Have you ever experienced a moment at which your research became deeply personal? Or when a place you had studied from a distance suddenly confronted you with emotions you had not anticipated? When I first set foot in Cyprus for my fieldwork, I thought I was well prepared. Months of reading, writing, and thinking about Cyprus and its buffer zone had given me what I thought was a reasonable understanding of the country and its many complexities. But once there, I realized that no amount of reading could prepare me for the emotions and contradictions I encountered.
Although I had visited Cyprus before and was already somewhat familiar with its conflict history, returning as a researcher shifted my perspective. The buffer zone, which I had previously analyzed from a safe distance – through books, reports, theoretical debates, and a sense of methodical detachment that allowed me to engage with the topic without truly encountering it – now felt overwhelmingly real. The sense of division was no longer just something I studied; it became something I walked through, something I felt. This shift made it harder to maintain the distance I had been used to in the earlier stages of my research. Walking through spaces marked by tension and conflict, I felt a weight that was not there when I engaged with the subject solely through academic texts. The physicality of the buffer zone and its many fences, checkpoints, and abandoned buildings, revealed the human dimensions of the conflict in a way no book or article ever could.
By the second day, I found myself sitting outside at a cafe in tears, confused by how different it felt to be at the place I had been studying. What I had previously found fascinating – how a peacekeeping mission seems frozen in time within the heart of the country’s capital – now struck me as painful and confronting. Seeing how people live in this reality made it impossible for me to detach and focus “just” on my research question. It felt as though countless other issues were demanding my attention all at once. At the same time, I could not help but feel that my tears were misplaced; after all, I was an outsider with no direct connection to the conflict or its consequences. Was it my place to feel this way? It is a question I still do not have an answer for, and one that made me confront the tension between being a “detached” observer and someone who, despite the distance, could not remain unaffected by the realities surrounding me.
For the first time in my academic journey, I think I experienced my emotional and more “rational” sides coming together. I already knew that my emotional side is part of why I am drawn to certain topics and themes in my research, namely those that center on human struggles and power imbalances. Yet, I had always felt able to maintain a sense of personal separation from these subjects, a balance that felt natural and allowed me to engage with the work intellectually without becoming too drawn in. But as I prepared for fieldwork and arrived in Cyprus, I began to notice these sides of myself merging.
In the archival research I have primarily been trained in, this sense of connectedness to research felt different. I have always cared about the topics I studied, which often focused on power imbalances and their victims, but the temporal distance inherent to archival historical research created a natural buffer. The subjects and events I examined always held a certain untouchability, which, in hindsight, I think I found comforting. Yes, the histories I studied were often heavy and upsetting, but the people involved were no longer alive, and there was nothing left to be done.
In my current research, it feels like this distance is elusive. For me, this kind of research feels more immediate, more human, than what I was used to. That is not to diminish the value of archival research. Instead, I see this as a new way of understanding research, one that builds on rather than replaces my previous experiences and broadens my perspective on what it means to engage with a subject in a meaningful way.
While Cyprus may be a relatively peaceful and safe place today, the people I spoke to were visibly connected to the conflict’s history and the tensions that persist. The division felt real in their words and behaviors. The clear distinctions people made – often referring to “the other side” when speaking of the opposite side of the Green Line – were far more pronounced than I had anticipated. As an outsider, I crossed from north to south and back again without a second thought. Over time, border police began to recognize me, occasionally waving me through without even checking my ID. For me, these crossings started to feel like routine. But for many of the people I spoke to on both sides, this kind of ease was far from their reality. There were moments of clear tension, particularly when discussing my experiences in the north with Greek Cypriots. One Greek Cypriot expressed discomfort when I mentioned staying in the north, while another outright stated that he refused to spend money on Turkish Cypriots, declining my suggestion to have a beer at a bar just across the Green Line.
In contrast, I noticed a different dynamic when speaking with Turkish Cypriots and Turks in the north. The tension between the south and the north felt less immediate, but I became acutely aware of my own positionality and privilege, as my EU passport allowed me to cross borders effortlessly and move freely in ways many others could not. This awareness deepened when I spent time with two Turkish women, practically my age, who shared stories about their lives in Ankara. Despite many similarities in education and interests, their experiences, mainly shaped by Turkey’s political and economic turmoil and EU governance, made the differences in mobility and opportunity painfully clear.
When I began my research, I had focused on migration and viewed the buffer zone primarily as a theater where certain migration dynamics unfold. I saw the buffer zone, and the conflict it is inherently tied to, more as a backdrop: a context to frame the migration governance dynamics on the island. However, arriving in Cyprus, I quickly realized this was a flawed approach. Before I could even begin to address the migration dynamics within and around the buffer zone, I found myself compelled, or perhaps inevitably forced, to engage more deeply with the Cyprus conflict itself. In hindsight, I now wonder how I could have overlooked this so entirely. The conflict is not merely a backdrop to explain the presence of the buffer zone; it is, I believe, an essential component for understanding the injustices surrounding migration in this context.
Engaging in fieldwork made me realize how deeply personal research can be. I learned that, for me, research is both an intellectual and emotional process. It is highly shaped by the places we go, the people we meet, the experiences we bring with us, and the histories we engage with. In many ways, this makes the process richer, but it also requires a level of reflection and self-awareness that I am still learning to navigate. Recognizing the emotional side of research has strengthened my connection to my work and made me question the idea that detachment leads to better scholarship. I have come to see that acknowledging emotion does not weaken research – it adds depth and perspective, allowing for a more compassionate understanding of the humane complexities we seek to understand.
I want to thank my thesis supervisor, Catherina Wilson, for encouraging me to reflect on my role as a researcher and for opening my eyes to a different, more personal way of engaging with science. She has helped me realize that my own perspective, emotions, and reflections are not just present in my research but essential to it. It was also her idea to share this piece, which gave me the confidence to publish it and see these reflections as a meaningful part of my work.