffman, 1969) that aim
to uncover false representations of personality, to ritually enforce their “sacred order” (Kuldova,
2019: 115–170), or to just symbolically flaunt their outlaw superiority to outsiders (Schmid,
2021: 11). Christian once joined a dozen club members who invited him to visit another
25
club chapter in a nearby town. After he showed up at the meeting point, he greeted all of the
incoming bikers with the obligatory biker handshake and hug. Unfortunately, he somehow
overlooked one of the club’s leaders and, thus, terribly failed outlaw biker protocol. After the
group finally arrived at the destination and the biker party got going, the officer approached
Christian’s gatekeeper with a complaint about his accomplice. This demanded Christian to
keep his ego in check and subordinately approach the bossy office-holding member to apolo-
gize for his ignorance. Before doing so, Christian had to wait some time standing in front of
the offended biker who demonstratively kept on chatting with a fellow club member. This
incident is typical of many situations, where the ethnographers must compromise self-regard
and “prostitute” themselves to safeguard their research activities. Looked at in hindsight, this
fieldwork episode was also revealing of the authority relations and the code of conduct in this
hyper-masculine, honour-based subculture.
Paul once turned up at a writer crew’s hangout where a gatekeeper introduced him to
the others as a friend who fancies graffiti. The clique sat together, listened to Hip Hop music,
smoked weed, shared their sketches, and conspired over illegal graffiti bombings. Before he
came by to return a debt of money to his gatekeeper, Paul had not eaten anything during
a long and stressful day at university. Both left the scene later on and parted ways in the
building’s hallway. After Paul said farewell to his gatekeeper, he suddenly became really dizzy
and sat down on the stairs. Eventually, he returned to the group to take another rest and ask for
some water. The clique made great fun of Paul, who had been bragging about his weed habit
earlier on. Although he felt embarrassed over this incident, this unplanned and trivial episode
helped Paul to bond with the other writers and gave him further insight into the crew’s illicit
practices.
Our argument is that an after-work event spent with managers or works council members
may be equally fruitful for the immersive study of conventional organizations. However, are
you okay with randomly putting yourself into erratic situations of this sort and then dealing
with the unpredictable consequences of doing so?
Let us now assume that good rapport is established with the habitués of the field –they
genuinely like and trust you. This is good for fieldwork but not necessarily so good for the
fieldworker. When roles shift from the outsider to the insider, from the academic stranger
to the comrade or friend, the business of ethnography is not just a business anymore. If the
boundaries between the researcher and the researched get blurred, then the ethnographer
may benefit from the unfiltered access to data. Then again, this is when fieldwork becomes
problematic in its own right. First, it can be hard to bear for the ethnographer to learn about
troublesome, painful, or illegal matters. Second, exclusive insider knowledge or co-partici-
pation can become a liability for the fieldworker as a confidant and, consequently, put them
at risk of complicity or make them a threat for the field. Third, with close proximity usually
comes a change in the quality of relationship to the extent that it can also transform from prior
sympathy to aversion. Fourth, the story to tell gets twisted and affords difficult decisions in
“headwork” and “textwork” (van Maanen, 2011a: 221–227). To illustrate these arguments, we
will exemplarily juxtapose the scenarios of (1) superficial versus (2) deeply-immersive field-
work for research on outlaw bikers.
(1) Superficial fieldwork: Imagine a fieldwork role that is limited to the “acceptable incompe-
tent” (Lofland and Lofland, 1995: 56–57) who is granted perfunctory, temporally limited, and
restricted access to members and events of an OMC. Fieldwork is done in compartmentalized
settings, such as the weekly clubhouse get-togethers. Nothing outrageous is going to happen
26
other than the consumption of alcohol or, maybe, a female performing a blowjob on one of
the members in the toilet. Informal talk is about the stigmatization of outlaw bikers, biker
folklore, politics, the economy, or other miscellaneous stuff such as stress at the workplace or
personal relationship issues. In a corner of the clubhouse, two club members are engaged in a
heated conversation but you cannot hear what they are discussing so animatedly. Eventually,
this ethnography will be about OMCs as a group of rugged, free-spirited men with an
inclination for brotherhood and a recreational passion for riding motorcycles.Your fieldwork
results in a portrayal of a bunch of social outcasts who are bound together by a collectively
shared agenda of regaining individual sovereignty (Kuldova, 2019: 61–114). There is nothing
wrong about this version of “biking and brotherhood” but there is arguably more to this
subject.
(2) Deeply-immersive fieldwork: In an intimate late-night moment during fieldwork, a very
likeable club member suddenly confesses to a former prison stint that he served because of
his ultra-violent conduct when he was part of a white supremacist group. In another talk at
the bar, a veteran member complains that the younger generation of fellow members have
failed to give him the proper respect for having “put in the work”. In so doing, he details
how he “spilled his blood” in past clashes with rival clubs. When spontaneously joining club
members in nightlife, you get trapped into witnessing a physical altercation between the
bikers and a drunken civilian who disrespects the outlaws.You get inside knowledge about the
relationship of one of the female club associates with a member. She turns out to be his
prostitute, who earns him extra-income as a part-time pimp. Somewhere in the process of
associating with the club, you will be warned that the police may have taken notice of you
hanging out with the brotherhood. You are given the order to immediately report back to
the club when approached by the law enforcement agencies. As the researcher gets more
involved and knowledgeable, not only do they become a threat for the field but the field can
also become a threat to the researcher. Although the process evolves slowly, things get out of
control instantaneously and you are “all in together” from then on. Regardless of your good
prior intentions and ethical precautions, you catch yourself spending days and nights reflecting
on your positionality in the field or on how to correct what went wrong—after the situation
is already messed up (Schmid, 2021: 46). Optioning out of your fieldwork without betraying
the affection and the trust of your contacts has also become a touchy issue.
The closer the ethnographer gets to the people, the more they may end up in the twisted
predicament of the academic “pimp” (Fleisher, 1998: 60–62) who exploits trusting fieldwork
relationships for research purposes or career advancement. If you want to avoid hurt(ing)
feelings and you wish to keep your consciousness free of any guilt, then stop sneaking into
other people’s lives! Do you really believe that you can practice ethically responsibly eth-
nography all the way? Maybe so when the research is about uncontroversial phenomena,
when fieldwork enmeshments remain perfunctory, or when the story being told is accordingly
whitewashed.
Thus, think about your personal history of interaction with ignorant, dismissive, self-
righteous, bossy, or overly sensitive, vulnerable, naïve, and trusting persons. Are you socially
skilled enough to effectively deal with troubled relationship issues or out-of-control situ-
ations? How persuasive can you be with people when you need to safeguard your fieldwork
relationships? Can you manage your divided allegiances between the people being studied and
academia, because affection, trust, disapproval, misunderstanding, or attempts at censorship will
emerge from both worlds? With immersive ethnography come great responsibility and many
27
ambivalences for all parties involved. Again, the more general point to be made is that not any
researcher personality is well suited for ethnography per se.
As also mentioned above, not every ethnographer is automatically well suited for every kind
of ethnography. For those who have had no prior real-world contact with the field and its
people: do your homework! Watch documentaries, do the reading, talk to as many experts as
possible (e.g., investigative journalists, associates, and academic colleagues). This will prepare
you for encounters with the social clientele in the field and prevent you from asking “stupid”
questions or implying naïve assumptions in the process of initiating first contacts. Naïve curi-
osity may trigger people into opening up and explaining themselves, but it can also (falsely)
be perceived as the ethnographer’s ignorance. For example, the depiction of graffiti as art can
bother the access to writer crews who only care about action and style: “Art or vandalism? If
I had a dollar for every time I heard this question referred to graffiti […], I’d be the leading
Apple stockholder by now” (Campos, 2010: 6). When brought up the wrong way, there are
many topics related to outlaw bikers –such as organized crime, club bans, helmet laws, the
German biker war, or biased media coverage –that also disqualify the researcher right from
the beginning. People will appreciate that you have done your prior research, which attests to
your genuine interest in their affairs.
Ethnographers must seriously cast themselves for their future fieldwork roles in regard
of extant knowledge about the field, and even more so as personalities or social identities
(Harrington, 2003: 620–621). Good friends, relatives, superiors, or colleagues can be a great
help in this regard, if they are not hesitant to confront you with critical input. Treat your
preparations for the field like putting yourself through an intense assessment centre to check
if you meet the requirements. It is always the researcher who must qualify for the field and its
people –and not vice versa. However, if the ethnographer culturally fits the social setting, then
they can make competent and empowering use of their agency in fieldwork (Gengler and
Ezzell, 2017; Schmid, 2021: 50). Remember that you are not required to pass as a native. Our
claim is rather about sociocultural affinities, which help to generate feelings of sympathy and
affection between the researcher and the researched via a kindred habitus or lifestyle, common
interests, or shared life experiences. This is when the ethnographer’s habitus functions not
only as a “method of inquiry” (Wacquant, 2014: 4–5) but also as an “extra-methodical tool for
inquiry” (Schmid, 2021: 50).
2.3.3 The ethnographer as a citizen: Let’s talk about … ethnography and

private affairs!
What happens in the field does not stay in the field! This holds true even after we have tem-
porarily left the research setting or finished our ethnography altogether (cf., Pandeli and
Alcadipani, Chapter 4).When we immerse in the wayward social lives as they naturally happen
out there, we are directly affected by them and we must deal with all of the ensuing issues. Prior
declarations of consent that set the parameters of the acceptable in fieldwork can help, but they
do not protect us from confronting emerging dilemmas during the process. Fieldwork remains
incalculable in its ethical consequences for the researched and for the researchers (Murphy and
Dingwall, 2007: 340–342).
As a citizen the ethnographer is obliged to abide by the laws of society. Unlike lawyers,
physicians, diplomats, spies, or crown witnesses, we still hold no legal privileges that protect
us and our correspondents in cases of legal prosecution (Leo, 1995). Rik Scarce (1994), for
28
example, was jailed for 159 days after refusing to share confidential research interviews with a
federal grand jury that investigated vandalism by an animal rights group. We may also get into
trouble when our cases are put before a university’s ethics commission or the “tribunals” of
scientific societies. The latter are more likely to condemn or distance themselves from us than
to protect or support us. The chances of getting involved in court hearings may be greater in
research of criminogenic settings8, but do not underestimate the hazards of fieldwork in sup-
posedly respectable organizations. Organizational ethnographies always carry the residual risk
of entanglement in internal investigations or legal proceedings over illicit workplace behaviours.
Yet, ourselves included, most ethnographers still skip their homework on legal frameworks rele-
vant to their fieldwork before getting wrecked in the process (Elliott and Fleetwood, 2017).
In the case of an ethnography on OMCs, you may be approached by police authorities or
journalists, whose inquiries and accusations can be denied or judicially settled. It is much more
difficult and discomforting to cope with outlaw bikers who pressure you to retain confidential
information.Whatever the circumstances, information that is (supposedly) gained in fieldwork
can suddenly become relevant for many other affairs than your research. This is where your
divided allegiances within the field, or between the field and academia, will definitely be put
to the test: whose conflicting party’s interests will you support now? Will you sacrifice your
hard-earned, best research findings to protect the personal or professional integrity with your
gatekeepers and informants?9
Again, there is no such thing as “playing it safe” with ethnography other than refraining
from doing it in the first place.Your ethnographic research will always personally affect you –
professionally but also as a private human being. It is not easy to cut your ties with the field
(Bryman, 2012: 445; Iversen, 2009). Fieldwork will leave its imprint on you. As a result of
doing research on OMCs for many years, Christian catches himself unconsciously checking
people and places for all kinds of codes, signs, and suspicious behaviour that is typical for
underworld clientele. Hanging out with outlaws contested Christian’s perspectives on many
issues, such as gender/masculinity, sense of security, civil courage, social stigmatization, or the
human potential for violence. When your research setting is in close geographical proximity
to your home and your fieldwork relationships become problematic, you will have to avoid
places and constantly be on the lookout to avoid unexpectedly crossing disgruntled research
participants or their adversaries. In the more extreme cases, research will affect your physical
health and mental sanity. We are aware of a colleague who had to stop fieldwork in a remote,
white supremacist community because of gruelling nightmares and severe psychosomatic
symptoms such as a hefty skin rash.
Many ethnographers choose topics or life-worlds with whom they are already familiar,
and therefore make use of private contacts to access the field.You may build your research on
personal interests or beliefs. However, you are well-advised to think twice about how your
research is connected to you personally because your studies may well jeopardize your private
life or your prior worldviews. Another colleague of ours did a Master’s thesis on the BDSM
subculture, which compromised her own sexuality for a long time afterwards.You may highly
value the work of a non-profit organization, interest group, or social movement and then end
up getting disillusioned about their true agendas or inner workings. There are many ways in
which an intrinsic personal conviction or passion can be extrinsically crowded out by aca-
demic research activities –are you willing to pay this price?
The more unprecedented, alienating, or disruptive the social encounters and experiences in
your fieldwork, the more likely they will affect your prior dispositions of perceiving, appreci-
ating, and (re)acting –in other words, your “habitus” (Wacquant, 2016: 66)! It is unreasonable
29
to expect anything else if you dedicate yourself to a social setting and its people for days,
months, or years on end.
2.4 A plea for ethnography as disinterested behaviour

There is far more to be told about what makes ethnography so miserable as a methodology,
but this is exactly why ethnography is the most insightful research approach to real life and its
real consequences. The people in the field are often either unwilling or incapable of verbal-
izing “what it’s like to be”. In a first conversation about his research project, a veteran outlaw
biker told Christian the following: “You won’t understand it [ever]. It’s a lifestyle. You must
live it, to understand it!” To get a feel for the empowerment provided by the membership in
an outlaw biker brotherhood, you must follow them to “where the action is”. Only then will
you experience the excitement and deference raised by a bunch of outlaws –all dressed up
like soldiers in full club regalia –“invading” a local service station or night club in paramilitary
fashion.You want to feel the terrifying thrill, when a pack of “apex predators” suddenly gang
up, get real tense, and put on their “war face” to confront some bypassers who are suspected
associates of a rival biker club.You may have to party excessively with the bikers to understand
the recreational value of the outlaw lifestyle for the club members. If you spend extended time
with the bikers or graffiti writers, you will also find out the exact contrary to the spectacle: the
wearing dullness and exhausting boredom of just hanging out with each other, endlessly, all
the while chatting about the most mundane and insignificant stuff imaginable.
Regardless of the exclusive insights only provided by ethnography, your research should
be driven by a personal intrinsic motivation to compensate for all the problems and sacrifices
mentioned before. Even though your research may disappoint you in regard of extrinsic cri-
teria such as making a career in academia, it will deliver in regard of worthwhile personal
experiences. Pierre Bourdieu coined the concept of “disinterestedness”, which is the social
libido that motivates, directs, guides, and orientates social agents devoid of utilitarian means-
end rationales (Bourdieu, 1998: 75–91). In short, it is not all about economic gains! He further
adds that: “Interest is to ‘be there,’ to participate, to admit that the game is worth playing and
that the stakes created in and through the fact of playing are worth pursuing; it is to rec-
ognize the game and to recognize its stakes” (Bourdieu, 1998: 77). However, the libidinous
effects of disinterested behaviour are only possible through the encounter between a habitus
predisposed to a specific disinterestedness and a social universe in which this disinterestedness
gets rewarded. Hence, if you choose your field of ethnography accordingly and you dare to be
passionate about it, then your fieldwork experience will be highly rewarding in itself and for
yourself. Anselm Strauss concluded his research legacy as follows: the hardships of fieldwork
eventually rewarded him with (1) the scholarly satisfaction and the human joys of getting in
touch with the people, (2) the privilege to reflect on his own passions and issues, and (3) they
also allowed for a practical relevance and accessibility of his insight for the people he studied
(Legewie and Schervier-Legewie, 2004). Adversity can be a great teacher and will provide
real-life experiences that can exceed higher education and scholarly activities. Ethnography
should always expand your sociological imagination and irritate your theorizing as an aca-
demic. Moreover, ethnography carries the potential to challenge and transform your extant
self-conception or worldviews as a social human being.
Within the neo-liberalized and risk-averse academia of today, we need your idiosyncratic
disinterestedness for research beyond conventional career paths, mainstreamed methodology,
or opportunistic research trends. Nothing has really changed since the pioneering days of
30
urban ethnography in the Chicago of the 1920s (Apter et al., 2009). It still takes a bunch of
ignorant academic misfits who are nothing but authentically and fatalistically interested in
co-experiencing what makes society and people tick. After you have thoroughly checked
yourself for ethnography, you are welcome to join our community in the infamous spirit of
Robert E. Park (Lee, 2017: 51) –go get the seat of your pants and your hands dirty in real(-
life) research!
Notes
1 Trigger warning: This article is intentionally essayistic in style, sometimes provocative or cynical; it
includes strong or colloquial statements and gives grossly oversimplified illustrations to effectively
communicate our agenda and reasoning.
2 We recommend the readers check if an author’s publications on the methodology of ethnography
are reasonably grounded in fieldwork experience. Much methodological writing builds on reviews
of ethnographies or rather unproblematic fieldwork, and accordingly does not reflect the first-hand
troubling experience of going through the motions by facing adversity.
3 Rarely published in English, the life-world-analytical approach has become popular in German-
speaking social sciences. In particular, it has been extensively applied in the ethnographic study of
(post-traditional) community-building (“ethnography of scenes”; Pfadenhauer, 2005).
4 Sometimes our suspicion was confirmed in informal talk with fellow ethnographers, who confessed
that they were denied further access to their research settings or that they never achieved the aspired
trust and rapport with the people they studied.
5 Note: Although rarely admitted bluntly, the methodology of ethnography is often delegitimized out-
side the circles of dedicated ethnographers.The criticism centres around a (1) concern about science,
(2) generalization, and (3) representation (Herbert, 2000: 558–563).
6 To gain trust means not only to follow your research agenda but also to take responsibility and pro-
tect the field in line with its own norms and rules. Before you join the action (e.g., to witness an
illegal train bombing), you had better make up your mind and consider if you are willing to go all
in or not.You may be asked to act as a spotter on the lookout, or you may have to run and hide, but
most importantly you must manage to not give off signs towards bystanders that something illegal is
happening. Ask for a tutorial on the Dos and Don’ts to protect your contacts and yourself, or politely
decline to participate.
7 Christian later contacted the editor-in-chief of this magazine –his first research sponsor (Schmid,
2021: 48) –to confront him about this sneaky move of inviting such a commentary. He was told to
calm down; the intention was to raise some controversy for the readership. This was an early lesson
learned about the sensationalist exploitation of research in the media.
8 The mere presence in particularly criminogenic settings may not result in a criminal offence (e.g.,
the encouragement of illicit behaviour), but it might advance to a legal liability that must be dealt
with as a witness when subpoenaed to attend trial or as a failure to report on criminal activity.
9 A warning note needs to be raised here: although you may conceal, anonymize, or destroy your
field notes and contact data, “electronic footprints” can nowadays still link you to people and events
(Elliott and Fleetwood, 2017: 2).
References
Adler, Patricia, and Adler Peter (1998).‘Foreword: Moving Back’. In: Ferrell Jeff and Hamm Mark S. (eds.),
Ethnography at the Edge: Crime, Deviance, and Field Research. Boston, MA: Northeastern University
Press, pp. xii–xvi.
Apter, David E., Gans Herbert J., Horowitz Ruth, et al. (2009). ‘The Chicago School and the Roots
of Urban Ethnography: An Intergenerational Conversation with Gerald D. Jaynes, David E. Apter,
31
Herbert J. Gans, William Kornblum, Ruth Horowitz, James F. Short, Jr, Gerald D. Suttles and Robert
E. Washington’. Ethnography 10(4): 375–396.
Berreman, Gerald D. (1972). Hindus of the Himalayas: Ethnography and Change. Berkeley, CA: University
of California Press.
Bourdieu, Pierre (1998). Practical Reason: On the Theory of Action. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.
Bourdieu, Pierre (2003). ‘Participant Objectivation’. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute
9(2): 281–294.
Bryman, Alan (2012). Social Research Methods. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Campos, Cristian (2010). 1.000 Ideas for Graffiti and Street Art: Murals,Tags, and More from Artists around the
World. Beverly, MA: Rockport Publishers.
Clifford, James (1983). ‘On Ethnographic Authority’. Representations (2): 118–146.
Coffey, Amanda (1999). The Ethnographic Self: Fieldwork and the Representation of Identity. London: Sage.
Coffey, Amanda, Holbrook, Beverley, and Atkinson, Paul (1996). ‘Qualitative Data Analysis: Technologies
and Representations’. Sociological Research Online 1(1): 1–12.
Collins, Peter, and Gallinat, Anselma (2010). The Ethnographic Self as Resource: An Introduction. New York,
NY: Berghahn Books.
Costas, Jana, and Grey, Chris (2018). ‘Violence and Organization Studies’. Organization Studies 40(10):
1573–1586.
Eisewicht, Paul (2020a). ‘Engagement, Passage und Typus. Beobachtende Teilnahme im illegalisierten
Feld des Hip- Hop- Graffiti’. In: Hitzler Ronald and Eisewicht, Paul (eds.), Lebensweltanalytische
Ethnographie: Weinheim und Basel: Beltz Juventa, pp. 101–125.
Eisewicht Paul (2020b).‘Verwicklungen. ZumVerhältnis von Situation(en) und Feld in einer Ethnographie
zur Graffiti-Szene’. In: Poferl Angelika, Schröer Norbert, Hitzler Ronald, Klemm Matthias and
Kreher Simone (eds.), Ethnographie der Situation: Erkundungen sinnhaft eingrenzbarer Feldgegebenheiten.
Essen, Ruhr: Oldib Verlag, pp. 271–283.
Eisewicht, Paul, and Kirschner, Heiko (2015).‘Giving in on the Field’. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography
44(5): 657–673.
Elliott, Tracey, and Fleetwood, Jennifer (2017). ‘Law for Ethnographers’. Methodological Innovations
10(1): 1–13.
Ferrell, Jeff (1997). ‘Criminological Verstehen: Inside the Immediacy of Crime’. Justice Quarterly
14(1): 3–23.
Ferrell, Jeff, and Hamm, Mark S. (eds.) (1998). Ethnography at the Edge: Crime, Deviance, and Field Research.
Boston, MA: Northeastern University Press.
Fine, Gary A. (1993).‘Ten lies of Ethnography: Moral Dilemmas of Field Research’. Journal of Contemporary
Ethnography 22(3): 267–294.
Fine, Gary A., and Hallett, Tim (2014). ‘Stranger and Stranger: Creating Theory through Ethnographic
Distance and Authority’. Journal of Organizational Ethnography 3(2): 188–203.
Fleisher, Mark S. (1998). ‘Ethnographers, Pimps, and the Company Store’. In: Ferrell Jeff and Hamm
Mark S (eds.), Ethnography at the Edge: Crime, Deviance, and Field Research. Boston, MA: Northeastern
University Press, pp. 45–64.
Gengler, Amanda M., and Ezzell, Matthew B. (2017). ‘Methodological Impression Management in
Ethnographic Research’. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 47(6): 807–833.
Goffman, Erving (1959). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Garden City, NY: Doubleday.
Goffman, Erving (1963). Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. Englewood Cliffs,
NJ: Prentice Hall.
Goffman, Erving (1967). Interaction Ritual. New York, NY: Doubleday.
Goffman, Erving (1969). Strategic Interaction. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press.
Grossmann, Peter (2016). ‘Fanforscher? Raus aus der Kurve’. Blickfang Ultra 40: 4–5.
Hallett, Tim, Shulman, David, and Fine, Gary A. (2007). ‘Peopling organizations: The promise of
classic symbolic interactionism for an inhabited institutionalism’. In: Adler, Paul S. (ed.), The Oxford
Handbook of Sociology and Organization Studies: Classical Foundations: Oxford: Oxford University Press,
pp. 486–509.
32
Harrington, Brooke (2003). ‘The Social Psychology of Access in Ethnographic Research’. Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography 32(5): 592–625.
Harrington, Brooke (2016). ‘Immersion Ethnography of Elites’. In: Elsbach Kimberly D. and Kramer
Roderick M. (eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Organizational Research: Innovative Pathways and Methods.
New York, NY: Routledge, pp. 134–142.
Herbert, Steve (2000). ‘For Ethnography’. Progress in Human Geography 24(4): 550–568.
Hilgers, Mathieu (2009). ‘Habitus, Freedom, and Reflexivity’. Theory & Psychology 19(6): 728–755.
Hitzler, Ronald, and Eisewicht, Paul (2016). Lebensweltanalytische Ethnographie: Im Anschluss an Anne
Honer. Weinheim, Basel: Beltz Juventa.
Honer, Anne (1983). Körper und Wissen: Die kleine Lebens-Welt des Bodybuilders. Master’s thesis, University
of Konstanz, Germany.
Honer, Anne (1993). Lebensweltliche Ethnographie. Wiesbaden: Deutscher Universitätsverlag.
Honer, Anne, and Hitzler, Ronald (2015). ‘Life-World-Analytical Ethnography: A Phenomenology-
Based Research Approach’. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 44(5): 544–562.
Horowitz, Ruth (1986). ‘Remaining an Outsider: Membership as a Threat to Research Rapport’. Journal
of Contemporary Ethnography 14(4): 409–430.
Iversen, Roberta R. (2009). ‘“Getting out” in Ethnography: A Seldom-Told Story’. Qualitative Social Work
8(1): 9–26.
Jones, Delmos J. (1973). ‘Culture Fatigue: The Results of Role-Playing in Anthropological Research’.
Anthropological Quarterly 46(1): 30–37.
Kuldova, Tereza (2019). How Outlaws Win Friends and Influence People. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave
MacMillan.
Lee, Raymond M. (2017).‘Beyond “Get the Seat ofYour Pants Dirty in Real Research”: Park on Methods’.
In: Kivisto, Peter (ed.), The Anthem Companion to Robert Park. London: Anthem Press, pp. 51–74.
Legewie, Heiner, and Schervier-Legewie, Babara (2004). ‘Anselm Strauss: Research Is Hard Work, It’s
Always a Bit Suffering: Therefore, on the Other Side Research Should be Fun’. Forum: Qualitative
Sozialforschung [Forum: Qualitative Social Research] 5(3) Art. 22.
Leo, Richard A. (1995). ‘Trial and Tribulations: Courts, Ethnography, and the Need for an Evidentiary
Privilege for Academic Researchers’. The American Sociologist 26(1): 113–134.
Lewis-Kraus, Gideon (2016). ‘The Trials of Alice Goffman’. The New York Times Magazine, 12 January.
Linstead, Stephen, Maréchal, Garance, and Griffin, Ricky W. (2014). ‘Theorizing and Researching the
Dark Side of Organization’. Organization Studies 35(2): 165–188.
Lipson, Juliene G. (1991). ‘The Use of Self in Ethnographic Research’. In: Morse Janice M. (ed.),
Qualitative Nursing Research: A Contemporary Dialogue. Newbury Park, CA: Sage, pp. 73–89.
Lofland, John, and Lofland, Lyn (1995). Analyzing Social Settings: A Guide to Qualitative Observation and
Analysis. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth.
Murphy, Elizabeth, and Dingwall, Robert (2007). ‘The Ethics of Ethnography’. In: Atkinson Paul,
Coffey Amanda, Delamont Sara, Lofland John and Lofland Lyn (eds.), Handbook of Ethnography.
London: Sage, pp. 339–351.
O’Reilly, Karen (2009). Key Concepts in Ethnography. London: Sage.
Pfadenhauer, Michaela (2005). ‘Ethnography of Scenes. Towards a Sociological Life-World Analysis of
(Post-Traditional) Community-Building’. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung [Forum: Qualitative Social
Research] 6(3).
Ploder, Andrea, and Hamann, Julian (2021). ‘Practices of Ethnographic Research: Introduction to the
Special Issue’. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 50(1): 3–10.
Plows, Alexandra (ed.) (2018). Messy Ethnographies in Action. Wilmington, DE:Vernon Press.
Scarce, Rik (1994). ‘(No) trial (but) Tribulations: When Courts and Ethnography Conflict’. Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography 23(2): 123–149.
Schmid, Christian J. (2006). Der Motorcycle Club:Vom Organisieren einer devianten Subkultur aus interpretativ-
soziologischer Organisationskulturperspektive. Qualifikationsarbeit in Organisationssoziologie. Master’s
thesis, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich (LMU), Germany.
Schmid, Christian J. (2009). ‘MC-Organisation’. Bikers News 30(322): 12–16.
33
Schmid, Christian J. (2012). ‘Rockerclubs. Eine post-traditionale Vergemeinschaftungsform unter den

Bedingungen der Organisationsgesellschaft’. In: Eisewicht, Paul, Grenz, Tilo, and Pfadenhauer,
Michaela (eds.), Techniken der Zugehörigkeit. Karlsruhe: KIT Scientific Publishing, pp. 213–237.
Schmid, Christian J. (2021). ‘Ethnographic Gameness: Theorizing Extra-Methodological Fieldwork
Practices in a Study of Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs’. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 50(1): 33–56.
van Maanen, John (2011a). ‘Ethnography as Work: Some Rules of Engagement’. Journal of Management
Studies 48(1): 218–234.
van Maanen, John (2011b). Tales of the Field: On Writing Ethnography. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Vaughan, Diane (1999). ‘The Dark Side of Organizations: Mistake, Misconduct, and Disaster’. Annual
Review of Sociology 25: 271–305.
von Lampe, Klaus (2008). ‘Introduction to the Special Issue on Interviewing ‘Organized Criminals’.
Trends in Organized Crime 11(1): 1–4.
Wacquant, Loïc (2005). ‘Carnal Connections: On Embodiment, Apprenticeship, and Membership’.
Qualitative Sociology 28(4): 445–474.
Wacquant, Loïc (2014). ‘Homines in Extremis: What Fighting Scholars Teach Us about Habitus’. Body
& Society 20(2): 3–17.
Wacquant, Loïc (2016). ‘A Concise Genealogy and Anatomy of Habitus’. The Sociological Review
64(1): 64–72.
Whyte, William F. (1993). ‘Revisiting “Street Corner Society” ’. Sociological Forum 8(2): 285–298.
Wolcott, Harry F. (2009). Writing Up Qualitative Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
34
3
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT? THE
CHALLENGES AND UNEXPECTED
CONSEQUENCES OF IMMERSED
ETHNOGRAPHY
Sarah-Louise Weller
‘In the void’ 11 January 2015: Confined space search and rescue exercise
I’m filled with dread but after some persuasion from the instructors, I lie flat on my
stomach, place my head to one side, and squeeze my way through a tiny ‘letterbox’
opening at the entrance of the ‘collapsed’ building. I find myself in a low narrow tunnel
and crawl carefully through a series of dog-leg turns and twists, sharp declines and
various obstacles that require the flexibility of a contortionist to negotiate. There is
a ‘casualty’ trapped somewhere up ahead so I must push on as quickly as I can. The
void is getting narrower and narrower until once again I’m fully prone and the only
way to make progress is by a commando style crawl, pushing my elbows and feet into
the ground in order to haul myself along. I wish I had taken off some of the layers of
clothing under my overalls, as I’m now hot and short of breath with the exertion of
making my way through the dark, airless passageway. The roof is now so low my head
cannot fit upright and I have to turn it onto one side and press my cheek into the
floor. My helmet torch is focused on the side wall so apart from a small circle of light,
the remainder of the tunnel is pitch black, and I can’t see what’s ahead. The darkness
unnerves and overwhelms me and my heart begins pounding erratically. This is my
worst fear, my complete claustrophobic nightmare. Arms outstretched in front of me in
the dark, I feel the way ahead is blocked by debris that is too heavy for me to push and
there’s no room to move it past me and out of the way. I’m stuck. I just want to get out.
Deep breath, need to keep the panic down, fight the tears. Perhaps one of the teams is
close by? I call out, hoping to hear a familiar voice, some reassurance that I’m not alone
in this tiny void. Silence. Panic gets the better of me and I’ve got to get out. No space to
turn around, the only way out is back the way I came. Still lying on my stomach, cheek
pressed against the cold ground, I frantically wriggle backwards through the maze of the
collapsed ‘building’ and towards daylight.
This chapter considers some of the practical, methodological and emotional challenges that
doing immersed ethnographic fieldwork can bring, and is based on my doctoral research
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-4
35
Too close for comfort? 35
which explored the subjectively construed identities of members of a third sector organiza-
tion. The case organization, QuakeRescue, is a voluntary humanitarian charity that provides
global emergency search and rescue (SAR) services in the event of earthquake and other
sudden onset natural disasters. For four years I observed and gathered wide angled ‘long shots’
of this organization, including more than two years of extreme ‘close ups’ during which
I participated fully in SAR training with the volunteers.This involved sleeping outdoors in sub-
zero temperatures, eating only military ration packs, and as the vignette above demonstrates,
pushing myself physically, emotionally and sometimes psychologically to the limit.
An initially inexperienced researcher, my primary concern had been about doing ‘proper’
research and becoming a competent and professional researcher and as such I was ‘engaged in
a dual quest for self-identity and empathy’ (Humphreys et al., 2003: 6). However, during the
fieldwork the question quickly became my own ‘who am I?’ as I grappled with self-doubts
about being an ‘imposter’ and my competency in the team of SAR volunteers, simultan-
eously belonging and yet not belonging to this group. Reflecting back now I can see how this
became an ongoing ‘struggle for credibility’ (Knights & Clarke, 2014) as I attempted to secure
myself both as a full-fledged researcher and a plausible SAR volunteer.
The literature warns that doing ethnography is not without its challenges, and for the
researcher ‘handling the delicate balance between self and other in the fieldwork’ can be
problematic (Humphreys et al., 2003, p. 5). The contribution of this chapter is to examine in-
depth the precarious nature of doing immersed ethnographic research, particularly of being
‘participant-as-observer’ (Sharpe, 1997) while trying to avoid the risk of ‘going native’ (Gold,
1958). Reflecting on the challenges faced in the field, I consider how I found myself ‘in the
void’ both emotionally and methodologically, feeling that I was too close for comfort and
needing to find a way to resurface.
Grounding my discussion in theories of identity work and emotion, I offer both an analysis
and discussion while sharing the agony of ‘reflecting’ (Harding et al., 2010) on the vulnerable
self (Boyle & Parry, 2007). The vignettes embedded in this chapter are important because
they not only provide a snapshot of my experiences with QuakeRescue, but also render
my own emotional and identity struggles visible, as well as the methodological challenges
and unexpected consequences of the immersed fieldwork. Their inclusion is an effort to
engage in an ‘explicitly reflexive’ dialogue with the reader (Humphreys, 2005, p. 852), rather
than as a means to claim better research (Pillow, 2003). In doing so, I provide a backstage
view, which is an open and honest account of the frequently untold challenges of being
in the field, and share the messiness of immersed ethnography. Far from being ‘glossy’, my
account demonstrates that immersed researchers are sometimes not as ‘precise, observant and
passive’ as we are often taught that good fieldworkers ought to be (Fine & Shulman, 2009,
pp. 177–179).
These discussions are not intended as a cautionary tale but rather have several overarching
aims. Firstly, to provide guidance and perhaps reassurance for researchers who are new to
immersed ethnography, so that they may have realistic expectations before entering the field,
and an awareness of the many ways that immersed ethnography uses our bodies and emotions
as well as our minds and technical skills (Sanday 1979). Next, to illustrate how fully immersed
fieldwork can impact the research study itself, not only in the data collection, but in the ana-
lysis and write-up. Finally, for experienced researchers, my accounts of being in the field may
strike a chord and perhaps serve as an invitation to extend the discussion about the trials and
tribulations, as well as the value of immersed ethnographic fieldwork.
36
36 Sarah-Louise Weller
The next section considers the nature of immersed ethnography and its importance to the
study of organizations, and also provides some context for the fieldwork. This is followed by
an analysis of some of the methodological challenges, emotion work, and identity struggles
that arose during the immersed fieldwork.The final section offers some reflections and advice
for new researchers.
Immersed ethnography
In its simplest form, ethnography typically involves ‘watching’, ‘listening’ and ‘asking questions’
for an ‘extended period of time’ (Hammersley & Atkinson 1995, p. 1) and effective fieldwork
is vital if the researcher is to convince their audience that they have ‘been there’ (Geertz,
1988, p. 12). By contrast, the objective of immersed ethnography is ‘… not only to see what
is happening in the research site, but also to feel it, bodily and emotionally’ (Harrington,
2015, p. 135; emphasis in original). Geertz argues, ‘I learn by going’ (1995, p. 133); however,
immersed ethnography necessitates the researcher to ‘learn by doing’, and not just to have ‘been
there’, but also metaphorically (and perhaps literally) to have ‘done that and got the t-shirt’.
This ‘enactive’ ethnography is based on ‘performing the phenomenon’ (Wacquant, 2015), by
‘living with and living like those who are studied’ (Van Maanen, 1988, p. 49) in order to build
rapport and enable ‘attunement’ in the setting. By doing so, the immersed ethnographer is
‘…capable of appreciating, understanding and translating the situated, creative, interpretive
and moral nature of the actual practices of organizing’ (Nicolini, 2009, p. 120), and gaining
embodied practical knowledge of both the visible and invisible elements of the research site
(Wacquant, 2015).
Immersed ethnography is important because it facilitates ‘…meaningful interpretations of
human experience’ from researchers ‘…who have thoroughly immersed themselves in the
phenomenon they wish to interpret and understand’ (Denzin, 1989, p. 28).When fieldworkers
are fully immersed in a research setting, the gap between themselves and participants is closed,
which enables them to gain an ‘embodied understanding’ and insights that are not possible
from other means (Crossley, 2007, p. 87). Immersed ethnography is able to capture the ‘invis-
ible, natural and taken-for-granted’ aspects of organisations, including the unspoken and
unconscious practices that can only be obtained through experience, rather than observation
and discourse (Harrington, 2015, p. 137).
In addition, the nature of immersed ethnographic research with its cyclical ‘panoramic
views’ and ‘microscopic focus’ (Fetterman, 1998, p. 37) contributes to ‘closing the chasm
between practice–driven theorising of what people do in their workplace and academic
theory-driven theorising about it’ (Yanow, 2006, p. 1745) and offers the potential of ‘…great
leaps forward that transform disciplines’ (Mears, 2013, p. 141). Nevertheless, there are warnings
in the literature that immersion can inadvertently lead to myopia and over-identification
(Ybema & Kamsteeg, 2009, p. 111) as well as the possibility of ‘going native’ (Gold, 1958).
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the researcher ‘who becomes immersed in other people’s realities is
never quite the same afterward’ (Sanday, 1979, p. 527).The ethnographer does not arrive at the
research site tabula rasa or without an identity, but together with ‘…disciplinary knowledge
and theoretical frameworks….we also bring a self which is, among other things, gendered,
sexual, occupational, generational –located in time and space’ (Coffey, 1999, p. 158).Therefore,
reflecting on the impact of the fieldwork on the construction, maintenance, tensions and
negotiations on identity, and the research itself, is a vital aspect of the ethnographic analysis and
37
writing process. In the literature, reflexivity is concerned with the researcher’s assumptions or
biases about the study itself, rather than the multiple, varied ways that the self may be affected
by the fieldwork. This privileges a discrete ‘researcher self ’ but ‘selves’ cannot be ‘separated’
out and are inextricably interwoven and as such necessitate a holistic approach to analysis and
reflection (Watson, 2009).
Furthermore, ethnographers have written of many potential challenges facing the immersed
fieldworker including ‘… the amount of nervous energy and emotional resilience to be able
to work for long hours in the field’ (Watson, 2011, p. 204) as well as issues of embodiment
(Frank, 1990), gender (Golde, 1970), relationships in the field (Cunliffe & Karunanayake,
2013) and the emotions of the researcher (Brannan, 2014). If, as Van Maanen (2011) suggests
‘…ethnographic sympathy and empathy comes from the experience of taking close to the
same shit others take day-in and day-out’, how does the fully immersed researcher ‘…come
to terms with the situational dictates and pressures put on, expressed, and presumably felt by
those studied?’ (p. 220).The next section explores some of these methodological, practical and
emotional challenges, as well as the unexpected consequences of doing immersed fieldwork.
Immersed ethnography in practice

This section highlights some of the challenges and unexpected consequences that total
immersion can bring, not only for the researcher but also for the research itself. These
discussions are important because ‘there is still perhaps the myth of the neutral, semi-detached,
“scientific” and “objective” ethnographer in operation, in theory, if not in practice’ (Coffey,
1999, p. 96). Although many authors warn of negative emotions and challenging aspects of
fieldwork (e.g. Hammersley & Atkinson, 1995; Lofland & Lofland, 2006), there is little focus
on the positive feelings or the fact that the entire process is a rollercoaster of highs and
lows. Furthermore, the emotions of the researcher and the research itself are ‘downplayed,
nor explored in sufficient depth and often ignored’ in the literature (Clarke et al., 2014, p. 3).
Similarly, how a researcher identity may be constructed, challenged or transformed during
the fieldwork process receives negligible attention (LeCompte et al., 1993), although some
scholars have acknowledged that there may be identity struggles and tensions (Cunliffe &
Karunanayake, 2013; Kondo 1990; Wengle, 2005).
As Hammersley and Atkinson (1995, p. 120) argue, ‘field researchers do not always leave
the field physically and emotionally unscathed, and they rarely leave unaffected by the experi-
ence’. The vignette at the beginning of this chapter demonstrates an occasion when the field-
work pushed me physically, emotionally and psychologically to the limit. On reflection, this
sense of suffocation was not limited to the physical or practical aspects of being in the field
but also an anxiety from a research perspective. Before entering the field I had not given much
thought to how the fieldwork might change and challenge my sense of self. My main concern
had been for the methodological and practical aspects of the research work itself; however, the
many enriching and challenging personal experiences brought an awareness to the fieldwork
that I would have not otherwise have considered (Corbetta, 2003). Indeed, I experienced
many private struggles as I worked on my ‘aspirational’ identities (Thornborrow & Brown,
2009) as a SAR volunteer and ‘real’ academic (Harding et al., 2010).
I had no previous connections to this group, to SAR work or volunteering and as such
was not translating a ‘home’ culture for an audience of ‘others’ (Reed-Danahay, 1997). Good
relations with key organizational members were established early on and rapport was built
38
with team members by observing and participating in a Support Member role. In doing so,
I got ‘to know them’ and ‘how things work’ (Watson, 2011, pp. 203–204). However, my pos-
ition of ‘stranger’ (Agar, 1986) was a temporary state that quickly transitioned after ‘selection
weekend’. Selection takes place every two years for prospective applicants and involves a series
of team and personal challenges, including abseiling, orienteering and extraction of casualties
from confined spaces, over 36 gruelling hours with little food or sleep. I was invited to partici-
pate in order to personally experience the selection process, for the benefit of my research. To
my surprise I was told that I had been assessed alongside the potential recruits and had ‘passed’
and was eligible to complete full International Response Team (IRT) training, that is, urban
SAR following natural disasters such as earthquakes.This was a significant ‘rite of passage’ after
which I was no longer identified by the group as a ‘participant as observer’ (Sharpe, 1997) but
instead a team member. I commenced the 18 month IRT training programme as a member
of the new cohort of trainees and for one weekend a month we completed a series of SAR
training exercises, shared meals and slept alongside each other and quite quickly my status, in
my estimation, changed to that of a ‘complete member’ (Adler & Adler, 1987).
Methodological challenges
With complete membership and total immersion came the methodological risk of over-
familiarity. Completing the SAR training in a team deliberately founded on closeness and a
‘culture of friendships’ (Costas, 2012), I quickly developed a genuine affection for many of
the team members and formed friendships outside of the research site. It became increasingly
difficult to criticize them, almost akin to a betrayal or letting the team down, and I refrained
from confronting some team members over what I perceived to be criticism of my limited
SAR knowledge and experience for fear of upsetting the status quo and potentially jeopard-
izing the research. Maintaining a critical distance also became increasingly difficult. In the void
I had felt confined and alone, but there were times as I attempted to complete the fieldwork
that I experienced a similar sensation of being stifled within this organization, and felt a need
(methodologically) to resurface. During a supervisory meeting, I felt a suspicion that I was
getting too close as I realized that I had shifted from describing the group as ‘they’ –to ‘we’ –
and when challenged by my supervisor I switched back again to ‘they’.
Another methodological challenge arose as I became more embedded in the organiza-
tion and began to juggle the simultaneous, often conflicting tasks of both researcher and
group member. To begin with, I had gone about my research work without too much dif-
ficulty, observing, note-taking and helping in a support capacity, but as my participation in
QuakeRescue increased I grappled with increasingly complex tensions between the research
setting and my fieldworker self. The vignette below describes another incident when I found
myself conflicted between group member and researcher:
Off the record’ 5 October 2014: Swift water rescue training

On the minibus on the journey back to HQ, I asked a trainee about the possibility of
interviewing him in the next few weeks and he began to speak movingly about how
selection weekend had been a turning point in his life and had a hugely positive effect
on his self-esteem and confidence. He had been ‘rock-bottom’ in the past and although
he’d been making progress had still been at a very low-point before joining. He told
me that being part of this team of ‘brilliant’ people meant so much and how he was
39
deeply touched by the smallest of gestures from the other volunteers. He broke down
several times and I wanted to lean across the minibus aisle to touch his arm in comfort.
It was surreal; he and I were quietly having this very intimate conversation whilst the
other trainees were oblivious, some laughing and chatting all around us, some fast asleep,
nobody noticing his tears. I was profoundly moved by his story and his emotion and
struck by the extent to which belonging to the team holds deep meaning and is trans-
formational for some of the trainees.
At the same time my researcher ‘self ’ had wished that I could write notes or record
the conversation, but not only was my recorder in my rucksack in the equipment van,
to do so would have been inappropriate and tactless. When I went to interview him 2
weeks later as arranged, he didn’t elaborate like he had ‘off the record’ on the minibus;
perhaps the tiredness from the weekend’s training activities had overwhelmed him at
the time.
In hindsight, this problem was exacerbated when the other volunteers began to treat me as a
team member and the research element of my involvement was almost forgotten. On several
occasions SAR instructors asked me when the research would be finished because they were
keen for me to recommence full participation on the training programme.
One conflict that I found particularly problematic was documenting action at the expense
of an ‘embodied phenomenological experience’ (Anderson, 2006). The fieldwork was phys-
ically exhausting due to the nature and structure of the training activities that took place one
weekend a month from 10 pm Friday through until midday Sunday, with just 4–6 hours sleep.
Full participation in the training resulted in a struggle to recall events in sufficient detail and
chronological order when I returned home, mainly caused by sleep deprivation. To overcome
this, I occasionally used the ‘down time’ between training exercises to compile scratch notes
rather than sleep, but the resulting exhaustion made further participation in the training, or the
writing of coherent field notes, incredibly difficult. Although among scholars there is some-
times a tendency to privilege the intellectualized over the embodied, my research was a ‘flesh
and blood’ experience; I sometimes found myself struggling to stay awake at the wheel on the
drive home, my head pounding from lack of sleep (Wacquant, 2015).
That said I was able to recover and maintain a sense of ‘reality’ as at the end of training
weekends, I could return home and resume my ‘normal’ life, to maintain contact with
supervisors and university colleagues.The physical effects of training weekends often continued
for several days afterwards, with severe bruising from crawling in partly demolished buildings,
aching muscles from carrying casualty-laden stretchers, and sleep deprivation. I also suffered
from night terrors in which I dreamt that I was trapped in a collapsed building, and would
awaken screaming and trembling in fear. I often experienced ambivalence during the many
months when I both dreaded the fieldwork, with its concomitant and intense ‘hangover’, but
was unwilling to miss an opportunity to collect data. The range of emotions I experienced
during the fieldwork are explored in the next section.
Emotion work
From a research perspective, I frequently felt frustrated at the lack of progress in completing
the interviews, and sometimes overwhelmed with the quantity of data, and trying to remain
focused on a few conceptual themes rather than ‘seeing’ a multitude of different ideas, as well
40
as struggling to convert my fieldwork experiences ‘into the conceptual language of (my)

scholarly discipline’ (Wacquant, 2005, p. 467). Although many of the volunteers were genu-
inely interested in the research and the study progress, there were a few occasional throwaway
remarks when I was told to ‘write that down in your research notes’ and ‘I’ve just summarised your
entire PhD in two sentences’ which left me dismayed at a lack of understanding and the belittling
of the research study. That said, I felt a great deal of satisfaction when I was able to identify
common themes and make conceptual connections during observations, as well as relief when
I had, finally, undertaken nearly 50 semi-structured interviews.
The emotions experienced as SAR volunteer were considerably more intense and unex-
pected, ranging across a spectrum of extreme highs and lows as well as a variety of feelings in
between. I felt elation and exhilaration when completing challenging training tasks; pride in
passing the selection process and in belonging to a team of inspirational individuals, as well as
admiration for the team members who deployed to the Nepal earthquake. On the negative
side, the SAR training exercises often filled me with dread and left me emotionally exhausted.
The vignette below describes one such exercise:
‘Over the edge’ 12 July 2015: Rescue from height exercise

This exercise involves an abseil from a four storey, 55ft high tower at a local fire station.
I’m extremely afraid of heights. The briefing beforehand does little to reduce my panic.
I begin the climb up but although the tower is completely enclosed, you can see through
the bars of the cage right down to the ground below. I feel slightly sick and experience
a sensation of vertigo in which the staircase is spinning and I feel that I’m about to fall.
My terror increases at every stage of the staircase, so that when I finally get to the storey
from which we will make our descent, my knuckles are a bloodless white from gripping
the railings so tightly. My team mate goes first, steps off the edge, leans backwards and
begins his descent, making it look so easy. My turn. Heart thumping, breathing rapidly
and hands shaking so much that the instructor has to help me tighten my harness straps.
He’s explaining how safe it is and cracking jokes to try to relax me, but he might as well
be speaking another language, because nothing is registering in my brain and I can’t
remember what he told me five seconds ago –such is my fear of going over the edge.
In a daze, I follow his instructions and step up and backwards out onto the ledge. I’m
aware of some of the team watching and waiting below.
I’m going to cry, I feel my face begin to crumple up with tears and hear myself say
‘I’m going to fall’. At that moment I get ‘disco leg’ –my left leg begins to shake uncon-
trollably and despite my fear this makes me laugh a little and I manage to keep the tears
away. For what seems like an eternity, but is only a few minutes, I gradually lean back-
wards away from the edge, with the encouragement of the instructor who tells me to
look at him rather than downwards and to take a few deep breaths. Just a fraction more
and the equipment has ‘got me’ and I’m fully suspended but supported. I slowly start
to let the rope smoothly through the descending device so that gradually I abseil all
the way down with no problems until finally I’m on the ground again. A huge sense of
relief, legs still trembling, I really can’t believe I did it. One of the team comes to help
me release the ropes and congratulates me on a perfect descent. With the exception
of the instructor neither he nor the rest of the team is aware that I’d been a complete
wreck at the top.
41
Despite much reassurance and support from the instructing staff to overcome my fears and
anxieties, I frequently found myself plagued by misgivings about the risks and experienced
momentary, claustrophobia-filled flashbacks of going ‘over the edge’ or being ‘in the void’. On
occasions, the mixture of emotions was perplexing. At a public event the team were applauded
by the audience when introduced as SAR volunteers. I felt awkward and embarrassed by the
attention but touched by their spontaneous reaction at the same time.
SAR work by its very nature requires a great deal of ‘emotion work’ (Hochschild, 1979)
as volunteers have to put aside their own feelings, for example, apprehension of personal risk,
shock at seriously injured casualties or corpses, the pressure of making correct decisions in
complicated and lengthy extractions, etc. Although the instructors were incredibly supportive
and helped me overcome the physical and mental difficulties of some of the tasks, at times the
emotional turmoil was difficult to manage. For example, I struggled to contain my irritation
at one of the ‘zealot’ trainees who constantly behaved as if we were on ‘mission’ and took the
training far too seriously. In addition, there were a couple of occasions when the interviews
with the study participants moved me deeply and left me close to tears. I also experienced
considerable guilt and conflicted loyalties when interviewees confided their personal concerns,
and I grappled with not breaking their confidence yet simultaneously wanted to alert other
group members so that they could receive appropriate support.
My emotion work also involved not wanting and trying not to show my fear, although
I did not always succeed, as demonstrated in the vignette above. This emotional labour was
vital in my impression management that I was a competent and able volunteer, which was a
persistent identity challenge during the fieldwork.
Identity struggles
In a study about identity, the question ‘Who am I?’ soon became personally relevant as
I grappled with multiple and often conflicting field-selves, being a professional researcher
whilst simultaneously attempting to integrate into the team as a competent SAR volunteer.
This is by no means a novel experience since ‘ethnographers study others in order to find
out more about themselves’ (Rosen, 1991, p. 2) and research involves working on our selves
in ways that may be ‘both productive and problematic’ (Coffey, 1999, p. 14). I experienced
my fieldwork as particularly onerous as I sought to be accepted and competent in multiple
contexts and in various ways. Identity work may ‘arise from encounters with others that
challenge understandings of self ’ (Alvesson et al., 2008, p. 15), may be a response to man-
aging multiple identities (Ashforth & Johnson, 2001), or triggered by anxiety or self-doubts
(Collinson, 2003; Knights & Willmot, 1999) and fuelled by insecurities (Clarke et al., 2012;
Knights & Clarke, 2014). Identity work in the research setting included impression manage-
ment (Goffman, 1959) and bodywork (Frank, 1990), which centred on anxieties about the
SAR activities rather than the research.
Doubt about one’s competency, of being an ‘imposter’ or a ‘struggle for credibility’ when
entering a new social arena requires ongoing identity work, since any attempts to secure
the self are ultimately unachievable (Knights & Clarke, 2014). Successive gruelling monthly
training weekends increased self-doubts about my competency as a SAR volunteer and did
little to reduce my sense of feeling like an ‘imposter’. The body of the fieldworker is often
overlooked. I am a softly spoken, fairly petite1 female, unlike most of the team, who were, from
my viewpoint, physically imposing alpha males. A constant anxiety centred on the level of my
42
performance, even though I was completing all the training exercises alongside the other team
members, many of whom were ex-military or current emergency services workers. I struggled
to understand the highly militarised and SAR jargon and worried that as a ‘civilian’ I was
not deemed a ‘serious’ participant by some of the other trainees. As I arrived at the first post-
selection training weekend, one trainee directly asked me ‘did everyone pass then?’, instantly
making me doubt my place on the team. Had I deliberately been ‘passed’ by the assessors out
of a sense of obligation because they had got to know me from my observational visits and
were keen for me to complete the research? I shared my concerns with one of the instructors
who was categorical in his reassurance, ‘you earned your place like everyone else’, but despite
this I frequently doubted my ability and whether I really belonged in the team. In contrast
to the tendency in organization studies to portray research as an ‘individual endeavour’, this
highlights and acknowledges both the presence and the influence of those being researched
(Gilmore & Kenny, 2015).
Being a physically small female, from a non-military or emergency services background,
was often challenging in this male-dominated setting. Dominant masculine discourses of phys-
icality and professionalism felt overwhelming and from January 2015, I was the only remaining
female in the cohort of trainees and struggled with the ‘work hard, play hard’ ethos and
homosocial practices which centred on drinking contests and bar games, most of which I was
unwilling to participate in and resisted strongly. I experienced frequent ‘awkward’ moments
(Donnelly et al., 2013) not least because of the stifling proximity and the lack of physical or
personal privacy within which we trained.Through many forms of ‘bodywork’ I endeavoured
to portray a ‘disciplined’ and controlled body (Frank, 1990). When training I was careful not
to show, or admit to being physically exhausted; for example, I never asked to swap sides when
my arms were burning with effort on stretcher carries, or to slow the pace of a ‘yomp’2, repro-
ducing the gendered norms within QuakeRescue.Yet in contrast to my own insecurity about
lack of physicality and strength, my size was considered a benefit by the other team members.
I was reassured that my size would allow me to fit into small voids in collapsed buildings when
others could not, therefore potentially reducing the time taken to reach a trapped casualty.
Despite such reassurances, between monthly training sessions I worked on what I considered
to be my limitations in an attempt to improve my performance as a capable SAR trainee. This
included completing an indoor climbing course to overcome my fear of heights and learn
belaying skills3, practising rescue knots and regularly working out at a gym to improve my
stamina and strength. I also endeavoured to blend in through careful ‘impression management’
techniques (Goffman, 1959), which included dressing in the same rescue worker overalls and
steel toe-capped boots, and by not wearing any make-up, jewellery or nail varnish. In hind-
sight it seems absurd that I was judging myself against the physicality and strength of the male
team members, but undoubtedly I was, although this is not unheard of amongst other females
or immersed ethnographers in similar settings (e.g. Lois, 1999). Nevertheless, the extent to
which I successfully blended in and achieved full immersion also became problematic.
Going native
A few days after the emotional struggle ‘in the void’ described at the beginning of this chapter,
I became aware that I did not want to do the SAR training anymore. In a moment of clarity,
I realized with horror that in many ways I had been too close for comfort, almost ‘going
native’ (Gold, 1958). My main interest had become completing the SAR training programme
43
rather than concern for the fieldwork and I had lost sight of my primary aim –doing the
research. I was caught in a bind in that I needed to be fully immersed in the organization in
order to do ‘real’ ethnography, but was unwilling and unable to leave the field until the data
were collected.
Without doubt, I got too close for comfort, and based on my reading of the literature, my
major concern was that this could be detrimental for my data collection. However, I was able
to resurface by temporarily withdrawing from the SAR training programme, conducting a
preliminary thematic analysis of a small number of the interview transcripts as well as having
a critical conversation with one of my academic supervisors.The gaps between monthly field-
work provided much needed breathing space and allowed me to maintain the fragile ‘balan-
cing act between distancing and immersing’ (De Jong et al., 2013, p. 168). During this time
I re-read and wrote up notes, transcribed interviews, and generally spent time re-energizing
and refocusing. Reflecting on matters at a distance enabled an alternative perspective and the
analysis became a re-iterative process of ‘zooming in’ on the practices and interaction between
participants, followed by ‘zooming out’ for theorization and contextualization (Nicolini, 2009).
With much relief, I found that ‘going native’ had not undermined the value of the fieldwork
and despite temporarily losing myself, the subsequent resurfacing brought about a sharpening
of focus and critical approach to the data.
Whilst some researchers argue that fieldwork ends when ‘theoretical saturation’ occurs
(Glaser & Strauss, 1967), this overly simplistic analysis of completing fieldwork was not the
case for me. Although data collection formally ended in early 2017 with the write-up of my
thesis, I confess to having been ‘seduced’ by full immersion in QuakeRescue (Manning, 2009)
and have found exiting the field impossible. On reflection, this is partly due to the strength
of the relationships I developed with the participants and I have been unwilling to break
the ‘friendship bond’ (Ybema & Kamsteeg, 2009, p. 111). In SAR teams strong friendships,
almost familial bonds, quickly grow as volunteers frequently train, eat and sleep in close prox-
imity. It is a cliché, but I really would trust them with my life, an indication of the depth of
the attachment the SAR volunteers feel for their team members. Even now, I remain a full
IRT member and have deployed on UK-based search missions, as well as international SAR
training exercises. Indeed, I have not been able to bring to a close an experience that is ‘…
more vivacious and rewarding than academe can ever be’ (Wacquant, 2005, pp. 467–468).
This perhaps reflects the power of immersed ethnography and the impact it can have on the
researcher, as well as the potential for a variety of personal and research opportunities.
Immersed ethnography in practice –some reflections

This section offers some reflections and advice for inexperienced researchers who may be
considering immersed ethnographic fieldwork.Whilst each ethnography, setting and researcher
are unique, it is hoped that by sharing these experiences that intrepid fieldworkers will at least
be aware of the potential challenges that may be encountered.
Why undertake the SAR training when I could have easily remained as my researcher ‘self ’
and chosen to observe and interview instead? Certainly I was endeavouring to find my own
unique research ‘signature’ in order to distinguish my PhD study (Humphreys et al., 2003). My
‘extreme’ ethnography and deep immersion attracted the attention of some of my peers, who
described it as ‘sexy’ ethnography and said they felt ‘ethnographic envy’. Undoubtedly, there
was an element of self-validation, the need to be both a competent and professional researcher
44
but also a desire to prove to myself, and to others, that I could be resilient and effective in
difficult situations, that I could challenge myself and conquer some of my demons in the
process. That said, had I not participated in the training, I doubt whether I would have truly
appreciated the volunteer experience and perspective. If I had simply watched from the bank
rather than ‘dive into the stream of action to the greatest possible depth’, I would not have had
the ‘flesh and blood’ experiences that provided an embodied practical knowledge of both vis-
ible and invisible elements of the research site (Wacquant, 2015, p. 3). Furthermore, reflecting
on these embodied experiences facilitated a multi-coloured and multi-dimensional account of
the organization and its members, written from a ‘vulnerable observer’ perspective rather than
‘writing vulnerably’ (Wacquant, 2015). This is important in order to avoid overly sanitised or
‘antispetic’ accounts (Fine & Shulman, 2009), which neither do justice to the endeavour and
skills of the ethnographer nor provide a realistic picture for the benefit of future fieldworkers.
From a methodological perspective, doing immersed ethnography is not without its
challenges as it is ‘not always orderly….’ and sometimes needs ‘serendipity….a lot of hard
work and old-fashioned luck’ (Fetterman, 1989, p. 12).The time to collect data may be exten-
sive, with some authors suggesting at least a year (Sanday, 1979), and for the researcher ‘hand-
ling the delicate balance between self and other in the fieldwork and in the writing’ may
be problematic (Humphreys et al., 2003, p. 5). The ability to balance thinking from ‘within’
and from ‘without’ (Shotter, 2006) is required in order to combine an ‘emic’ understanding
from the participant with the ‘etic’ analysis of the researcher (Ybema et al., 2009). My advice
for researchers new to immersed ethnographic methods would be to allow for ‘time outs’
(Burawoys, 2003) in the research design, to withdraw and re-enter, to enable distancing and
immersion in the field setting. Similarly, in the analysis to make space to reflect on and dis-
cuss the data with ‘critical friends’ and when writing up to allow for opportunities for cre-
ative improvisation and flexibility (Humphreys et al., 2003), because ‘…in their stumbles and
missteps ethnographers in full immersion can find rich analytical insights’ (Mears, 2013, p. 31).
For the researcher, ethnography ‘…works best when it surprises us’ (Humphreys et al.,
2003, p. 19), and there were many ‘surprises and undoing’s’ during the process of this research
(Gergen & Gergen, 2000, p. 1027). I naively thought that separating myself from the research
would be unproblematic and I experienced the fieldworker’s dilemma of ‘…being on the
edge of at least two worlds’ (Van Maanen, 2011, p. 231) and how my ‘researcher’ self and ‘vol-
unteer’ self could not be ‘separated out’ (Watson, 2009). Inexperienced researchers should,
therefore, go into the field with the expectation that it is not possible to be detached and
separated from the setting, its participants and all that is seen, heard and felt. Immersed ethno-
graphic reporting by its nature is subjective (Altheide & Johnson, 1994) and ‘any residual
notion that a researcher is some kind of independent, objective observer has to be abandoned’
(Stacey, 1996, p. 261).
On a practical level, the persistent conflicting demands were unforeseen, as I attempted to
be constantly alert for research possibilities and afraid of missing key research moments whilst
fully participating as a member. In addition, possibly due to my initial inexperience of field-
based research, there was a lack of forethought about the emotional issues I might encounter
in the research context. My emotional journey had extreme highs and lows, not only in
the ‘emotional intensive’ research activities, but also because of the highly charged nature of
SAR work. Although the emotional upheavals of doing ethnographic fieldwork are typically
‘untold’, being ‘off track’ is part of the everyday struggle (Clarke et al., 2014, p. 2) and it is per-
haps normal to have ‘awkward’ moments (Donnelly et al., 2013). In immersed fieldwork, this
45
should be expected as complete member researchers ‘come closest of all…to approximating

the emotional stance of the people they study’ (Adler & Adler, 1987, p. 67).
My identity work was more intense and complex than anticipated, and in a ‘collision of
worlds’ (Gilmore & Kenny, 2015, p. 71) my fieldwork self became ‘…meaningful beyond the
temporal and spatial specificities of the field’ (Coffey, 1999, p. 28), as I attempted to secure
myself both as a competent researcher and a credible SAR volunteer. When writing up, there
may be the dilemma of how much of the fieldworker self to reveal, for fear of being accused of
self-absorbed narcissism (Anderson, 2006) or ‘navel-gazing’ (Maddison, 2006), but the identity
work of the researcher requires analysis and inclusion in reflective accounts, as by acknow-
ledging and writing our immersed experiences into our work, we give readers the oppor-
tunity to feel our discomfort (Mears, 2013), as well as provide ‘contextual richness’ (Miles
& Huberman, 1994, p. 83). My embodied fieldwork experiences included in the vignettes
embedded within this chapter are an attempt to do so, but also ‘bring life to research (and)
bring research to life’ (Ellis, 1998, p. 4).
Undoubtedly, the fieldwork was more challenging than I expected, not least because
of the personal trials and tribulations that I experienced during my deep immersion in
QuakeRescue and there were definitely times when it felt ‘…a bit of a mess and a mystery, but
mesmerising’ (Van Maanen, 2011, p. 232). This demonstrates, that some messiness is normal
and perhaps unavoidable, and should be expected and acknowledged as part of the process of
doing immersed ethnography.
Conclusion
This chapter has outlined some of the challenges of my immersed fieldwork and how ethno-
graphic methods can be a ‘two-edged sword’ (Karra & Phillips, 2008, p. 556). Using vignettes
of my immersed fieldwork experiences, I have illustrated some of the methodological, emo-
tional and identity implications during the completion of the research. That said, the identity
work or embodied experiences of the researcher should not be privileged, but should be part
of a holistic approach, as the immersed researcher is embedded in and connected to the field
in complex and nuanced ways, which if included in the research report has potential to enrich
ethnographic accounts of organizations.
There is a tendency in the literature to focus on the negative aspects of fieldwork and, as
the vignettes demonstrate, there were plenty of challenging moments. Nevertheless, there
were many positive and pleasant times when I triumphed over some of my fears, mastered
key technical search skills and enjoyed the camaraderie of belonging in this close-knit team.
For example, I gained considerable technical knowledge about hydrology, earthquakes and
collapsed structures, as well as practical skills involving the use of technical search equipment,
heavy duty gear and hand tools. Undoubtedly, the completion of gruelling and demanding
training tasks increased my personal resilience and enhanced my self-confidence, although at
the time they evoked many insecurities.
From a research perspective, full immersion was fruitful for the fieldwork because I was
able to ‘capture the nuances and meaning of each participants’ life from the participant’s point
of view’ (Janesick, 2000, p. 384), and being the ‘other’ in the research setting can also bring
benefits (Clarke & Knights, 2014). I suspect that some of the male participants spoke more
openly in their interviews, not just because we were talking on a one-to-one basis, but per-
haps because I was female and/or an outsider. Many participants confided that they had a fear
46
of heights or confined spaces and revealed feelings of guilt and selfishness for leaving their
wives and children in order to attend training weekends. These were topics rarely revealed or
discussed in front of this highly masculinised group and I was surprised, and relieved, to hear
that these feelings were not exclusive to me.
Finally, this chapter echoes Watson’s appeal for ethnographers to focus ‘…on rigorously
theorized empirical research which gets as “close to the action” as is possible’ (2011, p. 216),
and Harrington’s (2015) call for researchers to embrace immersed ethnographic research, as it
is able to address evolving means of organizing and the complexity and volatility of contem-
porary organizations, in ways that more traditional theoretical and methodological approaches
are increasingly unable (Nicolini, 2009). Consequently, should the opportunity for immersed
ethnography present itself, my advice would be to seize the chance for an ‘academic adventure’
(Calvey, 2019, p. 66), ‘go native’, but to take note of Wacquant’s warning and ‘go native armed’
(2011, p. 87).
Notes
1 Height 5’3”, weight 50 kg.
2 Royal Marines slang describing a long-distance march carrying full kit.
3 Belaying refers to a variety of techniques a climbing partner uses to exert tension on a rope so that
the climber does not fall very far.
References
Adler, Patricia A., & Adler, Peter. (1987). Membership roles in field research. CA: Sage.
Agar, Michael. (1986). Speaking of ethnography (Vol. 2). London: Sage.
Altheide, David L., & Johnson, John M. (1994). Criteria for assessing interpretive validity in qualitative
research. In: Denzin, N. & Lincoln,Y. (Eds) Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 485–499). London: Sage.
Alvesson, Mats, Lee Ashcraft, Karen, & Thomas, Robyn. (2008). Identity matters: Reflections on the
construction of identity scholarship in organization studies. Organization, 15(1), 5–28. doi: 10.1177/
1350508407084426
Anderson, Leon. (2006). Analytic autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 373–395.
doi: 10.1177/0891241605280449
Ashforth, Blake E., & Johnson, Scott A. (2001). Which hat to wear? The relative salience of multiple
identities in organizational contexts. In M. A. Hogg & D. J. Terry (Eds.), Social identity: Processes in
organizational contexts (pp. 31–48). Ann Arbour, MI: Taylor & Francis.
Boyle, Maree, & Parry, Ken. (2007).Telling the whole story:The case for organizational autoethnography.
Culture and Organization, 13(3), 185–190.
Brannan, Matthew J. (2014). Recognising research as an emotional journey. In C. Clarke, M. Broussine
& L. Watts (Eds.), Researching with feeling: The emotional aspects of social and organizational research (pp.
17–34). London: Routledge.
Burawoy, Michael. (2003). Revisits: An outline of a theory of reflexive ethnography. American Sociological
Review, 68(5), 645–79.
Calvey, David. (2019). A sociological case of stand-up comedy: Censorship, offensiveness and oppor-
tunism. In R. J. Smith & S. Delamont (Eds.), The Lost ethnographies: Methodological insights from projects
that never were (pp. 65–78). London: Emerald Group Publishing.
Clarke, Caroline, Broussine, Mike, & Watts, Linda. (2014). Researching with feeling: The emotional aspects of
social and organizational research. London: Routledge.
Clarke, Caroline, & Knights, David. (2014). Negotiating identities. Fluidity, diversity and researcher
emotion. In C. Clarke, M. Broussine, & L. Watts (Eds.), Researching with feeling:The emotional aspects of
social and organizational research (pp. 35–50). London: Routledge.
47
Clarke, Caroline, Knights, David, & Jarvis, Carol. (2012). A labour of love? Academics in business schools.
Scandinavian Journal of Management, 28(1), 5–15. doi: 10.1016/j.scaman.2011.12.003
Coffey, Amanda. (1999). The ethnographic self: Fieldwork and the representation of identity. London: Sage.
Collinson, David L. (2003). Identities and insecurities: Selves at work. Organization, 10(3), 527–547.
doi: 10.1177/13505084030103010
Corbetta, Piergorgio. (2003). Social research:Theory, methods and techniques. London: Sage.
Costas, Jana. (2012). ‘We are all friends here’: Reinforcing paradoxes of normative control in a culture of
friendship. Journal of Management Inquiry, 21(4), 377–395.
Crossley, Nick. (2007). Researching embodiment by way of ‘body techniques’. Sociological Review,
55, 80–94.
Cunliffe, Ann L., & Karunanayake, Geetha. (2013). Working within hyphen-spaces in ethnographic
research: Implications for research identities and practice. Organizational Research Methods, 16(3),
364–392.
De Jong, Machteld, Kamsteeg, Frank, & Ybema, Sierk. (2013). Ethnographic strategies for making the
familiar strange: Struggling with ‘distance’ and ‘immersion’ among Moroccan-Dutch students. Journal
of Business Anthropology, 2(2), 168–186.
Denzin, Norman K., 1989. Interpretive biography (Vol. 17). London: Sage Publications.
Donnelly, Paul F., Gabriel, Yiannis, Özkazanç-Pan, Banu, Koning, Juliette, & Ooi, Can-Seng. (2013).
Awkward encounters and ethnography. Qualitative Research in Organizations and Management: An
International Journal, 8(1), 16–32.
Ellis, Carolyn. (1998). What counts as scholarship in communication? An autoethnographic response.
American Communication Journal, 1(2), 1–5.
Fetterman, David M. (1989). Ethnography: Step by step. London: Sage.
Fetterman, David M. (1998). Ethnography: Step by step. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Fine, Gary A. and Shulman, David, (2009). Lies from the field: Ethical issues in organizational ethnog-
raphy. In: Ybema, Sierk, Yanow, Dvora, Wels, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans (Eds) Organizational ethnog-
raphy: Studying the complexities of everyday life. London: Sage (pp. 177–195)
Frank, Arthur W. (1990). Bringing bodies back in: A decade review. Theory, Culture & Society, 7(1),
131–162.
Geertz, Clifford. (1988). Works and lives:The anthropologist as author. Standford, CA: Stanford University Press.
Geertz, Clifford. (1995). After the fact:Two countries, four decades, one anthropologist. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
Gergen, Mary M., & Gergen, Kenneth J. (2000). Qualitative inquiry: Tensions and transformations. In N.
Denzin & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 1025–1046). Thousand Oaks,
CA: Sage.
Gilmore, Sarah, & Kenny, Kate. (2015). Work-worlds colliding: Self-reflexivity, power and emotion in
organizational ethnography. Human Relations, 68(1), 55–78.
Glaser, Barney G., & Strauss, Anselm L. (1967). The discovery of grounded theory: Strategies for qualitative
research. Chicago, IL: Aldine.
Goffman, Erving. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. London: Penguin.
Gold, Raymond L. (1958). Roles in sociological field observations. Social Forces, 36(3), 217–223.
Golde, Peggy. (1970). Women in the field: Anthropological experiences. Los Angeles, CA: University of
California Press.
Hammersley, Martyn, & Atkinson, Paul. (1995). Ethnography: Principles in practice. Psychology Press.
Harding, Nancy, Ford, Jackie, & Gough, Brendan. (2010). Accounting for ourselves: Are academics
exploited workers? Critical Perspectives on Accounting, 21(2), 159–168.
Harrington, Brooke. (2015). Immersion ethnography of elites. In: Elsbach, Kimberley and Kramer,
Roderick. (Eds) Handbook of Qualitative Organizational Research. London: Routledge. (pp. 134–142).
Hochschild, Arlie R. (1979). Emotion work, feeling rules, and social structure. American Journal of
Sociology, 10(2), 551–575.
Humphreys, Michael. (2005). Getting personal: Reflexivity and autoethnographic vignettes. Qualitative
Inquiry, 11(6), 840–860.
48
Humphreys, Michael, Brown, Andrew D., & Hatch, Mary J. (2003). Is ethnography jazz? Organization,
10(1), 5–31.
Janesick,Valerie J. (2000). The choreography of qualitative research design: Minuets, improvisations, and
crystallization. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (Vol. 2, pp. 379–
399). CA: Sage.
Karra, Neri, & Phillips, Nelson. (2008). Researching “back home”: International management research as
autoethnography. Organizational Research Methods, 11(3), 541–561. doi: 10.1177/1094428106295496
Knights, David, & Clarke, Caroline. (2014). It’s a bittersweet symphony, this life: Fragile academic selves
and insecure identities at work. Organization Studies, 35(3), 335–357.
Knights, David, & Willmot, Hugh. (1999). Management lives: Power and identity in work organizations.
London: Sage.
Kondo, Dorinne K. (1990). Crafting selves: Power, gender and discourses of identity in a Japanese workplace.
University of Chicago Press.
LeCompte, Margaret D., & Preissle, Judith G. with Renata Tesch. (1993). Ethnography and qualitative design
in educational research. London: Emerald.
Lofland, John, & Lofland, Lyn H. (2006). Analyzing social settings. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing
Company.
Lois, Jennifer. (1999). Socialization to heroism: Individualism and collectivism in a voluntary search and
rescue group. Social Psychology Quarterly, 62(2), 117–135. doi: 10.2307/2695853
Madison, D. Soyini. (2006). The dialogic performative in critical ethnography. Text and Performance
Quarterly, 26(4), 320–324.
Manning, Philip. (2009). Three models of ethnographic research: Wacquant as risk-taker. Theory &
Psychology, 19(6), 756–777.
Mears, Ashley. (2013). Ethnography as precarious work. The Sociological Quarterly, 54(1), 20–34.
Miles, Matthew B., & Huberman, A. Michael. (1994). Qualitative data analysis: A sourcebook. Beverly Hills,
CA: Sage.
Nicolini, Davide. (2009). Zooming in and zooming out: A package of method and theory to study work
practices. In S.Ybema, D.Yanow, H. Wels & F. H. Kamsteeg (Eds.), Organizational ethnography: Studying
the complexity of everyday life (pp. 120–138). London: Sage.
Pillow,Wanda. (2003). Confession, catharsis, or cure? Rethinking the uses of reflexivity as methodological
power in qualitative research. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 16(2), 175–196.
Reed-Danahay, Deborah. (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. London: Routledge.
Rosen, Michael. (1991). Coming to terms with the field: Understanding and doing organizational eth-
nography. Journal of Management Studies, 28(1), 1–24.
Sanday, Peggy R. (1979). The ethnographic paradigm (s). Administrative Science Quarterly, 24(4), 527–538.
Sharpe, Diana. (1997). Managerial control strategies and subcultural processes. In S. A. Sackmann (Ed.),
Cultural complexity in organizations: Inherent contrasts and contradictions. London: Sage.
Shotter, John. (2006). Understanding process from within: An argument for ‘withness’- thinking.
Organization Studies, 27(4), 585–604.
Stacey, Ralph D. (1996). Complexity and creativity in organizations. San Francisco, CA: Berrett-Koehler
Publishers.
Thornborrow,Thomas, & Brown, Andrew D. (2009). ‘Being regimented’: Aspiration, discipline and iden-
tity work in the British Parachute Regiment. Organization Studies, 30(4), 355–376. doi: 10.1177/
0170840608101140
Van Maanen, John. (1988). Tales of the field: On writing ethnography. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Van Maanen, John. (2011). Ethnography as work: Some rules of engagement. Journal of Management
Studies, 48(1), 218–234.
Wacquant, Loic. (2005). Carnal connections: On embodiment, apprenticeship, and membership.
Qualitative Sociology, 28(4), 445–474.
Wacquant, Loic, (2011). Habitus as topic and tool: Reflections on becoming a prizefighter. Qualitative
Research in Psychology, 8(1), 81–92.
49
Wacquant, Loic. (2015). For a sociology of flesh and blood. Qualitative Sociology, 38(1), 1–11.
Watson, Tony J. (2009). Narrative, life story and manager identity: A case study in autobiographical iden-
tity work. Human Relations, 62(3), 425–452.
Watson,Tony J. (2011). Ethnography, Reality, and Truth:The Vital Need for Studies of ‘How Things Work’
in Organizations and Management. Journal of Management Studies, 48(1), 202–217. doi: 10.1111/
j.1467-6486.2010.00979.x
Wengle, John L. (2005). Ethnographers in the field:The psychology of research. Huntsville, Alabama: University
of Alabama Press.
Yanow, Dvora. (2006). Talking about practices: On Julian Orr’s talking about machines. Organization
Studies, 27(12), 1743–1756.
Ybema, Sierk, & Kamsteeg, Frans. (2009). Making the familiar strange: A case for disengaged organ-
izational ethnography. In: Ybema, Sierk, Yanow, Dvora, Wels, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans (Eds)
Organizational ethnography: Studying the complexities of everyday life. London: Sage (pp. 101–119).
Ybema, Sierk,Yanow, Dvora,Wels, Harry, & Kamsteeg, Frans H. (2009). Organizational ethnography: Studying
the complexity of everyday life. London: Sage.
50
4
REMOVING THE ROSE-TINTED GLASSES
Fear, risk and being uncomfortable in ethnographic
fieldwork
Jenna Pandeli and Rafael Alcadipani
When we write about doing ethnographic fieldwork we often focus on the enjoyment, the
excitement and the fascination that are characteristics of this methodology.Van Maanen (1988)
talks about the feelings of warmth and adventure when in the field. The negative experiences
we have are often forgotten or pushed aside as a result of the euphoria experienced on com-
pletion of our fieldwork; we look back on our fieldwork with rose-tinted glasses. But there is
inevitably a darker side to ethnographic research, one that incites ‘the feeling of being uncom-
fortable’ (Salecl, 2004: 47) due to the compromising and difficult positions that we are put in
(Van Maanen, 1988). Thus, alongside the positive emotions, we also experience ‘embarrass-
ment…confusion…. isolation…fear’ (Van Maanen, 1988: 2) and these more difficult emotions
are equally as tethered to ethnographic field work. In fact, we have found that fear is a per-
sistent emotion experienced during ethnography and this usually goes hand-in-hand with the
risk involved in immersive research approaches.
Fear as well as similar emotional experiences such as ‘anxiety’, ‘stress’ and ‘vulnerability’ are
not words that feature regularly in the indexes of ‘how-to’ ethnography guides. Rather, we hear
about the possibility of being an ideal-type ethnographer –involved enough to gain access,
build trust and rapport, but detached enough to leave the field, act and analyse in an objective
manner, and to not run the risk of becoming overly entangled. Polished accounts of access
negotiations and research relations in the field are often presented as straightforward, linear,
orderly, and thus impose an idealized image that leaves little room for failures, obstructions and
emotions (Lindberg and Eule, 2020; Mazzetti, 2016). This chapter, and this book more gen-
erally, aims to critique this overly simplistic presentation of ethnography. We aim to present a
different story. In this chapter, we reflect on the fear and risk that is inherent in ethnographic
research. To varying degrees, this is experienced by all researchers who essentially put ‘one’s
body on the line’ (Juris, 2009: 31) in academic research. We are personally experiencing emo-
tional, ethical and practical challenges in ethnographic fieldwork, so we know that they are
there (Linberg and Eule, 2020) and yet the publications we read of organizational ethnography
often present ‘sanitized’ insights into fieldwork experiences, choosing to keep the failures and
emotional challenges hidden (Mazetti, 2016; Lindberg and Eule, 2020). Brannan (2014) argues
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-5
51
Removing the rose-tinted glasses 51
that despite some movement towards greater reflexivity and acknowledgement of emotions in
fieldwork, there remains a strong academic culture favouring rational and objectivists’ know-
ledge production. This then marginalizes the moves we are making to encourage reflexivity
and imperfect stories of fieldwork.
This chapter will stress the value in analysing the stories ethnographers do not tell: the
stories of self that cast us as imperfect, emotional and flawed. We reflect on how doing ethno-
graphic fieldwork, putting ourselves in precarious positions, impacts our sense of self and can
result in unsavoury (both physical and psychological) outcomes that are seldom recognized.
The ‘backstage’ narratives of fieldwork are most often left on the pile with the countless other
stories that do not make it into our formally written academic pieces –deemed as ‘outside’
of the topic of interest; as occupational hazards; as experiences not worthy of analysis; as
experiences that might present us as weak and incapable.
We begin by asking ‘How might ethnographic studies provoke fear?’ and we address this
issue by drawing on three ways that we have experienced fear, risk and being uncomfort-
able in our fieldwork. We specifically discuss these experiences in the relationship building
process; we then discuss rejection in the field, where we have been unable to build positive
relationships; and, finally, we draw attention to our experiences following us beyond the field,
even after we have left, impacting other facets of our lives. In doing this we accept the notion
that fear, risk and being uncomfortable are an inevitable part of what we do, rather than
working on the masculinized assumption that we can switch off personal concerns when in
professional environments.
In what follows, we introduce several stories from the field that have been collected during
long-term ethnographic research projects. All give insight into the experiences of fear and
risk in the process of collecting data; experiences that are heard about in conversation in the
corridor of the university, at the bar at the end of a conference and between friends, but rarely
acknowledged or scrutinized in formally written texts. We draw on two examples of ethno-
graphic fieldwork:
• A ten-month study in a UK all-male private prison (Bridgeville) exploring prison labour

(Jenna Pandeli)
• An eight-year study of a Brazilian police force focused on investigating crime. The
researcher followed police detectives working in different police departments such as
homicide, kidnapping, general crime investigation and specialized anti-robbery patrol
(Rafael Alcadipani)
So why talk about this? We argue that this is important for three key reasons: (1) This can be
vital for novice researchers and thus we need to work towards normalizing these discussions
and whilst this should not take precedent over analysis of the communities we study, they are
deeply entangled in our data and thus cannot (and should not) be separated. (2) Emotions
such as fear are central to learning more generally –and in this case can provide us with new
insights into the communities we study, cultivating rich and textured data as well as provoking
us into thinking more creatively if we acknowledge our emotional experiences and also our
own failures. (3) Discussion such as this will allow us to begin rethinking risk in the bureau-
cratic underbelly of ethnography, specifically concerning the ethical processes we need to
follow in completing our fieldwork.
52
52 Jenna Pandeli and Rafael Alcadipani
Why might ethnographic studies provoke fear?

We aim to illustrate the emotional labour that is experienced as a result of fear and risk in eth-
nography. Fear and risk in research come in multiple forms. Lee (1995) distinguishes between
ambient and situational risk. He characterizes ambient risk as those encountered in dangerous
research settings and these differ from situational risks which refer to the risks the researchers
become exposed to in the course of the fieldwork, where the setting itself is not necessarily
considered to be high risk. This chapter will be drawing on research that takes place in quite
extreme context to put fear and risk in fieldwork under the microscope as this has the poten-
tial to tease out and amplify situations that may go unnoticed in other settings (Godfrey, 2016).
Fear and risk in our fieldwork relationships

Negotiating boundaries with participants in the field can be a difficult process; we want to
build relationships, but how close do we get? We’re not debating issues of ‘going native’ here
or what impact your relationships might have on your data collection, we are considering
what impact your relationships will have on you personally. While you are learning about
your participants, they are also learning about you (Corrigan, 1979; Russell, 2005). We are
not simply entering the field, extracting information and then leaving; a reciprocal rela-
tionship is built; mutual disclosure between the researched and the researcher takes place.
This is part of the trust–relationship bargain (Russell, 2005). These relationships can be
very positive ones, but equally they can be distressing and uncomfortable because key to
building relationships is sharing information, offering pieces of yourself to someone else and
expecting something similar in return (Troman, 2000). In researching prison and the police
force we discovered that managing this reciprocal relationship could be very difficult. In
prison, divulging too much personal information in the relationship building process could
be dangerous and equally obtaining too much sensitive information from participants in the
police could be risky.
In studying these particular research sites, we are already acutely aware of the power dynamics
inherent in these types of settings and within the relationship between the researcher and
the researched, and this inevitably impacts the relationship building process. Whilst studying
Bridgeville prison, the power dynamics meant that whilst I had power as a researcher and
a free person who could enter and leave the prison at my choosing, the participants also
had ways of exercising power over me. For example, from the very beginning participants
asked a lot of questions. Most were intrigued by having a female researcher (not staff) in the
workshop and so lots of questions were inevitable. Whilst many were harmless, ‘what are
you having for dinner?’, others would seem harmless ‘what car do you drive?’ but were in
fact intended to acquire information that participants might be able to use. For example, the
family members of incarcerated men might approach you in the car park and use intimidating
behaviour to encourage you to bring contraband into the prison. Thus, knowing what car
you drove would facilitate this behaviour and allow individuals to target you. Other questions
would be considered personal and invasive such as ‘what does your boyfriend think about you
researching male prisoners?’, thus figuring out how best to respond to these kinds of questions
on the spot, many of them taking you by surprise, was stressful.
What was particularly stressful was that avoiding answering these questions signalled a
lack of trust; it suggested that the researcher did not trust the participants with their personal
53
information. Once you have spent time building and developing what feels like a genuine
relationship with participants, the refusal to answer personal questions shatters this illusion,
offends the participants, and reminds them that there are barriers involved in this relationship.
THERE WERE A LOT OF QUESTIONS.
On one hand, these questions were helpful in developing relationships; participants were
more comfortable around me once they had some context, and it gave me an oppor-
tunity to explain my research to them. These questions were the initial starting point
to reducing barriers between myself and participants and we both started to feel more
comfortable in each other’s company. I felt welcome, the research setting began to feel
more ‘normal’ and I think I began to settle into the research. However, the curiosity of
participants, coupled with the rapport that had been built, also had its drawbacks. The
prison population is mainly drawn from the local area, an area which I also lived in. I was
frequently asked where I lived and this would follow with a host of new questions asking
for a more precise location, my partner’s job and where I socialized. Whilst this could
sometimes be intimidating, the problem was not just the questions, it was the fact that
I had developed relationships with the participants. It is not so difficult to avoid answering
questions when you do not have a relationship with people, but once a relationship is
built, to avoid answering seemingly mundane questions can be telling. It is telling that
your relationship lacks trust or is not authentic. When I was asked personal questions and
I would not provide them with this information, many were offended. This was difficult,
I knew it would not have been safe and responsible to divulge too much information to
participants, not because I didn’t trust individuals I was talking with, but because infor-
mation spreads like wildfire in prison and, very quickly, my private life would become
common knowledge amongst everyone in prison. In an attempt to alleviate this, I would
talk a lot about my favourite things, food and TV, and these were good topics of discus-
sion that would allow us to indulge, talk excessively and unfiltered, without divulging too
much private information. Nevertheless, there were still many awkward situations that
arose as a result of this dilemma, the dilemma of rapport and information, throughout
my fieldwork.
Most often we are forced to decide in the moment how to manage these awkward field-
work experiences, not knowing whether we have made the right choice, in terms of being a
‘professional researcher’ with clear boundaries (whatever that might mean), in terms of being
an immersed researcher who gets stuck in, and in terms of protecting our safety. Balancing
each of these can be the focus of much torment in the field. The ethical decision-making
we undertake during fieldwork can have high stakes with great risk to ourselves. This is par-
ticularly true of Rafael’s experiences in researching a police unit in Brazil. In trying to build
relationships with police officers it became evident that there was corruption taking place
and police officers made it explicitly clear that this information needed to stay secret. So,
despite building enough of a rapport with participants that they felt comfortable informing
the researcher of their illegal exploits, this put Rafael in a very vulnerable position. Regular
sinister comments (or threats), expressed in jest, but with real meaning behind them served
54
as warnings to be discreet and careful with the information acquired through fieldwork. As a
result, the fear inherent in these relationships was constant and relentless.
While talking to police officers they always talked to each other about ‘the collect’. At the
early stages of my fieldwork police officers mentioned this secretly but as time passed,
and they became more familiar with me, they were more open about it. After some
time in the field I learnt that ‘the collect’ meant money given by illegal gambling gangs
to the police to incentivize them to turn a blind eye to their illegal activity. I was told
several times about stories of corruption and how ‘the collect’ works. On one occasion
I was having lunch with some police who began to inquire into specific details about my
research, they wanted to know what type of publications would come out of this research
and what it was that I might publish. One of them said bluntly, ‘you know what happens
to snitches, here, right? They don’t live longer’ whilst making a gesture of shooting a
gun with his hand. I became very worried and concerned for weeks after this, and I even
thought about leaving the research. As time progressed, I realized that as long as I didn’t
write anything that can identify wrongdoings, I would be fine. On several occasions they
said, ‘we like you, because you know the good, the bad and the awful of us and you
don’t point fingers at our horrible mistakes’. However, I am still cautioned regularly by
the police in my fieldwork that if I say something stupid, I could be killed. This is often
said in jest but with clear serious undertones. These threats became normal over time but
this new normal does not necessarily mean ‘comfortable’ it simply means I have learnt to
live and accept this.
These examples tell us about the process of managing boundaries and relationships in the
field, highlighting the difficult decisions we must make about how far to go down the rabbit
hole, and how safety and ethics will always play a part in our decision-making. We are con-
stantly thinking and rethinking about the things we have said to or about our participants and
reassessing our safety and our approaches, never really knowing if we have made the right
decisions. Whilst researchers such as Berger (2001) argue that the reciprocal sharing of stories
during ethnographic fieldwork is important in levelling the hierarchy between the researcher
and the researched, this is not always possible. And even when it is, we are still conscious to
avoid ‘faking friendships’ and the unethical fallout from extracting information from indi-
viduals under the guise of false friendship (Duncombe and Jessop, 2002). Deliberating over
the authenticity of relationships in fieldwork can be exhausting and time-consuming. It can
sometimes feel dirty and manipulative to build relationships for the purpose of data collection.
But often over thinking these situations can make things worse. As stated previously, good
relationships are reciprocal, meaning that each person gains something from that relationship;
as researchers it’s OK if one of the things we gain is data. Relationships in the field can be
messy and complex but it is important to ensure that, regardless, honesty, integrity and respect
are central to the treatment of our participants. The challenge is doing this while feeling
stressed, fearful and uncomfortable.
These examples highlight situations where relationships had been developed with
participants, these relationships were not without flaws or challenges, but connections had
been made and the researchers were invited in. However, this is not always the case. What
55
happens when relationship building has been more problematic? We often assume that we
will enter the field, and everything will fall into place and positive relationships will be built.
Difficult relationships and conflict do arise and these can equally affect our experiences of
fear and risk.
Not everyone likes you: fear of rejection in the field

Often during our data collection, we experience frosty and uncomfortable reactions from
participants that can create stress and anxiety during our research. Muller (2018) reveals that
it is quite common for researchers to be rejected during fieldwork and even after dozens of
rejections he still finds this experience painful. This is likely to be more painful for the novice
researcher who is not aware that rejection is part and parcel of fieldwork as researchers rarely
divulge their experiences of failure and rejection (Burns, 2016). But rejection can come in
multiple forms. It can mean that you are not permitted access to your desired field site,
meaning that you have to change your research plans (whether this be gaining access to new
participants, or a new project all together). Or it could mean that, even after being provided
with access, members of the organization reject you at an individual level, and this can lead to
a hostile environment for collecting data and it is this scenario that we refer to here. We spe-
cifically use the term ‘access’ rather than ‘entry’ or ‘rapport’ as Burns (2016: 193–194) argues
that the term ‘access’ understands the ‘tenuous nature of research with those who have the
right to retract that access at any moment, whereas ‘entry’ overlooks this important ethical
caveat and assumes a member-like role’. It understands that getting into the field is a rela-
tional approach rather than assuming this process is determined solely by the actions of the
researcher. Problems arise in the process of gaining access by attributing too much agency to
the researcher and very little to organizational members and also by ignoring its temporal
nature (Cunliffe and Alcadipani, 2016). Access is not simply physical or decided at an organ-
izational level, even after being permitted inside an organization, you may still not truly obtain
access if organizational members are not receptive.
In both of our research we experienced hostility from participants who were unhappy
about our presence. In researching the police fieldwork was undertaken in an elite unit of the
police force. Unlike many other police units in Brazil, this unit had a particularly good reputa-
tion for being sociable and more open. Despite this, the reactions of recalcitrant police officers
were experienced regularly here, particularly from those in more senior positions who had
the power to make data collection very difficult. It became clear over time that several were
not happy with the presence of an outsider on their unit. During fieldwork, when listening to
discussions, one of the officers would bark ‘this is police talk, not to be heard by civilians, go away!’,
or when out in the field, comments such as ‘this guy brings bad luck.Whenever he’s here we always
have trouble’ were made. These were emphasized to create an unwelcoming atmosphere and
suggest the researcher was a burden.
When I arrived, the main chief said they would call me ‘Professor’ so that I would gain
respect from the team. I thought this was a little excessive, but it became clear during the
process that some officers were pretty pissed with me being there and in fact, anything
that could help me earn respect in this setting was a necessity. I found out that there was
56
an officer who hated having outsiders in the unit. In the 6 months I stayed there, on sev-
eral occasions he asked me to leave the room in a rash manner. Sometimes I would say
‘Hi’ to him and he would simply ignore me. On other occasions, he was very aggressive;
yelling and swearing at me and telling me that I was not welcome. Later, other police
officers said he was ‘totally nuts’ and I should just ignore him. But the accumulation of
these incidents had made me feel like an intruder. I felt so bad that eventually I decided
to leave this unit and carry out fieldwork in another police unit.
When researching Bridgeville prison, the majority of time was spent in their industries
department (where privately contracted work took place), splitting time between four key
workshops. Each workshop had 2 instructors (Bridgeville employees), and approximately 30
prisoners. In one of these workshops, hostility from one instructor was felt immediately. He
was not happy about having an outsider in his workshop and made this explicitly clear.
The instructor, Dennis, regularly made snide remarks about having an outsider in the
workshop. He regularly berated the men in the workshop for talking to Jenna and told them
that he was going to have her removed from the workshop (even though he was not in a
position to do this). When questioned about this, he would brush these off as ‘just a joke’.
The time spent in this workshop was tense, uncomfortable and emotionally draining. On
one occasion, after a day of dodging uncomfortable, sexualized comments that were humili-
ating and embarrassing, the fieldwork day ended with Jenna in a broken-down car in a lay-by,
sobbing, and not wanting to return the next day to work alongside this instructor.
I had smiled all day, grateful that I was allowed access to the workshop, I brushed off
the awkward, sexualized comments he made (Dennis constantly suggested that I was
‘flirting’ with participants), sometimes even laughing them off, but usually the laughing
was to hide the humiliation and embarrassment I was feeling. On this day, I was physically
and emotionally drained by the time the prisoners packed up and went back to their cells
at 5 pm as Dennis had spent the whole day working hard to intimidate me and make me
feel small. I walked to my car in the cold, wet pitch-black evening and started to drive
the forty-minute commute home. Within fifteen minutes my car broke down. I pulled
into a lay-by and just sat and cried. I rang my mum, and continued to cry, rant, and rage
about Dennis’s treatment that day and how difficult he was making my fieldwork. It was
the build-up of a long day smiling and laughing and pretending that none of this was a
big deal.
The accumulation of these incidents made us both feel like intruders during our data
collection. As previous researchers have already learnt, a researcher’s identity, as well as the
power dynamics in the field, can have a serious impact on access negotiations, not just at the
gate, but repeatedly when renegotiating at an individual level with participants in the field
(Burns, 2016). These experiences made us uncomfortable and anxious and, in fact, the build-
up of this fear and negative emotions actually contributed to both of our decisions to leave the
field when we did. The fear and experience of rejection can become too much at times and
we can’t always simply smile and take the hit. Despite feeling uncomfortable and stressed about
57
rejection we also realized that this is a valuable aspect of research that we learned a lot from.
Experiencing rejection from participants such as Dennis forced Jenna to reflect on gender
in the research setting, the use of humour in the field as well as the different types of prison
employees and their relationships with prisoners and all of these topics then became a large
part of her writing and analysis of the field. Thus, rejection stimulated useful and thoughtful
analysis of our data.
In presenting these more uncomfortable experiences of fieldwork we hope to highlight
the fact that, most often our responses and reactions, our behaviours and the choices we make
are made in the field. We do not always get to have in-depth discussions with supervisors
or colleagues about what would be the best thing to do in each situation; instead we make
these decisions in the moment. Sometimes we will make good calls, and other times we will
wish we handled situations differently, and this is a normal part of the fieldwork process. The
researcher will (likely) be entering into an environment where observers are not normally
present and where the individuals in that community are probably unaccustomed to some-
body paying such close attention to their actions.There will be a pressure to develop authentic
bonds of trust and yet it is vital that the project does not simply become a performative and
manipulative role-play. Taken together, this creates a large emotional burden on the ethnog-
rapher. But, as time passes, the more experience you have doing fieldwork, the more you learn
to understand these things can happen while doing research. If considered in the right way,
being aware of and including the emotional responses that the ethnographer feels about the
participating community could be transformative for the project (we will go into detail on
how a little later). Trying to build these relationships can be scary, particularly when they do
not work out as planned, but this is all a part of the inherent risk in ethnographic research.
Not all risks pay off; not all relationship building in field work has the ‘happy ending’ that we
all envision, and this can lead to uncomfortable and anxiety inducing experiences in research.
Fear and risk following us out of the field

We often assume ‘the field’ is simply a place we go, somewhere static and stationary that com-
pletely misses the complexity of the spaces we consume and how the field most often extends
beyond the physicality of the field. In fact, experience tells us that the field does not simply
stay in the field. Knott (2019: 140) argues that it is important to consider the fluid nature of the
field as ethical dilemmas often take place outside the physical site of data extraction but that
these are overlooked or sidelined in favour of ethical questions that arise in the field. As such
she suggests that we have a duty to consider the questions of ethics that arise beyond the field.
The researcher is often considered more as a ‘tool’ in ethnographic research –able to
input and extract themselves from the field without moral dilemma or concern. Of course,
the reality is far more complex, and far more emotional. Ethnography is not a methodology
in which you close the door and leave it behind at the end of the day, where you switch off
and life continues (see Monties, Chapter 11, for further discussion on exiting the field). This
aspect of fieldwork is often glossed over, making it seem as though it is a very standard, simple
process. In fact, leaving the field in the field is tough. It can seep into all other aspects of life,
affecting us both in and out of the field, and it even has the potential to impact those around
us too. Using our own experiences, we will highlight how this can sometimes materialize,
particularly when researching high-r isk research settings; the fear and anxiety experienced can
follow us even after our data collection is completed.
58
Despite the prison being considered a particularly risky research setting, during the
collection of data, Bridgeville in fact felt like a safe space. Having built a good relation-
ship with the majority of prisoners, the fieldwork experience was enjoyable; the people, the
conversations, the jokes; obviously there were difficulties but whilst being physically present
in the field, safety was rarely a concern. It was actually on leaving the field, handing keys
in and stepping out of the prison gates, that this fear would set in. Panic about comments
made during the day materialized, worrying that they had upset or annoyed anyone. Several
participants would often talk in detail about their burglary tactics –where they would go,
what they would steal and how they would steal it. The fear that resulted from listening to
these conversations manifested itself outside of the field; triple checking doors were locked
and waking up at night to recheck these. The knowledge obtained during fieldwork had
provided a new insight into a world altogether quite scary, leading to fear and anxiety after
every fieldwork visit. This fear led to a real battle of conscience; the purpose of this research
was to provide these men with a voice, to humanize their experiences and to move away
from the negative media rhetoric that painted any individual as deserving of punishment.
Feeling intimidated whilst desperately not wanting to feel intimidated in this setting, with
these individuals was a tricky emotional experience in researching Bridgeville. But the fear
and anxiety grew to such an extent that it became a contributing factor for rounding up the
data collection. On the final day observing Bridgeville, during discussions with a group of
participants they provided some surprising revelations, explaining quite proudly, like cunning
detectives ‘we know where you live, we know what your parents do for a living and we know
who robbed your parents business last year’.
This experience shows how fieldwork does not end in the field, and the emotions that
follow us, in this case fear, anxiety and stress, follow us home. As a result, we often lose safe
spaces due to the immersive nature of ethnography as we become a part of the field, so we
never get to leave.
I was often surprised at how comfortable I was in this setting. Even prison staff would
laugh and comment on how comfortable I seemed in prison. But, in the evening I would
sit at home and panic over comments that I had made that day. Did I upset anyone? Did
I offend anyone? Did I disclose too much information? I felt vulnerable when I walked out-
side the prison gates. I spent many an evening anxiously going over conversations in my
head to check I had said the ‘right’ thing in the ‘right’ way. I wondered whether prisoners
would treat me with the same courtesy outside prison as they did inside prison. During
my fieldwork, often participants were friendly, helpful and warm towards me but on
occasion, discussions would arise that would remind me of where I was. For example, on
several occasions some individuals would divulge information about their burglary tactics
to me and others. They would sit with me and swap stories about their best strategies
related to open bedroom windows, where in the house the valuables were kept and other
‘top tips’. Whilst these conversations did not bother me whilst I was inside Bridgeville,
they did play on my mind when I left, particularly when these things were talked about so
casually. These feelings were exacerbated when a number of prisoners found out where
I lived. I thought I had managed to make it to the end of my fieldwork without this
information coming out, but on my last day, it became clear that this information was
59
common knowledge in Bridgeville. A small number of individuals had managed to work

this information out and it had spread to all of the workshops. My heart sank. This conver-
sation was followed with ‘but don’t worry, we won’t rob you’, but unfortunately this did
not ease my fear. I panicked because I realized that I had not only put myself in danger, a
risk I knew I was taking from the beginning of my research, I had put my family in danger;
participants knew where my parents lived and I felt responsible for putting them in this
position, and the anxiety of potentially dangerous people knowing more information
about me than I was aware of, and how quickly this had spread, was quite frightening.
This was also evident in researching the police force and spending prolonged periods
of time observing criminals and assessing criminal behaviour. The police techniques and
behaviours learned in the field became a part of everyday life outside of the field. The worry,
stress and anxiety of being a police officer transferred to the researcher and even to life away
from the research. In regular social situations outside of work, behaviours began to change
that resulted in an increase in suspicion, wariness and mistrust. For example, in socialising with
friends and family, a greater awareness of surroundings, and the behaviours of others meant
that at times, social experiences instead became stressful and not enjoyable. The experiences
of fieldwork led to an increase in fear and anxiety outside of the field, often due to a constant
assessment of risk in daily life, not just in research.This became default behaviour and was hard
to shake off. This is made clearer in the specific examples identified in the following vignette.
After spending a prolonged period of time observing and participating in police activity,
I realized that, even when I was not in the field, I started to adopt the behaviours of a
police officer. When going to restaurants and pubs I always avoided sitting with my back
to the door; I needed a clear view of entrances and exits to be comfortable and I wanted
to be able to see who was coming and going. This same behaviour, being ‘on edge’,
also took over when entering my apartment building car park or when stopping at traffic
lights when driving in my car; I would look around to see if there were any ‘suspicious’
behaviour or people that might threaten, hurt or attack me. On days that I just wanted to
relax and hang out with friends, these feelings would take over and spoil the experience.
For example, on one occasion when hanging out at the beach with a group of friends,
I noticed a group of men near to us who looked quite suspicious. I had learnt to spot sus-
picious behaviour during my fieldwork, and I couldn’t shake this off when out of the field.
On assessing the situation –looking at the type of tattoos of the individuals and the way
they were talking I deduced that they were involved in criminal activity and I no longer
felt comfortable sitting so near to them at the beach. I became so anxious that I ended up
having to leave the beach early for fear that something dangerous was going to happen.
Moreover, as has already been hinted, the buck does not stop with us; our research can also
impact our loved ones too. In researching Bridgeville prison, participants not only found out
where Jenna lived, they also found out where her family lived and where her parents worked,
exposing not only the researcher but also the loved ones. Likewise, in researching the police,
60
Rafael’s mother was very concerned and kept asking ‘when will you finish this police research?!
This is very dangerous!’. Our family’s concern for our safety and well-being meant that risky
data collection was stressful for them too. It is clear from these narratives that, particularly
when entering a dangerous environment, as researchers, we cannot leave the field in the field.
It follows us. Many researchers have acknowledged the emotional toll that fieldwork can take
on us (Vincett, 2018; Mazzetti, 2016; Brannan, 2014) and this is not something that simply
vanishes when we turn the key to our front door and kick our shoes off. Vincett (2018)
advocates creating a ‘self-care plan’ to avoid these experiences taking too much of a toll on
her mental health.
We have provided candid insight into our experiences of being in the field and the emotions
felt in developing (or being unable to develop) relationships as well as the impact that data
collection has on us even when we are not in the field. In the following sections we attempt
to move beyond simply indulgently telling stories of the field and argue that these discussions
of our emotional ethnographic experiences in completing high-r isk fieldwork should become
routine in both our writing and our conversation.
So why talk about this?

Why are we exposing ourselves as vulnerable during our fieldwork? Why are we telling stories
about ourselves that present us as imperfect researchers who experience fear and at times
become overwhelmed by the risks we have taken? We believe that there are three key reasons
for doing this; first, to expose the difficult sides of our fieldwork to better prepare novice
ethnographers for entering the field; second, the analysis of our own emotions, particularly
feelings of fear, anxiety and stress, allows us to learn more about the communities we study;
and, finally, to go some way towards normalizing some of these emotions so that we might
begin to reduce the anxiety that comes with considering the ethics of ethnographic research
for us personally and also more bureaucratically related to our university ethics committees.
Below we will discuss each of these in turn.
1. Removing the rose-tinted glasses for the benefit of novice researchers
The early career researcher would benefit greatly from learning from others’ mistakes (or
triumphs) and may feel better equipped to deal with the challenges they may encounter. We
agree with Browne’s (2013) position regarding enhanced transparency, given that ethnographers
in high-risk situations may face hazards throughout their involvement with communities,
especially those who use their body as a research tool. A pivotal reason for discussing our
experiences of fear and risk in fieldwork is to work towards normalizing these experiences.
This will go some way towards reducing anxiety over feelings of imposter syndrome and it
also has the potential of improving our mental well-being throughout the research process;
safety in the field should not just be about the physical health and safety but our mind and soul
too. In our experiences, discussing the examples outlined above at conferences and within our
communities has led to sighs of relief from early career researchers and PhD students. In fact,
in organizing a stream for the ethnography symposium entitled ‘Ethnography and Emotions’,
we received one of the highest responses of all streams at the conference; researchers want
to talk about these issues to find out if what they were experiencing was OK or ‘normal’.
Therefore, we believe it is our job as ethnographers to normalize that which is often not
61
considered normal. What is presented in final documents is an image of a researcher who

is calm, collected and controlled –one who may have experienced some minor discom-
fort during particularly hairy moments, but was ultimately able to step out from this. Several
researchers have commented on the problematics of this tendency (Lagalisse, 2010; Warden,
2013; Sutherland et al., 2013), in that it is dishonest, and with denial potentially causing the
researcher some psychological damage.
What kind of message are we sending to those entering academia if we are hiding these
experiences from our written texts? If we are not ‘admitting’ to the experiences of fear in
high-r isk fieldwork, we are continuing the cycle of treating these experiences as beyond the
scope of our research, as ‘unprofessional’ or as personal weakness.
Several ethnographers suggest strategies for managing risk and uncomfortable situations in
the field. For example, in researching alcohol-based sporting subcultures, Palmer (2010) pre-
prepared excuses to leave if she felt uncomfortable at any stage of the interview (e.g. claiming
her tape-recorder was not working). She had also agreed coded messages with colleagues that
she could use over the phone to alert them to her danger. Sluka (1990, 1995) advocates reflec-
tion on what an ‘acceptable’ level of risk might be. He includes a suggestion that fieldworkers
should always have a ‘plan of escape’, allowing them to extricate themselves from the field
should direct physical threats arise. However, this is not always easily achievable, and often
risk is not so ‘explicit’ or easy to escape from, for example, Belousov et al. (2007) could not
easily escape their fieldwork because some of the researchers in the project were a part of the
community they were studying.Whilst we think the discussion of strategies for managing risk
is important within the academic community, we argue that discussion may not always have
to provide strategies for coping; these conversations do not always need to be solution-based.
Often, open discussion is important in itself, to raise awareness of the risks we as ethnographers
put ourselves in, all in the name of research. This open discussion can expose the realities of
fieldwork to new and early career researchers.
We suggest that we need to utilize the academic community to provide safe places to dis-
cuss these types of issues and our emotions in the field. A starting point is to avoid making
these experiences invisible and instead bringing them to the forefront, both in our discussion
of the field and in our writing about the field. In the following section, we will emphasize the
need to include this in our writing to better our analysis.
2. For learning about communities and enhancing our analysis

Delamont (2007) levels a number of critiques at reflexive (particularly auto-ethnographic)
writing. She argues that not only is it lazy and over-familiar, but it also focuses on the powerful
and not the powerless as sociologists are a privileged group, and thus we are focusing our
sociological gaze on people on the wrong side of the lens. This is a particularly crucial argu-
ment to understand in the context of fear and risk in fieldwork. Indeed, Juris (2008) notes
that elements of danger come from the fact that those under study are experiencing risk and
peril first-hand, regularly as the oppressed rather than the oppressors –indigenous groups,
homeless, prisoners, activists, minority groups and workers. Here, it could be seen as the duty
of the ethnographer to bring these tales to the forefront –to expose the stories and struggles
of the powerless with the aim of raising awareness of the troubles of such communities. At
first, this seems like a potentially impossible critique to respond to, without further exposing
ourselves as overly privileged and naïve. However, it is our sincere belief that reporting on,
62
acknowledging and accepting the existence of emotional upheaval is important to help us

understand the experiences of those we are researching; ethnography is not a neutral and
emotion-free endeavour. Diphoorn (2012: 202) argues that scholars need to depict the emo-
tional, ethical and moral dilemmas inherent to ethnographies as more than ‘predicaments’ we
find ourselves in, but instead as ‘essential building blocks of analysis of the research setting’.
Alongside researchers such as Diphoorn (2012) and Nilan (2002), we argue that documenting
deeply personal stories, tales and emotional experiences can provide ‘immensely rich and
valuable, as well as politically significant, sources of data’ (Nilan, 2002: 382).
Our emotions in the field often tell us more about the field than we give them credit
for. For example, in a previous example we introduced the fear and anxiety experienced
when personal information about the researcher became common knowledge in Bridgeville
prison –this alone tells us more about Bridgeville than we would know without interro-
gating these emotions. This particular scenario provided us with insight into how quickly
information in prison travels; it tells us about prison networks and how new information is
exciting and useful to deter boredom in prison. Diphoorn (2012) argues that we must recog-
nize that emotions are crucial empirical data and are interrelated to other data that we regard
as knowledge.
[E]‌motionally charged experiences should be analysed as crucial components of the

gathered data. Although it is straining for the researcher and the researched, participation
obliges us to experience emotions—and when understanding them, reflecting on them,
and analysing them, we acquire a more enriched grasp of the research setting.
(Diphoorn, 2012: 220)
Diphoorn (2012) distinguishes between both shared and unshared emotions and
encourages researchers to acknowledge both. Shared emotions refer to the emotions that
are experienced both by the researcher and the participants; drawing on these thus can tell
us more about the participants’ experiences. In the examples presented above we allude to
the shared emotion of fear; the fear experienced by the researcher is certainly going to be
an emotion shared by many of the men in prison whose personal information can also be
spread amongst fellow inmates, with potentially far greater consequences. When the purpose
of ethnography is to provide an understanding of the experiences of our participants, experi-
encing these emotions first-hand (even to a lesser extent) can go some way to improving
our understanding. Unshared emotions are those that are experienced by the researcher
but not necessarily the participants. Both types of emotions count as empirical data as even
those unshared emotions are not detached experiences from the more analytical data; when
reflected upon they are illuminating and interconnected to other data that we regard as
knowledge (Diphoorn, 2012).
Bonner and Tolhurst (2002: 3–4) note that researchers who are ‘socially situated’ and ‘emo-
tionally invested’ often have a greater understanding of the culture being studied and are
therefore able to ‘bring more to the table’ when analysing events. Therefore, if we are to con-
sider such participative methods, it would seem wasteful not to provide equal importance to
the reflexive practice of the researcher. Researchers may find themselves being taken out of
their comfort zones and offered a real and authentic experience (however brief and fleeting)
of what it is really like to live as a certain culture and the implicit ‘rules of the game’ that life
is governed by. In this sense, acknowledging our genuine reactions goes some way to creating
63
a more honest, transparent and representative account of the community, rather than only
writing ‘in’ the parts that portray us as all-knowing connoisseurs.
3. For rethinking ethics and risk in the bureaucratic process of ethnography
Normalizing our emotional experiences of the field has the potential to have both nega-
tive and positive consequences for managing the process of research ethics in ethnographic
research. On one hand, we can imagine that it will lead to panic amongst ethics boards
(coming from someone who sits on a university ethics committee). University ethics
committees have a tendency to be overly cautious and often struggle with the unknown
and constantly developing nature of ethnography (Atkinson, 2009). Sluka (2018) identifies
that anthropologists and ethnographers have had particular difficulty with ethics committees
because the committees are often based on biomedical or laboratory models of research ethics
which are not well suited for application to qualitative or fieldwork-based research approaches.
Sluka (2018) is particularly critical of the underlying ethos or attitude of such boards which
he finds to lack trust and confidence in researchers. He argues that ethics boards suggest
that researchers cannot be fully trusted and their work requires deep ethical and safety scru-
tiny and management oversight, including that they cannot be trusted to make their own
informed, independent decisions regarding accepting and managing risk in their fieldwork.
This highlights the difficulties that researchers often have in balancing their emotional well-
being with harming their likelihood of being allowed to collect data. If we expose ourselves as
feeling vulnerable, will ethics committees decide we are not safe to conduct research, despite
the fact that (we think), almost everyone feels vulnerable in the field at one point or another?
Moreover, research that requires some level of vulnerability or risk often provides important
sources of knowledge for us; to deter this type of research would be detrimental to our
development of knowledge and learning. Therefore, discussion of emotions such as fear and
experiences of risk could have a negative impact on the bureaucratic barriers we have to over-
come to conduct such research. But conversely, if we are able to normalize these experiences
and consider more openly the dangers we may face in the field, this could in fact pave the way
for more useful and constructive ethical reviews of our research and the safety of researchers.
It may draw our attention to the fact that all research has the potential to carry risk and this
will allow us to have more open discussions about situations when things do not go as planned,
or do not go well. Surely, in the long run, this will allow us to more honestly interrogate the
ethical dilemmas of fieldwork.
Conclusion
In this chapter we have used our own experiences of being in the field to shine a light on the
uncomfortable experiences in the field, particularly the feelings of fear and risk in ethnog-
raphy. We hope that our more extreme cases help to put these experiences under a micro-
scope. Here we discuss the fear experienced in trying to build relationships with participants
in the field, facing rejection in the field as well as exploring the inevitability that we almost
never leave the field in the field. Our research and the emotions we feel are not shut down
as soon as we step into our homes or our universities. We carry those emotions with us, and
they will impact every part of our lives. Therefore, we call for the greater exposure and dis-
cussion of these emotions on three grounds: (1) to prepare new researchers for the currently
64
untold experiences and these more uncomfortable experiences of the field; (2) to enhance
our analysis and improve our learning about the communities we study; and (3) to normalize
these experiences so that we are able to use them as the basis of problem solving and for
interrogating ethical dilemmas in the field. In normalizing our experiences of fear and risk in
the field, not celebrating them or applauding them, but simply acknowledging that they are
experienced, we can move towards reducing the more negative impact they have on ourselves
and our research.
References
Atkinson, Paul. (2009). Ethics and ethnography. Twenty-First Century Society, 4(1): 17–30.
Belousov, Konstantin, Horlick-Jones,Tom, Bloor, Michael, Gilinsky,Yakov, Golbert,Valentin, Kostikovsky,
Yakov, Levi, Michael & Pentsov, Dimitri. (2007). Any port in a storm: Fieldwork difficulties in dan-
gerous and crisis-r idden settings. Qualitative Research, 7(2): 155–175.
Berger, Leigh. (2001). Inside out: Narrative autoethnography as a path toward rapport. Qualitative Inquiry,
7(4): 540–518.
Bonner, Ann & Tolhurst, Gerda. (2002). Insider outsider perspectives of participant observation. Nurse
Researcher, 9(4): 7–19.
Brannan, M. (2014). Research as an emotional journey. In C. Clarke, M. Broussine, & L. Watts (Eds.),
Researching with Feeling:The Emotional Aspects of Social and Organizational Research. London: Routledge,
pp. 17–34.
Browne, Brendan Ciaran. (2013). Recording the personal:The benefits in maintaining research diaries for
documenting the emotional and practical challenges of fieldwork in unfamiliar settings. International
Journal of Qualitative Methods, 12: 420–435.
Burns, Emily. (2016). ‘Thanks, but no thanks’: Ethnographic fieldwork and the experience of rejection
from a new religious movement. Fieldwork in Religion, 10(2): 190–208.
Cunliffe, Ann. L. and Alcadipani, Rafael. (2016).The politics of access in fieldwork: Immersion, backstage
dramas, and deception. Organizational research methods, 19(4): 535–561.
Delamont, Sara. (2007). Arguments against autoethnography. Qualitative Researcher, 4: 2–4.
Diphoorn, Tessa. (2012). The emotionality of participation: Various modes of participation in ethno-
graphic fieldwork on private policing in Durban, South Africa. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography,
42(2): 201–225.
Duncombe, Jean & Jessop, Julie. (2002). ‘Doing rapport’ and the ethics of ‘faking friendship’. In M.
Mauthner, M. Birch, J. Jessop & T. Miller (Eds.), Ethics in Qualitative Research. London: Sage.
Godfrey, Richard. (2016). Soldiering on: Exploring the role of humor as a disciplinary technology in the
military. Organization, 23(2): 164–183.
Juris, Jeffrey S. (2009). Networking Futures: The Movements against Corporate Globalisation. Charlotte,
NC: Duke University Press.
Knott, Eleanor. (2019). Beyond the Field: Ethics after Fieldwork in Politically Dynamic Contexts.
Perspectives on Politics, 17(1): 140–153.
Kulick, Don. (1995). The sexual life of anthropologists: Erotic subjectivity and ethnographic work
taboo: Sex, identity and erotic subjectivity. In D. Kulick & M.Willsonm (Eds.), Taboo: Sex, Identity, and
Erotic Subjectivity in Anthropological Fieldwork. London: Routledge, pp. 1–28.
Lagalisse, Erica Michelle. (2010).The limits of radical democracy:A gender analysis of anarchist collectives
in Montreal. Alterites, 7(1): 19–38.
Lee, Raymond M. (1995). Dangerous Fieldwork. London: Sage.
Lindberg, Annika & Eule, Tobias Georg. (2020). Organisational ethnography as a project of unease.
Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 9(2): 237–247.
Mazzetti, Angela. (2016). An exploration of the emotional impact of organisational ethnography. Journal
of Organizational Ethnography, 5(1): 304–316.
65
Muller,Thaddeus. (2018). ‘You are not allowed to be here…’: Ethnography of rejection, shame, and hurt.
In Steven W. Kleinknecht, Lisa-Jo K. van den Scott & Carrie B. Sanders (Eds.), The Craft of Qualitative
Research: A Handbook. Canada: Canadian Scholars.
Nilan, Pamela. (2002). Dangerous fieldwork re-examined: The question of researcher subject position.
Qualitative Research, 2(3): 363–386.
Russell, Lisa. (2005). It’s a question of trust: Balancing the relationship between students and teachers in
ethnographic fieldwork. Qualitative Research, 5: 181–199.
Salecl, Renata. (2004). On Anxiety. London: Routledge.
Sluka, Jeffrey, Alan. (1990). Participant- observation in violent social contexts. Human Organization,
49(2): 114–126.
Sluka, Jeffrey, Alan. (2018).Too dangerous for fieldwork? The challenge of institutional risk-management
in primary research on conflict, violence and ‘terrorism’. Contemporary Social Science, 10(3): 1–17.
Sutherland, Neil, Land, Christopher & Bohm, Steffen. (2013). Anti-leaders(hip) in social movement
organisations: The case of autonomous grassroots groups. Organization, 21(6): 759–781.
Troman, Geoff. (2000). Does gender make a difference? A male researcher’s reflexive account of gen-
dered fieldwork relations in ethnographic work on stress in teaching. In G. Walford & C. Hudson
(Eds.), Genders and Sexualities in Educational Ethnography, volume 3, pp. 209–230. Oxford: JAI.
Van Maanen, John. (1988). Tales of the field: On Writing Ethnography. Chicago, IL: The University of
Chicago Press.
Vincett, Joanne. (2018). Researcher self-care in organizational ethnography: Lessons from overcoming
compassion fatigue. Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 7:44–58.
Warden,Tara. (2013). Feet of clay: Confronting emotional challenges in ethnographic experience. Journal
of Organizational Ethnography, 2(2): 150–172.
66
5
HOOSING TO REACH BEYOND
C
ACADEMIC GOALPOSTS
Ethnographer as compassionate advocate
inside an immigration detention centre
Joanne Vincett
In research methods courses, we are often taught to “get in the field, get on and get out”
(Buchanan et al., 1988). However, what happens if we are/become members of the organ-
ization we are studying and become advocates/activists regarding issues we discover in the
field and those affected by them? This chapter reflects on my personal choice to become an
advocate, grounded in compassion, concerning the social justice issues I encountered as an
ethnographer inside an immigration detention centre in England from 2016 to 2017. During
my research in direct contact with vulnerable people, my most significant ethical conundrum
was: “what do I do with the amassing data that revealed an immigration detention regime
that infringed on the human rights and dignity of vulnerable people?” Although I had mainly
intended to investigate what volunteers “do” when they visited immigration detainees, what
I discovered about the detention regime in which volunteers must perform their work was
shocking and disconcerting. By no means was I the first to ever discern this (see Bosworth
and Kellezi, 2017), but as I sat alongside detainees and listened to their plight, it was diffi-
cult to remain solely an observer of the effects of the government’s dispassionate process of
detaining migrants and asylum seekers. Most detainees I met often had no prospect of immi-
nent removal/deportation, which seemed to me to create vulnerability and mental health
problems as they waited, incarcerated, with uncertainty. Repeatedly witnessing these practices
by the state drove me to engage in advocacy activities during fieldwork, similar to the actions
of researchers who participated in Maier and Monahan’s (2009, p. 18) study on qualitative
researchers studying deviant populations. Their participants stressed “the importance of advo-
cating for those whose lives researchers are exploring” and emphasized the need for stronger
activism from the research community (Maier and Monahan, 2009, p. 18).
While Maier and Monahan (2009) highlight researchers’ advocacy activities as one of the
ways they “gave back” to participants who were in disadvantaged positions, my point is not
about reciprocity. Grounded in compassion and moral responsibility, as privileged academics
we have an explicit choice whether or not to take the extra step and associated risks to expose
the horrific realities that we may learn about from our experiences first-hand in the field.
Moreover, as ethnographers taking a membership approach in highly politicized or sensitive
research contexts, we often have an in-depth and multi-faceted view of the field after having
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-6
67
Reaching beyond academic goalposts 67
spent extensive time immersed there (e.g.Warden, 2013;Weller, 2021, Chapter 3 in this book).
For me, this privilege came with an ethical responsibility in which I asked myself, could I tol-
erate being inactive despite the pull to act? In addition, on a practical level, could I cope with
the extra work? However, remaining silent and not revealing the dark side of participants’ and
my lived experiences or not amplifying the voices of those we befriended felt morally wrong.
During my research in direct contact with vulnerable people, I became increasingly sup-
portive of researcher advocacy and activism through ethnography.The unexpected path I took
is not the standard route taken by most academic researchers, especially in a business school.
Advice on how to face uncomfortable emotions, predicaments and opportunities that may
arise in undertaking advocacy and activism-related activities during, or as a result of, their
fieldwork is not something covered in depth in academic textbooks, lectures or literature.
This chapter aims to address this shortcoming. It specifically focuses on the challenges and
opportunities that ethnographers may encounter if they choose to begin a journey towards
incorporating advocacy or activism in their research.
I begin with a brief background on researchers and scholars’ roles in undertaking advocacy
and activism-related activities during or as a result of their fieldwork. Then, I give an over-
view of the ethnographic context and “complete membership” approach (Adler and Adler,
1987) that I took to explore the work of the voluntary organization Yarl’s Wood Befrienders
(YWB). I was a volunteer befriender and trustee in the emotionally and politically charged
space of Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre where my observations as a participant
took place. Next, I reflect on the methodological and ethical quandaries and opportunities
that arose as I became an advocate, underpinned by compassion, endeavouring to engage
the public and influence change in the immigration detention system. Finally, I conclude by
arguing that the choice to be/come an advocate or activist is a highly personal one to consider
along with the implications of this choice. However, the discoveries made from leveraging this
privileged and engaged position have the potential to contribute to new academic knowledge,
as well as to spur positive change to societal issues. Moreover, compassion combined with
advocacy has the potential to make a formidable impact in research and practice.
Advocacy, activism and scholarship

The terms “activism” and “advocacy” are often used interchangeably and although similar
in their concern for social justice or social change, their meanings and associated activities
and actors have been debated across different contexts. In general, advocacy refers to “ ‘giving
voice’ […] to the articulation of people’s viewpoints, and often those that are not commonly
heard or which are alternative to the mainstream” (Kenny et al., 2017, p. 46). Some examples
of these unheard or unnoticed voices are marginalized, minority, disadvantaged, disabled, vul-
nerable or incarcerated groups in society. From a public health perspective, Smith and Stewart
(2017, p. 36) argue that this notion of advocacy in scholarship is “facilitational”, participatory
and inclusive to those groups who may be overlooked in research and policy decisions. In
their literature review of public health advocacy activities, they point out that the broadly
accepted view of “academic advocacy” is not merely about researchers working independently
or together with policymakers to resolve public health issues (Smith and Stewart, 2017). It
involves participatory research methods, continuous relationship-building and research dis-
semination that engages diverse audiences, such as presentations, events, non-academic outputs
and articles in the media (Smith and Stewart, 2017).
68
68 Joanne Vincett
Blurring the lines of what may be considered advocacy, academic activism, also referred to
as activist scholarship, suggests going beyond advocacy’s intentions of giving voice to taking a
proactive role in creating or influencing change. Academic activists aim to generate criticism
on and attention to particular social, environmental or other pressing issues and engaging
with the public, third sector activist groups, political groups or policymakers. By highlighting
these issues on policy, public and research agendas, they intend to bring about improvements
(Calhoun, 2008).Yet, academic activism can also be understated or disguised under categories
such as “action research, participatory action research, collaborative research, grounded theory,
public intellectual work, engaged research” (Hale, 2008, p. 3). Hale (2008, p. 2) argues that
much of the academic research conducted that does not explicitly state its grounding in
activism rests on the conventional fear that combining scholarship and social justice can com-
promise methodological rigour, and even lead to career damage.Therefore, social science post-
graduate students and early career researchers are often advised to contain their politics and
keep their advocacy or activism-related work in their spare time (Brodkey, 1987; Hale, 2008).
However, activist scholarship has long remained “a practice from the margins” of academic
institutions (Hale, 2008, p. 3). For example, even with Doll and Hill’s striking findings on the
increase in mortality from lung cancer as a person smoked more cigarettes daily (Doll and Hill,
1956), Hill’s view was that, as a researcher, his role was not to inform or influence the public
about their behaviour change. Despite knowing the adverse effects on people’s health, he
feared being labelled a “propagandist” or having their research discredited. Hill (1971) stated:
Any education aimed at changing habits must to some degree smack of propaganda even
in the best sense of that word, and if the researcher is at all identified with propaganda
any further results that he may publish will be suspect and accepted with scepticism….
(p. 57)
Indeed, this presents an ethical question of whether or not researchers should remain silent
about crucial information they discover and if this reticence privileges their reputation over
the public’s well-being.
On the opposite end of the spectrum to Hill’s view, researchers more vocal in disclosing
the humanitarian tragedies discovered in their fieldwork, such as Myrna Mack, have had dev-
astating consequences. As a well-established anthropologist in Guatemala, Mack was studying
the government’s forced displacement of indigenous communities in the 1980s (Committee
on Human Rights, 2003). She maintained her pursuit to uncover the atrocities of the region
and joked to visiting researchers, “If we publish, we perish” (Oglesby, 1995, p. 255). In the
dangerous environment where she worked, there were grave risks in giving voice to the
marginalized people she came to know. Shortly after publishing a report in 1990, she was
murdered by Guatemalan military intelligence officers. Other reflections on handling fatal
dangers in the field remind us of the choices we have in how far we engage and commit to
ethnography and activism, such as by Alcadipani in a Brazilian Homicide Unit (see Chapter 4
in this book) and by Hermez (2011) studying former militia fighters during a war in Lebanon.
Fortunately, they lived to share with us their critical analysis, findings and lessons learned about
some of the political, emotional and ethical challenges they faced.
Despite the possible violent or lethal consequences of undertaking academic advocacy or
activist activities, Calhoun argues that activist scholarship has extensive benefits. It not only
helps social movements or certain communities develop by providing technical expertise, but
69
it also helps progress social science through academics and researchers confronted with new
ways of thinking and doing things and learning from these communities (Calhoun, 2008,
p. xxv). This learning is made possible through qualitative research methods that position
research participants as the experts or interlocutors, not “subjects” who are passively observed,
and researchers as active learners or participants (Hale, 2008, p. 4). From an organizational and
ethnographic research perspective, by not enriching the literature we miss the opportunity to
share and apply lessons learned from organizational ethnographies and to better understand
organizational life and ways to study it. We also undermine the research impact that organiza-
tional ethnography can have on tackling social issues.
The research context and methods

My initial curiosity about the immigration detention space and its occupants stemmed from
my experience inadvertently detained, as a tourist, in Yarl’s Wood nine years prior to begin-
ning my study. My guiding exploratory research question was “To what extent do volunteers
practice compassion when befriending immigration detainees?” I took a “complete-member-
researcher” ethnographic approach to my study (Adler and Adler, 1987) and although it could
be considered a critical ethnography (Madison, 2012), this is not what I intended from the
outset. Nor did I work together with YWB at the beginning of my research to address organ-
isational areas that they wanted to better understand or improve, which could be considered
an action research approach (Coghlan and Shani, 2008). The research question evolved
throughout the ethnography as I learned more about the charity and the politics inherent
in the detention context. Sparked by my traumatic personal experience, I allowed my field-
work to drive what started as a qualitative enquiry, to what later became a “social justice
commitment” to build public awareness of this hidden social space (Denzin, 2017, pp. 8–9).
The empirical research context of immigration detention in the United Kingdom (UK)
is brimming with social injustices that remain mostly unnoticed, partly due to the concealed
nature of the detention estate. Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre (hereafter “Yarl’s
Wood”) is one of seven immigration removal centres (IRC) across the UK; it is remotely
located in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Bedford, England. It was purpose-built
in 2001 under the Labour Party government as part of its plan to expand the detention
estate in order to escalate the removal of asylum seekers who were deemed “not genuine”
(Straw, 1998; McFadyen, 2016). Yarl’s Wood is the main centre for detaining foreign national
women, but also has a family unit and a short-term holding unit for men. At the time of
data collection, in 2016, the average monthly occupancy was 302 detainees (Independent
Monitoring Board, 2017).
Touching on human rights, the UK is the only country in Europe where the government
can detain foreign nationals for immigration purposes, not on criminal grounds, with no statu-
tory maximum time limit. Moreover, under Home Office policy, people can be detained with
no prior notice or fixed date as to when they will leave detention or how, either released into
the community or removed from the country. Despite the Home Office’s intentions to detain
then remove them, only 23% of detainees in Yarl’s Wood were actually removed from the UK
in 2017 (Independent Monitoring Board, 2018). This discrepancy has raised questions about
the government’s purpose of detention, in the first instance, from pressure groups, formal
monitoring bodies, academics and legal and medical professionals (Bosworth and Turnbull,
2015; Campbell, 2017; Lindley, 2017). In addition, the trauma and uncertainty that people
70
70 Joanne Vincett
experience from these detention practices lead to the question of whether the State is creating
mental health problems for those detained and their loved ones.
Concerned local residents near detention centres have led to the formation of volunteer
visitor groups to support the mental health and well-being of detainees, such as YWB, the
participating organization in my ethnography. However, it is important to first acknowledge
the interwoven array of political relationships between the voluntary, public and commer-
cial sectors in the Yarl’s Wood setting. The government has contracted the duty of care for
detainees and operations to private multinational corporations, that is, Serco for overall cus-
todial management and operations, G4S for healthcare and Tascor for escorting detainees to/
from Yarl’s Wood. To complement statutory services, charities and voluntary groups organize
detainee support services concerning mental health and legal services, but they are reliant on
maintaining amicable relationships with the Home Office and Serco senior management for
access to detainees. Although Serco’s senior managers have recognized that befrienders relieve
pressure on their staff and fill a gap in services, their preponderant power can prohibit any
individual from entering the Centre or discontinue a charity’s services overall (see Milbourne,
2013, for a critical view of “collaborative” voluntary sector–state hegemonic partnerships in
the UK).
Despite the hierarchical structure in which the charity must operate, in 2016– 2017,
befrienders supported 222 women through their visiting scheme who were detained for an
average of 95 days (Yarl’s Wood Befrienders, 2017). About half of the women were asylum
seekers and many arrived at Yarl’s Wood with little to no personal belongings and traumatic
histories. Befrienders typically meet women who are victims of torture, gender-based vio-
lence, human trafficking, modern slavery or female genital mutilation, ex-offenders, or mothers
separated from their children. Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, feelings of depression and anxiety
are common amongst detainees due to uncertainty of their futures and distressing experiences
prior to or since their confinement (Kellezi and Bosworth, 2016; Shaw, 2016). Detainees often
have difficulty forming and maintaining social relationships inside detention, perpetuating the
risk of loneliness and isolation, which can lead to deteriorating mental and physical health
(Windle, Francis and Coomber, 2011) and even a higher risk of mortality (Cacioppo and
Cacioppo, 2014). Irrespective of their migration stories or reasons for being detained,YWB’s
remit is to support their well-being from being adversely affected as a result of their detention.
I became immersed in the organizational culture and practices of YWB as a volunteer
befriender in March 2016 and a trustee four months later.1 I spent nine months (from June
2016 to March 2017) co-constructing and collecting data through participant observation,
unstructured interviews and solicited participant diaries. Fieldnotes were the bulk of the data.
I spent over 105 hours of befriending nine detainees, one-to-one, in the Yarl’s Wood Visits Hall
and 145 hours involved in additional activities, for example, participating in social activities
with detainees, writing grant applications to raise funds, evaluating the charity’s social impact
and participating in YWB Board meetings and volunteer recruitment and training events.
Since volunteers’ everyday work was autonomous and mobile, I adopted other methods
to correspond with this. Conversational, unstructured interviews were conducted with 22
active members of YWB, 18 women and 4 men, ranging from three months to 16 years
of befriending experience. Interviews were conducted face-to-face in situ as much as pos-
sible, for example, in the charity’s office or together on a journey to/from Yarl’s Wood. All
interviews were audio-recorded, except one, and lasted an average of 60 minutes. I transcribed
all interviews, but not immediately afterwards, due to the emotionally draining nature of
71
fieldwork (Bosworth and Kellezi, 2017; Vincett, 2018b). Furthermore, nine out of the 22
participants maintained an optional diary for three months. This method invited additional
insights into their perceptions, experiences and taken-for-g ranted activities, but written in
their own time and space (Alaszewski, 2006). Nevertheless, continuously revisiting sensitive
stories about the detainees they befriended was mentally taxing. Extended time in the field,
transcribing interviews and analysing data can take an emotional –and physical –toll on
researchers (see Adonis’s 2020 vivid account of secondary trauma during his research with
Black South African families who experienced human rights violations).
Reflections on becoming an advocate grounded in compassion

My own befriending and research diary became a cathartic retreat and an important “safe
space” for realizing my metamorphosis from “objective” researcher to advocate (Yuen, 2011,
p. 85), despite a senior colleague warning me that advocacy was not part of my researcher
role. Yuen (2011) argues that maintaining a journal assists in embracing emotionality and
reflexivity in research with vulnerable people. In her research with indigenous women in a
Canadian prison, she developed a practice of creative writing to move beyond her “emotional
paralysis” from some of the injustices she witnessed and become an advocate for Aboriginal
female offenders (Yuen, 2011, p. 81). Like Yuen, I religiously journaled about my position
as a privileged academic and how I affected detainees’ and befrienders’ lives and, reflexively,
how they affected and transformed me. Similar to prisons, detention centres are emotionally
charged incarcerated and politicized spaces, and “research in highly emotive contexts requires
a high level of sense making and reflexivity” (Tallberg et al., 2014, p. 81). A relational and
emotional approach to reflexivity led me to incorporate my own emotions throughout the
ethnography, in relation to participants’ and other social actors (Burkitt, 2012), as emotions
became integral data in their own right (Hubbard et al., 2001). Additionally, reflexivity was
both sensitive and impactful to knowledge construction (Harris, 2001) since I returned to the
same facility where I was accidentally detained. In this section, I reflect on how I advocated
for detainees as a researcher grounded in methodological practices of compassion (Hansen and
Trank, 2016). As an ethnographer inside the befriending charity, I became a compassionate
bedrock and advocate for detainees, whilst maintaining criticality by questioning the policies
and practices of the treatment and living conditions of immigration detainees.
Although political campaigning and activism was not within YWB’s formal remit, some
members individually participated in activist and advocacy activities for the social justice of
detained migrants and asylum seekers. Generally, advocacy work from civil society remains
crucial since migrants and asylum seekers have little voice in a culture of disbelief and dis-
passion in British politics (McFadyen, 2016). Similar to how Smith (1990, p. 630) describes
voluntary organizations that provide palliative care for people living with AIDS (Acquired
Immune Deficiency Syndrome) and HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) infection as
“governed by the concept of compassion”, YWB supports immigration detainees, another
group of vulnerable people, underpinned by the same guiding principle. One of its main
aims is to restore human dignity by “listen[ing] with empathy and act[ing] with compassion”
(Yarl’s Wood Befrienders, 2018, line 3). Comparably, Alexandra Hall (2010, p. 894), an ethnog-
rapher in the area of immigration detention in the UK, points out that “compassion involves
a notion of common humanity”. These views of compassion have resemblances to sympathy
and empathy, both of which are referred to interchangeably with compassion. However, what
72
72 Joanne Vincett
distinguishes compassion from the latter terms is its shift from merely awareness and acknow-
ledgement of another’s perceived pain or vulnerability (Hariman, 2009), to a reaction or
response to relieve it. In other words, compassion rejects passivity and takes an assertive or
active stance. From an organizational perspective, I adopt the definition of compassion, rooted
in sociology (Clark, 1997; Sznaider, 1998; 2001) and later in positive organizational scholarship
(Frost, 1999; Dutton et al., 2006; Lilius et al., 2011), as an organized practice that involves the
concern for those experiencing pain or suffering and a response to (attempt to) alleviate it.
Immigration detention centres are rife with explicit and implicit suffering that can be
manifested mentally and physically in those actors who occupy these spaces. Every detainee
was psychologically affected in some way from the institution’s precarious structure, rules,
custodial staff and existence “outside time and space” (Bosworth, 2019, p. 551). Nevertheless,
misery was not limited to detainees. I would add that researchers are also affected psychologic-
ally and emotionally (see Bosworth and Kellezi, 2017), even if my problems as a researcher
were no comparison to the tribulations of those incarcerated. Contrary to detainees, I could
leave the compound at the end of the day; I did not rely on a mobile phone to communicate
with the outside world, nor did I live in a constant state of uncertainty or fear of deportation.
But it took months to come to terms with the inherent power imbalance (Gomberg-Muñoz,
2016) and emotions in doing this kind of ethnography.
Listening and talking with others about the social injustice of immigration detention
makes my blood pressure rise; I feel my heart rate getting faster, I have to bite my tongue
from saying too much about what I think and what I’ve seen. I have crossed over and
become an advocate […] I fully recognise the emotions involved in doing this research.
I am now learning to embrace it, live with it, yet not let it keep me up at night.
(Fieldnotes, 25 June 2016)
I often listened to people’s stories of seeking asylum and striving to join their family or friends
in the UK or earn a living before they were detained. I came to realize that I was not only
the ears, but also the eyes of detention as a weekly visitor of detained women. I saw the dam-
aging impact of unsympathetic policies and practices that infringed on the human dignity and
human rights of detained people, while feeling powerless to change their situations. I knew
that uncertainty and long-term detention contributed to the degradation of detainees’ mental
and physical health (Campbell, 2017; Durcan et al., 2017), such as depression, anxiety, stress,
trauma and weight loss/gain, and observed some of these ailments first-hand. However, I felt
limited in how I could attempt to assuage this. It was not surprising that I, as well as many
other volunteers, professed a sense of injustice for detainees and overall mixed feelings and
emotions.
When I’m visiting my detainee, I often feel helpless, ignorant of some immigration laws
and the asylum process, uncertain of how to respond, guilty for freely walking out and
leaving at the end of the visit. Sometimes I feel I may be used (they think I can get them
out of detention).
(Fieldnotes, 25 June 2016)
In Adonis’s (2020) research with Black South African families, he describes mixed feelings
of powerlessness to change the plight of those who continued to suffer post-apartheid,
73
or change the wider system, guilt from his privileged researcher position and anger from
people’s abhorrent behaviour towards each other. His practical recommendation to expect
and accept emotionality in highly sensitive research is essential advice for all researchers,
particularly for ethnographers who immerse themselves in the social worlds they are investi-
gating. Nonetheless, as researchers have increasingly acknowledged emotions in research and
how they have mitigated emotional involvement or fallout, we learn much less about how
researchers have advocated for those we meet in the field amidst emotional complexities. For
example, despite my feelings of injustice and powerlessness, there were times when I noticed
signs of decline in detainees’ physical and/or mental health and acted on this by signposting
them to medical charities for specialized support or contacted charities on their behalf. In
other serious incidents during fieldwork, I informed YWB staff of a detainee who admitted
to self-harming by burning herself with cigarettes; and on another occasion, I instigated
an enquiry after having a telephone conversation with a detainee the morning after she
attempted to take her own life.YWB staff members intervened by informing the Yarl’s Wood
welfare team about specific vulnerable detainees and questioned their customized care plans.
After experiencing these pleas for help, I came to realize that I was not only an observer, but
also a compassionate companion and informer monitoring the safeguarding of detainees. As
a researcher, noticing another’s pain or suffering, being concerned and responding in some
way, whether it was by listening or intervening, were choices I made to practise compassion
in my research.
Deliberate choices: potential ways to move beyond being an

“objective” researcher
Activist anthropologist Gomberg-Muñoz (2016, p. 745) reminds us that “ethnographers
choose to participate in efforts to promote social change”. From an academic standpoint,
in my dual researcher-volunteer role, I found myself inspired (and anxious) to consider how
I could individually act to advocate for people held in immigration detention and to build
public awareness about the hidden realities of their everyday lives. On the one hand, as a vol-
unteer befriender, I was in a privileged position to be in direct contact with both detainees
and those responsible for their custodial care, and to reinforce the marginalized voices of vul-
nerable people, as well as be critical of the regime. On the other hand, as a researcher, I felt a
further urge to publicly share the knowledge I gained from my first-hand experiences with
detainees. Although the injustices of detention with no time limit are not a new discovery
(Griffiths, 2013; Bosworth and Kellezi, 2017), I still was confronted with a choice: remain
silent or contribute to the ongoing argument for immigration detention reform with my
combined researcher and volunteer visitor’s perspective. Deciding on the latter, I sought to
provoke public pressure by participating in public engagement activities in written, spoken
and visual formats with a wide range of audiences. But unlike Gomberg-Muñoz (2016), my
activities did not involve participating in a political march or rally to bring undocumented
youth conversations out in the open. Nor did I join an activist group to physically prevent
people’s deportations (see Goldstein, 2014; Pallares and Gomberg-Muñoz, 2016). Comparably,
my activities were more subtle in order to avoid Yarl’s Wood management from banning my
entry to visit detainees, thus ending my research access too. The steps I took in my journey to
move beyond my position as ethnographer to advocate were opportunistic; they snowballed as
one activity often led to further opportunities.
74
74 Joanne Vincett
First, I spent time writing public blogs and articles in open access online journals that
had a wider reach and faster publication turnaround time than standard academic journals
or books. I wrote blogs for the University of Oxford’s Border Criminologies, for No Walls (part
of Duncan Lewis Solicitors Public Law Department) and for The Open University’s research
news blog Year of #Mygration. I also published an article in Discover Society and two articles
in The Conversation, linking my research on volunteer befriending in immigration deten-
tion and the social injustices faced by detainees. For the first Conversation article (see Vincett,
2018a), I was commissioned to write a piece at the peak of another “food refusal protest”
(Independent Monitoring Board, 2019, p. 5) led by a group of women detained in Yarl’s Wood.
Coincidentally, my article was published at the same time when Shadow Home Secretary
Dianne Abbott was finally granted permission to visit the Centre after the Home Office pre-
viously denied over 12 of her requests (Walker, 2017). This brought more collective media
attention to the overarching issues of immigration detention. Writing these articles was more
fulfilling than my academic papers, knowing that they would reach more readers and much
sooner, compared to academic journals, albeit predominately circulating within higher edu-
cation audiences.
In support of practitioners who sought to reform immigration detention policies,
I composed a legal statement for a public law firm’s challenge against the Home Office
on the unlawfulness of the “removal window” policy and its negative impact on detainees’
mental health. This policy allows the Home Office to give people at risk of removal a three-
month’s notice and no further details of when exactly they will be removed. I recruited
other volunteers and practitioners to also contribute written evidence of the mental distress
they witnessed detained people endure from this policy. Unfortunately, despite our collective
efforts, the law firm was unsuccessful with its legal challenge. Gomberg-Muñoz (2016) gives
similar examples of her non-academic written outputs in her activist-ethnographic work. In
her study on immigrants’ rights, she helped write marketing materials and organize workshops
for members of her participating Latino workers’ rights group in the United States (US).
Anthropologist Louise Lamphere (2018, p. 73) argues that whilst more academics acknow-
ledge the importance of engagement with social issues, there have been fewer examples
of how they have used their research to influence change especially at a policy level. She
highlights two activist anthropologists as exemplars of how they wrote alternative outputs
based on their ethnographic findings. For example, aside from publishing academic articles
and monologues, Sarah Horton wrote reports to US policymakers with recommendations for
improving agricultural workers’ conditions; Morgen, Acker and Weigt advocated for econom-
ically disadvantaged mothers who no longer could receive certain welfare disbursements after
they began working (Lamphere, 2018). Their lobbying activities and reports to policymakers,
based on their ethnographic work, aimed to change state policies.
Yet, there are other academic advocacy opportunities apart from more conventional
written outputs. For example, I also utilized visual and artistic formats in my advocacy activ-
ities. I leveraged my affiliation with The Open University, an academic institution that has
long valued inclusivity, and proposed a public exhibition in the Milton Keynes campus library,
during “Refugee Week”2 in 2018. The exhibition comprised of some of my visual data that
I had unexpectedly accumulated throughout my research. I received about 50 different pieces
of three-dimensional origami art works from Chinese detainees who often practised paper-
folding to help them cope. Detained women gave these origami pieces to me as gifts of appre-
ciation for my visits and I curated and installed a selection of them for the two-day exhibition.
75
To accompany the exhibition, I distributed an information leaflet created by an activist organ-

ization about the British detention policies that infringed on human rights. It was invigorating
to see the university, known for its distance-learning in the UK, physically become “a site for
activism” (Flood et al., 2013, p. 18).
Last, I took the opportunity to participate in speaking engagements to build public
awareness of the largely unknown social injustices of the British immigration detention
system. During Refugee Week, after the art exhibition, I organized and presented on a public
panel in Milton Keynes with a caseworker from an immigration law firm and a former
detainee to discuss the topic “Refuge or detention? Challenging the hostile reception of
asylum seekers and refugees in the UK”. Additionally, I accepted a playwright’s request for
background information about immigration detention for her production of The Scar Test,
a story about five women’s experiences in a detention centre that resembled Yarl’s Wood.
To help the director and cast prepare for their production, I met with the group in London
to share resources and some of my field notes from Yarl’s Wood. Following the success of
their tour, the playwright was commissioned in 2019 to adapt the play for a national radio
broadcast, called The Unwelcome, and I assisted with her background research again, in pursuit
of further widening the public awareness of immigration detention, this time through the
aural arts.
My feelings of fulfilment from engaging in these activities, nevertheless, also came with
waves of trepidation and doubt about whether any of my efforts even scratched the surface of
the deeply rooted social issues surrounding immigration detention in the UK. Comparable
feelings of reservation and powerlessness have also been expressed by activist-academics, such
as Checker (2014, p. 418) in her reflective, and rather pessimistic, essay about her activities as
an activist-ethnographer in environmental justice in the United States. In addition to feeling
powerless at times, I had to tame my underlying angst about jeopardizing my research access
and YWB’s access, about “attacks” from going public about my opinions of the regime and
my past experience being detained, and about not being supported by my institution or
colleagues. Since very few of my other colleagues in the Faculty of Business and Law were
conducting research that touched on social issues or contentious topics whilst engaging in
advocacy activities, I often felt isolated and lonely. Feelings of isolation and loneliness can
creep up and are not limited to any one stage of research, such as during fieldwork; they can
shroud you as you attempt to digest and make sense of the data. Realizing the limited number
of people with who you feel comfortable to discuss your findings or who can relate to your
experiences can be difficult to accept. But Adonis (2020) suggests acknowledging the seclu-
sion that can accompany emotionally demanding research and embracing vulnerability and
emotionality as a way to move forward from what Yuen (2011) refers to as “paralysis”. In this
way, we can recalibrate our focus on the impact our research can have on policy, practice and
society.
Furthermore, practically, the advocacy activities I engaged in took additional time and
energy. To navigate these mixed feelings, I sought support from academics in other faculties
and universities, as well as practitioners, who were like-minded and working in the same
or similar space of migrant justice or were sympathetic to my activities (Zerai, 2002; Flood
et al., 2013). This instilled more confidence in my decisions and actions to make the most
of my research experience. I could just write academic outputs and solely keep my eyes on
reaching professional goalposts or I could contribute to a cause that was meaningful to me,
the participating charity and the thousands of people detained each year. I chose the latter,
76
76 Joanne Vincett
driven by the resounding notion that “failure to engage in ‘wider’ activism seems inexcus-
able” (Blomley, 1994, p. 384).
Conclusion
Whether or not the initial intent of research is to contribute to social change or social justice,
fieldwork may later steer a study in this direction. Findings may unearth unexpected dis-
coveries that may have implications on policy, practice or society, as well as on our careers
and personal lives. While some ethnographic approaches are primarily grounded in political
activism (Smith, 1990; Hermez, 2011), my commitment to engaged ethnography was the
foundation in which my advocacy activities cultivated. My intention is to emphasize that we
have deliberate and personal decisions to make as ethnographers, immersed in possibly con-
tentious and precarious fields of study, about whether or not to “disrupt the status quo” and,
if so, how to disrupt it (Madison, 2012, p. 5). A part of contemplating these choices includes
considering the implications of the selected path and the ethical responsibilities we have as
researchers and witnesses to troubling occurrences in the field.
I have reflected on my lived research experiences of becoming an advocate grounded in
compassion for marginalized and vulnerable people and included the ethical questions that
can arise when in direct contact with them. This is not meant to portray volunteers as the
“anti-racist-white-hero” (e.g. see McFarlane (2015) for an analysis of gender and race in
critical media and communication studies) or myself as the heroic volunteer-ethnographer
(Tomazos and Butler, 2010), nor is it to suggest the notion of heroism in volunteering or
research practices. My resounding experiences of feeling powerless to improve detainees’
situations surpassed any notion of rescuing someone from detention or deportation, or of
diminishing the Home Office’s hegemony and omniscient role as “God”, as one participant
described it (Amy, interview, July 2016).
In hindsight, my transformation from ethnographer to advocate/activist ethnographer was
surprising and confusing, and even overwhelming at times. However, ethnographers have the
potential for their work to have an impact on the lives of the people with whom they interact,
as well as on broader social issues. My aim in this chapter was to enrich the methodological
literature on advocacy and compassion in organizational ethnography by including the details
of the messy and uncomfortable state of ambiguity that ethnographers can experience as they
make sense of balancing academic expectations and activist aspirations (Flood et al., 2013).
By not enhancing this literature, we miss the opportunity to deepen our approaches to better
understanding organizational life. We also undermine the research impact that organisational
ethnography can have on tackling social issues.
Sharing the ways in which I acted to provoke systemic change may help prepare those
who aspire to do more than write a doctoral thesis or climb the academic career ladder.
The struggles I have revealed from my transformation as an academic are not novel to the
conformed (Blomley, 1994; Pulido, 2008; Checker, 2014) and I have suggested practical strat-
egies to overcome common challenges in combining activism and scholarship (see also Pulido,
2008; Flood et al., 2013). Depending on the social issues we commit to addressing and the
changes we want to see, academia and advocacy/activism can be a life-long journey to balance
and endure. However, generating knowledge for and with participants or interest groups not
solely for the sake of generating new knowledge, rather with a wider benefit beyond the
77
academy (Zerai, 2002), can be a fulfilling feeling and sense of purpose in this journey.Twenty-
seven years ago, academic activist Blomley (1994, p. 385) asked readers, “How much of our-
selves are we willing to put on the line given an institutional system that rewards docility and
obedience?” I ask myself the same question today and reiterate the continued need for advo-
cacy and compassion in our ethnographic work as researchers, educators and/or practitioners
that is politically and socially important, but also personally meaningful.
Notes
1 At the time of my fieldwork, I was one of 56 volunteer befrienders and one of six trustees on the
Board of Directors.YWB had three paid staff members and an annual (2017) income of £116,565.
2 Refugee Week is a national campaign in the UK held annually to promote better understanding of
migration and why people seek refuge (see https://refugeeweek.org.uk).
References
Adler, Patricia A. and Adler, Peter (1987). Membership Roles in Field Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Adonis, Cyril K. (2020).‘Bearing witness to suffering –A reflection on the personal impact of conducting
research with children and grandchildren of victims of apartheid-era gross human rights violations in
South Africa’, Social Epistemology, 34(1), pp. 64–78.
Alaszewski, Andy (2006). Using Diaries for Social Research. London: Sage.
Blomley, Nicholas K. (1994). ‘Activism and the academy’, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space,
12(4), pp. 383–385.
Bosworth, Mary (2019). ‘Affect and authority in immigration detention’, Punishment & Society, 21(5),
pp. 542–559.
Bosworth, Mary and Kellezi, Blerina (2017). ‘Doing research in immigration removal centres: Ethics,
emotions and impact’, Criminology and Criminal Justice, 172(2), pp. 121–137.
Bosworth, Mary and Turnbull, Sarah (2015). ‘Immigration, detention, and the expansion of penal
power in the United Kingdom’, in Reiter, Keramet and Koenig, Alexa (eds.), Extreme Punishment.
London: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 50–67.
Brodkey, Linda (1987). ‘Writing critical ethnographic narratives’, Anthropology & Education Quarterly,
18(2), pp. 67–76.
Buchanan, David, Boddy, David and McCalman, James (1988). ‘Getting in, getting on, getting out, and
getting back’, in Bryman, Alan (ed.), Doing Research in Organisations. London: Routledge, pp. 53–67.
Burkitt, Ian (2012). ‘Emotional reflexivity: Feeling, emotion and imagination in reflexive dialogue’,
Sociology, 46(3), pp. 458–472.
Cacioppo, John T. and Cacioppo, Stephanie (2014). ‘Social relationships and health: The toxic effects of
perceived social isolation’, Social and Personality Psychology Compass, 8(2), pp. 58–72.
Calhoun, Craig (2008). ‘Foreward’, in Hale, Charles R. (ed.), Engaging Contradictions: Theory, Politics, and
Methods of Activist Scholarship. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, pp. xxiii–xxvi.
Campbell, Ruth (2017). Locked up, Locked out: Health and Human Rights in Immigration Detention [online].
London: British Medical Association. Available at: www.bma.org.uk/collective-voice/policy-and-
research/ethics/health-and-human-r ights-in-immigration-detention (Accessed 4 December 2017).
Checker, Melissa (2014). ‘Anthropological superheroes and the consequences of activist ethnography’,
American Anthropologist, 116(2), pp. 416–420.
Clark, Candace (1997). Misery and Company: Sympathy in Everyday Life. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Coghlan, David and Shani, A.B. Rami (2008). ‘Insider action research: The dynamics of developing new
capabilities’, in Reason, Peter and Bradbury, Hiliary (eds.), The SAGE Handbook of Action Research,
2nd edn. London: Sage, pp. 420–434.
78
78 Joanne Vincett
Committee on Human Rights (2003). Guatemala: Human Rights and the Myrna Mack Case [online].
Washington, DC: National Academies Press. Available at: http://site.ebrary.com/id/10046879
(Accessed 30 May 2020).
Denzin, Norman K. (2017). ‘Critical qualitative inquiry’, Qualitative Inquiry, 23(1), pp. 8–16.
Doll, Richard and Hill,A. Bradford (1956).‘Lung cancer and other causes of death in relation to smoking’,
British Medical Journal, 2(5001), pp. 1071–1081.
Durcan, Graham, Stubbs, Jessica and Boardman, Jed (2017). Immigration Removal Centres in England: A
Mental Health Needs Analysis [online]. Available at: www.centreformentalhealth.org.uk/immigration-
removal-centres-england (Accessed 12 January 2017).
Dutton, Jane E., Worline, Monica C., Frost, Peter J. and Lilius, Jacoba (2006). ‘Explaining compassion
organizing’, Administrative Science Quarterly, 51(1), pp. 59–96.
Flood, Michael, Martin, Brian and Dreher, Tanja (2013). ‘Combining academia and activism’, Australian
Universities’ Review, 55(1), pp. 17–26.
Frost, Peter J. (1999). ‘Why compassion counts!’, Journal of Management Inquiry, 8(2), pp. 127–133.
Goldstein, Daniel M. (2014). ‘Laying the body on the line: Activist anthropology and the deportation of
the undocumented’, American Anthropologist, 116(4), pp. 839–842.
Gomberg-Muñoz, Ruth (2016). ‘Hardship politics: The strategic sharing of migration stories’, Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography, 45(6), pp. 741–764.
Griffiths, Melanie (2013). ‘Living with uncertainty: Indefinite immigration detention’, Journal of Legal
Anthropology, 1(3), pp. 263–286.
Hale, Charles R. (2008). Engaging Contradictions:Theory, Politics, and Methods of Activist Scholarship. Berkeley,
CA: University of California Press.
Hall, Alexandra (2010). ‘“These people could be anyone”: Fear, contempt (and empathy) in a British
immigration removal centre’, Journal of Ethnic & Migration Studies, 36(6), pp. 881–898.
Hansen, Hans and Trank, Christine Q. (2016) ‘This is going to hurt: Compassionate research methods’,
Organizational Research Methods, 193(3), pp. 352–375.
Hariman, Robert (2009). ‘Cultivating compassion as a way of seeing’, Communication and Critical/Cultural
Studies, 6(2), pp. 199–203.
Harris, Margaret (2001). ‘The place of self and reflexivity in third sector scholarship: An exploration’,
Nonprofit and Voluntary Sector Quarterly, 30(4), pp. 747–760.
Hermez, Sami (2011). ‘Activism as “part-time” activity: Searching for commitment and solidarity in
Lebanon’, Cultural Dynamics, 23(1), pp. 41–55.
Hill, A. Bradford (1971). Part III Changing Adult Smoking Behaviour—Present Position: Introduction [online].
Available at: www.industrydocuments.ucsf.edu/docs/qfyn0146 (Accessed 3 March 2020).
Home Office (2020). Immigration Statistics: Immigration Detention [online]. Available at: https://assets.pub
lishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/885669/detent
ion-datasets-mar-2020.xlsx (Accessed 23 July 2020).
Hubbard, Gill, Backett-Milburn, Kathryn and Kemmer, Debbie (2001). ‘Working with emotion: Issues
for the researcher in fieldwork and teamwork’, International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 4(2),
pp. 119–137.
Independent Monitoring Board (2017). Annual Report of the Independent Monitoring Board at Yarl’s Wood
Immigration Removal Centre [online]. Available at: www.imb.org.uk/report/yarls-wood-2016-annual-
report/(Accessed 7 June 2018).
Independent Monitoring Board (2018). Annual Report of the Independent Monitoring Board at Yarl’s Wood
Immigration Removal Centre for Reporting Year January to December 2017 [online]. Available at: https://
s3-eu-west-2.amazonaws.com/imb-prod-storage-1ocod6bqky0vo/uploads/2018/05/Yarls-Wood-
2017.pdf (Accessed 10 July 2018).
Independent Monitoring Board (2019). Annual Report Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre January
to December 2018 [online]. Available at: https://s3-eu-west-2.amazonaws.com/imb-prod-storage-
1ocod6bqky0vo/uploads/2019/06/Annual-Report-2018-FINAL-FOR-WEBSITE.pdf (Accessed
20 June 2019).
79
Kellezi, Blerina and Bosworth, Mary (2016). Mental Health, Suicidal Thoughts and Self- Harm Inside
Immigration Detention [online]. Available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.2867358 (Accessed 18
May 2017).
Kenny, Sue, Taylor, Marilyn, Onyx, Jenny and Mayo, Marjorie (2017). Challenging the Third Sector: Global
Prospects for Active Citizenship. Bristol: Policy Press.
Lamphere, Louise (2018). ‘The transformation of ethnography: From Malinowki’s tent to the practice of
collaborative/activist anthropology’, Human Organization, 77(1), pp. 64–76.
Lilius, Jacoba M., Kanov, Jason M., Dutton, Jane E., Worline, Monica C. and Maitlis, Sally (2011).
‘Compassion revealed:What we know about compassion at work (and where we need to know more)’,
in Cameron, Kim S. and Spreitzer, Gretchen M. (eds.), Oxford Handbook of Positive Organizational
Scholarship. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, pp. 273–287.
Lindley, A. (2017). Injustice in Immigration Detention: Perspectives from Legal Professionals, Research Report
Commissioned by the Bar Council [online]. Available at: www.barcouncil.org.uk/resource/injustice-in-
immigration-detention.html (Accessed 7 June 2018).
Madison, D. Soyini (2012). Critical Ethnography: Method, Ethics, and Performance, 2nd edn. Thousand Oaks,
CA: Sage.
Maier, Shana L. and Monahan, Brian A. (2009). ‘How close is too close? Balancing closeness and detach-
ment in qualitative research’, Deviant Behavior, 31(1), pp. 1–32.
McFadyen, Gillian (2016).‘The language of labelling and the politics of hostipitality in the British asylum
system’, The British Journal of Politics and International Relations, 18(3), pp. 599–617.
McFarlane, Megan D. (2015). ‘Anti-racist white hero, the sequel: Intersections of race(ism), gender, and
social justice’, Critical Studies in Media Communication, 32(2), pp. 81–95.
Milbourne, Linda (2013). Voluntary Sector inTransition: HardTimes or New Opportunities? Bristol: Policy Press.
Oglesby, Elizabeth (1995). ‘Myrna Mack’, in Nordstrom, Carolyn and Robben, Antonius C.G.M.
(eds.), Fieldwork Under Fire: Contemporary Studies of Violence and Survival. Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, pp. 254–259.
Pallares, Amalia and Gomberg-Muñoz, Ruth (2016). ‘Politics of motion: Ethnography with undocu-
mented activists and of undocumented activism’, North American Dialogue, 19(1), pp. 4–12.
Pulido, Laura (2008). ‘Frequently (un)asked questions about being a scholar activist’, in Hale, Charles R.
(ed.), Engaging Contradictions:Theory, Politics, and Methods of Activist Scholarship. Berkeley, CA: University
of California Press, pp. 341–365.
Shaw, Stephen (2016). Review into the Welfare in Detention of Vulnerable Persons: A Report to the Home
Office by Stephen Shaw [online]. Available at: www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/
attachment_data/file/490783/52532_Shaw_Review_Print_Ready.pdf (Accessed 18 July 2016).
Smith, George W. (1990). ‘Political activist as ethnographer’, Social Problems, 37(4), pp. 629–648.
Smith, Katherine E. and Stewart, Ellen A. (2017). ‘Academic advocacy in public health: Disciplinary
“duty” or political “propaganda”?’, Social Science & Medicine, 189(1), pp. 35–43.
Straw, Jack (1998). Fairer, Faster, Firmer –A Modern Approach to Immigration and Asylum [online]. Available
at: www.gov.uk/government/publications/fairer-faster-and-firmer-a-modern-approach-to-
immigration-and-asylum (Accessed 15 June 2018).
Sznaider, Natan (1998). ‘The sociology of compassion: A study in the sociology of morals’, Cultural Values,
2(1), pp. 117–139.
Sznaider, Natan (2001). The Compassionate Temperament: Care and Cruelty in Modern Society.
Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.
Tallberg, Linda, Jordan, Peter and Boyle, Maree (2014). ‘The “Green Mile”: Crystallization ethnography
in an emotive context’, Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 3(1), pp. 80–95.
Tomazos, Kostas and Butler, Richard (2010). ‘The volunteer tourist as “hero” ’, Current Issues in Tourism,
13(4), pp. 363–380.
Vincett, Joanne (2018a). ‘I befriend women detained at Yarl’s Wood: Their life in immigration limbo is
excruciating’, The Conversation [online], 12 March. Available at: https://theconversation.com/i-befri
end-women-detained-at-yarls-wood-their-life-in-immigration-limbo-is-excruciating-92905.
80
80 Joanne Vincett
Vincett, Joanne (2018b). ‘Researcher self-care in organizational ethnography: Lessons from overcoming
compassion fatigue’, Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 7(1), pp. 44–58.
Walker, Peter (2017) ‘Diane Abbott asks for explanation over denied access to Yarl’s Wood’, The Guardian
[online], 22 December. Available at: www.theguardian.com/politics/2017/dec/22/diana-abbott-
asks-for-explanation-over-denied-access-to-yarls-wood (Accessed 6 June 2019).
Warden,Tara (2013).‘Feet of clay: Confronting emotional challenges in ethnographic experience’, Journal
of Organizational Ethnography, 2(2), pp. 150–172.
Windle, Karen, Francis, Jennifer and Coomber, Caroline (2011). Preventing Loneliness and Social
Isolation: Interventions and Outcomes [online]. Available at: www.scie.org.uk/publications/briefings/
files/briefing39.pdf (Accessed 19 April 2018).
Yarl’s Wood Befrienders (2017). Trustees’ Annual Report for the Year Ended March 2017 [online]. Available
at: www.ywbefrienders.org/annual-reports (Accessed 22 January 2018).
Yarl’s Wood Befrienders (2018). Who We Are [online]. Available at: www.ywbefrienders.org/about-us
(Accessed 16 January 2020).
Yuen, Felice (2011). ‘Embracing emotionality: Clothing my “naked truths”’, Critical Criminology, 19(1),
pp. 75–88.
Zerai, Assata (2002). ‘Models for unity between scholarship and grassroots activism’, Critical Sociology,
28(1–2), pp. 201–216.
81
PART II
Ethnography in the field

82
83
6
EARNING AND DOING
L
AUTOETHNOGRAPHY
Resonance, vulnerability and exposure
Ilaria Boncori
Conducting autoethnography
This chapter offers a brief overview of different types of autoethnography and also presents an
autoethnographic account, often called a vignette, to illustrate and at the same time explore three
key concepts experienced whilst embarking on a research journey based on autoethnographic
methods: resonance, vulnerability and exposure.
Doing autoethnography means opening up to a different way of being an academic, reading
and writing for academic purposes. Boyrlorn and Orbe (2016) reflect on how this method
allows researchers to make the link between their heads and hearts possible. Autoethnography
(Ellis, Adams and Bochner, 2011) can be understood as a methodology, a method and a text.
Many definitions have been provided over the years, with some aspects given different degrees
of importance. Many highlight the key relational trait of autoethnography, understood as a
way to link the self to the social context (Reed-Danahay, 1997), to develop a critique of the
self within social context(s) (Spry, 2001), and to democratize experiences of cultures with the
aim to offer a counter-narrative to ‘dominant expressions of discursive power’ (Neumann,
1996:189), and even to change the world (Holman Jones, 2005). This relational dynamic
is reflected in the tension between the author and the subject of the research inquiry, the
observer and the observed (Ellis, 2009), articulated through a blurred genre of storytelling that
contributes to existing research, embraces vulnerability and often compels a response from
the audience (Holman Jones, Adams and Ellis, 2013). The key stance in this approach is the
fact that individuals, as Sartre would suggest (1974), are singular universals who have individual
experiences contextualized within specific historical times, socio-economic circumstances
and cultural backgrounds which shape the way they perform and understand their lives.
Chang (2008) states that autoethnography as a method involves systematic collection of data
which is analysed and interpreted to achieve cultural understandings by linking the self to
the understanding of others. This point was also explored earlier by Denzin (1997:227) who
explains how this method involves ‘turning of the ethnographic gaze inward on the self (auto),
while maintaining the outward gaze of ethnography, looking at the larger context wherein
self experiences occur’.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-8
84
84 Ilaria Boncori
Although this approach has been used for decades in various fields in the social sciences,
management and organization studies have only seen a significant increase of autoethnographic
methods over the past decade. This research approach involves ‘the study of the self ’ (Reed-
Danahay, 1997: 9) to advance organizational understanding, sociological investigations and more
broadly research in a number of fields. The key principles of autoethnographic research are
based on the belief that rich qualitative data is particularly suitable to understand sense-making
processes, emotions and a range of other human experiences in the workplace. Individual
stories and personal experiences can offer nuanced and kaleidoscopic understandings of the
lives of people in organizations, which cannot be explored and illuminated in the same depth
via quantitative data only. Autoethnographic narratives then have the vantage point of author-
ship that merges academic insight and lifeworld experience being brought together to offer
accounts that can contribute to a range of empirical and theoretical concerns.
Finding autoethnography –developing the autoethnographic ‘style’

Autoethnography is a way of analysing (graphy) the personal (auto) and how it relates to the
wider socio-cultural (ethno) experience. This approach recognizes the power of stories and
storytelling in understanding the multifaceted experiences of people, especially recognizing
the importance for these stories to be told by those who live those experiences, rather than
others who observe from the outside. As such, another key tenet of autoethnography is its
embracing of aspects that are often excluded from canonical research in organization studies
such as emotions, subjectivity and the influence of the researcher on the study.
I had never even heard of autoethnography until the end of my first year as a doctoral
student, when I attended a course in ethnography during the University of Essex Summer
School offering a deep dive into a number of methodologies and methods for the Social
Sciences (although many of these are also used and useful in the Humanities). The truth is
that I wanted to attend the course on qualitative interviewing, but it was oversubscribed, so
I decided to give ethnography a go. I cannot stress enough how glad I am of that choice,
because it changed my life as a researcher. Up until that moment, I had still been surrounded
by research that was mainstream in character and fairly quantitative in approach. From my
previous studies in research methods, I knew that the study I wanted to pursue for my PhD
was located within the interpretive paradigm, but I had planned to focus on more traditional
data collection –namely, a survey questionnaire and qualitative interviews. I was concerned
mostly with having ‘enough’ respondents to make the sample ‘relevant’, with generalizations
and contributions that would allow me to pass the viva and to publish afterwards, and with the
development of a ‘proper’ academic voice (usually understood in the third person) that would
make me feel and look like I knew what I was doing as a researcher. One of the ten sessions
within that ‘Introduction to ethnography’ course focussed on autoethnography, and it led me
on a path of discovery that felt both attractive and a little forbidden –could I really use my
experience to contribute to research? Could ‘I’ be not only part of the considerations of the
researcher’s position in the study, but instead central to it? I decided to investigate further, with
some encouragement from my supervisor (Professor Heather Höpfl).
One challenge I had to face is the fact that there isn’t one way or the right way to do
autoethnography. Today, in contrast with my experience years ago, there are a plethora of
books that explore this method, starting with The Handbook of Autoethnography (Jones, Adams,
and Ellis, 2016). However, there is no definitive rulebook or manual on how to go about doing
85
Learning and doing autoethnography 85
it, because all autoethnographers have their own way of approaching this method. My first
recommendation for those who want to come close to autoethnography and possibly move
the first step towards using this approach and method is to read published autoethnographies. This
will give you a sense of what autoethnography can do, how it can touch people, how it can
give voice to silenced topics, how it can bring the margins to the centre. I started with the
work of Caroline Ellis, and I still cannot think of a better introduction to understanding this
method than her book The Ethnographic I (2004), which is the starting point I suggest to my
students. In addition to being beautifully written, this volume is an excellent entrance gate to
a different mind frame, which can lead to the understanding of what autoethnography is and
how it feels. A more general overview of the historical development of the methodology, the
process and product of the autoethnographic method is provided by Ellis, Adams and Bochner
(2011) in Autoethnography: An Overview. In terms of articles, it may be interesting to look
at different autoethnographic experiences published in journals in the field of organization
studies such as Gender, Work and Organization; Organization; Management Learning. More gen-
erally, the journal Qualitative Inquiry has always been a welcoming home for different types of
autoethnographies across subject areas, and as I write this chapter in 2020, we now have a new
specific Journal of Autoethnography at the University of California Press.
The second recommendation I would offer is to be part of related conversations. Try to attend
conferences, workshops and network events where you can attend paper presentations that
include autoethnography. If you are not able to do so, try to spot autoethnographic papers
within qualitative or critical streams that may be part of larger conferences that you have access
to, or look for funded workshops by research councils and other bodies that often allow free
participation and bursaries for doctoral students and early career researchers. There are groups
focussing on various types of ethnography on social media (e.g. Twitter and Facebook) where
you can get in touch with people who are keen autoethnographers, even if you do not have
anyone who does this in your immediate community. There are also conferences entirely
dedicated to ethnographic studies (like the Annual Ethnography Symposium) and others linking
this methodology to various disciplines where you are likely to meet more scholars who
engage in this method, who can become mentors, co-authors, external examiners, reviewers,
or simply academic friends.
Being part of these conversations –from the early conference stages to the final published
article –is important not only to gain access to the latest development in the field, but also to
understand how an autoethnographic narrative is developed and then contextualized within a
subject literature and how its contribution is shaped and redefined along the way. As an article
reviewer, I find that one of the challenges in early attempts at publishing autoethnographies
is precisely the ability to link the personal narrative to the field, the specific literature and
context. It’s as if one’s energy, skills and academic abilities become exhausted through the
writing of the autoethnographic account, the emotional labour involved in translating experi-
ence into words, the self-negotiations in deciding whether the text should be shared and
published, and the ‘letting go’ of the story. For this reason, as an author I find it useful to let
my autoethnographic narrative ‘decant’ for some time in order to distance myself from it, or
work on what I call the ‘academic afterlife’ of the narrative with a co-author (see below on
blended autoethnography).
The autoethnographic approach and the specific narrative used in this type of research is
still somewhat limited in many subject areas, because the language used and style is somewhat
in contrast to more traditional and canonical ways of understanding and doing research (Spry,
86
86 Ilaria Boncori
2001). As students in the further and higher education contexts, we are often taught to take
ourselves out of the research or text, and that in order to give credibility to our study or essay
our opinion is not enough, or that our story is meaningless, because we need to root our
ideas solely into the literature and ‘stand on the shoulders of giants’. Whilst the importance of
understanding the literature we want to speak to, highlighting one’s contribution, and making
sure our study is firmly located within an academic conversation that involves other research is
still fundamental to autoethnographic research, the main difference here is that in this method
the author is fundamentally and explicitly present, and contributes to knowledge creation.
Therefore, the third person or passive narrative style of writing becomes a more personal one,
where the researcher and their world(s) become intertwined with the literature, the critical
engagement in the topic, and the advancement of understanding in and of that empirical situ.
Finding your autoethnographic ‘voice’

Finding your ‘voice’ is challenging, and it takes time. Also, your voice will grow –as a scholar
in general and also as an autoethnographer –change and develop as you go through different
stages as a researcher in your career and as a human being in life. I have different styles of
writing academic papers and tone depending on whether I use autoethnography or not in
my methods of inquiry. My first attempt at writing autoethnographically was during my PhD,
and that narrative was eventually published years later in an article which advocates the use of
autoethnography to negotiate identity challenges during doctoral studies (Boncori and Smith,
2020). In one section I reminisce about the time I encountered this method:
I found autoethnography, it’s like my academic grail –I can totally use my own life
experience in my PhD research. It feels a bit like cheating though, or at least that’s what
all my positivist quantitative colleagues say. How can I be objective … well that’s not
the point, is it? It’s like we speak different languages and see the world through different
glasses for real. Jay laughed at me when I tried to explain ethnography. Never heard of
it in Italy –‘why don’t they teach us methodology and methods in this much detail?’.
(p. 278)
That is my early voice, which is similar yet different from my voice today, as I think it has
become braver in its embracing of exposure and willingness to show vulnerability (one of the
last published examples is Boncori and Smith, 2019).
My third recommendation to those who want to embark in an autoethnographic study is
to write. All autoethnography is retrospective in some way, as the narrative is developed post
facto –you can write throughout the course of an experience or shortly after having lived
through those moments, or the recollection can be related to something that happened fur-
ther away along the continuum of past experiences (I differentiate the two by calling the
latter ‘autoethnography a posteriori’, Boncori and Vine, 2014). All writing is in itself selective as
we choose what to focus our research gaze on, what to highlight in the narrative and what to
emphasize through adjectives and punctuation –the aim here is not to provide a comprehen-
sive factual recollection of the ‘facts’, but rather to offer a window into the personal experi-
ence of a certain event or phenomenon.
One may feel uncertain about what and when to write, or how often. I would suggest
that, in this case, it is important to write whenever it feels like there is something to say,
87
whether it is a crucial epiphany or something that ‘feels’ relevant. In some cases, there may be
a turning point within a life experience, a phenomenon, or a process that produces a moment
of understanding and ‘illumination’ as an epiphany, whose effects “linger— recollections,
memories, images, feelings—long after a crucial incident is supposedly finished” (Bochner,
1984: 595). Other times we write about the ordinary, which may seem insignificant and
yet still touch others deeply, with great potential for affective connections, as described by
Kathleen Stewart (2007: 1–2).
The ordinary is a shifting assemblage of practices and practical knowledges, a scene of

both liveness and exhaustion, a dream of escape or of the simple life. Ordinary affects
are the varied, surging capacities to affect and to be affected that give everyday life the
quality of a continual motion of relations, scenes, contingencies, and emergences.
My fourth recommendation, although it may seem redundant after the previous one, is don’t
overthink your writing. Write whatever you are urged to put on paper, whatever seems relevant
or ‘feels right’. At this stage, do not think of the analysis of the story, or the editing for a future
possible publication. Later on, Lindh and Thorgren’s (2016) concept of ‘critical event recogni-
tion’ will often apply whilst analysing autoethnographic accounts, as well as thematic analysis,
or even text and corpus analysis. In my experience, the writing is better done unfiltered and
unhinged from considerations of data analysis. Just write, whenever you can: write an account
of when you are developing ideas, or when you have resolved those ideas; conversations you
have with others that influence, share or challenge your thinking; surprises or unexpected
encounters in your research; routines, processes or everyday habits.You can also decide to limit
your writing to specific research questions (I, for instance, have different writing notebooks
depending on what the nature or topic of the writing is). Keep all your writing –whether
it’s messy scribbles at the back of lecture notes, or a writing journal you update at a specific
time every day; whether you write with a pen when inspiration strikes or record voice notes
to yourself on your phone. In my experience, even though there may seem to be no order
or logic in what you produce, connections will start to unfold, and differences will begin to
manifest, once you bring those together later on in your analysis. It’s ok for academic writing
to start as chaotic before it finds its final form of coherence.
Two things in my past that I think helped me find and refine my voice were a course on
creative writing I attended as a teenager, and an early career path outside of academia focus-
sing on marketing and communication. The creative writing course allowed me to think of
different styles of writing –for example, regarding what types of novels, stories, document
analysis and reporting I liked; whether I had a preference towards being ‘dropped’ directly in
the middle of a story, or whether I felt the need for an introduction; whether there was a pre-
dilection towards linear plots or unravelling ones –but also about the style of language used
in the narrative. In terms of style, my autoethnographic voice seems to pivot around two focal
tools: punctuation and qualification. My inner voice has a specific pace, which is translated
onto the paper/online word document via punctuation.This is like the tempo in a music piece
(e.g. lento, staccato and allegro), which in my opinion is an essential part of an author’s ability to
set the right tone and guide the reader’s consumption of the narrative. The second feature of
my voice is what I tried to encapsulate within the term ‘qualification’, and it has to do with
adjectives and adverbs. These two types of words serve a specific purpose to qualify a term,
articulate an action and specify connotations. The careful and purposeful use of adjectives
88
88 Ilaria Boncori
allows the author to transform a two-dimensional sketch into a three-dimensional creation

that jumps out of the pages to touch the reader’s emotions, memory and conscience. I also
have a personal preference for some literary devices such as alliteration (the recurrence of the
same sound at the start of a string of words in a phrase) and parallelism in sentence structures.
But this is only my way of writing to translate my inner voice into a written narrative, not the
way of writing autoethnographies. The more you write without overthinking, the more you
will be able to understand what is your way.
The second experience I mentioned above is my work in marketing and communica-
tion. This, I think, has been useful to focus my attention on three aspects of my writing: the
audience, the message and clarity. Depending on the topic of my writing –whether it is a
general narrative of one’s experience or of a specific subject –I imagine an archetypal ideal
reader. It may be an older version of my little daughter, or a friendly colleague, or a stranger.
Understanding who the audience is usually has the effect of slightly shaping a difference in
the edges of my narrative style, the level of informality, and the amount of jargon I use. In my
mind, I then try to identify and understand my message and its purpose as comprehensively
and coherently as I can. Unless the purpose of the text is to evoke disorientation and chaos,
the embedding of clarity and logic sequencing within my narrative is paramount in order to
ensure that the audience is able to understand and empathise with my story.
Finally, in order to develop your autoethnographic voice I would recommend that you
amplify the researcher’s gaze.This means enhancing awareness and bringing some aspects of your
experience to the forefront. For example, it is useful to shed light on the senses and sensations
involved: what did you smell during an experience; what are the sounds, textures and colours
of the world around you; how did you feel before, during and after that event; what colour
and taste would you associate with that situations; what was around you that you could note
which usually goes unspoken? If you had to describe that moment as a photograph, what
details could you highlight? You can also think of making relationships, power dynamics and
connections more explicit –between people, systems, subjects and objects.
Different types of autoethnography

Understanding your style and developing your voice will also influence and be influenced by
the form of autoethnographic narrative that you will choose to pursue, as there are different
types of autoethnographic inquiry. Analytical (Anderson, 2006) and evocative (Ellis, 2004)
autoethnography tend to be the most commonly cited types within a range of approaches to
this method, each with a stronger emphasis on theory and analysis over narrative and literary
investigations of the self, respectively. These two types of autoethnography can also be seen
as the end points of a methodological continuum spanning from analytical autoethnography
marked by ‘objectivity’ and a more positivist mind frame on the one hand, and ‘subject-
ivity’ within an interpretive approach ascribed to evocative autoethnography on the other
hand. However, although it is important to be aware of the different foci of the various
autoethnographic approaches explored in current studies, it should be recognized that these
are not exclusionary, and boundaries are often blurred. Indeed, Wall (2008) advocates the use
of an approach that sits somewhere along the middle of that continuum. This is also the pre-
ferred locus of my own autoethnographic research, with a slight pull towards the evocative
end of the continuum as I aim to ‘show’ the experience through an evocative narrative that
89
touches people, whilst at the same time I want to analyse and problematize issues or critical
nodes that become apparent through my narrative.
As a passionate (auto)ethnographer, I do not believe in objective social science research,
as all literature and data is designed, collected, read and interpreted by human beings who
cannot detach their mind from their bodies, their cultural background, their beliefs and so on.
All published academic outputs go through a conscious or unconscious process of selection
dictating which information has to be shared and what needs to remain unspoken (Veletsianos
and Stewart, 2016), either only by the author or also by editors and reviewers. We choose
which quotes to select, which literature we want to speak to, which data needs to be included
and how to analyse it. In agreement with Martinez, I believe that in this type of research ‘my
words are an extension of my flesh. My theory is an extension of my life’ (Martinez, 2013: 381).
Three more types of autoethnography are worth mentioning here –critical, queer and
interpretive. Boylorn and Orbe’s edited collection (2016:16) focuses on a number of aspects
involved in doing critical autoethnography, which is centred around the aim to give voice
to marginalized experiences and to shed light on unexamined questions whilst paying par-
ticular attention to multiple social identities and intersectional issues: “we privilege indi-
vidual experiences and corporate realities in order to theorise about what we can learn
relationally, personally, and culturally through personal narratives”. In order to do this, crit-
ical autoethnography consciously blends multidimensional perspectives, personal experiences,
cultural and interpersonal relations, different identities and examples of everyday interactions
through a critical lens. This is similar to what is pursued through critical ethnography (see
Madison, 2012), which addresses ethical issues, privilege and marginalization within spe-
cific contexts and lived domains. This approach then is particularly suitable to illuminate the
experience of groups of people or individuals who have been marginalized in society and
organizational contexts.
Within queer methods and methodologies (see Browne and Nash, 2010), queer
autoethnography is a prime example of how this reflexive method can disrupt normative and
patriarchal representations of gender and sexuality, at the intersection with other identities
and social movements (see, for instance, Adjepong, 2019 in relation to race). For Morgensen
(2015), queer ethnography is empowered through the displacement of ‘rational’ and ‘scientific’
scholarship by providing accounts that position and challenge those who are both objects and
subjects of the ethnographic gaze. Instead of relying on generalizations, statistics and existing
categories of observable ‘scientific truths’ or evidence, queer methods can be a powerful tool
to explore positionalities, fluidities and changes, and to go beyond the surface ‘to embrace
multiplicity, misalignments, and silences” (Adjepong, 2019:17).
Interpretive autoethnography (Denzin, 2014) is concerned with a person’s life experiences
and performances. Like other forms of autoethnography, it does not seek to find ‘the truth’ –if
such a thing exists –in people’s narrative, but instead to rely on how individuals make sense of
their experience through verbal and written text, to crack open the uncontested mainstream
narrative of human experience in organizations (and contexts in other fields of research), and
to offer alternative entry points to knowledge. Clearly, the reader’s gaze through that fissure is
filtered by the narrator’s interpretation of their story and their memory, just like the narratives
we collect through other qualitative methods such as interviews, diaries and focus groups.
Autoethnography can be published as an individual narrative, or as duo-ethnography (also
referred to as co-autoethnography, involving autoethnographic texts created by two different
90
90 Ilaria Boncori
authors which are either juxtaposed or intertwined), or as multi-voice autoethnography

(where more than two people contribute autoethnographic vignettes, often created through
performances in interpretive autoethnographic studies). Less frequent are examples of what
Charlie Smith and I call blended autoethnography, whereby the co- authored piece of the
autoethnographic narrative is only written by one author, while the analysis and discussion
is theorized, conducted and developed by both (see, for instance, Boncori and Smith, 2019).
I find that blended autoethnography is particularly useful in the early stage of the adoption
of this method, when distancing from the personal narrative may be even more challenging
and when the availability of a co-author’s perspective may support a more thorough analysis.
Autoethnography in organization studies

Recent studies have shown the potential of autoethnography in management and organ-
ization studies by exploring, for instance, embodied and emotional experiences of non-
binary gender identity (O’Shea, 2019), birthing, and mental health (Smith and Ulus, 2019).
Autoethnography not only exposes but also problematizes lived experiences (Porschitz and
Siler, 2017). As such, I consider autoethnography as a feminist project, and a political one, as
it is through the use of autoethnography itself that individual voices can implement critical
resistance against the silencing of embodied, sensorial and emotional narratives of living and
working in organizations. Through autoethnographic accounts we can question masculine
ideals of the disembodied worker by stepping back and stepping up against established patri-
archal forms of writing in and of organizations. Indeed, various types of resistance (feminist or
otherwise) can be articulated in the autoethnographic space (Alexander, 2012).
Fifteen years ago, the opportunities for publishing autoethnographic accounts in inter-
nationally recognized high-quality management and organization studies journals, or edited
collections like this one, were rather limited. Mainstream critiques branded this type of
research as ‘naval gazing’, indulgent or as ‘an easy way out’ to avoid doing ‘proper scientific
work’ based on quantifiable evidence and large data sets. This method is more than a self-
narrative, and it goes beyond the written exercise about the researcher’s positionality, reflex-
ivity and visibility within their studies (Wall, 2008). Generations of scholars (see, for instance,
the work by Ellis and Bochner, 2006) have contributed to the recognition of autoethnography
as a rigorous research method within the broader ethnographic approach, which can illu-
minate the experience of those who are at the margins by shedding light and giving voice to
experiences that are often silenced or neglected. Key factors in ensuring the credibility, reli-
ability and dependability of the method are inextricably linked to narrator’s integrity (Ellis,
2009; Bochner, 2002). Autoethnographic integrity revolves around honesty, reflexivity and
the ability to unearth unconscious –and often uncomfortable –dynamics to foster meaning
making. True reflexivity surfaces weaknesses, contradictions, imperfections and conflicts that
researchers often try to hide in traditional studies, especially at the start of one’s career, in
order to identify and be identified with the fantasmatic and elusive image of the professional,
rational, disembodied academic.
In the following sections, I will present my autoethnographic account in the form of
three vignettes. In reality, those texts are all part of one writing session. The vignettes are then
interspersed with some commentary to contextualize and discuss some critical points on
resonance, exposure and vulnerability. As I explore below in more detail, the choice to focus
on these three specific aspects stems from what I have come to appreciate as the three key
strengths of the autoethnographic method. Resonance speaks to the power of narrative and
91
storytelling, which has been passed on and (re)ignited for centuries both orally and in writing
in order to provide exemplars of life experiences, explain values and morals, empathize with
others and learn lessons (Bochner, 2001, 2002; Fisher, 1984). When the experience of an/
other resonates with us, the differences between us become smaller. Exposure is a conditio
sine qua non of autoethnographic research (Ellis, 2004) as we need to expose how we relate
to others, expose the aspects or elements of life that are traditionally hidden from academic
research (Ellis, 2010), and let ourselves be exposed to and from the worlds within and outside
our being. Finally, from exposure comes vulnerability, which is a place of genuine engagement
and feeling, embodied knowing and sensorial understanding.Vulnerability also fosters critical
academic engagement with the unknown or the undisclosed, the invisible and the uncomfort-
able which reside at the heart of autoethnographic inquiry (see, for instance, O’Shea, 2019).
Resonance
As I sit in front of my laptop to write the special issue article, I glance at the handwritten notes next to
me. I have been delaying this moment; the moment when I read again the words I wrote the day I lost
my baby. I remember that moment so vividly, I still feel that dread, slouched down at the top of that beau-
tiful wood staircase, hiding from people attending the conference across the landing, spiralling down to the
ground floor. I remember the heightened awareness of my body, the feeling of a part of me detaching from
my flesh, flowing away unannounced, and unnoticed by anyone else. I remember some people walking
past me, engrossed in their conversations, checking their conference schedule, making academic or politic-
ally astute decisions on whose presentation to see next. Perhaps they noticed a strange woman writing
furiously on the back of her conference programme and in the margins of a tired schedule, trying to make
no noise whilst crying in the most remote corner of the building she could find. I know that the emotions
I transcribed on paper that day are raw and unfiltered. I know it will be difficult to read those again, to live
those again, to feel those again, to hear them echoing in the crowded corridors of my bereaved inner self.
My hands stop mid-air on the keyboard, suspended not just in time and motion, but also in volition.
Do I really want to do this? Should I let go of my hesitation and just include the whole narrative, virtually
unedited, the same words I wrote that day? It may be too much for me to bare, too much for me to bear.
Too personal to share for a mid-career foreign woman academic. But isn’t this what autoethnography is all
about –honesty and sharing of intimate narratives? And I do so very believe in this methodology, in this
mind frame and this method. Maybe I just lack confidence in my ability to do the method justice. Maybe
my foreignness taints my language in a way that words become flattened out of emotion, unable to inspire
a surge of empathy and understanding, too constrained by clunky grammatical structures and clumsy
prepositional constructs. Maybe I am just not good enough. Maybe my story is simply not interesting
enough. Will this drop in the academic ocean even mean anything? Is anyone really listening? This way
of being an academic, reading and writing organizations clashes with everything I have been taught in my
numerous education journeys; it’s against every rulebook of how to play the academic game successfully;
it challenges all the seemingly measurable, objective and scientific ways of understanding research. But,
bizarrely, this defiant approach centred on the self is not about me, it’s about a story, my story, and how it
relates to other stories, and to the bigger entanglement of lives and meanings in organizations.
Writing autoethnography is scary (Boncori and Smith, 2019). In my experience, this emo-
tional response is due to three main causes. First of all, it is difficult to share personal infor-
mation, intimate reflections and vulnerable aspects of oneself with people you do not know.
The second reason is perhaps linked to the use of more evocative autoethnographic narratives
as I question my ability to write in a way that elicits emotion and an instinctual response
in my reader. Self-doubt then feeds my imposter syndrome –is my narrative relevant? Is it
92
92 Ilaria Boncori
enough? Does it even matter? Every time I hit the send button on a final proof that included
autoethnographic text I felt a chill down my spine –should have I kept that text hidden in
a secret drawer at the back of my mind? How will the people around me who know me –
family, friends, close colleagues and superiors –react if they happen to see my work? Positive
feedback can come to authors from comments, kind text shared through emails, and nowadays
even via the sharing of an article via social media or the citing of a paper in one’s work.
These thoughts are linked to one of the key concepts that, for me, are closely related to
the adoption of autoethnography as a powerful method to instigate awareness and change –
resonance –which I articulate into two definitions. The first meaning I ascribe to the con-
cept of resonance is that of a positive resounding process, an echoing of experience, emotion
or knowing. Resonance here can become a way of seeing and understanding one experience
through another, either out of empathy or difference. The Oxford Dictionary definitions of the
term ‘resonance’ as understood in the hard sciences highlight how this process can also include
the amplification or enhancement of one’s qualities, and the transferring of energy from one
to another. As I mentioned in the introductory section of this chapter, one crucial aspect of
autoethnography is its relational trait, which connects the auto to the many, and allows social,
political, institutional or organizational concerns to be seen or amplified through the prism of
individual experience. In its first meaning, I use the term ‘resonance’ to understand and visu-
alize a process whereby an autoethnographic narrative is sent off in the world and encounters
others. By touching others and resounding in connection to their own stories, intellect or
sensitivities, the autoethnographic narrative resonates with another individual experience.The
original story is then interpreted and filtered through its resonance with the other, and can
be further projected into the world through an altered trajectory which has been influenced
by another individual interpretation, experience or knowledge. Because of the way our stories
are published and disseminated, the original autoethnographic narrative has the potential to
become a resonating wave that connects the single to the plural, possibly growing exponen-
tially as it meets others.
Resonance can thus signify a process whereby individuals can make sense of an experi-
ence through the encounter with a story shared by others, but it can also indicate a pro-
cess highlighting the subversive and political value of autoethnography as a counter-narrative
that sheds light on marginalized voices and ‘makes some noise’. It is through that noise that
a positive impact can be made as marginalized, silenced or neglected experiences become
acknowledged and explored at the macro level. Extracting again some meaning from the hard
sciences (especially physics and biology), we can consider how noise –often understood as
something negative or undesirable that corrupts messages –‘can be used purposely, or delib-
erately introduced to lead to a benefit’ (McDonnell and Abbott, 2009). As such, ‘good noise’
is captured in a form of resonance (stochastic resonance) used to describe a phenomenon
where the presence of noise in nonlinear systems creates better output signal quality than its
absence (McDonnell and Abbott, 2009). As such, metaphorically, it is through resonance that
autoethnography can become a powerful and positive change agent stemming from the cre-
ation of noise and interference in mainstream narratives and dynamics of power.
Exposure
In my career, and in my private life, I stand for principles and ideas. I speak against traditional patri-
archal hegemonies and masculine norms that shape the way we understand professionalism in higher
93
education. I advocate change, raise my fighting fist and widen open arms to give visibility to voices in the
margin, to hear untold stories in organizations and human relations.Then why am I so hesitant when it’s
about my own voice and my personal story? I can hear the faint screeching sound of my own professional
insecurities scratching at the back door of my awareness, reclaiming space in my consciousness. Will my
autoethnographic work be understood as an example of top level international research? Will it be read as
a form of rebellion –or even incompetence –that does not warrant support? Perhaps this type of exposure
would not prove beneficial to me or my career. Now that I have a job role of more responsibility, my work
might become more visible, and so will my failures. Shall I follow the safer mainstream path that has been
laid out for me by thousands of more accomplished scholars before? Or should I follow academics I admire,
and who I want to be as an academic, and what I stand for as an individual? The former –writing trad-
itional research through the use of methods that do not involve autoethnography –could be smoother, and,
strangely enough, the easier option for me. It would be placed in a much better position, published in high
ranking journals, questioned less and cited more.The tougher choice –espousing autoethnography, sharing
my inner self and standing for what I believe in –is still considered by many as ‘the easy way out’, a
cop-out solution to avoid the effort of collecting ‘proper’ data, analysing thousands of survey responses, or
coding authoritative phrases shared in interviews. But by not taking up the challenge I would be reinfor-
cing what I believe to be a faulty stance.
This methodology might make academics feel insecure but, to some extent, confidence
in the method is likely to increase through practice. For most academics, and definitely in
my own experience, it takes time to develop an individual research identity and a strong
researcher’s voice.The latter is particularly exposed in autoethnographic narratives, and espe-
cially in critical autoethnography which challenges the status quo and questions inequality.
The period of exploration one experiences as an early career researcher is also dedicated
to the establishment of academic credibility, deeper subject expertise and professional
networks. The balance between being true to one’s voice and interests whilst progressing
through career pathways can be challenging to navigate. Early adoption of the method
(during a PhD or later on in one’s career when expertise had been focussed on more trad-
itional methods) often veers towards analytical autoethnography, which seems a ‘safer bet’,
a more ‘academic’ or ‘scientific’ approach, a less compromising choice for inexperienced or
young ethnography researchers who may test this method out whilst remaining mindful
of mainstream concerns and limitations. Alternatively –like in the case of my own doc-
toral work (Boncori, 2013) –autoethnographic methods can be used whilst integrated or
‘supported’ by other data collection such as interviews, field notes and surveys. As an external
examiner for doctoral theses, I have found that the exclusive use of autoethnographic
accounts is often avoided by doctoral students in fear that the author’s experience will be
considered ‘not good enough’.
Exposure to risk and challenges to systemic or subject-specific conventions can be not only
worrisome, but also highly rewarding. Self-doubt and failure (Knights and Clarke, 2014; Clarke
and Knights, 2018) are inevitable companions to those who choose to pursue an academic
career. The whole peer review system of outputs and academic publications (at least in the
United Kingdom), as well as grants and funding processes, is based on a model where rejection
is more common than acceptance. Our ideas are questioned, critiqued, criticized, opposed,
welcomed and dissected on an ongoing basis –mostly with the noble aim of fostering the pro-
duction of knowledge of a higher quality, and at times driven by personal agendas and spiteful
attitudes. This often generates insecurities, imposter syndrome, and a stronger relationship
between vulnerability and identity work (Watson, 2008; Warhurst, 2011).
94
94 Ilaria Boncori
Vulnerability
I introduce myself with what I hope is a warm smile and a firm handshake:‘hi, I am Ilaria’. A glint under
the lashes and a knowing smile respond: ‘I know who you are, I love your work, it feels like I have known
you forever!’. She goes in for a bear hug. I am utterly surprised and rather flattered. Maybe shocked even.
She has read my research? I did a little silly hammer-time style victory dance in my butterflied stomach.
My first reaction was of stunned stupor, then of course I was internal-giggle-level pleased. I used to get the
same reaction when people quoted my work, when they invited me to write a chapter together, or even to
review an article. At the beginning of my research career –which came a few years into the course of my
academic career –every time that type of interaction occurred I actually thought people had mistaken me
for someone else.
Surprise, pleasure; then another type of feeling started creeping in. The third wave of emotion eman-
ating from that fortuitous encounter was less positive, and it’s connected with a common concern for
autoethnographers.That woman wanted to know a million details about the background of my story, how
I felt, the consequences, other people involved. I write in a stream of consciousness, I have done so since
I was a young girl, and in most of the languages I speak: I can feel words storming and forming at the
bottom of my stomach, then rolling on against the walls of my mind like ocean waves, knocking on my
consciousness, like tingling dreamcatchers that demand attention, a pen, a notebook, an acknowledgement.
I get snippets of paragraphs flashing in my mind during other activities, scattered along my days, invading
processes and colonising priorities. My mind goes on override and my internal voice starts staining my
inner pages with burning ink. The urge will torment me until I get the words off my system, usually on
paper, but lately also on clicking keyboards. It just pours out of me in a tsunami of language, inexorably
splashing out, line after line, until the monster wave retreats –peacefully, with a sense of liberated satisfac-
tion.The only way I can explain it is that it feels like a ‘Shaman Goddess of Narrative’, as I call it, owns
my subconscious, and there is no stopping her when she decides to pay me a visit.
This is why my narratives tend to be unfiltered, metaphorical, emotional, full of adjectives and messi-
ness. I feel that I have little control over my autoethnographic text. I can only decide whether to keep it
private or let it go free in the world. This also means that my words come from a place of vulnerability,
rawness, sensitivity and affect which increase the exposure of my private self to others. It’s not really
crafted, edited, or planned in a manner similar to the other academic texts I create. Once you let it out in
print, there is no turning back –it’s free to roam around libraries, free to be owned by others, free to be
read, interpreted and misunderstood. As academic narratives become preserved in time and space via the
treasure caves of knowledge repositories, they stay immutable regardless of the changes in their maker’s life.
I realized that, all of a sudden, my autoethnographic text had ceased to be my story: the reader owned my
experiences, my private thoughts, my vulnerability. I had given it to her by letting it go and deciding to
make it public.There is an inescapable tension between the touching and intimate proximity that research
on the self allows autoethnographers to share with complete strangers, or people who had only seen certain
sides of our persona, and the distance we want or need to keep. The Janus nature of this method means
that, on the flip side, the personal exposure at times feels like a self-imposed violation which can be chal-
lenging to manage.
When you give birth to a story that you consider worthy of sharing, then you need to let it go. It may
be cathartic, it may be a political act, a process of learning through writing, or even painful. Or it may
be many things at the same time. After a while, it may well be that you no longer see yourself as the
person in the account you released off into the wild academic world, but people are not aware of the diffe-
rence. Perhaps that is just a memory of an older version of you, a shadow of a previous self who remains
95
unaltered in ink but then starts to develop its own existence off paper, morphed by people encountered,
social understandings and theoretical trends.
As I mentioned before, there is no ‘one way’ or ‘the right way’ of being an autoethnographer.
I do not believe that people can be taught how to become a great one –we can learn the
relevant ethical considerations and processes, the literary conventions, the way to analyse our
text as data and other method-specific issues, but just like other arts and humanities-based
expressions, one can never truly learn autoethnography from others. Similarly, no matter how
much I try, I will never be able to write Hikmet’s poetry, or imagine J. K. Rowling’s Harry
Potter, or paint Klimt’s Kiss, even though I can become a world-famous expert of their themes
and techniques. However, I think that one can improve as an autoethnographer through the
process of doing autoethnography and writing stories, by becoming more aware and pur-
poseful in the way we engage with it, and more involved with the social, political and organ-
izational environments around us. Time and experience have enabled me to become a better
autoethnographer –more open, aware, prepared and bolder.
My process, like most autoethnographic experiences, may be only relevant to me. It starts
with a nagging idea –which I usually try to resist as it’s personal and creates fragility –and
a stream-of-consciousness type of narrative that floods my mind in moments that tend to be
inappropriate for writing (whilst picking up my daughter; when students are doing group
work; when I am in the suspended limbo of pre-dreamland; when scrubbing the day off in
the shower; whilst choosing the best broccoli at the supermarket, and so on). That voice just
won’t let me be until I do something about it, whether it is writing it down or doing an initial
background literature review. Has this topic been investigated before? Is it part –or should
it be part –of current academic conversations? Would my story or perspective add anything
to current understandings of the subjects? What am I contributing to, and to which specific
strand of the literature? In some cases, I don’t have all the answers yet, so I crystallize the
narrative stream onto paper and revisit it later on. With time, I have grown in confidence and
stopped apologizing for writing about my self and experience. The first lesson I had to learn,
so to speak, was to allow myself to be and be seen as vulnerable.
There is nothing inherently wrong with being vulnerable and showing that side of our
being human to the rest of the world whilst operating in a professional academic capacity.
Although it is often thought of as something we should hide or get over with (Harrison, 2008;
Hay, 2014), the ability to reflect on, work with and expose one’s vulnerability is a key skill
needed in autoethnographic methods. I find it actually quite refreshing to face vulnerability
within the current neoliberal academic environment where people are asked to ‘promote
themselves’ as academic professionals, or ‘fake it till you make it’. However, I think that the
ability to show my vulnerability increased as I became more confident and less insecure as
a researcher. Allowing others to see your vulnerability, and perhaps even empathize with it,
can open up different communication channels based on emotions and shared lived experi-
ence, and foster social and relational processes based on collaboration rather than competition.
Corlett et al. (2019) remind us how vulnerability should be recognized and claimed as a posi-
tive force which can prompt social support and lead to the recognition of alternative ways of
understanding and responding to vulnerability. Obsolete approaches that reject vulnerability
in life and research are instigated by patriarchal norms on how an academic professional
should present themselves to the world, and masculine notions of what constitutes appropriate
behaviour for scholars.
96
96 Ilaria Boncori
Conclusion
This chapter on autoethnography sought to highlight three concepts (resonance, exposure
and vulnerability) that are particularly relevant for those who are early career researchers or
academics in the initial stages of their exploration of autoethnography. The potentially detri-
mental effect of using autoethnography as a research method is both professional and personal
(Tolich, 2010; Ellis, 2007) –we are rarely lone actors in the scripts of our lives. Colleagues,
family members, friends and strangers are often included or impacted from our stories, which
is why they are often considered as pertinent subjects in autoethnographic ethical processes.
We may also have to accept that some people do not wish to read our work, and we have to
bear the responsibility of their (often unconditional) trust. We should also consider that whilst
our narratives may generate empathy and positive reactions, it could also create hostility or
confrontations.
I have also sought to provide some practical recommendations for those who wish to
pursue autoethnographic research. These are the lessons I have learnt over a decade of prac-
tice as an autoethnographer, which I wish I had realized earlier in my autoethnographic
journey. First of all, take advantage of the plethora of publications currently available on
autoethnography and the many excellent examples that are being published across top journals
in organization studies and methodology. Secondly, get access to relevant conversations, follow
early explorations of the method via conferences and workshops, and join communities
of practice via face to face or online networks. Most importantly, write your stories, trying
to find your style and voice, the habits and environments that work for you. Finally, write as
much as you can whenever you feel is relevant, and avoid being influenced by considerations
around the quality of writing, data analysis and publication appeal which can hinder the flow
of your writing and contaminate the unfiltered honesty of your text.
My autoethnographic account in this chapter offers a reflection on some issues that I believe
are key and need to be problematized for all autoethnographers, but especially for inexperi-
enced ones and colleagues at the beginning of their career. The first concept I highlight is
linked to the matter of resonance, understood here as a way of understanding the self through
others, but also as a tool to instigate change.Then, I considered exposure and vulnerability, and
the emotional labour involved in the writing and dissemination of autoethnographic material.
Narratives that illuminate experiences through the incorporation of emotions, the body and
the senses are pivotal in the creation of stories that others can empathize with, but also in the
development of richer and more in-depth insights as the body at times feels what the mind
seeks to silence. Therefore, an ability and willingness to become aware of and (re)experience
a range of emotions, which may well be negative, is paramount in autoethnographic research.
Finally, I have explored some concerns connected with the challenging of traditional ways of
understanding academic research.
So one obvious question may be –is it worth it? Shall we bother with an approach that
involves significant emotional labour and still has limited popularity in mainstream circles?
Perhaps obviously, since I welcomed the invitation to write this chapter, my answer is a
resounding ‘yes’. First of all, there is growing recognition of the value of autoethnographic
research in many publications and conferences, and I think this trend will continue. Secondly,
and for me most importantly, I feel that some stories deserve to be told. I am not likely to be
able to draw from my own experience for many topics, but there is nothing wrong in doing so
when the topic warrants the exposure. I have experienced unexpected collegiality, profound
97
satisfaction and heart-warming interactions thanks to this methodology and the sharing of my
own experience, and I am sure that I will remember and treasure those more than any citation
index, or research metric.
References
Adjepong Anima (2019). Invading ethnography: A queer of color reflexive practice. Ethnography,
20(1), 27–46.
Alexander Bryant Keith (2012). The performative sustainability of race: Reflections on black culture and the pol-
itics of identity. New York, NY: Peter Lang.
Anderson Leon (2006). Analytic autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 373–395.
Bochner Arthur (1984). The functions of human communication in interpersonal bonding. In Carroll
C. Arnold and John W. Bowers (Eds.), Handbook of rhetorical and communication theory (pp. 544–621).
Boston, MA: Allyn and Bacon.
Bochner Arthur (2001). Narrative’s virtues. Qualitative Inquiry, 7(2), 131–157.
Bochner Arthur (2002). Perspectives on Inquiry III:The moral of stories. In M. Knapp and J. Daly (Eds.),
Handbook of interpersonal communication (pp. 73–101). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Boncori Ilaria (2013). Expatriates in China: Experiences, opportunities and challenges. London: Springer.
Boncori Ilaria and Smith Charlotte (2019). I lost my baby today: Embodied writing and learning in
organizations. Management Learning, 50(1), 74–86.
Boncori Ilaria and Smith Charlotte (2020). Negotiating the doctorate as an academic professional: Identity
work and sensemaking through authoethnographic methods. Teaching in Higher Education, 25(3),
271–285.
Boncori Ilaria and Vine Tom (2014). ‘Learning without thought is labour lost, thought without learning
is perilous’: The importance of pre-departure training and emotions management for expatriates
working in China. International Journal of Work Organisation and Emotion, 6(2), 155–177.
Boyrlon Robin M and Orbe Mark P (2016). Critical autoethnography: Intersecting cultural identities in
everyday life. New York, NY: Routledge.
Browne Kath and Nash Catherine J (Eds.) (2010). Queer methods and methodologies: Intersecting queer the-
ories and social science research. New York, NY: Routledge.
Chang Heewon (2008). Autoethnography as a method. Wanut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press Inc.
Clarke Caroline A and Knights David (2018). Practice makes perfect? Skillful performances in veterinary
work. Human Relations, 71(10), 1395–1421.
Corlett Sandra, Mavin Sharon and Beech Nic (2019). Reconceptualising vulnerability and its value for
managerial identity and learning. Management Learning, 50(5), 556–575.
Denzin Norman K (1997). Interpretive ethnography: Ethnographic practices for the 21st century. London: Sage.
Denzin Norman K (2014). Interpretive autoethnography (2nd edn.). London: Sage.
Ellis Carolyn (2004). The ethnographic I: A methodological novel about autoethnography. Walnut Creek,
CA: Altamira Press.
Ellis Carolyn (2007). Telling secrets, revealing lives: Relational ethics in research with intimate others.
Qualitative Inquiry, 13(1), 3–29.
Ellis Carolyn (2009). Telling tales on neighbors: Ethics in two voices. International Review of Qualitative
Research, 2 (1), 3–28.
Ellis Carolyn (2010). Final negotiations: A story of love, and chronic illness. Philadelphia, PA: Temple
University Press.
Ellis Carolyn and Bochner Arthur (2006). Analyzing analytic autoethnography: An autopsy. Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 429–449.
Ellis Carolyn, Adams Tony E and Bochner Arthur (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Qualitative
Social Research, 12 (1).
Fisher Walter R (1984). Narration as human communication paradigm: The case of public moral argu-
ment. Communication Monographs, 51(1), 1–22.
98
98 Ilaria Boncori
Harrison Paul (2008). Corporeal remains: Vulnerability, proximity, and living on after the end of the
world. Environment and Planning A, 40(2), 423–445.
Hay Amanda (2014). ‘I don’t know what I am doing!’: Surfacing struggles of managerial identity work.
Management Learning, 45(5), 509–524.
Holman Jones Stacy (2005). Autoethnography: Making the personal political. In Norman K. Denzin and
YS Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp.763–791). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Holman Jones Stacy, Adams Tony E and Ellis C (Eds.) (2013). Handbook of autoethnography.Walnut Creek,
CA: Left Coast Press.
Holman Jones Stacy, Adams Tony and Ellis Carolyn (Eds.) (2016). Handbook of autoethnography.
London: Routledge.
Knights David and Clarke Caroline (2014). It’s a bittersweet symphony, this life: Fragile academic selves
and insecure identities at work. Organization Studies, 35(3), 335–357.
Lindh Ida and Thorgren Sara (2016). Critical event recognition: An extended view of reflective learning.
Management Learning, 47(5), 525–542.
Madison D Sohini (2012). Critical ethnography: Method, ethics and performance (2nd edn.). Los Angeles,
CA: Sage.
Martinez Shantel (2013). Tongue tied: Resisting “academese”. Cultural Studies? Critical Methodologies,
13(5), 379–382.
McDonnell Mark D and Abbott Derek (2009).What is stochastic resonance? Definitions, misconceptions,
debates, and its relevance to biology. PLoS Comput Biol, 5(5): e1000348. https://doi.org/10.1371/
journal.pcbi.1000348
Neumann Mark (1996). Collecting ourselves at the end of the century. In C. Ellis & A. Bochner (Eds.),
Ethno-graphic alternatives (pp. 172–198). Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira.
Morgensen Scott L (2015). A politics not yet known: Imagining relationality within solidarity. American
Quarterly, 67(2), 309–315.
O’Shea Saoirse Caitlin (2019). Cutting my dick off. Culture and Organization, 25(4), 272–283.
Porschitz Emily and Siler Elizabeth (2017). Miscarriage in the workplace: An autoethnography. Gender,
Work & Organization, 24(6), 565–578.
Reed-Danahay Deborah (Ed.) (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. Explorations in
anthropology. Oxford: Berg.
Sartre Jean-Paul (1974). Between existentialism and Marxism. London: New Left Books.
Smith Charlotte and Ulus Eda (2019). Who cares for academics? We need to talk about emotional well-
being including what we avoid and intellectualize through macro-discourses. Organization. Online
first: https://doi.org/10.1177/1350508419867201.
Spry Tami (2001). Performing autoethnography: An embodied methodological praxis. Qualitative Inquiry,
7(6), 706–732.
Stewart Kathleen (2007). Ordinary affects. Durham & London: Duke University Press.
Tolich Martin (2010). A critique of current practice: Ten foundational guidelines for autoethnographers.
Qualitative Health Research, 20(12), 1599–1610.
Veletsianos George and Stewart Bonnie (2016). Discreet openness: Scholars’ selective and intentional
self-disclosures online. Social Media +Society, 2(3), 1–11.
Vryan Kevin D (2006). Expanding analytic autoethnography and enhancing its potential. Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 405–409.
Wall Sarah (2008). Easier said than done: Writing an autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative
Methods, 7(1), 38–53.
Warhurst Russell (2011). Managers’ practice and managers’ learning as identity formation: Reassessing
the MBA contribution. Management Learning, 42(3), 261–278.
Watson Tonhy J (2008). Managing identity: Identity work, personal predicaments and structural
circumstances. Organization, 15(1), 121–143.
99
7
APID ETHNOGRAPHIES
R
IN ORGANIZATIONS
Ensuring rich data and timely findings
Stephanie Kumpunen and Cecilia Vindrola-Padros
Introduction
In the 1980s, Scrimshaw and Hurtado, United States (US)-based anthropologists working in
the health sector, found themselves in a position where they wanted to use anthropologically
informed ethnographic approaches, yet had a limited budget and too little time to carry
out a long- term research project. They examined their aims and options and began
questioning: “must one spend a year in the field collecting ethnographic data in order to make
useful recommendations for a health program?” (Scrimshaw and Hurtado, 1988). After some
experimentation, they developed a rapid research technique that they titled “rapid assessment
procedures”, tested it in a 16-country study and published the first manual describing their
rapid ethnographically informed work on primary care and nutrition for the United Nations
Children’s Fund (UNICEF) (Scrimshaw, 1987).Around the same time, similar rapid approaches
were being developed in other parts of the world. For example, Bentley and colleagues, plagued
with similar time and budgetary constraints, suggested they were “convinced that the process
of gathering essential ethnographic data can be a relatively rapid process” (Bentley et al.,
1988). They developed a method called “rapid ethnographic assessment” to examine health
beliefs and practices. These methodologies now represent pioneering rapid ethnographically
informed research approaches that have evolved into today’s contemporary rapid ethnog-
raphies. While many aspects of the methodology have been adapted since the 1980s, the time
and financial challenges faced by early applied anthropologists continue today in many of the
organizational contexts in which we work, whether in education, healthcare, social care or
urban development.
In addition to the cost and time implications, rapid research is produced for a range of
reasons. Rapid ethnographies are used when information is needed to be delivered in a timely
manner. These findings are used to inform decision-making in relation to new strategies,
interventions or modifications to existing services. Rapid research approaches, including rapid
ethnographies, are also needed when long-term research might not be feasible, for example,
in areas of conflict or in the context of complex health emergencies (Johnson and Vindrola-
Padros, 2017; Skårås, 2018). In these cases, it might not be possible for researchers to carry out
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-9
100
100 S. Kumpunen and C. Vindrola-Padros
long-term fieldwork because it might put them at risk (Skårås, 2018). Researchers might also
need to move quickly between communities or facilities to capture flows or shifting informa-
tion that might not be available at a later date (such as in the case of researchers tracking the
spread of epidemics) (Abramowitz et al., 2015).
The field of ethnographically informed rapid research has advanced considerably since
the 1980s and now covers a large number of techniques and approaches in addition to those
described above, including rapid appraisals (Beebe, 1995); rapid qualitative inquiry (Beebe,
2014); rapid assessment, response and evaluation (Trotter et al., 2001); and a range of rapid
evaluation methods (McNall and Foster-Fishman, 2007). These approaches are characterized
by the short duration of research, use of multiple methods for data collection and teams
of researchers, formative research designs where findings are fed back while the research is
ongoing, and the development of actionable findings (adequate for purpose and easily translat-
able into action) to inform changes in policy and/or practice (Anker et al., 1993; Beebe, 2014,
1995; McNall and Foster-Fishman, 2007). Rapid ethnographies, in particular, have become
increasingly popular since the 2010s, and have expanded to include “quick”, “focused” or
“short-term” ethnographies, among other forms.
This chapter provides a general overview of the field of rapid ethnographies and the appli-
cation of these approaches in organizations. We begin with a discussion on the definition of
rapid ethnographies, their key features and adaptations. We then discuss published examples
of rapid ethnographies carried out in organizations, identifying their contributions in the
study of organizational cultures and processes. We then present two case studies of our work,
including rapid ethnographies carried out as a lone researcher as well as carried out as part of a
research team.We end the chapter with a critical reflection of the advantages and disadvantages
of carrying out rapid ethnographies in organizations and outline areas for future development.
Defining rapid ethnographies

A recent review of the use of rapid ethnographies in healthcare (Vindrola-Padros and
Vindrola-Padros, 2018) found a number of different labels associated with rapid ethno-
graphic research: focused ethnography, quick ethnography, rapid ethnographic assessment,
rapid ethnography and short-term ethnography. One of the key findings from the review
was the identification of variation in the way in which rapid ethnographies were defined and
operationalized.The authors used the review findings to propose a working definition of rapid
ethnographies.
According to the authors, a study could be classified as a rapid ethnography if it was carried
out over a short, compressed or intensive period of time; captured relevant social, cultural and
behavioural information; focused on human experiences and practices; and engaged with
anthropological and other social science theories (using reflexivity as an ongoing process).
Data probably needed to be collected from multiple sources and triangulated during ana-
lysis. The research could use more than one field researcher to save time, provide multiple
perspectives during data collection and analysis and cross-check data (Vindrola-Padros and
Vindrola-Padros, 2018).
The aim of this working definition was to help make distinctions between rapid and more
traditional long-form ethnographies, while at the same time developing a definition that was
broad enough to include variations in the family of rapid ethnographies. As mentioned above,
101
Rapid ethnographies in organizations 101
TABLE 7.1 Types of rapid ethnographies
Type of rapid ethnography Definition
Quick ethnography “A package that integrates conventional means of collecting cultural

data (like key informant, structured, and cultural mapping
interviews), analysing cultural data (like grounded theory forms of
text analysis and conventional statistics, and project management
(like a Gantt chart) with more novel forms of data collection
(like successive pile sorts) and analysis (like the application of
multivariate statistical procedures to similarities among informants)”
(Handwerker, 2001).
Focused ethnography Involves a period of fieldwork with short duration balanced by data
collection and analysis that is “selected, specified, that is, focused
aspects of a field” (Knoblauch, 2005).
Short-term ethnographies Seeks to establish a focused dialogue between research and theory,
delivering findings in a timely manner but also making theoretical
contributions to our understanding of human thought and practice
(Pink and Morgan, 2013).
different labels have been used to describe rapid ethnographic approaches that vary slightly in
terms of their focus, design and types of instruments used to collect and analyse data. The key
approaches and their definitions are summarized in Table 7.1.
In the case of the three types of rapid ethnographies listed above, there is a shared purpose
to preserve key features of ethnographic research, while recognizing that changes will need
to be made to adjust to rapid study timeframes. One of these changes will need to be a clear
delineation of the field and use of focused research questions (Knoblauch, 2005; Pink and
Morgan, 2013). Rapid ethnographies tend to focus on specific aspects of human experience or
practice, within limited temporal and spatial contexts. This clear focus from the stage of study
design onwards enables researchers to generate in-depth data within a short period of time.
Another change is the increase in the intensity of fieldwork. According to Pink and Morgan
(2013), this can be achieved when the ethnographer implicates themselves at the centre of the
actions taking place at the field site from the beginning of the study (avoiding more passive
forms of fieldwork).
Ethnographers can also use past experience/knowledge to further contextualize the data
generated in rapid ethnographies and many ethnographers will tend to carry out rapid eth-
nographies only in contexts they are familiar with (Knoblauch 2005) or where they have
been able to carry out enough preliminary or exploratory research to understand the key
issues, context, potential participants, etc. (Vindrola-Padros 2020). Another important distinc-
tion from traditional long-form ethnographies is that of the purpose of the research. Rapid
ethnographies are often carried out rapidly as there is a need to generate and share findings so
that these can be used to inform decision-making processes.
The successful delivery of a rapid ethnographic study might also be partially dependent on
the extent to which the researcher is willing to collaborate, either with participants as research
assistants or other researchers, to ensure that varied perspectives contribute to data collection
and analysis and also to provide the increased capacity for intense data collection necessary to
102
compensate for the short duration of fieldwork. Similar to the field of collaborative ethnog-
raphies, rapid ethnographies carried out as a team are based on the premise that the combin-
ation of team members from different disciplines and levels of experience will bring different
perspectives to the research process, generating multiple layers of insight.
Finally, rapid ethnographies rely on the application of methods that increase research prod-
uctivity and the precision of ethnographic descriptions and explanations, which again enable
the intensive fieldwork necessary for short durations in the field. For example, Knoblauch
(2005) and Pink and Morgan (2013) argue that the intensity of data collection can be facilitated
by methods such as video observations of activity, which provide the researcher with rich data
on the context, interactions, physical space and the content of conversations.
In summary, proponents of rapid ethnographies have argued that rich ethnographic data
and meaningful engagement with field sites can be achieved in shorter studies (Handwerker,
2001; Knoblauch, 2005; Pink and Morgan, 2013; Wall, 2014), but this will depend on the pre-
vious experience of ethnographers with these types of approaches and the fieldsite, the way
in which they approach fieldwork and the degree to which they are willing to engage with
methodological experimentation.
The use of rapid ethnographies in organizations

Rapid ethnographic research has been applied in different types of organizational contexts.
Most of the organizations that have been studied and published on in the literature are
located in the healthcare sector, yet we have also found examples in education, social care
and organizations delivering other types of public services. Below we describe five examples
of rapid ethnographies in organizations, where research teams spent a relatively short time
in the field (between one and ten weeks), but the authors argued that these studies yielded
findings that were appropriate for the study aims. The examples demonstrate the variation in
the family of rapid ethnographic approaches, whereby no two texts used the exact same set of
data collection approaches, drew on the same methodological references or described similar
methodological limitations.
There are a group of rapid ethnographies that have centred on the analysis of different
aspects of organizational culture and practice. Chesluk and Holmboe (2010), for instance, used
“rapid ethnography”, which they described as researchers working in a compressed period of
time to gain a reasonable understanding of the people and contexts being studied (borrowing
interpretation from a human–computer interaction researcher; Millen, 2000).Their study shed
light on the importance of considering how organizational cultures shape staff routines and
team dynamics. According to the authors, their rapid ethnography across five primary care
practices in the US highlighted that, despite other efforts, teams continued to work in silos
and this prevented primary care practices from considering patients’ needs in a holistic way
(Chesluk and Holmboe, 2010). Their study included five to six days of intensive fieldwork in
each practice, documenting staff perceptions, behaviours and interactions using interviews and
observations. As clinicians, the authors relied on capacity and expertise of researchers based in
their professional organization to design the study, review findings and draft the manuscript,
as well as an anthropologist to collect data. They also undertook ongoing member checking
with clinicians and carried out key informant interviews at the end of their study to check
findings. In their limitations section, in addition to suggesting limitations around small sample
sizes common to ethnography, they said
103
we spent only one week as each practice (standard for rapid ethnography but relatively
brief by traditional anthropological standards), so we cannot claim to fully represent the
emic, or cultural insider’s, perspective on our data, but only the etic, or outsider’s, view.
(Chesluk and Holmboe, 2010, p. 878)
Mullaney and colleagues (2012) also worked in the healthcare sector, but in an acute hospital
environment.Their study is an interesting example of the use of rapid ethnography to examine
organizational processes and spaces, and patients’ reactions to these, to make a case for human-
centred design. More specifically, the authors spent two months carrying out a quick ethnog-
raphy to map patient pathways of radiotherapy and understand the stages and aspects of the
pathway that contributed to patient anxiety (Mullaney et al., 2012).They suggested that quick
ethnography was specifically used because it “enabled us to create a detailed analytical account
of patient interactions within the radiotherapy clinic” (p.30) and because it allowed the team
“to maximize the efficiency of our fieldwork and to work within the ethical constraints of the
hospital, which limited our ability to conduct direct interviews with patients” (p. 29). They
divided the fieldwork in an early mapping phase, which lasted two weeks shadowing staff to
get a baseline understanding of the radiotherapy processes, and the second phase where they
spent five weeks focusing upon the patient experience within the clinic to identify problems
within this context (Mullaney et al., 2012). Mullaney and colleagues (2012, p. 37) stated that
their study demonstrated how quick ethnography could be used to “explore the complex
phenomenon of patient experience and provide rich data on spaces where conflicts arise
within cancer treatment”, and reinforced this by sharing maps and photographs in their publi-
cation. What is particularly striking was the detail authors collected on the patient experience
in an unobtrusive way –demonstrating the potential for rapid ethnographies to make robust
practical suggestions to organizational processes even in research-sensitive environments.
Skårås (2018) used a rapid ethnographic design to explore how organizational practices
were shaped by the wider context where these were situated.The study focused on the delivery
of education in schools based in conflict zones in South Sudan, and she examined schools
as organizations and their daily practices within the confines of wider systems that might
facilitate or obstruct their work. In this PhD study, Skårås undertook three weeks of field-
work while simultaneously training local research assistants. For the remaining seven weeks
of fieldwork, trained local research assistants conducted audio-recorded interviews, collected
documents and made video observations in classrooms. She suggested that the multi-person
local research team made it easier to build rapport and get access to information, as well as
helped her overcome issues of limited access and security issues. Skårås (2018) also highlighted
the value of the specific features of focused ethnography, such as “its use of multiple research
methods, intense data collection over a short time period, and the use of audiovisual tech-
nologies” (Knoblauch, 2005, p. 2), alongside the availability of relatively inexpensive and user-
friendly equipment for video observation, in addressing the “challenges of restricted access to
research sites and information, psychological stress [of the researcher], the complex context of
conflict, positionality of the researcher, and the unpredictable nature of conflict zones” (p. 19).
Skårås, like Mullaney and colleagues (2012), argued that, despite the short field duration,
the validity of findings increased because of the in-depth analysis and triangulation of data
that occurred both in the field and after leaving the field, all of which strengthened the ana-
lysis process. As above, she quotes Knoblauch in her argument, suggesting “The short time
period covered is compensated for by the intensity in both data collection and data analysis
104
(Knoblauch, 2005)” (p.7). In her conclusion Skårås credited rapid ethnographic approaches
with opening up new possibilities for studying teaching and learning in conflict settings
that conventional ethnography cannot, highlighting yet again how the methodologies can
help with understanding sensitive (and potentially dangerous) research contexts –yet she
also warned readers against overgeneralization and the uniqueness of every conflict. This last
statement highlights the need to carefully examine the context and make research design
choices around tools, teams, duration, etc., that best suit an individual context at that particular
time –and adaptations to previous work rather than replication are encouraged.
The use and embedding of technological solutions in organizational practices has also
become a topic of interest to rapid ethnographers. Ackerman and colleagues (2017), for
instance, examined how “safety net” healthcare systems, which were groups of care provider
organizations that were set up to meet the needs of low-income populations, were giving
their patients access to their electronic health records and electronic contact with clinicians
as part of a voluntary, but financially incentivized, government initiative. Researchers visited
sites for tours, in-person interviews and focus groups with executives, clinicians, information
technology (IT) and clinical support staff, and observed patient portal sign-up. Researchers
also rated each site using a validated tool that produced an IT-readiness score, reviewed
marketing materials and examined patients’ use of their electronic health records (Ackerman
et al., 2017).
Their rapid ethnographic approach was informed by “sociotechnical” theories of tech-
nology use, which assert that organizations are complex systems that are simultaneously social
and technical, and thus implementing new technologies requires attending to the dynamic
and mutable interactions of people, objects and work routines. Authors did not reflect on
their rationale for rapid ethnographic approaches in the article and, instead, pointed readers
to a book chapter written by the lead author (and two other co-authors) (Ackerman et al.,
2017), where they describe how rapid ethnographic approaches provide an opportunity to
straddle the gap between methodological and interpretive rigour because they aim to gen-
erate findings that are practical, useful (but not always convenient) and do not lack interpretive
depth. The authors see their rapid ethnographic methods as participatory, with the research
and health IT teams collaboratively collecting data (Ackerman et al. 2017).The authors suggest
that “ethnographers collaborating with medical informatics teams often aim to contribute to
practical design and implementation strategies, meaning that a quick turnaround time and
applicable findings are essential” (Ackerman et al., 2017, p. 15).
Ackerman and colleagues (2017) continue to highlight how their adaptation of rapid
ethnographies is unique because it is informed by concepts and theories from the interdis-
ciplinary field of science and technology studies, where IT systems and people are under-
stood to influence each other through interaction. This adaptation also contributes to the
interdisciplinary field of implementation science, which develops strategies to promote the
successful adaptation of interventions that “work” in one setting to distinctly different settings.
Throughout their work, Ackerman and colleagues (2017) stress the importance of using
theory to shape project understandings as well as using an interdisciplinary team to create
rigorous and nuanced findings.
Ferreira and colleagues (2016) also examined technological innovation by exploring
inclusivity in organizational service design. Their rapid ethnography focused on the processes
used by organizations to plan and deliver services to marginalized populations by using
the case of older people and digital inclusion in Brazil. The data were collected within a
105
month, where Ferreira acted as a teaching assistant on digital inclusivity classes. The authors
described rapid ethnography as a “collection of field methods intended to provide a reasonable
understanding of users and their activities in a limited time in the field” (p. 30) quoting, Millen
(2000), a highly cited paper in human–computer interaction research. They suggested that
the core elements they had applied in the study were narrowing the research focus, using key
informants and interactive observation techniques, and drawing on computer-assisted analysis
(Ferreira and colleagues, 2016). They did not, however, provide more detail about their meth-
odological rationale or how they applied the methodology –an unfortunate but common
characteristic of the literature. The lack of description made it impossible to provide detailed
commentary on the use of the method –and was used as an example here to demonstrate the
importance of transparently reporting the research design, process and findings to the fullest
extent possible within the limitations of the publication.
The five rapid ethnographies described above exemplify the different ways in which rapid
ethnographic approaches can be used to implement studies of and within organizations. The
authors have demonstrated that these approaches can generate rich data on the ways in which
different organizational cultures shape team dynamics, how internal processes for delivering
services can influence experience, and the role of the wider context where organizations are
situated in shaping services as well as the research process. We have also provided practical
tips about the importance of multi-disciplinary team working, use of theory and transparent
reporting. We have also highlighted the opportunities for innovation and adaptation that have
made rapid ethnographies interesting and rewarding to its authors. In the next section, we
describe our application of a rapid ethnographic design in organizations, as lone researchers
and as part of a team –but we start with a brief, practical overview of the stages involved in a
rapid ethnographic study.
Key stages of rapid ethnographies

In this section, we give a detailed overview of how to undertake a rapid ethnography. We
differentiate the step-by-step processes used in two approaches typically carried out by lone-
researchers, quick ethnography and focused ethnography, and then compare them with two
approaches often carried out in teams, team-based focused ethnography and rapid site-
switching ethnography (see Table 7.2).
We would argue that there are two essential phases of rapid ethnographies that are rarely
described in detail, but are fundamental to the approach. As mentioned before, contemporary
rapid ethnographic approaches begin with a background research phase that helps researchers
design the study. Our experience in applied health research has led to this being called a
scoping stage, as it allows us to determine, in collaboration with all relevant stakeholders, the
scope of the study. This step must happen before the design of the final study protocol, which
is a stage most people would not classify as “research”.
A second key stage is dissemination, a stage that cuts across the entire duration of the study.
One of the key purposes of rapid ethnography is to develop relevant and timely findings that
can inform decision-making. It is important to note that we believe that “timeliness” can
involve a rapid study timeline (from design to dissemination), as well as longer studies with
rapid feedback or dissemination loops, so that emerging and validated findings can be shared
at specific time points, such as before key meetings are to take place or decisions need to
be made.
newgenrtpdf
106
TABLE 7.2
Comparing rapid ethnography approaches side-by-side

Quick ethnography Focused ethnography Team-based focused (Team-based) Rapid site-switching
(as a lone researcher) (as a lone researcher) ethnography ethnography
Stage 1: Background Literature review on topic Rapid review of literature, Development of a Initial team meetings to prepare
research and geographical context. informal conversations conceptual review to researchers for fieldwork (e.g.
Informal conversations with with potential participants inform the design and shared reading on methods and
other researchers who might (to inform sampling and study materials, sampling research topic).
have worked on the topic or development of interview and guidance document
area before. Brief review of and observation guides); for field researchers
other rapid ethnographies review of data sets; and early
carried out in the same sector. conversations with potential
Identification of a theoretical end users of research
framework/inclination to findings (to identify time-
guide the study points and format to share
findings)
Stage 2: Study design Background research will Enter field with pre- Same as with lone Initial scoping with key stakeholders
and set-up inform research question established questions. Often researcher FE around research site. Study design
development (and be designed as a stand-alone informed by short pilot study,
informed by theoretical study or linked to bigger which informed documents that
framework, gaps in previous pieces of work. Ethical would be required and areas in
research, issues relevant to review process. which observation would take
your topic/site). Use of place. Ethical review process.
a study design table and
sampling framework (for
documents and interviewees/
observations) are helpful.
Ethical review process.
newgenrtpdf
107
Stage 3: Data collection Few days or weeks of Combine different methods. Team crates standardized Review documents related to each
familiarization (and Initial “entering the field” documents for participant site to gain context and interviews
relationship building), possibly period is used to familiarize recruitment and data with range of representatives of
using “free listing” exercises the researcher with context, collections: participant groups who will be involved in
where topics are provided build relationships. Initial information sheets, the study.The interviews helped
to interviewees and they observations or interviews consent forms, a case introduce the study to the site,
list everything that comes might be broad in scope. study guide (to make sure research team and for the site to
to mind. Data is collected Researchers keep reflexive researchers are observing ask questions about the research.
by lone researcher or local journals, which are then the same types of events), Data collection carried out in
research assistants. used as data.Time-saving interview schedules pairs with varied backgrounds
techniques can include and coding framework. and years of experience. Alongside
writing notes after each Team mates collectively this a general tour of facilities
interview to identify produce fieldnotes. is carried out, photovoice data
emerging findings. Data collection, and a “flash” one-day
collection and analysis done visit to another site to act as a
in parallel. comparator.
Stage 4: Data analysis A theory of culture should Data collection and analysis Guided by the field Analysis happened while in the
inform (mostly quantitative in parallel allows for researchers.Thematic field via meetings at the half-way
according to Handwerker, identification of salient coding led by research mark through data collection,
2001) data analysis. Analysis topics and further team and adhered to by and this was shared with sites and

should focus on uncovering exploration of gaps. field researchers. One of informed the second half of the
labels and names assigned to the leads played a role in fieldwork.
meanings and experiences. cross-checking, but all
Qualitative data analysis can members had some sort
involve cross-checking of of contact with data.
analysis categories.
Stage 5: Dissemination Not discussed Not discussed Not discussed Early findings shared after each
fieldwork period with main and
“flash” sites. Sites each had their
own presentation of findings.
Full findings were made into a
“bookette”, which led to media
attention.
Source: This table has been developed from textual descriptions in Vindrola-Padros (2020).
108
Case studies
A lone researcher rapid ethnography in hospitals in Argentina
Even though team-based research approaches have gained popularity, some rapid ethnog-
raphies continue to be carried out by lone researchers. Several years ago, one of the authors
(CVP) carried out a rapid ethnography of the delivery of cancer care in Argentina. The rapid
ethnographic design was selected out of need as the researcher did not have the funding or
time to remain in Argentina for long periods of time. Time in the field is often dependent on
levels of funding, and when low or limited, a rapid ethnographic research design (if suitable for
the research questions) can be a useful alternative –as indeed was the driver for both Bentley
(1988) and Scrimshaw and Hurtado (1988) who as described in the Introduction were among
the first to begin experimenting with ethnographically informed rapid research.
The study involved three stages of intensive fieldwork in the capital of Buenos Aires (each
stage lasting three months) to capture the experiences of families seeking care for children
diagnosed with cancer. The study was based on the combination of different types of data
collection methods, including observations in common areas, the shadowing of families,
interviews with a wide range of family members and staff, interviews guided by the develop-
ment of drawings by parents and children, and documentary analysis of national and regional
healthcare policies.
Before the study was designed, the researcher worked with local organizations to map their
needs for evidence. Two organizations indicated their interest in understanding the needs of
families seeking care in greater depth. The first stage of the fieldwork was a key stage in the
process of familiarization, key families were contacted and followed and the researcher was
able to map different journeys of seeking care.The early stage of familiarization or scoping was
key in ensuring the research questions were focused enough to be answered in a short period
of time and the sampling framework represented all stakeholders.These stages also allowed the
researcher to engage with potential users of the findings early on in the study, ensuring the
study was relevant and the findings could be translated into changes in practice.
Familiarization or scoping stages are used frequently in rapid qualitative research to ensure
researchers have enough information to develop research questions that are focused, study
designs that are feasible and to generate findings that are relevant for stakeholders (Vindrola-
Padros 2020). We have described the use of scoping studies in greater detail in Vindrola-
Padros (2021a), but in essence, we tend to combine informal conversations with stakeholders,
observations of key events or meetings and documentary analysis to develop a rapid over-
view of the topic and context. We then share these findings with relevant stakeholders in the
form of one or multiple participatory workshops to make joint decisions about the research
questions, the study design and dissemination plan. As stakeholders are involved in early stages
of planning of a study (and maintain involvement in later stages, as well), we have experienced
that this gives them a sense of ownership over the study, helping the researcher to gain access
to relevant people and areas and seeing the value of using the study findings to make changes
in policy and practice.
In the first stage of fieldwork, the researcher noticed the high numbers of patients who
had to travel from outside of the Capital to access care.This meant that some families travelled
thousands of kilometres, had to remain separated from other family members and parents had
to go to great lengths to cover expenses in the new city and back home.The researcher decided
109
to make the experiences of these travelling families, their relationship with organizations
in the Capital as well as back home and the complexity of their journeys both real and
imagined the focus of the rapid ethnography.
Data were analysed during data collection, so the researcher was able to share emerging
findings with the two organizations that had demonstrated active engagement with the study.
As the data collection was ongoing, the analysis of data was facilitated through a process of
rapid synthesis that is frequently used in rapid qualitative research. After each day of fieldwork,
the researcher created a summary of the main findings generated during the day (including
data from all data collection methods). This meant that the researcher could have a sense of
the main findings at all stages of the data collection period and could share these almost in real
time with the organizations. These summaries could also allow the researcher to identify any
gaps in information that could be addressed during fieldwork.
The two organizations interested in the study provided support to travelling families
in the form of medical and social care services. The emerging findings were used by these
organizations to review the service delivery models to make sure these aligned to the needs
of parents and their children. The organizations also provided feedback when these findings
were shared, pointing to additional topics the researcher might want to explore and changes
in policies that could be taken into consideration in later stages of fieldwork. The feedback
sessions were also used to discuss additional people or organizations that could be included in
the study and staff from these organizations offered to link the researcher to facilitate access
throughout the study.
The second stage of the fieldwork was marked by an intensive process of documentation
of families’ experiences. The researcher was able to follow up with families interviewed in the
first stage as well as document the views and experiences of new families. From an organ-
izational point of view, the researcher tracked any changes in the delivery of care across the
country that could have shaped the experiences of families recruited in this second stage of
fieldwork when compared to the first one. Gaps from the first phase of fieldwork had been
identified and these were addressed in this second stage. Study participants were asked to take
part in a process of member checking, where emerging findings were shared with them to
sense-check interpretations. Emerging findings were also shared with organizations at this
stage and their feedback was used to design the third and last phase of fieldwork. An academic
paper was drafted and submitted for publication based on these findings.
The third stage of the fieldwork was considered a wrap-up phase. Families were followed up
and many of them had left the organizational contexts that had been an important part of their
lives up until that time.The researcher then used this stage to document the relationships fam-
ilies maintained with healthcare organizations after discharge, documenting their experiences
of travelling back for follow-up appointments or in the case of relapse. In addition to capturing
emerging findings, after this stage, the researcher also engaged in a process of more in-depth
analysis, using the Critical Medical Anthropology framework as the lens to guide the inter-
pretation of families’ narratives in a context of centralized care and structural inequalities.
A final set of findings was shared with organizations at this time and two academic papers
were submitted for publication. Even though these stages were short and based on inten-
sive periods of data collection and analysis, they generated rich insights into the experiences
of families who needed to travel to access care. The rapid ethnography opened a new area of
exploration for the researcher, who has continued to study the medical travel experiences
of children and families, making methodological and theoretical contributions to the fields
110
of medical anthropology and mobility studies (Vindrola-Padros, 2020). Fortunately, the

findings were also used by the two organizations engaged early on in the study to redesign the
scope and type of services they delivered to travelling families, making sure this service offer
aligned to the needs of users.
A team-based rapid ethnography in hospitals in the UK

One of the authors (CVP) has also been involved in a recent rapid ethnography designed
using a team-based approach to document the delivery of a quality improvement intervention
across six hospitals in the UK.The team of field researchers included a medical anthropologist,
a psychologist and a clinician with limited experience in qualitative research. The aim of the
study was to explore the rollout of the intervention, while taking into consideration how con-
textual factors within each organization shaped perceptions of the intervention, interactions
with intervention activities and the ultimate perceived impact of the intervention. The team
maintained a strong relationship with the intervention implementers and shared emerging
findings as the study was ongoing. A scoping stage, similar to the one described above, was
carried out at an early stage in the study to co-design the research questions, study design, and
understand when findings would be needed to inform changes in the implementation of the
intervention.
After the study protocol was agreed, the researchers were organized so that each would lead
the fieldwork in two sites (totalling six sites). Data collection involved interviews with staff
members across different layers of the healthcare organization and from different professional
groups, observations during meetings where the intervention was discussed and documentary
analysis. The research team also carried out interviews with a small sample of national-level
actors who had played a role in the original design of the intervention. The complete study
was carried out over five months and the researchers spent one to two months at each research
site. Ethical approval was obtained quickly and did not represent a major barrier, but some sites
were more engaged than others during data collection.
As mentioned before, even though rapid ethnographies can be carried out by lone
researchers, team-based research can speed up data collection. Teamwork allows the research
team to collect greater volumes of data (or cover more ground), but it can also bring a wider
range of expertise (and perspectives) to the data collection and analysis processes (Bentley
et al., 1988; Manderson and Aaby, 1992a). Rapid ethnographies try to reap the benefits of
collaborative research approaches considering all points of view and types of knowledge as
valuable. The interaction of these different perspectives generates additional layers of meaning
during the research process. This richness is also visible when researchers reflect on their own
positionality and practice as a team, through team-based reflexive practice models (Rankl
et al., 2021).
In the case of this study, members of the research team had expertise across disciplines
including medical anthropology, psychology and medicine.The social scientists provided meth-
odological expertise, while the clinician was able to provide valuable insight into processes and
structures within the healthcare system. Despite having experienced researchers on the team,
a key challenge faced during the study was maintaining consistency across researchers during
data collection and analysis. In order to address this challenge, the research team organized a
training session at the beginning of the study to improve the skills of members of the team in
rapid qualitative research. The team also used a more structured approach to data collection
111
and analysis in the form of the RREAL (Rapid Research Evaluation and Appraisal Lab)
sheets and integrated the use of these tools in weekly team meetings (to cross-check data
collection and analysis).
RREAL sheets (Vindrola-Padros et al., 2020;Vindrola-Padros, 2021a), are live documents
(organized in the form of tables) used by the team where researchers can summarize findings
and interpretations as data collection is ongoing. In the case of this study, RREAL sheets
were used to ensure consistency across researchers as all members of the team used the same
tool for their research sites and needed to communicate any changes made to the tool during
fieldwork to the other members of the team. One RREAL sheet was developed per site,
facilitating cross-case comparisons. The RREAL sheets were used to guide team discussions
as the team met on a weekly basis. These meetings were key to the success of the study as not
all members of the team had experience carrying out organizational ethnographies with this
level of intensity. These discussions enabled researchers to make sure they were approaching
sites and data collection in similar ways and they were able to share problems accessing people
and areas and strategies that worked in their sites. In addition to the RREAL sheets and
team discussions, one member of the team acted as the official “cross-checker” of the sheets,
ensuring all members of the team were collecting data in the same way.
A process of member checking was also implemented to cross-check interpretations with
research participants. Before findings were shared at a national scale, the researchers shared
findings with their research sites, obtaining valuable feedback that was incorporated in the ana-
lysis to develop a complete picture of the similarities and differences between organizations.
When data collection was complete, the researchers then moved on to a more formal stage
of data analysis. The summaries of data created in the RREAL sheets acted as a helpful guide
when designing the coding framework for the interview, observation and documentary data.
The researchers approached data analysis in a collaborative way, drawing from the framework
analysis approach developed by Gale et al. (2013) and adaptations of this approach in the col-
laborative matrix analysis method developed by our team. The coding framework and analyt-
ical matrix allowed the researchers to approach data analysis in a similar way, but team analysis
meetings were used to make changes in these tools based on topics emerging from the data.
The rapid ethnographic design was useful to enable the formative nature of the study,
where findings could be shared at regular time-points to inform the delivery of the interven-
tion. A design where findings are only shared at the end of years of research would not have
worked in this setting or would have generated findings at a time when these would have been
too late to inform changes in practice. In order for the findings to be used by the intervention
implementers, they needed to be shared in an accessible format and language to enable their
rapid translation into changes in practice. This meant that the team needed to think creatively
about how they communicated the key findings at different stages of the study. The team
opted for an approach that relied on visual representations of the data in the form of diagrams
and infographics.
There were a number of advantages of using rapid ethnographies as time-limited approaches
to carrying out ethnographic research. In both of the case studies described above, the studies
were able to generate in-depth and rich findings within a short period of time. The iterative
nature of the designs of both studies also allowed the researchers to have continuous close
contact with the data as data collection and analysis occurred in parallel. This constant scru-
tiny of the collected data allowed the researchers to identify gaps that could be addressed as
data collection was ongoing. It also allowed for the corroboration of interpretations with team
112
members, participants and other stakeholders through multiple processes of member checking
or validation. Through this process of corroboration, the researchers could identify the need
for midcourse corrections or adaptations to changing circumstances. The regular sharing of
findings with the intervention implementers and recipients (in the second case study) and
local organizations (in the first case study) allowed the lone researcher and research team to
continuously assess the quality of their interpretations and the relevance of the studies.
The advantages and disadvantages highlighted in these case studies are transferrable across
study settings and have been mentioned in the wider body of literature on rapid ethnographies.
We would argue that there are multiple ways of overcoming the challenges associated with
rapid ethnographies –regardless of whether they are conducted by a lone researcher or teams.
Their successful implementation will depend on the experience of the researchers involved,
their willingness to learn about rapid ethnographies and their openness to using new tools and
adaptations that will help them to produce rich research findings in short timeframes.
Conclusion
The rich history of rapid ethnographies spans decades, a period of time during which
researchers have undertaken both methodological experimentation and adaptation, as well
as reflected on their learning through various journal articles and practical handbooks. Even
though rapid ethnographies are now widely used in the social sciences and beyond, their
expansion has not gone uncontested. Some authors have argued that rapid ethnographies
might sacrifice the use of theory for the sake of brevity, fostering an instrumental and acritical
research approach and becoming a “quick and dirty” exercise (Cupit et al., 2018). Rapid eth-
nographies have also been criticized for having an overemphasis on producing actionable
findings, making them lose sight of “how well quality improvement endeavours are aligned
with the cultural context and the interests of those working or receiving care in the setting”
(Cupit et al., 2018).Yet, what might be more important to stress here is that there is an appro-
priate time and place for rapid ethnographies, and it is up to the researcher(s) to justify this
decision, define their scope and purpose for the work.
The field of rapid ethnographies also sheds light on useful discussions about the responsi-
bility of researchers using ethnographic research in contexts where the findings, if shared at an
appropriate time, could be used to improve the lives of those who share their stories with us. If
our ethnographies can generate rich insights into the lives of human beings and we could use
these findings to find solutions to common problems, then shouldn’t it be our responsibility
to do so? If we want to engage with this more applied aspect of ethnographic research, there
is a lot we can learn from rapid ethnographies in relation to stakeholder engagement, agile
research designs, participatory methods and accessible dissemination.
Another point of reflection in relation to rapid ethnographies is the question posed by
Vindrola-Padros (2020) on the extent to which rapid ethnographies also make contributions
to our critique and understanding of conventional or traditional ethnography. If ethnographic
research is not defined by the amount of time a researcher spends in the field, then what
makes a study ethnographic? Our future engagement with rapid ethnographies will not only
allow us to develop more dynamic and agile approaches for research, but also help us unpack
assumptions and categorizations that we take for granted in relation to accepted approaches
for ethnographic research.
113
References
Abramowitz, Sharon Alane; McLean, Kristen E.; McKune, Sarah Lindley; Bardosh, Kevin Louis; Fallah,
Mosoka; Monger, Josephine; Tehoungue, Kodjo; Omidian, Patricia A. 2015. Community-centered
responses to Ebola in urban Liberia: The view from below. PLOS Neglected Tropical Diseases 9,
e0003706. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pntd.0003706
Ackerman, Sara L.; Sarkar, Urmimal;Tieu, Lina; Handley, Margaret A.; Schillinger, Dean; Hahn, Kenneth;
Hoskote, Mekhala; Gourley, Gato; Lyles, Courtney. 2017. Meaningful use in the safety net: a rapid
ethnography of patient portal implementation at five community health centers in California. Journal
of the American Medical Informatics Association 24, 903–912. https://doi.org/10.1093/jamia/ocx015
Anker, Martha; Guidotti, Richard J.; Orzeszyna, Stanislaw; Sapirie, Stephen A.;Thuriaux, Michel C. 1993.
Rapid evaluation methods (REM) of health services performance: methodological observations. Bull
World Health Organisation 71, 15–21.
Beebe, James. 1995. Basic concepts and techniques of rapid appraisal. Human Organization 54, 42–51.
Beebe, James. 2014. Rapid qualitative inquiry: A field guide to team-based assessment. Lanham, MA: Rowman
& Littlefield.
Bentley, Margaret E.; Pelto, Gretel H.; Straus, Walter L.; Schumann, Debra A.; Adegbola, Catherine; de
la Pena, Emanuela; Oni, Gbolahan A; Brown, Kenneth H.; Huffman, Sandra L. 1988. Rapid ethno-
graphic assessment: applications in a diarrhea management program. Social Science Methods 27, 107–
116. https://doi.org/10.1016/0277-9536(88)90168-2
Chesluk, Benjamin J.; Holmboe, Eric S. 2010. How teams work—or don’t—in primary care: A field study
on internal medicine practices. Health Affairs 29, 874–879. https://doi.org/10.1377/hlthaff.2009.1093
Cupit, Caroline; Mackintosh, Nicola; Armstrong, Natalie. 2018. Using ethnography to study improving
healthcare: reflections on the ‘ethnographic’ label. BMJ Publishing Group Ltd. http://dx.doi.org/
10.1136/bmjqs-2017-007599
Ferreira, Susan M.; Sayago, Sergio; Blat, Josep. 2016. Going beyond telecenters to foster the digital
inclusion of older people in Brazil: Lessons learned from a rapid ethnographical study. Information
Technology for Development 22, 26–46. https://doi.org/10.1080/02681102.2015.1091974
Fitch, Chris; Rhodes, Tim; Stimson, Gerry V. 2000. Origins of an epidemic: The methodological and
political emergence of rapid assessment. International Journal of Drug Policy 11, 63–82. https://doi.org/
10.1016/S0955-3959(99)00056-0
Gale, Nicola. Heath, Gemma. Cameron, Elaine. Rashid, Sabina. And Redwood, Sabi. (2013) ‘Using the
framework method for the analysis of qualitative data in multi-discplinary health research’ BMC
Medical Research Methodology, 13(1): 117-125.
Handwerker, Penn W.; 2001. Quick ethnography: A guide to rapid multi-method research. Rowman Altamira.
Johnson, Ginger A.;Vindrola-Padros, Cecilia. 2017. Rapid qualitative research methods during complex
health emergencies: A systematic review of the literature. Social Science & Medicine 189, 63–75.
Manderson, Leonore; Aaby, Peter. 1992a. Can rapid anthropological procedures be applied to tropical
diseases? Health Policy and Planning 7, 46–55. https://doi.org/10.1093/heapol/7.1.46
McNall, Miles; Foster-Fishman, Pennie G. 2007. Methods of rapid evaluation, assessment, and appraisal.
American Journal of Evaluation 28, 151–168. https://doi.org/10.1177/1098214007300895
Millen, David. (2000) ‘Rapid Ethnography: Time Deepening strategies for HCI field research’ Available
online: https://dl.acm.org/doi/10.1145/347642.347763
Mullaney, Tara; Pettersson, Helena; Nyholm, Tufve; Stolterman, Erik. 2012. Thinking beyond the cure: A
case for human-centered design in cancer care. International Journal of Design 6. http://blog.ijdesign.
org/index.php/IJDesign/article/view/1076
Pink, Sarah; Morgan, Jennie; 2013. Short- term ethnography: Intense routes to knowing. Symbolic
Interaction 36, 351–361.
Rankl, Felicia; Johnson, Ginger A.;Vindrola-Padros, Cecilia. 2021. Examining what we know in relation
to how we know it: A team-based reflexivity model for rapid qualitative health research. Qual Health
Res 1049732321998062. https://doi.org/10.1177/1049732321998062
114
Scrimshaw, Susan C.M.; Hurtado, Elena. 1987. Rapid assessment procedures for nutrition and primary
health care: Anthropological approaches to improving programme effectiveness. Latin American Center
Reference Series (USA). v. 11.
Scrimshaw, Susan C.M.; Hurtado, Elena. 1988. Anthropological involvement in the Central American
diarrheal disease control project. Social Science & Medicine, Special Issue Anthropological Studies of Diarrheal
Illness 27, 97–105. https://doi.org/10.1016/0277-9536(88)90167-0
Skårås, Merethe. 2018. Focused ethnographic research on teaching and learning in conflict zones: History
education in South Sudan. Forum for Development Studies 45, 217–238. https://doi.org/10.1080/
08039410.2016.1202316
Trotter, Robert T.; Needle, Richard H.; Goosby, Eric; Bates, Christopher; Singer, Merrill. 2001. A meth-
odological model for rapid assessment, response, and evaluation: The RARE program in public
health. Field Methods 13, 137–159. https://doi.org/10.1177/1525822X0101300202
Vindrola- Padros, Cecilia. 2020. Rapid ethnographies: A practical guide. Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge.
Vindrola-Padros, Cecilia. 2021. Doing rapid qualitative research. Sage, London.
Vindrola-Padros, Cecilia; Brage, Eugenia; Johnson, Ginger A. 2020. Rapid, responsive, and relevant?
A systematic review of rapid evaluations in health care. American Journal of Evaluation 42, 13–27.
https://doi.org/10.1177/1098214019886914
Vindrola-Padros, Cecilia;Vindrola-Padros, Bruno. 2018. Quick and dirty? A systematic review of the use
of rapid ethnographies in healthcare organisation and delivery. BMJ Quality & Safety 27, 321–330.
Wall, Sarah. 2014. Focused ethnography: A methodological adaptation for social research in emerging
contexts. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung /Forum: Qualitative Social Research 16. https://doi.org/
10.17169/fqs-16.1.2182
Wolcott, Harry F. 1990. Making a study “more ethnographic.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 19,
44–72. https://doi.org/10.1177/089124190019001003
115
8
DECEPTION AS A MORAL PROJECT
Covert research and the construction of the ethical self
Chloe Tarrabain
The idea of covert research was first presented to me when I was studying on a qualitative
methods course where the example of Laud Humphreys’ “tearoom trade” (1970) was used to
characterize the nature of covert research.The discourse presented around covert research was
that it was unethical, immoral and had little place in academia. This sweeping assertion col-
oured my view of research, assuming that only good-quality research was produced by those
who had a file of signed consent forms and the welcome of organizational gatekeepers. It
was not until the “doing” of my own fieldwork, rather than the “studying” of it, that I came
to realize that social research rarely has absolutes and ethics around consent, like many other
things, fall on a continuum (Calvey, 2007). In my own research I studied the lived experiences
of temporary agency workers in the hospitality industry, using some deceptive methods to
obtain insights on a group of workers that are notably marginal and often difficult to access
(Anderson, 2010). In this chapter I will explore this ethical continuum through a reflection
on my own “identity work” during my fieldwork, considering how the ethics of doing covert
research are always complex, situated and political. The chapter reflects on three chrono-
logical points of my fieldwork: first, entering the field where my identity as a researcher was
concealed to management; second, where I was immersed in the field but had not yet revealed
my research intentions to the workers; and, finally, at the point where I had revealed my
research intentions to workers yet remained covert to management. Through this exploration,
I consider how the power dynamics within the organization are closely interlaced with the
extent of my non-disclosure and my closeness to the research participants. Drawing on the
concept of reflexive ethics, I consider how my own process of becoming an ethical researcher
is embedded in the research process itself, thus my identity and ethics are co-constructed
through research practice. Through my reflections I discover that there is both a case
for covert and overt research which is contingent on a multitude of factors which include the
researcher, the researched, the situation and the extant power relations inside and outside
the field.Therefore, through my own identity catharsis I discover that deception can equate to
morality, openness can equate intrusion and emancipation can lead to oppression.
This chapter begins with a brief review of a reflexive perspective on ethics which is
informed by Foucault’s “care of self ”, this is followed by a critical overview of the literature
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-10
116
116 Chloe Tarrabain
on covert research, then I present accounts of my fieldwork which consider how my iden-
tity as a researcher was crafted in relation to being covert and being overt, finally I discuss my
reflections in relation to the literature on covert research.
A reflexive approach to research ethics

The ethical conduct of a researcher is an inescapable and integral part of research practice.Yet,
rather than being transparent, ethical considerations are almost always convoluted, contested
and complex. In becoming an ethical researcher, I take a view on ethics that attends to com-
plex and shifting social and cultural power relations, inside and outside the research process
(Reynolds et al. 2008: 429). I draw on the radical perspectives of ethics which pays attention to
the power and normalizing tendencies which shape judgements around ethics (Hammersley
and Traianou, 2012, 2014). Cannella and Lincoln (2007) refer to these normalizing tenden-
cies as “regulatory enterprise” or Foucault would label them “technologies of the self ” and
consider them to emerge from the universal benchmarks of ethical behaviour, that is, ethical
governing bodies, committees, boards and research communities. The move towards universal
morality has been seen as potentially having catastrophic effects (Foucault, 1985), where regu-
lation of ethics may be seen as a tick-box exercise in morality giving the “illusion that moral
concerns, power issues, justice and protection of other human beings have been addressed
with no other need for concern” (Cannella and Lincoln, 2007: 316). The central ethical value
underpinning Foucault’s work is that of freedom which requires us to be conscious of how we
become shaped by institutional values (Hammersley and Traianou, 2014). In order to become
an ethical researcher and in negotiating this in relation to covert research, I will adopt the
Foucauldian ideas of “care of the self ” whereby reflexive practice is engaged throughout the
research process considering the “identities of the researchers and researched and the forces
that may act upon them” (e.g.Cannella and Lincoln, 2007). Foucault (1985) posits that despite
not being able to fully escape institutional practice a finely attuned awareness of the effects it
has over us helps to counter this inclination towards oppressive power. According to Foucault,
“ethics is not interpreted as inscribing universalist moral codes or prohibitions but an intensifi-
cation of the relations to oneself as the subject of one’s acts” (Foucault, 1986: 41).This calls for
introspective practice throughout the process of research which aims to expose the researchers’
located history, context and veiled privileges (Cannella and Lincoln, 2007: 322–323). For
Foucault (1994), ethics are the principles of self-governance, which should be enacted in daily
practice (1985:28) through a reflection on “the self in relation to knowledge”, “the self as
acting over others” and “the self as a moral agent”. In intensifying the relations to one’s self,
Foucault (1985) suggests an individual needs to reflect on the self as a moral agent; the way in
which one constitutes the “researcher self ” morally; the “mode of subjectification” which is
the self in relation to contemporary rule; “ethical rule” the methods used to transform oneself
as an ethical being and “telos” which is the disassembly of one’s self in ways that demonstrate
commitment to ethical practice of others (Cannella and Lincoln, 2007: 330). This reflexive
practice aims to uncover dominant discourses that may shape our judgement around ethics,
with the aim of considering how ethics and the ethical-self are constructed in context. The
following section critically reflects on the literature on covert research, taking a reflexive turn
to consider how this literature informed my identity as a researcher.
117
Deception as a moral project 117
Traditional views on covert ethnography

The decision to enter the field covertly was not an easy one to take. This wasn’t because of
the red tape around ethical approval, nor because of the notable emotion work I would have
to engage in (although this was onerous) but mainly because it threatened my identity as an
academic researcher, reducing it to a lower status. This threat to the self was demonstrable
through the mainstream literature which was compounded by the utterances of academics in
classrooms and conferences. On one occasion I had presented my research design in a work-
shop and had been questioned whether my research would be any different from that of an
investigative journalist. Many others have questioned, “how’d you manage to get approval for
that?” or “you’ll have to have some good justification for that type of research for your viva”.
These remarks emerge from a deontological view on ethics where non-disclosure is either
seen to be a last resort (BSA, 2002:6) or never justifiable (Bulmer, 1982). These objections
emanate from the belief that non-disclosure contravenes human rights, autonomy and dignity,
or more extremely are corrosive of the fabric of social order (Warwick, 1982: 58). Homan
(1980) lists 13 objections to covert research which range from concern for the strain placed on
the researcher to the potential violation of rights and liberties of the defenceless and powerless.
The Tuskegee study (1932–1972) is one of the extreme examples of violation of human rights,
where deception and covert practices were used to dupe black men infected with syphilis to
participate. Such examples of covert practice have resulted in reactionary responses from ethics
committees, most notably the bodies that govern social research such as the BSA (British
Sociological Association) which state that covert methods should “only be used where it is
impossible to use other methods to obtain essential data” or the ESRC (Economic and Social
Research Council) which acknowledges the need for covert research yet suggests it is only
justified where “important issues of social significance are being addressed and this cannot be
done in any other way” (2005:21).
Much of the reasoning behind this cautious view of covert research is due to protec-
tionism of the research subjects. Covert methods have been viewed as “manipulating or
conning research subjects” (Erikson, 1995). These morally reprehensible acts mean that covert
researchers have been characterized as “liars” (Allan, 1997) and seen to be instruments of man-
agement to “spy” on their workers (Coser, 1959). Others have argued that misleading research
subjects about their identity and intent may lead research subjects to act in ways they would
not want a researcher to observe (Roulet et al. 2017). An example of this is Leo’s (1995) covert
observations on detective interrogations, where the researcher was forced by the courts to
submit evidence and field notes against a police officer who had acted inappropriately in front
of the researcher. Unsuspecting research subjects are not able to regulate their own behaviour
in the knowledge of it being written down, analysed and published.
Further objections emerge from the potential harm that deceptive practice may have on
the researcher.This may be due to the potentially immoral or dangerous behaviour researchers
engage in, in order to “fit in”. Alice Goffman (2015), for example, discusses how she “dabbled
with illegality” through drug use, drug dealing and violence, during her research on young
men on the run from the police. Or more simply, researchers may suffer with the lasting psy-
chological impacts of a guilty conscience (Punch, 1986) as a result of deceiving people they
become close to in the field.
118
118 Chloe Tarrabain
A case for covert research

The universalist view on covert research has however become increasingly challenged. As
Reynolds et al. (2008) suggest, informed consent is a slippery notion which is tangential
and needs to be renewed throughout the research process. Despite having informed con-
sent, most ethnographies contain some element of secrecy which is seen as an integral and
often unacknowledged part of fieldwork (Mitchell, 1993; Punch, 1986). Disclosure is always
situated in relationships with specific informants which determine the extent of overtness or
covertness (Lugosi, 2006). This implies the abstractness of the ethics approval committee from
what actually happens on the field (Guillemum and Gillam, 2004) drawing criticism of the
notion of clear-cut ethics or absolute rights and wrongs. Labelling covert research as uneth-
ical is reductive of the complexity of the social world and urges a move towards ethics that
are located in the context of the research. The case made for covert research in the literature
generally falls into three arguments, the first being a critique on ethics committees, the second
an acknowledgment that covert research is performed frequently with non-academic rigour
and finally that the distinctions between covert and overt research are merely theoretical rather
than material.
The critique of ethics committees suggests that they place inappropriate standards on
social research, derived from standards set by the scientific and medical research commu-
nity (Richardson and McMullan, 2007). This has effect of placing criteria that may deter,
fetter and discourage creative social research (Calvey, 2007: 908). An overly cautionary ethics
committee is capable of fettering important research, whereas a more lenient one may pre-
sent opportunities for creative research. These critiques resonate with Foucault’s concerns
over universal ethical codes that create illusionary ethics. In my case, I navigated this system
with reference to the perspectives of those who ran the university ethics committee. At the
time of obtaining ethical approval, I was aware that the ethics committee had been run by
a group of qualitative social researchers who were more sympathetic to a-typical methods
of access. It was an opportune time for me to gain approval, where a group of quantita-
tive researchers oversaw the ethics committee and were clear in their disapproval of covert
methods. For me it was a case of right place at the right time, another ethics committee may
not have granted its approval.
The second critique is that covert methods are used in other types of research such as
journalism, which yields knowledge that is accessible to all; this brings about questions as to
why academics can’t access the field in a similar way and produce equally insightful research
which has been subject to academic rigour. This critique reflects the dominance of academic
knowledge as being in some ways superlative in comparison to other forms of research. A crit-
ical reflection on this assumption helps to resist the temptation to identify with the dominant
discourse of academia and create opportunities to reconcile or at least negotiate the perme-
ability of the boundaries between academic knowledge and other forms of knowledge. Or as
Becker puts it:
My own professional colleagues –sociologists and other social scientists –like to talk
as though they have a monopoly on creating such representations [of society], as though
the society they produce is the only “real” knowledge about that subject. That’s not
true… …That kind of talk is just a standard professional power grab. Considering the
ways that people who work in other fields –visual artists, novelists, playwrights,
119
photographers, and filmmakers –as well as laypeople represent society will show ana-
lytic dimensions and possibilities that social science has often ignored that might other-
wise be useful.
(Becker 2007, p. 6)
Third, others argue that “overt” research is rarely entirely “overt” as researchers often try
to get participants to forget research intent in the interest of fostering rapport (Punch, 1986).
Bourgois acknowledges these tensions a skilled ethnographer must navigate stating,
we are supposed to ‘build rapport’ and develop such levels of trust and acceptance in
our host societies that we do not distort social interaction, anything less leads to the
collection of superficial or skewed data? How can we reconcile participation with truly
informed consent?
(2007:296–297)
The implications of this mean that researchers often sanitize their accounts of data
collection, glossing over what is covert as overt (Calvey, 2007: 906). It has also been
acknowledged that gaining informed consent from everyone in an ethnographic study is
highly disruptive to the research and is rarely achieved (Alcadipani and Hodgson, 2001).
Rather much of the ethical conduct in ethnographic work is self-regulated or, as Calvey
(2007) puts it, “knowing when to turn the tape off ”.
The messiness of the literature destabilized some of my preconceptions about the rigidity
of entering the field with fully informed consent. It drew doubt around the notions that overt
research equates to good research and covert a sordid, lesser form of knowledge.These shifting
understandings not only presented new opportunities for accessing the field but also a legit-
imate discourse through which I could pin my own academic identity, that it may be possible
to achieve a professional status as a researcher whilst engaging in subterranean research. These
literatures provided me with the resources and language to reconcile doing covert research
and crafting an ethical identity.
Entering the field: covert research, the lesser of two evils

When I had initially attempted to access hospitality workers through management, I struggled
to even get a response and those that did respond expressed their disinterest in participating.
This came as no surprise to me as research in the hospitality industry has often used covert
methods to access the field (e.g. Alberti, 2014; Lugosi, 2006). Diamond (1992) suggests that
this may be because studies in organizational settings likely to uncover exploitative or dis-
criminatory practices, can be swathed with management protectionism which makes access
or useful research near impossible. This signifies an irreconcilable conflict of interests between
the organizations and the social sciences (Becker, 1967), which necessitates what may be
considered as “ethically questionable” advances into the field in order to pursue a line of
enquiry.What this meant for my research was that if I was to research agency workers I would
have to do this through covert methods and non-disclosure to management.
Getting into the employment agency “Staff Solutions” wasn’t difficult, I had applied for a
job as a hospitality worker in response to an advert that I had seen posted on the “Gumtree”
website and was called in for interview within 24 hours. I was careful in my selection of
120
120 Chloe Tarrabain
“Staff Solutions” as a potential research site, my experience in catering and hospitality when
I was a student gave me a good knowledge of how many of the local hotels are staffed and
“Staff Solutions” was one of the biggest suppliers of flexible labour in the area. At the point
of applying for work, the deceptive element of my research began – I would need a credible
story for why I was there. My story, like many good lies, was interlaced with truths, I would
tell the agency that I was a student yet wouldn’t be entirely clear on what I was studying. If
asked what I was studying, I would tell them, “a master’s in business” or more vaguely “post-
graduate studies”. When asked why I wanted work with the agency, my answer was usually,
“to earn a bit of extra money” or more crassly “to fund a shopping habit” –I was later to
learn that such flippant comments were entirely insensitive to my participants. The deception
at this point although unsettling didn’t pose any significant destabilization to my “ethical-
self ”, because I was deceiving the recruiter at “Staff Solutions”, a white man, in a white-collar
job who was in a relative position of power over those he recruited for work. Given that my
research was invested in gaining insight into temporary agency workers’ experiences, many
of which were migrants, I applied a consequential argument to my internal ethical rational-
ization, considering the emancipatory outcomes of my research sufficient to justify the harms
of deception. On my first meeting with Adrian, I gained what I perceived as further moral
justification for my covert practice. As I waited for my interview, a woman rushed in dressed
in work clothes, explaining that she had not been paid for all of the overtime hours she had
worked. Adrian’s response was that these had not been added to her timesheet and therefore
she wouldn’t be paid for them. These examples of injustice coldly applied through adminis-
trative procedures were frequent in the agency and were cathartic to my construction of the
ethical self. In many ways this was an example of my “ethical work” through documenting
these injustices as a way of resisting the dominant “mode of rule” which bands deception as
unethical and transforming myself into an ethical being.The only way I would ever be able to
gain knowledge of these lived experiences of workers would be through covert research and
therefore deception became acceptable to my identity. My non-disclosure to participants was
part of my own identity project and my own political perspectives; I had justified the covert
nature of my research and my deception as a necessary evil in order to achieve emancipatory
outcomes through “giving voice” to agency workers. On deeper reflection, this emancipatory
project comes subject to criticism, as emancipation implies freedom from oppressive power;
however, in positioning myself as ‘emancipator’ I assume a position of privilege and power. In
becoming the emancipator do I become the oppressor or am I using my own power to priv-
ilege the voice of others?
Being covert in the field: deception and distance

After being recruited by the agency I was assigned to jobs and soon began to create relationships
with the subjects of my research. For the first two months in the field, I maintained my per-
sona as the working student and did not reveal myself to the workers.To many of the workers,
this persona made me unrelatable. Although I was engaging in similar work as them, I didn’t
rely on this work for basic sustenance but used the money to fund luxuries. For example,
one occasion I had turned up to a shift with a Starbucks coffee, to which one worker rightly
pointed out that my coffee equated to 40 minutes of mopping greasy floors. Another time,
I had carried an embarrassingly expensive bag to work and had earned the nickname as the
“posh girl”. Many times, on shift I was referred to as “princess” or it was assumed that “I’d
121
never experienced a hard day’s work before”. It was clear that simply doing the job was not
enough for me to gain the trust of my participants. My socio-economic privilege, which from
my own ignorance was materialized through coffees and bags, meant that I constructed a div-
ision between myself and my research subjects. Had I been more attuned to my economic
privilege, I may have been able to conceal these things more effectively. However, there were
other axes of privilege that I would not be able to conceal, such as being British, having flu-
ency in English and although I am mixed heritage, passing as white. All of these things were
relevant to the assignment of work as many organizations and the agency demonstrated pref-
erence for these aspects of social capital, this created tensions between the workers and me.
Unlike Calvey (2007), attempts to disguise my researcher self were futile and my covertness
along with my otherness intensified the distrust against me. This distrust also stemmed from
the threat I posed to my participants’ consistency of work and the fact that I didn’t really need
the work. This was the biggest “moral fixes” (Van Maanen, 1983) I faced during my research
and destabilized my ethical self, that my engaging in agency work meant that I took shifts from
those genuinely in need of the work.
In many ways the distance that this created between the agency workers and me was a
comfortable space –this was because it alleviated me of the awkwardness of becoming close to
individuals that I was essentially deceiving. Despite this, other challenges arose as a result of my
covertness. Although I gathered data of my observations while on shift, I was unable to collect
the voices of my participants or get deeper insight into their perspectives. I documented many
instances of agency workers’ recalcitrance; for example, I had watched one worker steal an
entire case of champagne by edging the box into bushes out of the side of a marque in an
event we were working at. I could make a multitude of interpretations of this act; perhaps for
economic gain, a political statement or an act of resistance, but it would not be until I was able
to openly discuss this with the workers I would not be able to give meaning to the act. This
came as a point of contention in crafting the ethical self, if I was to “give voice” to workers,
how would I do this by interpreting their actions on their behalf?
Disclosure, identity catharsis and crafting the ethical-self

I had come to the point in my fieldwork where being covert no longer helped me to craft an
ethical self. I decided that I would reveal my research intentions to workers in the hope that
they would agree to discuss their experiences and provide their own interpretations around
events I had observed. After all I was attempting to “get people to tell their stories in their own
words, as they would to one of their own” (McIntyre, 1999:8). At the point of self-disclosure,
I explained to agency workers that I felt that many aspects of their working lives were hidden
from society and that I wanted to understand what it was like for them – this served to placate
the tensions between the workers and me. Rather than being a privileged other, I became par-
tisan to their experiences. The perceived threat that I posed to taking scarce shifts also eased,
rather than being seen as a competitor for shifts I was interested in their daily struggles. In
many ways my identity as a researcher was a less threatening one than my identity as a fellow
worker. This could be perceived as a self-interested project where I could alleviate myself of
the guilt of deceiving workers, while gaining deeper knowledge of their experiences. More
critically, I should challenge the extent that my move from covert to overt was in any way
guided by a moral conviction or just the need to get good data and sanitize my conscience
in the process.
122
122 Chloe Tarrabain
The disclosure of my research-self helped me to foster closer relations with my participants,

many of which agreed to be interviewed formally and also shared anecdotes of their
experiences while on shift “to help with my project”. However, this openness presented me
with new ethical challenges –workers saw me as a sympathetic ear and would divulge infor-
mation that often felt relevant, yet intrusive to their personal lives. One such occasion was
when I was told about how one of the workers’ difficult financial situation meant that she
had to leave her seven-year-old son on his own at night while she worked as she “needed the
money but couldn’t afford childcare”. Or another worker told me about how she had several
miscarriages as a result of being assigned to venues that made her carry tables, chairs and heavy
vats of cutlery, although she had requested lighter work. And many spoke of the petty theft,
designed simply to counter the feelings of inequity they experienced as a result of their work –
although this was rarely more than croissants from the breakfast bar.These stories were illustra-
tive of the experiences of workers and were important in understanding the daily challenges
they faced in order to pay rent, eat or send remittances back to their home countries. However,
quite often stories were of “deviant knowledge” (Walters, 2003) or outright injustices against
workers which placed me in uncomfortable position where I felt compelled to act yet knew
the consequences of this would cause greater harm to participants. I didn’t assume the position
of “moral guardian” or “academic zoo-keeper” (Calvey, 2007: 913) but merely learned where
to regulate my own ethical conduct and “turn off the tape”.
Visibility through deception

The guiding principle through which I pinned my ethical-self was to make workers who are
often rendered invisible visible. My participants, migrant agency workers, are a set of workers
often depicted by media as either victims or villains with the rhetoric of “benefit migra-
tion” or occurrences such as the “Morecambe Bay disaster1” being a way through which
they are characterized. These sensationalized headlines depict only the extreme examples of
migrant experience but not the mundane. The voices of migrants in temporary work are
rarely represented for a few reasons, perhaps because they don’t have the privilege or the plat-
form to tell their own stories and also because their work means they are highly fragmented
and difficult to access. Deception in order to access these workers therefore became ethically
defensible or a moral campaign and a part of my ethical identity as a researcher. For me, this
was my ‘awareness of institutional practice and its oppressive effects’ (Foucault, 1985).
I had become aware that the discourses surrounding migrants were a narrative that were
crafted by political and media institutions, even academic research outputs tend to access
migrant workers through trade union groups, which were perhaps the more empowered of
these workers. Thus, my choice to enter the field covertly was an attempt to contest these
powerful discourses. However, in avoiding succumbing to institutional practice, I also needed
to challenge my own inclination towards academic practice, which meant both challenging
mainstream ethical protocols and reflecting critically on my writing and the sorts of know-
ledge I produce. In doing so, I question whether my “academic voice” could ever really be
representation of the migrant agency worker voice and whether with all its conventions and
nuances, academic writing really serves to make these workers visible? This question is cer-
tainly a complex one, of course this chapter, my PhD or any other publications are likely to
only be read by a handful of people in the academic community, yet this at least allows people
who may have very little insight into what life might be like for migrant agency workers to
123
gain some understanding. However, I should also challenge whether I am able to encapsulate
what life is like for migrant agency workers, through a reflection on ‘myself in relation to the
knowledge I produce’ (Foucault, 1985). The data I collect, produce and analyse is imbued with
my own identity and my own assumptions of ethics. It was only in the reflexive moments,
in interactions with migrant agency workers, that my assumptions became challenged. For
example, I had often expressed my discontent with plate waiting, how physically and emotion-
ally draining it was and on occasions how degrading it felt, yet his was brought into sharp relief
when one worker told me how ungrateful I was and that “this is a professional job in Romania,
many people would kill to do this job”. Therefore, to represent the participants was an ongoing
battle to fight myself, my own predispositions and my own veiled privileges (Cannella and
Lincoln, 2007).
Crafting my ethical-self also required a deep reflection of “myself in relation to the subjects
I acted over” (Foucault, 1985). Of course, deception can in many cases be damaging, but in
my case, I was deceiving the gatekeeper (the temporary employment agency) who sought
to silence workers experiences. In revealing my research intentions, the workers, who then
became participants to my study, weren’t concerned that their experiences would reach a mass
audience but just that they felt listened to. They often expressed how good it felt to be able to
“get the frustration off my chest” or “make someone understand how it’s not that great over here” or just
to show, “we are not what all the papers and news says about us”, and without deception or covert
research this would not have been possible.
Conclusion
Through a reflexive analysis of my field experiences, it has been shown how my identity
work in crafting an ethical-self is closely aligned with my decisions around disclosure and
non-disclosure in the field. Through the lens of an “ethical-self ” I show how research ethics
and my own identity are a co-constructed and ongoing achievement. The approach I took
to disclosure and non-disclosure was cognisant of the intersubjective relations in the field
and the power relations within (the agency and its workers) and outside (the wider research
community) of the research context and also a reflection of my own interests as a researcher.
Research ethics, rather than being a rubber stamp exercise from a research committee, are
therefore deeply embedded in the identities of the researcher. My choice to remain covert
to management while disclosing my research intentions to workers parallels my own politics
and was considered a way through which I could redress the power imbalance between the
agency and its’ workers. Although often seen as removing autonomy from participants, in
many ways being covert enabled me to give the agency workers a choice around participa-
tion. By subverting the dominant power of the agency through deception, I was able to garner
insights of agency work and “give voice” to workers. Had I not deceived the agency, these
workers would have remained hidden. In this sense deception becomes a moral project that
seeks to empower the marginalized.This points to the fluidity of ethics, that good and bad lose
the universalness of their meaning and are crafted in situ. What does this mean for the ethics
of covert research? Perhaps that covert research can be ethical or unethical, moral or immoral,
good or bad –the judgement attached to this is ultimately a construction of the researcher in
negotiating their ethical-self. This view on ethics of covert research agrees with the view that
“ethics are situated contingent, dynamic, temporal, occasioned and situated affairs” (Calvey,
2007: 912), yet extends this by re-centring the researcher in this construction of ethics. This
124
124 Chloe Tarrabain
reflexive approach to research ethics through a sharpened focus on the researchers’ ethical-self
construction allows for greater perception of how power structures and the researchers’ own
interests are deeply embedded in the research process. Guided by Foucault’s ethics of self, the
challenge for the researcher is therefore to step out of oneself and question the often taken-
for-granted discourses that constitute the self.
Note
1 The Morecambe Bay cockling disaster occurred on the evening of 5 February 2004 at Morecambe
Bay in North West England, when at least 21 Chinese illegal immigrant labourers were drowned by
an incoming tide after picking cockles off the Lancashire coast.
References
Alberti, Gabriella. (2014). Mobility strategies, ‘mobility differentials’ and ‘transnational exit’: The
experiences of precarious migrants in London’s hospitality jobs. Work, Employment and Society
28(6): 865–881.
Alcadipani, R. and Hodgson, D. (2001). By any means necessary? Ethnographic access, ethics and the
critical researcher. Tamara Journal of Critical Organisation Inquiry 7(3/4): 127–146.
Allen, Charlotte. (1997). Spies like us: When sociologists deceive their subjects. Lingua Franca. Retrieved
from http://linguafranca.mirror.theinfo.org/9711/9711.allen.html.
Anderson, Bridget. (2010). Migration, immigration control and fashioning of the precarious worker.
Work, Employment and Society 24(2): 300–317.
Becker, Howard. S. (1967). Whose side are we on? Social Problems 14(3): 239–247.
Becker, Howard S. (2007). Telling about society. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Bourgois, Philippe. (2007). Confronting the ethics of ethnography; Lessons from fieldwork in Central
America. In A.C.G.M. Robben and J.A. Sluka (eds.), Ethnographic fieldwork; An anthropological reader
(pp. 288–297). Oxford: Blackwell.
British Sociological Association. (2002). Statement of Ethical Practice. Retrieved from http://www.sociol
ogy.org.uk/as4bsoce.pdf .
Bulmer, Martin. (1982). Ethical problems in social research: The case of covert participant observation.
In M. Bulmer (ed.), Social research ethics: An examination of the merits of covert participant observation (pp.
3–12). London: Macmillan.
Calvey, David. (2007). The art and politics of covert research: Doing ‘situated ethics’ in the field. Sociology
42(5): 905–918.
Cannella, Gaile S. and Lincoln, Yvonne S. (2007). Predatory vs dialogic ethics: Constructing an illusion
or ethical practice as the core of research methods. Qualitative Inquiry 15(3): 315–335.
Coser, Lewis W. (1959). Participant observation in the military. A question of professional ethics? American
Sociological Review 24(3): 397–400.
Diamond, Thaddeus. (1992). Making gray gold: Narratives of nursing home care. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Erikson, Kai. (1995). Commentary:Voice of the victims. American Sociologist 26(2): 4–11.
ESRC. (2005). Research Ethics Framework. Retrieved from www.esrcsocietytoday.ac.uk/ESRCInfo
Centre/opportunities/research_ethics_f ramework/i ndex.aspx?ComponentId=11292&Source
PageId=19165.
Foucault, Michel. (1985). The use of pleasure: History of sexuality (Vol. 2). R. Hurley, Trans. New York,
NY: Pantheon Books.
Foucault, Michel. (1986). The care of the self: History of sexuality (Vol. 3). R. Hurley, Trans. New York,
NY: Pantheon Books.
125
Foucault, Michel. (1994). On the genealogy of ethics: An overview of work in progress. In P. Rabinow
(ed.), Michel Foucault: Ethics, subjectivity, and truth, 1954–1984 (Vol. 1, pp. 253–280). New York, NY:
The New York Press.
Guillemin, Marilys and Gillam, Lynn. (2004). Ethics, reflexivity, and ‘ethically important moments’ in
research. Qualitative Inquiry 10(2): 261–280.
Goffman,Alice. (2015). On the run: Fugitive life in an American city. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Hammersley, Martin and Traianou, Anna. (2014). Foucault and researcher ethics: On the autonomy of the
researcher. Qualitative Inquiry 20(3): 227–238.
Homan, Roger. (1980). The ethics of covert methods. British Journal of Sociology 31(1): 36–59.
Lugosi, Peter. (2006). Between overt and covert research: Concealment and disclosure in an ethnographic
study of commercial hospitality. Qualitative Inquiry 12(3): 541–561.
MacIntyre, David. (1999). One man, four lives undercover. London: BBC Worldwide.
Mitchell, Richard. (1993). Secrecy and fieldwork. London: Sage.
Punch, Maurice. (1986). The politics and ethics of fieldwork. London: Sage.
Reynolds, Emma, Holland, Sally, Ross, Nicola J. and Hillman, Alexandra. (2008). Becoming a partici-
pant: Problematising informed consent in participatory research with young people in care. Qualitative
Social Work 7(4): 427–447.
Richardson, Sue and McMullan, Miriam. (2007). Research ethics in the UK: What can sociology learn
from health? Sociology 41(6): 1115–1132.
Roulet, Thomas J., Gill, Michael, Stenger, Sebastien and Gill, David J. (2017). Reconsidering the value
of covert research: The role of ambiguous consent in participant observation. Organizational Research
Methods 20(3): 487–517.
Walters, Reece. (2003). Deviant knowledge: Criminology, politics and policy. London: Willan.
Van Maanen, John. (1983). Qualitative methodology. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage.
126
9
ETHNOGRAPHY ON SENSITIVE TOPICS
Children’s sexuality education in Spain
Bruna Alvarez, Estel Malgosa and Diana Marre
Twenty-seven teachers sat at children’s desks in the school library. We had invited them there
to ask what their experience teaching sexuality to boys and girls was like. Our question was
met with a long silence; sexuality education isn’t part of the school’s curriculum. Eventually,
one of the teachers broke the silence:
In the last two years of primary school sexuality comes up, and you find that there are
lots of things you don’t know how to explain… They have lots of questions, things that
they don’t dare ask at home, and so they ask at school. And you don’t know to what
extent you can answer… to what extent this is my role as a teacher….
“These questions can come up in any class”, added the English teacher. Another teacher
continued, “Once a boy came to see me asking why when you touch yourself sometimes a
little bit of semen comes out. And I thought, ‘You’re asking me?!’ And you try to respond as
best you can…”. Another reported, “Girls ask: ‘Are tampons or pads better?’ Am I supposed to
tell a 12-year-old girl what’s better? No, no. Talk to your mother!”.
These accounts were shared in focus groups and interviews arranged as part of
SexAFIN:Affective-sexual and reproductive education in primary schools in Catalonia, Spain,1 a multi-
disciplinary research project that, across three years (2017–2020), explored how Spanish chil-
dren, parents and primary school teachers discuss sexuality.2 The teachers’ concerns evidence
some of the many difficulties teaching as well as researching such a sensitive topic. Though
sensitive topics –issues felt as intrusive, uncomfortable to disclose and socially undesirable
(Tourangeau and Yan 2007) – are contextual rather than objective (Barnett 1998), sexuality is
considered a taboo, and therefore a sensitive matter, in most cultures (Lee and Renzetti 1990;
Ogden 2008; Tourangeau 2011). In this case, the challenges discussing sexuality are ampli-
fied by the fact that the participants are children, seen as vulnerable figures in many contexts
(Martins, Oliveira and Tendais 2018; Cornejo et al. 2019). As the teachers’ accounts show, the
fear of intruding when discussing a topic regarded as appropriate for discussion only within
the privacy of intimate family life (Lee 1993), blends with the worry of divulging information
into the wrong hands.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-11
127
Ethnography on sensitive topics 127
The main aim of this chapter is to share strategies that can be useful when conducting
ethnographic research on sensitive topics. Though we will occasionally engage the subject at
a broader theoretical level, our discussion will focus on the project SexAFIN, an exemplary
case study of sustained ethnography on a particularly sensitive topic. In the first section of the
chapter, we expand our discussion on the complex and challenging sensitivities of the topic.
The second section of the chapter focuses on the challenges of securing and negotiating access
to the field, particularly when working with sensitive topics. The third section offers an ana-
lytical discussion of the main strategies and methods we used when working with teachers
and children, and how these were reconfigured as we adjusted to unforeseen challenges and
circumstances throughout the project’s three-year duration. More broadly, the conclusion
offers a reflexive summary of the main lessons learnt conducting fieldwork on sensitive topics.
At the core of this chapter’s structure and approach is the firm belief that the need for a
methodology that takes into account the particular specificities of the subjects in the field is
greatly exacerbated when dealing with sensitive topics. As authors have noted:
Research on sensitive topics […] given the nature of what is examined, involves research
processes in which each stage must be carefully designed and implemented, so that the
methods employed in sampling, data production and analysis, and results generation take
into account the sensitive nature of the research object.
(Cornejo et al. 2019: 2)
Sensitive topics are extremely taxing on research strategies as these not only need to be
enlightening but must also comply with the exceptional personal and collective needs of
participants. Consequently, the research approach that might best fit a certain sensitive topic
might not only be inappropriate for another one, but it can cause great stress on the participants
or put their safety at risk.
Nevertheless, if adequate research techniques are used, sensitive topics can unlock forms
of interaction with participants that can be hard to achieve when conducting other forms of
research. Affording participants the possibility of speaking about issues they might find hard
to discuss in their everyday life can make them feel uniquely supported (McCosker 1995).
As researchers and participants interact, the rapport becomes stronger to the point that, in
many cases, the participants feel confident enough to divulge information that not even their
closest relations know. Such confidence requires very precise and responsible handling. More
importantly, it requires an attitude and approach that is highly sensitive to the participant’s
requirements and necessities. For this reason, as helpful as broad considerations might be, it
is crucial to study specific cases as these can illuminate how and why ethnographers arrived
at their concrete strategies for studying their sensitive topics. It is through an in-depth
understanding of these processes, we believe, that others can develop suitable strategies for
their specific needs.
SexAFIN in context: children’s sexuality education as a sensitive topic

Although there are certain topics in which research is more likely to be regarded as sensitive,
individual topics are not inherently sensitive, it is their social and cultural context that makes
them so (Lee and Renzetti 1990; Ogden 2008; Powell et al. 2018). Topics regarded as private,
for instance, vary cross-culturally, situationally and historically. A difficulty defining a sensitive
128
128 Bruna Alvarez et al.
topic is that the term has been used in a commonsensical way in the literature during the
past decades. That is, authors have tended to deploy the term as if it were self-explanatory or
unproblematic and have eschewed sustained conceptual analysis and development, showing
instead a lack of interest in the particular challenges the notion involves (Lee and Renzetti
1990; Dickson-Swift et al. 2008).
Nevertheless, the act of conducting research on sexuality with children as participants is
frequently perceived as a sensitive topic that poses a significant threat to the researcher, the
participants and the community to which the participants belong. Consequently, conducting
such research requires an increasing body of ethical and methodological decisions (Ogden
2008; Lee and Lee 2012; Martins, Oliveira and Tendais 2018; Powell et al. 2020). As Lee
and Renzetti explain, “sensitive research raises methodological, technical, ethical, political,
and legal problems […] Such trends are likely to intensify as researchers move toward more
complex research designs and a greater involvement in applied research” (Lee and Renzetti
1990: 513–514). That is, the type of research developed and its application also affect the
challenges involved in studying sensitive topics.
These challenges can be observed in the way children sexuality education in Spain and
across the world has been analysed. Although during the last decades several studies have
explored sexuality education, these have focused on the perceptions of parents and teachers
(Davies and Robinson 2010; Duffy et al., 2013; Faccioli and Ribeiro 2003; Stone, Inham
and Gibbins 2013). At the same time, children’s participation in social research is increasingly
considered more
important […] both to children as a social group and to individual child participants [as
well as] essential to develop knowledge about their daily lives and the social problems
they encounter, especially in light of the gaps and misconceptions that have existed in
the absence of such participation.
(Powell et al. 2020: 325)
Nevertheless, as Montgomery (2009) insightfully notes, there is little research on how chil-
dren understand their own sexual experience and their ideas about sexuality.
The absence of such studies responds to the extreme sensitivity of the topic. As Moore and
Reynolds (2018) explain, accessing children’s voices can be difficult because parents want to
protect their children from knowledge that they see as “premature” or different from what
they teach them at home. These fears have augmented over recent decades as children are
increasingly perceived as a vulnerable social group at risk of abuse and in need of protection
“shaped by legal, bureaucratised, and neoliberal discourses” (Powell et al. 2020: 326). In Spain
and other countries, sexuality is “governed” (Foucault 2015 [1976]) in ways that dissociate it
from childhood, which is constructed as asexual (Egan and Hawkes 2008; Robinson 2013).
In these cases, the quintessential challenge all ethnographers face regarding their participants’
exposure is doubled as the researcher not only needs to negotiate the disclosure of the subject’s
private information but also the disclosure of sensitive information to the subject.
These challenges raise an important question regarding who (the state or the family) should
make decisions about the education of children, recognized as deserving protection, provision
and participation by the Convention on the Rights of the Child (UN 1989). The idea that
childhood is characterized by innocence (see Blaise 2009; Davies and Robinson 2010; Egan
and Hawkes 2008; Frankham 2006; Holford, Emma and Huuki 2013; Moore and Reynolds
129
2018; Renold 2005) is aligned with the principle of protection, although not those of pro-
vision (of a health and sexual education) and participation (in this education). In this sense,
children’s supposed innocence is based exclusively on adults’ perceptions and experiences
of sexuality3 (Davies and Robinson 2010; Egan and Hawkes 2008; Frankham 2006; Renold
2006). This “communicative vigilance” (Frekko, Leiaweaver and Marre 2015: 704) is also in
play when adults talk to children about sexuality exclusively in the context of biological
reproduction, despite the United Nation’s definition of sexual and reproductive health, which
goes well beyond matters of reproduction.4
Perhaps for these reasons, several international organizations recommend that states make
sexuality education a part of their official curricula, pointing out that sexuality education
provides information about sexuality, helps people develop good habits, promotes responsible
decision-making around sex and decreases sexual risks (UNESCO 2009; WHO 2010). In
2010, Spain’s socialist government promoted sexuality education in school through Law 2/
2010, but the conservative Popular Party’s education reform (Law 8/2013) reversed the course.
As a result, today there is no state-level requirement for schools to offer sexuality education,
nor is there space reserved in the curriculum for it, beyond occasional workshops offered by
external organizations and directed mostly at secondary school students. Whether sexuality
education is included in the curriculum of a school or not depends entirely on the motivation
and interest of its teachers (Martínez et al. 2014).
The intense tension regarding children’s sexuality and sex education has important
implications for the work of the researcher, who generally finds himself/ herself caught
between the interests of several different parties. For example, following bureaucratic protocols
of ethical participation, such as allowing guardians to partly inform the investigation, can have
detrimental results at an educational or intellectual level. That is, those that hold legal rights
over the children might not be prepared to decide on how they should be educated. In fact, in
implementing what the UN describes as children’s right to protection, adults often jeopardize
the children’s right to participation and as we shall see later, institutions often overlook ethical
concerns that children themselves regard as important. On the other hand, although listening
to children and involving them in the research decision-making process might feel like the
right course of action, it might go against what those holding legal rights over the children
regard as their protection. Given the lack of a stable ethical and educational framework to
tackle this subject, the researcher is compelled to make independent decisions without neces-
sarily being adequately empowered to do so.
Accessing the field

Our primary aim with SexAFIN was to examine what boys and girls in Spain know about
sexuality and if and how they talk about it with teachers and parents. We sought to answer
these questions through three years of field work in which children, teachers and parents
participated in different research activities –focus groups, interviews and workshops – where
they talked about sexuality, shared their questions and discussed social practices. In total,
SexAFIN conducted 69 research activities in three different schools. Each year of the project
we conducted three workshops per school for children in second (aged 6–7 years), fourth
(aged 8–9 years) and sixth (aged 10–11 years) grades. For the teachers at each school, we
conducted three sessions: one focus group to share their experiences in sexuality education, a
second session for specific training about gender and sexuality (an activity teachers requested
130
after the first session) and a final reflexive session in which we shared and discussed our ana-
lysis of the previous sessions. At each school we gave a talk to parents where we presented the
results of our study. All these activities generated spaces for collective reflection and discussion
that have been registered and analysed. The active participation of the different schools played
a crucial role in the project’s success. In the following paragraphs, we discuss the specific strat-
egies we deployed to secure the schools’ engagement with the project.
Strategies to accessing children through the school: between communicative

vigilance and speakability
The perception of children as research participants has evolved greatly over the past decades.
While historically their views were not considered wholly relevant, now they are frequently
described as great experts of their own world. Furthermore, their rights to participate and to
have a say over their own lives is acknowledged in the United Nations Convention on the
Right of the Child (UN 1989). Nevertheless, ethnographic fieldwork with children can be
difficult because children are considered a vulnerable population and because of privacy and
data protection legislations. Although, as scholars note, “recruiting children through schools or
hospitals, for example, can involve gaining approval and cooperation from the relevant gov-
ernment department, organisation boards and/or leadership, and organisation workers, such as
teachers or clinical staff ” (Powell et al. 2020: 326), schools are extremely reluctant to promote
or even allow ethnographic fieldwork with their pupils. This reluctancy is greatly amplified
when the research involves sensitive topics such as sexuality.
Moreover, in the case of SexAFIN, the communicative vigilance surrounding children
sexuality as a sensitive topic was exacerbated by the fact that before working with SexAFIN,
the schools had not offered sexuality education, with the exception of School 2, which on
the request of the faculty had hired an external organization to provide a workshop for
sixth grade pupils (aged 10–11 years). In addition, sexuality in Spain is not only a sensitive
topic when talking to children, but also when talking to –or among –adults, so we also
encountered resistance from the teaching staff and management team to participate in the
project. However, following the notion of speakability (Monk 2011; Hall 2020), which emerges
from the Foucauldian concept of “condition of possibility” (Foucault 1980), discussion
on certain topics, like children and sexuality, might be more permissible under the auspices of
particular institutions (schools) rather than, for example, with parents and children directly
or through social media. Consequently, we developed two strategies that enabled us access to
these institutions.
Firstly, we identified and built upon an important link between the institutions at the
two sides of the project: the university and the schools. Both institutions occupy positions of
symbolic power, as they are recognized as producers and depositories of scientific knowledge
(Bourdieu 2012[1976]). The fact that the research was proposed by a consolidated research
group from one of Spain’s top universities was a key factor enabling us to gain access to the
field. The university’s reputation lent credibility to the project, especially in small towns in
which university research is rare. Furthermore, among other factors, the school administrations
were persuaded by the fact that universities have rigorous ethical standards for research projects,
which they used to assuage the potential fears of parents.
Secondly, we identified and built upon an academic link between us (the outsider researchers)
and the school’s teachers (the insider researchers). Though the forms of research carried out
131
by school teachers are not always acknowledged or published, school teachers regularly detect
and analyse important issues, experiment with solutions and propose alternatives. However,
school teachers usually face important logistical, ethical and methodological challenges when
it comes to developing their own research as such. They generally contend with a severe lack
of financial support, the need to develop skills without training and reduced opportunities for
dissemination. Also, their research work usually receives little, if any, institutional recognition
(Shaw and Lunt 2012;Vaswani 2018). Aware of these challenges, we offered to share the pro-
ject and its results with the teachers, actively involving them in the project’s decision-making
and reflexive process. As the essay’s opening account reflects, the teachers’ participation helped
us identify important areas in need of attention. Alongside the teachers, we also developed in
the design of appropriate responses and interventions. These contributions were important to
ensure the participants perceived the research as an exchange of knowledge rather than as a
series of demands made by the researchers.
Although these strategies were critical in securing access, as Stoecker (1999) and Vaswani
(2018) have noted with regard to other contexts, they required us to carry out the triple role
of researchers, consultants and collaborators. This position led to complex ethical reflections.
For example, when a participant asked us a question or offered information that we thought
was incorrect, we had to decide what to prioritize: our role as researchers or as collaborators?
On one occasion, a group of children said that pornography is useful for learning about sexu-
ality. Here we had to choose whether to not intervene in order to continue analysing their
narratives about pornography or to try to explain what pornography is and what it is gener-
ally made and used for. After discussing such cases among the team, we found a modus operandi
which consists in letting the children speak first and addressing the topic through conversation
later, as to enable the possibility of using dialogue as a tool for sexual education.
The bridge between the community and the research team

Another factor that favoured our access to the field was our ability to balance cultural, lin-
guistic and physical closeness and distance5 between the research team and the schools. As one
of our team members lived in one of the towns we planned on investigating, she was able
to act as a bridge between the school and the research team. Although the school’s principal
showed interest in the project from the beginning, she did not immediately sign on because
she wanted to discuss it with the faculty. While we were waiting for an answer from School
1, we arranged a meeting with School 2, the other primary school in the town, because we
thought that it would be fair to also give them the possibility of participating in the project.
We didn’t have any personal connections with School 2. However, we knew that there was
a competitive spirit between the two schools. Therefore, in the meeting with School 2, we
explained that we had also offered School 1 the chance to participate. We hoped that gently
stoking this competitive flame would encourage School 2 to sign on. A few days later, both
schools confirmed their participation.
To have a complete picture of how sexuality was treated in the communities surrounding
the two schools, we also worked with other local institutions such as a local theatre group,
which developed a play with the children based on SexAFIN’s research findings. The play
focused on the importance of dialogue about sexuality between adults and children and was
performed for the parents, teachers, researchers and the rest of the community. The active
involvement of the two schools and the theatre group were key factors in the Town Hall’s
132
decision to support the performance of the play with financing and infrastructure. The per-
formance served as the closing event of the first year of SexAFIN. Serendipitously, a teacher
from a neighbouring town attended the play and became our first contact for a third school,
which joined the project the following year.
In our experiences securing access, the circumstances and negotiation strategies turned our
research into what researchers have described as a multi-site ethnographic project (Marcus
1995). Initially, the research project was limited to a single town. Including a second town, that
is, two different town halls and three different schools, showed us that we needed different
access strategies to negotiate the multiple fields. As Hovland (2005: 1) points out, “Multi-
site ethnography is not simply something that helps us to add perspectives […] but instead
it forces us to change perspective”. The different relationships that we had with the three
schools led the project to develop differently at each site, even though our overall objectives
and methods were the same across the sites. Another crucial lesson learnt was that involving
different members of the community was very useful when it comes to gaining the approval to
conduct research in such a sensitive topic. In this regard, the theatre group played a key role in
sharing the research with the entire community. In making the research and the topic public,
it became open for discussion among adults and children. Also, the fact that a member of the
research project was at the same time a member of the community was another key factor
helping towards diminishing significantly the sensitivity of the issue.
SexAFIN in action
Once access to schools was secured, the implementation of the project posed an important
challenge: there were multiple participants involved (children, teachers and parents) with
different sensitivities.We decided to use participatory methodologies as a way to continuously
navigate the project. Firstly, the participation of teachers in the design of research activities
allowed us to adapt these activities to the specificities and sensitivities of each school. Secondly,
incorporating the school’s parent associations in the project minimized possible disagreements
with and among parents during the project’s implementation. Finally, as researchers in other
contexts have noted, participatory methodologies helped reduce power asymmetries between
researchers and young participants (Holland et al. 2010; Aldridge, 2012;Vaswani 2018). This is
a particularly relevant aspect in sensitive research with children because of intergenerational
asymmetries (Flasher 1978; Moore 2013; Spyrou 2011). In this section we discuss the different
strategies we used for working with teachers and children.
Working with teachers: implications and participatory methodologies

Our work at each school began with a focus group with teachers on the questions of whether
students asked about sexuality and whether and how sexuality education was included in
their school. The teachers talked about their experiences and also discussed the issue of
whether the school, the family or both were responsible for sexuality education. These focus
groups were also a way to prepare teachers for the situations that could arise from our
workshops with the children. We recorded, transcribed and coded the conversations from
each focus group, using categories that emerged when we analysed the teachers’ narratives
(Humphreys and Watson 2009; Neyland 2008; Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2009; van der Waal
2009). This data enabled us to sketch out the general approach each school took towards
sexuality education.
133
In a second session with the teachers, we offered our feedback on the initial session, starting
with the positive practices that we had detected. At this point, we asked the teachers whether
they agreed with our assessment. For example, we told them that they were reproducing
gender roles that they said they had overcome. In most focus groups, teachers framed girls’
masturbation during class as a manifestation of anxiety or stress and, as we pointed out in the
feedback sessions, they ignored female pleasure. Initially, the teachers rejected our observation
and argued that boys also touch themselves. We responded that in the focus groups, none of
the teachers had mentioned boys’ masturbation; they had only spoken about the kind of mas-
turbation they viewed as problematic –girls’ masturbation. Our feedback, which the teachers
received in a positive way, allowed them to adjust their perspectives, thus reinforcing their
condition of researchers. At the same time, their assertive responses to our feedback on such
sensitive issues reinforced our confidence discussing the topic with them and the children.
However, as pointed out by Down and Hughes (2009), sharing results and reaching con-
sensus do not necessarily lead to the same kind of relationship with different organizations.
At School 1, despite our team members’ personal connection, we were not able to build trust
with the faculty. The school’s administration was interested in pursuing the project, but the
faculty was not fully on board and they partly experienced the project as an imposition from
above. In the third year of the project, the provincial funding granted to Town A was cut into
half and the Town Hall decided not to pay the remaining half. Rather than funding the rest
of the programme, School 1 opted to only continue the activities covered by the Town Hall’s
funding –these were the workshops with children, and not the workshops with the teachers.
On the other hand, School 2 regarded the project as key to their educational work and chose
to continue with the full programme, paying out of its own budget the costs not covered
by the provincial funding.6 The project continued to be funded in full at School 3 by the
Town Hall.
Our experience with School 3 led to a certain blurring of the distinction between “insider”
and “outsider” (Neyland 2008: 81). The teachers contributed pedagogical knowledge and
experiences and the researchers contributed anthropological analysis, in a relationship that
was reciprocal and complementary. At the project’s conclusion, the administration of School 3
asked SexAFIN to advise the school in creating a sexuality education curriculum in which we
are working with the teachers, using participatory methodologies to develop specific topics
and activities to be included in each grade.This collaboration could turn School 3 into one of
the first schools in Spain to include sexuality education in its official curriculum.
We can draw several conclusions from our different relationships with the schools. Firstly,
our research experiences at the three schools changed based on the degree of commitment
we were able to achieve with each of the faculties. These changed significantly based on the
degree to which the participants regarded the research as intrusive and the topic as sensi-
tive. Secondly, our dialogic approach enabled our participants to be actively involved in the
research and the researchers to become part of the communities. Finally, the co-production
we carried out with the members of School 3 resulted from a certain joint ownership of the
research problem (Greenwood 2000) between a local organization and the research group,
which enabled us to jointly apply the study’s outcomes to produce social change.
Working with children: flexible research design and data collection

Another technique we used to facilitate fieldwork on the sensitive topic of children’s sexuality
was to have a flexible design and data collection. Our aim was to analyse the behaviour of the
134
children as creators and interpreters of their social world (Marre 2014) and to explore the local
and global context and changes that affect their lives (Schwartzman 2001). We began each
workshop with the children sat in a circle on the floor and one researcher sat in the middle
of the circle. The remaining researchers handed out slips of paper containing a drawing of a
woman detective and a simple statement about informed consent, written in words a child
could understand. A team member explained that the researchers were anthropologists and
they wanted to ask for the children’s help to learn “what boys and girls know about sexuality”.
The team member clarified that “they didn’t have to participate if they didn’t want to” and
that “they could stop participating at any time”.
This consent process does not have legal value, but we believe that it holds symbolic value
for the children.7 The process of asking for and giving consent also has strong educational
goals. Through this exercise, children can learn that they have the right to agree to something
and later change their mind, and we made sure to let them know repeatedly that they had the
right to say “no” to something they had initially agreed to. We also explained the concept of
anonymity in research, an idea according to which “no one will know who said what”. We
asked the children to respect the privacy of others by creating a climate of trust. We explained
that just like the researchers would write about the workshop, they could talk about what their
classmates said, without identifying them. In short, we emphasized that what was said in the
sessions was not a secret, but that we had to respect participants’ privacy to create a safe space.
Afterwards, we agreed on other rules the children themselves proposed: don’t laugh at what
other people say and raise your hand to speak.This ensured the research space was comfortable
for them and arranged partly to the standards they use to regulate their world. The children
then signed an informed consent form and we began the workshop. A few children opted
not to participate. During the first year, we let them stay in the classroom and listen. Later, we
thought this practice violated the confidentiality and anonymity of the participating children.
Starting in the second year, any children who chose not to participate were taken to a different
classroom to work with their teacher. This solution is not ideal as it can create forms of dis-
crimination, but we feel it is significantly better than forcing them to participate, even if their
parents and teachers had accepted for them to do so.
For each research activity, we asked the children to form groups of six to eight. Allowing
them to choose their partners resulted in same-sex groups, which in turn enabled us to
include the sex of the participants as a variable in our analysis. During the first year, we asked
children to make a drawing in response to the question “How are babies made?”. Initially the
children laughed and shouted. Some of them asked whether they could draw penises or vulvas
(“yes” we answered); this was probably the first time they had this opportunity in a formal
space.The groups worked noisily on their drawings, allowing the researchers to observe.When
the drawings were done, each group described its work to the class, generating joint know-
ledge about how babies are made. We analysed answers to the opening question of “How
are babies made?” at the end of the first year. In general, the second graders concentrated on
pregnancy, fertilization, childbirth and family. Fourth graders added genitals, sexual intercourse
and reproduction, understood as a process that begins with love, proceeds to sexual intercourse
and ends with the creation of a family. In contrast, for sixth graders, sexual relations, genitals,
sexual intercourse, menstruation and sperm were most central. Pleasure emerged as a topic,
and love receded. We noticed that girls talked about pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding and
childrearing, with great knowledge of the pregnant female body. Boys, in contrast, talked about
sexual intercourse and pleasure, aspects which were never included in the girls’ narratives.
135
Upon reflection, we noticed that our question seemed to be encouraging the children to
reproduce usual adults’ social construction of gender and sexuality. It seemed that, as signalled
by Frankham (2006), when reproduction is the gateway to talking about sexuality, it comes
to be defined as adult, heterosexual and centred on intercourse. To increase the production
of data in the second year, instead of having the children present their work to the whole
class, we held smaller discussion groups, each of them containing two groups of 12 to 16
participants (of different sexes when possible) and led by a different researcher. Each group
explained its work to the other group and took questions from the researcher. During the
third year, we introduced a new technique: during the presentations, the children could write
a question anonymously and put it inside a box, alongside questions from the researchers.
Then the questions were distributed to the groups to be answered. These adaptations exem-
plify Neyland’s (2008: 41) point that the strategy should be “constantly worked upon and kept
at the forefront of considerations of what to do next”.
We also wondered if a question focused less on adult sexuality and more on children’s own
sexuality would produce different results. In the second year, we asked, “What changes are
our bodies going through?” to children from fourth and sixth grades.8 Their answers to this
question led to topics including pregnancy, fertilization, menstruation, sexual practices, mas-
turbation, sexual orientation and the behaviours of boys and girls. They shared more infor-
mation about their sexuality, their bodies and their pleasure. They talked about physical and
emotional changes, their genitals, arousal and fluids (semen and vaginal lubrication), also with
differences between girls and boys. Girls tended to draw complete male and female bodies and
the changes they went through. Boys mostly drew the male body and its changes, and often
boys simply drew large genitals without the rest of the body. Despite these differences, a new
element emerged that we hadn’t seen the previous year: female pleasure. Some girls talked
about “tickles”, a “rollercoaster” or pulsations in the vulva, referring to arousal. In addition to
opening up a new area of data, our new question also kept us from focusing on adult sexuality,
even though some of the children continued raising the question of “how babies are made”.
This tendency supports our claim that reproduction continues to be the only socially accepted
way for children to talk about sexuality. When we asked them about sexuality, some thought
that we were cueing them to talk about biological reproduction.
In the third year we maintained the question about bodily changes, but before asking this
question, we added an activity in which we asked the children to draw their definition of the
word “sexuality”. The children drew pictures of heterosexual intercourse, pregnant women
and babies. That is, from children’s point of view, sexuality was understood as adult, hetero-
sexual, linked to intercourse and reproduction, which should sometimes be avoided, given
that they drew condoms. However, they did not include their own pleasure in their concept
of sexuality.
Following Spyrou (2011), we asked how we can allow children to express themselves
openly, and we adapted our methods to try to gain access to their voices. Using drawings as a
data collection method helped reduce the power differential between the researcher and the
child, turning the children into co-creators (Leitch 2008). Group work among friends helped
create an atmosphere that was comfortable and non-threatening (Renold 2005), particularly
important for discussing sensitive topics such as sexuality. However, as Davies and Robinson
(2010) have pointed out, a drawback of focus groups is that debate is often flattened by the
voices of dominant participants, making it difficult for researchers to detect diversity within
the group and sometimes leading them to produce models that are overly simplified.
136
Reflection and flexibility during fieldwork allowed us to change our questions and
methods to maximize the quality of our data and consider different variables. Our experience
aligns with that of Renold (2005) who shows how the focus of her fieldwork on sexuality
education changed from exploring gendered relationships among children to exploring how
childhood boyfriend and girlfriend relationships connected gender and sexuality. Like for this
author, our research focus shifted as a result of “designing and conducting research in ways
that created opportunities for children to shape and reshape the focus of the study” (2005: 10).
Finally, our strategies when it comes to sharing the production of questions and also securing
the children’s consent highlight the necessity of involving children in the shaping of our
understanding of what makes a certain topic sensitive. Rather than gatekeeping information, a
common approach when it comes to dealing with sensitive issues, children were made aware
of the ethical concerns involved in the activities in ways that they could understand. As the
children participated, we, in turn, learnt that aspects that made the topic sensitive for them
(other children laughing, for example) were not necessarily an issue for adults, such as teachers
and parents. This helped us implement and deploy strategies for comfortably discussing sexu-
ality with children that neither the schools nor the university had required or recommended.
Conclusion
Our experience developing SexAFIN has enabled us to explore different challenges, possibil-
ities and strategies of ethnographic research on sensitive topics. In this essay we have focused
on how access was secured and negotiated, and how we developed and refined the specific
approaches we employed to discuss sensitive topics with two of our subject groups (teachers
and children). Crucial to these two aspects of the project are the synergies and alliances across
organizations we were able to build and sustain. The participation of and tight collaboration
between the university, the schools, the town education councils, the parents’ associations and
the theatre group gave us not only material access to the field or even unforeseen funding
opportunities, but also the support necessary to confidently investigate a topic as sensitive as
children’s sexuality and sexual education.
The enthusiasm and input offered by the institution and the teachers gave the project
a deeper sense of validation and purpose. However, it also bestowed upon it the pressure
of making a significant contribution not only to academic research but also to its practical
application. The schools, for example, experienced our research process and results as services
received by them from the university, rather than as favours offered by them to the university’s
research. Bridges between the research group and the teachers gave us access to key infor-
mation, such as the competitive relationship between schools. After we established initial
relationships, interpersonal networking across organizations was crucial to securing access.
This undoubtedly creates tensions; as the relationship between participants and researchers is
reconfigured, so do expectations shift. In our case, one participating institution chose to signifi-
cantly reduce its involvement. Though this can happen in other ethnographic investigations,
sensitive topics make the participant’s validation vital for the survival of the research. That
is, without the absolute trust and unwavering commitment of the participants, this kind of
research is very hard to carry out.
In terms of putting the SexAFIN project into action, we have reflected on (1) our work
with teachers, in which we focused on building research relationships and (2) our work with
the children, in which we stressed flexible research design and data collection. In the case
137
of working with children, an important aspect was attaining their consent and perspective,
which sometimes went against that of the adults. For example, some children preferred not to
participate in the activities even if their parents had agreed for them to do so. In this regard,
conducting research on sensitive topics can involve undermining the communicative vigi-
lance surrounding the topic, as the researcher must make important ethical, educational and
academic decisions for which there is no framework. As such, research into sensitive topics
virtually always involves, precisely, the development of methods and techniques specific for
said topics. Our experience taught us that development of such methods and techniques is
an evolving process that requires constant re-evaluation and, most importantly, the active and
comfortable involvement of the participants.
Notes
1 We are deeply grateful to the schools’ communities who shared their experiences with us (and
whose anonymity we have preserved in the text). This work was supported by ICREA as part of a
larger research project led by Diana Marre under the ICREA Academia programme (2020–2024).
2 We follow the World Health Organization’s definition of sexuality:
Sexuality is a central aspect of being human throughout life and encompasses sex, gender iden-
tities and roles, sexual orientation, eroticism, pleasure, intimacy and reproduction. Sexuality
is experienced and expressed in thoughts, fantasies, desires, beliefs, attitudes, values, behaviors,
practices, roles and relationships. While sexuality can include all of these dimensions, not all
of them are always experienced or expressed. Sexuality is influenced by the interaction of
biological, psychological, social, economic, political, cultural, ethical, legal, historical, religious
and spiritual factors.
(2006: 5)
3 The lack of children’s perspectives is not exclusive to sexuality education. For example, attention def-
icit and hyperactivity disorder tends to be diagnosed when children enter school, based exclusively
on the reports of parents, caregivers or teachers about the child’s behaviour (Bayley 2013; Timimi
and Leo 2009).
4
Good sexual and reproductive health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-
being in all matters relating to the reproductive system. It implies that people are able to have
a satisfying and safe sex life, the capability to reproduce, and the freedom to decide if, when,
and how often to do so. To maintain one’s sexual and reproductive health, people need access
to accurate information.
(United Nations Population Fund 2016)
5 Ethnographers have used a range of concepts to capture the contrast between closeness and distance
in ethnographic fieldwork: familiar/strange (Ybema and Kamsteeg 2009; Neyland 2008), insider/
outsider (Hammersley and Atkinson 1995), stranger/ friend (Powdermaker 1966), experience-
near/experience-far (Geertz 1973; Marcus and Fischer 1986), emic/etic (Pike 1967) and engaged/
disengaged (Ybema and Kamsteeg 2009).
6 School 2 additionally asked SexAFIN to provide a talk about sexuality to parents of children aged
0–5 years, at the request of these parents.
7 At the beginning of each school year, the school’s principal held a meeting with parents and guardians
to describe SexAFIN and other activities. One week before the workshops took place, each family
was sent an email with information about the workshops, the dates and the researchers’ contact
information (which they sometimes used to ask for more information or materials they can use to
discuss sexuality with their children). During the three years of the project, no parents requested
138
that their child does not participate, which is likely due in part to the involvement of the parents’
associations.
8 With second graders, we conducted three activities: (1) how are babies made? Each group answered
with a drawing. (2) How do I like to touch my body? How do I like other people to touch my body?
How do I not like other people to touch my body? (3) Finally, we performed a short play in which
the children identified what they did and didn’t like and said “yes” or “no” accordingly.
References
Aldridge, Jo (2012). The participation of vulnerable children in photographic research. Visual Studies,
27(1), 48–58.
Barnett, Julie (1998). Sensitive questions and response effects: An evaluation. Journal of Managerial
Psychology, 13(1), 63–76.
Bayley, Simon (2013). Exploring ADHD: An ethnography of disorder in early childhood. Abingdon: Routledge.
Blaise, Mindy (2009). “What a girl wants, what a girl needs”: Responding to sex, gender, and sexuality in
the early childhood classroom. Journal of Research in Childhood Education, 23(4), 450–460.
Cornejo, Marcela, Rubilar, Gabriela, and Zapata-Sepúlveda, Pamela (2019). Researching sensitive topics
in sensitive zones: Exploring silences, “The Normal,” and Tolerance in Chile. International Journal of
Qualitative Methods, 18, 1–11.
Davies, Cristyn and Robinson, Kerry (2010). Hatching babies and stork deliveries: Risk and regulation
in the construction of children’s sexual knowledge. Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood, 11(3),
249–262.
Dickson-Swift, Virgina, James, Erica Lyn, and Liamputtong, Pranee (2008). Undertaking sensitive research
in the health and social sciences: Managing boundaries, emotions and risks. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Down, Simon and Hughes, Michele (2009). When the ‘subject’ and the ‘researcher’ speak together: Co-
producing organizational ethnography.Ybema, Sierk,Yanow, Dvora,Wells, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans
(Eds). Organizational Ethnography. Studying the complexities of everyday life (pp. 83–98). Los Angeles,
London, New Delhi: Sage.
Duffy, Bernadette, Fotinatos, Nina, Smith, Amanda and Burke, Jenene (2013). Puberty, health and sexual
education in Australian regional primary schools: Year 5 and 6 teacher perceptions. Sex Education,
13(2), 186–203.
Egan, Danielle and Hawkes, Gail (2008). Imperiled and perilous: Exploring the history of childhood
sexuality. Journal of Historical Sociology, 21(4), 355–367.
Faccioli, Ana María and Ribeiro, Claudia (2003). La educación sexual en lo cotidiano de la escuela.
Educar, 31, 67–85.
Flasher, Jack (1978). Adultism. Adolescence, 13(51), 517–523.
Foucault, Michele (1980). Power/knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings 1972–1977. New York,
NY: Pantheon.
Foucault, Michele (2015 [1976]). The history of sexuality:The will to knowledge. London: Penguin Books.
Frankham, Jo (2006). Sexual antimonies and parent/child sex education: Learning from foreclosure.
Sexualities, 9(2), 236–254.
Frekko, Susan, Leinaweaver, Jessaca, and Marre, Diana (2015). How (not) to talk about adoption: On
communicative vigilance in Spain. American Ethnologist, 42(4), 703–719.
Greenwood, Davydd (2000). De la observación a la investigación-acción participativa: una visión crítica
de las prácticas antropológicas. Revista de Antropología Social, 9, 27–49.
Hall, Joseph (2020). Approaching “sensitive” topics: Criticality and permissibility in research-led teaching
about children, sexualities, and schooling. Journal of Geography in Higher Education, 44(2), 248–264.
Hammersley, Martyn and Atkinson, Paul (1995). Ethnography: Principles in practice (2nd edn). London:
Routledge.
Holford, Naomi, Renold, Emma and Huuki, Tuija (2013). What (else) can a kiss do? Theorizing the
power plays in young children’s sexual cultures. Sexualities, 16(5–6), 710–729.
139
Holland, Sally, Renold, Emma, Ross, Nicola and Hillman, Alexandra (2010). Power, agency and par-
ticipatory agendas: A critical exploration of young people’s engagement in participative qualitative
research. Childhood, 17(3), 360–375.
Hovland, Ingie (2005). ‘What do you call heathen these days?’ The policy field and other matters of the
heart in the Norwegian Mission Society. Problems and possibilities in multi-sited ethnography workshop.
University of Sussex, 27–28 June. Retrieved from: http://eprints.ncrm.ac.uk/98/1/Whatdoyoucall
theheathenthesedays-IngieHovland.pdf (Accessed 23 April 2020).
Humphreys, Michael and Watson, Tony (2009). Ethnographic practices: From ‘writing-up ethnographic
research’ to ‘writing ethnography’. In Ybema, Sierk;Yanow, Dvora; Wells, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans
(Eds.), Organizational ethnography. Studying the complexities of everyday life (pp. 44–55). Los Angeles,
London, New Delhi: Sage.
Law 2 (2010). Ley Orgánica 2/2010, de 3 de marzo, de salud sexual y reproductiva y de la interrupción
voluntaria del embarazo. BOE-A-2010–3514. Retrieved from: www.boe.es/boe/dias/2010/03/04/
pdfs/BOE-A-2010-3514.pdf (Accessed 21 April 2020).
Law 8 (2013). Ley Orgánica 8/2013, de 9 de diciembre, para la mejora de la calidad educativa. BOE-A-
2013–12886. Retrieved from: www.boe.es/buscar/pdf/2013/BOE-A-2013-12886-consolidado.pdf
(Accessed 21 April 2020).
Lee, Raymond M. (1993). Doing research on sensitive topics. London: Sage.
Lee, Raymond and Renzetti, Claire M. (1990).The problems of researching sensitive topics. An overview
and introduction. American Behavioral Scientist, 33(5), 510–528.
Lee, Yeon-Ok and Lee, Raymond M. (2012). Methodological research on “sensitive” topics: A decade
review. Bulletin of Sociological Methodology, 114, 35–49.
Leitch, Ruth (2008). Creatively researching children’s narratives through images and drawings. In
Thomson, Pat (Ed.), Doing visual research with children and young people (pp. 37–57). London and
New York: Routledge.
Marcus, George (1995). Ethnography in/of the world system: The emergence of multi-sited ethnog-
raphy. Annual Review of Anthropology, 24, 95–117.
Marcus, George and Fischer, Michel M. J. (1986). Anthropology as cultural critique. Chicago, IL: University
of Chicago Press.
Marre, Diana (2014). De infancias, niños y niñas. En Llobet, V. (Ed.), Pensar en la infancia desde América
Latina. Un estado de la cuestión (pp. 9–25). Buenos Aires: CLACSO.
Martínez, José Luis, Vicario-Molina, Isabel, González, Eva and Ilabaca, Paola (2014). Sex education in
Spain: The relevance of teachers’ training and attitudes. Infancia y Aprendizaje, 37(1), 117–148.
Martins, Paula Cristina, Oliveira, Victor Hugo, and Tendais, Iva (2018). Research with children
and young people on sensitive topics –The case of poverty and delinquency. Childhood, 25(4),
458–472.
McCosker, Heather (1995). Women’s conceptions of domestic violence during the childbearing years. Master of
Nursing Thesis. Brisbane, Queensland University of Technology, p. 139.
Monk, Daniel (2011). Challenging homophobic bullying in schools:The politics of progress. International
Journal of Law in Context, 7(2), 181–207.
Montgomery, Heather (2009). An introduction to childhood. Anthropological perspectives on children’s lives.
Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.
Moore, Allison (2013). For adults only? Young people and (non)participation in sexual decision making.
Global Studies of Childhood, 3(2), 163–172.
Moore, Allison and Reynolds, Paul (2018). Childhood and sexuality. Contemporary issues and debates.
London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Neyland, Daniel (2008). Organizational ethnography. London: Sage.
Ogden, Russel (2008). Sensitive topics. In Given, Lisa M. The Sage encyclopedia of qualitative research
methods (pp. 811–812). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, Inc.
Pike, Kenneth L. (1967). Language in relation to a unified theory of the structure of human behavior. The
Hagen: Mouton.
Powdermaker, Hortense (1966). Stranger and friend:The way of an anthropologist. New York, NY: Norton.
140
Powell, Mary Anne, Graham, Anne, McArthur, Morag, Moore, Tim, Chalmers, Jenny and Taplin,
Stephanie (2020). Children’s participation in research on sensitive topics: Addressing concerns of
decision-makers. Children’s Geographies, 18(3), 325–338.
Powell, Mary Anne, McArthur, Morag, Chalmers, Jenny, Graham, Anne, Moore, Tim, Spriggs, Merle and
Taplin, Stephanie (2018). Sensitive topics in social research involving children. International Journal of
Social Research Methodology, 21(6), 647–660.
Renold, Emma (2005). Girls, boys and junior sexualities. Exploring children’s gender and sexual relations in the
primary school. New York, NY: Routledge Falmer.
Renold, Emma (2006). ‘They won’t let us play… unless you’re going out with one of them’: Girls, boys
and Butler’s ‘heterosexual matrix’ in the primary years. British Journal of Sociology of Education, 27(4),
489–509.
Robinson, Kerry H. (2013). Innocence, knowledge and the construction of childhood: The contradictory nature of
sexuality and censorship in children’s contemporary lives. New York, NY: Routledge.
Schwartzman, Hellen B. (2001). Introduction. Questions and challenges for a 21st century anthropology
of children. In Schwartzman, H.B. (Ed.), Children and anthropology. Perspectives for the 21st Century (pp.
1–14). Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group.
Shaw, Ian and Lunt, Neil (2012). Constructing practitioner research. Social Work Research, 36(3), 197–208.
Spyrou, Spyros (2011). The limits of children’s voices: From authenticity to critical, reflexive representa-
tion. Childhood, 18(2), 151–165.
Stoecker, Randy (1999). Are academics irrelevant? American Behavioral Scientist, 42(5), 840–854.
Stone, Nicole, Ingham, Roger and Gibbins, Katie (2013). “Where do babies come from?” Barriers to
early sexuality communication between parents and young children. Sex Education, 13(2), 228–240.
Timimi, Sami and Leo, Jonathan (2009). Rethinking ADHD: From brain to culture. London: Palgrave
Macmillan.
Tourangeau, Roger (2011). Sensitive topics. In Lavrakas, Paul (Ed.), Encyclopedia of survey research methods
(pp. 813–815). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, Inc.
Tourangeau, Roger and Yan, Ting (2007). Sensitive questions in surveys. Psychological Bulletin, 133(5),
859–883.
UNESCO. (2009). International technical guidance in sexuality education: An evidence-informed approach for
schools, teachers and health educators. Paris: UNESCO.
UN (1989). Commission on Human Rights, Convention on the Rights of the Child, 7 March, E/
CN.4/RES/1990/74. Retrieved from: www.refworld.org/docid/3b00f03d30.html (Accessed May
28 2020).
Van der Waal, Kees (2009). Getting going: Organizing ethnographic fieldwork. In Ybema, Sierk;Yanow,
Dvora; Wells, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans (Eds). Organizational ethnography. Studying the complexities of
everyday life (pp. 23–39). Los Angeles, London, New Delhi: Sage.
Vaswani, Nina (2018). Learning from failure: Are practitioner researchers the answer when conducting
research on sensitive topics with vulnerable children and young people? International Journal of Social
Research Methodology, 21(4), 499–512.
WHO Regional Office for Europe and Federal Centre for Health Education (2010). Standards for sexu-
ality education in Europe. A framework for policy makers, educational and health authorities and specialists.
Cologne: BZgA.
Yanow, Dvora and Schwartz-Shea, Peregrine (2009). Reading and writing as method: In search of trust-
worthy texts. In Ybema, Sierk,Yanow, Dvora, Wells, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans (Eds.), Organizational
ethnography. Studying the complexities of everyday life (pp. 56–82). Los Angeles, London, New Delhi: Sage.
Ybema, Sierk and Kamsteeg, Frans (2009). Making the familiar strange: A case for disengaged organ-
izational ethnography. In Ybema, Sierk, Yanow, Dvora, Wells, Harry and Kamsteeg, Frans (Eds.),
Organizational ethnography. Studying the complexities of everyday life (pp. 101–119). Los Angeles, London,
New Delhi: Sage.
141
10
REFLEXIVITY IN AUDIO-VISUAL
ETHNOGRAPHY
Thinking through practice
Miguel Gaggiotti and Hugo Gaggiotti
This chapter offers a reflexive discussion on the creative process of making a piece of reflexive
video-ethnography – Maquiladora (Gaggiotti, 2020). Our aim is to explore how reflexive
video-ethnography can enhance our critical understanding of sense-making. Specifically, we
are interested in the possibilities video-ethnography offers to represent, articulate and stimu-
late knowledge not as a set of static, conclusive and inflexible prescriptions but as an ongoing
process that develops through sustained and constant (self) re-evaluation. That is, we seek to
examine video-ethnography as a means of encouraging knowing rather than as a tool for the
dissemination of knowledge. Following the historical traditions of reflexive writing on film
practice,1 we use (our) films as catalysts for critical discussion, rather than, for example, starting
with abstract questions and turning to films for answers. Like many writers/filmmakers in
this tradition, we also afford substantial attention to the filmmaking process for, as we hope to
demonstrate, it is often the collaboration and exchange between ethnographers/filmmakers
and participants/subjects (J. Collier & Collier, 1986) that most vividly renders knowing as a
process consisting of, and open to, sustained reflexivity.
Maquiladora is an 18-minute long reflexive audio-visual ethnography made over a 36-
month period (2015–2018) of intermittent fieldwork in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. Utilizing
methods and techniques inspired by those of filmmakers such as Dziga Vertov (1929), Jean
Rouch (1960) and Jean-Luc Godard (1964, 1970, 2006), among others, and the discontinuous
fieldwork methodologies of authors such as Richard Sennet (2008), Maquiladora might best
be described as an open-ended multivocal audio-visual conversation on the meaning of work
in assembly plants of the borderlands. Referred to as maquiladoras —or maquilas, in the local
jargon —these assembly plants are strategically situated in duty-free and tariff-free areas
in borderland-binational spaces. Maquilas assemble, process and manufacture products for
export, sometimes back to the country of origin of the raw components. The circulation of
components and the delocalization of assembling are primarily justified to reduce the cost of
production. Literature suggests that the maquila model is an epiphenomenon of an economy
of savings derived from the almost free global mobility of capitals and commodities (Gereffi
& Korzeniewicz, 1994).
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-12
142
142 Miguel Gaggiotti and Hugo Gaggiotti
Our field working and initial recording of audio-visual material began in 2015 as part of
a research conducted for the British Academy-Newton Fund awarded project “Organizing in
the Borderlands: Applying Research to Support Families, Children and Youngsters in Mexico-
USA Borderlands (Ciudad Juárez, Mexico (2015–2018)”.We were interested in exploring the
working conditions of women employed in assembly plants and, consequently, we decided to
conduct fieldwork in one of Ciudad Juárez’s largest maquilas. The company selected as a case
study has 12 assembly plants and employs more than 26,000 workers. We focused on Ciudad
Juárez because it offers a rather singular case to study maquilas; the maquilas of Ciudad Juárez
employ more than 200,000 people and constitute the primary industry of the borderland
economic area. Maquilas are such a pervasive figure in the landscape of Ciudad Juárez that
Lugo (2000) has proposed to describe the Ciudad Juárez-El Paso hinterland as a maquila culture
where physical and social worlds are constructed and organized according to the structure of
the plants. All pasojuarenses (inhabitants of El Paso and Ciudad Juárez) are familiar with the
maquila industry as they have either worked at some point of their life in a plant or know
friends or family members that have. Consequently, the maquila is a frequent and ubiqui-
tous topic of conversation among pasojuarenses and one that has received substantial scholarly
attention.2
While conducting our research we found, however, three aspects about the maquila that
tended to receive little academic coverage. The first is the plants themselves, which are gener-
ally invisible in written descriptions or not shown in films.The second is the multivocality that
characterizes the discourse on maquilas, which is usually obscured.This multivocality generally
emerges in the fieldwork, when participants are interviewed or observed and, most specific-
ally, when they are encouraged to comment on the opinion of other participants. Often the
resulting multivocality is ironed out in favour of a more unified argument (a conclusion).
Inevitably, voices are silenced, creating a stable discourse that not only discourages questioning
and analysis but also projects an artificial impression of clarity and unequivocal completeness.
Finally, the workers themselves receive little attention, and when they are considered, they
are rarely allowed time or space to express what working in the maquila means to them. That
is, their experience is contextualized and generalized to contribute to a wider socio-politic/
economic argument on the maquila industry in general. These three issues greatly informed
many of the choices we made during the filmmaking process, especially with regard to how
we handled the relationship between image and voice –discussed in the following section –
and the importance we placed on the participants’ responses to the film in its multiple versions.
Our process of working with the responses, which became the project’s driving force, is
discussed in the second section of the chapter.
Observational cinema and the speaking voice

Maquiladora began with the unexpected possibility of recording video footage inside the
assembly plant where we were conducting fieldwork. We did not have a script or a pre-
conceived plan because we did not expect we would be allowed to film inside the plant.
This opportunity was granted under the condition that we met certain requirements, which
included not distracting the workers, not touching the machines and not wandering around
the plant unauthorized. These guidelines were added to other technical challenges imposed
by equipment and location. The plant was busy and loud; therefore, conducting interviews or
long chats inside the plant was impossible. Moreover, we had to use smartphones as they were
143
Reflexivity in audio-visual ethnography 143
the only cameras we could take inside the plant. These smartphones didn’t have any form of
image stabilization, which severely limited our capacity to move the camera while shooting.
Also, as the image quality decreased significantly if the (digital) zoom was engaged, we shot
with a single focal length. Finally, we could not conduct a survey of the place before filming.
The regulations and policies of maquilas change frequently and suddenly, and access, which is
very hard to obtain, can easily be revoked overnight.
Our first shooting period inside the maquila, which lasted for five non-consecutive days,
yielded slightly over seven hours of footage. As these shots were not recorded with a particular
film in mind, they were mostly guided by the filmmakers’ curiosity and the aforementioned
limitations. Being first-time camera operators, the ethnographers-filmmakers did not shoot
for coverage, that is, they did not try to capture a wide range of different shots to facilitate
traditional forms of editing. On the contrary, successful frames, difficult to secure given the
technical limitations of the shooting, were repeated to a degree which a professional film con-
text might deem excessive. There was, however, a sense of rhythm or, rather, a sense of timing
to the shots as a result of the camera’s sustained attention. The ethnographers-filmmakers
were happy to observe and keep the camera rolling for minutes at a time, which allowed for
the successful registering of a sense of repetition permeating the workers’ routines. However
tedious and slow-paced, the shots transpired a sense of unmoved attention that matched the
apparent concentration of the workers, creating a compelling symbiosis between the working
taking place on and off-screen.
Upon reviewing this first batch of footage, we faced the question of how to organize it
and, consequently, whether or not to supplement the visual track with voice-over and/or
interviews. The debate around the use of (written and spoken) voice in films has been a con-
stant throughout the history of documentary and ethnographic cinema. In fact, the two figures
often regarded as pioneers of both documentary and ethnographic cinema –Dziga Vertov and
Robert Flaherty –take diametrically opposed approaches on the issue. For Flaherty, intertitles
are crucial, and, in many sections of his cinema, images complement or illustrate text. Much
documentary practice since has deployed a similar rapport between images and words. An
evidence of this are the terms “A-Roll” and “B-Roll”, used to differentiate between the
footage that will serve as the central thread throughout the documentary –often interviews or
material involving a presenter –and the cutaways that will be laced in to illustrate or compli-
ment what’s discussed in the A-Roll. Even before synchronized sound became standard prac-
tice, when interviews on locations were rare, it was often a voice-over narration that served as
the central thread linking the film together.
Vertov’s films, on the other hand, have a marked anti-text approach. An important motiv-
ation behind his experimental cinema was to find a filmic mode that could express without
words. Although infrequent in television documentaries, ethnographic films and other, often
independent, documentary works have developed a long and rich tradition of films with
few or no words. Observational cinema, which grew powerfully in the decades following
Italian Neorealism, placed its emphasis on an attentive gaze that satisfied itself with watching
and listening without seeking voiced explanations. More recently, films articulating what are
often called sensory modes of address and reception tend to behave as the natural offspring of
observational cinema. Indeed, as David MacDougall explains, observational cinema excels at
“examining specific cultural themes and conveying the multiple features of social events, not
through disassociating them from one another or in the abstract but in their simultaneity and
material and sensory dimensions” (2018, p. 5).
144
Ethnographic nonfiction works such as Sweetgrass (Barbash and Castaing-Taylor, 2009) and
Leviathan (Castaing-Taylor and Paravel, 2012) but also docu-fiction films like In Vanda’s Room
(Costa, 2000) and La Libertad (Alonso, 2001) articulate these possibilities through modes of address
characterized by long, often unflinching takes with generally few words though, in any case,
without interviews.The result is a viewing experience marked by a certain interpretative freedom
that, as first theorized by André Bazin ([1946–1957] 2005), allows great autonomy when it comes
to choosing what to focus on as well as how to interpret images and sounds. In not qualifying,
through explanatory narration or interviews, the audio-visual recordings in the film, these retain
a sense of their physical uncertainty, encouraging a curious and exploratory mode of reception.
Such modes of reception are harder to achieve when explanatory voices or texts, consciously or
not, turn images and sounds into examples or illustrations. In these cases, the mode of reception
is one generally marked by a sense of gratification deriving from the feeling of having clearly
understood a well-evidenced argument. As argumentation, often seen as a central component of
documentary practice (Nichols, [2001] 2010), becomes thinner or more ambiguous, the films get
looser and harder to categorize as fiction, ethnography, documentary, etc.
Bazin ([1946–1957] 2005) saw this democratization of viewing as diminished or nullified
by montage (editing). Some readers of Bazin have taken this to mean that the fragmenta-
tion and re-joining involved in editing reduces the free interpretation of images and sounds.
Consequently, the long take has been hailed as the central component of a mode of observa-
tional cinema. This view is, though, rather simplistic as it reduces editing to only a few of its
functions. Duration or slowness, words frequently invoked to refer to contemplative films, are
qualities that do not depend exclusively or primarily on the length of shots or the number of
cuts. Editing can produce temporal ellipsis as easily as it can preserve a sense of real time or
even prolong the duration of events, delaying them to go by slower than they would; editing
can confuse as easily as it can clarify; it can encourage multiple responses as clearly as it can
advocate for a specific way of interpreting what’s seen and heard.3 Recent retranslations of
Bazin’s writings ([1943–1958] 2018) have helped nuance the critic’s propositions and, in this
case, show Bazin was referring not to editing in general but (Soviet) montage in particular.
However, even with this in mind, his proposition can still be deemed reductive.
It appears that, as scholars such as V.F. Perkins ([1972] 1993) and Gilberto Pérez (1998) have
shown, the issue is often not that these propositions are wrong but that, in their eagerness to
challenge ossified conventions of cinematographic practice, they often end up creating equally
reductive prescriptions. Critics were no doubt right in noticing that editing or voice-over was
frequently used to explain and partly simplify the richness of images and sounds. However,
they went too far in claiming that, by reducing the presence of these features, the films would
necessarily become more open or rich. In the case of ethnographic films, fierce proponents of
this mode also overlooked the sometimes-steep prices that were paid by doing away with the
voice entirely. One of these can be a problematic representation of the subject as incapable of
expressing himself/herself coherently through language. Another is the tendency to aestheti-
cize the subject’s existence, reducing its value or interest to, for example, the way in which
their figure blends with the landscape in a long shot. Somebody could object and rightly
point out that there are all sorts of wrong in equating sophistication with verbal expressivity
or faithful address with rough cinematographic aesthetics. The point here, though, is that, as
stylistic features in themselves, preachy voices are not necessarily more grotesque than pictorial
preciosity.
145
In its inception, Maquiladora had a clear observational purpose. We wanted to witness what
maquilas looked like, what conditions people worked in and how the inside of the plants
engaged the senses. However, as is often the case, we did not anticipate what our footage would
look like. The plants did not correspond with our imagination. They looked clean and neatly
organized, workers appeared concentrated but also free to engage in casual conversations and
banter, the tools appeared to be functioning adequately. It looked like a factory but not unlike
the factories we had visited in Spain or the United Kingdom. It was clear, once we got to the
editing room, that organizing the footage into an observational film would hardly be possible.
Observational films, particularly ethnographic films, often rely on the fascination of the sub-
ject. At their core, there tends to be a desire to bring camera and microphone where they have
not been before. This desire, also our desire, was thwarted by the fact that although cameras
had rarely been where ours went, what we saw looked like places that virtually everyone
has seen.
Our film required context and the footage alone did not capture the complexity
surrounding maquila labour, a complexity that came across most clearly in the many discussions
with participants (workers, students, teachers and experts). As part of our fieldwork, we had
also shadowed a worker (Maria) for a period of a month using “participant shadowing”, which
combines elements of traditional ethnographic shadowing and participant listening. Unlike
in traditional shadowing (Czarniawska, 2007, 2014; Sclavi, 1989) we shadowed Maria during
her particular working everyday routines and we also held informal conversations with her
that we recorded. The conversations were edited to provide the voice-over for the first cut
of the film. Again, the worker’s discourse was different than we expected. She discussed the
maquila in critical terms, but also had a variety of positive observations to make. Situating and
contextualizing the footage through the worker’s account allowed us to preserve a sense of
arbitrariness to the order of the images, which now engaged in a sometimes harmonic, some-
times dissonant relationship with the worker’s narration. Undoubtedly and unsurprisingly, the
voice became dominant, often reducing the video track to an illustrative function. However, at
times the visual channel resisted the authority of the voice by proposing a variety of contrasts
and alternative interpretations.The tug between voice and image was also kept alive by having
long stretches of the film without narration. These returned the attention to observation,
inviting the viewers to spend time inside the factory watching and hearing the density of its
movements and sounds.
Subjective reflexivity
Nonetheless, this first cut of the film never really felt satisfactory mainly because it seemed to
be trying to convey a clear and unequivocal discourse. That is, the voice-over not only made
the footage serve mostly an illustrative function but also gave the impression that, however
unexpected, the views on maquila labour were clear and well-established. This was out of tune
with our experience making the film, where constant discovery challenged over again our
views on maquila labour. Rather than reflecting on knowledge already gathered, we wanted
Maquiladora to explore the highly contradictory rhetoric of practices of working in assembly
plants. We were interested in capturing what Boje and Baskin (2011) describe as the process
of “creating meaning, drawing elements from an overabundant reality, constantly in flux, and
reading the world they create as a result of the relationships and apparatus/discourses of those
146
practices in which they are seamlessly embedded” (2011, p. 415, our emphasis). Rather than
using the film to present a fixed argument or conclusion, we were interested in showing the
very process involved in creating meaning, including the contrast of perspectives and propos-
itions, their dialectic admixture with contradicting arguments and discourses, and, naturally,
the unfinishedness keeping the flux alive.
A crucial inspiration for the final shape Maquiladora took was the reflexive cinema of Jean
Rouch in general, and Chronique d’un été (1961) [with Edgar Morin] in particular. Rouch
famously described film as “the only means I have to show someone else how I see him”
([1973] 2003, p. 43), an observation that links film’s unique ethnographic potential with its
reflexivity, a double operation enabled by the medium’s recording and projecting functions.
Firstly, through the recording function of film, the filmmaker can produce an image of the
other that matches the filmmaker’s visual impression (of the other). Secondly, through the
projecting function of film, the filmmaker can share this image (and therefore his/her visual
impression) with the other. This double operation, perfectly articulated by Rouch as a single
sentence with two sides, as it were, is inherent to cinema from its inception as some of the
very first film cameras were also projectors or, rather, recording and projecting were functions
performed by the same device.
Naturally, Flaherty, Rouch, MacDougall and many other filmmakers have described the
subjects of their films as their first and most important viewers. However, Rouch would go as
far as to use film’s reflexive potential as the force driving the films themselves. In Moi, un noir
(1959) and Jaguar (1967), for example, the audio track offers the subjects’ playful commentary
of their image (as captured by the filmmaker and) shown in the video track. The film thus
(re)presents the others’ responses to watching the filmmakers’ impressions of them. Chronique
d’un été takes the reflexive potential even further by developing it across time.The film consists
of “the film” and the viewers’ (who are also the subjects) responses after watching it. Organized
as a process – the process of filming and screening the film – Chronique’s reflexive function
becomes a representation of, and a method for, knowing. That is, what Chronique offers is not
a stable and fixed, however complex, impression of the other but rather an impression that is
incomplete for it necessarily changes across time.
Virtually, Chronique projects the film’s reflexive potential as a self-sufficient dialectic loop
capable of driving the film forwards ad infintum. (The subject’s responses, now part of the
film, could be shown again to generate new responses that could then be included as part
of the film and shown again…). Knowing (i.e. coming to knowledge), Chronique shows, is
progressive, changing and ultimately infinite. This is the conclusion the film reaches as in its
closing scene, the filmmakers (now subjects too) reflect on the fact that, though richer, their
impression of their subject of study – the other – remains necessarily incomplete. Indeed, in
his book-length study of Rouch’s cinema, Paul Henley explains that originally, the idea was
that Chronique would end with a plate reading “to be continued”, rather than with the classic
“the end” (2009, p. 152).
Made in an academic context, Maquiladora sought to serve as an artefact to help our
understanding of maquilas, the people that work in them and their discourses. The first cut
of the film was premiered at the Universidad Autónoma de Ciudad Juárez to an academic
audience (lecturers and students) attending the conference “Organizing families, young and
children in the borderlands” (25–27 October 2017). As we found out after this first screening,
many of the students that attended also worked in maquilas. The film was very much still
a work-in-progress, so we asked for a brief feedback session to follow the screening. We
147
recorded the session in order to have clearer and detailed access to the feedback we received.
The response to the film was overwhelming.We received feedback mostly from students, many
of which were positive and constructive. They valued the access to the inside of the plant the
film offered as well as the apparent honesty of Maria’s testimony. However, we also received
negative responses from students who felt the representation of the maquila in Maquiladora did
not correspond with their views or experiences.
A heated debate ensued between different parts during the feedback session which went
on to last for an hour (the time initially allocated was 15 minutes). After we left the screening
room, some students were interested in continuing the conversation, so we arranged sessions
later that day to talk with them. It was clear at that point that the conversation was very rich
and that the students, like Maria, were interested in discussing the different dimensions of their
experience with the maquilas. Moreover, it was also clear that the film was very provocative, at
least for local students/workers. In this regard, offering a spoken perspective through Maria’s
narration allowed for said perspective to be individualized and, therefore, made more open to
criticism or discussion. Indeed, all negative reviews disagreed with observations made through
the film’s audio channel (rather than the visual one). More surprisingly perhaps, hearing the
students’ comments, we quickly found out that they were not always necessarily discussing the
film itself (its form, content, style, etc.) but, rather, using the film as a means to reflect on their
own experience or ideas. On the one hand, they often began discussing aspects of the film to
then turn to personal anecdotes or opinions. On the other hand, they projected situations and
information onto the film and then commented on them. For example, a student mentioned
that the film was good at showing how Maria works to provide for her children. However,
Maria does not have children. The student does.
The responses from students taught us that the voiced opinion articulated in the film
encouraged others to voice their opinions outside of it, regardless of whether their opinions
made direct reference to the film or not. Rather than a subject of study, the film operated as
a catalyst for debate. Initially, we intended on including footage of the responses at the end
of the film. However, given the emphasis of the students’ engagement, we decided to develop
this section substantially. Not only were these opinions helpful to contextualize the maquilas,
convey their widespread pervasiveness in the city and articulate some of the questions the film
addressed but they also generated even more opinions in subsequent screenings. Hence, we
used responses not only in the later sections of the film but also early on, and throughout the
piece, alternating it with Maria’s narration. Thus, we created a dialogue between workers and
students inspired by that offered in Chronique, but also by the Dziga Vertov Group films by
Godard and Gorin such as A Film Like Any Other (Godard, 1968) and British Sounds (Godard,
1969). These works, which also adopted reflexive methods akin to Rouch’s, developed audio-
visual unions between workers and students, seeking active engagement and critical thinking
without fully relinquishing sensuous forms of address.
Besides the students, we also wanted Maria to watch the film and share with us her
impressions. We showed her the first cut of the film, the same one the students had seen. We
also showed her the second cut which included the student’s feedback. In both cases, Maria
spoke at length not so much about the film but about her experience.The students’ comments
triggered Maria’s replies, which, in turn sometimes nuance, refine and even contradict her
original narration. Furthermore, the film prompted her to share more information about her
experience both in and outside the plant. Details from her personal life, originally absent from
her discourse, now emerged as crucial deciding factors shaping her experience working in the
148
plant. Through this audio-visual conversation between students and worker, a more complex,
rich and multi-layered perspective on the maquila emerged. Not only that but through par-
ticipating in this conversation and reviewing her own performance Maria was able to refine
her propositions and develop a particularly supple and nuanced account of her experience.
A third cut of the film was stabilized with these materials and then expanded into a fourth
cut featuring more footage gathered inside the plant. At this point, having conducted seven
interviews with Maria as well as several focus groups and discussions with students, the audio
track of the film became particularly rich and attained a more prominent role. We have made
a sustained effort to retain observational sections in the film and establish asynchronous
moments where images are divorced from the sounds, achieving contrasting interactions.
These are successful as sometimes, when viewers discuss the film, they mention details that
the film achieves through this combination. However, it would be untrue to claim that we
have successfully achieved a balance between observation and voice. Currently, it is the voice
that leads, and the main aspect of the film viewers respond verbally to. However, the fact that
they do respond to the film and still feel compelled to share their views suggests that the voice
remains appealing and stimulating. Also, the responses to later cuts are more cautious, which
show that the film successfully demonstrates some of the problematics of maquila labour and
encourage viewers to reflect on their perspective and, in doing so, use the methods the film
itself deploys and proposes.
During the first two years, six different versions of Maquiladora were produced and
screened. Each new version incorporated material (video footage and sound recordings)
gathered in subsequent stages of the intermittent fieldwork. Once the first version of the film
was stabilized, each new fieldwork stage involved a screening of the latest cut of the film for
the participants and an accompanying discussion. These discussions were also recorded and
incorporated in the following cuts. The last version of Maquiladora is the result of six rounds
of filming and (re)editing. The result of this methodology is an open audio-visual conversa-
tion that, rather than simply featuring multiple voices, binds them in a productive debate that
encourages discussion, (self)reflection and (self)criticism. In doing so, we sought to expand,
refine and nuance our understanding of the social phenomenon as well as to stimulate viewers
(both participants and non-participants), giving them the privilege but also the responsibility
to add their voices to the conversation and, potentially, to the film. Maquiladora is, therefore,
intentionally imperfect and unfinished, always “to be continued”, for it tries to articulate the
construction of the meaning of work as an ongoing (and therefore unfinished) process in need
of constant re-evaluation.
Lessons to be learned: how can reflexive devices and methodologies

contribute to our understanding of a social group or phenomenon?
Audio- visual reflexive ethnography is collaborative in nature. It involves all participants,
including the filmmaker, interacting and analysing visual data together to produce what some
literature has suggested as a sense-making community (A. Collier, Phillips, & Iedema, 2015;
Iedema, 2011). All participants contribute data and make sense of it. Through this process,
reflexive video-ethnography seeks a better understanding of the complexity of social practices
as well as a better understanding of, precisely how we come to terms with social practices
such as work in assembly plants. This way of seeing helps participants of visual reflexive eth-
nographies to revisit and re-tell, liberating them from potential fixed and taken for granted
149
interpretations. Visual reflexive ethnographies provide one way to facilitate what Gibson
(2005) and Flores (2009) describe as a collaborative intertwining between researchers, workers
and filmmakers by favouring the creation and recreation of stories in a potential never-ending
sense-making process.
The multi- channel aspect of the audio- visual medium offers unique possibilities for
contrasting perspectives and, through this process, enables rich forms of reflexivity. As Whiting,
Simon, Roby and Chamakiotis (2018) propose, such reflexivity can not only illuminate the
filmmaker’s perspective and sense-making process, but also that of the participants. In the
concrete case discussed in this chapter, the audio and visual channels juxtapose, interlock
and reflect on a range of narratives and perspectives on women’s working conditions in
assembly plants of Ciudad Juárez (México). In doing so, Maquiladora mutates into new forms
by adding new visual and audio inputs that feedback on previous versions of the film and,
therefore, the filmmakers’ and participants’ perspectives.The result is a multivocal conversation
that encourages critical reflection and a re-evaluation of original discourses and assumptions.
Through these reflexive modes, Maquiladora provides tools participants can use to refine and
nuance our understanding as well as the channels through which our new perspectives might
be expressed.
With regard to the experience of practice, the point of view has been blurred in
Maquiladora. It is not concrete, it is an ambiguous perspective that can suggest different authors
and motives, contrary to what is generally suggested that the visual is univocal, evident, clear
and encompassing (“a picture is worth a thousand words”). The use of reflexive audio-visual
ethnography in Maquiladora suggests the contrary; it is a mix of subjectivities (“a picture is
worth a thousand pictures”). Indeed, although participants already have a prefigured perspec-
tive, they use the film as a starting point to construct and articulate their perspective into a
proposition. It is through the process of discussing and re-evaluating the proposition, a process
also facilitated by the audio-visual format, that the proposition becomes an argument.
Perhaps the most crucial lesson to take from the project is the necessity for method and
approach to remain open to continuous change and adjustment. In this regard, Sjöberg (2008)
describes Jean Rouch’s films as the result of a mix of spontaneity and necessity. According to
him, rather than imposing a predetermined style on the subject, Rouch worked with fluid
methodologies that he adapted to the participants he was working with. Sjöberg explains:
[Rouch’s] films were improvised and developed as a direct response to the different
practical challenges that he confronted during his work. This was partly an expression
of Rouch’s background as a bridge engineer; he regarded it as a professional necessity
to respond to his environment with creativity and ingenuity. For Rouch, practice was
as much of a fun game as it was surrealist art or ethnography. Fun and adventure seem
to have been the predominant motivations for him and the other participants of the
ethnofictions, and Rouch regarded their shared pleasure to be crucial for the ethno-
graphic film production (2008, p. 231).
David MacDougall is even more explicit when referring to the reflexive capacity of ethno-
graphic cinema: “no ethnographic film is merely a record of another society: it is always a
record of the meeting between a filmmaker and that society” (MacDougall, [1974] 1995,
p. 125). As Sarah Pink (2009) explains, often the final film itself is not the most important
outcome of such reflexive-oriented projects. Rather, the collaborative and reflexive process
150
that interweave to produce these kinds of films creates social interventions in their own right
by generating new levels of self-awareness, sense-making and identity among the participants.
Yet the film can remain sensitive to the collaboration leading to its making, and actively adjust
itself to try to remain coherent with how at least some of the participants experienced the
encounter.
This re-evaluative attitude must also apply to the ethical dimension of the filmmaking pro-
cess. Usually, ethical issues in research are addendum to the researcher’s practices to comply
with institutional or personal demands at the beginning of the project. When we started
Maquiladora, we followed common and established ethical protocols and principles such as:
• Regarding any form of covered recording unethical

• Considering that ethical was beyond asking participants permission to be filmed
(MacDougall, 1998)
• Soliciting the full collaboration and agreement with research participants
• Following the ethical codes of the Society of Applied Anthropology and the National
Association of Applied Anthropology
• Adopting institutional and organizational ethical procedures of universities, research
bodies and any organizational protocols
A crucial ethical dilemma on participatory research that tends to be overlooked is participants

complaining about researchers coming to the field, taking stories, using participants as source
of data, producing their outputs and leaving, never to be seen or heard from again. In the case
of Maquiladora, “data” was not considered a set of information produced at some point of the
research process. It is instead an ongoing flux which changes and sways depending on what
the participants decide to discuss and interpret: previous analysis of data is transformed by
new data; therefore, the ethics attached to “old” data is susceptible to new ethical consider-
ations. What was considered “ethical” at the beginning of the project could be now deemed
unethical as new footage and screenings are produced. Nevertheless, the reflexive form the
film adopts also makes spaces for the ethical re-evaluation the project requires. That is, if the
film opens materials to recurrent re-contextualization and categorization, so does it open itself
to similar re-evaluation. In this regard, the film forms its own proprietary ethical protocol,
whereby participants are afforded the opportunity to reflect on and discuss, precisely, the very
ethics of the project. In other words, ethics stop being a set of a priori principles to be followed
during practice, to be an integral line of enquiry of the film itself.
All (live action) films can be said to involve some degree of reflexivity, for, given the
indexicality of the photograph/moving image, they inevitably constitute records of the event
in which they were made. Generally, the term “reflexive cinema”, though, tends to be saved
for films in which the filmmaking process is depicted either by showing the filmmakers at
work or, for example, by featuring figures (actors or subjects) that discuss, or make explicit
reference to, the film. However, as David McDougall (1998) notes, there are many ways in
which the filmmaking act might be embedded in the film itself and the boundary past which
a film becomes eminently reflexive remains murky. With regard to audio-visual ethnography,
however, an interesting set of interrelated questions to ask is: “how can reflexivity be mar-
shalled to enhance our understanding of a social group?” and “how can reflexivity help us
come to terms with the processes by which we acquire knowledge of a social group?” This
question feels particularly important to us because reflexivity encourages viewers (participants
151
and non-participants) to consider the process through which the film is made (its artifice) and
actively question the claims to truth the film, or agents within it, may make.What is important
is not necessarily what techniques are used (observational or voice-over) to achieve the film’s
reflexivity, though they will naturally condition the final project. What matters is that the film
remains self-critical and dares expose itself and the assumptions it might be making as unfin-
ished discourse open to reformulation.
Notes
1 This tradition is integrated by many authors (e.g. Eisenstein, [1942] 1957, [1949] 1977; Epstein,
[1921] 1988; MacDougall, 1998, 2006, 2018; Rouch, 2003)
2 See, for example, (Bachour, 2015; Cañas, Coronado, Gilmer, & Saucedo, 2013; Carrillo & Zárate,
2009; González-López, 2013; Grineski & Collins, 2008; Heid, Larch, & Riaño, 2013; Horowitz, 2009;
Mollick, 2009; Mollick, Cortez-Rayas, & Olivas-Moncisvais, 2006; Navarrete & Aragón-Durand,
2011; Pantaleo, 2010; Perpetuo López, Blanco, Aragón, & Partanen, 2008; South & Kim, 2018). The
maquila industry has also been addressed in the media and by artists in, for example, the documentary
Maquilapolis (de la Torre and Funari, 2006).
3 Not surprisingly, many sequences Bazin praised were not made out of particularly long takes ––
Edmund’s meandering in Germany Year Zero (Rossellini, 1948) or the coffee grinder sequence in
Umberto D. (De Sica, 1952) ––even if they were marked by a powerful sense of duration.
References
Bachour, Mary-Kay. (2015). Disrupting the myth of maquila disposability: Sites of reproduction and
resistance in Juárez. Women’s Studies International Forum, 48, 174–184.
Bazin, André. ([1943– 1958] 2018). Selected Writings 1943–1958 (Timothy Barnard, Trans.).
Montreal: Caboose.
Bazin, André. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? (Hugh Gray, Trans.Vol. 2). Berkeley, CA: University
of California Press.
Boje, David & Baskin, Ken. (2011). Our organizations were never disenchanted. Enchantment by
design narratives vs enchantment by emergence. Journal of Organizational Change Management, 24(4),
411–426.
Cañas, Jesús; Coronado, Robert; Gilmer, Robert & Saucedo, Eduardo. (2013). The impact of the
Maquiladora industry on U.S. border cities. Growth and Change, 44(3), 415–442.
Carrillo, Jorge & Zárate, Roberto. (2009). The evolution of Maquiladora best practices: 1965–2008.
Journal of Business Ethics, 88(S2), 335–348.
Collier, Aileen, Phillips, Jane Louise & Iedema, Rick. (2015). The meaning of home at the end of life: A
video-reflexive ethnography study. Palliative Medicine, 29(8), 695–702.
Collier, John & Collier, Malcom. (1986). Visual Anthropology: Photography as a Research Method.
Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press.
Czarniawska, Barbara. (2007). Shadowing and Other Techniques for Doing Fieldwork in Modern Societies.
Malmö and Copenhagen: Liber/CBS Press.
Czarniawska, Barbara. (2014). Why I think shadowing is the best field technique in management and
organization studies. Qualitative Research in Organizations and Management: An International Journal,
9(1), 90–93.
Eisenstein, Sergei Mikhailovich. ([1942] 1957). The Film Sense (Jay Leyda,Trans. Jay Leyda Ed.). New York,
NY: Meridian Books.
Eisenstein, Sergei Mikhailovich. ([1949] 1977). Film Form: Essays in Film Theory (Jay Leyda, Trans. Jay
Leyda Ed.). San Diego, CA, New York, NY and London: Harcourt Brace.
Epstein, Jean. ([1921] 1988). Magnification (Stuart Liebman, Trans.). In Richard Abel (Ed.), French Film
Theory and Criticism. 1907–1939.Volume I (pp. 235–241). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
152
Flores, Carlos Y. (2009). Sharing anthropology: Collaborative video experiences among Maya film-
makers in postwar Guatemala. In Sarah Pink (Ed.), Visual Interventions: Applied Visual Anthropology (pp.
209–226). New York, NY and Oxford: Berghahn Books.
Gereffi, Gary & Korzeniewicz, Miguel. (Eds) (1994). Commodity Chains and Global Capitalism. Wesport,
CT and London: Praeger.
Gibson, Barbara Ellen. (2005). Co-producing video diaries: the presence of the “absent” researcher.
International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 4(4), 34–41.
González-López, Gloria. (2013). The Maquiladora syndrome. Contexts, 12(1), 40.
Grineski, Sara E. & Collins, Timothy W. (2008). Exploring patterns of environmental injustice in the
Global South: Maquiladoras in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. Population and Environment, 29(6), 247–270.
Heid, Benedikt, Larch, Mario & Riaño, Alejandro. (2013).The rise of the Maquiladoras: A mixed blessing.
Review of Development Economics, 17(2), 252–267.
Henley, Paul. (2009). The Adventure of the Real. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.
Horowitz, Mark. (2009). Maquiladora production, rising expectations, and alterglobalization strategy.
Critical Sociology, 35(5), 677–688.
Iedema, Rick. (2011). Creating safety by strengthening clinicians’ capacity for reflexivity. BMJ Quality &
Safety, 20, i83–i86.
Lugo, Alejandro. (2000). Theorizing border inspections. Cultural Dynamics, 12(3): 353–373.
MacDougall, David. ([1974] 1995). Beyond observational cinema. In Paul Hockins (Ed.), Principles of
Visual Anthropology (2nd ed., pp. 115–132). Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter.
MacDougall, David. (1998). Transcultural Cinema (Lucien Taylor Ed.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press.
MacDougall, David. (2006). The Corporeal Image. Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press.
MacDougall, David. (2018). Observational Cinema. In H. Callan (Ed.), The International Encyclopedia of
Anthropology (pp. 1–10).
Mollick, Andrea Varella. (2009). Employment responses of skilled and unskilled workers at Mexican
Maquiladoras: The effects of external factors. World Development, 37(7), 1285–1296.
Mollick, Andrea Varella, Cortez-Rayas, Abigaíl & Olivas-Moncisvais, Rosa A. (2006). Local labor markets
in U.S.-Mexican border cities and the impact of Maquiladora production. The Annals of Regional
Science, 40(1), 95–116.
Navarrete, Juan Manuel & Aragón-Durand, Fernando. (2011). Garment Maquiladoras in the South: A
closer look at the Mayan Maquiladora workforce. Latin American Perspectives, 38(5), 93–109.
Nichols, Bill. ([2001] 2010). Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington, IN and Indianapolis, IN: Indiana
University Press.
Pantaleo, Katherine. (2010). Gendered violence: An analysis of the Maquiladora murders. International
Criminal Justice Review, 20(4), 349–365.
Perez, Gilberto. (1998). The Material Ghost: Films and Their Medium. Baltimore, MD and London: The
John Hopkins University Press.
Perkins, V. F. ([1972] 1993). Film as Film: Understanding and Judging Movies. Cambridge, MA: Da Capo
Press.
Perpetuo López, Lylliam, Blanco, Luis, Aragón, Aurora & Partanen, Timo. (2008). Maquila workers’
health: Basic issues, what is known, and a pilot study in Nicaragua. Social Medicine, 3(3), 185–193.
Pink, Sarah. (2009). Visual Interventions: Applied Visual Anthropology. New York, NY and Oxford: Berghahn.
Rouch, Jean. (2003). Ciné-ethnography (Steven Feld, Trans. Steven Feld Ed.). Minneapolis and
London: University of Minnesota Press.
Rouch, Jean. ([1973] 2003). The camera and man (Steven Feld, Trans.). In Steven Feld (Ed.), Ciné-
Ethnography (pp. 29–46). Minneapolis, MN and London: University of Minnesota Press.
Sclavi, Marianella. (1989). Ad una spanna da terra [Six Inches off the Ground]. Milan: Feltrinelli.
Sennett, Richard. (2008). The Craftsman. London: Allen Lane.
Sjöberg, Johannes. (2008). Ethnofiction: Drama as a creative research practice in ethnographic film.
Journal of Media Practice, 9(3), 229–242.
153
South, Robert B. & Kim, Changjoo. (2018). Maquiladora mortality: Manufacturing plant closure in
Mexico. Journal of Development Studies, 55(8), 1654–1669.
Whiting, Rebecca, Simon, Gillian, Roby, Helen & Chamakiotis, Petros. (2018).Who’s behind the lens?: A
reflexive analysis of roles in participatory video research. Organizational Research Methods, 21(2),
316–340.
Filmography
A Film Like Any Other (Godard, 1968)
Baby’s Dinner (Lumière, 1985)
Bicycle Thieves (De Sica, 1948)
British Sounds (Godard, 1970)
Carmaux: Drawing Out the Coke (Lumière, 1896)
Chronique d’un été (Rouch, 1960)
Demolition of a Wall (Lumière, 1896)
Finis Terrae (Epstein, 1929)
Four Short Films (Godard, 2006)
Germany Year Zero (Rossellini, 1948)
Human Resources (Cantet, 1999)
In Vanda’s Room (Costa, 2000)
Jaguar (Rouch, 1967)
La Libertad (Alonso, 2001)
Leviathan (Castaing-Taylor and Paravel, 2012)
Man with a Movie Camera (Vertov, 1929)
Maquiladora (Gaggiotti, 2020)
Maquilapolis (de la Torre and Funari. 2006)
Moi, un noir (Rouch, 1959)
Moving Walkway at the Paris Exposition (Lumière, 1900)
Nanook of the North (Flaherty, 1922)
Reportage sur Orly (Godard, 1964)
Rosetta (Dardenne, 1999)
Sweetgrass (Barbash and Castaing-Taylor, 2009)
The Movement of People Working (Niblock, 2003)
Umberto D. (De Sica, 1952)
Wheels of India (Gaggiotti, 2016)
Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Lumière, 1895)
154
155
PART III
Beyond the field

156
157
11
EXITING THE FIELD
When does an ethnography finish?
Vanessa Monties
While the process of entering the field has received much attention from ethnographic
academics, exiting remains an understudied and under-addressed process in the literature on
organizational studies (Iversen, 2009; Michailova et al., 2014). However, as the research envir-
onment evolves, new demands have emerged. For instance, the recent call for more reflexivity
in ethnographic work, the development of ethical boards in our research institutions, and
the growing debate on the methodological and theoretical validity of ethnographic studies
has led to a development and growing interest in the topic. When asked to write something
about when and how an ethnography ends, I felt excited, because I thoroughly enjoy talking
about my ethnographic research and was thrilled to be given the opportunity to share this
life-impacting experience. However, my excitement quickly turned to worry as I started to
wonder whether I had actually ever “finished” my ethnographic study… Thus, this chapter
gave me the opportunity to develop my analysis on the different processes at work when
doing an ethnography and I drew on my ethnographic study of a police force to reflect more
particularly on the difficulty of leaving the field.
First, I started to read the literature on the topic of exiting the field and I realized that not
much had been published. Indeed, I found many different terms to describe this process of
exiting (see Morrison et al., 2012 for a review): some academics use “exiting” (Booth, 1998;
Morrison et al., 2012),“ending” (Cutcliffe and Ramcharan, 2002),“getting out” (Iversen, 2009),
while some others use “disengagement” (Briggs, et al., 2003)… I will come back specifically
to this term later. This shows how difficult it is to fully capture the practices and processes of
“concluding” fieldwork. Semantics also led me to think about the distinction between ending
fieldwork and ending an ethnography. Fieldwork is the first step of an ethnographic study,
often followed by a process of analysis and finally the writing process, although these steps
can overlap as ethnography is often an iterative process with an alternation of periods in the
fieldwork and periods of thinking, analysing and writing, what Van Maanen (2011) labelled
“headwork” and “textwork”. During this process, the researcher decides the kind of story they
want to tell and how they are going to shape their story; to do this, we can still be inspired by
the typology conceptualized by Van Maanen (1988) 30 years ago: the realist, confessional and
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-14
158
158 Vanessa Monties
impressionist tales. In this chapter, we are going to examine different phenomena –why, when
and how exiting the field –and we will see that leaving the field may not be as easy and simple
as theory has first suggested with the perspective of the saturation of data. We will focus more
particularly on the four “types” of leaving the field developed by Michailova and colleagues
(2014): anticipated exit, revelatory exit, hostage exit and black hole exit. Their typology gives
interesting insights regarding the development of theory according to different types of
exit: respectively, conventional theorizing, paradoxical theorizing, one-sided theorizing, and
blind alley theorizing. These authors also discuss the impact of exit on research relationships
and I will also address the issue of the position of the researcher in an ethnographic study
as an identity space. I will present the perspective of hyphen-spaces developed by Cunliffe
and Karunanayake (2013) that drew on Fine’s (1994) work. Their model provides a lens with
which to assess the researcher’s own positioning in the field and what this implies in terms
of identity and theory outcomes. We will see the four different hyphen-spaces that frame the
relationship between the researcher and the respondent: insiderness-outsiderness, sameness-
difference, engagement-distance and political activism-active neutrality. I will explain how
positioning may influence the exiting process.
The chapter first addresses the question of engagement and the transformational process
involved in ethnography, which has implications for the way we end a study. It then explores
the reasons and circumstances under which we may end fieldwork, providing some examples
of ending rituals.This is followed by a section on the different ways we may leave the field, and
what it implies for the researcher as well as implications for developing theorizing.
An engaging practice
Ethnography is a relational process and as we “go native” (Malinowski, 1922; Van Maanen,
1988:49), we are transformed by and through the experience. It is a dynamic and emotional
process (Michailova et al., 2014). Therefore, I consider the ethnographic experience as a lim-
inal space in the anthropological sense: a space where the individual undergoes a transform-
ation and “experiences personal growth” (Michailova et al., 2014): over the course of the study,
one is not as they were before entering the field, and not yet as they will be at the end of the
experience. It is a sort of initiatory quest. A quest of learning and unlearning, learning about
the field under study as well as about oneself, and unlearning certain assumptions in order
to gain an in-depth understanding of what is happening in the field. Sometimes, one needs
to get lost to be able to find a new way. As Michailova et al. (2014) explain: “The researcher
embarks on a progression from ignorant stranger to wise scholars, treading a path through
(self) alienation to (self) enlightenment”. It enables the possibility to redefine oneself in a
process of “uncoupling” (Vaughan, 1986:188) with the field and the participants. Through
this liminal space, our identity is impacted and transformed: “Towards the end of fieldwork,
researchers have frequently undergone multiple processes of (re)establishing and (re)negoti-
ating their identities” (Michailova et al., 2014).
When we engage in ethnographic work, we are etymologically bound by a promise or
an oath of sorts: this assumes a dimension of responsibility on the part of the researcher
in carrying out such work. It is therefore difficult to talk about “disengaging” in fieldwork
without also raising the question of breaking this promise. A promise of what exactly? Of tran-
scribing what is going on in the field we chose to observe/understand, to faithfully transpose
what our participants live through, feel, do, etc.? Engagement implies
159
When does an ethnography finish? 159
subjecting the self –body, belief, personality, emotions, cognitions –to a set of contin-
gencies that play on others, such that over time –usually a long time –one can more
or less see, hear, feel and come to understand the kinds of responses others display (and
withhold) in particular social situations.
(Van Maanen, 2011)
There is a kind of submission when consenting to the fieldwork experience, a kind a

letting go in going native… how could we just “exit” or “leave” this space that transforms us
through the interactions with the participants and the experiences they live, and which con-
sequently we live as well? Does exiting an ethnographic study simply mean physically and
interactionally distancing ourselves from our field participants? Exiting the field might not
just be as simple and easy as leaving the field setting after we reach the saturation of data, as
it is expected in theory. There is no on/off button that allows us to disengage from the field.
Engaging in the field takes a toll on researchers: it requires us to divert time away from
our regular activities, our personal and family lives, it requires us to put aside our beliefs,
our conceptions of things and events, and to create mental space in order to understand and
decipher what is going on both in front of us and inside of us. As for expatriates, ethnographers
may experience a “culture shock” (Agar, 1996: 100) when they enter their field:
Suddenly you do not know the rules anymore.You do not know how to interpret the
stream of motions and noises that surround you.You have no idea what is expected of
you. Many of the assumptions that form the bedrock of your existence are mercilessly
ripped out from under you.
Then you may experience a culture shock all over again when you exit the field because
you have changed your way of seeing things around you.You may have adopted the vocabu-
lary of your participants, the way they interpret events or handle certain situations. In this case,
exiting may involve a kind of de-acculturation which may take time, if indeed it ever actually
happens: you may very well keep the cultural and identity changes you have internalized.
Exit may also be difficult when you develop a kind of addiction to the field, as what you
experience and feel provides you with new emotions and sensations. This can happen when
the new role you have been attributed by the group is particularly rewarding, or when the
identity that your participants project on you corresponds to a perceived better version of
yourself. Consequently, the engagement in the field and the impact it may have on your iden-
tity have to be taken into account when you reflect upon leaving the field. Furthermore, the
classical and theoretical view of exiting the field after reaching the saturation of data may be
overly simplistic and robotic, denying the emotional labour and the dis-attachment process
that may take place in reality. Thus, when we turn towards the literature on exiting the field,
we can find more diverse and complex insights.
The reasons ending fieldwork

It is difficult to have an overview per discipline, as accounts of leaving the field are not often
articulated in ethnographic studies (Iversen, 2009). The usual consensus on when fieldwork
ends, according to Snow (1980), is that “the researcher leaves the field when enough data have
been collected to sufficiently answer pre-existing or emergent propositions, or to render an
160
160 Vanessa Monties
accurate description of the world under study” (p.102). However, this view may appear as too
mechanical, detached or disembodied and many other situations or factors exist which may
explain why or when fieldwork ends.
Time frame
In our field of organization studies and management, we often conduct ethnographic studies
as part of our PhD.The recommendation in this case is generally to spend one year in the field,
as suggested by anthropologists, to observe one cycle of all organizational activities. There is
thus a time frame that delineates the ethnographic study and when it should end. This is what
happened to me: as part of my PhD, I began an ethnographic study during which I followed
two police investigative and operational squads in a big French city. After 12 months in the
field, my PhD director, a wonderful and experienced sociologist, told me it was time for me
to leave the field, to step back (or disengage), and to start analysing what I had observed and
lived through. I had a PhD to defend and my scholarship as a PhD student was also going to
end soon. During this one year, I had developed strong relationships with my participants and
a kind of attachment with the work environment that I had discovered, which made it emo-
tionally difficult to leave. I did not feel I had reached a state of saturation of data as every day
was different from the previous one.
At the end of the day, it was difficult to leave the police offices and I was very excited
to go back the following morning. […] After some months I got immersed to the point
that the chief of the squad told me after a group meeting: “I sometimes forget you don’t
have a badge…” (fieldnotes)
Consequently, it may take some time, a few months even, to dis-immerse yourself from the
field and to be able to achieve the right distance to be able to analyse and write about it. As
Van Maanen (2011: 227) explained, I had come “as close is to the police as I possibly could
without becoming one of them”, then I tried to move away. However, since I had built strong
ties with some of these police officers, it was difficult to remain totally without contact and
interaction. In the end, I had to leave the field in accordance with a time frame defined by
institutional (defence of the PhD) and personal (financial) requirements. As I said, I did not
feel I had reached “saturation of data” after one year in the field, but it is relevant to stay one
year to be able to observe at least one full year of activities within an organization. However,
this timeframe is adapted in a stable environment and we may wonder whether it is still rele-
vant in today’s often volatile, turbulent, and uncertain work environments wherein changes
occur continuously. I will come back to the length of fieldwork and its impact on developing
theories later in this chapter.
Financial support and emotional responsibility

The financial aspect may be a reason to end fieldwork when, for instance, the financial support
for a project comes to an end. If you have some grant to carry a study in the field and this grant
ends or is suppressed for any reasons, consequently the study has to stop, whether the data are
sufficient or not. On the contrary, an extension of financial support may allow you to engage
longer and more deeply with your field study. However, it may also have unexpected negative
161
impacts on the relationship with your field participants that has to be taken into account. For
instance, the participants –particularly those who are in distress or in difficult situations – may
have prepared themselves psychologically for your departure at the end of the scheduled end
of the study and because the moment of ending the project becomes blurred, it may confuse
the relationship between the researcher and the participants as it was the case for Iversen et al.
(2009) during their economic mobility ethnographic study:
Thus unpredicted extensions of the research meant that the notion of a defined ending
became a blurry, ever-changing uncertainty throughout the research period, which
seemed to make families, and even some of the researchers, less clear about what ‘ending’
entailed.
Therefore, you have to be reflective regarding the relationship you create with your participants
and the degree of perceived dependency they may have with your presence and work during
fieldwork. The feeling of dependency and expectations from your participants may compli-
cate the moment of exiting the field, as you may feel some kind of responsibility with their
well-being.
Disappearance of the object of study and critical situations

There can be an obvious reason as to why fieldwork ends: perhaps the field under study does
not exist anymore or the trustful relationship with key actors is broken, leading to the closure
of the access. The field under study can disappear if, for instance, it is an ephemeral phenom-
enon, or the physical site is destroyed by an accident or a natural disaster; a company may close,
a social movement end, some key research participants change positions, or a corporate scandal
may result in shutting down access to the field. Because these phenomena are considered as
“failures”, we do not find many accounts of them in studies. However, as Michailova et al.
(2014) explain, the abrupt ending of a fieldwork study or the advent of crisis situations which
jeopardize the continuity of access to fieldwork may nevertheless lead to interesting theorizing
and should not be considered a failure or something to hide or dismiss in our ethnographic
narratives. I recall here two critical experiences I had during my field study that could have
led to the termination of my fieldwork.
During my study, I was sometimes confronted with difficult situations. First, my participants
assigned a role to me that I was not trained to hold. Although I had made it clear from
the beginning that I was not a psychotherapist, they considered me as a sort of confidante.
Therefore, they confided in me and offloaded their grief about both professional and personal
issues, which were sometimes heavy to bear. It was sometimes stressful because suicide in the
French police is a real issue1 and on some occasions, I felt some kind of responsibility and
pressure to provide the right support to avoid dramatic situations. The suicide of one of the
participants would have put an end to my fieldwork and the feeling of guilt would have been
unbearable.
Second, at some point, tensions grew between the chief and other members of the squad. It
reached a point where I had to choose a side if I wanted to maintain the trustful relationship
I had developed with most of the squad members. While tensions grew between the chief of
the squad and his staff, I noticed that when I had conversations with the chief in his office,
other group members were less inclined to talk to me or were less willing to take me with
162
162 Vanessa Monties
them for outside missions. I could feel that they were questioning my loyalty towards them.
I decided then to avoid talking to the chief alone in his office because I wanted to maintain
the trustful relationship with the other 18 members that constituted my main source of infor-
mation. It was a delicate decision since my access to the field had been authorized by the
police hierarchy.
These are two examples of crisis situations that could have ended my field experience pre-
maturely.You may indeed face situations where you do not agree with, or are in conflict with,
your participants. In this case, you may need to adapt your behaviour or make decisions that
could jeopardize or maintain your relationships in the field. However, you always have the
choice to write about these experiences and to draw some insightful analysis even if the field
closed up on you, whether it was the consequence of your own choices or external elements
beyond your control.
There are many factors that we cannot control, plan or predict when we do an ethno-
graphic study. Therefore, it may be sometimes difficult to anticipate the moment to exit the
field. However, whatever the reasons for which your fieldwork comes to an end, we can find
ending practices or rituals which can delineate this moment.
Ending rituals
Morrison et al. (2012: 420) give some examples of ending practices:
plaques, books, and gift cards given at the end of a research study (Iversen, 2009), a social
farewell thank you and gathering (Russell, 2005), letters of thanks (Cannon, 1992), an
open invitation to participants for further dialogue, if desired (Booth, 1998; Cutcliffe &
Ramacharan, 2002), and possibly a certificate of attendance and celebratory meal (Read
& Papakosta-Harvey, 2004).
These ending practices work as “cues and boundaries” (Morrison et al., 2012) to help the
researchers and the participants to engage in the closure of their relationship. In the two squads
I observed, there were some rituals in the work, but also when a new member would join the
squad or leave it for another department. The newcomer or the one leaving had to organize
their arrival or leaving party. Although I was not a member of the squad (nor the police force),
my participants asked me to have one of these leaving parties when I announced that it was
time for me to leave the field. For me, this was both enjoyable and confusing. I felt happy
because they made me feel as if I were one of them, but also confused because it was difficult
to come to terms with the fact that it was over and that finally I was not one of them.
Thus, rituals may help you to set a boundary between in and out the fieldwork experience.
It signals you psychologically and in practice that you are coming to the end of a phase; how-
ever, the emotional and dis-engagement process is not as easy to handle.
How does an ethnographic study finish?

Now that we have seen some of the different situations pertaining to why and when field-
work may end, we can now explore the question: how does an ethnographic study finish?
I would say this depends on many factors and some of the most important of these are the
degree of engagement and emotional involvement you have with your field. The ending may
163
vary according to how deeply you are involved, engaged or subjected to your field. It may also
depend on whether you have forged links with particular categories of participants, for instance,
vulnerable populations as was the case for Morrison et al. (2012) or Iversen (2006, 2009) and
her colleagues who spent several years following low-income families attending job-training
programmes to obtain better jobs. Ending seemed to be more difficult for researchers who had
created links with the children of these families. Ending was also an issue in Morrison et al.’s
(2012) ethnographic study of overweight adolescent boys. As trust developed between the
researchers and the participants, exit had to be negotiated with the participants, so they did not
feel that they had been reduced to simple objects of study. As one researcher reported:“ ‘Thanks
for using me, asshole,’ were the words one of the participants voiced when asked, “How would
you feel if the researcher was gone today?” (Morrison et al., 2012). Some researchers may also
want to maintain good relations with their participants when exiting the field as they may
consider returning for further study at a later time. Therefore, there may be a host of ethical,
moral, strategic or emotional elements that need to be taken into account and that may impact
the way you are going to “end” an ethnographic study.
Van Maanen (2011) explains that fieldwork, headwork and textwork constitute the three
main activities of ethnographic work. Headwork represents “the conceptual work that informs
ethnographic fieldwork and its various representational practices”, and textwork is how you
write about your ethnographic fieldwork. As Van Maanen (2011) states, “there is no such thing
as ethnography until it is written”. Indeed, if we look at the etymology of the word “ethnog-
raphy”, it is composed of ethnos (from the Greek ἔθνος), meaning “a people, culture, nation”
and the suffix -graphy (from the Greek γράφειν) meaning “to write”. Therefore, the act of
writing to describe the field under study constitutes an essential element of the ethnographic
experience.We could then suggest that ethnography ends when writing about fieldwork ends.
Once we have set down on paper our thoughts, our analysis of our participants’ story –as well
as our own story, emotions and embodied experience –we could say an ethnographic study
finishes here. But does it really? Does ethnographic research finish when we stop writing
about our fieldwork? To a certain extent, I would answer “yes”; however, I would suggest
considering other possibilities. First, as I said earlier in this chapter, the ethnographic experi-
ence is a liminal space, we change during fieldwork and when it ends, we are not the same as
we were when we began the work. Therefore, the ethnographic study lives with us, inside of
us, in our perception of the world around us and in our interactions with people. Second, we
may use the same theoretical framework, insight or the same concepts we developed during
our first ethnographic study for future research; thus, the link is never really cut. It is a way
in which to prolong the experience, as well as to capitalize on the knowledge we developed
during this experience.
For instance, one of my colleagues who conducted an ethnographic study in the army
explains: “even if you don’t write about your fieldwork anymore, you carry similar issues in
different fields which come afterwards… you feel you owe them to carry their issues for-
wards”. As far as I am concerned, I never totally disconnected with the participants of my
fieldwork. I am still in contact with some of them today, I am still writing about them today
although it has been seven years since I “left” the field. In some ways, perhaps it is a way to
keep the memory of the participants alive and bring the researcher back to the exciting and
transforming moment of fieldwork. Therefore, can I say that my ethnographic experience
ever ended? I am not sure of the answer to that question. What I can say is that exiting may
be a relative notion and some ethnographers may remain infused with their fieldwork for a
164
164 Vanessa Monties
long period after they have physically left the field. Some ethnographers may have a totally
different experience. For instance, another colleague, who conducted an ethnographic study
spanning several years in the world of climbers, explained that he knew that his ethnography
was finished when he reached a saturation point where he did not want to think or write
anything about this field anymore:
One day I stopped checking the website… I had checked it every day for the past five
years, and one day I just could not do it anymore. I felt saturated, as if it was coming out
of my pores. I had indigestion. This was when I knew I had finished.
It was not a saturation of data but rather a saturation of the field.This field had carried him
as far as it could and he felt the need to move on to something else.
Thus, we do not have to exit the field all in the same way, each of us may have our own
experience and perception of when and how to exit a field. We may remain infused with our
field and keep it alive through other studies or we may reach a point of indigestion and be
willing to disconnect completely from it. There is no one best way or prescribed approach to
apprehend this phase. However, the way and the state of mind in which we exit the field have
an influence on how we are going to write and theorize about it.
Exiting and its implications

Exiting and theorizing
The way we end fieldwork is important, as it may colour the headwork and textwork which
follow. Michailova et al. (2014) proposed an interesting analysis of the link between fieldwork
ending and theory building. In their article, the researchers contest the argument that exiting
the field is a closure. On the contrary, they contend that ending fieldwork is a “new beginning
to theorizing”.They also go beyond the statement of the supporters of the relational approach
(Dutton and Dukerich, 2006) who conceive that interesting theorizing cannot develop
without “high-quality, sustained relationships in the field”. Michailova and colleagues (2014)
propose four different types of exiting the field that include different degrees of immersion
in the field and different degrees of relationships with participants. These four categories are
anticipated exit, revelatory exit, hostage exit and black hole exit. The focus of their analysis is
the capacity of the researcher to disconnect mentally and emotionally from the field. These
four types correspond to four different propositions for theorizing, respectively: conventional,
paradoxical, one-sided and blind alley theorizing. They concede that the latter two categories
have less theorizing “potential”.
The first duo, anticipated exit/conventional theorizing, represents the most likely and
probably the most represented scenario. Field closure is anticipated by the researcher and
the participants and therefore less problems are expected: “both parties expect the relation-
ship to terminate at a certain point in time and are prepared to ensure a productive ending”.
According to the authors, conventional theorizing might be “less paradigm challenging
than other approaches” as the research usually implies a defined theory from the beginning
and the data usually find a resonance with existing concepts. However, this apparent sim-
plicity does not prevent the researcher and participants from experiencing emotional tur-
moil when exit takes place. The feeling of loss can be experienced by both the researcher
165
(Baumeister and Leary, 1995; Dutton and Heaphy, 2003) and participants (Ortiz, 2004,
Morrison et al., 2012).
The second scenario, revelatory exit/paradoxical theorizing, proposes that from a disrup-
tion of the relationship between the researcher and the participants can come interesting the-
orizing, when the researcher reflects on their negative feelings or analyses the adverse attitude
of the participants.The authors state that:“negative emotional states may encourage the activa-
tion of counterfactual thoughts (Roese, 1997), which is at the heart of paradoxical theorizing”.
For this scenario to be successful, the researcher must be able to deal with uncomfortable situ-
ations which engender ambiguity, uncertainty, inappropriateness, secrets, conflict or mystery
(Alvesson and Kärreman, 2007).
The third duo proposed by Michailova and colleagues is hostage exit, producing one-
sided theorizing. This case applies to researchers who face difficulties in disengaging from the
field and stay too close to their informants, thus weakening the theoretical process. Indeed, it
becomes problematic to analyse and build theory in this case, as the researcher will tend to
provide only one side of the story in deciding to support the participants with which they
have developed strong ties (see Table 11.1). The authors explain that
an insider who has become deeply absorbed in the world of the research subjects –and
possibly even adjusted their own identity to fit the research setting –has “gone native”
(Paul, 1953:435).This “over-rapport” (Miller, 1952) tends to destroy the delicate balance
between external and internal considerations by allowing the latter to predominate (see
also Shaffir and Stebbins, 1991).
I will come back to the engagement issue and the positioning of the researcher in the next
section after introducing the forth duo.
The last duo proposed by Michailova and colleagues (2013) is black hole exit/ blind
alley theorizing. It takes place in cases where the relationships between the researcher and
participants are disrupted and when simultaneously, fieldwork ends abruptly: “crisis-ridden
research situations, which carry an element of danger or chaos, exemplify a research setting
that often enforces black hole exits from fieldwork”. The authors gave the example of the
Belousov et al. study (2007) during which one of their key research gatekeepers was murdered,
dramatically putting an end to their fieldwork. When the people (key gatekeepers) who give
you access to the field change position or leave the setting, continuity of access to the field
can be compromised. According to the authors, researchers tend not to analyse these negative
or embarrassing experiences (Grisar-Kassé, 2004:144) and are not able or willing to capture
the potential value and insights for theorizing. They explain that researchers facing these
TABLE 11.1 Typology of exit types and theorizing approaches
Exiting types Corresponding theorizing types
Anticipated exit Conventional theorizing

Revelatory exit Paradoxical theorizing
Hostage exit One-sided theorizing
Black hole exit Blind alley theorizing
(Michailova et al., 2014)

166
166 Vanessa Monties
uncomfortable situations should transform these moments of doubt into positive analyses as
part of the “discovery process” (Michailova et al., 2014) which is “useful in gaining insight into
why one avenue may not be promising” (Locke et al., 2008: 914). Now that we have seen the
four categories by Michailova and colleagues, I propose to develop a little more on the topic
of engagement and positioning.
Identity spaces
To help the ethnographer to evaluate their degree of emotional, social and political engage-
ment at the end of their fieldwork, we may use the Cunliffe and Karunanayake (2013) model
of hyphen-spaces in ethnographic work. Building on Fine’s (1994) concept of “working the
hyphens”, their model provides a lens with which to assess the researcher’s own positioning
in the field and what this implies in terms of identity and theory outcomes. The authors pro-
pose four hyphen-spaces as “spaces of possibilities (italics in original), between researchers and
respondents”. These spaces are insiderness-outsiderness (“is the researcher indigenous to the
community being studied?”), sameness-difference (“is the researcher similar to respondents
in terms of gender, race […],values, identity, symbolically, etc.?”), engagement-distance (“is
the researcher engaged with participants in their activities?”) and political activism –active
neutrality (“does the researcher intervene and/or play an active role in the struggles of
respondents?”). They explain that “researcher-respondent relationships are often emergent
(Hasting, 2010), multiple, and agentic in the sense that researchers and respondents shape each
other’s identities and actions”. These friction points help the researcher to be reflexive and
explore the reciprocal influence that their positioning has on their participants and vice versa.
It is a reflexive process (Devereux, 1967) as we are at the same time transformed and we trans-
form the people we observe.
Furthermore, the way you position yourself –or are positioned by your participants –in
the field will influence your relationships with your participants, the meaning and interpret-
ation of the data, as well as the conceptual framing of your work. It is therefore also going to
affect the way you will exit the field and end the ethnographic study. Positioning in the field
may evolve as time passes, trust is built, and relationships develop in ways you might not have
expected.You must be ready to accept some fluidity in your identity to adapt to the different
situations and contexts you may face in the field. During fieldwork, my identity had to be
defined and sometimes adjusted according to the situation. At the beginning, it was not very
clear for my participants what I was and what my presence in their secretive environment
really implied: “So you’re a student doing a PhD… aren’t you a little old to be a student?”
(I was 39 years old), “What is going to be in your report on us?” (They always called my dis-
sertation a report, which is a word that is more meaningful for them, I suppose). Since my
identity was not clear to my participants, as they were not used to having researchers in man-
agement coming to their workplace, I had to explain what I was not, compared to other roles
to which they were more accustomed. For instance, I had to explain that I was not a jour-
nalist, nor a psychologist, nor a law school student doing an internship, etc. My identity was
not clear, partly also because my status was not clear. The police administration did not really
know how to position me legally in the field. In the end, I was a non-police “intern”, which
allowed me to be legally in the police headquarters. However, when it came to going outside
to follow them on missions, things were more blurred and, finally, it all depended on the good-
will of some police officers who were willing to take me with them –with a bulletproof jacket
167
though. This blurred identity and status allowed my participants to attribute different iden-
tities and positions to me according to the people we interacted with and according to their
needs as well.These spaces gave me access to some deep understanding of my participants and
their work environment. When I exited the field, some of these identities and attributed roles
remained, which made it difficult to disengage from the field for several months afterwards, as
I was still solicited in these roles.
The ethnographer has to work with different identities and find the right space of engage-
ment. At some point, I might have fallen into the hostage exit/one-sided theorizing scenario,
but as time passed by and my emotional engagement diminished with physical distance from
the field, I was more able to apprehend a wider picture. Although you may decide to write
about the perception and standpoint of your participants –or some of your participants –the-
orizing may emerge from your own sensations and emotions during the different experiences
in the field.
All these authors encourage researchers to participate in a reflexive and analytical process
while exiting the field to engage in a deeper process of theorizing. Being reflexive about
exiting the field may help the ethnographer to let go of this emotional, engaging, consuming,
identity transforming experience and provide them with insight regarding the theoretical
framework (headwork) they want to apply and the kind of story (textwork) they want to tell.
Conclusion
Conducting an ethnographic study can be seen as going through a looking glass, and like
Alice in Wonderland, the researcher discovers an environment with rules, cultures, practices,
and symbols different from those with which they are familiar.They try to make sense of what
they observe, and at the same time their interactions with participants influence and transform
their identity and perception while their own presence and actions impact the participants as
well.We have seen what conducting ethnographic fieldwork involves and how and why it may
end. We have also addressed the topic of positioning oneself in the field and the importance
of reflecting on the degree of emotional engagement, closeness, identification or affinity with
the struggles of participants when exiting the field.These considerations can help the ethnog-
rapher to situate themselves regarding their field, and to foster the emergence of a deep and
insightful analysis and stimulate the process of inspiring theorizing.
It is thus difficult to answer the question: when does an ethnography finish? There may be
different answers according to the researcher and their experience of fieldwork, headwork and
textwork. I proposed here to focus on how to exit the field as well, which appears to me as an
important process. In this liminal ethnographic space, one may get lost, but some elements may
help to find one’s way through. The ethnographer must accept the transformations that occur
within themselves and the reflexive process it engenders.This process obliges the researcher to
let go and dive into their sensations, emotions, cognitive framework, values and beliefs which
may evolve over the course of their fieldwork and headwork.
Fieldwork and the experience of fieldwork provide strings that are woven into an analysis
which constitutes the fabric of theorizing. To be complete, the ethnographic experience must
be written and the story told may take different forms according to the researcher’s experi-
ence, degree of engagement and capacity to step back.
At the end of the writing phase, validation from key participants may be an important step
in the process of exiting, as it marks the completion of the process. Finishing an ethnography
168
168 Vanessa Monties
is a personal and intimate process with different temporalities according to the different
experiences the ethnographer has lived through and conceptualized. Perhaps ultimately, we
can say that an ethnography truly finishes when the researcher is ready to move on to a new
space of engagement and discovery.
Note
1 www.lemonde.fr/societe/article/2019/09/10/suicide-dans-la-police-l-ensemble-des-syndicats-de-
policiers-appellent-a-une-marche-de-la-colere_5508707_3224.html
References
Agar M. H. (1996). The professional stranger: An informal introduction to ethnography (2nd ed.). San Diego,
CA: Academic Press.
Alvesson Mats and Kärreman Dan (2007). Constructing mystery: Empirical matters in theory develop-
ment. Academy of Management Review, 32: 1265–1281.
Baumeister Roy F. and Leary Michael R. (1995).The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal attachments
as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117: 497–529.
Belousov Konstantin, Horlick-Jones Tom, Bloor Michael, Gilinskiy Yakov, Golbert Valentin, Kostikovsky
Yakov, Levi Michael and Pentsov Dmitri (2007). Any port in a storm: Fieldwork difficulties in dan-
gerous and crisis-r idden settings. Qualitative Research, 7: 155–175.
Booth Wendy (1998). Doing research with lonely people. British Journal of Learning Disabilities, 26(4),
132–134.
Cannon Sue (1992). Reflections on fieldwork in stressful situations. In R. Burgess (Ed.), Studies in quali-
tative methodology: Learning about fieldwork (Vol. 3, pp. 147–182). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press.
Cunliffe Ann L. and Karunanayake Geetha (2013). Working within hyphen-spaces in ethnographic
research: Implications for research identities and practice. Organizational Research Methods, 16(3),
364–392.
Cutcliffe John R. and Ramcharan Paul (2002). Leveling the playing field? Exploring the merits of
the ethics-as-process approach for judging qualitative research proposals. Qualitative Health Research,
12(7), 1000–1010.
Devereux George (1967). From Anxiety to Method in the Behavioral Sciences. Mouton: De Gruyter.
Dutton Jane and Dukerich Janet (2006). The Relational Foundation of Research: An underappreciated
dimension of interesting research. Academy of Management Journal, 49(1), 21–26.
Dutton Jane E. and Heaphy Emily D. (2003). The power of high quality connections. In K. Cameron,
J. E. Dutton, & R. E. Quinn (Eds.), Positive organizational scholarship(pp. 263–278). San Francisco,
CA: Berrett-Koeler.
Fine Michelle (1994). Working the hyphens: Reinventing self and other in qualitative research. In N. K.
Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 70–82). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Grisar-Kassé Karen (2004). The role of negative personal experiences in cross- cultural case study
research: Failure or opportunity? In R. Marschan-Piekkari & C. Welch (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative
research methods for international business (pp. 144–161). Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar.
Hastings Wendy (2010). Research and the ambiguity of reflexivity and ethical practice. Discourse: Studies
in the Cultural Politics of Education, 13(3), 307–318.
Iversen Roberta R. (2009). Getting out’ in ethnography: A seldom-told story. Qualitative Social Work,
8(1), 9–26.
Iversen Roberta R. and Armstrong Annie L. (2006). Jobs Aren’t Enough: Toward a New Economic Mobility
for Low-Income Families. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.
Locke Karen, Golden-Biddle Karen, and Feldman Martha S. (2008). Making doubt generative: Rethinking
the role of doubt in the research process. Organization Science, 19: 907–918.
Malinowski Bronislaw (1922). Argonauts of the Western Pacific. London: George Routledge & Sons Ltd.
169
Michailova Snejina, Piekkari Rebecca, Plakoyiannaki Emmanuella, Ritvala Tiina, Mihailova Irina,
and Salmi, Asta (2014). Breaking the silence about exiting fieldwork: A relational approach and its
implications for theorizing. Academy of Management Review, 39(2), 138–161.
Miller Steven (1952). The participant-observer and “over-rapport.” American Sociological Review, 17:
97 99.
Morrison Zachary J., Gregory David, and Thibodeau Steven (2012). “Thanks for using me”: An explor-
ation of exit strategy in qualitative research. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 11(4), 416–427.
Ortiz Steven M. (2004). Leaving the private world of wives of professional athletes. Journal of Contemporary
Ethnography, 34: 466–487.
Paul Benjamin D. (1953). Interview techniques and field relations. In A. L. Kroeber (Ed.), Anthropology
today (pp. 430–451). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Read Sue and Papakosta-Harvey Vicky (2004). Using workshops on loss for adults with learning disabil-
ities. Journal of Learning Disabilities, 8(2), 191–208.
Roese Neal J. (1997). Counterfactual thinking. Psychological Bulletin, 121: 133–148.
Russell Lisa (2005). It’s a question of trust: Balancing the relationship between students and teachers in
ethnographic fieldwork. Qualitative Research, 5(2), 181–199.
Shaffir William B. and Stebbins Robert A. (1991). Experiencing fieldwork: An inside view of qualitative
research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Snow David (1980).The disengagement process: A neglected problem in participant observation research.
Qualitative Sociology, 3(2), 100–122.
Van Maanen John (2011). Ethnography as work: Some rules of engagement. Journal of Management
Studies, 48(1), 218–234.
———(1988). Tales of the field: on writing ethnography. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Vaughan Diane (1986). Uncoupling: Turning points in intimate relationships. New York, NY: Oxford
University Press.
170
12
JOTTING IT DOWN
Writing and analysing fieldnotes
Neil Sutherland
There are many mysteries within ethnographic projects. First- timers and seasoned
ethnographers alike will find themselves continually learning about this craft –whether it
be building relationships, working out the balance of participation and observation, dealing
with methodological dilemmas and emotional fallouts, or exiting the field –the research pro-
ject is littered with thorny issues. However, one such point that receives little direct attention
(and yet remains one of the most significant and central roles in any project) is the creation of
fieldnotes.
Fieldnotes are the “textual representations” of participant observation settings –where
ethnographers write notes that reflect the sessions they have been in, remarking on com-
munities, cultures, individuals, behaviours, events and actions. Ethnographies are generally
longitudinal, and therefore researchers will have observed hours and hours of activity, which
must be in some way recorded to avoid it falling from our heads. In this sense, fieldnotes
become “sacred” articles (Wolfinger, 2002) that document what went on, with the intention
of becoming the text to refer to when considering how to make sense of the project as a
whole. Eventually, fieldnotes will be carved up and written into analytic vignettes (Eriksson
et al., 2012) –in-depth dives in particular areas –but what is significant enough to eventually
become a vignette is not always clear during the research project. Thus, fieldnotes are a way of
capturing copious raw data to pick apart later, and are “the basis on which ethnographies are
constructed. They are the record from which every article and book about the ethnographic
research draws from, and against which every ethnographer tests developing ideas and the-
ories” (Walford, 2009: 86).
However, despite the clear importance of fieldnotes in ethnographic writing, explorations of
how they could be written up remain surprisingly elusive. This is all the more surprising when
we consider that writing as a process is central to the ethnographic project (Gaggiotti et al.,
2017), and the creation of fieldnotes is a fundamental part of this and will have colossal bearings
on what projects will look like; what will be included/excluded and what will be considered
as the “Very Important Things” (Van Maanen, 1988). Perhaps the fact that each ethnographic
investigation is particularly idiosyncratic provides a challenge for providing any once-and-for-
all answers with regard to how to collect information on the topic. Creese et al. (2008) tell
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-15
171
Writing and analysing fieldnotes 171
us that traditional qualitative “how to” texts rarely go much further than telling us to write
down everything that we see and hear, and gloss over how these fieldnotes need to be nurtured,
constructed, re-written and considered. Regarding this, Emerson et al. (1995) lament that a
vast majority of ethnographic analysis advice begins by assuming that researchers have already
written their fieldnotes, without giving guidance on how to achieve this. Burgess notes that this
tendency tends to be replicated in researchers’ written work, where they do “not tell us, in any
detail, about how the[ir] diaries [were] established and maintained” (1981: 75).
In what follows, this chapter seeks to render the “invisible” (Eriksson et al., 2012) and
“hidden” (Marshall and Rossman, 1995) act of fieldnote writing more explicit. I will explore
a three-step approach that I found useful in my own experience: first were the “jottings”
(scrawled notes and abstract reminders during sessions/interviews), second was the slightly
more “fleshed out” document on the journey home, and the more comprehensive docu-
ment written the following morning, before the final stage of more formal fieldnote ana-
lysis. I do not claim that the tactics outlined here are the only appropriate method, but it is
nevertheless an attempt at illuminating a potential approach for interpreting organizational
life through ethnographic analysis. The content includes the elements that were most trans-
formative for me –but your mileage may vary, and you may use it as a springboard to take
a different approach. Indeed, Emerson et al. (1995) note that all ethnographers will adopt
different approaches when constructing fieldnotes, but this doesn’t mean that there is not
some generic and catch-all advice that could resonate widely. Before exploring these steps
in more detail, I will provide some information about the one research project that I will be
referring to throughout this c hapter –where I learned a lot about underestimating the value
of the fieldnote writing process.
Setting the scene: A short note on my experience

One particular foray into participant observation settings facilitated a steep learning curve that
initially concerned me, but taught me a lot about the value of keeping good fieldnotes. I was
conducting a longitudinal project investigating how leadership was performed in non-hier-
archical organizations. These groups were centred on grassroots community aid initiatives; to
be practical community hubs engaging in collective organizing and offering solidarity to those
in need. They organized around the principles of direct democracy and therefore rejected the
idea of relying on single leaders, and instead aimed to create practices that enabled a more
horizontal approach. Throughout, I investigated the practices of and the project highlighted
how leadership could happen in more collective and egalitarian ways –and zero-ed in on
everyday acts of “meaning-making” (Smircich and Morgan, 1982) and “reality definition”
(Pondy, 1987) that took place –including influencing, debate, decision-making, argumenta-
tion and negotiation.
Hindsight enables me to articulate the project –from start to finish –in a relatively straight-
forward format, with a clear focus of what I was looking at, and how I would spot it. However,
the reality was that I struggled with the project in the early stages because I was unable
to write good fieldnotes. As an individual with little previous experience of such involved
methods, I had not anticipated how difficult I would find it to “step back” (Crang and Cook,
2007) and understand the significance of what was occurring during sessions –an issue that
increased the difficulty of analysing raw “data” as the project unfolded. Therefore, I had to
devise my own approaches that enabled me to accurately record, document, interpret and
172
172 Neil Sutherland
analyse the views and perspectives of the participants of the study. Unexpectedly, I found that
it was getting to grips with dealing with my fieldnote taking (and analysing) that represented
the key turning point in my journey and enabled me to relax, observe, be aware and be a better
ethnographer. In this chapter, as well as outlining my personal approach to fieldnote writing
and the subsequent analysis, I will also argue that this process fulfils more than a functional,
consequentialist and instrumental role. Rather, it offers some personal intangible value by
enabling researchers to consistently orientate themselves, and encourages an ongoing process
of sense-making that helps to record and understand the minutiae and detail of what goes on
in field settings. Before we get to this much grander outcome however, let us start with the
humble beginnings of where any research project will be born from: jotting ideas down in
participant observation settings.
Stage #1 –Jotting it down

“Jottings” –sometimes called “scratch notes” –are an understated yet vital part of any ethno-
graphic work, where ideas that will eventually become key principles are first recorded
(Eriksson et al., 2012). The process is advocated by a wide range of researchers (e.g. Emerson
et al., 1995; Lofland and Lofland, 1984; Schatzman and Strauss, 1973), and whilst they do
not agree on one best way to approach the task, they concur that the function of this stage is
very simple: to create swift, personalized and sometimes scrappy notes that serve to jog your
memory when writing up in full later (see Stages #2 and #3). Wolfinger makes no under-
statement in remarking that “decisions made at this juncture of the research process may have
a profound impact on the final ethnographic report” (2002: 87).Therefore, your role is to arm
yourself with a small notebook (or whatever you like –bits of paper, your phone, a laptop,
etc.) and keep shorthand notes of incidents that are occurring in front of you. One way to
conceptualize this early stage is to see it as a research log where you are noting down any key
factual points, with the intention of coming back to flesh out the details and inscribe some
meaning later. Jottings are your primary defence against the sinking feeling of forgetting a
moment, decision or conversation –especially those that you told yourself in the field that
were so significant that you wouldn’t need to write it down to remember. There are so many
tiny, seemingly-mundane-yet-actually-significant moments throughout any fieldwork session,
and as Walford explains: “it is amazing how much you’d forget if you didn’t keep a running
record to remind you” (2009: 124).
Within the meetings I was attending, it was not an uncommon sight to have members sitting
with notepads and diaries in front of them, and most attendees kept brief notes throughout
deliberative periods. This was primarily functional so that they would have a written docu-
ment of decisions that were made, important dates to keep, actions to be taken and personal
responsibilities. It therefore didn’t feel strange, intrusive or awkward to have my fieldnote
notebook, and any fleeting thoughts regarding the project were incorporated into my standard
session note-taking, often written in shorthand, jottings and abbreviated words and phrases as
triggers and reminders for later drafts. Sometimes I used my page like a little mind-map. If we
were on the topic of what to do about park closure in the area, I would have a bubble with
“PARK” in the middle, and then add quotes, observations, musings about my key points all
around it. Recurring points were underlined, circled or highlighted to remind me to come
back a bit later. Drawing little images helped, but I did have to make peace with the fact that
173
my notebooks would look more like an explosion at this point, and it would be an issue for
later to untangle it all.
It is worth noting that I deliberately kept jottings brief, as I didn’t want to jeopardize
my opportunities to actually engage and participate within meetings by constantly writing
up in-depth and detailed notes. However, on some occasions even this brief writing up just
wasn’t possible, particularly in sessions with low attendance (where scribbling notes may have
taken away focus) or in more active sessions –workshops or demonstrations. Others may find
themselves in situations where they are not able to take notes in the moment (perhaps you
are climbing mountains, like Weller (Chapter 3), undercover like Tarrabain (Chapter 8) or in
prison like Pandeli (Chapter 4)), but the main thing is that you find routinized way of cap-
turing your thoughts throughout the day. Here, we may succumb to “ethnographers bladder”
and excuse ourselves to the toilet to write up a particularly significant point, make a speedy
record of something in your phone notes, or consider recording quick voice memos when the
moment stabilizes can help to capture key information.
It is important to remember that at this stage the notes are just notes –they are for you,
and you can therefore relax your principles around spelling, grammar, sentence structure and
innovative wording. Newbury (2001) reminds us to keep the document anonymized and
confidential (unless of course you are sharing with your community), but fundamentally your
job at this point is to be descriptive, organized and accurate and remember that you have
only one chance to observe this particular event in real time. The hope is that by noting and
remembering “one aspect of a situation” it would then “trigger recall of an entire sequence”
(Wolfinger, 2002: 87). You don’t now need to concern yourself with what particular actions
that you are seeing in the field “mean”, and jottings are significantly quicker, easier and more
appropriate when you loosen your filter on what to include. But does this mean that you
are trying to include everything that you see and hear? What is the actual kind of content that
should be jotted down to make sure that they are not only as accurate, but also as useful as
possible?
The challenge: what to include when jotting?

Indeed, at first glance the jotting process seems beguilingly straightforward: go to your
research site, get out your notebook, jot “everything” down, and leave with a pocketful of
gold. However, the simplicity of fieldnotes can be misleading, as I soon discovered in my pro-
ject. I had naively expected the note-taking process to be a comfortable and natural step for
me: I turn up, participate, am able to instantly recognize significant moments of leadership,
recall interesting and telling vignettes, and am able to measure my progress as time went on…
right? In reality, I found myself with no moments of tangible success, and I struggled to iden-
tify anything of note during participant observation sessions. I distinctly remember the feeling
of confusion through the first organizational meeting where we worked through the agenda.
The neat patterns I had formed before fell apart in reality; what I expected to happen didn’t;
people were talking over one another; I didn’t know what to focus on… it all felt messy and
chaotic. I thought I knew what leadership would “look” like, but in reality all I could hear
was people chatting, and nothing obvious stuck out. In the following weeks I hoped that this
would change, so kept re-reading notes from previous sessions, and kept trying to fit in what
I saw with what I thought was going to happen, or what should be happening according to
174
174 Neil Sutherland
the literature I’d previously read. However, my confusion remained and I had to really focus
on the question: what am I looking for here?
Despite my initial panic, as the weeks went by, I became more comfortable with my
novice status. Conversations with supervisors, colleagues and friends helped me to come
to terms with the notion that, by their very nature, no ethnographic process is alike, and
each requires a certain amount of orientation within the specific field setting. As my anxiety
around conducting the “perfect” ethnography subsided, I began to settle down and savour the
journey, even with all of the unpredictability, confusion and curveballs involved. On reflec-
tion, one of the key turning points in my experience was the ability to simultaneously relax
into understanding that answers would not be immediately forthcoming as well as engaging
in “positive” action: developing a concrete method for writing and analysing my fieldnotes.
Where I had begun in a sporadic and muddled manner, I eventually devised a number of
practices to keep myself on track and involved (many of which are covered in the following
section –Stage #2). Indeed, ensuring that my fieldnotes were in order not only came with the
instrumental benefit of more straightforward analysis, but also the intangible advantage during
the period of participant observation: I was creating something as I went along, giving me vis-
ible signs of progress and development, which consequently allowed me to relax and become
a more observant and reflective ethnographer more generally –more capable of producing
representative accounts.
Another way that I become more adept in the jotting stage was getting clarity on the
overall research problem and making sure that I was clear on what was actually being studied.
It is understandable to argue that ethnographers should not go in with too many preconceived
notions of what is going to happen, or inscribing too much meaning to observations from the
early stages (e.g. Glaser and Straus, 1967), so that they don’t become blind to alternative possi-
bilities and inductive ideas. But nevertheless, without some kind of understanding of what it is
that you are interested in, you may find it an overwhelming task to include “everything” at all
stages.This need not move to a stage of creating and testing hypotheses, but could be as simple
as ensuring that you have a good operational definition of the key phenomena that you are
interested in –and perhaps even have some prompts on how others have observed this phe-
nomenon happening in practice previously.This may prove to be more/less useful at particular
points, and inevitably you will find that this will change and morph as time goes on. Perhaps
you will begin by casting your net wide, and then slowly focussing in on particular aspects as
the fieldwork continues, but having a rough idea of what you are looking at and for can be
fruitful for helping you to be more focussed and specific in your jottings.
For me, this latter point was transformative for me creating good fieldnotes. When I began
my research I had only paid attention to generalized definitions of leadership: that it involved
“influence” or “charisma” or “motivation”. But what did this mean in practice? How do you
record a moment of influence? How do you see it happening? What does charisma look like?
This caused my struggle to understand what to record and what was significant. In my sub-
sequent search for solace in the literature, I moved away from more generalized leadership
literature and came across papers that were making these abstract ideas much more concrete
by suggesting that researchers interested in leadership should actually be looking for moments
of meaning-making (e.g. Smircirch and Morgan, 1982), and even more specifically should pay
attention to how stories are told and how statements are framed (Snow et al., 1986). After recon-
figuring my search as one not for leadership per se, but for leadership via meaning-making,
I was able to start picking up on moments that were previously less obvious to me. Without
175
defining my key term, I would probably still be in meetings, taking notes and wondering what
on earth is happening.
Some questions that I found useful for asking myself during the process were:
What is the phenomenon that I am interested in? What does it mean? What does
it involve? Why is it important to investigate? What are the actions, behaviours and
conversations that I might be interested in? Where might it be happening? Who might/
might not be doing it?
So far then, we have covered the importance of the jotting stage –the chaotic, messy scrappy
birthplace of any ethnographic work. Unfortunately however, these jottings will not magic
themselves in a legible tome, and we must move along to the next stage: transforming your
rough and scattered musings into a more comprehensive piece.
Stage #2 Writing “up” jottings

Jottings provide the raw material for any ethnographic project –your rough, unstructured,
random, unruly and anarchic notes that took shape “in” the field. However, as we have noted,
these simply provide a way of later triggering your thoughts to remember particularly sig-
nificant moments. Before you get to the point of formal analysis and formal writing of the
project, there is another stage. Indeed, If jottings can be considered as our “in-the-field-
notes”, then this next stage refers to “out-of-the-field-notes” (Walford, 2009). Where jottings
are demanding in that they require you to be constantly switched on, mindful and in-the-
room (whilst competing with the nagging feeling that you’re not quite capturing enough),
expanding on these notes provides another set of unique issues as you try to flesh out your
initial thoughts. The aim here is to create something fuller, more structured and a “more elab-
orate reflection on […] specific events or issues” which “require a more extended time-out
from actively composing fieldnotes” (Emerson et al., 1995: 101).
In practice, I found that the next stage of fieldnote-taking was broken down into two spe-
cific parts.The first would happen almost immediately after the session had completed: on my
journey back on the bus, or at home afterwards. Again, this was still quite cursory and descrip-
tive, but I wanted to have a more coherent (and legible) piece to work from. Therefore, this
stage involved literally going through my initial notes point-by-point and fleshing them out,
recalling and documenting particularly notable conversations, actions and interactions (as close
to verbatim as possible) and reflecting on the core discussions that were had (Emerson et al.,
1995; O’Reilly, 2011).What was initially written as single words and reminders were expanded
upon, and I began (in my head, at least, but sometimes on paper) to think about including
some reflective jottings about what was significant and how it could be later interpreted.
A moment when somebody interrupted somebody else might be labelled –“undermining
democracy? Or act of leadership?” –or one where everybody was invited to set the agenda at the
start of the meeting could be annotated –“Key consensus decision-making advantage (but note: long
time taken)’. Overall, the aim of this stage was to try and retain the general “feel of the session”,
and writing up as close to the event as possible was vital for accuracy (Reeves et al., 2008;
176
176 Neil Sutherland
Sanjek, 1990). Indeed, given that I was not relying on any audio or video recordings, I was
conscious that the nuance and minutia might be lost if I did not record it straightaway, and
I soon lost count of the times that I missed my bus stop for frantically scribbling up, afraid
that conversations would fall out of my head if they were not documented immediately. After
an hour or so of writing, I was (usually) satisfied that the most noteworthy nuggets had been
concisely recorded, and went to bed to mull over the whole session.
The next day, my initial notes were transformed into a more comprehensive document,
although, this deeper write-up may be a routine held for the end of the week (if multiple field-
working sessions are undertaken in quicker succession) in order to be able to spot similarities
across sessions. Regardless, this iteration of the fieldnotes took me a considerable amount
of time, with a two-hour meeting often taking several hours to “write up” in detail. When
writing, I found it most effective to split my A4 page vertically down the middle, with the
left-hand side being reserved for description, and the right-hand side for “analysis”. Regarding
the descriptive side, the document often began with “factual” notes (e.g. thoughts on the
physical environment, noting the location and layout of the session, attendees and the “feel”
of the space). Following this, I went through the meetings point-by-point, working from my
initial notes and rigorously recollecting what had happened and occurred. Analysis and evalu-
ation take backseats here, as we are not yet interested in doing too much formal inscribing of
meaning to events, but simply outlining what happened. Our “observational notes” therefore
represent an event deemed important enough to include in the fund of recorded experi-
ence, as a piece of evidence for some proposition yet unborn or as a property of a con-
text or situation. An O[bservational] N[ote] is the Who, What, When, Where and How
of human activity.
(Schatzman and Strauss, 1973: 100)
Following Meriam’s (1988) advice, as well as documenting what was said, this also included
more subtle elements, such as non-verbal communication, symbolic meanings (such as room
layouts and configurations, artefacts and so on) and how conversations play out –who speaks
with whom, who listens and who silences, for example. Other researchers suggest elem-
ents such as identifying relationships amongst group members; understanding how things are
organized and prioritized; and observing what members deem to be important in terms of
manners, politics and social interactions. At the end of this descriptive part, I normally had a
section for “other” notes (Duranti, 1997), those that did not necessarily fit with the timeline,
but were nevertheless important, or more reflexive musings (remarking on the atmosphere
of this session from the last, how “successful” it was, how I personally felt, or reflections on
attendees positions within the session).
Key examples of descriptions included in my work that were unanticipated but eventually
turned out to be vital aspects revolved around seating arrangements (whereby actively changing
the chairs to sit in a close circle invoked more participation than when the seats were not
moved, and were more spread out), turn-taking (and the formal way that this was encouraged,
so that people wouldn’t butt in, and everybody had a chance to talk) and critique (where
deliberations were often not particularly “friendly”, but instead assertive and focussed on cre-
ating a solution that worked for all. At first glance this could have been seen as more aggressive,
but it fulfilled a much bigger function of bettering the argumentation and negotiation pro-
cess). All of these were pointed towards regularly in my descriptive sections, and whilst none of
177
them ever stuck out as significant at the time, seeing them come up week after week indicated
to me that there may be a reoccurring theme.
Drawing on an extract from my research diary, I urged myself to consider some gen-
eral questions (which would serve to spark other points that were more specific to the
project):
Contextual observations: Including basic factual data about your location, the physical
setting/layout, the timing, and the individuals present.
Discursive observations: What are people saying? How are they saying it? Are any
conversations repeating from previously? Do conversations feel different? Does
silence play a part? What is the order of conversation? What kind of language are
people using? Who is speaking and who is not? How are decisions being made?
What is significant about non-verbal interaction?
Deviant observations: Is there anything different about the current situation or con-
versation compared with other sessions? Are you/others (un)comfortable? Is there
anything that feels strange, odd or otherwise unexplained?
As highlighted, the right-hand side of the A4 page was intended for analytical reflections,
which I found quite difficult to start with. Where I had been used to attending and partici-
pating in meetings as a group member, when I first started to write up my notes coherently
it seemed slightly strange to step back from this and put on my “ethnographer’s hat”. I was
fine with describing what went on, but struggled when thinking about why it happened, or
what it meant. Despite this stage not being the place for formal analysis, there is still some kind
of reflective work that is necessary on write-ups –which can be achieved through adding in
our own musings, thoughts, reflections –all ready for consideration at a later date. This part
essentially involves you putting a little flag into an event that notes “for some reason, this is
significant to me”, or as Burgess remarks: this “raises questions that were posed in the course
of conducting the research, hunches that the researcher may hold, ideas for organising the
data and concepts employed by the participants that can be used to analyse the materials”
(1981: 76).
Some prompts that I put in play for this included:
What did you notice? How do you feel about what is going on? What is significant
about the event? How is it similar/different to what came before? Is there anything sur-
prising? What unanswered questions do you have? How did you think it was going to
play out differently? Why do you think this happened? Can you explain it in explicit, or
tacit terms?
In the early stages, as explained in the previous section, I found this more achievable by
working closely with the related academic literature on leadership studies, to try and spot
any empirical examples of what I had previously read about (O’Reilly, 2011; Blum Malley,
178
178 Neil Sutherland
2012). Here was when I found it particularly useful to draw on the operational definitions of
leadership that I had found during the “jotting” phase –about looking for moments when
meaning-making happened, or when “reality” was defined. In one situation, for example,
I had described the moment when an individual suggested handing out flyers at a local train
station to drum up interest for an upcoming discussion group, which was (after other ideas
were bounced around) taken up by the other members of the group as an action. During the
session, this did not “feel” like an act of leadership compared with what I had been expecting –
it wasn’t dramatic, exciting or spectacular but when lined up with the meaning-making litera-
ture (Smircich and Morgan, 1982) it still was a critical moment in that it represented a decision
being made in a particular way through meaning-making, framing and storytelling. Because
of picking up, observing, describing and analysing a variety of moments like this week after
week, a large part of the final project became about the importance of exploring “mundane”
acts of leadership as significant and worthy of attention. Again, this highlights the import-
ance of knowing what you are looking for when creating your fieldnotes, as it will keep you
focussed, attentive and more likely to pick up on the minutia and detail that may otherwise go
unnoticed (Emerson et al., 1995).
Over time, I became more confident and started to rely on the literature less, and more on
my own gut feelings, interpretations, understandings and observations. In fact, after finding
my “groove” and pattern for writing up fieldnotes, I actually found that I was more observant
during sessions and in my jottings, and started to notice things that I might have otherwise
overlooked –sideways glances, subtle behavioural shifts, in-jokes, language use, for example.
I began to see leadership in all sorts of different guises, from the more active and obvious
moments, to the importance of silence, deliberation and group agreements. Spending time
writing up notes was very useful, as I was able to step back from my involvement, and reflect
on the intricate meanings of certain actions. In fact, this may have also helped me to become a
better researcher more generally –more analytical, and able to see the ‘big picture’ during sub-
sequent sessions.To return to an earlier point, efforts to move towards the observation/analysis
side of participant observation (as opposed to just focussing on the “doing” and participating)
and ethnography were sometimes difficult and time-consuming, but vital for enforcing some
kind of clear-headedness. Indeed, these were the points at which I felt as though I was really
beginning to understand what went on during meetings and sessions.
It is important to remark at this stage that we must be aware that in writing “up” (as well
as in jottings) we are “inevitably putting our own slant into the research because [we] are the
ones making the decisions on what to note down” and what to see as significant or worthy
of expansion (Eriksson et al., 2012: 24). At this stage of the research process, we are starting
to engage in the process of inscribing meaning to events (Emerson et al., 1995), where you are
choosing what to write about, what to include, what to expand, what to omit, what to forget,
what was not relevant for the study and what was significant. This is a fundamentally intui-
tive initiative, not bound by hard-and-fast rules or even the sense of formality that comes in
the more “official” data analysis sessions that come in Stage #3; however, this textualization
process still creates a particular image of the world that will inevitably shape the final ethno-
graphic text. For this reason, it is vital to reflect and consider your own place in this –and
the privileges that are afforded to you as a researcher. Are there particular issues (around,
e.g., race, class, sexuality, ability or gender) that you are likely to not be aware of? What are
179
you not seeing? What are you not paying attention to? For me, as a white, male, cisgender,
English-speaking, university-educated and able-bodied individual, I have an “invisible package
of unearned assets which I can count on cashing in each day” (McIntosh, 1988: 126) that
could have led to me failing to notice particular actions (especially silencing or othering) as
significant enough to explore in fieldnotes. Punch (2012: 87) remarks that researchers more
generally should seek to understand “how the self impacts on the data generated”, which
is no easy feat, and involves exploring your own “unconscious competencies”. This may be
more straightforward to explore alongside others –most obviously a supervisor or colleague,
but perhaps also considering sharing your note-taking process with the community you are
working with as well. Depending on your particular approach and objective, the latter may
involve too much researcher influence over the setting, but for others can be a way of not
only becoming aware of our own “blinds-spots”, but also avoiding the imbalanced feeling
of an asymmetrical power relationship where the researcher keeps “secretive” notes on the
sidelines. Regardless, having discussions with trusted others about the biases that you may be
feeding into your fieldnotes will inevitably cause vital reflections that should impact future
fieldnote taking and observations. For me, I discovered the value of this in one supervisory
session where I was asked if I noticed any commonalities in who regularly spoke and was
listened to, and who tended to stay quieter or had less ideas accepted by others. This was not
something that had crossed my mind previously, but provided me another lens to look at later
meetings through –and helped me to see the various (previously “unseen”) ways that certain
members would gently encourage particular people to speak, furthering the argument around
the importance of democratic and participative processes in collective leadership practice.
#3 Analysing your fieldnotes

At this point of the chapter, you should be sitting in a room filled with notebooks, scraps
of paper and written “up” notes wondering “where do I go next? How do I turn this into
a written ethnographic text?” As Wolcott (1988) notes, the main goal of data analysis is to
create less data, not more. The ultimate aim of this process is to ensure that the data becomes
“crunched”, instead of existing as “piles of interviews and file cabinets full of fieldnotes”
(LeCompte and Schensul, 1999: 23). You may find that you engage with this at the “end” of
your fieldwork (see Monties (Chapter 11)), or you might choose to engage in a more regular
check-in with your data analysis whilst you are still in the field, but regardless the process is the
same. At this stage, you are accepting that you are not going to be able to write about everything
that you have recorded, and are now going to engage yourself in the activity of sniffing out
the “Very Important Things” (Van Maanen, 1988) that will eventually make up your “analytic
vignettes”, and subsequently the entire written project. In short, you are going to “filter and
organize the raw data so it will be easier to detect patterns or sequences, to identify themes,
and to build theories to answer the research question” (Rivera, 2019).
I found this an intimidating process, and wasn’t entirely sure how to continue once I had
my piles of notes in front of me. Whilst at a conference, I bumped into another ethnographer
who had just come to the end of writing up a project, and I asked him about his approach
to data analysis. He pulled up a picture on his phone of his study room at home, which was
covered from floor to ceiling in yellow post-it notes.
180
180 Neil Sutherland
“It’s the only way that I can really understand it all” he said, “I’ve got to be able to see it,
to touch it. Every note had something important on it… maybe it was a sentence from
somebody, or one of my thoughts, or just something to follow up on… but when it was
there in front of me, it was so much easier to make sense of ”.
What he was talking about was the process of “coding”. Quickly defined, a code is “a
quick phrase that assigns an attribute (e.g. translation, feeling, category, summary, idea) to a
section of text”, and coding is “the act of assigning a code to a section of raw data for inter-
pretive purposes to gain meaning” (Rivera, 2019). It is therefore our job at this stage to
work out our personal method for pulling out the most significant parts from our fieldnotes,
and generally speaking, these codes are likely to come from inductive reasoning, where you
develop your understandings of the data whilst reading it. In fact, this chapter has already
been discussing informal coding in the previous sections –particularly occurring during
the stage when I began reflecting on what particular descriptions “meant” in the written up
fieldnotes. I explained situations where I might annotate an occurrence (e.g. person 1 suggests
XYZ action) with a word that would act as a reminder for later (“leadership”, “democracy” and
“participation”). These words are the codes: shorthand ways of working out the themes that a
particular moment relates to, and then working out the regularity of that theme in the grand
scheme of your project. Generally speaking, the most “popular” codes and themes that crop up
most regularly are likely to be important and worthy of further attention in your subsequent
analysis. But if you are struggling to identify these codes, even after the advice given in the
previous section, what can you do?
Coding can be done in several ways, and many researchers recommend “computer assisted/
aided qualitative data analysis” software to help with transcription, coding, text interpretation
and content analysis (John and Johnson, 2000; Bhowmick, 2006; Rademaker, 2012) –such
as NVIVO, Qualtrix and MAXQDA. Here you can input your transcribed notes or audio/
video files into a piece of software, and it will scan through to outline the points that occur
most regularly. Dohan and Sanchez-Jankowski (1998) explore the benefits that this can bring,
including much quicker content analysis and keyword finding, the ability to more readily
compare with other studies, as well as getting around some of the issues of researcher bias and
being able to pull out issues that might have otherwise sat in our “blindspots”. I had looked
into this in some depth, but it didn’t sit quite right with me, and felt as though it would end
up taking the “life” out of my notes (Ahmad, 2010). Additionally, I had been used to scribbling
extra reminders, interpretations and observations on old, physical, fieldnote documents, and
turning this over to computer-aided software would have taken this opportunity away (and
would have involved some fairly hefty transcription work). Indeed, Emerson et al. (1995: 52)
note that although “a variety of computer programs can now perform the sort function very
quickly and efficiently, […] some fieldworkers still prefer the flexibility that an overview of
fieldnotes spread out on a table or the floor affords”.Whilst I have no doubt that these various
programs are useful for some, and are effective at recognizing and interpreting data, I decided
to take a different path.
On my arrival back from the conference, I took the stack of fieldnotes and several high-
lighter pens and got to work with “getting to know” my notes in more detail (Taylor-Powell
and Renner, 2003: 2). As mentioned, I had already begun the coding process during the
fieldnote writing, and had continued to add to it as the research period went on. As a result of
this, where the analysis “column” of my fieldnotes was initially quite sparsely populated, by the
181
time it came to this more formal stage, they had been re-jigged, looked at, cross referenced and
annotated so much that the right-hand side of the page was even busier than the left-hand one.
I then got to work with the highlighter pens, marking each prominent theme/code on that
side with a different colour. As I categorized the data, as well as highlighting the most salient
topics and codes, I also sought to identify emergent sub-codes and subcategories that “may not
have previously be considered” (Bernard, 1994: 67). However, I ensured that I was working
alongside my research questions and previous related academic literature to make sure that
I kept on track and didn’t dwell too much on areas that may be interesting, but not relevant to
my study (Guba and Lincoln, 1994).
The codes that emerged tended to be in big, crude broad-strokes to begin with –often
under headings that aligned directly with my literature review (“Democracy and Participation”;
“Non-hierarchy”; “leaders”; “leadership”), given that this was my initial point of reference.
Sometimes this was straightforward as the conversation recorded may have been specifically
about that code, but most of the time it involved some interpretation and there was not a clear
and obvious answer. Whilst I was doing this, “vital connections and/or glimmerings of new
ideas” (Crang and Cook, 2007: 81) would start to appear, as creating the initial codes started
to make it obvious when particular vignettes cropped up again and again, or when some
jumped out as exceptional or odd, or particularly representative of a concept. Leadership would
be broken down into smaller codes –Actors, Critiques, Practices, Moments, framing effort, assert-
iveness, storytelling, critical friendship, formality –which subsequently were built up into chapters.
Throughout, I soon learned that “listening to gut feelings” (Brown, 2019: 39) was a way
around spending hours figuring out whether Vignette X was more representative of Code
A or B. I would find myself becoming hung up on making sure that the coding was instantly
correct, to avoid re-visiting, but had to acknowledge that it was an ongoing process. Perhaps
I would “mis-code” a note on the first pass, but if I allowed myself to trust the process, I would
eventually come across it again if it was that important.
Before long, I realized that I had a lot of material to discuss, a whole variety of stories to
tell, and several strong themes had already emerged –some relating directly to my research
questions, and others that had emerged iteratively (as discussed earlier –particularly around
the “mundane” aspect of leadership practice). However, this material was all still quite disparate,
existing on separate pages without any real coherence, and it was necessary to go one step fur-
ther, to “reconfigure the data, to look at it carefully and critically to see themes and patterns”
(Crang and Cook, 2007: 178). Therefore, I became increasingly focussed in the next stage of
data analysis, and took the advice from the ethnographer at the conference. I cut up sheets of
A4 paper into four pieces (prompt card size), and dedicated each one to a specific point. In the
middle of the page I would write out a vignette, a conversation, a non-verbal interaction, a
seemingly incongruous sentence (e.g. “XYZ waits until everything is quiet and then says ‘we can’t
just sit back, we have to offer our support… but are we all comfortable with that?’ ”); in the top left
I would include the “big” code (e.g. leadership); and on the top left the possible smaller codes
(e.g. “storytelling”, “collectivity” and “advantages of consensus decision-making”) and included the
colour coding from the previous stage.
Although by the time I had finished writing up these cards I felt that I had gone against
Wolcott’s (1988) advice to create “less” data, having each point laid out (literally) in front
of me made everything much more tangible and understandable. I was able to organize the
cards into specific piles, pick one out at a time, compare examples, jot down further thoughts,
recognize commonalities and patterns and start to develop a more coherent framework for
182
182 Neil Sutherland
thematic analysis –which became the skeleton structure for the final chapters. In conversation
with others, whilst some like this very tacit way of working, others prefer to utilize dedicated
computer software, or even the computerized equivalent of my approach, by having multiple
word documents that each represented a particular “code”, where stories, thoughts, reflections
and vignettes could be “dumped” into for sorting. Regardless of specifics, this was the stage at
which I felt comfortable enough to start formally writing up chapters, as my piles had naturally
formed into a number of core categories, and it was then my job to start linking them together
and back with existing literature to identify similarities and gaps. In short, this part of the pro-
cess was about “incorporating […] disparate elements into a coherent whole” (Emerson et al.,
1995: 245), where I sought to attribute meaning and significance to the patterns, themes and
connections that were developed during earlier stages, and explain why they came to exist. In
addition, this phase of data analysis also involved me seeking to understand how the categories
and subcategories related to each other, including any overlapping areas. You can read more
about the next stage of the writing up process in the next chapter (Chapter 13).
The importance of fieldnotes in ethnographic work: final thoughts

The primary aim of this chapter has been to illuminate my own fieldnote writing methods for
transforming the “chaotic welter of impressions” (Shotter, 1993: 13) from participant obser-
vation settings into more coherent and representative ethnographic writings and analyses. As
I began by noting, in the early days of my investigation I struggled to “see the wood for the
trees” (Crang and Cook, 2007: 84) and found it difficult to identify noteworthy moments; to
interpret ongoing discourse and conversations; or to understand the meanings attributed
to certain actions. This was also not helped by the traditional suggestions from qualitative
research guides to include “everything” in fieldnotes. However, it was only once I developed a
formalized and structured method for recording and analysing fieldnotes that I noticed myself
becoming more comfortable during participant observation settings, and ultimately became
a more observant and reflective researcher. This went through several stages, starting with
minimal jottings during meetings and events, to a slightly more descriptive account after the
session had finished, to a comprehensive document the following morning where the coding
process started. Establishing a routine was pivotal here, and allowed me to record and recol-
lect conversations and interactions most accurately. Treating the experience of writing up as a
“job” (Wolfinger, 2002) meant that I was more regularly engaged in the reflection/early ana-
lysis process, and instead of waiting for inspiration to strike and an “aha” moment to present
itself (which was consistently, disappointingly, absent), developing a routinized approach to
writing up meant that I could grapple with ideas on a day-to-day basis. I have also reflected on
the benefits of understanding and defining the topic that is at the centre of your research, and
how you might spot it in real-life situations and conversations. Following this, I highlighted
that data analysis was a process occurring throughout. It began as soon as I started writing up
my fieldnotes, but continued through a more formal stage, where I coded the data to specific
themes, and began to organize my ideas rigorously and systematically before beginning the
official “writing up”.
Whilst it has been presented here that the writing and analysis of fieldnotes would take a
linear format, of course the reality is much more complex, and data analysis did not finish at
the end of Stage #3. Although I was confident enough to begin drafting up the project, it was
only when I actually started writing that I really began to reflect on the wider implications
of certain events, actions, conversations and discussions (Levy and Hollan, 1998), and might
183
return to reinterpret my jottings or fleshed out notes. Having my small cards to hand was
also very useful at this point, as I could cycle through them when trying to find inspiration
or empirical justifications for my arguments, locate the key areas: reinterpret them; put them
into other thematic piles, or realize that they were not useful to analyse in this context.
Overall, therefore, data analysis was an iterative, almost continuous process that began as
soon as I started jotting first set of fieldnotes, and didn’t finish until I had put the finishing
touches on the empirical writings and discussions. Do not be concerned if you have finished
particular acts of fieldwork but are still not sure what the “point” was; do not be concerned
if you feel you want to return to documents; and do not be concerned if this continues on
for some time. As long as you have followed the guidance in paying attention to the fieldnote
writing process (not just abstractly trying to capture “everything”, but being focussed and
mindful), you can be confident that the “stuff ” will be in there somewhere. In a sense, data
analysis is never really over (Emerson et al., 1995). Each time I read through my scrawled
fieldnotes, or formally drafted documents and papers, I saw something new or interesting
that I hadn’t noticed before. Although there is no official “theoretical saturation” point, as
Glaser and Strauss (1967: 65) had suggested, it was nevertheless important to wind down the
bulk of the analysis when each section had been adequately drafted, to focus on the most
significant areas.
If we are able to take good fieldnotes and analyse the content appropriately –it can end up
creating more accurate, representative accounts of practice. Ethnographic investigations allow
us to spend a long time in the field; to participate in and observe practices and processes first
hand; to hear conversations and negotiations play out; to listen to the stories people told; to
observe the times when realities were defined and meanings made. Not paying explicit and
ongoing attention to the fieldnote writing process is therefore a grave mistake and can mean
that we “miss” the nuances of day-to-day situations. There is a responsibility to accurately
portray and interpret what happens during the research project, and in creating good-quality
fieldnotes and therefore being able to “step back” and reflect on our own, and others, behav-
iour, it can contribute to the development of ideas from the perspective of a “critical insider”.
Through immersing ourselves within every aspect of the process, we may be able to feel closer
to both “sides” of our role –the participant and the observer –which others have noted as an
often tricky negotiation (Lagalisse, 2010; Maeckelbergh, 2009).
Overall, the core learning point from the chapter remains –to use fieldnotes for capturing
the atmosphere as close as possible. Sometimes this may make sense immediately; sometimes
later that day, or week, or month; sometimes in the formal analysis period; sometimes years
later; or perhaps never. Throughout this, we can see that fieldnote writing fulfils more than a
functional, consequentialist and instrumental role: it offers some personal intangible value by
enabling researchers to consistently orientate themselves, and encourages an ongoing process
of sense-making that helps to record and understand the minutiae and detail of what goes
on in field settings. In order to give ourselves the best chance of creating representative and
accurate understandings of communities, keeping good fieldnotes is a vital starting point. Go
and sharpen that pencil.
References
Ahmad, Attiya. (2010). ‘Explanation is not the point: Domestic work, Islamic Dawa and becoming
Muslim in Kuwait’. Asian and Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 11 (3–4): 293–310.
Bernard, Russell. (1998). Research Methods in Cultural Anthropology. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
184
184 Neil Sutherland
Bhowmick,Tanuka. (2006). Building an Exploratory Visual Analysis Tool for Qualitative Researchers.Vancouver,
WA: Autocarto.
Blum Malley, Suzanne. (2012). Engaging Communities:Writing Ethnographic Research.Available online: www.
engagingcommunities.org/[Accessed 18 August 2013].
Brown, Nicole. (2019). ‘Listen to your gut: A reflexive approach to data analysis’. The Qualitative Report,
24(13): 31–43.
Burgess, Robert. (1981). An ethnographic study of a comprehensive school’. PhD thesis, University of Warwick.
Crang, Mike and Cook, Ian. (2007). Doing Ethnographies. London: Sage.
Creese, Angela, Arvind, Bhatt, Nirmala, Bhojani and Peter, Martin. (2008). ‘Fieldnotes in team ethnog-
raphy: Researching complementary schools’. Qualitative Research, 8(2): 197–215.
Dohan, Daniel and Sanchez-Jankowski, Martin. (1998). ‘Using computers to analyse ethnographic field
data: Theoretical and Practical Considerations’. Annual Review of Sociology, 24: 477–498.
Duranti, Alessandro. (1997). Linguistic Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Emerson, Robert. (1995). ‘Writing Ethnographic Fieldnotes. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Eriksson, Paivi, Henttonen, Elina and Merilainen, Susan. (2012). ‘Ethnographic Field Notes and
Reflexivity: An Ethnography of Global Landscapes and Corridors. Available online: www.intechopen.
com/books/an-ethnography-of-global-landscapes-and-corridors/ethnographic-field-notes-and-
reflexivity-[Accessed 14 April 2020].
Gaggiotti, Hugo, Kostera, Monika and Krzyworzeka, Pawel. (2017).‘More than a method? Organisational
ethnography as a way of imagining the social’. Culture and Organisation, 23(5): 325–340.
Glaser, Barney and Strauss, Anselm. (1967). The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative
Research. Chicago, IL: Aldine Publishing Company.
Guba, Egon and Lincoln,Yvonna. (1994). ‘Competing paradigms in qualitative research’. In: Denzin, K.
and Lincoln,Y. (Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, pp. 105–117.
John, Winsome and Johnson, Patricia. (2000). ‘The pros and cons of data analysis software for qualitative
research’. Journal of Nursing Scholarship, 32(4): 393–397.
Lagalisse, Erica. (2010). ‘The limits of radical democracy: A gender analysis of anarchist collectives in
Montreal’. Alterites, 7(1): 19–38.
LeCompte, Margaret and Schensul, Stephen. (1999). Essential Ethnographic Methods: Observations, Interviews
and Questionnaires. London: Sage.
Levy, Robert and Hollan, Douglas. (1998). ‘Person-centred interviewing and observation in anthro-
pology’. In: Bernard, H. (Ed.), Handbook of Methods in Cultural Anthropology.Walnut Creek, CA:Altamira
Press: 333–364.
Lofland, John and Lofland, Leon. (2006). Analysing Social Settings: A Guide to Qualitative Observation and
Analysis. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing Co.
Maeckelbergh, Marianne. (2009). The Will of the Many: How the Alterglobalisation Movement Is Changing the
Face of Democracy. London: Pluto Press.
Marshall, Catherine and Rossman, Gretchen. (1995). Designing Qualitative Research. London: Sage.
McIntosh, Peggy. (1988). ‘White privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack’. Available online: https://
codeofgoodpractice.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/Mcintosh-White-Privilege-Unpacking-
the-Invisible-Knapsack.pdf [Accessed 1 June 2019].
Meriam, Sharan. (1988). Case Study Research in Education: A Qualitative Approach. San Francisco,
CA: Jossey Bass.
Newbury, Darren. (2001). ‘Diaries and fieldnotes in the research process’. Research Issues in Art Design
and Media, 1: 1–17.
O’Reilly, Michelle. (2011). ‘Ongoing processes of managing consent: The empirical ethics of using
video-recording in clinical practice and research’. Clinical Ethics, 6: 179–185.
Pondy, Louis. (1987).‘Leadership is a language game’. In: McCall, Morgan and Lombardo, Michael (Eds.),
Leadership:Where Else Can We Go? Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 72–99.
Punch, Samantha. (2012). ‘Hidden struggles of fieldwork: Exploring the role and use of field diaries’.
Emotion, Space and Society, 5: 86–93.
185
Rademaker, Linnea. (2012). ‘Using computer-assisted qualitative data analysis software to re-examine
traditionally analysed data: Expanding our understanding of the data and of ourselves as scholars’. The
Qualitative Report, 17(43): 1–11.
Reeves, Scott, Kuper, Ayelet and Hodges, Brian. (2008). ‘Qualitative research methodologies:
Ethnography’. British Medical Journal, 337: 512–514.
Rivera, Camila. (2019). ‘Coding qualitative data’. Available online: https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/read/
ethnography-made-simple-68f98a5d-5a01-4233-b2dd-4c669d80ee81/secti on/51b19b35-78eb-
430b-9eba-c9f090eb7205 [Accessed 8 November 2020].
Sanjek, Roger. (1990). ‘Fire, loss and the sorcerer’s apprentice’. In: Sanjek, R. (Ed.), Fieldnotes:The Makings
of Anthropology. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, pp. 34–44.
Schatzman, Leonard and Strauss,Anselm. (1973). Field Research: Strategies for a Natural Sociology. Englewood
Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.
Shotter, John. (1993). Conversational Realities: Constructing Life through Language.Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Smircich, Linda and Morgan, Gareth. (1982). ‘Leadership: The management of meaning’. Journal of
Applied Behavioural Studies, 18(3): 257–273.
Snow, David, Rochford, Burke,Worden, Steven and Benford, Robert. (1986).‘Frame alignment processes,
micromobilisation and movement participation’. American Sociological Review, 51: 464–481.
Taylor-Powell, Ellen and Renner, Marcus. (2003). Analysing Qualitative data. Madison, WI: University of
Wisconsin Press.
Van Maanen, John. (1988). Tales of the Field: On Writing Ethnography. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Walford, Geoffrey. (2009). ‘The practice of writing ethnographic fieldnotes’ Ethnography and Education,
4(2): 117–130.
Wolcott, Harry. (1988). ‘Ethnographic research in education’. In: Jaeger, M. (Ed.), Complementary Methods
for Research in Education. Washington, DC: American Educational Research Association, pp. 187–249.
Wolfinger, Nicholas. (2002). ‘On writing fieldnotes: Collection strategies and background expectancies’.
Qualitative Research, 2(1): 85–95.
186
13
MAKING SENSE OF FIELD MATERIAL
From euphoria to despair and back
Barbara Czarniawska
It’s that moment about two months in, when you think you’ve finally got a handle on
the place. Suddenly it feels within your grasp. It’s a delusion—you’ve only been there
eight weeks—and it’s followed by the complete despair of ever understanding anything.
But at that moment the place feels entirely yours. It’s the briefest, purest euphoria.
So says Nell Stone, the fictive Margaret Mead in Lily King’s novel Euphoria (2014: 50). How
right it feels! We, organization scholars, tend to feel such euphoria already after three weeks –
only in the fourth to discover that we were completely wrong.1 But the fieldwork con-
tinues, and if the end is not euphoric, it tends to be satisfactory. The reverse happening is
also possible: as Rosalie Wax described it, “after months of confusion and misery, I suddenly
became aware that I had reached a place in my investigation where most of what happened
made sense” (1971: 233). The trick is to learn how to expect both, euphoria and despair,
and draw profits from them. In what follows I will describe such passages as experienced by
anthropologists, sociologists and organization scholars.
An ethnographic reanalysis
Here is another example of a euphoria following a despair quoted by Rosalie Wax, who
described the fieldwork she conducted with her husband, Murray, in the Thrashing Buffalo
Reservation:
…I realized that what Mrs. Fire told me was very important, and when, after supper, I
told Murray about it and read her words to him, we both began all at once to see that
hers was the only explanation that fitted with all we had seen and with all we had been
told by the Indians, old or young. As we began to appreciate how “simple” and “clear”
the explanation was, and how we misinterpreted the remarks made by our respondents,
we became progressively more euphoric and excited. Had it not been so late at night
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-16
187
Making sense of field material 187
we might have run round and round the old tables in the old schoolhouse, shouting
“We’ve got it! We’ve got it!”.
(Wax, 1971: 263)
Such events are quite common, as –anthropologist or organization scholar –“[a]‌fieldworker

usually goes into the field with a research proposal, composed, in part, of hypotheses, well-
planned questionnaires, and ingenious tests” (Wax, 1971: 370).While such a detailed equipment
is, after the methodological revolution of the 1980s, not as common, the preconceptions –
ideological or theoretical –still are, as they were before.
Joan Larcom (1983) analysed the work of Bernard Deacon (1903–1927) who, in her
opinion, due to his tragic death had not become as known as he should be, considering his
worthwhile contributions to anthropology. Among other insights, this quote attracted her
attention:
The consciousness of a connexion between two things forms gradually, till it becomes
a general hypothesis for the working out of a number of problems. These lead on again,
the thing becomes unconsciously modified, and you find everything needs rearranging
(…) Generally you are unconscious that you have been associating things in a certain
way till it suddenly becomes necessary to associate them in another (…) [I]‌t is ghastly
how conventional one is, in thought –I mean in the deepest most analytic or most
imaginative thought…
(after Larcom, 1983: 188)
This insight helped her to see in another light her own experience in the field, 50 years after
Deacon's death:
I went to the field with a theory of cultural change (…) that proved to be ill-founded.
(…) Like Deacon, I carried with me to the field theoretical interests nurtured by my
graduate training; finding myself in mission village on the Malekulan coast, I planned to
analyze social change using the processual model propounded by Fredrick Barth (1967).
This approach focussed on the assumption that social change occurs as individuals make
rational choices to maximize social or economic gains.
Research with the Mewun jeopardized several concepts inherent in Barth’s utilitarian
model, but the issue of individual maximization as an explanation for social change was,
in particular, a dead end.
(Larcom, 1983: 189)
This experience is easily recognizable to organization scholars who, due to their closeness to
the economists, know well the disillusions resulting from following utilitarian models. But the
pendulum journey between euphoria and despair is known to many scholars. The way back
from despair can be as drastic as that travelled by James Clifford, who went from his “his-
torical research on ethnographic practice in its twentieth-century exoticist, anthropological
forms” (1997: 18) towards the work that was not aiming at building on his previous work, but
trying to “locate and displace it” (ibid.) To put it in brief, in his opinion, “ethnography (in the
188
188 Barbara Czarniawska
normative practices of twentieth-century anthropology) has privileged relations of dwelling

over relations of travel” (p. 22). At the beginning of his book, Clifford quoted an Indian-
British anthropologist, Amitav Ghosh, who arrived at an Egyptian village expecting to find
there “settled and restful people”, and instead met people who for generations travelled and
migrated all the time.Thus, the title of Clifford’s 1997 book, Routes, which signals the –neces-
sary in his opinion –change of focus from “roots” to “routes”. Clifford, as it is well known,
was one of the major agents in the turn-of-the century revolutions within anthropology, and
repercussions of this movement were also felt in social sciences.
An engineer and a sociologist who love technology

Bruno Latour’s Aramis, or the Love of Technology (1996), is a case study –the case of the
introduction of a new technology that ended in failure. In the book, a Master and his Pupil
are given the task of solving the mystery of the death of beautiful Aramis, or Agencement
en Rames Automatisées de Modules Indépendents dans les Stations. The Master is a sociologist
of science and technology, the Pupil an engineer who takes courses in social sciences at
École des Mines, and Aramis is a piece of transportation machinery, with cars that couple
and decouple automatically, following the programming of its passengers. Invented in the
late 1960s, Aramis promised to be the kind of technology that serves humans and saves the
environment, yet by November 1987 it was nothing but a piece of dead machinery in a
technology museum.
The story of Aramis begins as a combination of two classic storylines: one a detective story
(who killed Aramis?) and the other a Bildungsroman (the story of Pupil learning from Master).
The plot of the first depends for its pull-on curiosity –the readers know the effects, Aramis
is dead and buried in the Museum of Technology, and the question is, who did it? The plot of
the second story, embedded in the first, depends on the push of (mild) suspense. Given Pupil’s
hunger for knowledge and Master’s abundance of it, the readers may expect an enlightened
Pupil in the end, albeit with various complications on the way.
Complications, when they arrive, are not of the manageable kind that is the stuff of
whodunits. The main plot, one which would explain the causes of the death of an innovation,
proves to be unfeasible. At a certain point, there are 21 contradictory explanations offered for
the demise of the Aramis project, all of them apparently correct. On top of everything, just
before the final report had to be produced, the Master vanishes. The Pupil is left alone.
While I was rereading, for the tenth time, the report on the end of the CET2 from
October 1987, I finally found the hidden staircase. “Good Lord, but of course! That’s it!”
I exclaimed, just like Hercule Poirot. (…)
I saw my professor again only on the eve of the debriefing session that he called
“restitution”. While I was stamping my feet in excitement, he seemed to be at a
low point.
“Oh, I am all washed up,” he told me. “I’m going to change careers. Technology isn’t
for me. Even in dreams I haven’t been able to embrace Frankenstein’s creature. I’ve
pulled away in horror. I’ve been a coward. I haven’t reached any credible conclusion. I’m
going back to classical culture. (…) How about you, what have you found? We do have
to run in a report. And you are an engineer, after all.”
189
“I was! I could have been! I was going to be! And you are the one that dragged me
into this ‘mission impossible’. And you are asking me to pass judgment in your place? It’s
your job to present the conclusions.”
(Latour, 1996: 279–281)
The Pupil manages to convince the Master that the solution is very simple: nobody loved
Aramis enough. In 17 years of the documented existence of the project, nothing was added or
developed in it. The excitement of the Pupil manages to disperse melancholy of the Master,
and he ends up as excited as the student. They deliver their report.
It did not go so well in another conversation between Professor and Student, also an
engineer, but studying organizations at London School of Economics:
S: …I have a lot of descriptions already! I’m drowning in them.That’s just my problem.
That why I’m lost and that’s why I thought it would be useful to come to you. Can’t
ANT help me with this mass of data? I need a framework!
P: ‘My kingdom for a frame!’ Very moving: I think I understand your desperation.
But no, ANT is pretty useless for that. Its main tenet is that actors themselves make
everything, including their own frames, their own theories, their own contexts, their
own metaphysics, even their own ontologies. So the direction to follow would be
more descriptions I am afraid.
S: But descriptions are too long. I have to explain instead.
(…)
P: I’d say that if your description needs an explanation, it’s not a good description,
that’s all. Only bad descriptions need explanation. (Latour, 2005: 146–147).
Using the vocabulary of narratology, I would say that a narrative needs a plot to become a
convincing story, that is, a description must be emplotted by a theory. But the disappointed
student is right in that even if present organization studies rarely test hypotheses drawn from
already existing theories, a requirement for a “framework” is common, and often quite vol-
untarily fulfilled by students themselves, which may be also a straight road to despair, if one
doesn’t stop in time to change the direction, sometimes quite dramatically.
Beginning anew
Not even the newcomers need much advice as to how to deal with euphoria –dancing
around a table is one of many possibilities. More difficult is getting out of despair, or a feeling
that is close to it. Here are two examples from organization studies.
Municipalities do not do what they say

Björn Rombach (1986) initiated the study that became his doctoral dissertation in the 1980s,
when, after decades of economic growth, the Swedish economy began to stagnate, which soon
became a problem for its public sector. The municipalities could not tax the citizens anymore
(in Sweden, the largest part of taxes goes to the municipality), while the citizens expected
still more, and more advanced, services. The way out, suggested both by theoreticians and
190
practitioners (Rombach conducted several interviews with experts in the field), was to ration-
alize municipal activities: do more for less money by adapting municipal budgets and priorities
to the new situation. Two municipalities were chosen to check this development. Yet neither
their budgets nor the actual activities revealed any signs of rationalization.
A faint-hearted doctoral student could have been devastated by these results. Rombach
didn’t give up, however:
One interpretation is that there was something wrong with the population chosen or
with the selection procedures. I was looking in the wrong place. If other municipalities
or administrative units had been chosen, then perhaps rationalizations linked to the eco-
nomic problem would have been found. The other interpretation is that the framework
of reference was too restricted or that the methods used were deficient. Perhaps it is
absurd to expect rationalizations to be undertaken as a result of the economic problem.
The interviews were conducted at a central level and reflect the ideal picture.
(Rombach, 1986: 211)
Having thus critically analysed his previous assumptions, Rombach initiated a study of a
third municipality with a new starting point: that legitimation, not rationalization, could be
the most obvious first way of reacting to an economic stagnation. The study confirmed this
new assumption. It made Rombach notice the discrepancies between what he named “talk,
decisions and execution”, where it was mostly “talk” that changed as a reaction to the crisis.
“The talk was not expressed in the decisions and the decisions did not lead to execution”
(p. 212). Though not necessarily intended to be used in this way, talk was the organization’s
most important means of achieving legitimacy, of showing that the municipality’s (presumed)
actions correspond to the norms accepted by its environment. An organization may strive
to achieve correspondence between talk, decisions and execution, but the latter two cannot
be as easily presented to the environment as the first one. Rombach’s results can also explain
the later emphasis on performance measures introduced by New Public Management, which
attempted to fight against the inconsistency revealed in studies such as Rombach’s.
Cyberfactories produce overflow of information

The example from my own research is far less dramatic than that of Rombach’s –I was already
a full professor, and the awareness of the irrelevance of my original assumptions was practically
immediately replaced by a new focus. This is how it went.
When studying management in the city of Rome (Czarniawska, 2002), part of my field
material consisted of an enormous collection of press cuttings concerning a City Utility,
which I was observing at the time when it was in the centre of media attention. I also received
an almost equally large collection of faxes (these were the days!) sent by the Utility to the
Italian news agency ANSA. A simple calculation revealed that Rome’s city administration
had at least 30 departments and utilities, each with its own press office, and that they were
likely sending the same type of faxes to ANSA. Add to this the rest of Rome (trade unions,
companies, politicians and voluntary organizations), and –why not –the rest of Italy and the
world. How did ANSA select “news” from such an overflow? How did it manage to process
those avalanches of information?
191
This question was my entrance key to a transdisciplinary research programme about

“Managing Overflows”, which, together with ethnologist Orvar Löfgren, I was leading for
ten years (the results can be found in Czarniawska and Löfgren 2012, 2014 and 2019). It
seemed obvious that I should study news agencies to see how they deal with such informa-
tion overflows.
The insights collected at the first site –the Swedish agency, TT, which was chosen as
an easily accessed site of the occurrence of the phenomenon –cast doubt on the original
assumption. Journalists did not report that they had experienced overflow. But because TT
is a national agency, relying primarily on other sources for its international news, there was a
possibility that the relatively small size of the agency was the determining factor explaining
the journalists’ response.
I was therefore not completely dissatisfied, also because this first study gave rise to some
new analytical categories, derived from the field material: a “cyborgization”, or as it is called
now, digitization of the news production. Again, it could have been a local phenomenon;
Sweden is known for its use of advanced workplace technologies, and a generally high level
of computerization.
The next step was then to enter the site of a larger, international agency, and because of
my earlier findings, ANSA was an obvious choice. It was there where my original hypothesis
crashed completely. Not only the news producers did not experience overflow, but also they
created it –and helped their clients to manage it, primarily with the aid of coding systems. It
was also there where I could literally see how those faxes arriving from Rome municipality,
but also all other sources, were dealt with.The daily desk editor would put his or her chair near
a wastebasket, with another chair containing a high pile of faxes. He or she would go through
them (claiming that they checked all of them, looking at their source and topic) in not more
than a quarter of an hour, after which most of them will end up in the wastebasket.
Like Rombach, I found the most obvious confirmation of this supposition in my third
study –that of Reuters (now Thompson Reuters), the oldest existing and currently the largest
news agency in the world. Even more digitized, they did not use paper baskets, but virtual
baskets.
None of the agencies did fear an overflow of information –to the contrary, the national
agencies such as TT were afraid that on Sundays there will not be enough of it. Reuters
had nothing to fear, with its agencies all over the world, therefore delivering information all
around the clock. And they all produced a newswire, which does not have physical limits, but
contains a continuous flow of news, and various packages of information. In all of them, the
Internet was playing an increasing role, and so did codification (Czarniawska, 2011, 2014).
Between euphoria and despair: Sense-making

As it is obvious from my previous example, while organization scholars still have to look for an
answer to the traditional question “What is it that’s going on here?” (Goffman, 1974/1986: 8),
nowadays the context of it is, as Karl E. Weick (1985/2001) put it, “electronic”.Yet we try to
make sense of what we observe by using the same procedures as before, perhaps a tad more
reflectively: we do effectuating, triangulating, affiliating, deliberating and consolidating (ibid).
When in the field, we ask questions, or do something –we shadow, change observation places,
watch terminals the people we are studying are watching –all this to effectuate some result,
192
to see what happens next. As Clifford Geertz put it, describing his early experiences in the
field, “[w]‌hen one doesn’t know what to do, one, of course, does everything” (1995: 80). We
triangulate, pretending it is a highly scientific measure, by comparing different sources, various
documents, asking different people. We affiliate by reading literature on the topics close to
that what we study. We deliberate –before we start writing, and during writing itself. When
in euphoria, or when we face a deadline, we consolidate. In Weick’s opinion, the digitalization
makes these activities both easier and more difficult; in his words, “deficient”. And here is his
advice for how to improve sense-making in the digital era:
…many of the problems described here can be solved if people simply push back from
their terminals and walk around. When people walk around they generate outcomes
(effectuate), compare sources of information (triangulate), meet people and discover
what they think (affiliate), slow down the pace of input (deliberate), and get a more
global view of what is happening (consolidate).
(Weick, 1985/2001: 454)
But is not such “walking around” in contrast with an image of a scholar as knowledgeable
person, the opposite of a lost wanderer that asks everybody for opinion and advice? In other
words, does not asking “What is it that’s going here” sound like a question asked by a fool, not
by a sage? That brings into mind yet another quote from Rosalie Wax (but the readers must
remember that for most anthropologists, “participative observation” is synonymous with any
kind of fieldwork):
The person who cannot abide feeling awkward or out of place, who feels crushed
whenever he [sic] makes a mistake –embarrassing or otherwise –who is psychologic-
ally unable to endure being, and being treated like, a fool, not only for a day or week
but for months on end, ought to think twice before he decides to become a participant
observer.
(Wax, 1971: 370)
Yet even feeling like a fool has a certain drama to it, certain touch of heroism –which
evaporates at a later stage, as well described by Gideon Kunda (1992/2006):
Ethnographers describing their craft (…) often cultivate the aura of heroism associated
with their activities. In comparison with the armchair efforts of their colleagues, field-
work, they claim, is an adventure. Ethnography’s tribulations however, are found not
only in the unknown jungle, tropical or corporate, but also (…) in the seemingly unex-
citing task of analyzing and reporting one’s findings.
Having returned to safer shores, I discovered that, chained to a desk like the mythical
hero, I was forced to relive the essence of the dangers and pain of the field adventure
over and over again: facing the unknown, the incomprehensible. Masses of facts, stories,
vignettes, numbers, rumors, and endless pages of fieldnotes documenting the observed
trivia of everyday life –their sheer volume offered daily testimony to the seeming
impossibility of making any valid statement at all. (…) Everything, it often seems, has
been said: all is already known and, if anything, overdocumented.
(Kunda, 1992/2006: 238)
193
Thus, the wandering between euphoria and despair can perhaps be made easier, both of them
damped, by the acknowledgment that it happens to all fieldworkers. But there is perhaps
another option –not easy, but worth considering in the era after the “practice turn” (Schatzki
et al., 2001).
The crucial philosophical question pertaining to reality was: how can we be sure? Now,
after the turn to practice, we confront another question: how to live with doubt? It isn’t easy.
But somehow we must come to terms with the fact that we live in an underdetermined
world, where doubt can always be raised. Somehow we must learn to understand how
it is that, given this possibility, we can still act.
(Mol, 2002: 165)
This is the advice that Annemarie Mol gave towards the end of her unique study of athero-
sclerosis. On the last page of her book, she stated bravely: “This study does not try to chase
away doubt but seeks instead to raise it” (p. 184). So even if euphoria and despair are quite
common psychological states of a researcher, neither of them signals the distance to truth. We
may have no doubt left when we finish a study, but later studies, by other people and by our-
selves, may raise it. Best to get used to it.
Notes
1 When, for the purposes of this text, I re-read the anthology edited by Peggy Golde (1986) and the
classic book by Rosalie Wax (1971) I realized once more how daring is comparison of our work with
that of the “true” anthropologists. Our fieldwork is ridiculously easy compared to theirs, but this is
also why we should be learning from them.
2 Centre d’Experimentation Technique, the site of the study.
References
Barth, Fredrick (1967). On the study of social change. American Anthropologist, 69 (6): 661–669.
Clifford, James (1997). Routes. Travel and translation in the late twentieth century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
Czarniawska, Barbara (2002). A tale of three cities, or the glocalization of city management. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Czarniawska, Barbara (2011). Cyberfactories: How news agencies produce news. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar.
Czarniawska, Barbara (2014). The codification of everything. In: Pallas, Josef, Jonsson, Stefan and
Strannegård, Lars (eds.), Organizations and media –organizing in mediatized world. London: Routledge,
pp. 132–144.
Czarniawska, Barbara, and Löfgren, Orvar (eds.) (2012). Managing overflow in affluent societies.
New York: NY: Routledge.
Czarniawska, Barbara, and Löfgren, Orvar (eds.) (2014). Coping with excess: How organizations, communities
and individuals manage overflows. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar.
Czarniawska, Barbara, and Löfgren, Orvar (eds.) (2019). Overwhelmed by overflows? Howe people and
organizations create and manage excess. Lund: Lund University Press.
Goffman, Erving (1974/ 1986). Frame analysis. An essay on the organization of experience. Boston,
MA: Northeastern University Press.
Geertz, Clifford (1995). After the fact.Two countries, four decades, one anthropologist. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
194
Golde, Peggy (ed.) (1986). Women in the field. Anthropological experiences. Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press.
King, Lily (2014). Euphoria. New York, NY: Atlantic Monthly Press.
Kunda, Gideon (1992/ 2006). Engineering culture. Control and commitment in a high- tech corporation.
Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.
Larcom, Joan (1983). Following Deacon.The problem of ethnographic reanalysis, 1926–1981. In: Stocking,
George W. Jr. (ed.), Observers observed: Essays on ethnographic fieldwork. London: The University of
Wisconsin Press, pp. 175–194.
Latour, Bruno (1996). Aramis or the love of technology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Latour, Bruno (2005). Reassembling the social. An introduction to Actor-Network Theory. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Mol,Annemarie (2002). The body multiple: Ontology in medical practice. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
Rombach, Björn (1986). Rationalisering eller prat. Kommuners anpassning till en stagnerande ekonomi.
Lund: Doxa.
Schatzki, Theodore R, Knorr Cetina, Karin and von Savigny, Eike (eds.) (2001). The practice turn in con-
temporary theory. London: Routledge.
Wax, Rosalie (1971). Doing fieldwork:Warnings and advice. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Weick, Karl E. (1985/2001). Making sense of the organization. Oxford: Blackwell.
195
14
LEARNING TO FLY
On teaching the ethnographic craft
Monika Kostera, Tomasz Ludwicki and Anna Modzelewska
Over 20 years ago … (it’s hard to believe). I still felt very young, very “under educational
construction”. I was not ready for intellectual maturity. A lot of things were difficult,
incomprehensible, I often felt like I was blindfolded. But also, on the other hand, I was
electrified by learning. And the [ethnography] seminar seemed like it was from a slightly
different world. The freedom prevailing during classes, the unusual reading list, the way
of looking at science and also the different people attending this seminar –these were
new things for me. […] First of all, I learned to look at science differently. I realized
there were different paradigms –something completely new! As for the practical experi-
ence, it is hard to say whether what I gained was simply useful for me during work later
on, but it certainly opened my mind, gave me a creative and curious approach. I learned
to look for other, less standard paths, and to question things taken for granted. In those
times, it was, for me, a small window opening towards something that I certainly could
not name, but I am glad that I learned to see it, that it turned out this way, and that
I could have had the freedom to see and describe reality. I included it in my master’s
thesis –but it did not stop there, it stayed with me.
Yga Kostrzewa, an experienced manager and ex-student of ours, talks about her learning
experience as a tightly knit knot of science, understanding, practices and attitudes to life.
Ethnography was, to her, a not very obvious, but illuminating window, which did not give her
any “simple uses”, but which enabled her to see the world in ways that are beyond the standard
and taken for granted. It enabled her to write a thesis but also stayed with her after she finished
her studies and became a practising manager. The narrative brings together ideas of learning
and research in quite interesting ways.
It is often said that teaching at university level should be “informed by research”. What is
usually implied by this formula is the contents: how teaching outcomes should be based on
the teacher’s current research results. We will not discuss this premise, even if we indeed agree
that universities would do well with re-connecting research and education. In this chapter, we
wish, instead, to address another aspect of this relationship: teaching how to do research and, as
the citation shows, also “how to do” understanding of the social world.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-17
196
196 Monika Kostera et al.
This is important because it is a way of passing on our savoir faire, the tools of the aca-
demic craft. And because these tools can be used for much broader purposes than just the
scientific craft. We believe that the teaching and learning process of ethnographic methods
is connected with many things: research, personal experience, an approach to organizational
and managerial practice. This is a consequence of the embodiment that is the condition of all
research within this tradition. Timothy Pachirat (2018) speaks of the importance of presence
in ethnography: good research happens when the researcher is able to forge a bond, a direct
and mutual relationship, based on trust and understanding. An ethnographer does not work
through intermediaries, and does not use symbols, such as numbers, filtering the material from
the field and making it abstract, detached from the human dimension. Ethnography gains its
scientific status and credibility thanks to presence, to being there. This is also how teaching of
ethnography should be rooted: in being there, building relationships, passing on experience.
This chapter is dedicated to a discussion of the specific characteristics of (organizational) eth-
nography and how they can be taught at university level. We will also try to address the big
question, hidden behind discussions about teaching and learning: what for? Also we intend to
introduce to readers useful guidance concerning such areas as learning and teaching ethnog-
raphy, privacy, ethics, wisdom and support during ethnographical research.
Learning and teaching ethnography

Ethnography is much more than a method: in the words of Gaggiotti, Kostera and Krzyworzeka
(2017, p. 325), it is “a way of learning sociological and organisational imagination”. It is a com-
prehensive, holistic research approach that can provide contextualized and in-depth insight
into human processes and problems from a cultural perspective. It is derived from cultural
anthropology, or the study of human culture (Wright, 1994), and can be used to study con-
temporary social phenomena and organizations seen as cultures (ibid., see also Watson, 2011;
Van Maanen, 2011). Willis and Trondman (2000, p. 5) conceive of it as a way of understanding
the experience of “writing up the encounter, respecting, recording, representing at least partly
in its own terms the irreducibility of human experience”. Above all, it is
a practice […]concerned with the study and representation of culture (with a distinctly
small c). It is a field many claim to be the most scientific of the humanities and the most
humanistic of the sciences.
(Van Maanen, 2006, p. 13)
Learning is inherently present in the ethnographic process. The methodology is based on

the theory of learning (Evans, 2012), rooted in the process of learning through experience
(Moore, 2012).Teaching it requires more than lecturing: a moderating and facilitating of com-
munication, building relations with others and dealing with emotions at various stages of the
research process (Mazzetti, 2016). Sharing emotional experiences is, for ethnographers and
ethnography teachers, an important element of learning in and of the field (Mazzetti, 2016).
Teaching and learning ethnography also requires focusing on how to build an ethnographic
narrative not only by collecting material, but also of turning our attention to the processual
nature of social life: what was before, what happened during and after fieldwork (Jensen and
Auyero, 2019).
197
Learning to fly 197
A metaphor that would be useful to describe this process is a learning of a craft or an art.
A master craftsman is needed, one who knows the rules and has vast experience in dealing
with challenges that can be faced at work.There are some tricks of the trade that can be learnt
during fieldwork.This metaphor has a number of implications for teaching ethnography. Most
crucially, the learning process should be experience based. Asking students to perform activ-
ities is vital for the learning process that is a basis for future corrections. At some univer-
sities, nowadays, it might require a painful process to get all formal permission. So one of the
suggestions might be to use whatever is possible. For example, to learn interviewing one may
ask students to interview each other, or their teachers, for example, asking about their “life-
time inspiring moments” (Rapley, 2004; Gudkova, 2012; Krzyworzeka 2016).This is a safe ini-
tial setting for interview and in addition a good topic for an overall discussion of professional
life. The relationship between the teacher and the student is crucial for the overall process. It
is by necessity personal: commenting, inspiration or just sharing stories is crucial for the pro-
cess. However, there is also room for a creative adaptation of the method by the students. For
example, a student can take photographs instead of written notes, or draw pictures of places.
There should be freedom to act freely and improvise. However, for the overall buying-in
process into the methodology reaching the outcome is crucial. The process should lead to
some final result, in the form of presentation, report, article or dissertation. As with learning
the crafts, it is impossible to evaluate the skill until it is proven in practice. It might not be a
fully fledged thick description (Geertz, 1973) as is required by academic journals, however,
it might be an “opus minor”: a vignette, a practical case. And, as with any craft, learning it
requires getting to know the tools. These ethnographic are, first of all, the research methods.
The ones most commonly used are: interviews, observations and text analysis (Kostera, 2007).
Observation in ethnographic research involves using the senses to explore reality, most often
with the character of participant observation (Krzyworzeka, 2016), or shadowing (Czarniawska,
2008). Anthropological interviews usually have a free, in-depth character (open, unstructured
and non-standardized), which gives interlocutors the opportunity to express themselves freely
and the researcher a fuller insight into the analysed issues (Gudkova, 2012). Conducting open
interviews allows us to isolate threads that the respondents themselves considered important
(Kostera, 2007). Text analysis can be carried out using a variety of techniques, for example,
critical culture analysis, rhetorical, semantic, semiotic analysis (ibid.). These methods need to
be learnt both as tools for rigorous research and as contextualized ways of engaging with the
social world. This implies that both teaching in a more static sense (the methods) and in a
dynamic, explorative (practice) is necessary.
Another important element of the ethnographer’s “toolbox” is reporting. It is strongly
dependent on the material from the field and the intended audience. Philip Carl Salzman and
Patricia Rice note that
there is no ideal way of presenting anthropology. Regardless of the starting point, we

must go in all directions, recognize the existing relationships between phenomena and
explore the available landscape.
(2009, pp. 23–24)
The styles vary from realistic and impressionist stories to confessional tales and literary
narratives (Van Maanen, 1988; Milczarczyk, 2019). Ethnography should not be written for
198
a “specific audience”, but rather for a broader, intelligent readership (Czarniawska, 2008).
Writing cannot be taught as something static, just as the research process cannot. Both in
the research situation and in the writing process, it is important for the teacher to keep in
mind the way that ethnography is a living, explorative process. Students can be encouraged
to pursue their interests in new organizational phenomena, the use of innovations in research
methods, an innovative way of organizing work by the researcher in the field (Rouleau et al.,
2014) and develop students’ imagination through creative tasks, for example, writing narrative
collages (Kostera, 2015).
Teaching and learning ethnography

All the three of us have been teaching ethnography to management students for many years,
at different levels, from undergraduate to doctoral, and on different programmes, from media
management to MBA. We taught it in several countries and at different types of universities.
We have collected a considerable repertoire of experience, from which we selected a few cases
which we consider illustrative of some important aspects of that experience.These case studies
can be seen as knots, as Ingold (2015; 2016) understands them: stories that “describe the inter-
penetration of lifelines in the mesh of social life” (2016, p. 10), narratives that join lives and
experiences and establish correspondences.
Monika has been teaching organizational ethnography since 1995, when she was assigned
as a teacher at an undergraduate programme in organizational sociology. She has been teaching
various ethnography courses ever since, to students at all levels, in several European countries.
She teaches two major types of courses. The first type contains basic programmes, where the
students acquaint themselves with research methods characteristic of organizational ethnog-
raphy. The second type is an advanced course, for master’s and doctoral students preparing
theses under her supervision. Both types include lectures, reading and discussion of texts, as
well as own research and class presentations by the students. However, while the first type is
focused on the research methods themselves –how they can be applied and how they work –
the second is much more open ended and its aim is to help students to carry out complete
research projects of their own. She never tires of teaching ethnography: every course brings
not only new knowledge and ideas but also insights. She not only teaches students but also
learns immensely from them. The students also seem to be satisfied with what they learn,
even if not all immediately happy with the workload or with what is expected from them.
However, many –if not most –student projects are successful and, indeed, interesting and
novel. The students often put in much longer hours than they are expected. Many projects
have found their way into reading lists, as their work has been published after the course
(see, e.g. the works of Kostera, 2007; 2011, 2012; 2013; 2014a and 2014b on ethnographic
case studies of organizations; studies of different leaders and managers; studies of imaginative
organizing and studies of organizations and entrepreneurs, containing mainly ex-students’
work, as well as other edited books where such work occasionally appears). Monika also edits
websites, dedicated to selected student’s work (in Polish, English and Swedish) with a sizeable
readership: one containing longer texts, such as theses1 and one with shorter projects.2 Some
students continue working with writing ethnography after they finish their studies and even
in their free time. Our observations show that some students continue ethnographic research
as part of doctoral studies or use ethnographic research methods in their professional work, for
example, at marketing agencies.
199
Learning to fly 199
Tomasz’s adventure with teaching ethnography started as a guest lecturer, where he shared
the findings and his experiences from his doctoral research with students. After this, he began
to teach full time programmes. He started his academic career as a strategy scholar. He liked
interviewing people so much that he decided to do his doctoral dissertation based on eth-
nography. It developed into a most interesting adventure in the field. But all the time, he was
teaching strategy. So, starting to teach ethnography was a big change for him. Monika and
Tomasz were first to teach it to business students at the University of Warsaw. Anna is a lec-
turer in media management. She has been teaching ethnographic methods at seminars and
other courses since 2013. She always uses her own experience as a researcher to provide the
students with living examples at various stages of fieldwork. She presents the assumptions and
research methodology, methods and techniques for collecting material in the field, and she
explains how to analyse it, but a significant part of her classes is dedicated to discussion and
ethnographic practice. Students do their own research and prepare essays, which they present
and discuss in the class.
We conducted interviews with current and ex- students to root their narratives in
conversations and used the elements of narrative in the autoethnographic tradition focused on
academic teaching (e.g. Sambrook, Stewart and Roberts, 2008), using the retrospective case
study approach. Below, we propose a few lessons on teaching ethnography which we would
like to share with our readers. What follows are a few stories from different times and settings,
which have been selected because they express something important in terms of the knots they
hold and represent. Based on our research and experience, we want to point out the import-
ance of the following threads in teaching and learning ethnography: privacy and intimacy,
ethics, wisdom and support during the research.
Privacy and intimacy

Andrzej and Lila were postgraduate part-time students of management and marketing. They
attended a course in organizational ethnography during their first year of studies. The aim of
the course was to acquire basic knowledge of ethnographic methods and prepare, in small
groups, a project to be presented in class.The students chose their own field and could select a
method from a list (however, the choice was limited, as each method had a restricted number
of slots).They chose direct observation and started a discussion about what to observe. Andrzej
was advocating the idea to study something different, not part of their everyday life –eth-
nography gives that possibility, he argued. The other two group members were immediately
convinced and the idea came up to study bouncers in a students’ club. Bouncers were not only
not part of their circle of friends but also a group that they all actively disliked. They wanted
to see what makes them tick, understand what these “enemies of the students” were like, in
their own world. The result was a brilliant, sensitive study, depicting the everyday life of the
bouncers, their problems and the way they saw their job –and students. Andrzej and Lila opted
to go on and do a master’s thesis based on ethnographic study with their supervisor. Again,
they sat down and had a brainstorm about the potential field. They wanted to do another
study of something that was out of their immediate lifeworld.“How about circus? People once
used to run away with the circus, and we are running away, or kind of, from our everyday
life?”, suggested Lila. Andrzej agreed enthusiastically, reminding her of Wim Wenders’ Himmer
über Berlin, where the heroine is a circus acrobat. They started to contact different circus man-
agers but got no answer. Finally, one person responded. He was an odd kind of character, an
200
ex-monk, something of a serial runaway from his everyday world. And he warmly welcomed
them at his circus. It was not a big or fashionable troupe and they used to spend a lot of time
on the road. They relied on acrobats and clowns in their repertoire. The manager seemed to
be just as curious about organizational ethnography as they were curious about him. And
so an ethnographic adventure began. Andrzej and Lila wrote and defended a master’s thesis
together and it was highly praised by the reviewers. They did not cease with their ethno-
graphic engagement, however, but continued the study in their free time. They observed, they
shadowed, they did participant observations (as clowns, everything else was a bit too difficult).
They had repeated intense interviews and more informal ethnographic conversations with
the employees. They published several interesting articles and book chapters based on their
research which lasted for five years. Their texts are well loved by subsequent generations of
students, especially the older part-timers, who often strongly resonate with the impulse that
made Andrzej and Lila venture out into their field –to slow down the passage of time, to be
curious about the world again.The ethnography classes gave them a private and intimate intel-
lectual space to explore the non-obvious but fascinating social world around them.
This benefit from learning ethnography also came up in a discussion we held with a
group of students. One of the students made a comment which we found to be quite striking
concerning the privacy of the learning process. They explained that they needed the safety of
knowing they are in a protected situation, that learning ethnography is “like brain surgery”
and it is good to know that nobody from the outside is watching, evaluating, recording what
happens in class. There are no surveillance cameras in teacher’s workplace and classes are not
“captured”. This was a crucial learning condition for the students, without it they would
never have dared to fail or reveal their insecurities at this initial stage of the process. Switching
the roles of interviewer and interviewee also exposes the vulnerabilities of the person being
questioned. This experience allows student to develop a deeper understanding of the fragility
of the rapport and intrusion created by posing questions. One of the challenges we have seen
among young ethnographers is to overload an interview with questions. Awareness of the rela-
tion makes us open to participant and his or her emotions when we can recall what and how
we felt being questioned. Intimacy is achieved by recalling our own emotions and initiating
empathy towards the participant of the ethnographic process.
Ethnography learning is an individual and private process that is different for each student.
It is important to internally experience the discoveries from the field and the sensitivity of the
student in conducting observations.
Ethics
Basia3 was a graduate students of culture management, working on a master’s thesis. She
chose to study a small independent jazz club located in a big Polish city. At the beginning,
the employees were not very enthusiastic about talking to a “management student”, but this
changed quite soon, when Basia turned out to be a loyal and trustworthy presence. She was
hanging around with the jazz club employees most days when she didn’t have to attend classes,
and most evening when she was not studying. She smoked with them, and drank coffee and
wine with them. They soon learned to trust her and revealed their hearts to her. Some of
the conversations were recorded, with the interviewees’ permission, and some were not. She
told her supervisor about the material she collected and they agreed that this was a unique
and profound insight into the jazz club’s culture. However, she did not use all of it when
201
Learning to fly 201
writing her thesis. The names of the interlocutors as well as the name of the organization
were anonymized but Basia –and her supervisor –still decided that some things were best left
unwritten, such as people’s private experiences, fears, problems and hopes. The thesis turned
out to be a delightful piece of ethnographic writing and Basia received much praise for it. She
was invited to write a short text for a cultural magazine that she much admired but decided to
decline (even though the supervisor was encouraging): she really did not want to let her field
down in any way. She would write something positive because the place was worthy of praise,
the people were not alienated and the manager was a great fan of jazz and cooperativism.
Nonetheless, Basia decided that her role had been rather similar to that of a confessor and
talking about her experiences, in a good or less good way, would have meant betrayal. Basia’s
was perhaps a rather radical approach to research ethics but most of our students had a strong
internal and self-motivated ethical impulse connected to their fieldwork.
In our teaching experience, serious ethical problems with students’ work occurred very
few times. In one case it was an extensive attempt at plagiarism, in several cases attempts
at mystification from the students’ side –they claimed to have carried out interviews or
observations when, in fact, they created the material themselves, and in one case a student
used ethnographic material from his master’s thesis for purposes that the supervisor judged as
inappropriate (as marketing material in his subsequent work as consultant). The students were
taught about ethical issues. In many cases they presented the field with a letter signed by the
supervisor, assuring that all material would be used for research purposes only and properly
anonymized.
The United Kingdom (UK) system often requires seeking “ethical approval” from bodies
that usually had no deeper knowledge of ethnography and, if it is received, make it obligatory
to follow elaborate formal procedures in the field. Many (but not all) UK universities make it
virtually impossible for the supervisor to teach ethnographic methods. Monika was unable to
do so while she was employed at a UK university. Many of her students, among them Basia,
observed the field in natural settings, which is what ethnographers do, and so also chatted with
customers and people not formally being part of the studied organization. Under the system
popular in the UK they would have been forced to make all the present social actors receive
“participant information sheets” and to sign “participant consent forms”. These documents
make sense in case of experiments and other intrusive methods that require intervention
into a social setting. For an ethnographer they are often impossible or just very inconvenient
to use. Also, they do not provide a guarantee for ethical behaviour in the field, rather they
replace loyalty, respect and dedication with formal procedures and documents. For this reason,
we recommend that you gain knowledge primarily from observations and interviews, not
documents, even if they seem credible to us. Documents cannot constitute a substitute for
one’s own in-depth research.
Support
The next story of an important teaching knot concerns the importance of support for students,
which means different things in different cases. The graduate students of public policy had,
during an ethnography class, signed in for projects dedicated to exploring ethnographic
methods and which were to be presented in class at a given date. They were informed several
times and it was also explicitly spelled out on the course’s website that failing to show up or
failing to present at the date that one had signed for meant a failure to credit the course. Such
202
students had to re-sit the exams. One of the students, Adam, turned up on his selected date,
but had nothing to report: he had failed to prepare a project. The teacher told him that this
meant he had to re-sit. He tried to negotiate, but these attempts were unsuccessful. However,
he stayed in class and took part in the discussion in ways that showed that he was engaged
and interested. The supervisor invited him to stay after the class and told him that she had
reconsidered and would give him a second chance, only this would mean that he would have
to prepare a much larger and more complicated study, in fact, a complete small ethnographic
case study, instead of just a test of one method. She also suggested a date to him. He thanked
and accepted. He was not in touch with the teacher (other than handing in the details of the
field) until the day of presentation. This time he had a study to present. The study was not
just good: it was brilliant. He put a colossal amount of work, time and love into it. His topic
was the teachers’ strike at one of the local schools: both the strikers at the picket line and the
teachers who decided not to take part. He observed them, talked with them, showing genuine
care, understanding and openness. He had a story to tell that was nuanced, multifaceted and
very humane. At the same time the media tended to be bitterly one sided and one had to
be either for or against the striking teachers. Adam’s story was conducted in the best ethno-
graphic tradition. The teachers as well as the students were impressed and highly appreciative.
A conversation with a key social actor from the field revealed that the teachers thought highly
of Adam and regarded him as a very well-mannered and serious young man. He did not fail
them –the picture of them that he presented was respectful and compassionate. Adam was
highly credited for his work. After the end of the course the teacher received an email from
Adam, where he thanked her again, this time for being firm with him and for setting sharp
limits: “I needed that to be able to mobilize some discipline in myself ”, he explained.
At the end of the course in which Adam was participating, the students and the teacher
talked about what they had learned and what they considered important about the way the
course was taught (which usually serves as the real feedback to the teacher, not the numer-
ical ratings4). The students mentioned several things they considered vital, such as the choice
of examples and films shown to them during the first lectures, presenting the idea of the
research methods. The supervisor tries to adapt the choice of films as well as she can to the
students’ interests: they are supposed to get a good grasp of the methods so these films have
to be close to their Imaginarium and speak their language. She has had groups of students
who watched fragments of films by Bergman and Kurosawa and groups that only watched
children’s cartoons. There were some excellent ethnographies conducted and presented in
both, and in all in between. The outline and the contents of each edition of the ethnog-
raphy courses not only change from year to year but also sometimes radically shift midway
through.
Another example of the importance of providing support comes from the preceding year
where one of the students, Ewa, contacted the supervisor to explain to her that she really
wanted to learn ethnography but struggled with severe social phobia. Ewa asked the teacher
for help. After a serious conversation, they agreed that Ewa would seek support whenever
she needed it and, moreover, she would always work together with a good friend whom she
trusted. The two young women did a good job and Ewa was particularly happy, because she,
at a certain point, was able to conduct some interviews all by herself. She proved a sensitive
and mild listener and her interlocutors were happy to entrust her with stories of their intimate
feelings. It is very important for the supervisor to be able to adapt the teaching process to
the learner, to shift focus, attention and requirements so that all students, to the teacher’s
203
Learning to fly 203
best faculties, can be helped to learn. With ethnography, which is an intensely personal and
embodied methodology, this requirement becomes particularly urgent.
Listening and trust

Interviews are often considered particularly demanding by the students. The students should
have an anthropological frame of mind, an open attitude as well as an ability to listen; how-
ever, they often feel insecure and even overwhelmed when they set out into the field. The
teacher often uses anecdotes from her own research to help them overcome their timidity.
She tells them about her unsuccessful interview with Andrzej Wajda which she conducted
when she was working as a novice journalist for a local newspaper. During this interview,
she focused so much on the topic commissioned by the editors that, instead of picking up
themes important to the interlocutor, she persisted in asking the pre-prepared questions. As a
result, Andrzej Wajda lost his interest and did not say much.The supervisor had to write about
the opening of the museum instead of writing about the interview which was not very rich
in content (Modzelewska, 2009). These experiences were an important lesson for her and
taught her to listen. After nearly ten years, no longer working as a journalist but carrying out
in-depth research interview with Lech Wałęsa, when the interviewee did not show interest
in her questions, she focused on what is important to him (Modzelewska, 2019). She learned
many interesting things from the interview which she would not have been able to find out
had she carried out a quantitative study. The teacher explains this to the students, emphasizing
that ethnographic interviews are unlike journalism, because the researcher needs to focus on
the theory emerging from the empirical material. The research problem itself often evolves to
reflect the problems important to the field and its social actors.
The students then conduct interviews on their own and report all difficulties that arise
during their research. The most common problems at this stage are receiving laconic answers
from interlocutors or even refusals. Often the teacher recommends her students to try again
but with a different approach. One of the students, Magda, had a problem with a manager,
who avoided talking to her. He was walking out on her with one or another trivial excuse.
After several weeks it turned out that he lacked management education and was ashamed to
talk to a management student. Magda learned to approach him with persistence and kindness
and so, at last, he agreed to an interview. Another student, Olga, observed that something
changed in her relationship with the social actors in the field. At first they were recalcitrant
but after six weeks they became much more open. They must have developed trust towards
her, but she probably also developed something in the process: communication skills. Olga also
mentioned that she had a problem in carrying out one of the interviews with a quite taciturn
manager. He answered all her questions with one word or an elliptical sentence. The student
asked the supervisor what to do and received advice not to focus too much on this specific
person but, rather, make notes and try to learn from the experience. Olga could then use her
improved communication skills with other interviewees.
The students always seem to be strongly interested in talking with their teacher about their
experiences and what they can learn from them. They are happy to receive advice and not
just being evaluated. They always ask for consultations even though attendance is not obliga-
tory. In an interview carried out after the end of the course, Olga told the teacher that the
opportunity to discuss her experiences and problems during the course was crucial to her. She
appreciated being able to send transcripts, to consult emerging categories and ask questions.
204
She also appreciated that her teacher did not try to impose categories on the material but let
her experiment with them.
Another student,Agnieszka, who was also interviewed after the end of the course, conducted
research in one of the largest telecommunications companies in Poland using participant
observation. She explained that she was particularly happy because her fieldwork led her to
several important insights. She reached key social actors and gained their trust, which allowed
her to obtain information about their personal experiences, as well as relationships with other
employees, including sensitive ones such as conflicts and problems. She was also interested in
small talk and workplace gossip, which she of course triangulated with other interviews and
documents she had access to. Agnieszka told the supervisor that, to her, the most important
thing was getting to know the employees well and to become trusted by them. She added that
she often talked with the employees outside of the organization because they trusted her –but
did not trust some of the tyrannical bosses who used devices such as wiretaps, hidden cameras,
programs monitoring their activity on computers and business phones.
Also Olga was keen to meet people not just in the workplace, but in more relaxed settings.
Her interviewees had a much more comfortable workplace than Agnieszka’s, yet there was
too much going on at work and the interviews had to be interrupted many times. However,
it was equally valuable to conduct parts of the study on site. Her interviewees showed Olga
around the company, presented important places, showed some examples of things that
played a role in their stories. These two interviews with ex-students show the role of both
using conversation and observation in the field and how each informs the other. This is an
important issue of the learning process: to help the students realize how different methods
enhance each other.
But it is not always an easily gained lesson. Another student, Katarzyna, recalled that by
observing and taking notes in her field, she often attracted unwelcome attention from some
people. This was quite unnerving. She learned to deal with it by trying to dress in a way that
helped her to blend in with the crowd and become “invisible”. Observation, attentive listening
and building trust with interlocutors help build relationships, which enable in-depth research.
Patience therefore seems priceless.
Ethnographic wisdom outside of academia

Some of the more experienced ex-students have chosen to write short comments to be
presented in this chapter under their real names. These stories deal with an interesting issue –
the benefits from learning ethnography for practitioners who do not become researchers
after finishing their studies. Robert Turski, an experienced manager who prepared his master’s
thesis in 2006, said the following:
Writing ethnography was an unveiling of what is invisible at first glance in an organiza-

tion, including the discovery of human behaviour. The in-depth interviews allowed me
to look at the same organization from different perspectives, to more and less committed
employees, those connected and identified with their workplace, as well as persons only
temporarily embedded in it, and treating it as a transitional stage.Thanks to ethnography,
I embraced the role of researcher, learning what is important from my interlocutors and
following their thoughts and observations. A few dozen in-depth interviews and then
205
Learning to fly 205
transcribing them allowed me to focus on every word they said. After reaching satur-
ation, when the threads started to repeat themselves, I started putting them together
into a logical whole, and then I finally managed to reveal an image of the organization.
I knew it was real. I felt satisfaction.
Writing ethnography had an impact on my further professional life. I have the impres-
sion that it has taught me humility in evaluating the actions of my co-workers in the
workplaces where I was employed. More than I before realized, I was now able to grasp
that one can look at what is happening in the organization in a completely different
way, in a multidimensional way, with a whole range of greys. I paid attention to the
complicated relationship between supervisor and subordinate, I was able to understand
both sides. This experience of listening to people was also useful to me when recruiting
staff to work in teams. I was able to ensure their diversity both in terms of their approach
to work and the potential of the group members themselves. I have not ceased to be an
insightful observer who, despite participating in the life of my workplace, is able to keep
a certain reflexive distance in important moments. This is very useful, for example, in
order to analyse the current situation, or for strategic planning.
(Robert Turski)
The thesis was based on an ethnographic study of a public service organization. He interviewed
and observed work in the organization during one year. In the thesis he describes the struc-
ture and organization of work, but also the human side: people’s motivations, values and work
ethos (Turski, 2006).
Sebastian Kruk wrote a thesis based on an ethnographic study of an international students’
organization. He defended it in 2004 and has since been working as a manager in several big
companies, including multinational ones. He has always been interested in cultures and the
seminar helped him to acquire the tools to understand different cultures better.
One of the main conditions I set for myself when looking for a job was an interesting
organizational culture of the company (at the search stage I could only say “potentially
interesting”) in which I was to work. In hindsight, I must admit that I always succeeded.
I also noticed that it doesn’t matter who I work with and in what organization I find
myself I am always noticed and appreciated there.This was the case in a Dutch company,
a Polish company operating on the Italian market and this is now the case in a company
with Chinese roots. Completely different organizations, types of companies, industries
and dynamics of each structure. However, I was able to find my place in each of them
and… feel good in that place. Being a person who likes to think about the reasons for
the current state of affairs, I have often analysed how it happens that I can feel good
in companies for which it is difficult to find one common denominator. The bottom
line, as I can see immediately, is the ability to observe the environment I enter. I am
convinced that organizational ethnography taught me how to stop my desire to evaluate
the environment I enter and, instead, look, observe. I always tried to use ethnographic
methods to observe my new workplaces, […] to listen to people with more seniority,
to learn from them about the culture of the organization in which they live and into
which I was entering. During the seminar, I learned a custom that I like very much and,
since 2001, I always have a notebook with me. I am keeping an ethnographic diary. […]
206
The fact that I can always return to my notes, reflect on them, think if what is going
on around is something extraordinary or not. It helps me to respond more adequately
to the events I experience at work and in my personal life. And my children are always
very interested in the diary.
The willingness to understand organizations, the ability to observe, refraining from
imposing my views, the ability to stay “outside” while being “inside”, to reflect and to
adapt to the organization’s culture is what the seminar has taught me. […] Thanks to
this, I am surely better able to cooperate with my colleagues, which is shown by my
constant development in each of the organizations in which I function. I hope that it
will remain so.
(Sebastian Kruk)
Magdalena Wojtkiewicz Punty, author of one of the best loved ethnographies by subsequent
cohorts of students (Wojtkiewicz, 2004), moved to the United States of America (USA) after
her studies and works currently as a programme coordinator at a non-profit organization
supporting the empowerment of women, mainly with researching sections of the regional
economy. Her thesis was based on a study of a cooperatively owned store, Supersam, located
in a modernist building. As it turned out, the building was just about to be demolished and
replaced by a rather unremarkable shopping centre. Land is expensive in Warsaw and this
is not an uncommon story, even though the building was considered to be an important
part of Polish cultural heritage. The store itself was very popular among the inhabitants, and
there were many protests. Despite this, the decision was taken and carried quite swiftly. The
cooperative itself still exists but it is more centralized now. The study is a traditional ethnog-
raphy, based on intensive being there, observations, interviews and compassionate seeing and
hearing. If not for work such as Magdalena’s, people would not even remember that it had ever
existed, as one of the recent students put it quite bluntly.
Participating in the organizational ethnography seminar was quite an experience. You

begin as a 20-something youngster and don’t really know what to expect. Just like with
travel to a foreign place, you begin the research process with a general idea of what
you’d like to study but are not sure as to where your path will take you or what you
will discover.
It was my first-time conducting interviews with people who weren’t family members
or friends, and I remember nervous jitters and first interviewing fumbles. I recall dead
batteries in my voice recorder. I remember asking questions that were probably not very
smart to simply keep the conversation going. But slowly, my senses began to sharpen and
was able to “hear” and “see” better. My observations allowed to notice details I hadn’t
seen before. The conversations began to open doors with more questions to be asked
during the following interviews.
My first meeting lasted 20 minutes and resulted in a dry conversation with not much
of a story to tell. My longest interview was over three hours long and I ran out of tape.
When I let my own guard down, I started to connect.
With the interview phase completed, the transcribing phase followed. I remember
thinking it would be the most mundane and boring part of the process, and boy, was
I wrong.Transcribing was like returning to a place you once visited but now seeing it in
a new, different light. While noting down and color-coding quotes, the story unveiled
207
Learning to fly 207
right before my eyes, and all I needed to do was to add a narrative. My interviewees
were the ones telling the story in their own words.
What I learned during the seminar was to listen. You would think listening is easy
but it’s not. In our everyday lives, we struggle with effective listening; we listen to reply
as oppose[d]‌to listen to understand what our respondent is saying, in turn leading to
miscommunication. In the interview process, you practice being quiet.You gently guide
your responder and learn to gain their trust in order to hopefully allow them to open
themselves up. It’s a skill I now use in both my professional and personal life.
I learned to organize information –something I utilize daily at my job. When you
work with a large amount of data, cataloguing and presenting the information in an
accessible form is something you need to learn, and the seminar certainly helped jump-
start this learning process.
But most of all I learned to appreciate the meaning of motivation. Interviewing
supermarket employees of 40 years first had me question why people do what they
do, what makes them click, and how one can learn to work/coexist with others upon
understanding their individual hierarchy of needs.
(Magdalena Wojtkiewicz Punty)
Azat Poghosyan has been working as a curator but is currently employed as a manager at an
HR Agency in the UK. His project concerned managers and management: how what they do
and how they regard themselves is part of our everyday culture.
When I was a student, the lack of workplace experience practice limited our possibil-
ities to see how the theories we learned overlapped with practice. [Ethnography enabled
us to] observe an organization and see how beautifully scientific ideas and practices go
together, but, on this occasion, it was in order to scientifically explore an organization,
and [only later] I learned from it how to become a better manager.
For the last 5 years of being in the same HR organization, a managerial position
requires me to be human with and for other people. Every time before looking at any
case in recruitment and management motivation […] before looking at professional
skills, I try to carefully look at the background of the person.
Diversified social groups are a challenge for a democratic management system.
[…]The communication of the same information to different people must be carried
out in a different way. It is a must. Standardization in communication and in the man-
agement of social potential is indeed harmful, it is for employees, and even more so for
the organisation. [Ethnographic skills] have taken us beyond political correctness in a
positive sense and it is helping us to prolong the stay of the employees in the organiza-
tion, and to select the right teams (differentiated!).
(Azat Poghosyan)
Students like Azat felt that their ethnography experience truly helped them to have “an ethno-
graphic consciousness”.We found that ethnography has real-life benefits for our students, out-
side of academia, which related to improved listening, understanding, reflexivity and the ability
to observe, all in a professional context too.
When we interviewed one of the ex-students said that they use the ethnographic skills in
their work. Mirek, an entrepreneur, working with start-ups, reported the following:
208
You can say the start-up graveyard is littered with solutions without problems. And the
key to that is ethnography. I see ethnography, especially as touched with empathy, as the
ultimate enabler of great discovery. It helps us mine, validate and solve problems for and
with my customer and build great products. With “execution” and “iterative” it is the
operative word in the business of start-ups, new businesses and disruptive new models.
Some of the ex-students mentioned that it was a first step for them to better understand the
world around them. But there were also some voices that this was a straightforwardly practical
class: teaching them to talk and listen, to interview, to focus on social processes. For Katarzyna,
who studied street performers, it was also a lesson in public speaking.
I learned techniques of attracting the attention of interviewees, developing relationships

in a group, dealing with unexpected situations, [I have learned things that] I [now] use
in the work of an academic teacher. The work of an academic teacher is also a form of
theatre.
What is also interesting, for some the ethnography classes have led to developing personal
traits. Katarzyna also noted that she had learnt patience and self-control, especially in dealing
with unexpected behaviours of other people. Olga compared ethnographic research to arran-
ging puzzles without a pictorial picture.
Some do not like such challenges, but for me it was an inspiring experience.The biggest
advantages of ethnography are the lack of generalizations and the fact that people are
approached closely, which gives the researcher the opportunity to capture different and
non-obvious perspectives.
What we have learnt

By sharing our narrative case studies we wanted to communicate some important insights
that we have gained from our experience with teaching ethnography to management
students.
Firstly, we have learnt something important about the area itself. Ethnography is not just a
set of methods, as we said in the first part of this chapter.This is reflected in our case studies: the
students themselves say how much learning ethnography was an eye-opener for all things
social and human, they often become engaged and interested in ways exceeding the curric-
ulum. In some cases, they continued to do ethnographic studies after they have graduated in
their free time. The ex-students emphasize how useful it is for their continued non-academic
work. Learning ethnography influences much more than just the amount of “knowledge”
and “skills” that the students acquire. This should be kept in mind by the bodies in charge of
creating syllabuses and learning outcomes. Our students learned simultaneously about how
to perform interviews –and how to communicate better with others. They discovered some-
thing vital about curiosity and attention while learning how to do observation. Also, students
learned about empathy. Some of these insights can be regarded as systematic; they occur at
most (if not all) teaching occasions. Some are very individual: a student may learn to be more
courageous, another may learn humility. This follows from the status of ethnography as an
approach to explore the human condition in living (cultural) context.
209
Learning to fly 209
Secondly, we learned about the methods of learning ethnography. The students take great
advantage from possibilities to engage in their own research projects in the field. This is what
gives them embodied knowledge and experience. But they also benefit from contacts with the
teacher, with other students, as well as through reading texts about ethnographic method and
reading other ethnographic studies.
Thirdly, the cases illustrate what we learned about research ethics in ethnography. Under
the strict regime that is obligatory in most UK universities, it is virtually impossible to teach
ethnography the way we do. However, ethical issues are of the highest importance in ethnog-
raphy and should never be neglected.
Fourthly, our stories illustrate an important lesson about the learning process itself. Many
students depend on the privacy and even intimacy of the class and the contact with the teacher.
Our interviewees emphasized how important it was, to them, to be able to communicate with
her in private, face-to-face. They were able to entrust her with their inner dilemmas, sensitive
problems concerning such issues as making mistakes, failing, not feeling good enough, without
outside intervention or having to be evaluated. Our students were happy to be able to share
their failings in class and actually learning from them.
Fifthly, there is the question of the teacher’s judgement.The stories of Adam and Ewa illus-
trate this exceedingly well. Adam needed to have strict limits imposed on him, and the teacher
felt this was indeed important to him, in his specific situation. She did not react in the same
way to Ewa who struggled with severe social phobia and had to be treated quite differently,
but who also wanted to learn ethnography. In another tale, two different cohorts needed quite
a different approach and communication. The ability to discern, to adapt teaching methods to
individual situation is what makes or breaks ethnographic education.
Finally, let us address the big question made explicit at the beginning of this chapter: what
for and for whom? Methodology education is, first and foremost, an instruction in how to use
the tools of academic trade. We have addressed this role in our chapter and we agree that it is,
indeed, fundamental.Without knowledge in how to use the method in a coherent way, how to
design research, how to problematize and theorize from collected research material, there will
be no research. Just “training” in ethnographic methods does not make the student ethnog-
rapher: ambitious journalism often uses such methods without, for that sake, becoming science.
The difference between them is that ethnography is a complex methodological system, based
on philosophical and epistemological assumptions, composed in a systematic way and aimed at
collecting material that will enable us to generate an emerging theory. It is also longitudinal: it
focuses on social and cultural processes rather than depicting static phenomena. Investigative
journalism sometimes pursues very deep interpretation, for example, Hunter Thompson is
often mentioned as honorary ethnographer, but typically it illustrates the contemporary and
communicates it. Ethnography always strives at presenting reality from an aspect that is not
obvious in everyday life and narrating it in a way that enables understanding and making sense
of the social anew, perhaps also at showing important truths concerning the human condition.
However, as some of the students’ comments show, ethnography is not just for future
researchers. It also adds some authentic value to the life worlds of persons who go on to
become professionals and managers. It should not be surprising, considering what authors
such as Patricia Pitcher (2006) say about practitioners. The technocrat is the figure that most
management programmes educate, but he or she is far from the most creative, ethical and
productive employee or manager. Organizations also need artists and craftsmen: people who
care about quality beyond ranks and numbers, who are dedicated to some higher ideals in the
210
work than just meeting quotas. In the long run such persons are much more responsible and
concerned about a sustainable future. They need more than just goodwill and compassion: we
all have that, except, perhaps, sociopaths. A systematic approach is needed and an education in
organizational ethnography is able to offer it.
Ethnography is much more than a method. It is a complex methodology that helps to study
and understand the human condition. It also offers a disciplined way of relating to others that
can be of use to organizational managers and participants. Nothing illustrates the unique value
of ethnography better than this glorious quote by Tim Ingold, whom we will let have the final
word in our chapter.
But to observe with is not to objectify; it is to attend to persons and things, to learn from
them, and to follow in precept and practice. Whereas of-ness is intentional, with-ness is
attentional. An anthropology founded in the principle of habit, of doing undergoing, is
always with before it is of. Herein, I contend, lies the purpose, dynamic, and potential
of our discipline. It is to join with others in an ongoing, speculative, and experimental
exploration of what the possibilities and potentials of life might be. But it is not, by
the same token, about putting things behind us by embedding them in their contexts.
It is not about understanding or interpretation. That’s a task for ethnography. To prac-
tise anthropology, to the contrary, is to restore the world to presence, to attend, and
to respond. It is to move forward in real time, not to stop the clock in order to look
back. Our responsibilities, therefore, are to the future: what we seek are ways to answer
to the worlding world. And in this, anthropology is –indeed must be –a discipline of
correspondence.
(Ingold, 2016, p. 24)
Notes
1 www.kostera.pl/Mag.htm.
2 www.kostera.pl/Etno_projekty.htm.
3 All the students’ names in this section are pseudonyms.
4 Also known as “booking.com-evaluation”.
Bibliography
Czarniawska, Barbara (2008). “Organizing: how to study it and how to write about it”, Qualitative
Research in Organizations and Management, 3(1), pp. 4–20.
Evans, Gillian (2012). “Practising participant observation: an anthropologist’s account”, Journal of
Organizational Ethnography, 1(1), pp. 96–106.
Gaggiotti, Hugo, Monika Kostera and Paweł Krzyworzeka (2017). “More than a method? Organisational
ethnography as a way of imagining the social”, Culture and Organization, 23(5), pp. 325– 340.
DOI:10.1080/14759551.2016.1203312
Geertz, Clifford (1973). The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York, NY: Basic Books.
Gudkova, Svetlana (2012). “Wywiad w badaniach jakościowych”, in: D. Jemielniak (ed.), Badania
jakościowe. Metody i narzędzia. Vol. 2, Warszawa: PWN, pp. 111–129.
Ingold, Tim (2015). The Life of Lines. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge.
Ingold, Tim (2016). “On human correspondence”, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 23,
pp. 9–27.
211
Learning to fly 211
Jensen, Katherine and Javier Auyero (2019). “Teaching and learning the craft: the construction of ethno-
graphic objects”, in: Richard E. Ocejo (ed.), Urban Ethnography. Legacies and Challenges (Research in
Urban Sociology),Vol. 16. Bingley: Emerald, pp. 69–87.
Kostera, Monika (2007). Organizational ethnography: Methods and inspirations. Lund: Studentlitteratur.
Kostera, Monika (2011) (ed.). Etnografia organizacji: Badania polskich firm i instytucji. Sopot: GWP.
Kostera, Monika (2012) (ed.). Szef polski: Studia przypadku roli kierownika w organizacjach. Warszawa:
Wydawnictwo Akademickie Sedno.
Kostera, Monika (2013) (ed.). Organizować z polotem:Wyobraźnia organizacyjna w praktyce.Warszawa: Sedno.
Kostera, Monika (2014a) (ed.). O zarządzaniu historie niezwykłe: Studia przypadku z zarządzania
humanistycznego. Warszawa: Difin.
Kostera, Monika (2014b) (ed.). O przedsiębiorczości historie niezwykłe: Studia przypadku z zarządzania
humanistycznego. Warszawa: Difin.
Kostera, Monika (2015). “Collage narracyjny”, in: Monika Kostera (ed.), Metody badawcze w zarządzaniu
humanistycznym. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Akademickie Sedno.
Krzyworzeka, Paweł (2016). “Etnografia”, w”, in: Monika Kostera (ed.), Metody badawcze w zarządzaniu
humanistycznym. Warszawa: Sedno, pp. 27–26.
Mazzetti, Angela (2016). “An exploration of the emotional impact of organisational ethnography”,
Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 5(3), pp. 304–316.
Milczarczyk, Aneta (2019). “Budowanie tożsamości organizacyjnej –studium przypadku dziennika
‘Rzeczpospolita’ ”, Zarządzanie Mediami, 2, pp. 97–115.
Modzelewska, Anna (2009). “Kraków: Wajda o absurdach życia w komunizmie”, Gazeta Krakowska,
accessed on 30 January 2020 at https://gazetakrakowska.pl/krakow-wajda-o-absurdach-zycia-w-
komunizmie/ar/166888.
Modzelewska, Anna (2019). Struktury organizacyjne NSZZ “Solidarność” w latach 1980– 1989.
Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego.
Moore, Fiona (2012). “Learning from experience: ethnographic research, International Business Studies
and Mainstream Anthropology”, in: Catherine Wang, David Ketchen and Donald Bergh (eds.),
West Meets East: Building Theoretical Bridges (Research Methodology in Strategy and Management, Vol. 8),
Bingley: Emerald, pp. 173–191.
Pachirat,Timothy (2018). AmongWolves: Ethnography and the Immersive Study of Power. NewYork: Routledge.
Pitcher, Patricia (2006). Artistes, artisans et technocrates dans nos organisations: Rêves, réalités et illusions du
leadership. Québec.
Rapley,Tim (2004). “Interviews”, in: C. Seale, G. Gobo, J. F. Gubrium and D. Silverman (eds.), Qualitative
Research Practice, Newcastle upon Tyne: Sage.
Rouleau, Linda, Mark de Rond and Geneviève Musca (2014). “From the ethnographic turn to new
forms of organizational ethnography”, Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 3(1), pp. 2–9.
Salzman Patricia C. and Philip C. Rice (2009). Myśleć jak antropolog. Gdańsk: Gdańskie Wydawnictwo
Psychologiczne.
Sambrook, Sally, Jim Stewart and Clair Roberts (2008). “Doctoral supervision: glimpses from above,
below and in the middle”, Journal of Further and Higher Education, 32(1), pp. 71–84.
Turski, Robert (2006). Jest taki Urząd… Etnografia służby publicznej. Master’s thesis, Warszawa: Warsaw
University, accessed on 30 January 2020 at www.kostera.pl/Mag.htm.
Van Maanen, John (1988). Tales of the Field: On Writing Ethnography. Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press.
Van Maanen, John (2006). “Ethnography then and now”, Qualitative Research in Organizations and
Management, 1(1), pp. 13–21.
Van Maanen, John (2011). “Ethnography as work: some rules of engagement”, Journal of Management
Studies, 48(1), pp. 218–234.
Watson, Tony (2011). “Ethnography, reality and truth: the vital need for studies of ‘how things work’ in
organizations and management”, Journal of Management Studies, 48(1), pp. 202–217.
212
Willis, Paul and Mats Trondman (2000). “Manifesto for ethnography”, Cultural Studies ↔ Critical
Methodologies, 2(3), pp. 394–402.
Wojtkiewicz Punty, Magdalena (2004). Klan spółdzielców: Etnografia Spółdzielni Spożywców Supersam. praca
magisterska. Warszawa: Uniwersytet Warszawski, accessed on 31 January 2020 at www.kostera.pl/
Mag.htm.
Wright, Susan (1994). “Culture in anthropology and organisational studies”, in: S. Wright (ed.),
Anthropology of organizations. London-New York: Routledge, pp. 1–31.
213
15
UTURES OF ORGANIZATIONAL
F
ETHNOGRAPHY
(Post)pandemic reflections and new possibilities
Katherine Parsons, David Courpasson and Rick Delbridge
When we were invited to contribute to this collection, the editors asked us to address the
question of ‘what next?’ in organizational ethnography. They suggested that we might explore
what future ethnographic research might look like and consider some of the practical issues
that future ethnographers are likely to come up against. Well, that was in late 2019 and it is
fair to say that the subsequent period through 2020 and into 2021 has put ‘the practical issues’
facing ethnographers into a particularly stark relief as the world has sought to come to terms
with and manage the impact of the Coronavirus disease 2019 (Covid-19) pandemic. It has
been a challenging time for us all and the practical issues that face ethnographers are, in many
senses, of far lesser importance when contemplating the impact of Covid-19. But this is our
task and we offer what follows as both a reflection on the issues that have been surfaced in
the past year –with particular reference to the prospective activity of future organizational
ethnographers –and a case study of how one ethnographic project was revised and developed
during the pandemic so that at least some of the essentials of ethnography could be preserved.
Our crisis response outlined below involved redesigning what was originally conceived
as a fairly conventional ethnographic study. We show what has been possible when under-
taking ethnographic work within certain restrictions. But we take our reflections further
in considering the possible futures of organizational ethnography to embrace those studies
with more fundamental challenges to convention. These reflections raise the issue of ethnog-
raphy in absentia (Lee 2017), whereby research continues to be conducted where and when
it is impossible to conduct conventional ethnographic fieldwork, for example, because of the
difficulty in gaining access to specific populations (whether these are migrants, refugees or
workers in telework). To overcome these challenges and retain an ethnographic sensibility to
our research, we need specific new frameworks/thinking to allow forms of access that are not
necessarily purely physical.We live in a curious moment, where ‘[all] the world seems to be on
the move’ (Sheller & Urry 2006: 207) or, on the contrary, where we are stuck at home or at
least prevented from directly observing what happens in the outside social world. We feel it is
important here to raise the possibility, as other have (Lee 2017), that the traditional single-sited
and situated ethnography could be a thing of the past, or at least, a much less commonplace
form of ethnography and one that is in need of a serious epistemological overhaul.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003021582-18
214
214 Katherine Parsons et al.
This obliges us, we think, to revisit and review our common notion of fieldwork, that is
to say, the relation between space and the social, space and the observation, space and the
observed, to envisage that the presence or configuration of some objects is possible because
of the absence of other objects. Ethnography should then be thought of as a specific ‘epis-
temology in encountering the complexity of the social world’ (Scholl et al. 2014: 58), beyond
and behind always contextualized attributions of meaning and agency [no boundaries, no
meaning]. Spatial locations in this view should be seen as ‘labile phenomena, only transitory
fixations’ (Schatzki 2002: 24). Ethnography can then give voice to dimensions of absence.This
requires the researcher to go beyond the representation of absence in a purely physical sense,
to reflect on the interconnectedness of objects, to be more reflexive in considerations of what
is visible, and to be aware of this as marginal or incomplete.
We return to these issues in our concluding remarks where we contemplate further some
of the issues that are raised by reflection on the questions of presence/absence in ethnographic
research of a future world that is increasingly digital, fragmented and boundaryless. These
conditions are especially pertinent during periods of crisis and in researching the challenges
facing our least visible and most marginalized citizens. It is vital that ethnographers continue
to grapple with these issues and their implications –which are variously practical, political,
theoretical and epistemological –in order that the unique possibilities and contributions of
ethnographic research are sustained. Before considering the futures of organizational eth-
nography, we offer some initial reflections that are born of the period of the pandemic and
describe how the lead author developed and modified her research to respond to the spe-
cific challenges of that context. We hope that readers will join with us and engage with our
reflections and speculations and also take practical value from the example that we present.
Reflections from a time of pandemic

What is ethnography if not the intimate and immersive experience of participating in,
observing and documenting the social world? As Fine and Abramson (2020: 1) observe, one
almost immediate outcome of the pandemic was ‘a de facto moratorium on in-person field
observation’. But on the assumption that the pandemic is experienced at its height as a tem-
porary phenomenon, what are the lasting consequences for ethnographers? To coin a fre-
quently used phrase of the moment, what will the new normal look like for ethnographers?
Our first reflection is on the ‘vulnerabilities’ of ethnography (see also Fine and Abramson,
2020). This has a number of aspects: the vulnerability of the members of the social worlds that
we might study, and our own vulnerability as researchers particularly when in the field, both
of which have been brought into sharp focus –and have been increased –by the pandemic.
It is only natural to anticipate an increased reluctance on the part of many to participate in
such studies, and indeed on behalf of researchers to undertake them, at least in the short term.
The method itself is also vulnerable, particularly to ethics committees or institutional review
boards who are charged with ‘managing risk’ –an increasingly insidious concept when in the
wrong hands –and have been consistent in determining that the dangers of face-to-face field-
work outweigh the benefits. It will be extremely important that these are at most temporary
constraints on the conduct of ethnography (and other forms of face-to-face qualitative data
gathering).
While these may prove to be short-term obstacles, such concerns have prompted a variety
of ‘alternative approaches’ and deeper reflection on other methods and sources of data. Our
215
Futures of organizational ethnography 215
case study below considers these issues in some detail and reflects on the trade-offs that were
identified in the specific study. As ethnographers of varying vintages we share the view that
ethnography is distinct and offers something that no other forms of qualitative data gathering
technique can match. In this we concur with Fine and Abramson (2020: 3) who conclude
similar deliberations as follows:
[We]… must… defend the unique strengths of field observation and avoid false
equivalences that would treat ethnography as interchangeable with other qualitative
methods.We do not denigrate other methods such as in-depth interviews or analyses of
digital media, or advance anachronistic blanket statements about ethnography’s super-
iority. Rather, we argue that the various styles of qualitative research are distinct –each
has its own strengths and weaknesses, a desirable toolkit in an era of methodological
pluralism.
That said, developments that are not solely down to Covid are raising challenges to which new
methods and approaches to ‘participation’ and ‘observation’ are being increasingly proposed to
be the necessary response. Organizations are increasingly, at least in part, virtual entities with
much more of what we would have understood to be organizational practices and processes –
organizational life –taking place online and not onsite (see Akemu and Abdelnour 2020).
Indeed the very notion of place in the study of organization has become increasingly fungible
and the widespread move to ‘enforced homeworking’ during the pandemic has turbo-charged
this development. Numerous studies have already identified the mixture of implications of
homeworking for individuals (Felstead and Reuschke 2020). And a key one is the isolating
and lonely experience that is often the result. This is in itself asking the question of what is
to be ‘observed’ and where that is taking place. The answer to the latter may increasingly be
online, which raises a further question of how that activity might be observed in ways that can
get close to the strengths of traditional field observation. There are thus very good practical
reasons as to why the future of ethnography may lie in the adoption of multiple methods and
a ‘blending’ of ethnographic observations with other data sources. But in contemplating this
pragmatic response –and see below for our own –we are again minded to reflect on another
of Fine and Abramson’s (2020: 4) false equivalences and avoid any suggestion that ‘the physical
and digital are interchangeable or produce similar analyses’.
This should not be taken as a failure to recognize the contribution that may be made
from connecting traditional fieldwork with other data sources. With or without Covid-19,
the future of the organizational ethnographer would have been one where ‘big data’, data
from various social media, the possibilities of geospatial and tracking data, and the data that
may be generated by a range of computational methods all feature. Questions remain –and
worthwhile ones at that –about how these data may be gathered in ways that produce com-
plementary insights for the ethnographer (see Beuving 2019). There is always the imminent
danger that detailed field observations will be swamped by these tidal waves of data.We remain
firmly of the belief that ethnography will continue to offer a great deal as we seek to navigate
ever choppier waters. That said, the future of ethnography will necessarily be different and we
return to speculate on some of these future features in our final section.
First, we present a ‘case study’ of one ethnographic research project that exemplifies some
of these issues. The research was planned prior to the pandemic but the project commenced
during periods of lockdown in the United Kingdom (UK). This meant that its undertaking
216
was necessarily revised and numerous changes and contingencies were needed, all of which
had to be planned, negotiated and delivered in ‘real time’. We report this example in detail in
the hope that an experience shared is of value to others who may find themselves addressing
similar issues in the future and through which to reflect upon some of the wider ‘principles’
that the case highlights.
Responding to the challenges of Covid in real time

The Covid-19 pandemic of 2020–2021 necessitated that ethnographic researchers globally
assess the efficacy of traditional approaches towards ethnography in a world in which the
nature of work and the places within which work occurs is becoming increasingly fragmented
and dispersed. Here, we share through this case study the experience of adapting a trad-
itional ‘on-site’ ethnography towards a virtual ‘online’ form of ethnographic enquiry. We offer
personal reflections on some of the challenges and limitations that had to be negotiated along
the way as in response to the global pandemic, specifically, relating to issues of conducting
ethnography ‘in absentia’ (Lee 2017) and within the ‘digital context’.
Original research design

The original research design involved individual face-to-face interviews with 30 participants
enrolled on a start- up development programme during 2020/ 2021 on three occasions
throughout the period.This was to be combined with group discussions alongside observations
of weekly and monthly pitches to a panel of potential investors and other interested stakeholders.
These methods were to be supported by a regular pattern of more informal, non-participative
observations of team and individual interactions between one another and key stakeholders as
the teams constructed who they were (their collective identity) and what they did (the entre-
preneurial opportunity) during the start-up process. The aim of the study was to gain insight
into the very earliest stages of start-up creation and the conflicts, paradoxes and trade-offs
negotiated as a team collectively formulates their new business venture.
The embargo on face-to-face contact due to the Covid-19 pandemic necessitated that
each of the previously arranged and agreed data collection methods was moved online. This
prompted some reflection on how meaningful interactions could still be observed and rich
interviews conducted with the relevant individuals so that the research questions could still
be addressed.
The initial response was to turn to the literature to see how other ethnographic scholars
had conducted virtual or online ethnographies. It was quite a shock to find a lack of litera-
ture on the matter at the time; there was little beyond examples of ‘netnography’ (Hine 2000;
Kozinets 2010) approaches, usually undertaken through the observation of an individual or
a group’s interactions online in chatrooms and/or on social media. There was little empirical
or theoretical precedent, however, as to how to study interpersonal interactions which were
taking place either (a) physically, and how best to observe these virtually or (b) how remote,
virtual interactions, such as offline/online meetings and correspondence, could be observed
virtually. This led to reflections on the nature of work ‘places’ and the need, perhaps, for a
useful conceptualization of both work and observation places in future ethnographic studies as
either or all (a) taking place and observed on-site, (b) taking place on-site and observed online
or (c) taking place online and observed online.
217
Because of a lack of helpful references within the literature, we turned to the ethnographer
community directly, asking colleagues for introductions to those working in the field cur-
rently in order to draw on their experiences and wisdom in adapting to the context. These
connections also led towards a collaborative ‘crowdsourced’ document, edited by Lupton
(2020), to which scholars in the field have contributed to build a live collective library of
resources and ideas for how to turn face-to-face qualitative social sciences research into a
more ‘hands-off ’ approach during the pandemic. This collective reading list, produced from
contributions from ethnographers adapting their projects towards digital ethnography across
the globe during the pandemic, provides an excellent source of literature relating to digital
alternatives to face-to-face ethnographic methods as well as how to make use of ‘born digital’
research. The methods included in this document range from more conservative approaches
towards digitalizing interviews and observations (netnography, online discussion forums,
video-based observations and interviews) through to more innovative and creative approaches
and technology (re-enactment videos, wearable technologies and ‘first-person perspective
technology’ (Pink, 2015) and other app-based methods). The document also points to more
reflexive pieces of literature which consider the ethics and practicalities of moving face-to-
face research methods ‘online’. The circulation amongst the ethnographer community of
crowdsourced documents and resources such as the one curated by Lupton (2020) during the
pandemic is testament to the collegiality and support within the ethnographer community.
Early career researchers and PhD students, as well as more experienced ethnographers, acted
as ‘comrades in adversity’ and were able to inspire, encourage and assist one another to find
new and alternative means of continuing or beginning ethnography during the restrictions
imposed by the pandemic, exercising resilience as well as innovation as they did so.
Revised research design

As necessitated by the pandemic, a revised research plan was developed. Instead of conducting
individual interviews, group discussions and team observations face-to-face, these were now
to be carried out remotely, using university-approved online video calling platforms. Data
gathering became reliant on accessing the host organization’s video recordings of pitches and
observation of the teams’ responses to stakeholder feedback following their regular pitches.
As data collection continued in this form, the realization dawned that observation was only
possible when invited to do so and when aware of the interactions. Therefore, there may well
be a number of social interactions pertinent to the research question that were not observ-
able. This became increasingly apparent during interviews and observations and as new actors
or social interactions were given salience. These relationships with the participants needed
to be explored and opportunities to observe interactions taking place with the aforemen-
tioned actors were sought. However, it became increasingly difficult to devise a way in which
observation of more informal, naturally occurring interactions between individuals, teams
and stakeholders could take place. It had to be conceded that these interactions could not be
systematically included within this study and acknowledged that useful insight into how the
participants present themselves individually, and what they are as a business, to both internal
and external stakeholders in more informal settings could not be directly observed. However,
this placed a greater emphasis on forms of documentary evidence being shared in observed
meetings (via ‘screen share’ on Zoom or by email afterwards) which provided insight into how
the entrepreneurial opportunity and the teams’ collective identity were being presented to
218
internal and external stakeholders. This proved to be a particularly fruitful avenue for discus-
sion with participants sharing, and at times creating, in ‘real-time’ working documents, such
as a ‘situational analysis’ or ‘one-page summary’ documents outlining the purpose of their
business or describing various platforms and systems used to organize and manage themselves
as a team. Each provided valuable insight into who they were (their collective identity) and
how what they did (their entrepreneurial opportunity) was being constructed, negotiated and
conceptualized over time. On reflection, conducting the ethnography digitally created new
and additional opportunities to observe the teams ‘at work’ as such documents were collab-
oratively produced. Something as ethnographers we might increasingly look towards utilizing
as we seek to analyse organizations in their increasingly dispersed, and ‘online’ form and as
instances of online collaboration and team working likely continue to increase.
We now turn to reflect on some of the methodological, ethical and practical considerations
in re-designing the original, traditional ethnography into a more digital form, in real time and
in response to the Covid-19 pandemic.
Methodological assumptions
From a methodological perspective, the research re-design necessitated by the pandemic
prompted reconsideration of what was to be observed and documented and whether or
how far this was possible within the current circumstances. This led to the questioning of a
number of philosophical assumptions regarding the nature of where work takes place and the
spaces within which organizational life occurs. We had to consider anew where and how the
interactions to be observed might be happening and what aspects of organizational life might
be missed through the revised plan. This itself begs the question of how one would know
what was being missed. This threw up further practical and methodological issues. However,
it also introduced rather more philosophical questions around the changing nature of work
and the physical situation of that work, and therefore, the potentially changing nature of on-
site ethnographic enquiry. Throughout the pandemic, a great many workers were required to
work from home. And the evidence reported both then and subsequently (see, e.g., Felstead
and Reuschke’s (2020) survey of attitudes and behaviours towards working from home during
Covid-19) was that this was proving both more productive for the company and more enjoy-
able for many employees. In short, it was necessary to reconsider what aspects of organizational
life can be studied given the increasingly boundaryless nature of work, and how organizational
life could be observed when the participants are operating, at least partially, remotely. These
considerations were kept in mind, and raised deeper reflections on the current and potential
future of organizations, and thus ethnography of organizations. The ‘online’ approach that was
adopted for the current project is, we feel, likely to become more common in future as the
nature of work becomes more fragmented and more work takes place online than on-site.
These changes also offered insight into the notion of ethnography in absentia. Indeed, as
our case study developed over time, ‘ethnography in absentia’ was reflexively experienced by
the lead author in undertaking her research remotely. Observations of key practices ‘as they
unfold’ (Thompson et al. 2020: 247) were conducted often simultaneously through digital
media. Such virtual observations may be conducted and recorded simultaneously for sub-
sequent analysis. This can overcome the messiness of coordinating observations in real time
and the desire to be in two places at once. Virtual engagement also meant, where schedules
allowed, the researcher could ‘dip in and out’, observing ‘embodied and material aspects’ of the
219
phenomenon (Van Burg et al. 2020:6) and iterating between a ‘zooming in’ on the detailed
account of the accomplishment of practice and ‘zooming out’ on their relationships in space
and time (Nicolini 2009:1392). This also required a return to a reflexive consideration of the
ontological and epistemological assumptions on which the project had been based. While
convenient, this raises the question of what is gained or lost in observation through a camera
lens rather than a human-eye ‘in the moment’. Observational approaches that seek to min-
imize the impact of the researcher may benefit from the lack of physical presence. But this
diminishes the opportunity to seek clarification or to follow up with those being observed
either at the time or shortly after an event. The sense of context and a deeper understanding
of what is happening, why and how it is being experienced, are also likely to be circumscribed
where observation is restricted to digital means.
Ethical
Ethically, there were a number of challenges presented by the pandemic and the require-
ment to move research online with regard to the ethical implications of accessing individual’s
working lives ‘online’.
Firstly, ethical consideration regarding how comfortable research participants would feel
participating in a research project during a pandemic when anxieties and stress levels were
high, and in some cases, where additional caring responsibilities and workloads were being
juggled, had to be borne in mind. This required an exercise of judgement when approaching
potential participants and asking them to participate in the research project, being sensitive to
home–life situations and well-being during these unprecedented times.
Secondly, there were obstacles to overcome in assuring the ethics committee that the
participants were happy to participate in the research using technological interfaces. Although
informed consent protocols were followed, the ethics committee were keen to ensure that
(within the unprecedented context of the pandemic) participants did not feel put under
any kind of pressure or coerced into participation. The ethics committee also perceived that
undertaking the project via virtual means could be seen as a barrier to some individuals who
would not wish to engage in the research in this way. Thankfully, this was not an issue for the
demographics of this study who were all working in tech and felt very comfortable commu-
nicating via those means, with some actually finding it preferable to face-to-face interactions.
Thirdly, and with regard to the observations specifically, was consideration of whether the
participants would be comfortable being video recorded or whether they might feel this was
an infringement on their privacy. Additional care was taken to ensure that participants were
fully informed about the methods being used and of their right to withdraw from the research
project without reason at any point in time. Invitations were also extended to arrange one-
to-one meetings to discuss the research project, specifically data collection, storage and man-
agement, and to raise any issues or concerns. This is standard ethical best practice but one that
was especially important given the highly stressful context of the pandemic when anxiety and
depression ran high (Kar et al. 2021).
Each of these ethical issues was given due consideration and care taken to ensure that
the participants were fully comfortable with digital means through which the ethnography
would now take place and happy to continue. In practice, and in order to be able to collect
data within the predefined time frames of the start-up development programme, applications
for approval and informed consent forms were submitted separately for each method. This
220
meant that the research could commence with individual interviews, for example, once per-
mission for that particular method had been granted by the ethics committee without being
delayed by the ongoing application process for other methods such as the video recording of
observations.
This was rather a protracted way of securing ethical approval but necessary given the
situation. However, a more agile approach and openness towards the potential of digital
approaches for immersive qualitative research as has been necessary within the Covid-19 pan-
demic may be required in future. Thus, ethics committees and researchers may be required to
embrace digitally enabled opportunities to conduct ethnographies in places, times and spaces
when perhaps it may not be possible or preferable to conduct the research, at least wholly,
face-to-face.
Practical
Some of these ethical issues also gave birth to practical implications. How, for example, could
rapport be established and trust built with the research participants when meeting was restricted
to online? It was necessary to find ways of communicating the requisite informed consent to
participate in the study and to answer any questions participants might have regarding data
storage, management, presentation and sharing, confidentiality and anonymity. In brief, the
negotiation of entry into the field of study is very different when it is undertaken entirely
through virtual means.
In practice, the implications were that the entire ethics application process took much
longer than it might have done had it been possible to meet the participants face-to-face and
sit alongside them in the office. In response, the researcher produced video recordings, intro-
ducing herself, the research project and the planned methodology, uploading these videos to
the organization’s Vimeo account. Participation in ‘engagement’ activities via Zoom helped
the potential research participants in putting a face to a name and establishing a connection.
This initial engagement was followed with months of group and individual email and docu-
mentation exchanges as informed consent was secured from the participants for each of the
proposed methods. Individual Zoom calls to discuss the methodology and ensure each par-
ticipant was fully aware of how the research would be undertaken were also arranged. This
process took around four months in total, with the requisite documents all signed and eth-
ical approval granted for the last of the research method (the video observations) some two
months later.
Lessons can be learnt here in terms of ethnographers being prepared to flex and adapt
not only their research design if necessary but also being agile enough to adjust timescales
and engagement activities around the subsequent necessary amendments and re-applications
to ethics committees, which can often take some time to clear when awaiting panel review
processes.
The uncertainty of the highly dynamic situation, with rules and regulations changing fre-
quently and no definitive end-date in sight, also made it increasingly difficult to imagine a
‘hybrid’ approach towards the study where some face-to-face interactions could be incorporated
later on. In principle, this would mean ‘joining’ the participants for their group discussions and
observation elements (as well as the individual interviews) virtually even if they were meeting
face-to-face. Practically, this meant that often each of the participants would connect to the
Zoom call from their own device in front of them even if they were sat in the same room or
221
at the same desk. The virtual interface, naturally, affected how the participants then interacted
not only with the researcher but also with one another and, perhaps, a more ‘polite’ conver-
sation ensued as ‘turn taking’ and ‘Zoom etiquette’ dictated how the participants interacted.
This heightened the potential for a more ‘dramaturgical’ performance (Goffman 1959) from
participants as they interacted online than may have been the case face-to-face as the techno-
logical platform provided an additional theatrical stage for the participants’ ‘performance of
self ’. Hughes (2008), in her reflection on conducting an ethnography on poet’s views of
poetry, speaks of the ‘performative pull’ (p.18) of conducting such research through ‘new media’.
Using video recordings for data analysis has faced criticism, largely due to the concern for the
effect the camera lens might have on increasing participants’ propensity to ‘perform’ for the
camera, resulting in a less ‘honest’ interaction. However, like Hughes (2008) the experience
of video analysis was to the contrary. Video-based data provided ‘the possibility to observe
embodied and material aspects of entrepreneurial processes’ (Van Berg et al. 2020:6). While
such embodied and material aspects could also be observed face-to-face, the video recordings
enabled the opportunity to pause, rewind, slow down and repeat these observations, increasing
the granularity of detail in these observations. The benefits of this needed to be reflexively
balanced as an ethnographer in the interpretation of the data and the contributions to know-
ledge that were gained.
Conversely, Pike et al. (2020), in their analysis of teaching creative arts classes via Zoom,
speak of the passive digitalization of selves that come from living our lives and interacting
with others ‘mis en scene of the webcam’ (p. 13), resulting in a ‘disembodying’ (p. 3) experi-
ence within which the only agency afforded the participant is to move their body in relation
to the webcam, mute or unmute themselves and use the limited ‘reaction’ emojis provided.
Thus, Pike et al. would suggest using Zoom as an interface limits the opportunity for drama-
turgical performance or certainly makes for a ‘less than’ experience compared to face-to-face
interaction. During analysis, therefore, it was necessary to consider to what extent the camera
lens, and specifically the ‘Zoom platform’, might alter the ways in which the participants
presented themselves.Whether, for example, it enhanced their potential to perform ‘on screen’
or whether their interactions were limited due to the confines of the format and function-
ality of Zoom? This is, as Knoblauch and Schnettler (2012) remind us, a hermeneutic activity
which as ethnographers we must engage with through our subjective and reflexive analysis of
video data. There was evidence of cultural ‘scripts’, ‘moves’ and ‘footings’ (Barley and Tolbert
1997) playing out through a sense of the cultural norms as they relate to ‘Zoom etiquette’
regards ‘turn taking’ and ‘unmuting’ when someone wished to speak. The result was perhaps
more formal interactions than what might have been the case in-person.
Opportunities and surprising benefits

Each of these considerations and decisions described above was made in real time in response
to the pandemic. Re-designing the study in this way created the opportunity to critique and
re-evaluate the original design and to consider questions surrounding the potential future of
organizations and ethnography that perhaps would not have been so apparent had it been
possible to continue with the conventional ‘on-site’ ethnography.The process of re-design also
prompted a mind-shift from the initial reaction of needing to ‘make-do’ with an ‘online’ but
second-rate version to a mindset of ‘make better’, where the potential additional benefits that
conducting ethnography in this way were embraced. Examples included the enhanced analysis
222
afforded by video recordings that could be paused, rewound and slowed rather than relying
solely on observation notes and the opportunity to broaden the range of evidence from which
views on the chosen phenomena could be gleaned by including document analysis of key
internal and external documents created during the start-up process. This is a perspective that
a recent survey commissioned by Springer Nature –‘Emerging from uncertainty International
perspectives on the impact of COVID-19 on university research’ (2020) –has identified will
be increasingly relevant for researchers post-pandemic, leading to a more ‘blended research
approach that combines the best of both worlds’ (Bothwell 2020).
The redesign process also led to the exploration of some more experimental avenues of
online ethnographic inquiry, such as wearable technology and other first-person perspectives
of digital ethnography (Pink 2015) such as ‘Indeemo’ (Read 2019) and other ‘lifelogging’
technologies (Fors et al. 2016) and cultural probe kits (Albrechtsen et al. 2017). Although
it was decided not to employ these more first-person-centric approaches for the current
research project, it is exciting to consider the insight that such methods might bring to organ-
ization studies in future.
Collectively, acting as a community of ethnography scholars, the pandemic also expedited
the crowdsourcing of ideas and approaches towards more novel and progressive forms of
ethnographic inquiry which reflect the increasingly dynamic world in which we live; as seen,
for example, in the London School of Economics’ Digital Ethnography Collective Reading
List crowdsourced document (Lupton 2020). Approaches showcased in this collaborative
resource signal a move towards a more agile approach to ethnography perhaps required in
today’s increasingly fragmented and dispersed world.
Speculating on the futures of organizational ethnography

The adaptations to the research design within our case study were all made in real time –
without the benefit of hindsight or a period of reflection –and during ‘unprecedented times’.
In the last section of this chapter, we pause to take further stock on the last 18 months and
consider the prospects for the emergence of ‘new normal’. What might we anticipate as the
key issues for consideration in how the future of ethnographic studies of organization may
develop? What opportunities might these present for the next generation of organizational
ethnographers? While the pandemic has affected all human subjects research, ethnography
is particularly threatened due to its unique and demanding focus on immersion. Thinking
of ethnography in a moment of crisis could be seen as an opportunity to reflect upon the
limitations of this practice, as a long-lasting exercise, as well as on its strengths for the study
of populations in pain and dismay, the new ravages of inequality, in the service of a common
good that has never been both so needed and so traumatized. At some point, we will return to
the field, as Fine and Abramson put it. To do what, for what newly founded relationship with
those we observe? Perhaps we will see a new cadre of ‘activists ethnographers’ emerge from
the crisis (Reedy and King, 2019).
Ethnography in digital context

Our first consideration is the enduring and increasing significance of the digital in any organ-
izational ethnography.This has been brought to the fore through the pandemic but it has been
the case for many years that we do research in a context that is, at least partially, constituted by
223
digital media. This has presented a challenge to existing conceptual and analytical categories
(Pink 2017), but even more so to the ethnographic research enterprise. The very nature of
these digital environments contributes to a redefining of ethnographic practices, because the
digital is situated in everyday lives and largely constitutive of those lives, at least in many
organizational settings. The ‘rapid revisions’ required by the sudden emergence of the Covid
pandemic are thus better understood as part of tomorrow’s picture of how ethnographers will
be crafting and conducting their studies in the future. The ‘enforced’ revisions to the original
research design within our case study example opened the door to a range of possibilities for
data collection, data analysis and data presentation. These provided new insights that might
have been missed had more traditional, face-to-face methods taken prominence as originally
planned.
Digital media have long been part of the ethnographer’s toolbox. Being digitally engaged
is practically a condition for ethnographic research to be carried out. In that respect, we may
want to follow Murthy’s advice to construct a digital practice of ethnography as centred on
‘data-gathering methods [that] are mediated by computer-mediated communities […] digit-
ally mediated fieldnotes, online participant observation, blogs/wikies with contributions by
respondents, and online focus groups […] accounts of offline groups’ (Murthy 2011: 159).The
array of digital spaces where communication and debate may be found adds to the complex-
ities of locating and bounding an ethnography. At any rate, digital media and technologies are
now part of the late-modern everyday more ‘spectacular’ world in which people live (Pink
2017). The digital ‘has become part of the material, sensory and social worlds we inhabit’
(Pink 2017: 7). The digital is now part of something wider, the very transformation of social
relationships, that are also disrupted by the ‘world of crisis’ in which we have been seemingly
continually entering for some years now. The example of digitalization suggests indeed the
need, for ethnographers, more than ever to deeply reflect upon the location or situatedness of
their work (Abu-Lughod 2000: 262), to force them to consider the locations –social, cultural
and physical –where ethnography can and/or should take place.
Ethnography in crisis/of crisis

As Marcus (1995) pointed out long ago, ethnography is a set of research practices dedicated to
direct and sustained social contact with people, which has the power to create new knowledge
about people’s life thanks to this very ‘close contact’ ethos. The lessons from, and responses to,
the current crisis could be seen as persistently threatening to this practice. Either ethnographers
accept a major shift in the direction of digitally mediated contacts with people, or they discuss
the value of ethnography in the analysis of the dynamics of everyday life and cultures in times
of crisis, as a central focus of their work.
In our view, the value of ethnographic work has never been clearer or more pressing. But
what kind of fieldwork is needed to track people in crisis, living through uncontrollable shifts
in the priorities of social life? Exploring new social relations of inequality, how people living
now in more distant locations from each other are (or are not) still part of the same cultural
worlds we inhabit? Will the fragmentation of our lives according to the shelters we inhabit to
cope with the virus entail a similar fragmentation of the social relations we strive to maintain
into the future? What are the new forms of power within which ‘subaltern’ groups live their
lives in times of crisis, where the ‘scales’ of power are redistributed largely in favour of those
who reside seemingly impervious at ‘the top’? It seems to us that we cannot afford to lose the
224
power of situated ethnography. Indeed the current crisis represents a case for the ‘continuing
value of a thoroughly localized ethnography as necessary for tracking systems of power and
structures of inequality and perhaps even for intervening in them’ (Abu-Lughod 2000: 266).
Ethnography in absentia
The future of ethnography will be shaped by the recognition that spatial encounters, par-
ticularly in these moments of ‘distancing’, are more and more worked and shaped by absence
(Scholl, Lahr-Kurten & Redepenning 2014). For Scholl et al., ‘the openness and inchoateness
of the ethnographical approach makes it compatible to the messiness, contingency and fluidity
of the spatial and the serendipity of spatial encounters in the context of different absences
and presences’ (Scholl et al. 2014: 52). In a context of obligatory spatial distancing like we
have experienced through the Covid pandemic, we may need to see the social as a relational
and fluid composition of heterogeneous elements, permitting us –perhaps requiring us –to
conceive ethnographic practice as not necessarily fixed neither by nor in the ethnographer’s
presence (Lee 2017).
This is certainly complicated, as, like Giddens (1984: 37), most of us define absence as
the spatio-temporal distance of corresponding bodies in contrast with what Giddens calls
‘co-presence’: ‘the social characteristics of co-presence are anchored in the spatiality of the
body, in orientation to others and to the experiencing self ’ (Giddens 1984: 64). This common
representation of presence/absence immediately raises a question for ethnographers: is it pos-
sible to think of the co-presence of the ethnographer in a given social and spatial context,
even if her body is not physically here? What kind of spatiality is needed for us to imagine
ethnographic presence in the very absence of the ethnographer’s body?
Binding together geographically distant but thematically close elements, transcending
physical boundaries, travelling through socio-spatial connections in absentia, or through com-
munication technology, could permit ethnographers to build relevant representations of cul-
tural worlds, despite remoteness.The work of the absent ethnographer would be to analyse the
inter-relating sets of processes where present-absence guide this binding together of different
actors [including the ethnographer] across space and time (Anderson & McFarlane 2011: 125).
Even absent bodies can be identified through discourse analysis, publications and interviewing,
thereby identifying and analysing social materialities that are not only physically observable.
Distance also enhances the power of visualizing the emotionally charged atmosphere through
photographs of places, of people engaging in their everyday lives, of their symbols… listening
to recordings of speeches, poems and songs, are also capable to reduce the distance. Stimulating
the observation of these diverse modalities and articulations of people’s actions and motives
would grant access for the ethnographer to concrete processes of meaning production and
subjective motivations of local actors. The future of ethnography will benefit from a more
capacious conception of ‘data’.
The Covid crisis has been partly a moment of impossibility for ethnographic interroga-
tion. But as we have seen, it has also prompted rapid responses that have preserved some of
the essence of conventional ethnographic research. Our deeper reflections have taken us to
contemplate and begin to theorize responses that take our conceptions of ethnography further
than merely seeking to deliver ‘conventional, onsite ethnographies’ on a ‘preservation’ impulse.
The question of the absence of the ethnographer is still an underexplored situation that gains
in significance for obvious reasons. Rethinking ethnographic work in these conditions would
225
help to emphasize and reveal the flexibility and creativity of ethnographic practices in absentia,
thereby, possibly, getting even deeper into the complexity of socio-spatial relations and cultures
that will continue to be crucial to research at the margins both in and of crises.
References
Abu-Lughod, Lila. (2000). Locating Ethnography. Ethnography, 1(2), pp. 261–267.
Akemu, Onajomo and Abdelnour, Samer. (2020). Confronting the Digital: Doing Ethnography in
Modern Organizational Settings. Organizational Research Methods, 23(2), pp. 296–321.
Albrechtsen, Charlotte, Pedersen, Majbrit, Pedersen, Nicholai and Jensen, Tine Wirenfeldt. (2017).
Mobile Probes: Exploring the Work Processes and Everyday Life of Danish Students Writing Their
Master’s Thesis. SAGE Research Methods Cases. DOI: https://dx.doi.org/10.4135/9781473971950
Anderson, Ben, and McFarlane, Colin. (2011). Assemblage and Geography. Area, 43 (2), pp. 124–127.
Barley, Stephen and Tolbert, Pamela. (1997). Institutionalisation and Structuration: Studying the Links
between Action and Institution. Organization Studies, 18 (1), pp. 93–117.
Beuving, Joost J. (2019). Ethnography’s Future in the Big Data Era. Information, Communication and Society.
https://doi.org/10.1080/1369118X.2019.1602664
Bothwell, Ellie. (2020). Blended research methods ‘will become more prevalent’ post-Covid. Available at: www.
timeshighereducation.com/news/blended-research-methods-will-become-more-prevalent-post-
covid. (Accessed 14 December 2020).
Felstead, Alan and Reuschke, Darja. (2020). ‘Homeworking in the UK: Before and during the 2020 lockdown’.
WISERD Report, Cardiff:Wales Institute of Social and Economic Research. Available at: https://wis
erd.ac.uk/publications/homeworking-ukand-during-2020-lockdown.
Fine, Gary and Abramson, Corey M. (2020). Ethnography in the Time of COVID-19: Vectors and the
Vulnerable. Etnografia e Ricerca Qualitativa. 2, 165–174.
Fors, Vaike, Berg, Martin and Pink, Sarah. (2016). Capturing the Ordinary. Imagining the User in
Designing and Using Automatic Photographic Lifelogging Technologies. In S. Selke (ed.),
Lifelogging: Theoretical Approaches and Case Studies about Self-Tracking. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. doi:/
10.1007/978-3-658-13137-1_6
Giddens, Anthony. (1984). The Constitution of Society. Outline of the Theory of Structuration. Cambridge:
Polity Press.
Goffman, Erving. (1959). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Garden City, NY: Doubleday
Anchor Books.
Hine, Christine. (2000). Virtual Ethnography. London: Sage.
Hughes, Janette. (2008). The Performative Pull of Research with New Media. International journal of
qualitative methods, 7(2): 16-34.
Kar, Nilamadhab, Kar, Brajaballav and Kar, Shreyan. (2021). Stress and Coping during COVID-19
Pandemic:Result of an Online Survey.Psychiatry Research,295.Doi://10.1016/j.psychres.2020.113598.
Knoblauch, Hubert and Schnettler, Bernt. (2012). Videography: Analysing Video Data as a ‘Focused’
Ethnographic and Hermeneutical Exercise. Qualitative Research, 12(3), pp. 334–356. Doi: 10.1177/
1468794111436147
Kozinets, Robert. (2010). Netnography: Doing Ethnographic Research Online. London: Sage.
Lee, Siew P. (2017). Ethnography in Absentia: Applying Lefebvre’s Rhythmanalysis in Impossible-to-
Research Spaces. Ethnography, 18(2), pp. 257–276.
Lupton, Deborah. (ed.). (2020). Doing Fieldwork in a Pandemic (crowd-sourced document). Available
at: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1clGjGABB2h2qbduTgfqribHmog9B6P0NvMgVuiHZ
Cl8/edit?ts=5e88ae0a#. (Accessed 01 December 2020).
Marcus, George E. (1995). Ethnography in/ of the World System: The Emergence of Multi- Sited
Ethnography. Annual Review of Anthropology, 24, pp. 95–117.
Murthy, Dhiraj. (2011). Emergent Digital Ethnographies Methods for Social Research. In Hesse-Biber,
Sharlene N. (ed.), Handbook of Emergent Technologies in Social Research. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, pp. 158–179.
226
Nicolini, Davide. (2009). Zooming In and Out: Studying Practices by Switching Theoretical
Lenses and Trailing Connections. Organization studies. 30(12), pp. 1391– 1418. Doi://10.1177/
0170840609349875
Pike, Shane, Niedeck, Jeremy and Kelly, Kathryn. (2020). ‘I Will Teach You in a Room, I Will Teach You
Now on Zoom’: A Contemporary Expression of Zooming by Three Practioner/Academics in the
Creative Arts, Developed through the Spirit of the Surrealist’s Exquisite Corpse. International Journal
of Performance Arts and Digital Media, pp. 1–16. Doi:/10.1080/14794713.2020.1822048
Pink, Sarah. (2015). Going Forward through the World: Thinking about First-Person Perspective Digital
Ethnography between Theoretical Scholarship and Applied Practice. Integrative Psychological and
Behavioral Science, 49(2), pp. 239–252.
Pink, Sarah. (2017). Ethnography in a Digital World. In Pink, Sarah, Horst, Heather, Postill, John, Hjorth,
Larissa, Lewis, Tania and Tacchi, Jo. (eds.), Digital Ethnography. Principles and Practices. London: Sage,
pp. 1–18.
Read, Sarah. (2019). Crossing Boundaries with Research Tools: The Value of a Mobile Ethnography Platform
Developed for Customer Experience Research for Technical Communication. Conference paper for the 37th
ACM International Conference. DOI: 10.1145/3328020.3353926
Reedy, Patrick C. and King, Daniel R. (2019). Critical Performativity in the Field: Methodological
Principles for Activist Ethnographers. Organizational Research Methods, 22(2), pp. 564–589.
Schatzki,Theodore. (2002). The Site of the Social: A Philosophical Account of the Constitution of Social Life and
Change. University Park: Pennsylvania State University.
Scholl, Sebastian, Lahr-Kurten, Matthias, and Redepenning, Marc. (2014). Considering the Role of
Presence and Absence in Space Construction: Ethnography as Methodology in Human Geography.
Historical Social Research, 39(2), pp. 52–67.
Sheller, Mimi and Urry, John. (2006). The New Mobilities Paradigm. Environment and Planning A, 38(2),
pp. 207–226.
Thompson, Neil,Verduijn, Karen and Gartner,William. (2020). Entrepreneurship-as-Practice: Grounding
Contemporary Theories of Practice into Entrepreneurship Studies. Entrepreneurship and Regional
Development, 32(3–4), pp. 1–25. https://doi.org/10.1080/08985626.2019.1641978
Van Burg, Elco, Cornelissen, Joep, Stam, Wouter and Jack, Sarah. (2020). Advancing Qualitative
Entrepreneurship Research: Leveraging Methodological Plurality for Achieving Scholarly Impact.
Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice, (editorial) 1–18. https://doi.org/10.1177/1042258720943051
227
INDEX
Note: Page numbers in bold type refer to tables. Endnotes are indicated by the page number followed
by “n” and the endnote number e.g., 30n9 refers to endnote 9 on page 30.
absence 214, 224–225 anxiety, researcher 1, 6, 22, 37, 60, 62, 174; after
academic activism 66, 67–69, 71, 75, 76, 158, 166 data collection 58–59; and identity 41–42; and
academic advocacy 66–69, 71, 74–75, 75–76, 76–77 rejection 55, 57; see also imposter syndrome
academic career see careers; early career applied anthropology 150
researchers Aramis, or the Love of Technology 188–189
academic credibility 20, 35, 41–42, 93 asylum seekers 66, 69, 70, 71, 72, 75
academic culture 51 “at the edge” ethnographies 15, 19, 21
academic identity 119 atmosphere, in the field 55, 135, 176, 183, 224
academic knowledge 67, 118–119 audience 18, 83, 88, 123, 146, 197, 198; and
academic rigour 118 immersed ethnography 36, 37–38, 41
academic (self)exploitation 23–27 audio-visual ethnography 141–151
academic stigmatization 21–23 autoethnographer, the 85, 86, 94, 95, 96
access: to children’s voices 128, 130–131; to the autoethnographic distance 94
field 55, 220 autoethnographic integrity 90
action research 68, 69 autoethnography 83–97; a posteriori 86; blended
active neutrality 158, 166 90; critical 89, 93; interpretive 89, 90; methods
activism, by academics 66, 67–69, 71, 75, 76, 158, for 83, 84, 85, 90–91, 93, 95; organization
166 studies 90–91; queer 89
advocacy, by academics 66–69, 71, 74–75, 75–76, autonomy 117, 123, 144
76–77
affective-sexual and reproductive education 126 background research phase, of rapid
AFIN see SexAFIN ethnographies 106
agency 18, 27, 55, 214, 221 befriending 69, 70, 71, 74
agency workers 115, 119–120, 121, 122–123 beginners, in ethnography 15–30
Agenzia Nazionale Stampa Associata (ANSA) benefits, of online research 221–222
190–191 biological reproduction 129, 135
anonymity 30n9, 134, 135, 137n1, 173, 201, 220 black hole exit 158, 164, 165, 165
ANSA (Agenzia Nazionale Stampa Associata) blended autoethnography 90
190–191 blind alley theorizing 158, 164, 165, 165
anthropology 1, 3, 109, 110, 150, 187, 188, 196, borderlands 141, 142, 146
197, 210 Bourdieu, Pierre 5–6, 18, 29, 130
anticipated exit 158, 164–165, 165 Brazilian police 51, 52, 53–54, 55–56, 59–60
228
228 Index
Bridgeville prison 52, 56, 59, 62 danger 59, 61–62, 165, 215; see also risk; safety
bureaucratic process, of ethnography 63 data analysis: and fieldnotes 87, 96, 178, 179, 180,
181, 182, 183; in rapid ethnography 107, 111;
careers 15, 22, 23, 26, 29–30, 76, 86, 93; video recordings for 221
see also early career researchers; novice data collection 3–4, 8; and autoethnography
researchers 93; when working with children 133–136;
children, working with 128–129, 130–131, and discomfort, fear and risk 52, 54, 55, 56,
133–136 57, 58, 60; and organizational ethnography
children’s sexuality education 126–138 futures 214, 215, 216, 217, 219, 223; and rapid
Chronique d’un été 146 ethnographies 100, 101, 101–102, 103–104,
cinema 142–145, 146, 149–150 107, 108, 109, 110–111, 111–112; sanitization
citizen, ethnographer as 21, 27–29 of 119
clarity 88, 142 data saturation 43, 158, 159, 160, 164, 183, 205
classical ethnography 18, 104, 112, 206, 218 Deacon, Bernard 187
closeness 38, 115, 131, 137n5, 167, 187 deception 115–124
coding 93, 107, 111, 180–181, 182, 191 deep immersion 16, 18–19, 25, 26–27, 43, 45
cognitive freedom 10 dependability, of methods 90
collect, the 54 despair 186, 187–188, 189, 191–193
communicative vigilance 129, 130–131, 137 deviance 15, 17, 19, 20, 21, 24, 66, 122, 177
communities, learning about 61–63 diaries 3, 70, 89, 171, 172
compassion, advocacy grounded in 71–73 difference 92, 166
compassionate advocate, ethnographer as digital ethnography 216, 217, 222
66–77 digital media 215, 218, 223
computer assisted/aided qualitative data analysis dignity 66, 71, 72, 117
software 180 disappearance of object of study reason, for
confidentiality 134, 220 ending fieldwork 161–162
confined space search and rescue exercise 34–36 disclosure 20, 22, 52, 118, 121–122, 123, 128;
consent 8, 27, 107, 115, 134, 136, 137, 201; non- 115, 117, 119, 120, 123
informed 8, 118, 119, 134, 219–220 discomfort, in fieldwork 6, 24, 45, 50, 51, 61
contextual observations 177 discursive observations 177
Convention on the Rights of the Child 128, 130 dis-immersion, from the field 160
conventional ethnography 18, 104, 112, 206, 218 disinterested behaviour, ethnography as 29–30
conventional theorizing 158, 164–165, 165 dissemination, of research 67, 96, 131, 141; rapid
conventions 93, 95, 122, 144, 213 ethnographies 105, 107, 108, 112
courtesy stigma 22–23 distance 131–132, 137n5; autoethnographic 94;
covert methods 117, 118, 119 physical 167; reflexive 205; relational 17, 28, 38,
covert research 115–124 85, 120–121, 158, 160; spatio-temporal 224
Covid-19 pandemic 213, 214–222, 222–223, 224 documentation 109, 220
creative writing 71, 87 dramaturgy 17, 24, 221
credibility: of ethnography 196; of fieldworker 20, drawings, as data collection method 134, 135
35, 41–42, 93; of methods 90
crime investigation 51 early career researchers 2, 60–61, 68, 217; and
criminological verstehen 18–19, 19–20 autoethnography 85, 87, 90, 93, 94, 96;
critical autoethnography 89, 93 see also careers
critical friendship 181 editing, of film 143, 144, 145, 148
critical insider 183 emancipatory research 115, 120
critical medical anthropology 109 embodied phenomenological experience 39
critical situations reason, for ending fieldwork emotion work 36, 39–41, 117
161–162 emotional responsibility reason, for ending
cultural anthropology 196 fieldwork 160–161
culture 196, 223, 225; academic 51; and discursive emotionally invested researchers 62
power 83; maquila 142; organizational 70, 100, emotions, normalizing of 60, 63, 64; see also
102, 105, 196, 205–206; theory of 107; under anxiety, researcher; discomfort, in fieldwork; fear
study 3, 62–63 empathy 23, 35, 37, 71–72, 91, 92, 96, 200, 208
culture of friendships 38 empirical research 19, 46, 69
culture shock 159 ending fieldwork 157–168, 165; rituals 158, 162
cyberfactories 190–191 engagement-distance 158, 166
229
Index 229
engaging practice, ethnography as 158–159 face-work 17

entry, into the field 55, 220 failure, researcher 7, 17, 55, 76, 93, 161
epistemological shift, in ethnographic false friendship 54
methodology 4 familiarization stage, of research 105, 106, 108,
epistemology 16, 19, 20–21, 146, 209, 213, 214, 110
219 fear: following us out of the field 57–60; of
escape, from the field 61 rejection in the field 55–57
ethical dilemmas 8–10, 57, 63, 64 feedback 105, 109, 111, 133, 146–147, 149
ethical identity 119, 122 field material, making sense of 186–193
ethical rule 116 field observation 214, 215
ethical self 121–122, 123–124 fieldnote analysis 171, 179–182
ethics, research 9, 22, 116, 123, 124, 201, 209; in fieldnote writing 171, 172, 180–181, 182, 183
bureaucratic process of ethnography 63; and fieldwork: deeply-immersive 16, 18–19,
online research 219–220; reflexive approach 25, 26–27, 43, 45; immersive 21–22, 25,
to 116 26–27; relationships in 23, 26–27, 28, 52–55;
ethics committees 8, 9, 60, 63, 117, 118, 214, 220 superficial 25–26
ethnographic cinema 149–150 filmmakers 119, 141, 143, 146, 149, 150
ethnographic craft, teaching the 195–210 filmmaking process 141, 142, 150
ethnographic experience 9, 60, 158, 163–164, 167 films 141–151
ethnographic films 143, 144, 145, 149–150 financial support reason, for ending fieldwork
ethnographic gameness 20, 22 160–161
ethnographic gaze 83, 86, 88, 89 first contact 24, 27, 132
Ethnographic I, The 85 Flaherty, Robert 143, 146
ethnographic methodology 4 “fleshed out” fieldnotes 171, 183
ethnographic methods 44, 45, 104, 196, 199, focused ethnography 100, 101, 103, 105, 106
205–206, 209, 217 Foucault, Michel 116, 122, 123, 128, 130
ethnographic nonfiction works 144 freedom: cognitive and emotional 10, 195; ethical
ethnographic process 2, 9, 174, 196, 200 value of 116; interpretative 144
ethnographic self 17 French police 157, 160, 161, 162, 166–167, 168n1
ethnographic space 167 friendships 38, 43, 54, 181
ethnographic wisdom, outside academia 204–208 funding 23, 93, 108, 133, 136
ethnographic writing 3, 61, 170, 182, 201 futures, of organizational ethnography 213–225
ethnography: audio-visual 141–151; classical 18,
104, 112, 206, 218; conventional 18, 104, 112, gameness, ethnographic 20, 22
206, 218; credibility of 196; and crisis 223–224; gatekeepers, research 21, 24, 25, 28, 115, 123, 165
definition of 2; digital 216, 217, 222; ‘extreme’ gaze: ethnographic 83, 86, 88, 89; of observational
43–44; focused 100, 101, 103, 105, 106; cinema 143; of researchers 88; sociological
immersed 34–46; in absentia 213, 216, 217, 61–62
218–219, 222, 224–225; life-world-analytical gender 57, 89, 90, 166; and children’s sexuality
19; lone researcher rapid 108–110; online 216, education 129–130, 133, 135, 136, 137n2
217, 222; outward gaze of 83; quick 100, 101, Glaser, Barney 43, 174, 183
103, 105, 106; rapid 7, 100, 101, 102–103, Goffman, Erving: co-presence of others 19;
104–105, 106, 108–112; rapid site-switching courtesy stigma 22–23; dramaturgy 17, 24, 221;
106; reflexive video-141, 148–149; short-term full acceptance 18; gameness 20; impression
100, 101; team-based focused 105, 106; team- management 41, 42; spoiled identity 22
based rapid site-switching 106; traditional going native 7, 20–21, 35, 36, 42–43, 46, 52, 158,
18, 104, 112, 206, 218; video- 141, 148–149; 159; see also over-rapport
virtual 216, 217, 222 grounded theory 68, 101
Ethnography at the Edge 19 guilt 26, 41, 46, 72, 73, 117, 121, 161
Euphoria (book) 186
euphoria (concept) 50, 186–187, 189, headwork 25, 157–158, 163, 164, 167
191–193 healthcare 70, 99, 100, 102, 103, 104, 108, 109,
exiting the field 157–168, 165 110
exiting types 165 heroism 76, 192
exposure 83, 86, 90, 91, 92–93, 94, 96–97 homeworking 215
extra-methodology 20 honesty 5, 9, 10, 35, 54, 63, 90, 91, 96, 147, 221
‘extreme’ ethnography 43–44 hostage exit 158, 164, 165, 165, 167
230
230 Index
human dignity 66, 71, 72, 117 lone researcher rapid ethnography 106, 107,
human rights 66, 68, 69, 71, 72, 75, 117 108–110
lone researchers 100, 105, 108, 110
ideal-type ethnographers 1, 7, 10, 50 loneliness 70, 75
identity: academic 119; ethical 119, 122 long takes 144, 151n3
identity catharsis 115, 121–122
identity spaces 158, 166–167 MacDougall, David 143, 146, 149, 150
identity struggles 35, 36, 37, 41–42 making sense 6, 9, 209; of field material 186–193;
identity work 35, 41–42, 45, 93, 115, 123 see also meaning-making
illegal graffiti writing 15, 17, 25 Managing Overflows 191
illegality 117 maquila culture 142
immersed ethnography 34–46 maquila labour 145, 148
immersive fieldwork 21–22, 25, 26–27; see also Maquiladora 141–151
deeply-immersive fieldwork master craftsman metaphor 197
immigration detention centre 66–77 masturbation 133, 135
imposter syndrome 35, 41–42, 60–61, 91–92, 93 meaning inscription, of events 178
informants 16, 21, 24, 28, 101, 102, 105, 118, 165 meaning-making 3, 171, 174–175, 178; see also
information overflow 190–191 sense-making
informed consent 8, 118, 119, 134, 219–220 medical anthropology 110
Ingold, Tim 198, 210 mental health 60, 66, 70, 73, 74, 90
inscribing meaning, to events 178 message aspect, of writing 88
insider ethnography 21 methodological challenges 35, 36, 38–39, 131
insider knowledge 25 methodology, research: choice of 17; education
insider research 130–131 in 209; ethnography as 3, 4, 15, 29, 30n2,
insiderness 18, 19, 20, 25, 133, 137n5, 165, 183 30n5, 57, 196, 197, 210; extra- 20; and online
insiderness-outsiderness 158, 166 research 218–219, 220; participatory 132–133;
integrity 28, 54, 90 queer 89; reflexive 6, 148–151; on sensitive
intellectual safety 10 topics 127; see also autoethnography; rapid
intensity, of fieldwork 101, 102, 103–104, 111 ethnography
intercourse, sexual 134, 135 methods, research 66, 69–71; covert 117, 118,
International Response Team (IRT) 38, 43 119; credibility of 90; dependability of 90;
interpretative freedom 144 ethnographic 44, 45, 104, 196, 197, 198, 199,
interpretive autoethnography 89, 90 205–206, 209, 217; participatory 67; queer 89;
iterative nature, of ethnography 111, 157, 181, reliability of 90; see also autoethnography; rapid
183, 208 ethnography
interviewing 17, 84, 197, 206, 224 migrants 66, 71, 75, 120, 122–123, 213; see also
intimacy 199–200, 209; in autoethnography 94 refugees
IRT (International Response Team) 38, 43 mode of subjectification 116
isolation 50, 70, 75, 215 morality 23, 36, 57, 62, 66, 163; see also deception
multivocality 142
jottings 171, 172–179, 182, 183 municipalities 189–190
King, Lily 186 non-academic written outputs 74

knots 195, 198, 199, 201–202 non-disclosure 115, 117, 119, 120, 123
Kruk, Sebastian 205–206 nonfiction works, ethnographic 144
normalization 51, 60–61, 63, 64, 116
Larcom, Joan 187 novice ethnographers 15–30
Latour, Bruno 188–189 novice researchers 60–61
leadership 21, 130; and fieldnotes 171, 173,
174–175, 177–178, 179, 180, 181 “objective” researcher 71, 73–76
learning: about communities 61–63; of objectivity 4, 7, 88
ethnography 196–199 observation: contextual 177; deviant 177;
life-world-analytical ethnography 19 discursive 177; field 214, 215; participant see
listening 36, 73, 129, 143, 145, 203–204, 205, participant observation
207 observational cinema 142–145
literature review 67, 95, 106, 181 OMCs (outlaw motorcycle clubs) 15, 26, 28
lived experience 5, 6, 19, 67, 90, 95, 115, 120 one-sided theorizing 158, 165, 167
Löfgren, Orvar 191 online ethnography 216, 217, 222
231
Index 231
ontological shift, in ethnographic methodology 4 rapid ethnography 7, 99–112, 101, 106–107,

ontology 117, 189, 219 108–112
opportunities, of online research 221–222 Rapid Research Evaluation and Appraisal Lab
oppressive power 116, 120 (RREAL) sheets 111
Organization Studies 1, 42, 84, 85, 96, 160, 189, rapid site-switching ethnography 106
222; autoethnography in 90–91 rapport 17, 22, 50, 53, 103, 119, 127, 200; in
organizational culture 70, 100, 102, 105, 196, immersed ethnography 36; in online research
205–206 220; over- 20–21, 165
organizational life 21, 69, 76, 171, 215, 218 reflexive approach: to organizational ethnography
outlaw bikers 15, 17, 20, 22, 23, 24–25, 26, 27, 1–10; to research ethics 116, 124
28, 29 reflexive cinema 146, 149–150
outlaw motorcycle clubs (OMCs) 15, 26, 28 reflexive devices, in filmmaking 148–151
outsider research 25, 45–46, 55, 56, 130–131, 133, reflexive distance 205
137n5 reflexive methodologies 6, 148–151
outsiderness 158, 166 reflexive practice 5–6, 63, 110, 116
outward gaze, of ethnography 83 reflexive video-ethnography 141, 148–149
overflow of information 190–191 reflexivity, of researcher: in audio-visual
over-rapport 20–21, 165; see also going native ethnography 141–151; in ethnography 5–8,
overt research 115, 118, 119 16, 22, 37, 51, 71, 90, 100, 157, 207; subjective
145–148
pandemic, Covid-19 213, 214–222, 222–223, 224 Refugee Week 74–75, 77n2
paradoxical theorizing 158, 165, 165 refugees 75, 213; see also migrants
participant observation 3–4, 70, 197, 204, 223; rejection in the field 55–57, 64
and fieldnotes 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 178, 182 related conversations, being part of 85
participant shadowing 145 relational distance 17, 28, 38, 85, 120–121, 158,
participatory methodologies 132–133 160
participatory research 67, 150 reliability, of methods 90
patterns, in data 179, 181–182 reporting 44, 62, 87, 105, 192, 197
performative pull 221 reproduction, biological 129, 135
personal limitations 5, 60 rescue from height exercise 40–41
physical distance 167 research context, and methods 69–71
physical threats 53–54, 61 research design 8, 17, 44, 104, 105, 108, 117;
Poghosyan, Azat 207 and children 133–136; and online research
police 26, 28, 117; Brazilian 51, 52, 53–54, 55–56, 216–218
59–60; French 157, 160, 161, 162, 166–167, research diaries 71, 177
168n1 research dissemination 67, 96, 131, 141
political activism 76, 158, 166 research ethics see ethics, research
politics 68, 69, 71, 123, 176 research gatekeepers 21, 24, 25, 28, 115, 123,
pornography 131 165
positionality, of researcher 22, 26, 90, 103, 110 research methodology see methodology, research
power: dynamics of 52, 56, 88, 115; oppressive research methods see methods, research
116, 120 research questions 69, 87, 101, 106, 108, 179, 181,
prison labour study 52, 56, 59, 62 216, 217
privacy 24, 42, 126, 130, 134, 196, 199–200, 209, research settings 27, 28, 30n4, 52, 53, 57, 58, 62,
219 165; and immersed ethnography 36, 38–39,
private citizen, ethnographer as 21, 27–29 41, 45
privilege 29, 39, 67, 89, 120, 121, 122, 148 research subjects 69, 88, 89, 95, 127, 165; and
protection 116, 117, 119, 128–129, 130 covert research 117, 120, 121, 123
proximity: in autoethnography 94; to participants researcher anxiety see anxiety, researcher
18, 25, 42 researcher gaze 61–62, 83, 86, 88, 89
public health 67 researcher reflexivity see reflexivity, of researcher
publication 74, 87, 96, 105 researcher self 37, 44, 116, 121
researcher stress 50, 55, 58, 59, 60, 103
QuakeRescue 35, 38–39, 42, 43, 45 resonance 83, 90–92, 96
qualitative research 69, 108, 109, 110, 182, 215, respect 9–10, 26, 54, 55–56, 196, 201, 202
220 revelatory exit 158, 164, 165, 165
queer autoethnography 89 rich data 102, 103, 105
quick ethnography 100, 101, 103, 105, 106 rigour, academic 118
232
232 Index
risk 50, 51, 52–55, 57–60, 61–62, 63, 64; see also teachers, working with 132–133
danger; safety teaching ethnography 196–199, 208
Rombach, Björn 189–190, 191 teaching knot 201–202
Rouch, Jean 141, 146, 149 team-based focused ethnography 105, 106
RREAL (Rapid Research Evaluation and team-based rapid site-switching ethnography 106
Appraisal Lab) sheets 111 technological innovation 104–105
technologies of the self 116
“safe” spaces, for ethnographers 9–10, 58, 130, 150 technology 103, 188–189, 191, 217, 219, 221,
safety 10, 53, 54, 58, 60–61, 63, 127; see also 222, 223, 224
danger; risk telos 116
sameness 166 temporality 3
SAR (search and rescue) 34–36, 37–38, 39, 40, text analysis 101, 197
41–42, 42–43, 43–44, 45 textwork 25, 157–158, 163, 164, 167
saturation, of data 43, 158, 159, 160, 164, 183, 205 themes, in data 39–40, 179, 180, 181, 182
scholarship 67–69, 72, 76, 89 theoretical saturation 43, 158, 159, 160, 164, 183,
school teachers, working with 132–133 205
scoping stage, of research 105, 106, 108, 110 theorizing types 158, 164–165, 165, 167
scratch notes 171, 172–179, 182, 183 theory 101, 104, 166, 189, 196, 203, 209; of
search and rescue (SAR) 34–36, 37–38, 39, 40, culture 107, 187; and exiting the field 158, 159,
41–42, 42–43, 43–44, 45 164, 165; and rapid ethnographies 112
secrecy 118 Thrashing Buffalo Reservation 186–187
self-assessment, of suitability for ethnography threats 24, 25, 26, 117, 121, 128, 222, 223;
15–30 physical 53–54, 61
self-doubts, of researchers 35, 41–42, 91–92, 93 time frame reason, for ending fieldwork 160
sense-making 6, 9, 148–149, 209; of field material timely findings, from rapid ethnographies 99–112,
186–193; see also meaning-making 101, 106–107
sensitive topics, ethnography on 126–137 total immersion 37, 38
SexAFIN 126–137 traditional ethnography 18, 104, 112, 206, 218
sexual intercourse 134, 135 transformation process, of ethnography 158–159
sexuality education, of children 126–138 trauma 69–70, 71, 72, 222
shared emotions 62 Turski, Robert 204–205
short-term ethnographies 100, 101
singular universals 83 uncomfortable experiences, in the field 57, 61,
social change 67, 73, 76, 133, 187 63–64, 165, 166
social groups 128, 148–151 United Nations Convention on the Rights of the
social issues 69, 74, 75, 76 Child 128, 130
social justice 66, 67, 68, 69, 71, 76 unknown, the 63, 91, 192
social phenomena 148–151 unshared emotions 62
social research 16, 17, 18, 115, 117, 118, 128
socially situated researchers 62 Vertov, Dziga 141, 143, 147
spatio-temporal distance 224 video-ethnography 141, 148–149
speakability 130–131 virtual ethnography 216, 217, 222
speaking voice 142–145 visibility, of researcher 90; through deception
Staff Solutions 119–120 122–123
standards 7, 21–22, 103, 118, 130, 134 vulnerability 66, 67, 71, 72, 73, 75, 76, 200, 214;
stigmatization: academic 21–23; courtesy 22–23; of ethnographers 1, 19, 50, 63, 83, 86, 91,
of deviance 21 93–95, 96, 214
Strauss, Anselm 29, 43, 176, 183
stress, of researcher 50, 55, 58, 59, 60, 103 Wojtkiewicz Punty, Magdalena 206–207
study design and set-up phase, of rapid wrap-up phase, of rapid ethnography 109–110
ethnographies 106 writing up, of fieldnotes 170–171, 172–179,
subjective reflexivity 145–148 182–183
subjects, of research see research subjects
suffering 72, 73 Yarl’s Wood Befrienders (YWB) 67, 69, 70–71,
superficial fieldwork 25–26 73, 77n1
swift water rescue training 38–39
symbolic power 130 Zoom 217–218, 220–221

Untitled

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Untitled

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Untitled

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

i

Neil Sutherland is a senior lecturer at UWE, Bristol, UK.

Hugo Gaggiotti is a professor at UWE, Bristol, UK.

Edited by Jenna Pandeli, Neil Sutherland

Cover Image: Getty Images

1 Outlining a practical, emotional and reflexive approach to

3 Too close for comfort? The challenges and unexpected consequences of

4 Removing the rose-​tinted glasses: Fear, risk and being uncomfortable in

5 Choosing to reach beyond academic goalposts: Ethnographer as

6 Learning and doing autoethnography: Resonance, vulnerability and

7 Rapid ethnographies in organizations: Ensuring rich data and timely

8 Deception as a moral project: Covert research and the construction of

9 Ethnography on sensitive topics: Children’s sexuality education in Spain 126

10 Reflexivity in audio-​visual ethnography: Thinking through practice 141

11 Exiting the field: When does an ethnography finish? 157

12 Jotting it down: Writing and analysing fieldnotes 170

14 Learning to fly: On teaching the ethnographic craft 195

15 Futures of organizational ethnography: (Post)pandemic reflections and

Rafael Alcadipani is a professor of Management at FGV-​

Bruna Alvarez is a lecturer in Anthropology at Autonomous University of Barcelona (UAB) and

David Courpasson is a professor of Sociology at Emlyon Business School and director of

Barbara Czarniawska holds an MA in Social and Industrial Psychology fromWarsaw University

Rick Delbridge is a professor of Organizational Analysis at Cardiff Business School. He joined

Paul Eisewicht is currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Social Sciences at

Tomasz Ludwicki is a director at The International Management Center at the Faculty

Estel Malgosa is a PhD candidate in Anthropology at the Autonomous University of Barcelona

Anna Modzelewska is an assistant professor in the Department of Management and Social

approaches to provide a greater understanding of the experiences of marginalized and

Christian Johann Schmid is currently a postdoctoral researcher and coordinator of the

Cecilia Vindrola-​Padros is a medical anthropologist interested in applied health research and

2 Jenna Pandeli et al.

4 Jenna Pandeli et al.

Despite the relatively uncomfortable aspect of exposing one’s personal limitations,

What part does reflexivity have in an ethnographic project?

6 Jenna Pandeli et al.

Should we read and write about the emotions of ethnographers?

8 Jenna Pandeli et al.

Is ethnographic research inexplicably linked with ethical dilemmas?

How can we create spaces to discuss these tensions?

10 Jenna Pandeli et al.

12 Jenna Pandeli et al.

Neyland, Daniel. (2008). Organisational Ethnography. London: Sage.

Emotions, ethnography, and

16 Christian J. Schmid and Paul Eisewicht

2.1 Ethnographic research: easier said than practically done!

Check yourself before you wreck yourself 17

18 Christian J. Schmid and Paul Eisewicht

2.2 Deep immersion: under the influence of pioneering

Check yourself before you wreck yourself 19

2.2.1 A.k.a. “life-​world-​analytical ethnography”

2.2.2 A.k.a. “criminological verstehen”

20 Christian J. Schmid and Paul Eisewicht

2.2.3 A.k.a. “ethnographic gameness”

2.2.4 There is no “playing it safe” in any ethnography

Check yourself before you wreck yourself 21

2.3 The triangle chokehold of ethnography: confessional tales from

2.3.1 The scientist: let’s talk about … academic stigmatization!

22 Christian J. Schmid and Paul Eisewicht

Check yourself before you wreck yourself 23

2.3.2 The fieldworker: Let’s talk about … academic (self) exploitation!

4 Removing the rose-tinted glasses: Fear, risk and being uncomfortable in

10 Reflexivity in audio-visual ethnography: Thinking through practice 141

Rafael Alcadipani is a professor of Management at FGV-

Cecilia Vindrola-Padros is a medical anthropologist interested in applied health research and

2.2.1 A.k.a. “life-world-analytical ethnography”

Schmid, Christian J. (2012). ‘Rockerclubs. Eine post-traditionale Vergemeinschaftungsform unter den

Immersed ethnography in practice –some reflections

• A ten-month study in a UK all-male private prison (Bridgeville) exploring prison labour