I would like to begin by giving a little context of my research and my family and possibly how they overlapped over the course of my fieldwork. My research looks at char areas in Assam, India. Chars are river islands and are extremely unstable, undergoing constant erosion. In Assam, the chars are largely inhabited by Bengali Muslims whose ancestors were encouraged to come during colonial times to increase productivity from such fertile riverine lands. However, as more and more entered the then colonial Assam from East Bengal, the ‘native’ Assamese people became worried of losing out their lands and becoming a minority in their own land. Today, the char-dwellers though have lived in Assam for decades, they still continue to face the brunt of ‘anti-immigrant’ hatred. The ‘anti-immigrant’ Assam Movement in the late 1970s spearheaded by the upper-caste Hindu Assamese men also exposed not just the xenophobic nature of the movement, but also the Islamophobia circulating in the caste Hindu Assamese households. The ‘illegal Bangladeshi’ is always imagined as Muslim or ‘Miya’, a derogatory term to denote Bengali speaking Assamese Muslims. Amidst all this, my research focuses on how the State gets imagined and experienced by them.

Image 1: A char in Assam. Courtesy: Author.

I come from an upper caste Hindu Assamese household. Both my parents took part in the ‘anti-immigrant’ Assam Movement and are ardent believers of Assamese nationalism or jatiyotabaad. My family believe that Assam continues to face an onslaught of ‘illegal immigrants,’ and the ‘native’ Assamese are soon turning into a minority and will lose their culture and language. My father was a member of the right-wing party Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) before switching to the Assamese nationalist party Asom Gana Parishad (AGP). As with many caste Hindu Assamese households, the mockery and subtle hatred towards Muslims in general and Bengali Muslims in particular is normalized through jokes, myths, and everyday stories. By now it must be clear that my families’ political ideology leans towards the right and it gave them sleepless nights when I first discussed with them my research project. My parents were dismissive about my plans of staying in the chars amongst the ‘Miyas’. After tumultuous negotiations it was decided that I would stay with my grandmother in my ancestral village which was 3 hours away from my field-site. My father even moved in with me and my mother would do the occasional visits. So, I already began my fieldwork in a mesh of emotions: excitement, anger, and guilt. Guilty for not being enough of a ‘good’ daughter (Who wants to upset one’s parents?) while also guilty for being not enough of a ‘good’ researcher (Did I concede too soon? Living so far away from my field will definitely impact my rapport building and of course research findings, probably).

On September 2020, seven months after I had stopped fieldwork due to COVID, I began fieldwork again. Around 25 days later, my driver who accompanied me to my field first showed symptoms of COVID and later the entire household. Except me, everyone had tested positive, including my 95-year-old grandmother and my father. This incident washed me with tremendous guilt. But looking back, I now understand that manifestation of that guilt was a result of all the incidents over the months where I did encounter guilt in some degree. When repeatedly it was underlined that I do have time for “research” but no time for family, or as a caste Hindu Assamese woman I do not show “collective disgust” for the “other”, that I have not been the devoted caregiver of the family, or how I have shown care and empathy for the ‘wrong people’ in their eyes, I did feel guilty in some degree. Sara Ahmed in her book, ‘Cultural Politics of Emotion’, talks about how emotional responses and bodily sensations demarcate “others” from “us”. My care and empathy for the ‘Muslim other’, instead of my own family was seen as breaking these boundaries of ‘othering’ and was repeatedly conveyed to me, resulting in me developing a third kind of emotional response – guilt – in varied amounts over time. Ahmed borrows from Marx to argue that emotions accumulate over time, as a form of affective value. I understand that the guilt when I experienced after my entire family contracted COVID was a manifestation of such accumulated guilt.

However, I understand this guilt as political. I am arguing that what I felt was by the virtue of my positionality in the social structure – that is 1. Being a woman and 2. Being an unmarried upper-caste Hindu Assamese. Ahmed talks about feelings of structure, meaning that what we feel are related to structural inequities and power differentials. She goes on to talk about how emotions should not be understood as ‘subject-centered’ as emotions are not bound or located in an individual subject but that the subject arrives into a world where emotions are already circulating in very particular ways. Hence, how an upper-caste Hindu Assamese women ‘must’ be feeling for certain collectives – family and the Muslim ‘charuas’ are already defined. I just arrived in this world of already defined emotions. It is this sociality of emotions that also keeps alive the “us” versus “them”.

But the idea of guilt also means the acceptance at certain level the moral standards defined by these collectives. It meant me accepting to some extent how an unmarried, upper-caste Hindu Assamese woman ‘ought’ to behave towards her family, the societal roles and responsibilities as well as to the ‘Miya other’. Me taking up caring responsibilities and ultimately halting my fieldwork completely can be seen as a way to take responsibility for my ‘failures’ to adhere to societal roles and emotional boundaries.

I borrow Ahmed and Cala Coats’ use of the term ‘stickiness’ to understand my guilt – such that I, as a subject, became more invested in particular structures than others. The movement of emotions as imagined by Massumi, Deleuze-Guattari, and Ahmed is also accompanied by ‘stickiness’ wherein often some objects get accumulated with particular emotions. My emotional stickiness to certain positionalities structures being a daughter or an unmarried upper-caste Hindu Assamese woman over and above being an anthropologist or a researcher, which produced continued emotions of guilt. And this stickiness was engendered by repetition of my position’s roles and responsibilities. But from what I understand and argue is emotions can spill over too and it is this spillage of emotions where I find possibilities for ethnography, for creatively using emotions as a methodological intervention.

Emotionality is messy. Hence, I understand that when experienced two field sites – the home with family and the river islands (though this sharp distinction can also be critiqued as this is purely analytical), instead of flow of emotions, I argue that emotions spill into one another. As opposed to flow, spilling is involuntary or accidental movement such that there is a possibility that it can go in different directions, hence there is an unpredictability attached to it. And such movement can bring in transformation, change or what Ahmed wrote as ‘unstuckness’. What I argue here is of spillage of guilt from one field-site to another and what transformations and possibilities that can open up for an anthropologist ‘stuck’ in particular investments of certain social positionalities and structures.

I understand that my two field sites with its own politics and social relations would not just spill sometimes physically – let’s say, when my father accompanied me to my field in the first few months or when my participants visited me at times in my village, but also emotionally. It is in this emotional spilling, particularly guilt, from one world to another, that I am more interested in.  This was particularly evident in the act of eating. My caste Hindu grandmother had strict reservations about me eating in Muslim households as Muslims were understood to be impure for their consumption of beef. And every time would insist on me getting a purification bath. After the initial months, I created an elaborate façade of weekly new narratives of invented road-side restaurant names and the food that I ate in each. The lying however did make me feel partly guilty. Post-COVID however when I began fieldwork in September, I carried my own food and was more reserved at sharing food. This struck as odd to them and often my participants would quip in saying “Baideo, nowadays does not eat with us!” I felt guilty then of not eating with them. But I say emotionality is messy because I do realise that a part of me was also escaping from the guilt of lying to my grandmother.

But the fascinating thing about spilling is the unpredictability, allowing the existence of newer possibilities. One does not know where the emotions can go, get stuck and reveal newer corners. And does the possibility of opening up unpredictable, ugly fractures mean the researcher closes down emotionally? Absolutely not. Hence, after all the messiness of emotions I still go on to explore the importance of the figure of the vulnerable researcher.

It is critical to understand that one cannot and should not escape or try to master one’s emotions, including guilt. Only a vulnerable researcher opens up possibilities to find moments of surprise and shock to not just understand the topic better but to constantly review methods and ethics of fieldwork. I ask how can vulnerability be used as a methodology for a researcher? For a life-world where the researcher dives in, that world is messy, where concepts, boundaries, values, identities overlap, clash and spill and not defined in neat categories and I understand that possibly only the figure of a vulnerable researcher brings him/her as Ahmed says closer to that world.

It was my feeling and working around guilt that helped me understand how deeply rooted I myself was in Assamese nationalism, a concept I examine in my research and critique in my political writings. It also helped me understand better the everyday mundane workings of that ideology and how family as an institution has tremendously contributed in it being supported and nourished.

Finally, I did feel guilty in the process of writing this, about my family. Almost like I am trading off numerous dining table family discussions, maybe intimate family opinions and secrets in front of complete strangers. So, why do I still do it? For more fractures and possibilities to open up. When I let my stories of guilt spill here today with the prospect that it will get stuck to newer corners, I am looking for newer fractures and possibilities of making sense of the world, of methods, of fieldwork and of doing Anthropology better. For as Kant says, to know something is always to spill over the concept. Hence, maybe concepts of emotions, guilt, fieldwork, and anthropology will gain fresh meanings and discussions when I let my guilt from the two field-sites spill into now a third space – this, right here with newer participants, its own politics and relations.

Bhargabi Das: I like to call myself a raging potato, a part-time anthropologist and a poet. Currently a PhD Candidate of Anthropology at National University of Ireland, Maynooth, my doctoral research is based on the riverine ecologies called chars in Assam, India. This ethnographic study looks at char-dwellers’ experiences with the state. I am largely interested in the politics and poetics of water, citizenship, state, bureaucracy, infrastructure and nationalism. My doctoral research is funded by the Irish Research Council, Government of Ireland and Irish Higher Education Authority (HEA).

Editors Note: This is the final in a series of three posts by Bhargabi Das. 

Bhargabi Das

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The summer months in the chars of western Assam, India where my ethnographic fieldwork was based, are only of respite because of the calm breeze by the river, and conversations over jaggery tea. Because of my positionality, it was easier for me to strike up conversations with the Bengali Muslim women in the chars than men, particularly surrounding sexual health.  I was interested in bringing up conversations of sexual health because chars are known as spaces where the fertility rate among the people is high. The high fertility rate is for a variety of reasons such as low literacy level, early marriage of girls, and high dependence on agriculture requiring more labor.

But for those who are lost about what a char is, chars are river-islands that are unstable and undergo constant formation and destruction and are mostly inhabited by Bengali Muslims of East Bengal descent, who have historically faced stereotyping, violence and harassment in the hands of the majoritarian upper-caste Assamese Hindu society and State alike. They also constantly face suspicion of being ‘illegal immigrants’ and ‘anti-immigrant’ hatred. Most chars in Western Assam, being geographically closer to Bangladesh, allow the Islamophobic and xenophobic caste-Hindu Assamese society and State to propagate such fears fiercely. The high fertility rate of Bengali Muslims has furthered the ‘anti-immigrant’ sentiment and even fears of the Assamese Hindu turning a minority. My conversations surrounding sexual health with mostly women in char areas is embedded in this history and context. However, through my conversations I stumbled upon a rather interesting practice among Bengali Muslim char women.

When I tried asking them about use or knowledge of contraceptives, they were confused by the use of my terminologies. One of the local women who often accompanied me to translate certain things then turned to them and repeated, “Baideo is asking about your use and knowledge of ‘Mala-Bori (pill)’.” The minute she uttered ‘Mala-Bori’ all started nodding their heads and showed evident signs of blush and giggly laughter. Mala-D is a type of oral contraceptive and in my two-year long ethnographic fieldwork, it became evident that Bengali Muslim char women were using these oral contraceptives widely. Interestingly, the use of condoms by their partners is extremely low. Women were candid enough to admit that most men simply refuse to use one, and women, including health workers themselves, find it difficult to even urge men to use condoms. Additionally, it became clear that though usage of oral pills were high, the knowledge surrounding their side-effects were next to none. For women, the pills were handy, saved them from menstrual pain – allowing them to work longer in the house and fields and most importantly, they do not have to face the heat of asking men to wear condoms.

Image 1: Char-land monthly health camps are majorly attended by women and children. Courtesy: Author.

But what is interesting is how the State is enabling this practice where the responsibility of control of Muslim population in the chars rests on Muslim women’s shoulders. Working with local health workers, it became evident that the distribution of condoms is lesser than oral pills citing reasons of low demand. In fact, the health awareness camps that are conducted in the char areas are mostly attended by women. The local health workers called Accredited Social Health Activists (ASHA) are local char women who themselves are hesitant in approaching men with taboo issues like male contraception.

In 2021, the right-wing Hindu state in Assam introduced a “population army” comprising of one thousand local youth in char-chapori areas with the intention to control fertility rate in char areas and improve living conditions thereafter. What is problematic in this initiative is that birth-control measures are specifically targeted with women in mind. Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma in his speech to the State’s Legislative Assembly on July 19 talks about inducting ten thousand additional ASHA workers to provide contraceptives and birth-control measures specifically to women in char-chaporis. The State’s initiatives can be seen in the light of controlling Muslim population by controlling Muslim women’s bodies.

I would also encourage one to think of this initiative of the Assam Government as a nexus of corporatization of the medical sector and the patriarchal state. For in 2019, the Modi Government decided to tweak the law and exempt oral contraceptive pills as Schedule H drugs meaning they could be sold without a doctor’s prescription. HLL Lifecare Limited the firm tasked with selling the contraceptives including Mala-D on behalf of the government had in a letter to Central Drugs Standard Control Organisation (CDSCO) mentioned how their sale was greatly affected due to it. Though not vouching against freedom of choice for women and their bodies, I want to ask, for char women, is the easy availability of oral contraceptives really freedom of choice and greater control over their bodies? When women living in char areas are not even given the choice and access to all kinds of contraceptive methods and knowledge surrounding birth-control, there is no real choice or any control of their bodies. Hence, one needs to ask are marginalized, unaware women’s bodies becoming sites of profiteering for this State?

Image 2: Mobile health clinics on boats cater to mostly maternal health and women’s reproductive health in the chars. Keeping of detailed registers tracking women’s reproductive health is a must. Courtesy: Author.

In reality, char areas with their low education level have always been under the strict grip of religious men who are not only widely followed but extremely feared. Local Muslim religious leaders citing religion vehemently argue against the use of any contraceptive methods. The birth of life should be celebrated at any cost, according to them. But the greater availability and use of oral pills over condoms is beyond religion. It is in fact deeply patriarchal. It stems from a sense of sex as an act of display of masculine power and celebration of masculinity. It can be drawn from the narrative where sex is seen as an act where the woman is passive and at the service of providing pleasure to the man. Condoms are seen as road-blocks to that pleasure and the very act of a woman asking a man to wear a condom is seen as questioning his masculine power and masculinity. Hence, when the state forwards an initiative of population control by providing more birth-control measures to the woman, it is actively contributing to that deep-seated patriarchal narrative. Hence, though the state through this initiative can be seen by many short-sighted people as ‘anti-Muslim’, but in reality, this state is ‘pro-patriarchy’ and misogynistic.

Women’s wombs have always remained sites of contention and control by patriarchal states from the Vichy regime in France to anti-abortion laws in Ireland. In the char areas of Assam, when the woman is being provided with more oral contraception pills, the State is instead taking away voices and choices over rights of poor Muslim women’s bodies. In the attempt of the Hindu right-wing state’s motive of lowering of Muslim population, particularly in the chars, who are always seen as ‘illegal’, ‘criminal’ and ‘threatening’, Muslim women have been made into passive objects, which will only tighten the patriarchal grip on them.

I remember in one of the many conversations that I had with char women in health camps, I would ask them why there were more women than men in the camps. One of the replies shocked me – “Women’s bodies are more diseased than men, I guess. We are weaker than men.” The State infrastructure that has kept women’s bodies at the center of sexual health is changing Muslim women’s subjectivities, their sense of self. And in the conflict of changing numbers and dominance of majoritarianism, that is a realization that hurt me the most.

Bhargabi Das: I like to call myself a raging potato, a part-time anthropologist and a poet. Currently a PhD Candidate of Anthropology at National University of Ireland, Maynooth, my doctoral research is based on the riverine ecologies called chars in Assam, India. This ethnographic study looks at char-dwellers’ experiences with the state. I am largely interested in the politics and poetics of water, citizenship, state, bureaucracy, infrastructure and nationalism. My doctoral research is funded by the Irish Research Council, Government of Ireland and Irish Higher Education Authority (HEA).

Editors Note: This is the second in a series of three posts by Bhargabi Das. 

Bhargabi Das

Source