A dialogical talk about power and partnership in participatory action research in social work

Abstract

This research note presents a dialogue between the article’s authors, co-researchers in participatory action research (PAR) focused on social work with girls and young women. The conversation explores power relations and partnership throughout the research process. The first author, a social worker, researcher, and lecturer, led the PAR as part of her doctoral study. The second author, a research partner and expert by experience, draws on her lived experiences of adversity and mentors girls and young women facing similar challenges. Our dialogue underscores the importance of reflection, non-hierarchical relationships, and rethinking power in knowledge production and in social work practice.

“If you have come to help me you are wasting your time. But if you recognize that your liberation and mine are bound up together, then let us work together.” Lila Watson and the Aboriginal activists’ group, Queensland, 1970s (Petray, 2010: 71).

Introduction

Our participatory action research, conducted in three phases, began with in-depth interviews with 25 young Israeli women (aged 18–29) labelled as ‘at-risk’ in their youth (Shimei and Lavie-Ajayi, 2021). These young women faced hardship, poverty, and social exclusion, often under the care of welfare services and social workers, with some placed in out-of-home care. The thematic analysis (Braun and Clarke, 2021) revealed their life stories, knowledge, experiences, pain, resistance, and recommendations for social work. Participants rejected the ‘at-risk’ label and its stigma, highlighted mismatched care practices, and reported violence in family, care settings, and relationships. ¹

But beyond the data, what emerged most powerfully was the process and phenomenology of agency — how these young women came to speak, reflect, and act from within and beyond their histories of exclusion. Their agency was not static; it unfolded dialogically, relationally, and performatively, shaped within a space of co-creation and mutual recognition.

In the second phase, the participants were invited to discuss the research findings, asking, “What do you/we want to do with the knowledge?” – marking a shift from being the subjects of research to becoming co-researchers. From this conversation, the group decided to co-organise a one-day seminar for social workers in southern Israel, with some participants joining as co-researchers. The third phase involved designing the seminar, which featured four talks by co-researchers on their vision for social work with girls and young women, followed by group discussions with social workers. The research received ethics approval from Ben-Gurion University, with ongoing discussions on consent and name usage throughout the process. The seminar led to further talks for social work practitioners and students and meetings with the Ministry of Welfare to share findings. This seminar also established the ALIBI group.

We named our group ‘ALIBI’. At first, this was a creative mash-up of the names of the co-researchers in our group (Batel, Alona, Lior, Yael, Batya, Arielle, Iftikar, and Nour). We came up with it sitting in Lior’s garden, with her four dogs, drinking coffee — a typical group meeting held in our private homes. At first, we met at the university, but it didn’t feel right. We moved to a café but didn’t find ourselves there either. Then, Alona invited us all to her house, and from that moment, we knew this was how we wanted to meet. We met every three weeks for two-three hours, with a different member hosting the group each time. Discussing the group name at Lior’s, we noted the crime and legal context of the term ‘alibi’, and googled the following definition: “a claim that one was elsewhere”. Someone said, “I was in a different place — a defense argument.” Suddenly, it all came together. That name captured precisely what guided this group: young women once seen as ‘girls at-risk’ and who are now in a different place – young activists teaching how to help young girls and women living in adversity, risk, poverty and exclusion.

The second author typically describes the decision to choose the group’s name as follows: For so many years, we faced criticism, guilt, and disbelief. We had to advocate for ourselves, defend ourselves and our actions. Even if there was some help, we felt that we mostly braved these difficulties alone. We noticed that the group’s name contained the Hebrew words ‘heart’ (lev) and ‘God’ (el), perhaps the only ones we ever felt truly heard by. Also, the first letter, “A”, connected with activism, the group’s motto. And then someone said it out loud: “Activists for Safer Days” (forming the acronym ‘ALIBI’ in Hebrew). It expressed the group’s transformation — from subject to speaker, from girl-at-risk to woman-with-agency, from marginalized youth to political subject. Finally, we had a name for our endeavor to create positive content out of our negative experiences.

One of the group’s key characteristics was its dialogical conversations, which explored research findings, action strategies, support for young women, and consultations on personal coping— all within a continuous reflective space that embodies the essence of action research. The following conversation is one of many that took place, blending reflections on our work, engagement with theory, and the personal experiences of the young women involved to understand and learn both about and during the process. The format may resemble an interview, but we understand and offer it as something else: a performative conversation, rooted in friendship, shared inquiry, and critical reflection. In this sense, it is both method and story — a form of knowing together, which sits intentionally outside of conventional academic narrative.

Using the pronoun “we” in Participatory Action Research (PAR) is both a methodological and political choice. It symbolizes collective identity, shared ownership, and a common epistemic stance. Yet, as critical scholars have argued, “we” is never a neutral term: it can include as well as exclude, empower as well as obscure (Fine, 2018; Foucault, 1980). In this sense, the “we” in PAR carries a double edge — it can foster meaningful community engagement while simultaneously reproducing hidden power dynamics. In this research note, we remain attentive to these tensions as we explore what it means to speak, act, and know together within a co-researching group.

A dialogical talk

Nour: What will you get from this research, once I submit my PhD dissertation?

Batel: We are partners in your research. This partnership pushed us into something new, something that would not have happened otherwise. Yes, it is your PhD, but we are also doing our own doctorate here. We already have degrees in real-life experience, and now, we are co-writing a different kind of doctorate — one grounded in lived knowledge. Today, in our society, and especially in social work, there’s growing recognition of the value of authentic voices and field-based experience. That’s exactly what our partnership is doing: it combines academic and lived knowledge, creating something neither of us could have done alone.

Nour: I think a lot about our power relations throughout this research. That’s part of why I’m asking what you feel you're gaining from being part of this project. We've been walking this path together for nearly five years now. You were among the very first interviewees and the first person I collaborated with to create a lecture for social work students — a lecture based entirely on your knowledge and experience. And now here we are, years later: co-researchers and members of a group committed to changing how social work engages with girls and young women. Each of us brings something different from where we stand. I’m still trying to understand what we built together, how it reshaped our roles, and maybe even our sense of power.

Batel: This partnership shaped how we worked and thought together, especially when preparing that first talk. We asked ourselves: What matters to us? What do we want to say? There was a lot of shared thinking. You brought your world, I brought mine. We taught each other about the places we come from, and that’s where the connection happened. You explained research, academia, and teaching to me. I remember telling you I was excited and anxious before that first lecture. When I asked how you manage to stand in front of students without freaking out, you said to me that you always feel nervous too — even if it doesn’t show — and that it’s okay to feel that way. You made that world more real, which felt so distant to me, not by describing it, but by bringing me into it. And I brought you into my world. I said: 'Come see — this is my life. This is my neighbourhood’. You invited me into your classroom and said: 'Come see how it happens here'. You asked for my opinion. You invited me to conferences, taught me how to speak in front of a big crowd, and even how to get paid for it. I listened to how you talk about things, and told you how they sound from where I stand. You let me walk in your shoes, and I let you feel what it’s like in mine — my daily life, how I cope, what I’ve been through, and how I work with teenaged girls. We taught each other.

Nour: What you’re describing reminds me of what Professor Michal Krumer-Nevo calls relationship-based knowledge — knowledge that emerges through close, ongoing contact between social workers and those they work with, in order to grasp the lived experience of poverty in all its layers (Krumer-Nevo, 2020: 33–35). But you take it even further. You speak of what we might call approaching-based knowledge — knowledge created through the active, mutual process of drawing near: moving closer in experience, understanding, and presence. It’s not just about listening, but about stepping toward each other’s lives — again and again — to build something shared. You invite me into your world, and I invite you into mine. That movement — that ongoing gesture of reaching out — becomes, in itself, a form of learning. In that sense, our action research isn’t simply about findings. It’s a continuous process of knowledge creation through movement, relationship, and shared reflection. You often remind me that you didn’t finish school, and yet it continues to move me how your thinking resonates with key social theories. For example, Professor Nancy Fraser speaks of the three pillars of justice: representation, recognition, and redistribution (Fraser, 2007). And you embody that. Your presence in new spaces — speaking about what girls and young women need — brings recognition. Your voice has also contributed to redistributing resources, including real opportunities and fair compensation for your work as a speaker and knowledge-holder. Still, I keep returning to the question of power — how it flows between us. I entered this relationship from a position of institutional power: as a young researcher, a social worker, and a university lecturer. At the same time, I came with a genuine willingness to learn from and with you. That’s why I chose to shift — to step aside, to make space, to offer you the stage.

Batel: So what are you saying? That you transferred the power to me?

Nour: No — the power was yours all along. You had it, with or without me. I saw your strength — your clarity, your voice, your capacity — in our meetings, in the interviews, in the actions we took together, and in your deep commitment to change. The power was always there. I didn’t give it to you. I just stopped looking past it. And maybe that’s part of what this kind of research — and this kind of relationship — asks of people like me: to unlearn the idea that power lives only in institutions, credentials, or theories. To understand that recognising someone else's power is not an act of generosity (Fricker, 2007) — it’s an act of justice. And sometimes, it means stepping back. Letting go.

Batel: So you didn’t give me power — you made room for me. You created a space where I could grow, act, and bring my power into your academic world — a world where knowledge is produced and where students learn to become social workers. You said, “This is my field. Come join me. Take the lead. I’ll step aside.” That invitation allowed us to meet not just as researcher and participant, but as two people with knowledge to share. In that moment, we each opened our worlds to one another. I brought you into my life, offered you my story, let you hear it, live it, analyse it, and transform it into what you call “conceptualisation into practice.” When we both let go of full control over our respective domains — mine of lived experience, yours of academic theory — and entrusted each other with access and influence, something shifted. That’s when the real partnership began. To me, participatory action research is precisely that: the willingness to move — to come closer, shift positions, and learn from each other. It also means relinquishing control — not completely, but enough to allow a genuine exchange of power and knowledge. Not a transfer in one direction, but a mutual exchange, where both of us gain and give, teach and learn, hold and let go.

Nour: I shared with you the power and opportunities that came with my role; you shared with me your knowledge and lived experience. I’m not suggesting these are the same — they’re not. But I do believe that what we recognised in one another was power. You saw mine — as a social worker, as a PhD student — and you knew how to navigate it, how to make it work for something meaningful. Our relationship may have begun from an asymmetric relationship, yet it was grounded in reciprocity and respect (Åkerström and Brunnberg, 2012). By asymmetric, I’m referring to the common assumption that adults carry greater responsibility for young people’s well-being than the young people themselves do. Or in our case, that researchers hold more knowledge, authority, or legitimacy than participants. When I reflect on what it meant to recognise your power, I think of one moment in particular. We discussed the research findings regarding the rejection of the label ‘at-risk’. And you said: “I understand now that all those years I survived — it wasn’t just survival. There was resistance there, too.” That insight stayed with me. You were naming something powerful — that survival can be a form of resistance. That what might look, from the outside, like endurance, is also defiance, strength, and strategy. You were beginning to name your activism, not as something external to your life story, but embedded within it. And at that moment, I saw not only your knowledge but also your voice. Your ability to reclaim and reframe your narrative. That’s not something I could have given you. But I could witness it — and be changed by it.

Batel: I’ve been an activist all my life. That drive came from my life's path — and from not wanting to become what people always assumed I would. Even as a girl, people close to me told me I’d never amount to anything. They didn’t believe in me. When I wore eye makeup, they said, “Only cheap girls wear that.” It wasn’t just about appearance — it was their way of pushing me toward what they saw as the “right culture.” But I resisted. I wanted to prove I could wear makeup and still have dignity. Go out with men without sleeping with them. Use drugs and do not become an addict. I defended my choices. I kept going, even when I heard, “nothing will ever come of you.” You didn’t give me power. You gave me the space to feel it, use it, and bring it into places I hadn’t before — like academia. And I didn’t have to fight you for it. That’s what made the difference. This wasn’t a power struggle. It was a partnership.

Nour: I underwent this process and changed together with you. If you had asked me five years ago, when we first started this research, I would have said, “Of course I’ll change.” But in the same breath, I have to admit — I didn’t yet fully understand what that change would involve, or why it truly mattered. I didn’t grasp what it would mean to move aside, to let go of power, and to create real space for the group.

Batel: I would not have said at the time that “sure, I would change”. I never imagined we would be where we are now. When you first came to interview me, my thinking was simple: if I would’ve asked you for help as a social worker, you would’ve helped me, so why not help you?

Nour: It took me a long time to move from interviews into action research — I was stuck. The shift happened at a very particular moment. I came to meet you after you’d returned to the south, and you said: “So, when are we going to help you? You’re helping us — but when do we get to help you?” That question stayed with me in my head and my heart. I kept asking myself: “Why am I not seeing this?” And then it clicked — I needed to open up more, to bring you into the research, to let you support me, and to allow this to become something we were truly doing together. From that place — from a kind of power that made sense to me as a social worker and a researcher — I was finally able to recognize your power, both as individuals and as a collective. Like I said before, four or five years ago, I might’ve said, “Of course I’ll change.” But the truth is, I was afraid — afraid of losing control over the research, afraid of letting go of power, afraid of what it means to change.

Batel: Speaking for the group, I can say that we did not carry that fear. We had no problem handing over our power to you. We knew that if we ever needed help, you would be there, just as we would be yours if you needed support. Just as you recognized our power, we recognized yours.

Nour: I was afraid I might do something that could cause you harm. I remember, for example, one of our group lectures to social work students. The students criticized our positions and proposals as unrealistic and spoke more about their own struggles as students than listened to what we had to say. At times, it felt like we were under attack. I felt the weight of responsibility and thought, “Wow, where have I brought you?” I even apologised to all of you, but you said it wasn’t on me. I wasn’t the one who created that situation.

Batel: Right, that meeting only motivated us to keep going. In fact, the experience happened in your world — academia — which made it another layer of our collaboration. I remember thinking, not in a good way, “Wow, these are the people who are going to be social workers,” and realizing just how much work still lies ahead. But I also thought about what we’re doing and our partnership. I always say: “This isn’t something we can do alone.” Sometimes I give a talk on my own, sometimes we go together, but it’s always as part of the group. That’s the beauty of it: we’re in this together, but each of us brings her own color, her own story. Your story, too, is still unfolding. It seems like that’s harder for you than it is for us. Sure, you’re a researcher and a social worker — though by now, I almost forget that’s your official title — because you’ve become one of us. You’re still peeling back your layers, one at a time. And we’re all still learning about ourselves and each other. That’s what makes this group so special.

Nour: It is always in motion — peeling something back, learning something new, doing something, discovering, asking, doing again, reflecting, and then repeating. We are constantly creating.

Batel: I never used to think of myself as creative. But being part of this group pushes me to think creatively about what we want to achieve. When we are together, someone throws out an idea, and that sparks another, and another, and suddenly, I realize I am creative after all. I have ideas.

Nour: The creative process emerges from the continual discovery of new knowledge. Sometimes it’s something we uncover within ourselves; other times, it’s a fresh insight about the research or new ways of working with girls and young women; and at other moments, it’s a realization about power relations. Creation and change are ongoing processes — we are constantly making, shifting, moving, and imagining. I remember the group once saying, “Wait, we’re jumping around here — first a lecture, then a script, then a film, and now another lecture… this is too much all at once.”

Batel: We put all these ideas on the table so we wouldn’t have to give up any of them. We’re going to do it all — write a script about our lives, bring it to the stage, give lectures, and mentor students. We will change how girls and young women are seen, understood, and supported. And we’ll get there — one step at a time.

Nour: At a certain point in the process, I realized that what was unfolding was creation in motion — a spontaneous, dynamic flow. That realization came during a meeting at my house, when Alona said to Lior, “You know, I don’t really know you, but I know your story.” For me, that was a powerful moment, an example of letting the process unfold at its own pace, without forcing it. We were doing what was right for that moment, trusting that everything would happen when the time was right. Then Lior began to share her story — and that, too, was an act of approaching. Their worlds met, not because they had to, not because it was required by the research or driven by some external force, but because the time had come for them to draw closer.

After your lecture to the social work students, I remember writing in my journal how moved I was when the head of social services hugged you afterward. It felt like she was embracing your ideas — giving them power and recognition. But since we became a group, especially after the seminar, we’ve faced growing criticism for what some wrongly perceive as blaming social workers. I keep asking myself: what changed? What happened to your power? To ours?

Batel: When each of us spoke on our own, there was something vulnerable, even fragile — something you could either overlook or be moved by. But once we came together, everything shifted. Suddenly, we couldn’t be dismissed—not after the seminar, not as a group that had taken form. You know how people often say, “Well, that’s just her experience,” as if that makes it subjective, open to debate. But this is no longer just one woman’s story. It’s knowledge, grounded in research. It’s 25 young women and a PhD student in social work.

Nour: In other words, group means power.

Batel: We are still amazed that even though we don’t really know each other, we feel so connected. We came together as a group so quickly — sometimes it feels like we have known each other for years, like we have lived through the same things. It’s not just me anymore; others have shared similar experiences, and together we want to create change for girls and young women. That’s where the power comes from — our shared intent. When we’re connected, it becomes a greater force.

Nour: You make me think of the Rhizome (Deleuze and Guattari, 2007). In botany, a rhizome is a horizontal underground stem—like grass that grows and spreads without a central core. Deleuze and Guattari (2007) use the rhizome as a metaphor to challenge heirarchial, linear models of thinking and to propose a more decentralized, networked understanding of knowledge, subjectivity, and systems. A rhizomatic framework resists binaries and rigid structures, offering instead an open, dynamic system of multiple connections, entry points, and directions — a structure that reflects the complexity and fluidity of lived experience (Figure 1).

Figure 1.

Illustration of the Rhizome idea. ²

This image represents the idea of the rhizome. Look at the illustration — to me, it reflects our process: not linear, not top-down, but messy, dynamic, and full of unexpected connections. Like a rhizome, our work grows in multiple directions, shaped by relationships, movement, and shared meaning. This image gives form to the theory behind what we’re building together. What do you think?

Batel: This could be our group’s logo. Let’s keep this image — it’s beautiful. Look at all the hearts scattered across it, each one different and connected in its own way — just like us. And see how the whole thing branches out in so many directions? That’s how it reaches far, touching many places and people.

Final note

This dialogue is one of many that emerged during the participatory action research process. It offers a glimpse into how partnership and power can be felt, questioned, and reshaped between co-researchers from different social positions. More than a conversation about research, it reveals a shared journey of transformation — personal, collective, and professional. Through this dialogue, we see how participatory action research and social work intertwine: both rooted in cycles of reflection, action, and change; both committed to creating space for voices long silenced; both invested in relationships that are not only ethical but mutual, dynamic, and moving. While centered on the research process, the conversation also reflects key principles of social work with girls and young women — showing how power, recognition, and trust can be reimagined to support more just, relational, and participatory forms of knowledge and care.

Consent to participate

Participants gave their informed consent in writing and verbal.