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‘Lived experience' is valued in activism – but is it doing more harm than good?

‘Lived experience' is valued in activism – but is it doing more harm than good?

Irish Examiner28-05-2025

The idea of 'lived experience' – knowledge gained through direct, personal experience – is now central in activism, academia and politics.
Popularised by feminist thinkers like Simone de Beauvoir and concepts like standpoint theory, it makes sense that people see the world differently based on what they've been through. And movements like #MeToo showed how sharing personal stories, particularly for oppressed, marginalised or victimised groups, can drive real change.
Lived experience lends authority to those long excluded from public debate, offering insight traditional expertise may miss. But it also raises questions about who gets to speak. Those without direct experience of an issue can find their place in activism questioned.
High-profile cases like Rachel Dolezal and Andrea Smith, activists who falsely claimed black and Native American ancestry, respectively, highlight how powerful the claim to lived experience has become – so much so that some feel compelled to lie about it in order to be heard.
My research, based on in-depth interviews with 20 activists from a range of movements and backgrounds across Europe, India and the US, shows what challenges arise when lived experience is treated as the ultimate credential in activism. The interviewees revealed how emphasis on personal testimony can shift activism away from political action, toward guilt, polarisation and disengagement.
This matters, because it affects who feels able to participate in movements pushing for social change.
One trans activist stressed the importance of lived experience in leading the fight for transgender rights, warning that without trans voices at the centre, the movement risks overlooking key perspectives that are often absent from research and politics.
For others, the emphasis on lived experience creates internal dilemmas. Activists without lived experience can feel unsure of their place.
One white anti-racist activist based in the UK put it this way:
I would definitely be silent in a lot of things, and I wouldn't be proud of it. But I wouldn't have the right to speak up.
Another white female activist working in international development described a growing discomfort with her role: 'I fundamentally question whether I have legitimacy in leadership. Can I legitimately show up? Or do I just need to leave the development sector entirely?'
In some activist spaces, speaking without relevant lived experience is seen as a transgression. Identity becomes a kind of moral litmus test for who gets to speak and lead.
Activists described an overwhelming sense of guilt about their own social advantages. One reflected on how acknowledging those advantages, by recognising the privileges they hold (and their subsequent lack of marginalised lived experience) can be a barrier to activism: 'I think it is important to engage in self-awareness, but sometimes it moves into self-criticism. You can stall if you're always feeling guilty.'
One interviewee observed a 'collective inertia' among allies, activists and academics who, unsure of their place, chose silence over action. Another described how guilt about having a privileged lived experience shifts the focus away from collective political action and toward perfecting the self — a kind of confessional self-work that risks becoming inward-focused, rather than leading to meaningful social change.
These comments reflect concerns raised in social justice research about how guilt, humility and lived experience can shape or stall activism. My findings suggest that while lived experience remains vital, the way it's used matters — when it isolates rather than unites, or fuels self-focus over action, we need to use it more carefully, in ways that build connection and drive change.
Identity, experience and diversity of opinion
Some activists strongly defended the idea that those with the least privilege should have the most say. As one LGBT+ activist put it: 'The person who has the least privilege in society gets to decide what is true. If you're straight and cis, and you're a guy, middle-aged, and white, check your privileges.'
While this perspective centres voices long pushed to the margins, it can also wrongly assume everyone with a particular lived experience will have the same views on an issue.
Many writers and philosophers, such as Frantz Fanon, have challenged the idea that identity alone dictates political outlooks.
As British writer Kenan Malik recently argued:
Black and Asian communities are as politically diverse as white communities.
Latino and black voters' support for Donald Trump in the US has challenged many people's assumptions about how identity dictates political allegiance.
This tension has prompted some activist organisations to rethink their approach. The UK charity Migrant Rights Network shifted their messaging from 'lived experience-led' activism to 'lived experience and values-led' activism in 2023.
They argued that figures like Rishi Sunak and Suella Braverman demonstrate that lived experience alone does not guarantee shared values. Both come from immigrant backgrounds and have experienced racism, yet their support for restrictive immigration policies has led critics to question whether their personal histories count as valid lived experience.
At the heart of this is an uncomfortable question: should lived experience only be recognised when it aligns with certain political values?
My research suggests that if we only value lived experience when it confirms our own views, we risk turning it into a selective tool rather than a genuine commitment to listening.
If we say lived experience matters, we have to be willing to engage with it across the spectrum — even when it challenges us. That doesn't mean we have to agree, but it does mean staying open to dialogue.
None of this means lived experience should be dismissed – it provides essential insight into how injustice is felt, understood and navigated by those most affected. However, when it becomes the sole measure of credibility, it can create divisions within activist spaces and silence people who want to contribute.
A more productive approach would be to view lived experience not as the final word or the end of a conversation, but as a starting point — one that invites listening, dialogue and ultimately, collective action.
As one activist in my study reflected: 'If you take the time to talk and listen, you're not disqualified just because you didn't grow up in that context. The key is humility.'
Dr Jody Moore-Ponce is Assistant lecturer in Sociology at University College Cork
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‘Lived experience' is valued in activism – but is it doing more harm than good?
‘Lived experience' is valued in activism – but is it doing more harm than good?

Irish Examiner

time28-05-2025

  • Irish Examiner

‘Lived experience' is valued in activism – but is it doing more harm than good?

The idea of 'lived experience' – knowledge gained through direct, personal experience – is now central in activism, academia and politics. Popularised by feminist thinkers like Simone de Beauvoir and concepts like standpoint theory, it makes sense that people see the world differently based on what they've been through. And movements like #MeToo showed how sharing personal stories, particularly for oppressed, marginalised or victimised groups, can drive real change. Lived experience lends authority to those long excluded from public debate, offering insight traditional expertise may miss. But it also raises questions about who gets to speak. Those without direct experience of an issue can find their place in activism questioned. High-profile cases like Rachel Dolezal and Andrea Smith, activists who falsely claimed black and Native American ancestry, respectively, highlight how powerful the claim to lived experience has become – so much so that some feel compelled to lie about it in order to be heard. My research, based on in-depth interviews with 20 activists from a range of movements and backgrounds across Europe, India and the US, shows what challenges arise when lived experience is treated as the ultimate credential in activism. The interviewees revealed how emphasis on personal testimony can shift activism away from political action, toward guilt, polarisation and disengagement. This matters, because it affects who feels able to participate in movements pushing for social change. One trans activist stressed the importance of lived experience in leading the fight for transgender rights, warning that without trans voices at the centre, the movement risks overlooking key perspectives that are often absent from research and politics. For others, the emphasis on lived experience creates internal dilemmas. Activists without lived experience can feel unsure of their place. One white anti-racist activist based in the UK put it this way: I would definitely be silent in a lot of things, and I wouldn't be proud of it. But I wouldn't have the right to speak up. Another white female activist working in international development described a growing discomfort with her role: 'I fundamentally question whether I have legitimacy in leadership. Can I legitimately show up? Or do I just need to leave the development sector entirely?' In some activist spaces, speaking without relevant lived experience is seen as a transgression. Identity becomes a kind of moral litmus test for who gets to speak and lead. Activists described an overwhelming sense of guilt about their own social advantages. One reflected on how acknowledging those advantages, by recognising the privileges they hold (and their subsequent lack of marginalised lived experience) can be a barrier to activism: 'I think it is important to engage in self-awareness, but sometimes it moves into self-criticism. You can stall if you're always feeling guilty.' One interviewee observed a 'collective inertia' among allies, activists and academics who, unsure of their place, chose silence over action. Another described how guilt about having a privileged lived experience shifts the focus away from collective political action and toward perfecting the self — a kind of confessional self-work that risks becoming inward-focused, rather than leading to meaningful social change. These comments reflect concerns raised in social justice research about how guilt, humility and lived experience can shape or stall activism. My findings suggest that while lived experience remains vital, the way it's used matters — when it isolates rather than unites, or fuels self-focus over action, we need to use it more carefully, in ways that build connection and drive change. Identity, experience and diversity of opinion Some activists strongly defended the idea that those with the least privilege should have the most say. As one LGBT+ activist put it: 'The person who has the least privilege in society gets to decide what is true. If you're straight and cis, and you're a guy, middle-aged, and white, check your privileges.' While this perspective centres voices long pushed to the margins, it can also wrongly assume everyone with a particular lived experience will have the same views on an issue. Many writers and philosophers, such as Frantz Fanon, have challenged the idea that identity alone dictates political outlooks. As British writer Kenan Malik recently argued: Black and Asian communities are as politically diverse as white communities. Latino and black voters' support for Donald Trump in the US has challenged many people's assumptions about how identity dictates political allegiance. This tension has prompted some activist organisations to rethink their approach. The UK charity Migrant Rights Network shifted their messaging from 'lived experience-led' activism to 'lived experience and values-led' activism in 2023. They argued that figures like Rishi Sunak and Suella Braverman demonstrate that lived experience alone does not guarantee shared values. Both come from immigrant backgrounds and have experienced racism, yet their support for restrictive immigration policies has led critics to question whether their personal histories count as valid lived experience. At the heart of this is an uncomfortable question: should lived experience only be recognised when it aligns with certain political values? My research suggests that if we only value lived experience when it confirms our own views, we risk turning it into a selective tool rather than a genuine commitment to listening. If we say lived experience matters, we have to be willing to engage with it across the spectrum — even when it challenges us. That doesn't mean we have to agree, but it does mean staying open to dialogue. None of this means lived experience should be dismissed – it provides essential insight into how injustice is felt, understood and navigated by those most affected. However, when it becomes the sole measure of credibility, it can create divisions within activist spaces and silence people who want to contribute. A more productive approach would be to view lived experience not as the final word or the end of a conversation, but as a starting point — one that invites listening, dialogue and ultimately, collective action. As one activist in my study reflected: 'If you take the time to talk and listen, you're not disqualified just because you didn't grow up in that context. The key is humility.' Dr Jody Moore-Ponce is Assistant lecturer in Sociology at University College Cork Read More Young people understand the urgency of the climate crisis

Britain does not dictate Irish law. Or Irish feminism
Britain does not dictate Irish law. Or Irish feminism

Irish Times

time28-04-2025

  • Irish Times

Britain does not dictate Irish law. Or Irish feminism

In the aftermath of a UK court ruling on the definition of woman as that defined by 'biological sex' , one of the legal challenge's funders, the author JK Rowling (who also writes under the name Robert Galbraith), posted a photograph to social media. For a good while now, Rowling's antagonism on the issue of trans rights has inflamed a discourse that makes rational discussion difficult. She continued that behaviour with her post, which showed her posing with a cigar and a drink on a yacht somewhere around the Bahamas and the gloating caption, 'I love it when a plan come together'. For me the photograph seemed the kind of thing Nigel Farage would do. Brexit itself is not an outrageous comparison. Both that movement and trans-exclusionary feminism are obsessed with borders: one of land and sea, and one of bodies. Both movements are paranoid and seek to deflect. Both 'wins' – leaving the European Union, and this recent court ruling – are subject to the law of unintended consequences. 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John Murry on being abused: ‘Those experiences as a teenager made me angry and they made me write. They gave me a lot of rage'
John Murry on being abused: ‘Those experiences as a teenager made me angry and they made me write. They gave me a lot of rage'

Irish Times

time28-04-2025

  • Irish Times

John Murry on being abused: ‘Those experiences as a teenager made me angry and they made me write. They gave me a lot of rage'

'I know this sounds odd, but I may be the only Irish-ish person that loves Longford,' John Murry tells me. 'My ex's mother once said, 'Who lives in Longford?' I loved it because no one goes there. It's just got such an interesting history. It reminded me increasingly of Mississippi.' I have rarely interviewed a more interesting fellow. A close relative of William Faulkner – his grandmother was the author's first cousin – this singular American (and Irish-ish) musician, whose conversation moves as slowly and unstoppably as the river that named his home state, is no longer resident in our fine midlands. Recently married, Murry moved back home after years feeling welcome in Ireland . He now speaks to me from Boston. 'So I'm still in Ireland,' he says with a laugh. 'There's a pub we go to that's called the Druid that looks just like another pub in Galway. It has all the arts-festival posters, all the Fleadh posters.' We can all think of at least one American celebrity who felt themselves driven from the United States to Ireland by the recent restoration of Donald Trump, but Murry reacted in the opposite fashion. READ MORE 'When Trump was elected I felt a responsibility to be here,' he says. 'I feel somebody's got to do something. People need to be able to fight. And I'm not quite sure what I mean by that.' Murry furrows his brow and ponders his Native American heritage. 'It's a disturbing kind of time,' he says. 'But this country was here before. It was here when my relatives were here. My relations have the oldest bones found on this continent, right? And I'm watching Americans get deported. When I say 'Americans', I mean, they may be Latin American or Central American or whatever, but they're Americans more so than Donald Trump.' There is a lot more swampy talk in a fine new documentary from Sarah Share entitled The Graceless Age: The Ballad of John Murry. Named for his acclaimed 2012 album, the film begins in Ireland and then takes Murry back to his native soil in Mississippi. It is a tale full of sorrow, abuse and Gothic poetry. We hear about the lingering Faulkner influence: though Murry was adopted, his grandmother said he was 'more like Bill than any of us'. It does not seem to have been a happy childhood, but he does remember being always having books around. One can hardly be surprised that someone who grew up so close to Elvis Presley's childhood home – and was steeped in the Delta blues – ending up grabbing a guitar. The wrong sort of formative experience arrived when, appalled at what they saw as delinquent behaviour (it doesn't sound like much), his parents sent him to a fundamentalist Christian 'rehabilitation' facility. He was there repeatedly abused by older students. It feels reductive to ask whether that trauma is at the root of his tortured music and of previous problems with heroin addiction. But it is also an unavoidable response. He shows no offence. 'There's certainly some relationship,' he says. 'If you were to go back into my childhood, I would say that music in the church – even in the church choir – was the transcendental thing that made me feel the art of the invisible. But, to another degree, I think I started [music] in the same way that everyone else does: I kind of wanted a girlfriend. [ John Murry: 'Songwriting? To me it just happens and that's all there is to it' Opens in new window ] 'It's been a thing I've never been able to shake. I've tried a lot of my adult life to fight against myself. We live in times when it's not terribly easy to make a living doing these kind of things: make a film, make a record.' Murry does not, however, downplay the lingering influence of the abuse. 'Those experiences as a teenager made me angry and they made me write,' he says. 'They gave me a lot of rage. And I didn't know what to do with that, whether it was to abuse my body and then to write about that and to create things about that. That to some degree took the place of abusing my body. It gave me the opportunity to realise you can play music. You don't have to destroy yourself in the same way.' He smiles as he tells me about an inspirational lecturer who, after he finished a degree, was pushing him towards graduate school at the University of Chicago when she saw him and his band play a hugely well-received gig. 'Why the hell are you going to school?' his mentor remarked, approvingly. Somewhere in there he found an escape in Ireland. Celebrating his time here, he reveals an apparently endless knowledge of Irish literature, music and wider culture 'That was the permission that I needed to do this,' he says. 'There was something my daughter said. During the pandemic I said, 'I think I'm going to do something else. This is not working out.' She was, like, 'Good luck!' I was, like, 'What do you mean?' She said, 'You'll make another record. That's what you're going to do.' And she's ultimately right.' Murry has a reasonable claim to that rock-journo cliche of being the best artist you've never heard of. The Graceless Age, his debut solo record, was roughly positioned in the confluence between folk, blues and whatever 'roots' means, but the searing confessional tone of the lyrics was all his own. In the mid-1990s he had become hooked on heroin and, as Share's film explains, had at least one close encounter with oblivion. Little Colored Balloons, an epic nine-minute track on The Graceless Age, envelops us in that darkness. 'Saran wrap and little coloured balloons,' he sings. 'A black nickel, a needle and a spoon. You say this ain't what I am. This is what I do to warn your ghost away.' I was wondering whether he had any concerns about revisiting his often traumatic past in a documentary, but I guess he has been doing that in song for years. 'I didn't know that it was going to go in that direction when we first began doing it,' he says of the film. 'So it did require some persuasion to get it done. I feel like men who experience sexual assault like that don't generally speak about it. And I just felt here's a way I can do something. Sarah Share and I go back and forth. I've known her for so long. But we basically hold the same belief about a couple of things, and one is that patriarchy and toxic masculinity are destroying the world.' Somewhere in there he found an escape in Ireland. Celebrating his time here, he reveals an apparently endless knowledge of Irish literature, music and wider culture. Every second answer, delivered in a barely modulated Mississippi accent, swells with quotations and citations. Other fine records, such as The Stars Are God's Bullet Holes and A Short History of Decay, followed. He became part of the domestic furniture. He lived in Kilkenny. He lived in Dublin for 'five or six months on the canal – couldn't have been a lovelier place' – and remembers 'sitting there reading Stanislaus Joyce'. Murry found his special place in Co Longford. He talks to me about Mannix Flynn and Aidan Gillen. You can see him briefly in Paul Duane's recent horror film All You Need Is Death . The longer we talk, the more I realise he has a complicated sense of belonging. He couldn't be a more unambiguous manifestation of the American south, drawling like something from Carson McCullers (or from his own second cousin). But he now belongs elsewhere and everywhere. 'Let me think how to say this,' he says from Boston. 'I see Ireland as home. I don't see this country as something that's recognisable to me any more. So I see it as a responsibility to be here and bear witness and to do whatever I can to stop the onslaught of whatever this is.' The Graceless Age: The Ballad of John Murry is in cinemas from Friday, May 2nd

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