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This chapter addresses ethics in participatory evaluation. Our perspective on the issue derives from our training and experiences as social anthropologists. As anthropologists we come from a discipline for which codes of professional ethics have been written, but in which considerable debate continues. Anthropologists have long struggled with their role in the research process, in large part for two reasons: first, because the quality of their relations with the people with whom they work in the field will determine to a great extent the quality of research results; and second, because their work holds the potential for serious repercussions for the same people. As problems continue to arise for anthropologists and the people with whom they work, the debate goes on. Theorists and practitioners involved in participatory evaluation are bound to face many of the same difficulties. While we are aware that ethical judgments are subjective and cannot be dictated, we believe that a view from anthropology will at least contribute to thinking on the issue.

Contextualizing Ethics in Anthropology

Anthropological debate about the ethics of research is far from new. At the end of World War I, Boas stated his objections about researchers having acted as spies for the U.S. government, and he was censured by the American Anthropological Association for publishing his views in a popular magazine (Lesser 1981, 15–19). In the 1960s, "Project Camelot" raised again the issue of anthropologists being asked to do clandestine research in Latin America and Southeast Asia by U.S. governmental agencies. That topic fueled a major controversy among anthropologists in the United States and Canada over the need for a professional code of ethics (Jorgensen 1971). In the 1980s, similar discussions occurred in Australia and New Zealand. Anthropology in those four countries provides a focus for this section, with particular reference to research on their indigenous peoples.

In commenting on how the New Zealand Association of Social Anthropologists (NZASA) addressed the question of adopting a code of ethics, Goldsmith (1987, 1) notes that the process involved "five years of debate and collective indecision." The Australian literature suggests that the debates there were equally long and sometimes heated. In contrast, the Society of Applied Anthropology in Canada (SAAC) drafted a code seemingly with relative ease in 1983 but never adopted it. The underlying pattern suggests that anthropologists have reached agreement about ethics only with great difficulty. This is in marked contrast to disciplinary consensus that researchers ought to have ethical responsibilities. The difficulties have been in collective efforts to determine the nature of those obligations.

Goldsmith (1987, 3) is insightful here. He argues that the ethics of research is inherently problematic because it is historically and culturally contextualized. The 1960s marked a major change in how anthropologists perceived ethics. Professional codes were one expression; another was the vast quantity of literature on the subject of ethics. In discussing the situation in which anthropological research currently takes place, Geertz (1968, 141) refers to "an altered moral context." It is this notion that will be used to briefly explore the ethical difficulties facing anthropology.

From Nonproblematic to Problematic Ethics

Park (1993) notes that the founders of sociology and, by extension, of social-cultural anthropology, viewed the research enterprise as intrinsically emancipa-tory. As the distinction between pure and applied research emerged, the former was asserted to have a higher status intellectually and morally because it produced knowledge for its own sake. More generally, both pure and applied anthropology had cultural legitimacy as sciences, science being the exemplar of Western secular rationality (Broad and Wade 1982, 130). The privileged position given to anthropologists was also consistent with their membership in the elite, typically sharing assumptions and interests with other elites, and generally favoring European colonial interests such as the assimilation of indigenous populations. Within elite European intellectual and political discourses, anthropologists could speak not only about indigenous populations but also for them. As Fabian (1971, 230) stated, research ethics involved little more than "conformity with the norms of the society which sponsors the scientific enterprise."

After World War II, there occurred a number of changes in Western societies that made such conformity more difficult. A more pluralistic view of politics began to emerge in Western liberal democracies during the 1940s. This new conception differed from previous ones in key respects (McPherson 1977, 78–79). No moral claims were made about either improving the human condition or reflecting a common good; rather, politics was about competing interests legitimized by different value orientations. Social cleavages were not limited to class, but expanded from the 1960s onward to include gender and ethnicity.

The 1960s involved another political shift: the growth of participatory democracy. For our purposes, its importance lies in an orientation that has been described by Padgett (1986, 172–73) as "post-material values of humanism ... and social emancipation." In that altered moral context, the cultural "others" who constitute the core of anthropology's subject matter became concerned with defining for themselves what their emancipation might mean, with resultant multiculturalism being one component of a pluralistic society.

If anthropologists began to critically reassess the nature of their research enterprise in the 1950s, and to do so ethically from the 1960s onward, we should not be surprised. Nor is it accidental that women who were anthropologists started to think about those same issues from the vantage point that reflected their previous "otherness." Regardless of gender, anthropologists were forced to confront the history of their discipline and to recognize that it had seldom been emancipatory for its subjects. At the same time, the altered moral climate provided an opportunity to redress that history.

One of the first indications of a change in disciplinary orientation occurred in the early 1950s with the advent of action anthropology (Tax 1952). Its proponents asserted that previous assumptions about differences between applied and pure research were mistaken. Action anthropologists viewed applied research as a basis for developing theory and methods, not merely for using them. Second, they rejected the classic observer-subject dichotomy and defined the latter as clients and active participants in the research process. Third, cultural values were not merely interesting to study but were part of how to define real-life problems and solutions. From the action vantage point, cultural "others" were not outside science with nothing legitimate to say about its assumptions, questions, understandings, and activities. Last, the founder of action anthropology, Sol Tax (1958, 17–19), defined it as "participant interference"— assisting "others" to better understand and change their relations with dominant institutions.

The premises of action anthropology were largely consistent with the altering moral climate. More conventional applied and pure anthropology had to experience the meaning of that new context. Since the 1960s, the discipline's subjects have been increasingly speaking for themselves and about themselves. In so doing, they have confronted themselves as constructed by anthropologists. Not only has the validity of those constructions been challenged, but so has the morality of anthropologists constructing any kind of "otherness."

The reader might well doubt that anthropology has had this degree of significance, yet Australia provides a serious example. The historical absence of treaties in Australia took on symbolic importance for the Aboriginal rights movement in the late 1970s, and the creation and signing of a treaty was seen as appropriate to a formal recognition of those rights. An Aboriginal draft of a possible new treaty identified control over future anthropological research as one item in the creation of a new relationship with Euro-Australians (Wright 1985, 325, 327). From an Aboriginal position, the discipline was seen as inseparable from the history of their interaction with Europeans and the meaning of self-determination. At the same time, anthropological research was deemed to have some use value for achieving Aboriginal political objectives. As one Aborigine stated (English 1985, 258):

We'll hire our own anthropologist and one on whom we can rely to prepare a report favorable to ourselves. ... We'll tell you only as much as we think might be necessary to support our claims.

That statement, in one form or another, has been made by indigenous leaders in Canada, the United States, and New Zealand. In essence, an anthropologist doing research in an aboriginal culture is generally required to be an advocate. There is nothing new about advocacy per se. As mentioned, in the past, anthropologists have determined what the interests of indigenous peoples were and have spoken for them. In the altered moral climate, however, that is viewed as paternalistic. What is different about modern advocacy is that such interests are determined by cultural "others," and research is used to assist them to speak for themselves. One anthropologist has referred to advocacy research as "ghostwriting" (Cleave 1992, 81–94).

This new relationship between indigenous peoples and anthropologists has another side. Researchers have had to come to terms with the fact that certain kinds of field studies may not be permitted. Research on purely academic questions and applied research done for parties and interests external to the cultures in question have been rejected. Those doing research for aboriginal clients are required to adopt the basic stance of action anthropology. This is no longer a matter of intellectual or moral choice on the part of the investigator.

This only-as-advocate stance has specific implications for field research, but not all anthropologists have taken that stance. What constrains it is another inescapable reality: virtually anything an anthropologist might wish to say about an indigenous culture can have political importance. Land claims litigation in Canada is illustrative. Both indigenous claimants and the Crown as defendant have used anthropological publications, unpublished papers, and even field notes to support their respective positions. Those uses are independent of the researcher's intent and personal ethical commitments. The courts tend to give more credence to pure research because it is deemed to be disinterested, while ignoring that it may have been framed in terms of theoretical, methodological, and personal interests within academia. The flip side is that advocacy research has been branded by at least one Canadian judge as intrinsically biased and thus readily dismissed (Ridington 1992, 210–12).

For many indigenous organizations, any reliance on anthropologists is problematic. It continues dependency and subordination that cannot be eliminated by either advocacy or aborigines themselves becoming professional researchers. In New Zealand, a number of Maori spokespersons have characterized the discipline as intellectual imperialism and science as a Western cultural institution whose status claims are invalid (Cove 1993). Maori are currently asserting the right to their own science, one derived from traditional values and consistent with contemporary Maori interests. One result is that New Zealand anthropologists, with the exception of a few long-term action anthropologists, have virtually stopped studying Maori (Cleave 1992; Webster 1989).

In the altered moral climate, anthropology has changed and will continue to do so. Changes have involved making political accommodations, interacting with indigenous peoples in radically different ways, exploring new fields of research and abandoning others, considering new theories and methods, and facing difficult ethical questions. However, reminiscent of Firth's definition of anthropology as the "uncomfortable science" (Firth 1981, 198), anthropologists have all too often made relatively comfortable ethical decisions.

Codes of Ethics in Anthropology

The establishment of a code of ethics by a professional association suggests that a relatively high level of consensus has been reached among association members, even if the result is an acceptable lowest common denominator. In anthropology, the process has been complex and sometimes unsuccessful. It has involved recognizing that variability exists among practitioners' interests and situations, which are to some degree mutually exclusive and not restricted to the discipline. The codes themselves are informative, as are debates about adopting such codes.

There are some interesting differences among the three earliest North American anthropological codes. The code of the American Anthropologic Association (AAA) was the only one to recognize that complexities existed in "involvements, misunderstandings, conflicts, and making choices among conflicting values" (AAA 1970, 46). Further, the AAA code asserted that when conflicting interests exist, the first priority is to the peoples studied (AAA 1970, 46). In contrast, the code of the Society for Applied Anthropology (SAA) gave primacy to science and considered only conflicts within communities that might be investigated (SAA 1975, 2). The Canadian Sociology and Anthropology Association (CSAA) code did not acknowledge any sources of potential conflict and made social scientific investigation its first responsibility (CSAA 1978, 3).

The most striking of the above differences is that applied anthropologists in the United States, represented by the SAA, gave priority to science rather than to client-subjects. The most plausible explanation refers to an earlier point about the relative status of applied and pure research. The code drafted, but not adopted, by the Society for Applied Anthropology in Canada (SAAC) in 1983 argues in the preamble that "ethical standards apply to all parties involved in research (clients-hosts-informants and anthropologists)," with primacy given to "interests of participants"—meaning individuals who supply information (SAAC 1994, 38–39). The 1986 Code of the Australian Association for Applied Anthropology (AAAA) takes a similar position to the AAA code in stressing commitment to "views and interests of subjects studied," with the proviso of not compromising the researcher's "conscience or commitment to truth" (Australian Anthropology Society [AAS] 1989, 35–36).

There are a number of other distinctions between the earlier SAA and the later SAAC and AAAA codes that suggest that changes in the general research situation have taken place. The Canadian and Australian codes view as ethical obligations the establishment of collegial relations with subjects and the encouragement of their full participation in designing and conducting research. The AAAA (AAS 1989, 35) code also makes reference to research done on "unpublished field-work based sources," whereas all the other codes concentrate exclusively on field research.

When the New Zealand Association of Social Anthropologists was considering adoption of a revised form of the AAA code, Goldsmith (1987, 4–5) argued that it was overly complex in identifying six foci of ethical responsibilities. Further, Goldsmith took exception to the 1960s "American worldview" in the NZASA version. From the vantage point of the late 1980s, he proposed the following (Goldsmith 1987, 6):

1. Anthropologists' primary responsibility is to the powerless who may be harmed by anthropological research and publication, not just to prevent harm but also with the view of empowering those people where possible.

2. Anthropologists' next major responsibility is to publicly disseminate the results of their research, with the view to increasing public understanding and, where possible, respect for the subjects of their research.

3. Provided that the first two principles are met ... anthropologists should also act ethically in dealing with ... power structures, such as funding agencies and governments.

The first of these principles does away with any and all distinctions about types of anthropological research and asserts that its main if not sole objective is empowerment of those in subordinated positions. In this view, ethics defines the research enterprise rather than being a component of it—a position taken in interdisciplinary cultural studies (Slack and Whitt 1992, 573). Goldsmith's second principle is consistent with this priority and implies that research focusing on purely academic interests and audiences has no place in the discipline. The third principle is essentially residual.

Goldsmith's recommendations are not idiosyncratic. Debates among Australian anthropologists in the 1980s centered on his first two principles. So too do a highly specialized series of debates in Canada around museum representations of Native cultures. By and large, the Australian and Canadian literatures support Goldsmith's position, perhaps with somewhat less concentration on the empowerment of national indigenous populations.

The few dissenting voices in those debates arguably deserve some attention. Their common theme is the legitimacy of anthropological interests and the rejection of the idea that anthropology is ethical only when it supports indigenous political interests (Ames 1992; Harrison 1988; Kolig 1982). For applied or action anthropologists, it is the second component that is most relevant.

A real case is illustrative. The recent controversy in British Columbia over logging Clayaquot Sound has involved a number of parties: various levels of government (provincial, regional, municipal), corporations, environmental organizations, unions, community groups, and aboriginal peoples. Is it ethically appropriate that anthropologists do research only for First Nations involved in the dispute? Should anthropologists refuse to do research for a client having no direct interests in the specific area and the outcome of the dispute? If such research were done, should an anthropologist provide an analysis weighted toward indigenous claims? Are there clients for whom an anthropologist might ethically choose to work who do not demand or require an action or participatory type of research? The next section explores these questions, with specific reference to evaluation research.

Ethics in Participatory Evaluation

We see participatory evaluation as an essential and logical component of the overarching concept of participatory research. It is an example of participatory research, not an alternative. The goal is therefore constant: "to bring about a more just society in which no groups or classes of people suffer from the deprivation of life's essentials, such as food, shelter, clothing, and health, and in which all enjoy basic human freedoms and dignity" (Park 1993, 2).

Moreover, participatory evaluation shares with participatory research the production of the same kinds of knowledge aimed at achieving the stated goal. Park (1993, 4–8) draws on Habermas's critical theory to explain that participatory research necessarily generates the following: (1) instrumental knowledge, aimed at collecting and making sense of "objective facts" through the application of positivist scientific method; (2) interactive knowledge, involving the strengthening, and in some cases the creation, of social bonds among members of a community (which we could define demographically or on the basis of common interests); and (3) critical knowledge, involving research that addresses "questions concerning the life chances we are entitled to as members of a society, as well as ... the comprehension of the social obstacles standing more immediately in the way of achieving those goals" (Park 1993, 7).

A review of evaluation research undertaken by social scientists in both Northern and Southern regions suggests that there continue to be problems with acquiring even instrumental knowledge. This is ironic, since most social scientists come from a positivist background and would claim the responsible and effective application of scientific method as one of their most valuable skills. This applies equally to anthropologists and others. The importance of instrumental knowledge, as one of three types, and our apparent difficulties in getting it right lead us to believe that it deserves some specific attention in any discussion of participatory evaluation.

Instrumental knowledge is described by Park in the following way:

It is useful for controlling the physical and social environment in the sense of both passively adapting to it and more actively manipulating it to bring about desired changes. Instrumental knowledge derives its ability to control external events from the structure of its explanatory theories, which are made up of a series of equations essentially expressing causal relationships. (1993, 5)

The difficulties inherent in positivist social science are enumerated and debated constantly in these days of massive global social change and in the realization at long last that our Western sciences are not as effective in knowledge building as we used to claim. The problems can be synthesized to a clear set of three. First, absolute objectivity is not possible, and ignoring this fact may be more dangerous than the actual existence of a scientist's biases. Second, arbitrary distinctions between the researcher and "the other," a particularly acute dilemma for anthropologists, establish a barrier to the transfer of information and the concurrent development of understanding. The barrier is often so solid that scientists are not even able to formulate the right questions, let alone understand the realities that would otherwise inform them. And third, the arbitrary distinction between the researcher and "the other" typically leaves the latter in a vulnerable position that can be acted upon by the researcher or others who claim in some way to own the results of research.

Even though it continues to be problematic, Park correctly points out that instrumental knowledge plays an important role in our understanding of the world. In the context of participatory evaluation, the question therefore becomes: how can we work toward acquiring instrumental knowledge in such a way that it contributes to the broad goals of participatory research, while simultaneously complementing the development of interactive knowledge and critical knowledge?

Although participatory evaluation can be seen as a subset of participatory research, the specifics of actually doing evaluation research are somewhat different, in terms of both immediate objectives and methods. In some ways, evaluation work can be seen as being more utilitarian than other kinds of research. Research is often used to determine the nature of a problem facing a particular group of people, and then to develop ideas about how to address that problem. Evaluation research, in contrast, assumes that there is already something in place to evaluate (for example, a project, a program, a facility, a service*). It therefore tends to be more focused than nonevaluation research in the sense that its immediate objectives refer specifically to the project in question. The objective for any particular evaluation is usually broken down into related subobjectives, most often the measurement of impacts, intended and unintended effects, cost-benefit ratios, efficiency of implementation, and identification

* The thing being evaluated, whether defined as a project, a program, a facility, or a service, is generically referred to as a "project" throughout the rest of this chapter.

of reasonable alternatives for achieving the same or better results. But the point remains that evaluation work is often more directed toward one specific project than are other forms of research.

Although differences may exist with varying degrees of subtlety between evaluation research and nonevaluation research, it is important to stress that evaluations can be undertaken in a manner entirely consistent with the same overall objectives and pursuit of knowledge types (instrumental, interactive, and critical) as participatory research. How do we do this, particularly with respect to the acquisition of instrumental knowledge?

Our first premise is that we have at least two and often three sets of commitments: to the people among whom we work, to the organization that hires us to undertake evaluation research, and to our professional disciplines. In cases in which the people affected actually hire the practitioner, the categories of commitment obviously drop to two.

Commitment to "the Other"

The commitment to the people who are directly affected by the project under evaluation extends to the acquisition of instrumental, integrative, and critical knowledge that will culminate in benefits to those people. Benefits include not only substantive knowledge that can be directly applied to the issue at hand but also the building of a capability to do similar work again— with decreased or no involvement by the professional evaluator.

The first step in realizing the commitment is to agree on a mutually understood working relationship with the people whose lives are affected by the project to be evaluated. This is not necessarily an easy task when even the identification of those people can be problematic. In most cases, in both Southern and Northern contexts, the affected people will be an entire community, defined demographically, so that identification is relatively straightforward. However, in terms of a program established for homeless women in the inner city, for example, the community in question must be defined more carefully as individuals sharing certain common characteristics and needs while living among other people who do not share the same characteristics and needs. Cross-cutting a community on the basis of one or more specific criteria can be difficult but sometimes necessary. Identification of the directly affected group helps ensure their inclusion in the research and protects their legitimate input from others who may not have as great an interest in the project being evaluated.

Once the directly affected group has been identified, setting the parameters of the evaluation study can be undertaken jointly with that group. The purpose here is to help ensure that those who are most affected play a significant part in the following: defining the issue for evaluation, identifying the questions to be asked, identifying appropriate information sources, lending their voices to the exercise, and ensuring that the evaluation results are valid and accessible.

It should be stressed that a working relationship between the practitioner and the directly affected community does not imply the exclusion of other groups and individuals not directly affected by the project to be evaluated. Secondary impacts are also important. In terms of the commitment of the evaluator to enhancing interactive knowledge, the involvement of "second-level" groups and individuals is entirely justified because social change will occur most readily when dialogue takes place among all interested parties. To return to an earlier example, the evaluation of a project directly affecting homeless inner-city women might benefit by engaging men and, perhaps, civil authorities in dialogue at some point in the evaluation process.

The evaluator's primary commitment to "the other," however, must remain with those most directly affected by the project. Although this commitment can be manifested in various ways, the most important may be in the evaluator providing an opportunity for the voices of the directly affected individuals to be heard. The idea of "voice" as conceptualized by Smith (1987) is crucial to our tasks as evaluators in the participatory mode. Smith maintains that as researchers we are obliged to provide the mechanism through which the traditional subjects of research convey, first, what the issues are and, second, their own views and experiences concerning those issues. The message is to be conveyed in unadulterated form through the researcher to those awaiting the results of the evaluation. That is to say, the voices of those most directly affected must be presented as originally conveyed. The researcher provides concomitant analysis, but without altering the messages provided by those formerly voiceless individuals.

The provision of an opportunity for subjects' voices to be heard redefines the formerly dichotomous relationship between the researcher-evaluator and "the other." At least at one level of the evaluation process, there is a condition of intersubjectivity, wherein "the other" determines what is to be said and uses the researcher to say it. Evaluation research thus becomes "subjective" to the extent that Western positivist science is not present in the expression of reality through the voice of "the other."

The provision of subjective information by the people directly affected by a project does not deny the value of the information as instrumental knowledge; who better to describe the impacts and effects of a project than those experiencing it? Further, the expression of subjects' voices as part of a group exercise (even if expressed individually) naturally contributes to increases in interactive knowledge and critical knowledge, as defined by Park.

Commitment to the Funding Organization

The involvement of "the other" by the provision of a mechanism for his or her voice to be heard is reminiscent of Tax's action anthropology, whereby the researcher becomes an advocate for "the other." The danger of this approach lies in the likelihood that the organization funding the project under evaluation, as well as the evaluation research, will reject the evaluation results as not credible. This may be a greater problem for evaluators than for other types of researchers, because funders often accept only assessments of their projects based on "hard facts" acquired through the application of scientific method. Where does this leave the researcher who is committed to participatory evaluation?

First, the expression of "voice" by the recipients of the project does not preclude the evaluator contextualizing those messages. There is, after all, a bigger picture of which the subjects may not be aware. Placing the views of the subjects into the larger context thus becomes the job of the evaluator. The message from "the other" then begins to make more sense to the funding organization because it is inserted into the organizational world: What are the technical implications of the message? What are the political implications? What are the implications for other funded projects? What are the implications for modifying the project? What are the implications for further funding? Again, although the voices of the subjects must be clearly represented in a final report, contextualizing their messages helps not only the funding organization but ultimately the subjects. In this way, the evaluator acts as a broker, drawing both the organization and "the other" into the consideration of a single set of messages. While this may not be interactive knowledge as defined by Park, it can nonetheless contribute to breaking down the dichotomous barriers between "organization" and "other."

The evaluator is also obliged to remember that he or she probably entered into a contractual arrangement with the funding organization partly on the understanding that the evaluator would bring to bear on the subject certain professional skills. More likely than not, those skills were assumed to be of the social scientific variety. This is not a bad thing, even though the evaluator may be committed to the voices of the subjects. Again, social scientific skills enable the evaluator to contextualize the messages of "the other"; to take them one step further by giving them meaning in the organizational context.

As well, such skills are necessary in collecting relevant information from other sources. The voices of the subjects of a project should not be the only input to an evaluation study. Factual information gathered from files and from other key informant interviews, for example, is essential to a complete and thorough evaluation. This is the realm of the professional researcher.* By judiciously weighing the evidence from a variety of sources, including the recipients of the project, the evaluator can arrive at reasoned conclusions regarding the project in question. It is hoped that funding organizations will accept this approach, even if part of the evidence derives from "the other."

As a final note on this point, we are of the view that both funders and researchers should be honest from the beginning about the approach to be taken

* It should be noted that in the past, even when the recipients of a project were interviewed as part of an evaluation, their message was rarely reported as given; further, primacy was usually accorded to information collected from sources other than the recipients. A responsible evaluator committed to the participatory approach must avoid both these pitfalls.

and the ultimate expectations of one another. If a researcher chooses to commit to breaking down the traditional dichotomies, and if that approach is unacceptable to the funder, then the researcher should not agree to do the evaluation.

Commitment to the Discipline

With respect to our responsibilities to our respective disciplines, a first thought might naturally be to undertake scientifically acceptable research. That thought assumes, of course, that Western positivist science is the only way to proceed. Our position, as suggested earlier in this chapter, is that the positivist approach is only one of a variety of possibilities, and that it can be used in conjunction with other approaches. In our opinion, therefore, the commitment need not be to traditional positivist social science per se.

Instead, we believe that the commitment should be to quality in research. Whether we choose a positivist approach, an approach that projects the voice of "the other," or a combination of approaches, we must ensure accuracy in information collection, analysis, and reporting. We should state our intentions clearly; for example, if we are out to make a point on behalf of an oppressed group, we should say so unequivocally. Further, we should deal with information honestly by not tampering with data, and by reporting on information that might conflict with our objectives. Although these points might seem obvious to professional researchers, they deserve reconsideration. It is, after all, common enough for researchers to be enticed into compromising projects and to then be faced with the dilemma of having to do bad research in order to meet a contractual commitment.

Accuracy and honesty in evaluation research—whatever the approach used—will reflect well on the discipline. The obverse, however, is likely to result in a black mark for the discipline, as well as in difficulties for other researchers who want to enter into contractual arrangements and who must rely on the goodwill of "the other" to do their work. It is our view, again, that any perceived possibility of having to compromise accuracy and honesty in research should be a red flag to the researcher.

The question of ethics is always difficult. We have tried not to sound dictatorial in the discussion above, but rather to present some views based on the struggle by anthropologists in general and on our own experiences in particular. By way of conclusion, we can say that the evaluator has responsibilities in three directions: to the recipients of the project to be evaluated, to the funding organization, and to his or her discipline. None of these should necessarily have primacy over the others. However, if the researcher makes the conscious decision to assign a higher priority to one category, he or she must state that decision clearly and should be aware of the implications of that decision for the other interested parties.

Having said that, we also believe that it is possible to honor responsibilities to all three categories of interested parties. In acting as a broker of information and views between "the other" and the funding organization, the researcher can contribute to meaningful dialogue between the two. Further, if accuracy and honesty characterize the evaluator's work, then his or her discipline and the other interested parties will ultimately benefit.

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