When I first arrived in Sihanoukville, Cambodia, in 2022, I quickly began to feel that no-one was willing to speak openly with me. More precisely, no-one was willing to tell the truth. At the time, the city was deeply entangled in scam operations and other forms of crime, and mistrust permeated the atmosphere. As one informant who ran a currency exchange business in Sihanoukville put it: ‘Among Chinese people here, everyone is afraid of each other. Even your closest friend might turn on you the next moment.’ Many people I spoke to, whether by choice or circumstance, were linked to grey or illicit economies. ‘If you run a restaurant,’ he said, ‘you can’t refuse to deliver food to the scam compounds, right? During the most dangerous period, I had a friend who worked in plumbing. He went into one of the compounds to do repairs and was kidnapped.’

When I explained that I was doing research, many people laughed. Some told me I was wasting my time. In an environment shaped by fear, coercion, and violence, it was clear that access could not be earned through formal introductions or academic credentials alone. Eventually, I began volunteering with civil society groups assisting victims of forced criminality in the city’s scam compounds—what the media often call ‘cyber slaves’. Even then, I was met with caution. One experienced volunteer warned me: ‘If the victims know you are trying to help them, they will tell you heartbreaking stories to gain your sympathy. What they are really after is money. Many of us have been misled before. Be careful.’

This encounter marked the beginning of my research on cyber slavery in Cambodia—part of what I elsewhere have called ‘Global China’s underbelly’ (Franceschini and Li 2023; Franceschini et al. 2025). It was not the first time I had worked under such conditions. Research on crime-related topics, especially when informants may be both victims and perpetrators, presents challenges that are both common and complex. Researchers must learn to navigate how to engage ethically and sensitively with individuals who are in danger or have experienced significant trauma. They need to find ways to access hidden or highly sensitive environments, often relying on information that is fragmented or difficult to verify. At the same time, they must manage their own physical and emotional safety while working in contexts that may involve surveillance, coercion, or reputational risk.

There is a growing body of literature that addresses the ethical and methodological considerations of conducting research in contexts shaped by trauma, stigma, and criminalisation (see, for instance, Newman et al. 2006). Similarly, scholars of criminology and sociology have examined the dangers and dilemmas of fieldwork within illegal or high-risk environments (see, for instance, Ferrell and Hamm 1998; Jamieson 2000; Varese 2022; Wong 2015). However, the emergence of new forms of crime, changes in victim profiles, shifting boundaries between legal and illegal activities, and regional variation all introduce new methodological and ethical challenges. As a result, prior research experiences and established frameworks must be regularly revisited and updated to remain relevant and responsive to changing realities in the field.

This essay draws on my field experiences researching three interrelated forms of harm: bride trafficking, trafficking for forced criminality in scam compounds, and technology-facilitated gender-based violence (TFGBV). In each of these contexts, I have worked closely with survivors, whistleblowers, and frontline responders to document patterns of abuse and systemic neglect. Although there is substantial scholarship on the social and legal implications of these crimes, much less has been written about how such research is carried out in practice. Questions of ethics, trauma sensitivity, and researcher responsibility remain underexplored in relation to these specific forms of crimes.

Rather than presenting new empirical findings, this essay reflects on the methodological process of conducting research in such complicated settings. It focuses on practical challenges and ethical dilemmas encountered across three key stages of fieldwork: access and trust-building, including the negotiation of entry points and gatekeepers; interviewing and in-field care, with attention to consent, emotional safety, and self-care for researchers; and data analysis and dissemination, focusing on the politics of representation, survivor voice, and long-term researcher–participant relationships. While grounded in my research in Southeast Asia and China, the reflections are intended to contribute to broader discussions about conducting ethical and resilient research in sensitive or morally complex environments.

Through these reflections, the essay argues that ethical fieldwork in crime-related contexts must be grounded in a commitment to non-judgemental inquiry, an openness to unexpected uncertainty, and a willingness to sit with ambiguity. Rigid categories such as casting participants strictly as victims or perpetrators, or interpreting events through rigid moral binaries, often fail to capture the complexity of lived experiences in such environments. Instead, it is through attending to contradiction, partial truths, and evolving narratives that researchers can begin to produce knowledge that is both ethically grounded and analytically meaningful.

Access and Trust-Building

Field researchers often rely on gatekeepers to initiate contact with participants (see also Hong Zhang’s essay in the present issue). In my research on trafficking and TFGBV, typical gatekeepers have included nongovernmental organisations (NGOs), survivor support networks, law enforcement officials, and lawyers. These actors often vouch for the legitimacy of the research and assist in introducing the researcher to potential participants, which is especially important in high-risk or hard-to-reach communities.

Existing literature has documented the important role NGOs play in anti-trafficking and gender-based violence (GBV) contexts, where they often act as brokers of trust (Cooper 2015; Van Leuven and Joye 2014). Partnering with such organisations was also my initial strategy for entering the field. However, gaining their trust is not always straightforward, particularly when these groups operate under strict government surveillance, as is the case in mainland China.

On one occasion, when I approached a volunteer rescue team working in the field of anti–human trafficking, their leader responded bluntly: ‘We do not want to talk to researchers or journalists. You come, interview some people, gain fame or funding for yourself, and we are the ones left exposed—drawing unwanted attention from the authorities and putting victims’ safety at risk.’ This sentiment was not unique, and I encountered similar reactions multiple times. Over time, I came to understand from where this reluctance was coming. Many grassroots organisations I approached were operating under immense pressure, often with limited staff, funding, and protection. In contexts where certain crimes are officially denied or ignored, their efforts to rescue victims can become politically sensitive or even criminalised. From their perspective, an outsider arriving to ‘do research’ could easily seem like a burden or, worse, a potential threat.

In such situations, researchers face two choices: step back and preserve a respectful relationship with their NGO contacts or adjust their research methodology towards a more participatory, practice-oriented approach. I have at times chosen the latter, setting aside my identity as a researcher temporarily to contribute meaningfully to the work of local rescue teams and support networks. By volunteering my time and applying my professional knowledge to victim assistance efforts, I aim to build trust through sustained engagement rather than extractive data collection. This strategy not only helps create a sense of safety among both victims and practitioners but also allows access to emerge organically over time. The same rescue team leader later told me: ‘I never thought you would actually stay and work with us for six months. I assumed you were just here to collect information and disappear. But if you are still interested in doing research, I can help you now.’

While this approach has opened important doors, it also raises ethical dilemmas that must be carefully navigated. Participating in frontline work inevitably affects power dynamics between the researcher and the community. It is essential to ensure that victims do not feel obligated to participate in interviews because of the assistance they have received. To maintain ethical boundaries, I make a clear distinction between support work and research, ensuring that interviews only take place after volunteer involvement has ended, and with individuals who have explicitly consented outside any aid relationship. This separation helps prevent the perception that help is conditional on participation, and it respects the autonomy of those who may already be navigating relationships of dependency and control.

Another effective pathway to access involves working through survivors who have organised themselves, either formally or informally, and who may act as peer researchers or liaisons. These individuals often use their insider status to connect researchers with others in the community who might otherwise distrust external actors (Lata 2021). When successful, the relationships established through survivor networks tend to be grounded in stronger mutual trust. This is partly because the power dynamics between researcher and participant are more balanced and the interaction feels less hierarchical or institutional. Many NGOs adopt standardised practices that categorise victims as clients or service recipients, which can affect how participants perceive researchers introduced through those channels (Emmel et al. 2007). In my experience, participants referred by survivor networks were generally more relaxed and open. They were more likely to share their feelings and personal stories with me. As one interviewee who had been trafficked for forced criminality told me: ‘It was my friend [another survivor] who told me to talk to you. She is a nice person, so I trust that you are a nice person, too. She said you would make sure my voice is represented correctly.’

Access may also be facilitated through legal or law enforcement intermediaries, although such relationships must be navigated with caution. As Wenqi Yang (2023) reflects on her negotiations while doing fieldwork on GBV with Chinese police, as a civilian and a woman in a male-dominated institution, she had to carefully manage relationships with the mostly male police gatekeepers who sponsored her access and with the officers she interviewed. Similar challenges arise in crime-related research more broadly. In my own fieldwork on bride trafficking, a Chinese law enforcement officer remarked:

You say these are trafficking cases, but we have our own perspective. [These women] accepted the bride price and, in some cases, even crossed the border illegally. It was only after they saw that the husband’s family was poor that they decided to escape. Why don’t you write about the husbands who were scammed by them?

Such statements reflect the contested nature of legal definitions and the moral ambiguity that researchers must confront in the field. Intermediaries such as police or legal actors can lend credibility and facilitate access to sensitive data or populations. However, they may also attempt to influence the framing of the research or impose their own interpretations on events. These actors often monitor the research process, either directly or indirectly, requiring the researcher to maintain a delicate balance between requests for access and the independence necessary for ethical and critical inquiry.

Regardless of the type of gatekeeper involved, establishing trust and rapport is never a one-time event but an ongoing process that unfolds throughout the course of fieldwork (Peacock 2001). In many cases, participants have experienced betrayal, coercion, or trauma, which understandably makes them cautious and guarded. Researchers must therefore be prepared to spend significant time nurturing relationships before approaching sensitive topics (Brennan 2005; Faulkner 2004). Clear communication, consistency, and emotional attentiveness are essential (Brennan 2005). It is also important to be transparent about the purpose and limits of the research, and to keep commitments modest and realistic (Faulkner 2004). Promising more than what can be delivered, even unintentionally, risks damaging trust and may reinforce feelings of disempowerment among participants.

Ethics and Safety in the Field

While I have emphasised the importance of long-term trust-building in the field, this approach also raises complex ethical questions about the research process itself. When researchers return for multiple conversations over time, should participants be asked to sign consent forms or provide oral consent again and again? Should all conversations be considered part of the research or only those explicitly labelled as interviews?

Many studies have shown that traditional one-off consent procedures are insufficient in sensitive fieldwork (Duong 2015; Siegel and de Wildt 2015; UNIAP 2008). In long-term or multi-contact fieldwork, ethical practice involves securing repeated consent at various stages to respect participants’ changing comfort levels and autonomy (Findley et al. 2024). Rather than relying on a single initial consent, it is now common practice for researchers to adopt dynamic informed consent approaches, allowing participants to revisit and reaffirm (or withdraw) consent as the research progresses (Yea 2015).

In my own fieldwork, this ongoing dialogue is essential. Many of my participants are whistleblowers or informants with deep knowledge of criminal activities, or victims of human trafficking who may have recently endured severe betrayal. Revisiting research objectives together and allowing participants to reassess their condition and redefine the extent of their engagement are essential.

A representative case is Mei (pseudonym), a Chinese survivor of human trafficking for forced criminality in a scam compound in Myanmar. When I met her, she had recently been rescued from the compound and was still recovering from severe physical and psychological trauma. Initially, she agreed to an online interview and signed the consent form electronically. But when the scheduled time came, she disappeared. A few days later, she reappeared not for the interview, but to ask whether I could simply talk with her. She made clear that she did not want her words recorded or used in any way. I agreed, and we spoke informally. She shared deeply personal reflections about her past and what the future may hold.

Over time, as trust developed between us, Mei voluntarily offered to talk about her trafficking experience. She even said she wanted to show me evidence of what had happened. But at that time, she was still trapped in Myanmar, so I hesitated as it would be unethical to conduct a formal interview or ask her to revisit trauma while she was still in an unstable and unsafe environment. Her case powerfully illustrates the need for researchers to not only secure ongoing consent, but also to continuously evaluate the participant’s capacity and context to ensure that research engagement does not cause further harm. What someone is willing to share in a moment of trust should not automatically be taken as a green light to document or analyse; it must be weighed against their evolving situation and wellbeing.

Such caution also serves to protect the safety of researchers, both physically and psychologically. When discussing crime-related fieldwork, a common reaction is: Isn’t that dangerous? How do you stay safe? These concerns are valid, yet experienced researchers have shown that, with appropriate precautions, it is possible to conduct such research safely. Indeed, although access can be challenging, both victims and perpetrators are often surprisingly willing to share their stories (see, for instance, Wong 2015; Zhang and Chin 2015; Varese 2018 and 2022). This is consistent with my own experience: most people are, in general, open to speaking.

However, it is the researcher’s responsibility to carefully assess when, where, and what to discuss. If a participant is about to share sensitive or incriminating information, such as insider knowledge of criminal networks or illegal operations, the researcher must evaluate not only the ethical implications but also the immediate risks for both parties. Timing, location, and emotional readiness all become critical variables that cannot be standardised but must be considered dynamically in each encounter.

Much of the literature on researcher wellbeing during sensitive fieldwork focuses on vicarious trauma and emotional fatigue (Coles et al. 2014; Dickson-Swift et al. 2008; Etherington 2009; Grimm et al. 2020; Loyle and Simoni 2017). While these are indeed important concerns, I would argue that in crime-related research, one of the most pervasive and psychologically destabilising challenges is deception. Falsehoods can come from all directions—from perpetrators, facilitators, bystanders, and even victims. In environments shaped by exploitation, survival, and criminality, deception is often a learned defence mechanism. As researchers, we are trained to approach our work with empathy and ethical commitment. And this makes it even more painful when that trust is betrayed.

One particularly striking case involved a trafficking survivor, Jack (pseudonym), who fabricated large parts of his story during our first interview, including essential information such as his nationality and how he was trafficked. When something like this happens, it is not simply about being misled. It is the emotional toll of realising that someone you believed in, someone whose story you may have internalised or even advocated for, was deliberately hiding or distorting the truth. The frustration can cause profound self-doubt and ethical confusion. I remember asking myself: Did I fail to create a safe enough space? Was I naive? I can never forget the moment when I tried to verify Jack’s story with an informant. The man laughed at me and asked: ‘Are you stupid or what? How can you believe that story so easily?’

Only much later did Jack explain that fear had driven him to lie. He had been betrayed by a close friend who had lured him into a scam compound. Once inside, he had been betrayed again by someone who had pretended to plan an escape but later reported him to the boss. As a result, lying had become a survival mechanism. Understanding this did not erase the emotional weight of the earlier deception, but it did shift my perspective. It reminded me that in this kind of research, trust is not a linear process. It is fragile, uneven, and constantly negotiated.

At the same time, not all lies are rooted in fear or trauma. In some cases, individuals involved in criminal activity may deliberately manipulate researchers to serve their own interests, to shape narratives to appear more sympathetic, downplay their role in violence or exploitation, or attempt to steer the research in ways that align with their personal goals. In some cases, people who have been deceived or forced into criminality may embellish their stories out of fear they will not be identified as ‘genuine’ victims. These forms of strategic deception raise difficult ethical and methodological questions: How do we identify manipulation without becoming cynical? How do we protect our work from cooptation while maintaining openness to complex, morally ambiguous stories? When we do identify inaccurate information, how do we parse it from the details that may actually be true, and how can we try to comprehend and empathise with the motivations behind untruths?

As researchers, we must remain both critically aware and emotionally prepared for the complexities of human behaviour in high-risk settings, where survival, self-interest, and self-preservation often come before truth-telling. The responsibility is not just to document what is said, but to constantly interrogate the conditions, motives, and consequences of how knowledge is produced.

Data Analysis and Presentation

It’s not the first time I’ve spoken with researchers. I signed a consent form last time, too, but I never saw what they wrote or how they used my testimony. I felt a bit used. Will we keep in touch?

These words came from a survivor of bride trafficking who had experienced sexual violence. She told me she speaks openly and never tries to hide the abuse she suffered, but she is deeply concerned about how her story is represented. She also expressed frustration with what she described as a ‘hit and go’ pattern among researchers: people who collect testimonies and disappear, without ever showing how those stories contribute to change. She never knew whether sharing her experience made any difference to policy or public understanding.

This concern is not uncommon among vulnerable groups. Survivors often give their testimonies, recounting deeply personal and traumatic experiences, only to be excluded from the very spaces where decisions are made that directly affect their future such as policy meetings, stakeholder consultations, and advocacy forums. Because they are not seen as ‘key stakeholders’—unlike policymakers, donors, or corporations—their voices are too often sidelined after the research ends.

Fortunately, there is a growing recognition of the ethical risks posed by extractive research practices. Scholars have cautioned against models where researchers ‘gain knowledge but neither share it with nor use it for the community’ from which it came (Gorski et al. 2022). There is also a broader movement advocating for the centrality of survivor voices to encourage survivors to tell their own stories, in their own words. As researchers, activities such as returning to the community to share research findings in an accessible way or involving survivors in disseminating results are the small things we can do, as an act not just of accountability, but of respect.

Another crucial but often overlooked element of ethical fieldwork is the exit plan. Morrison et al. (2012) provocatively titled an article ‘Thanks for Using Me’ to highlight how participants may feel exploited if a relationship is dropped with no formal closure. They argue there is a ‘moral and ethical imperative to enter into the dialogue of closure’ with participants (Morrison et al. 2012: 416). This could involve a final interview session that is explicitly about wrapping up to give the participant a chance to reflect on the process, ensuring they have no unanswered questions, and saying a personal goodbye or thank you.

Yet, as with many ethical ideals, this is not always easy in practice. The people to whom we speak over months may begin to see the researcher as a confidant or even a source of emotional support. For instance, Dickson-Swift et al. (2008) discuss how researchers working on sensitive topics often form quasi-friendships with participants, where the boundaries between personal and professional roles can become blurred. And I have often found myself struggling with the role of being treated as someone in whom to confide, a recipient of emotional venting.

In such situations, clear communication of roles and expectations becomes essential. Researchers should be transparent from the outset about what they can and cannot offer. If they intend to stay engaged, it is advisable that they obtain consent for that continued contact and ensure it is what the survivor wants as well. At the same time, if they anticipate needing to step back, it is equally important to negotiate that ending in a way that is respectful and supportive. This might involve connecting participants with appropriate follow-up services, such as counselling, legal support, or local NGOs. The key is to not vanish, but build an intentional and ethical transition.

Beyond Protocols

Conducting fieldwork at the margins, amid crime, violence, and exploitation, requires more than methodological competence or ethical protocols. It needs a continuous process of negotiation—with gatekeepers, with participants, with institutions, and with the self. This essay has reflected on the complexities of doing research in environments where trust is fragile, where stories are shaped by fear and survival, and where the boundaries between researcher and participant are constantly shifting.

Across different stages of fieldwork, I have come to realise that there is no universal formula for what constitutes ethical practice. Most of my participants had never interacted with researchers before. Their understanding, their intentions, their modes of responding, and their expectations often differed significantly from those of policymakers, academics, or other so-called knowledgeable stakeholders. This mismatch requires the researcher to navigate a much more complex terrain—one that demands constant adjustment and self-reflection.

Ethical research in such contexts involves more than following protocols. It means learning how to show empathy without losing critical distance, how to seek truth while setting and respecting boundaries, and how to remain flexible without compromising ethical responsibility. These are not simple tasks, and they cannot be reduced to a checklist.

Ultimately, ethical fieldwork does not end when we physically leave a field site. It continues in how we carry the knowledge shared with us, how we communicate it, and how we remain accountable to those whose stories we work with, even long after the research has concluded. These reflections are offered not as a blueprint, but as part of a broader conversation about how to conduct research that is ethically committed, intellectually honest, and attuned to the lived realities of those too often marginalised in both scholarship and policy.