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When journalists sit across from someone who has survived war, displacement, or violence, the conversation that follows can either heal or harm. Our foundation recently gathered reporters from Sydney, Melbourne, and regional Queensland for a two-day workshop on trauma-informed interviewing, and the discussions that unfolded reshaped how many of us approach our craft. Australian newsrooms are covering more stories about returning refugees, bushfire survivors, and conflict zones than ever, and editors are recognising that interview technique is a core ethical responsibility, not a soft skill.
The sessions were led by practitioners who had worked with veterans, asylum seekers, and survivors of domestic violence. Participants included freelancers covering Pacific Island neighbours, staff writers from public broadcasters, and student journalists from Brisbane universities. By the end of the workshop, a quiet consensus emerged: the way we ask a question matters as much as the question itself.
Australian journalism has shifted in the past decade. Once, the pursuit of a quote could feel like a competitive sport; reporters now confront the human cost of that chase. Sources who describe losing a home to bushfire in the Blue Mountains, or recount the journey of a refugee who arrived in Perth after years in a camp, often carry wounds that a clumsy question can reopen.
The traditional model, in which a journalist controls the pace and walks away once the recorder is off, leaves little room for the survivor's needs. Trauma-informed interviewing flips that dynamic, recognising that re-traumatisation is a real risk and that the interview itself can be an act of care or an act of harm.
The facilitators outlined a framework that participants could carry into any story, whether the subject was a grieving family in Adelaide or a whistleblower inside a corporate office.
These principles are not a checklist to be ticked off once. They are habits built over time, and they require editors to give reporters the space to apply them. A story that takes an extra day because a source needed time to gather their thoughts is still a better story, and often a more accurate one.
Several veterans of long-form reporting admitted that their usual habit was to arrive cold, sketch questions on a notepad, and begin. The workshop pushed back on this instinct. Pre-interview contact, even a brief phone call the day before, gives a source time to prepare emotionally and decide what they do not want to discuss.
Location also matters. Meeting a survivor at a busy café in central Sydney may feel neutral to a reporter but expose to a source. Offering alternatives, such as a quiet room at a community centre, a video call, or a walk in a familiar park, returns agency to the person being interviewed. This small shift, repeated across a career, gradually changes the power balance between journalist and subject.
Local context influences how trauma is expressed, who is trusted to ask about it, and which words carry weight. A journalist who has only ever worked in a major city may misunderstand the silence that follows a question in a remote community, just as someone learning a new sport may misread its rhythms. There is a parallel here to exploring how baseball and cricket compare; both involve bats and balls, but the cultural cues, pace, and meaning of each game are worlds apart.
For Australian reporters working with First Nations communities, trauma-informed practice also means recognising intergenerational experiences and respecting protocols around who can speak about certain stories. When editors in Melbourne assign a story about a remote community, they share responsibility for ensuring the journalist understands those layers before the first question is asked.
One theme that surfaced repeatedly was who actually gets to attend workshops like ours. Participants from metropolitan outlets tended to have institutional support for professional development, while freelancers and regional reporters often paid their own way or missed out. The cost of travel from Cairns or Darwin, plus two days away from paid work, is a real barrier.
This gap mirrors broader patterns of educational inequality that shape who enters the profession. Trauma-informed skills are too important to remain a perk of well-resourced newsrooms, and our foundation is exploring ways to bring condensed versions of the workshop to regional centres and to translate materials for multilingual reporters.
Investigative work on corporate harm or war profiteering presents a particular challenge: the subjects of such stories often include both perpetrators and survivors, and the line between them can blur. A source describing a company's role in fuelling conflict may themselves be traumatised, and rushing their testimony can compromise both accuracy and dignity.
This is why accountability journalism must build trauma awareness into its methodology. Care for sources is not opposed to rigorous accountability; the two reinforce each other when reporters take the time to do both well.
The workshop closed with a list of small changes editors can make immediately, without waiting for a budget cycle or a new hire.
These steps cost little and signal to readers, sources, and staff alike that the newsroom takes its responsibilities beyond the byline seriously. Trauma-informed interviewing is not a trend to be adopted until the next editorial crisis passes; it is a permanent shift in how Australian journalism treats the people at the heart of every story.
