This is the first blog post in a series written by the 2025 recipients of the Duke University Libraries Summer Research Fellowship for LIFE Students. Mingyu (Matthew) Joo is a senior majoring in International Comparative Studies and Political Science.

Intentions, Background and Theory – Beginning the Research

I first came to Seoul with the goal of broadly understanding how the United States—where I grew up and was educated for most of my life—affected the development of South Korea, my homeland. I wanted to investigate how the most socially marginalized groups were affected by the double-degree overlay of authority in the US-ROK alliance and initially focused on the presence of permanent US military bases and their influence in nearby local communities. I first started with Itaewon, a geographical and cultural center of Seoul where a huge American military base was located before its recent move to a more suburban area outside the city.

It is not too well known that South Korea, the country of the global K-pop and K-everything as we know it now, is militarized as much as it is globalized. A trip to Seoul Station will guarantee the spotting of more than a handful of young Korean men in uniform likely visiting their families for the few days a year that they are given as military off-days. All men—and only men—of a certain age that are able-bodied and able-minded are required to serve in the military for an average of a year and a half, sometimes much more depending on the position. Men are carefully screened in a sterile, standardized method to ensure they are of the ‘correct’ identity, ideology, gender, sexuality, health and physical capability as required by the Republic of Korea’s armed forces. If you stay in Seoul for long enough, you will likely also see American soldiers strolling around the city in their American uniforms. The presence of the military, both domestic and foreign, is ever-normalized, its issues internalized, and its necessity continually justified.

Today, South Korea hosts the largest American military base outside of the United States (Camp Humphreys, which was once Yongsan Garrison in Itaewon, better known as the famous Eighth United States Army), and the number of American soldiers permanently stationed in the country number above twenty-thousand. South Korea’s Wartime Military Operations authority is still held by joint American forces, the South Korean National Security Law actively prosecutes any activity hostile to its militaristic ideologies, and more than 200,000 young Korean men are enlisted into the military every year. Though there are many more things to be said about this militarization of a nation, one aspect worth noting—the inquiry of which fuels my research question—is the effect this cemented ideology of militarism has on the people that the ideology never intended to include. Not only does the South Korean military require all abiding men to serve on its bases, it imprisons, institutionalizes, and prosecutes those that do not abide by its inherently ideological conscripting, whether this non-abidance be intentional or unavoidable for the subject. Of course, the outcomes here are immediate and visible: conscientious objectors are thrown into prison, gay and trans individuals identified through mental screenings are subjected to institutionalization, physically ‘unfit’ men are put on a long waitlist for non-active duty military assignments. Militarism not only excludes, but kills: Byun Hee-Soo, a transgender woman, committed suicide in 2021 after the army dismissed her and repeatedly rejected her from rejoining the armed forces for being transgender. However, the ideology surrounding militarism and its required masculinity does not end at the conscription office and neither does its effects, which grow harder to trace for the uninformed eye.

Ideologies of militarism are sustained through the rhetoric of “safety.” A nation’s safety, by definition, implies soldiers, weapons, and military power used to physically protect its borders, but this logic inevitably extends beyond the barracks. As Foucault argued, the governance of modern society operates on a hostile, exclusionary notion of how society should be “protected” and kept “safe.” In a country defined by war and a constant volatility to war, the rhetoric that safeguards nationalist order gains increasing authority. Combined with the Americanist, neoliberal vision of a “good society” imposed since post-liberation occupation, this rhetoric extends into all domains of social life: heteronormative and patriarchal order, anti-communism and liberalist freedom, binary gender distinctions, the nuclear family, reproduction, and sanitation (Jeon, 2025). In this discourse, “safety” no longer refers only to borders or barracks—it extends into everyday life: all bodies are subject to scrutiny as any body can be a threat to the social safety of everybody. Thus, anyone or anything that does not adhere to this standard—the ‘others,’ political dissidents, sexual/moral deviants or ‘queers’ and many more alike—is pushed out of the realm of what is deemed worthy of protection, and simultaneously sewn into the veil of terrorism that can ‘dismantle’ the very foundation of this nationalist ideology and the nation itself.

I use the term ‘queer’ in the last instance to not only mean a certain gender identity, but a broader reference to people that exist outside of the social norm as well as the practice of resisting the norm itself, as proposed by Butler. Under this interpretation, ‘queer’ communities and spaces have adjacently existed for as long as Korean/American military presence and its ideologies have occupied the nation, with commonalities in their ways of resisting, exploiting and sometimes internalizing the double degree of violence enacted upon their bodies. The site of Itaewon, a liminal space caught in the midst of very visible societal change, is living evidence of the ways queer communities have existed and continue to exist under scrutiny. For one, the story of ‘comfort women’ in 50s to 90s Itaewon gijichons (meaning literally ‘camptown,’ its connotation suggesting prostitution and red-light districts) exemplifies the way militarism’s ideologies intentionally neglect as well as exploit the subjects deemed to be the ‘other.’

Archiving and Secondary Source Research – Military Comfort Women

Before its recent relocation to Pyeongtaek, the Eighth United States Army—the largest and most significant of its kind—was located in Itaewon, the center of South Korea’s capital city. Women in war-torn Korea were coerced into servicing American soldiers at ‘comfort stations’ directly built by the American military (with Korean collaboration) or sponsored by the military for civilian operation in Itaewon and throughout the nation. In a country where prostitution was declared illegal and painful colonial memories of Japanese sexual slavery haunted public perception, such state-led projects in gijichons were made possible by the use of the rhetoric of ‘safety’ and othering. The Korean government had effectively declared these bodies to be ‘unsanitized’ and thus outside the realm of society’s laws for protection. Their presence worked as a necessary buffer between foreign soldiers and other ‘respectable women’ of Korean society, and the safety of foreign soldiers and the rest of ‘respectable society’ then justified the violent control of the women’s bodies: to minimize the spread of sexual diseases, routine physical checks and penicillin injections took place regardless of the women’s health or consent, and many women from these camptowns died or suffered permanent injury from these injections. But this ideology behind safety is never concrete, as the state continually manipulates its own rhetoric to extract the most benefit from this system of exploitation: the women were later praised as ‘patriots’ and ‘dollar earners’ as the Korean government shifted its ambitions to the global stage, and Itaewon’s history as a camptown was erased to make way for its new ‘Special Tourism District’ title. The ‘free,’ ‘westernized,’ and ‘globalized’ Itaewon that Koreans know of today was built on the backbones of an inherently hypocritical ideology.

The focus here, however, is not how women were victimized by violence; much significance lies in the ways they have acted with a sense of agency and ‘queerness’ under severely restrictive circumstances. In an environment where basic human dignity was routinely stripped from them, the women practiced alternative familyhood to preserve and protect a sense of humanness. The women lived and worked in the comfort stations, placed outside the traditional notion of a family and its requisite ‘sanitary’ womanhood; through the practicing of pseudo-familyhood and kinship systems, the women reshaped a sense of familiarity and dignity in the absence of traditional family structures. Terms usually meant for family labels like ‘unnie,’ ‘mom,’ and ‘mama’ were used to refer to each other while more traditional workplace labels were left intentionally unused. ‘Families’ were created and reinforced outside state-sanctioned forms of familyhood, defined by mutual survival and care under duress, resulting in a mode of queerness outside structural norms (Cho, 2025).

Archival Research, Interviews and Ethnography – Itaewon’s Queer Communities

This symbolic form of queerness against marginalization perhaps finds the most parallel in today’s queer (as in sexual minority) communities of Itaewon. Their initial commonality lies in their shared space: the ‘comfort’ provided to the soldiers of the Eighth United States Army included not just sex but ‘Rest & Recreation’ services (albeit closely entangled with sex work), where many transgender women that now live and work in Itaewon first got introduced to the practice of training and performing for the Western audience. It is in these ‘red-light’ spaces where K-pop’s entertainment and trainee systems culturally originate (Kim, 2024). As the number of American troops declined after the war, the areas that provided ‘comfort’ and recreation to the soldiers emptied out and left behind unsanitary relics. It is in these discarded, cheap buildings (like the Nakwon Shopping Center and areas near the Yongsan Garrison) where oppressed—and unsanitary due to sexual deviance—gay men and transgender women of the 50s and 60s found refuge and seemingly adopted the language of queerness inherited to them through shared space. Korean gay men, to this day, use coded language in Itaewon (and other queer spaces) like ‘unnie’ to refer to each other, directly going against sexual and gender norms, as they laugh about wanting to get ‘sold’ at the clubs, and transgender showgirls with roots in the Eighth Army perform with stage names that are always followed by ‘mama’ or ‘eomma,’ echoing kinship practices of earlier camptown women.

But how does this abstract ‘inherited queerness’ translate to today’s climate? The chosen route to resist marginalization through the embracing of ‘queerness’ is as diverse as the people that live in Itaewon: some perform resistance-queerness without even knowing it (merely partying at Itaewon’s gay clubs and watching drag shows, one might argue, apply here), some make it their life goal and career, and some enshrine their messages in works of art. Artist Jun’s 2025 exhibition in an Itaewon club titled ‘Strong Power (강한 힘)’ shows a poignant case of how queering, thereby reclaiming, the very ideologies that act to silence the existence of the ‘other’ can be done through the medium of art. In his works, conventionally masculine-looking gay men are painted with military uniforms on, some of them behind chains, some of them showing their body in lustful lighting. His works offer a route to resisting and exploiting the forced militarism that still punishes homosexuality on- and off-base (i.e. Article 92-6 of the Military Criminal Act). In his artworks, rigid ideals of masculinity and comradeship are re-appropriated and made into subtle symbols of fetishization under the queer gaze. Thus, this form of ‘queering militarism’ allows one to subvert the tools of oppression into a language of desire, satire and resistance. Other forms for queer resistance are more pronounced and long-term: a worker at the Korea Federation for HIV/AIDS Prevention recounts his time in the military and how it catalyzed him to take on the role he has now. As a proudly out gay man (even to his family, which is very rare in today’s Korean society), his year-and-a-half period of military duty was marked by a perpetual sense of insecurity and internal resentment. Not only did he have to hide his sexuality from the authorities, he had to assimilate into the heteronormative, hypermasculinized sociality of his peer soldiers, whose ruthless hatred against the ‘others’ was justified and encouraged by the nature of the military. Once discharged, he was determined to create a queer space that was separate and safe from the violence that he saw in the barracks. Though his initial intentions were unclear, his eventual work in AIDS prevention signified an important milestone in queer resistance: confronting the long hypocrisy of the state’s exploitation of ‘health’ and ‘sanitation.’ Similar to its treatment of military comfort women, the Korean government selectively acknowledged and silenced the health of queer people: the Seoul Olympics led to foreigners’ exemption of then-required HIV tests to keep up the sex tourism boom, but when the AIDS scare hit Korea, the state forced gay men in Itaewon who had been in contact with foreigners to test for HIV. Thus, the AIDS prevention organization signified a reclamation of a lost dignity through the ability to elevate and safeguard the community’s health on its own terms, away from state hypocrisy. But not all resistance is triumphant. Candy Mama, a middle-aged transgender woman who has lived in Itaewon for more than a decade, expressed her dying wish to “die as a man.” Acknowledging that her life as an “other” would never be accepted, she hoped at least to be remembered as part of society’s customs. She also lamented that trans women in Korea remain largely confined to red-light districts and that even within minority communities, divisions persist. Yet her hope for future solidarity across lines of difference reveals both the fractures and the possibilities of queer resistance.

Thus, militarism in South Korea is not confined to bases, borders, or barracks; it permeates everyday life, shaping who is deemed worthy of protection and who is cast as a threat. Through the rhetoric of “safety,” it has continuously justified exclusion and exploitation of the ‘other,’ the effects of which are inherently invisible for the majority but often devastating for the minority. Yet the stories of Itaewon’s others—from gijichon women to queer communities—show that spaces of marginalization can also become sites of agency and resistance. What remains uncertain is how such forms of resistance will be remembered, or whether they can be sustained in a society still bound to militarism. Questions of the paradoxes inherent in a globalized yet militarized modernity and its implications in belonging, safety, and survival must be examined to continue this conversation.

Cho, Y. (2025). Queer Companionship: The Intimacy and Resistance in the Red-Light District of Paju, Gyeonggi Province. Korean Association for LGBTQ+ and Queer Studies. (work-in-progress presented at the Korea Association for LGBTQ+ and Queer Studies Seminar)

Jeon, W. (2025). Arriving at Safe Queer Studies in South Korea. Korean Association for LGBTQ+ and Queer Studies. https://queerstudies.kr/lastissue/?q=YToxOntzOjEyOiJrZXl3b3JkX3R5cGUiO3M6MzoiYWxsIjt9&bmode=view&idx=163605157&t=board

Kim, D. (2024). History of the Gay Community in Jongno 3-ga. Chingusai. https://chingusai.net/xe/newsletter/634210

* All information in this essay was collected through research on secondary sources and archival materials, attendance at exhibitions and lectures, interviews with relevant subjects and fieldwork at relevant sites conducted during the summer of 2025. Though factual integrity was respected throughout the process, the nature of such research may lead to slight incongruencies with historical fact. For more specific information about its sources, please contact the author or refer to his other written works.

From Jun’s exhibition in Itaewon

A view of downtown Seoul

From Jun’s exhibition in Itaewon

Transgender performer, Sekja, lecturing at Imoogi lecture series on transgender history in Itaewon

This is the final blog post in a series written by the 2024 recipients of the Duke University Libraries Summer Research Fellowship for LIFE Students. You can also read the first post, second post, and third post. Korey Cadiz is a senior majoring in Biology and Evolutionary Anthropology.

Between 75 and 85 million years ago, the Hawaiian Islands began to form. Volcanic activity from a stationary “hotspot” in the ocean floor created these islands as the Pacific Tectonic Plate drifted northwest. The first people to discover Hawai’i were likely Polynesians, as they arrived between 300 and 700 A.D. from the Marquesas, the nearest high islands to the south. Polynesia is roughly defined by a triangle connecting Hawai’i, Aotearoa (New Zealand), and Rapa Nui (Easter Island). By the time Polynesians reached Hawai’i, they had mastered their skills in sea voyaging and navigation through a deep understanding of astronomy, weather patterns, and ocean birds. They also carried with them the plants and animals necessary to colonize new islands. As a result, Polynesian culture flourished in Hawai’i.

The first Western contact with Hawai’i occurred in 1778 when Captain James Cook landed while searching for the Northwest Passage between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. His arrival initiated an influx of foreigners that brought various diseases, thereby devastating the Hawaiian people and resulting in an estimated 90% population decrease within 100 years. Over time, additional Western influence began to threaten the existence of Hawaiian culture, such as the language, conventions, and ways of life. This included traditional medicinal techniques and healing rituals, which suffered near erasure and continue to be dismissed as primitive from the Western beliefs that “West is best.” Consequently, many Native Hawaiians during the past few centuries have found themselves struggling to reconcile Western ideologies with Hawaiian customs.

Throughout my life, my community has instilled in me the belief that it is important to know our history and understand the ways of our ancestors so that we may appreciate and return to the traditions that once characterized our people and culture as one of the most innovative, healthy, and productive societies in the world. Descended from the original people of Hawai’i and raised on the islands they cultivated, I was taught to embrace my genealogy, learn what remains of its legacies, and incorporate that ancestral knowledge into my life. As a contemporary Hawaiian pursuing a career in Western medicine, my goal for this summer’s research was to bridge the historical practices of my home with the modern techniques I hope to study.

I began my research by compiling locally sourced and endorsed literature written over the past three centuries by Hawaiian scholars and allies. The publications covered a range of topics, from language (grammar, vocabulary, and semantics) to history (cultural and colonial), advocacy, restoration, healing, botany, philosophy, and more. Ancient Hawaiians thrived because they lived holistically, viewing all aspects of nature as interconnected and cyclical. In order to study the significance and effectiveness of their practices, such as medicine and healing, it is necessary to explore multiple aspects of their culture and beliefs.

For instance, traditional Hawaiians did not distinguish between “medicine” and “healing” as Westerners do. The West defines medicine as “a substance or preparation used in treating disease” and healing as “to make free from injury or disease; to make sound or whole” (Merriam-Webster). In Hawaiian, the most relevant term is lā’au lapa’au, meaning vegetation (lā’au) used to heal, treat, or cure (lapa’au). While these rituals might be categorized by Westerners as herbal or primitive medicine, ancient Hawaiians rarely believed that healing was exclusively superficial. Illness, injury, and pain were frequently regarded as signs of an imbalance in lifestyle or a lack of harmony.

One example of this is kapu kai, a ceremonial bath in the kai (sea) or other saltwater. It is used to purify oneself after encountering physical or spiritual defilement and to remove the resulting kapu (taboo). Kapu kai is performed in numerous situations, such as after contact with a dead body or as a treatment for illnesses and trauma. This ritual embodies the Hawaiian belief that ailments can arise from various forces and must be corrected or cleansed to achieve full restoration and wholeness. Therefore, the treatment goes beyond consuming herbal remedies, as multiple actions are often required to resolve the underlying issue and prevent its recurrence.

Similarly, pī kai involves sprinkling seawater or other salted water to purify a person, item, or place from spiritual contamination and remove harmful influences or taboos. Pī kai is most commonly conducted at the opening of a new building or home and accompanied by pule (prayer) but can also be completed informally to find solace and spend time alone. A prevalent modern example of this is swimming in the ocean to organize thoughts, relax muscles, and emerge with a clear plan of action. The flexibility of pī kai—in terms of where it can be performed, who can execute it, and what can be purified—allowed it to be an accessible practice for ancient Hawaiians and now contemporary ones.

Another essential Hawaiian healing ritual is ho’oponopono, which translates to “make things right.” It is used to restore and maintain harmonious relationships within a family and with supernatural powers. During ho’oponopono, conflicts are “set right” through prayer, discussion, confession, repentance, restitution, and forgiveness. Rather than focusing on a particular ailment, traditional Hawaiians believed that restoring lōkahi (unity and balance) among akua (God) and nā ‘aumākua (deified ancestors), ‘āina, moana, and lani (nature and environment), and kānaka (humankind) would address the internal or external forces affecting a person. For example, an injury or illness might be seen as a punishment from nā ‘aumākua (deified ancestors) for family transgressions, in which case ho’oponopono would aim to resolve familial conflicts and improve health.

Learning and engaging in rituals like kapu kai, pī kai, and ho’oponopono is significant because of their remedial capabilities. Western medicine in Hawai’i, which is a byproduct of colonization, normally treats physical symptoms without addressing their psychological, social, and environmental root causes, thus contributing to the near loss of these restorative Hawaiian techniques. By contrast, ancient Hawaiian healing focuses on the person and their lifestyle as a whole and emphasizes foundational principles in patient care. The reintroduction of such Hawaiian practices has the potential to serve as a model for recovery within the existing population of Hawai’i, offering both improved functional wellness and a pathway for cultural reconciliation.

My upbringing has taught me that a person’s identity, comprised of their history, conventions, and beliefs, is central to their lifestyle, health, and well-being. As I continue to pursue a career in Western medicine, I intend to learn and share the knowledge, customs, and values of my ancestors while promoting the importance of holistic awareness. Ultimately, I hope to someday witness the revival of traditional Hawaiian healing practices in my community and contribute to the cultural integration of modern healthcare.

This is the second blog post in a series written by the 2024 recipients of the Duke University Libraries Summer Research Fellowship for LIFE Students. You can read the first post here. Letar Jia is majoring in CulAnth with a minor in ECS and Cinematic Arts, and a certificate in Documentary Studies. 

Growing up on the Tibetan plateau, I have witnessed the dramatic changes driven by social media in my home region in recent years. Over the decade, social media has dramatically changed the lives of Tibetan nomadic herders and powerfully impacted their daily routines in the Himalayan region. And I have always been curious to better understand how Tibetans in other parts of the Himalayan region experience similar and different changes from our way of life. Dolpo and Tibet share so much common lifestyle, but all are often isolated from one other. The majority of the people in these different regions are nomads and have a rich and deep knowledge of nomadic life, and yet they are illiterate and vulnerable in the age of information technology. Therefore, I’m very interested in exploring and comparing how they are facing the challenges and advantages brought by social media. There have been few studies (especially by Tibetans) conducted on the same topic. I wanted to explore and rethink the impact of social media on global Tibet in contemporary times, and how this change is shaping their way of live. This project explores the impact of social media on the traditional nomadic ways of living, communicating, and thinking in Tibet areas. How are Tibetan communities and individuals facing the challenges of social media and everyday digital connectivity?

My research provides new knowledge about the impact of social media and information technologies on Tibetan nomads or indigenous people in this expansive Himalayan region and Tibetan plateau. I have been researching how they live, struggle, and envision their future in the age of information technology. This has helped me familiarize myself with relevant cultural anthropological theories, methodologies, findings, and ongoing discussions in the broad interdisciplinary space trying to understand the impact of information technologies in the Global South. By examining existing research, I was able to identify gaps or areas where further investigation is needed. I was also able to find gaps including unanswered questions and contradictions in extant scholarship.  Additionally, hopefully, my research will encourage others to pay closer attention to this topic, especially as they became the last generation of nomads in these Himalayan regions facing rapid globalization and the influx of information technology on everyday ways of living and surviving.

I had the fortunate opportunity to conduct fieldwork for ten days each in both Dolpo and Tibet. Though these regions are geographically distinct, they share a deeply rooted Tibetan culture. The fieldwork was the highlight of this project. For instance, reaching Dolpo, often referred to as “the hidden world,” required two days of transportation from Kathmandu, followed by a strenuous three-day trek to an elevation of 4,200 meters. Living among the indigenous people of Dolpo in the remote Himalayan mountains, with very limited internet service, was an incredible experience. Immersed in their daily lives, I gained a deeper appreciation for their traditions and resilience. Equally extraordinary was my time spent with Tibetan nomads on the vast grasslands of the Tibetan Plateau. This experience provided me with valuable insights into the unique challenges faced by Tibetan pastoralists in these two distinct regions. Through this fieldwork, I realized the urgency and importance of my research. Tibetan indigenous people and nomads are undergoing rapid changes due to the globalization of social media and platform capitalism, yet there is a scarcity of studies on this topic, particularly among Tibetans. This project has underscored the need for further research to better understand and address the impacts of these forces on their traditional way of life.

My goal was to explore the common and unique solutions that Tibetan nomads and Himalayan Indigenous communities have developed to address the changes brought by social media. I believe that these insights can potentially contribute to the global body of Indigenous and nomadic knowledge. Through this project, I aimed to examine how social media and digital technology have altered—both positively and negatively—the ways in which these communities live, communicate, and envision their futures.

In addition to this analysis, I sought to document and preserve the rich cultural practices and traditional knowledge of Tibetan nomads and Himalayan Indigenous people. The perspectives presented in my research are centered on their voices, incorporating their knowledge, experiences, and narratives into the research process. By doing so, I hope to not only highlight their resilience and adaptability but also contribute to the broader understanding and appreciation of Indigenous and nomadic cultures in the digital age.

Three Key Findings:

Firstly, social media has significantly influenced how local Tibetan communities share traditional knowledge and cultural practices. In Dolpo, while most people primarily use Western social media apps, a few also use WeChat. In contrast, Tibetans in Tibet predominantly use WeChat, along with Chinese platforms like Douyin (the Chinese version of TikTok) and Kuaishou. Despite these differences in platform usage, both communities continue to share their cultural practices online. For instance, modern Tibetan dance and Tibetan Dharma talks have become very popular among the Dolpo people, who learn and engage with these practices through social media.

Secondly, Dolpo people still maintain strong kinship ties, largely due to their limited access to the internet. However, this is beginning to change. A missionary family has started offering free Wi-Fi in the region, which has led to some rumors and divisions within the community as people become more connected online. In contrast, in Tibet, almost everyone has access to internet services, which has contributed to a weakening of traditional kinship bonds. For example, during the New Year celebrations, it was once customary for locals to visit relatives and friends, bringing gifts. Now, it’s not uncommon for them to send digital money via WeChat instead, reflecting a shift in social practices.

Thirdly, in Dolpo, one of the positive aspects of social media is that it has introduced the community to Tibetan dance, which they have begun learning and appreciating. However, this comes with a downside: traditional dances that were once an integral part of their cultural practices are now being neglected as more people focus on learning newer, popular dances from social media. A more severe negative impact of limited connectivity in Dolpo was tragically highlighted when four people died from altitude sickness in a single day. The village is located far from the nearest hospital, and the lack of mobile signal made it impossible to call for a helicopter to transport them to medical care in time.

In Tibet, the use of Tibetan language on Chinese social media platforms has been heavily restricted. For instance, posts containing Tibetan songs, talks, or even videos featuring traditional Tibetan clothing were frequently blocked on platforms like Kuaishou until a few years ago. Even today, comments written in the Tibetan language are often deleted immediately on any social media platform in Tibet, as they are censored by PRC. This censorship has had a profound impact on the practice and preservation of the Tibetan language, as online spaces for Tibetan cultural expression are increasingly limited. However, there are some advantages as well. Despite these restrictions, some Tibetans have found ways to benefit from social media by using it as a platform for live streaming and selling products. This has allowed a few individuals to achieve financial success and gain a wider audience for their goods and services.

I am grateful for the support of Duke University Libraries, my mentor Ralph Litzinger, and advisor Rukimani PV.

This is the first blog post in a series written by the 2024 recipients of the Duke University Libraries Summer Research Fellowship for LIFE Students. Umang Dhingra is a  junior double-majoring in Psychology and Sociology with a certificate in Child Policy Research. 

Over the past few years, I have been reflecting on my long-term goals, exploring my interests, and considering the issues I wish to address. A turning point for me was the Child Policy Research class with Dr. Megan Golonka. Through the classwork and numerous discussions with Dr. Golonka and my classmates, I discovered a thread connecting my academic interests—behavior, gender, development, economics, and quantitative methodologies—all leading me to the study of families. I became fascinated by how families interact internally and how they function as units. What intrigued me most, however, were families living on the edge—those pushed to their breaking points, whose very existence as a cohesive unit is under threat. In my classwork, I focused on families affected by parental incarceration, exploring its profound long- and short-term impacts.

While working on my incarcerated parenting project, Netflix released a documentary called The Program, which explored the lives, experiences, and legacies of the Troubled Teen Industry (TTI). The TTI is a network of schools and institutions, primarily in the United States, that offers alternative educational pathways for so-called “troublesome” children. These programs, branded as helping kids find the “right” path and instilling discipline, go by many names—Therapeutic Boarding Schools, Tough Love Academies, and Behavioral Modification Programs, among others. The challenge is that these institutions are heavily unmonitored, often slipping through regulatory cracks, and have become breeding grounds for abuse, violence, coercion, and child maltreatment. Because they often lack government funding, these programs are difficult for researchers to study and collect data on.

As someone deeply interested in families and parenting cultures, my lack of knowledge about TTI was unsettling. While I had explored family-institution interactions in my coursework and through lab and field research, witnessing children traumatized and families torn apart by TTI, without adequate institutional protection, was disconcerting. I wanted to use the skills I’d acquired at Duke to delve into this issue and to think creatively about addressing existing research gaps. For example, most research on TTI has been qualitative, drawing on oral histories and ethnographic work. I aimed to bring a new perspective that could make a meaningful contribution to academic discourse.

Thanks to the LIFE grant, I received valuable support from the Duke libraries and developed two research projects—one focusing on information sciences, guided by Haley Walton, Duke’s Librarian for Education and Open Sciences, and the other involving multi-phase data collection from government documents and the 2020 Census. Having completed the methodological aspects, including data collection and an initial scoping search, I plan to continue this work into the next semester as an independent research study. Under the mentorship of Dr. Golonka and the Duke Center for Child and Family Policy, I will write academic papers for both projects with the goal of publishing my findings.

A significant portion of my summer was spent interning in Washington, D.C., at a reproductive freedom policy firm. There, I attended various lectures, convenings, and hearings that broadened my understanding of the foundations and operations of TTI. I learned about family decision-making and autonomy, examined the government’s role in education, and considered how best to protect young people. My policy experience greatly complemented my theoretical background and introduced me to an important aspect of research: effectively communicating findings to non-academic audiences.

For anyone considering a social sciences-driven research project through the LIFE grant, my biggest piece of advice is this: building a strong network of mentors and advisors is crucial! As a newcomer to education research, I felt incredibly supported throughout my projects, and this research would not have been possible without the guidance of Dr. Golonka, Haley Walton, and the Duke LIFE grant. While the hallmark of an undergraduate liberal arts education is exposure to a broad range of topics, this summer allowed me to dive deeply into a highly specialized area of interest. My experience analyzing the troubled teen industry encouraged interdisciplinary thinking and consideration of diverse methodologies, expertise, and approaches to tackle complex questions.

Long-term, I aspire to attend graduate school and pursue a PhD in psychology and policy. My Duke LIFE project has provided me with a clearer understanding of independent research and has strengthened my ability to engage in novel academic thinking. By combining research with policy experience, I feel better prepared for a career in applied academia and as an effective “translator” of science for non-expert audiences. I am excited to continue developing my research from this summer and to use my findings to make a meaningful impact in protecting children from maltreatment and abuse. This experience has also given me greater confidence as I prepare to apply to graduate school.