I was in Italy embarking on the first stage of a post-doctoral project that marked a shift to sociology, having completed my PhD in political science. After my first interview, I called John Solomos, who had been my PhD supervisor and was now managing this project, to say I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t be a sociologist. I felt ashamed, guilty, sleazy and above all, impotent. About 20 minutes into the interview with Rita, the tears had started flowing, first hers then mine, as she told me of her flight to Rome, the first night in 30 years that she had not shared a bed with her husband, the calls with her son demanding to know why she had left him when he needed her. I apologised for intruding and said we should stop, but she insisted on continuing, telling me that it was good to be able to put into words all that she had had to hide from her family during the weekly telephone calls. There was an unspoken agreement that when she and the other domestic workers met up on their Sunday afternoons in a park, they would not bring each other down by talking of their loneliness, how much they missed their husbands, their children and their lives back home. She told me she didn’t need or want anything more from me, except that I listen to what she could not say to anyone she knew.

John offered reassurance, stressing the importance of listening to those about whom we write no matter how difficult the experience. Years later in the Moroccan desert, I was confronted by an angry man wanting to know why he should talk to me – what good would it bring him, stuck as he was in limbo, trying to return to a country that had deported him. I told him truthfully – ‘None. If you speak to me, you will give me a gift I cannot repay.’ He demanded I hand over my bag, and having examined the contents took a card and told me to leave. Some hours later, I received an email. He had made his way to the nearest town, and in an internet café had googled me.