The space between us: an attempt to build trust when I was not fully local
When I first set out on my field trip to India, I was aware that gaining people’s trust wouldn’t be easy. Being Indian did not necessarily make me one of them. I was not from their region, I did not speak their language, and in every way that mattered, I was a foreigner in my own country. I was there to explore whether Geographical Indication law genuinely benefits the artisans behind traditional textiles. But beyond the legal questions, I was also interested in how artisans understood their place within these legal frameworks, whether the law made them feel seen at all, and how these feelings shaped their engagement with me as a researcher. I realised early on that these perceptions heavily influenced how much they chose to share. What I did not anticipate was that trust in this kind of fieldwork depends more on how people read your distance or closeness. Yes, the questions matter but the small signals of shared ground that make them decide whether you belong, even briefly, in their world, sets the tone of the interview.
It was in attempting to explore these questions that I became acutely aware of my own position within this landscape. As an Indian researcher now based at a foreign university, I often find myself in an in-between space: not fully local, yet not entirely foreign. The artisans I approached were curious on various fronts: why would a stranger from far away, be interested in their work, their struggles, their stories? At first, many of them did not take me seriously. Perhaps it was my age, or my gender, or because they had seen too many researchers pass through, arriving with questions, leaving with notebooks and hand-scribbled notes, but rarely leaving behind any change.
I became increasingly aware that I couldn’t simply introduce myself and be understood. Who I was had to be negotiated. These negotiations were my direct response to being dismissed, a deliberate effort to close the distance and signal that I was worthy of their trust. Everything mattered: what I wore, how I spoke, how I entered their homes. I chose to wear culturally appropriate, modest cotton clothing, not just out of respect, but because it turned out to be the most practical choice in the brutal 42-degree desert heat. It was often the first thing they noticed, and perhaps the simplest way to signal that I was closer to them than they might have expected. I made small, deliberate choices: taking off my sunglasses before stepping into someone’s home in an attempt to avoid visible markers of distance or privilege. I left my slippers out before entering their homes (a common Asian practice) and avoided direct contact with the glass of water they generously offered, so they wouldn’t have to wash it in a place where water is scarce. Though they were just small gestures, they were my way of showing that I was not just an outsider, but someone willing, even briefly, to be part of their everyday lives.
There were moments of quiet connection that I still hold close. Once, while visiting a Muslim family in their workshop, the evening Azaan (call for prayer) echoed through the village. In the corner, I saw a woman who had been quietly observing us suddenly draw her scarf over her head. Almost instinctively, I did the same, pulling my dupatta (long scarf) up to cover mine. It was a simple, instinctive gesture, but in that moment, she offered me a fleeting smile, perhaps a sign of approval, or maybe just quiet recognition. I will never know what it truly meant, but I did sense the atmosphere subtly shift.
Yet, despite these small moments of closeness, trust is never guaranteed, let alone instant. Fieldwork, therefore, taught me patience in ways I had not expected. Some people never fully opened up to me. One artisan bluntly told me he felt I was only speaking to them to earn my degree, that I would move on with my life while nothing would change for them. I tried to explain that documenting their stories could spark wider conversations and, hopefully, over time, shift how we think about heritage protection. But he remained unconvinced. I eventually left, realising that not every door will open, and that is okay. Some interviews would begin in suspicion and never overcome it. Others, however, began with doubt but ended with gestures of respect, such as invitations to stay longer, to share meals, to return.
This field trip taught me that trust is not given; it is carefully built. I entered the field expecting to negotiate academic distances. What I ended up negotiating were more personal distances like language, custom, memory, and hope. The heart of Socio-Legal research does not always lie in the grand questions of law; sometimes it lives in these quiet, in-between spaces. My biggest takeaway was that these small interpersonal moments shape what people choose to share and how. Building trust is more about how you decide to show up. That realisation made me far more attentive to how distance and everyday interactions silently shape the stories that end up in our research.
About the Author
Ms Niharika Salar
Doctoral Candidate , School of Law, Queen’s University Belfast
Ms. Niharika Salar is a doctoral candidate at the School of Law, Queen’s University Belfast, and a recipient of the Northern Ireland Department for Economy postgraduate scholarship. Her ongoing research sits at the intersection of IP Law, community rights and traditional weaving techniques. Prior to her doctoral studies, she spent over three years designing and teaching Intellectual Property Law courses at NALSAR University of Law, India.