Reflexivity

Reflexive practice is increasingly recognised as a vital component of good research, particularly associated with feminist research practices. It formed an especially cogent aspect of this research, which is informed by my own position as researcher and advocate. It is also pertinent in HIV-related research, which is a politicised paradigm informed by activist-led demands for meaningful

128

involvement. Reflexive practice was an ongoing process as I conducted the research.

Reflexive practice requires the researcher to explicitly position themselves within their research, and to acknowledge the influences of their own views, context, experiences and role in shaping all aspects of the research (Green and Thorogood 2014). Foley presents a history of the emergence and development of reflexivity, within ethnography where it first appeared (Foley 2002). He suggests there are four forms of reflexivity in ethnography: confessional, theoretical, textual and deconstructive. The first of these he associates with feminist research approaches.

Foley (2002) charts his own development as a researcher, motivated by a desire to make academic writing more engaging and accessible, and to situate his work within a political context with his own ‘voice’. While Foley’s analysis specifically refers to ethnography, his description of reflexivity is useful. In particular, understanding that reflexivity emerged as a response to positivist social science, aiming to undermine the idea of ethnography as ‘fact’ and to situate the researcher within the research, is instructive, in a participatory research model focused on shared production, the assets of the community and individuals being researched, and a feminist recognition of the need to achieve a balance of power between the researcher and the ‘researched’. Understanding and critically examining my role as researcher supported the assets-based, feminist and participatory methodologies adopted, and, as Foley describes, facilitated a greater political positioning of the research.

Similarly, Dean (2017) outlines how reflexivity allows for the essentially political nature of all research to be accounted for, noting that objectivity is impossible: a myth that elides the perspective of the powerful with reason and objectivity. Reflexivity allows for a thoughtful positioning of the researcher and a framework to consider and engage with the researcher’s own social categories and positions and how these intersect with the research (Dean 2017). In chapter six of this thesis, I use Dean’s framework to provide a reflexive account of my own role and position in this study. Following Dean (2017), I make the case that this is not narcissism or navel-gazing, but an approach that makes the researcher

129

vulnerable through making them (me) visible. This makes visible a subjectivity that is unavoidable: there is always a researcher, collecting, analysing and presenting data in a way that is inherently subjective. Reflexivity allows this subjectivity to be brought into view and debate, and for the reader to draw their own conclusions (Dean 2017).

Recognising that social scientific research does not, and cannot, paint a picture of the world ‘as it is’, identifying ‘truths’, is a core tenet of reflexive research. I would argue it is also an essential aspect of truly participatory and feminist research, inasmuch as such practices aim to redress the implicit power imbalance between researcher and research participant. To contend that the researcher, through data collection and their own interpretation, evaluation, and writing, is able to access and describe the ‘truth’ of the experiences of others, is to imbue the researcher with significant power. More, by suggesting that the conclusions of the researcher, which may differ significantly from the interpretations of the research participant, are somehow more truthful or valuable by virtue of their position as external observer, is to establish and embed a fundamentally skewed imbalance of power. Both viewpoints are inherently valuable in the research process – the lived experience of the participant and the listening and analysis of the researcher each add an important element to the process of research, and must be accounted for. Reflexivity complicates and enriches both the research encounter itself and the interpretation of the researcher, creating space to engage with the process of research as well as the outcome. The tension between researcher and researched and the question of power is fundamental in research, and is part of the research process itself. Reflexive approaches facilitate a praxis that recognises this, and explores it as a part of the research and as generative of knowledge. This effectively expands the field of study, to include the process of research itself, allowing for a potential increase in critical ‘vigour’.

My aim is to recognise myself as researcher and also a participant in the research. In the next section I address participatory research practices in detail, but for now it is sufficient to define the participatory model as one in which participants are involved in all stages of the research, including defining the research questions and the analysis of the research data. Their role is not to

130

simply ‘be researched’ in a passive sense, but to be actively engaged in and hold ownership over the research as a whole.

Each of these presents challenges – the process of conducting reflexive research demands more, I think, from the researcher, in terms of both emotional input and honesty about challenges and failings. It also asks more of the participant – casting participants as co-producers creates a role that may not be what they sought when they signed up for a workshop or interview, especially if they have prior experience of taking part in research that did not adopt this approach. It was therefore critical in recruitment to describe the participatory nature of the research and what was expected of participants accurately and accessibly, but even so the approach assumes participants will wish to be engaged in knowledge generation in addition to sharing their own experiences.

There is, of course, a huge potential gulf between principles of methodology and methods in practice. In the course of doing research, I may lose sight of the tenets of feminist practice, and exercise more influence, where this is available to me. Reflexive practice is in effect a ‘check and balance’ in this process, by creating a framework in which as the researcher I regularly took a step back from analysing the data to also analyse myself in that data and ask: how has my involvement shaped it, how has my own experience or personality influenced how I am interpreting it? For this reason, data analysis informed by reflexivity is more adequate because it acknowledges that the priorities, views, beliefs and experiences of the researcher influence what is asked, seen and understood. Reflexivity can be a tool supporting the researcher to engage with questions such as why they want to do research, how to carry it out and their relationship with the community or group in which they carry out that research (Stevenson, Keogh et al. 2018). The extent to which they individually belong to that group, and why they feel this sense of belonging, and how the research process will both be influenced by this and influence it, are all productive questions to engage with. My first reflexive step as a researcher in this project is necessarily to address my position as researcher, and my commitment to reflexivity in the project. Why is it important that I remain aware of myself, my aims, experiences and priorities as a researcher? This speaks to my motivations in pursuing this research. I have

131

worked on HIV for a number of years, for a range of organisations in staff, volunteer and trustee roles. My professional life is rooted in the HIV response, and in that sense this PhD is a continuation and deepening of my professional self. I therefore have a wide professional interest in successfully completing this PhD and reaching conclusions that will have some interest or impact in the field. Reflexively, I recognise this may influence the way I pursue the research, and engaging with this was essential to ensuring that this influence was both proportionate and positive. Seeking impact can be positive in ensuring research is ambitious and follows the interesting findings rather than the easy route to completion, but can also represent a simplification or deviation from the research itself. However, if participants are leading the research in a direction likely to be less impactful, there will be tension between competing priorities – participatory and impactful outcomes may not overlap. Addressing and resolving such tensions was a key element of the reflexive process.

In addition to this professional investment is one that is more foundational. An important aspect of my identity as an individual is understanding myself as an advocate, an activist and an ally. The first refers to acting to raise issues, to find evidence and to make change. As an activist, I refuse to accept the status quo and act to demand change. Each of these means I have a primary interest in identifying the challenges in people’s experiences and in particular where the ‘system’ is failing. Being aware of this focus in my analysis was essential in mediating my analysis and reflecting on what I prioritised.

This conception of myself is vital for my own interest and commitment to the work that I do, and also has meaning in a wider sense. Many people working in HIV are themselves living with the virus, or belong to a community disproportionately affected by it. This, and the tradition of involvement and participation associated with HIV, gives significant currency to questions of motivation – why are you doing this work? It is a question I have been asked many times – by research participants, colleagues, supervisors and more. Why do I do this? Motivation and affect are questioned, and often linked to authenticity. In many ways, advocates are understood like superheroes – they seek to save the world, and they have origin stories that explain why. For people living with HIV, or gay men, for example, in many cases the motivation and origin of their advocacy is assumed

132

– of course they want to effect change in HIV, as it affects them directly. For a white, heterosexual woman not living with HIV, the ‘origin story’ is less clear, and so more questioned.

This is an interesting process, not least in the assumption that belonging to a community is sufficient to inspire advocacy for the rights of that community, and in what experiences are sufficient to inspire. Individual motivation does not always make for a good origin story. It is messy, incomplete, difficult, and sometimes even unconvincing. Experiences of illness and of violence led me to this work, alongside more prosaic factors such as chance encounters and professional interests. Even for people who are living with HIV, their route into ‘the work’ is often conflicted and unclear. These questions all, I suggest, link to how community is formed, and delineated. If you lack the right features for automatic entry, you have to prove your value and commitment to ‘get in’. This reminds me of the interview process for my first job – working in community engagement for an African organisation. I applied (my first ever proper application) as practice, really – I assumed the role would be given to an African person. I was surprised, then, when I was offered the position. Later, the CEO confided that he had also been surprised. My first name is quite common in African countries with British colonial histories, and he had assumed the woman coming to interview was of African origin. That mistake got me through the door, where I scored highest in the interview process and therefore got the role.

That sense that my position or role is based on merit (and perhaps privilege) but lacking authenticity is one I have experienced throughout my career. It has rarely been a suggestion made by others, but speaks more of my own personal fears. Placing my role and my right to be there in dialogue has contributed to my development of a reflexive praxis, and has, I believe, improved my work. I worked with that first organisation for four years, eventually as Acting CEO. Recently I bumped into the head of a partner organisation I worked with in that time, who in the early days had questioned whether I could do the work properly as a white, British person. In that conversation, he referred to me as a ‘powerful African woman’ and said that he hoped I would return. So sometimes outcome can overcome origin.

133

The question of who the individual is also relates to how advocacy is done. In my case, I have never been the ‘loud advocate’. As a teenager, I was involved in advocacy activities with Amnesty International. During the run up to the Iraq war, I organised candlelit vigils, letter writing and petitions. Others went on a ‘school strike’ and occupied the yard at the front of the building. That still quite neatly summarises the form of advocacy I enact. I once became involved with ACT UP London, an HIV advocacy group. The convenor of the group once super-glued himself to Gordon Brown (BBC News 2008). My major contribution to the group has been drafting an open letter and seeking signatures from politicians and the public (Strudwick 2015).

These experiences have led me to engage with the final aspect of identity I listed above, ‘ally’, which is perhaps the most critical but least widely recognised. The concept seems to have emerged within the sex workers rights and anti-racism movements, and has a largely online profile. In a blog, a sex worker writing under the name “eithnecrow”, describes the importance of giving primacy of voice and platform to people who belong to the community being discussed, in the context of a sex work-focused conference she had attended which gave little space for sex workers to describe their own realities ('eithnecrow' 2014, no page number):

It was, not for the first time, a case of marginalised people becoming objects of enquiry for others, and it made me think that it might be time for a broader discussion about how this sort of stuff happens, and what kind of invisible power dynamics allow it to go largely unchallenged. When this happens, we – as people interested in social justice and the dismantling of systems of oppression – have a problem. The existing hierarchies that dictate who should do the speaking and who should be spoken about are reinforced and reproduced.

The writer uses this experience to call for a more considered positioning of people from outside the sex worker community who through their professional or other position are given a platform to speak about sex workers, regardless of whether their intentions are positive. This is powerfully described as an ethical need “that when someone builds their career on the disenfranchisement (read: suffering) of others, their gains must be counterbalanced with equivalent (or ideally, greater) benefits to that community” ('eithnecrow' 2014). This acknowledgment is at the core of being an ally – recognising your own power and seeking in practice to

134

meaningfully promote the voice and interests of those you research over your own personal advantage.

It should also be recognised that in statements such as that above, other forms of power are being exerted. By both undermining the right to a voice or platform of those classed as ‘outsiders’, and demanding equivalent or greater benefits to accrue from the outsiders’ work, ‘eithnecrow’ is also wielding power. This form of identity-based power can work to silence people who do not belong to a particular group – but who defines that group and who belongs to it can also be contested, and is subject to the power of voices within that community. In these activist contexts, being perceived to have power can actually be disempowering, even silencing. More, individuals who do not share an identity may yet have valuable contributions to make, based on their expertise, work, or other aspects of shared experience. It would be inappropriate, for example, for me to speak on behalf of older women living with HIV, or take up a platform and silence the voices of older women living with HIV. But it would not be inappropriate for me to present the findings of my research.

There is an element of identity politics at play here, which can confound expertise with experience. Having experience of something does not necessarily connote expertise in it, any more than lacking an experience suggests you have nothing useful to contribute to a discussion. An example of this involves the musician Chrissie Hynde, who spoke in a newspaper interview about her experience of sexual assault, suggesting it was her own fault, and that women who dressed in certain ways or chose to be alone with men could expect no different (Murison 2015). As one commentator noted (Cosslett 2015, no page number):

The dawn of identity politics has led to a kind of individualism where having experience of something confers a special status, an assumed expertise. But just because Hynde was sexually assaulted doesn’t mean that she is an expert on sexual assault, on what causes it and on how it should be tackled.

Expertise can be built and acquired in different ways. Lived experience is a form of expertise but not the only kind, and nor is it complete. It can also be more or less powerful given how relevant the experience is and how it is deployed.

135

The question of ‘career-building’ is also a vital one. That language is in itself an exercise of power – it suggests selfish motives, a malign intent. The professionalisation of the HIV sector is often discussed negatively by activists. It is important to be aware of this, but professional development, career and salary are not in themselves negative goals or attributes. Many of the professionals who shape the HIV response are themselves living with HIV or from communities affected by HIV. Others have specialist skills, knowledge or training and make a positive contribution. There is a balance to be found, and this is part of being an effective ally: recognising the legitimacy of my own work, while also seeking to be involved appropriately. Rather than a simple distinction between professional and activist, erecting a dichotomy that people on either side can easily fall foul of, and failing to account for people who occupy both roles (for example HIV charity CEOs who are themselves living with HIV), it is more useful to consider the social, cultural and other forms of capital that shape access to and participation in this field. Some activists, and some professionals, have education, wealth and social capital, others have none. These distinctions are more fruitful to reflect on. This is all relevant to my own practice as an activist, a professional advocate and a researcher. My focus is on HIV, gender, marginalised communities and gender inequality. I am not living with HIV, I am a white, cisgender woman, I identify as heterosexual, and I have the advantages of education and opportunities. As a woman, I am subject to gender inequality, and I have experience of gender-based violence. In short, in terms of my professional work, I am mostly an outsider, pursuing a career focused on the experiences of others, but informed by shared