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Choosing interviews. Doing interviews
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Choosing interviews
Given the contemporary context in which victims’ testimonies have been silenced in New Zealand, I quickly decided to centralize interviews within primary research. Through interviews, I hoped to expose realities that were hidden from view and to allow those most affected by state violence to speak for themselves. Interviews provided a chance for me to question victims about their experiences over their lifetimes – from being removed from their families, through their time in state ‘care’ institutions, to the long-term legacy of violence on their lives and their ongoing attempts to secure redress.
I dovetailed interviews with an extensive analysis of official documents. With the assistance of a local law firm that had accessed material as part of discovery for tak- ing legal cases, I gained consent from 105 victims to examine their official files. I worked through hundreds of boxes of material, including reports from social welfare workers, boys’ and girls’ homes, police, corrections, counsellors, psychiatrists, health professionals, finance bodies, lawyers, among others. My approach was to analyse a victim’s documentation before interviewing them.
Working through the documents, it soon became clear that I had to allow vic- tims the space to guide the interviews as much as possible. The main reason for this was that victims’ voices were squeezed out by official writers who filed reports in line with pre-established agendas. This was apparent in every form of documentation. For example, institutional workers recorded a child’s delinquen- cies and dysfunctions in minute detail, but they noted almost nothing of children’s skills, interests or positive personality traits. Administrative reports upheld the common stigmatization and criminalization of children in care. This continued into other domains – so, for example, probation and correctional officers focused almost exclusively on the ‘risk’ characteristics of those they encountered. Moreover, officials rarely recorded state violations. For instance, social welfare institutions retained remarkably ‘clean’ files that did not register harmful punish- ments, or violence by staff members. Official disclosures were rare, as institutions wished to avoid public scrutiny or official intervention. This skewed reporting took on its own ‘magical administration’ authority, as a lack of recording – under
conditions where we expect events will be recorded – meant that abuse just ‘did not happen’ (Cohen, 2001).
Institutional interests could also be observed within documents led by victims’ advocates. For example, victims’ lawyers produced statements that viewed state insti- tutions and their workers in almost entirely negative terms. In a bid to propel claims, they logically focused on victims’ negative experiences. While necessary, in terms of taking claims through an adversarial legal system, it presented another distorted source from a research perspective.
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Following this analysis, and over a period of two years, I interviewed 45 victims from the larger 105 cohort. I chose a storytelling approach, with the intention that victims would have the freedom to fully guide our discussions and would not, once more, be subsumed under another’s agenda, albeit well-meaning. In doing so, victims challenged the state’s silencing of violence and harm. Yet, beyond this, they gave a more nuanced account of themselves, their time in care, their victimi- zation and claims. For example, they presented a ‘fuller’ account of themselves, not just as ‘abuse claimants’ or ‘delinquents’ but as parents, siblings, children, employees, community workers, artists, gardeners, and so on. Further, they regu- larly remarked on how physical and sexual violence (that is often seen) entwined with psychological violence or social disadvantage (that often goes unseen). They spoke of the ways in which they perpetrated harms against other children, while also being victimized themselves. They also noted complicated relationships with residential workers as they received love and care from some while enduring abuse from others. They vented anger and despair at their ongoing treatment by official agencies but they also relied on state officials to recognize their histories and to assist in repairing harms. Overall, these unstructured encounters allowed interviewees to say what they felt was important and, in turn, they exposed mul- tiple complexities. In gaining some control over what could be told, many interviewees related events that they had never told anyone else (see Stanley, 2016, for a fuller account).
Doing interviews
Given the social and political nature of criminological topics, it is important to take a reflexive approach to research. Reflexivity allows us to consider the ‘ways in which knowledge is produced’ – for instance, it interrogates ‘hidden biases, con- flicts of interest and assumptions’ and it permeates ‘all aspects of the research’ from how we decide what to research right through to how we disseminate findings (Lumsden and Winter, 2014: 2). Certainly, the process of doing interviews brought many challenges that ultimately had an impact on the nature of produced knowl- edge in this project. Here, I consider four elements – access, building trust, speaking out and emotionality – that influenced how I undertook interviews, ana- lysed data and disseminated findings.
Access
Victims of institutional violence are a relatively difficult group to access. When I began the research, there was no ‘survivor’ group that I might contact, and govern- ment agencies maintained the privacy of claimants. However, this research developed after my contact with a lawyer who represented hundreds of claimants. After several discussions, she agreed to include a note from me – requesting consent to look at claimants’ legal files and to register their interest in being interviewed – in her firm’s newsletter. Having assumed that I might attract 20 or 30 claimants, I was over- whelmed by the 105 who quickly replied.
As shown in Table 14. 1, research participants reflect a broad range of ages, with most born in the 1960s. While different ethnicities are represented, there are few Pasifika in the study. Mā ori are also under-represented given that (neo)colonial dis- crimination had ensured that this indigenous group was readily institutionalized from the 1970s (often accounting for over 80% of residents). Further, it is a signifi- cantly male cohort. We know that girls were victimized within state institutions; however, few women have chosen to make a legal case. There are many theories on why this has occurred: perhaps women do not want to face adversarial court cases or to publicly expose their story. Invariably, these issues mean that the resulting data is male focused.
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TaBle 14. 1 The 105 respondents
| Gender | Male Female | 97 respondents |
| Ethnicity | European/Pā kehā | 55 respondents |
| Mā ori | ||
| Pasifika | ||
| Asian | ||
| Birth years | 1940–49 | 7 respondents |
| 1950–59 | ||
| 1960–69 | ||
| 1970–79 | ||
| 1980–89 |
Interviewing 45 respondents, I travelled around New Zealand, from the far north down to Otago in the south. I covered thousands of kilometres. Interviewees wel- comed me warmly into their homes and I often spent whole days with them and their families. Nineteen of these respondents were in prison, and had revolved through correctional institutions since leaving state care. Out of all the interviews, these were the most difficult.
Taking the mantle of ‘legal visitor’, many prison officers helpfully assisted me to establish interview times. With administration in place, I then wrote to prisoners to reconfirm our arrangement and provide them with a clear time for our meeting. My troubles began, however, when I arrived at the gates. Among other things, officers did not always provide reasonably private spaces for the interviews, and I regularly argued with officers who interrupted interviews as it was now ‘lock-down’ time and the interviewee had to return to his cell. On one occasion, I flew from Wellington to Dunedin (1. 5 hours), hired a car and drove 45km to the prison, only to be informed that the interview should end after 25 minutes.
Further, notwithstanding common assumptions that prisoners are a ‘captive audi- ence’, I could also struggle to access them. Trying to interview one man became particularly tiresome. Having previously established an interview time, I arrived at Auckland prison (after travelling 2. 5 hours) to be told that the interviewee had been taken to court. I arranged another visit and returned home. A few days before this new interview time, I rang the prison to reconfirm and was told that the man had transferred to Whanganui. From here, I rearranged the interview with Whanganui prison and arrived (after a three-hour car journey) to be told that he had been re- transferred to Auckland that morning. I finally reached him in Auckland, six weeks later. While this example was frustrating, in terms of my own costs and time, it also clarified an interesting research point. Within state care, children were subject to constant placement changes, a situation that left them isolated, disconnected and ever-fearful. It was not unusual for children to be moved a dozen times over a few years. And, for claimants who remain within institutions, it seems that little has changed. Institutional logistics continue to be prioritized over the wellbeing of those detained by the state.
Building trust
A vital element of this project has been developing trust with interviewees. I often spent hours with people – talking about life, cooing over children, making cups of tea or gardening. I regularly did things that people would not class as research but these actions have been absolutely vital to gaining data. During these periods of con- nection, interviewees and their loved ones could take measure of me, ask questions about my career or life, and confirm my research intentions. They had a chance to ‘suss’ me out.
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Part of the process of building trust relates to how researchers acknowledge dif- ference. Trust is more easily secured when researchers have empathy with interviewees; however, it is consolidated when researchers reflect on their place within the research, and acknowledge the difference and distance between research parties (Agger and Buus Jensen, 1996).
In many respects, I benefited from attributes that are difficult to change: I’m small in stature and high voiced, so I do not appear as imposing or intimidating. Further, many men who had been sexually assaulted commented that they could never talk to
a male researcher. Thus, my female attributes impacted on my ability to access inter- viewees and gain their trust (see Green, 2003; Huggins and Glebbeek, 2003). At the same time, as a Pā kehā, I regularly reflected on my cultural difference and my lack of te reo (language) that would enable a fuller connection with Mā ori respondents.
My status – as a university lecturer and author – garnered a more mixed response. For the most part, interviewees considered that I held a trustworthy position and they felt optimistic that their stories would be published. But I often had to minimize expectations of what I might achieve. I also had to be aware that my academic status could be a barrier. After replying to one interviewee’s questions about my career, he immediately noted the differences in our lives, particularly as we were born just a few months apart. It was an uncomfortable acknowledgement of our unequal posi- tions, and gave me a firm reminder of my ability to ‘study, rather than endure’ (Farmer, 2003: 224; Skeggs, 2002). For some minutes afterwards, the interviewee gave clipped responses to my questions. In short, my status could also close doors.
Still, my academic background was absolutely preferable to that of others who took an interest in their lives. Many interviewees had some distrust of professionals – including social workers or lawyers – who they felt operated with their own agendas. This issue was particularly emphasized in one of my later visits at a local prison. As was often the case, I was already sitting in an interview room when a prison officer arrived with the interviewee. The officer quickly left and the man sat down across the table. He glowered, arms crossed. I gave my name, but he looked away, saying noth- ing. I had never experienced such coldness during these interviews, and so I again gave my name and explained why I was there. At this point, his whole demeanour changed as he jumped up, shook my hand and apologized profusely for his rudeness. He had forgotten the date, expected me the following day and had thought I was a Corrections’ psychologist, to whom he does not speak. He, alongside others, was wary of psychologists who acted ‘for the department’ rather than solely in the inter- ests of individual clients. Compared to others, then, my academic role provided a stamp of trustworthy approval.
Speaking out
The purpose of building trust is to create conditions in which interviewees feel that they can open up. Of course, the ability of victims of state violence to speak out is determined by multiple factors beyond any researcher’s control. For instance, many interviewees discussed how, for many years, they did not talk about their childhood experiences to anyone. Struggling against psychological harms – including anxiety, depression, suicidal feelings, sleeping difficulties, low self-esteem, isolation or hypervigilance – they often felt shame, guilt, fear, stress and despair about their past (Middleton et al., 2014; Stanley, 2016). It was too painful to talk, and many victims subsequently tried to silence the past or cover it through substance abuse. Within this research, interviewees had addressed many of these ‘intrapersonal barriers’ to disclo- sure (Tener and Murphy, 2015) – after all, they had chosen to speak with me – however,
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remnants of these stresses remained. As a researcher, I had to be attentive to make sure that I did not push against their defence barriers (Stanley, 2012).
Even when interviewees took a strident approach to relating their histories, we often found that language could not really cover their trauma (Laub, 1992). Their ‘[w]ords slipped and fell about … [because] we did not have shared meanings built from shared histories’ (Lambert et al., 2003: 42). Several interviewees said they found it difficult to describe their feelings of horror, isolation, terror or self-loathing that developed through childhood and that continued, in different forms, into the present. Similarly, interviewees’ attempts to relate stories in a linear way often failed as the past so often intruded into the present, and insights from the present imposed on the past.
Moreover, these victims also felt nervous about how their stories would be received, especially as their claims had previously faced official challenge. Speaking about past abuse or state violence has risks. Bystanders can disbelieve victims, con- demn them, blame them, or tarnish them with false memories (Tener and Murphy, 2015). In the wake of disclosure, onlookers can regard victims with ‘new eyes’. They wonder what other secrets they have, they question whether their sexual abuse has led them to paedophilia, and frequently assume that a care placement meant they were ‘trouble’. They can also question why victims can’t just ‘get over it’, seeing ongoing despair as another indication of personal dysfunction (Stringer, 2014; Walklate, 2011). Under these circumstances, many victims made claims when they felt safe in being ‘one amongst many’. And, even now, several interviewees had not even spoken to their family members about their past, and a significant number requested a pseudonym. As a researcher, I had to be deeply attentive to the social consequences of speaking out during the interviews and, later, through my analysis, discussion and writing.
Emotionality
It is impossible to do interviews that address what state harms mean and ‘feel like’ to victims without bringing ‘unpleasant emotions’ to the fore (Huggins and Glebbeek, 2003: 378). Emotionality took a constant presence over this research. It emerged during interviews and it continued for many years for me.
In the first place, recounting violent pasts is a struggle. Many interviewees said that although they appreciated the opportunity to speak, it also brought up negative emotions. They felt scared, sad, angry, ashamed, embarrassed and pained to discuss past abuse. On many occasions, interviewees also had to juggle interviews while presenting another ‘face’ to others. For example, one female interviewee sent her son for a day in the local city as she didn’t want him to know about her past. In other circumstances, imprisoned interviewees spoke of the significant difficulties in return- ing to times of vulnerability and harm within a closed environment. The ‘face’ required to open up on these issues directly challenges the staunch, non-emotional, hard face necessary to survive prison life (Jewkes, 2008; Medlicott, 2001).
Further, while I hoped that interviewees could finish our discussions by talking about good, secure areas of life (Rosenthal, 2003), this was not always possible. Many interviewees found life difficult, and they often reflected on how their child- hood experiences had led to substance abuse, difficulties in personal relationships, illiteracy, poverty or unemployment. Although all interviewees demonstrated resil- ience and humour ‘in spades’, they still lived with the legacy of victimization. Sometimes their sense of loss was palpable. Nonetheless, most also remarked on the soothing power of the interview, as it gave a rare opportunity to talk freely about their experiences and perceptions. Moreover, they appreciated that I believed their stories, listened without judgement, acknowledged them, and wanted to create change in how the state responded to their claims.
Through the research, I also struggled with my own emotions. During interviews, I felt anger, horror, sadness and outrage at what victims endured (Pickering, 2001). Sometimes, interviewees would check ‘are you OK? ’ before carrying on with their testimony of the most brutal victimization. Often, they helped me along with tea, cake, biscuits and, later, hugs. They cared for and looked after me. Beyond the content of the interviews, the most challenging elements emerged from the institutions I encountered. For example, at one prison, three officers took me aside before an interview to argue against highlighting prisoners’ victimization. At another prison, officers placed me and the interviewee in a windowless, dank room that still had water all over the floor from a burst pipe. On another occasion, in moving from one part of a prison to another, I was locked in a corridor for over quarter of an hour while officers ignored my persistent ‘buzzers’ to open the door (strangely, when an officer arrived in the space, waved at the camera and pressed the buzzer once, the door opened instantly). In sum, then, I felt more challenged by the lack of care within prisons and I often emerged from these interviews feeling upset or annoyed at a system that continued to harm.
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The emotional impact of interviewing also developed, in different ways, over a period of years. This was most apparent in the fact that having completed and tran- scribed all the interviews, I found that I was unable to write anything. This continued for well over a year, during which I felt incapacitated by the sheer volume and inten- sity of victims’ experiences. I struggled, too, with the sense of responsibility to ‘get the story right’ while victims waited for ‘their book’ to emerge. In some way, I felt ashamed of these reactions – on paper, I’m supposed to be an efficient, objective and non-emotional ‘expert’ (Pickering, 2001). Over the years, many interviewees have given me consoling and encouraging words. My only solace is that I believe that my basic ‘human’ responses have meant that my resulting work is stronger in its capture of the emotional and political impacts of state violence.
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