ARVAC lecture 2025 – keynote
It’s an immense honour to be with you today. As we gather under the ARVAC banner — a space rooted in valuing community knowledge and grassroots engagement — I want to explore how filmmaking offers a powerful mode of community research that not only documents lives but disrupts entrenched inequalities.
In Turkey, where I originally come from, people’s names and surnames have an immediate political resonance. This historically stems from a desire to reflect changing realities – usually during turbulent times - and demonstrates how the personal encapsulates the political. My name, Atıl Eylem, for example, literally means ‘go for action’. It has an overt link with the leftist political activism that both my parents were involved in in the 1970s. The story behind my name does not only refer to the name of one of the left wing journals (Atılım) which had to be published clandestinely, but also assigns me the role and pride of carrying in my name the keywords of the left wing activists who fought, and at times were either killed or went through serious physical and mental torture, for their ideas. This extraordinary responsibility attached to my identity has become pivotal in the research that I do as an academic and, more recently, a filmmaker.
That spirit — of resistance, of naming injustice, of acting on behalf of others — has shaped my academic journey. But over time, I came to feel that the written word, though powerful, had limitations. When the issues we study are urgent, visceral, and life-altering — words on a page may not always be enough.
That’s when I turned to film. Not as an escape from academia, but as an extension of it. Because when a woman tells her story on camera — with her voice, her face, her pain and her pride — something shifts. Something moves. Something becomes undeniable.
Today, I want to explore how academic filmmaking — documentary filmmaking — can challenge injustice, mobilise empathy, and shift culture. I want to argue that **storytelling is not just a method of research — it is a method of resistance.**
In many ways, community research begins with recognising that people’s lives are already embedded with meaning — that their experiences are not only valid but deeply political. This is the lens through which I approach storytelling.
Let me begin with something simple but radical: stories change everything.
They are how we remember, how we connect, and crucially, how we resist.
In academia, we are trained to be objective, to cite rigorously. But when working on issues like child marriage, domestic abuse, or migration, traditional forms of academic expression often fall short. Sometimes, we need to see the tremble in a voice. We need to witness the silence after a survivor speaks.
Documentary film allows us to do that. It brings research to life — not by simplifying it, but by humanising it.
Angela Fitzgerald and Magnolia Lowe remind us that documentary film is not just a research output — it is a research process. It involves immersion, trust-building, vulnerability, and reflexivity. As a filmmaker, you are not just an observer; you are in relationship with your participants.
This is what community researchers often do so well — enter into reciprocal, respectful relationships. My filmmaking owes a great deal to those values.
This is what I call visual activism — the use of film to amplify marginalised voices, to confront power, and to advocate for justice.
My first film, Growing Up Married, tells the stories of four women in Turkey who were married as children. They spoke of virginity tests, domestic violence, social isolation. They also spoke of survival and resistance.
One woman, Leyla, had not sung since she was forced to marry at 14. In the film, she sings — reclaiming a part of herself. That moment bookends the documentary,
The film had ripple effects. It was used in UK Parliament debates and informed legislation to raise the minimum marriage age. A story rooted in Turkish communities influenced British law.
That’s what happens when community voices travel across borders — not just as data points, but as storytellers. The film didn’t just raise awareness. It catalysed structural change.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, I co-directed Lifeline — a film about frontline domestic abuse workers. These were the hidden lifelines during lockdown, often isolated in their own homes while supporting others.
We used video diaries — women recorded themselves after long shifts, sharing exhaustion and solidarity.
The themes were clear: gendered labour, emotional exhaustion, deep care. And the film didn’t stay in the academic bubble. It aired internationally, was submitted to government consultations, and led to wellbeing initiatives for support workers.
Here again, we see how values — empathy, solidarity, accountability — shape the creative dimension. We didn’t just document their work; we reflected their humanity. That, too, is a function of inclusive research.
My latest film, Left Behind, focuses on the policy of No Recourse to Public Funds — which traps migrant women in violent homes by denying them access to shelters and benefits.
We worked with Southall Black Sisters and other charities for over a year. Only after building trust did we begin filming. And we didn’t just interview survivors — we filmed with MPs, lawyers, and support workers to create collective accountability.
The film is now used in advocacy efforts to amend the Victims and Prisoners Bill. It hasn’t changed the law yet — but it has changed the conversation.
This is where community research meets creative activism: we generate knowledge not to describe, but to intervene.
These films weren’t easy to make. Every choice — from framing to editing — carries ethical weight.
Visibility can be empowering. But it can also be dangerous. That’s why consent is a process, not a one-time form.
I see participants not as subjects, but as co-creators. Their truths shape not just what we show — but how we show it.
This is where values meet methodology. Feminist filmmaking, like community research, is slow, relational, and built on trust. It centres the expertise of those most affected.
By refusing to smooth over discomfort or contradiction, we produce knowledge that resonates far beyond academia.
Impact is often spoken about in institutional terms. But what if we define it as moral urgency?
Filmmaking has helped me bridge the gap between the university and the world — and it has taught me that researchers, like educators, can be agents of change.
Community researchers already understand this. You know that change happens through co-creation, shared purpose, and sustained visibility. That knowledge is precious — and urgently needed.
It doesn’t mean everyone needs to make films. But it does mean we all need to ask:
- Who are we accountable to?
- Whose stories are missing?
- And what are we doing with the knowledge we gather?
So let me leave you with a call.
What are the stories you are not yet telling? What injustices remain invisible in your field, your community, your research?
Filmmaking has taught me that storytelling is not just a research method — it is a form of resistance. It can mobilise, include, and transform.
As community researchers, you already understand this deeply. Whether through interviews, workshops, oral histories, or creative work, you are doing the critical labour of inclusion.
Let us continue to build these bridges — between stories and systems, between lived experience and structural change.
We are not only educators or researchers. We are witnesses. We are bridge-builders.
With all that in mind, let’s go for action.
Thank you.