the coronavirus hit many parts of the world, including Munich and upper Bavaria, where I lived and had planned to conduct my research; a struggle with lockdowns and contact restrictions followed. Due to these rapidly changing research conditions, I had to adapt and reconsider my original research plan. For example, as face-to-face meetings were almost impossible, at least at the beginning of my fieldwork, I shifted to online tools to keep in touch with my research partners and also to reach potential interlocutors. Furthermore, we made long telephone calls,kept in contact via messaging and tried to meet up in our homes and flats or outdoors as often as possible. In the long run, these recurring and extended informal conversations and interviews with individual women became much more central to my methodological approach than I had originally expected.

While the pandemic forced me to restructure my fieldwork and made contacting and meeting my interlocutors very difficult, it simultaneously became mandatory to find some kind of occupation to fill "Those long, dark, lonely evenings" of the lockdown(s) – as one of my research partners once called it. However, although I was interested in all kinds of handicrafts before, and had worked with several different materials and techniques, I only started sewing when I caught Covid myself. While the following three months were a personally challenging time, sewing and patchwork helped me get through and kept me occupied.

In the aftermath, however, I continued my autodidactic journey into the world of patchwork: this included watching YouTube tutorials on how to cut and prepare the fabric, assemble and sew certain patterns, adjust a quilt 'sandwich' and successfully finish a quilt with an appropriate 'binding'. Simultaneously, I started reading up on the history of particular patchwork and quilting patterns, such as 'the lone star' or 'the carpenter's wheel', as well as different quilting traditions and also took lessons from the mother of a friend who had been practicing the craft for decades. While she showed me her newest piece, which she was slowly quilting by hand in a special wooden frame, I was also introduced to the schism between advocates of hand-made vs machine-supported quilting – and the connected struggles to combine notions of 'authenticity' or 'real' quilting with the temporal demands and restrictions of (mostly women) quilters' everyday life.

At the same time, I started talking about my growing fascination for this craft with friends and with some of my research partners. When chatting on the phone or face to face on a walk, we covered many subjects – not only 'official' research topics and questions, but also our daily struggles of getting through the day and managing work and private obligations as well as how to occupy and distract oneself in the face of social distancing.8 Furthermore, also some of my interlocutors were either themselves engaged in particular forms of handicraft or knew people who did. Thus, the simple exchange on how to spend their newly acquired timeslots sometimes resulted in lengthy conversations on this or that particular kind of stitching or type of patchwork which they knew themselves or which was practiced by acquaintances all over the world. Furthermore, we had intense discussions on the problem of recycling and the unjust conditions of textile production as well as the elitist character of 'creative' and leisure time activities such as sewing (e.g., who can or cannot afford the time, money and space to spend on such a 'hobby' vs sewing as an economic necessity). While I initially thought that these topics were not directly related to my research questions, the opposite

8 Between March 2020 and summer 2021, public life in Bavaria, as in many other parts of the world, was restricted repeatedly due to the quickly developing pandemic. However, my interlocutors and I were affected by the Corona regulations in different ways, very much influenced by our social positions intersecting with our legal situations as well as economic possibilities – and connected to such different factors as age, country of birth, etc. While most of my interlocutors addressed as refugee women were living with their families or in student apartments, and others still lived in camps, I could afford (and enjoyed the legal right to) live in a private flat – as many of my interlocutors from a Social Work background also managed to do. Especially in the context of camps, the situation was very difficult, in that the ever-changing official Corona restrictions were accompanied by rules differentiating from camp to camp. In some cases, the whole camp went into quarantine when one case appeared; in others, only floors were closed down. As many people fell ill one after another in her camp, one interlocutor told me she had been living in quarantine for months with virtually no interruption.

turned out to be true. While I became more and more aware of the increasing presence of sewing and other textile activities in the field, our conversations prompted me to question how these practices are embedded and interwoven with gendered, class-related and racialised dimensions of the everyday life of both researchers and research partners.

### **Patchwork as a research lens**

Thus, while getting into patchwork as a form of "serious leisure" (Stalp 2007: 9), I started reading up on the topic and discovered that both quilts as material products and patchwork as a textile practice have long been a subject of anthropological inquiry (separately from its aforementioned usage as both a methodological approach and a metaphor). Anthropologists studying patchwork and quilting focus on a variety of different issues, including the significance of quilts in 'Native American' mourning rituals (Cariocci 2010), the importance of everyday quilting as a practice of self-care and self-fulfillment for middle-aged American women (Stalp 2007) and investigations of quilting conventions from the perspective of an 'acafan' (an academic who is also a fan) (Barrus 2021).

While Marybeth Stalp (2007) highlights the importance of the recent 'quilt revival' in the US-American context, in Germany quilting and patchwork are also becoming quite common leisure activities. Within most bigger cities, as well as some rather remote towns, there exist specialised shops and active patchwork communities consisting of numerous individual practitioners as well as regional groups and so-called patchwork or quilting guilds9 that also organise recurring exhibitions and conventions. However, up to now, not much (if any) anthropological research seems to have been done on this topic in the German-speaking context.

Among the many different anthropological approaches to investigating patchwork as a practice, Nancy Scheper-Hughes's article on the Gees'

9 See, for example, 'The German Patchwork Guild' webpage (https://www.patch workgilde.de/).

Bend Freedom Quilting Bee stands out, as it transcends the often-supposed boundaries between activism and research. Retrospectively, she describes her feeling indebted to a group of African American quilters that once took her in and supported her in an early research project. She describes her engagement and struggle to get these women's quilts accepted as art in the context of the North American art scene of the late 1960s (cf. Scheper-Hughes 2003). Here, Scheper-Hughes gives a very personal testimony of the changing representation of African American quilters within (North) American quilt history, as she experienced it as both a researcher and a friend of quilters from the Gees' Bend Quilting Bee. For a long time, this history was shaped by omitting African American quilters from official narratives, e.g., in dedicated quilt histories published since the early 20th century (cf. Klassen 2009: 298), as well as from the multi-million dollar quilting industry10 (cf. Stalp 2007: 8). Only recently has African American quilting been acknowledged as a part of this record (cf. Klassen 2009: 299 ff.), and it has even found its way into inter-/national art museums.

However, the construction of 'African American quilting' or 'Native American quilting' as distinctively different to '(mainstream) American quilting' can be criticised. First, quilters addressed by either of these labels respond to 'trends' in mainstream quilting in their own patchwork and quilting practices (ibid: 298). Second, patterns claimed to have originated in this or that particular quilting tradition11 are constantly exchanged (ibid: 298), rearranged and altered, thereby making any patch-

10 The selling of countless books on patchwork and quilting, fabric collections for different occasions and patterns for a variety of patchwork techniques is by now quite a lucrative sector of the arts and crafts' economy, not only in North America, but also in other parts of the world.

11 One example of this kind of sometimes very ambivalent appropriation might be provided by the ubiquitous log cabin pattern, which – consisting usually of three rows of angular logs in light and dark colours arranged around the sides of a red square that symbolises a fire – is claimed as both an invention of 'settler-colonists' on their march to the American West as well as a symbol of the underground railroad helping people escaping slavery to find their way to the safe North, where slavery had already been abolished (cf. Stalp 2007: 7).

work quilt both a citation of pre-existing patterns or historical quilts *and* a product of individual manual labour and creativity.

With regard to my research, another aspect of textile handicraft became of interest, namely the importance of women's (manual) work for humanitarian activities. For example, in her monograph *The Need to Help* (2015), Liisa Malkki considers the engagement of mostlyWestern women in the production of material objects of aid, such as hats, shawls and knitted cuddly toys (e.g., 'aid bunnies' or 'trauma teddies') for the victims of war or natural disasters *elsewhere* (cf. Malkki 2015).

In her investigation, Malkki convincingly shows how these handmade objects become emotionalised and considered essentials of any humanitarian aid – especially, but not only, with regard to humanitarian activities in other countries. For example, Malkki refers to the carrying and distributing of 'trauma teddies' by the Red Cross in the context of numerous catastrophes such as the World Trade Center attacks in 2001, tsunamis following an earthquake in the Indian Ocean in 2004 and the Russian bombing of an airplane in Ukrainian airspace in 2014 (cf. Malkki 2015: 108). As products of a decidedly voluntary humanitarian engagement, these objects of aid are meant to soothe the pain and fear of children affected by disaster. Here, children represent both the pure victim and the "exemplary human" (ibid: 9), and thus they ennoble the voluntary production and giving of bunnies, hats, teddies and the like as morally 'good' and benevolent practices. At the same time, these activities can be considered highly gendered, as mainly women do (and are called upon to) produce these objects of aid (ibid: 106).

Similar enterprises became also quite common following the arrival of more than a million people fleeing war and disaster in 2015/16. Rapidly, women – especially those in their fifties and sixties (among them also some of my relatives and acquaintances) across Germany –started to engage in all kinds of textile handicrafts, e.g., knitting, sewing and so forth, to produce objects of aid 'for the poor refugees'. These activities included the production of countless hats and shawls as well as pullovers, with sometimes hundreds of pieces produced per person.12 This type of occupation was further encouraged by fundraising campaigns; the by now annually repeated campaign "Shawl for Life" (in German: "Schal für das Leben") in favour of 'Syrian refugee children' can be considered one of the most prominent examples of this kind of campaigning at the intersection of individual and corporate humanitarian commitment. The campaign was originally initiated by the well-established German women's magazine *Brigitte* and the NGO Save the Children e.V. in cooperation with Lana Grossa, a wholesale trader specialising in the distribution of all sorts of wool and yarn, and it is still running today (Spring 2023).13

However, in subsequent years, and again in the context of the pandemic, comparable connections of gender and handicraft kept reappearing. For example, while at the beginning of the pandemic in early 2020 nobody had any masks, people started to sew them themselves from small pieces of cotton, and also offered them to others as one of very few known preventive measures against COVID. In the beginning, inhabitants of refugee camps were targeted as beneficiaries of this kind of aid. However, after a short while, increasingly more social organisations started to offer sewing opportunities, especially to refugee women, to learn how to make these masks and make them accessible to the public, often advertised under the label 'they want to give something back'14. Thereby, these organisations were participating in the subjectification (cf. Butler 2015) of particularly women addressed as refugees in an ambivalent way – both as aid recipients and at the same time 'good' and 'grateful' (future) members of German society.

12 See for example "Bunte Mützen, damit Flüchtlinge nicht frieren," 18.02.2016 (h ttps://www.shz.de/lokales/eckernfoerde/artikel/bunte-muetzen-damit-fluech tlinge-nicht-frieren-41555818).

13 For more information on the campaign, see e.g., "Alles zur BRIGITTE-Aktion 'Schal fürs Leben'", February 02, 2023 (https://www.brigitte.de/leben/wohnen /selbermachen/stricken/schal-fuers-leben/).

14 See, for example, "Flüchtlingsfrauen nähen Masken", April 29, 2020 (https://w ww.berliner-woche.de/charlottenburg/c-soziales/malteser-verbinden-integra tion-und-corona-hilfe\_a263650).

Fittingly, many of the organisations I worked with over the course of my fieldwork developed special activities for refugee women that both drew on and reproduced the long-established imagination of (manual) care work in the domestic sphere as women's domain. At the same time, however, they complemented this presupposition with the assumption that refugee women are eligible (and willing!) to work in these areas. For example, in many cases, creative activities such as sewing and other forms of needlework were connected to the aim of empowerment. By offering courses on machine sewing and fashion design under the empowerment label, and opening up these avenues only to women, occupations such as tailoring were presented as desirable areas of work for women addressed as refugees.

In this way, Social Work contributes to gendered ways of integrating refugee women into the German labour market against the backdrop of the activating welfare state15 (see e.g., Kessl 2019). Here, Social Work actors take over the mission to prepare women addressed as refugees to become 'good' working members of society – but only in areas of occupation that are deemed adequate for them as both women and refugees.

### **Conclusion**

As we have seen, patchwork and quilting provide well-established metaphors for women's novel-writing, (feminist) scientific inquiry and social anthropology. In the latter context, patchwork especially is used to designate research approaches that 'jump' either between different research areas and sites while investigating global phenomena or with respect to changed research conditions under the impression of the

15 The 'activating' welfare state model, as established in Germany through the introduction of the 'Hartz4' laws in the early 2000s, is oriented towards the improvement of the single citizen; as Kessl argues, the activating welfare state model is very much related to neoliberal thinking (Kessl 2019: 118). Furthermore, Social Work in Germany can be considered to play an essential part in the implementation of the state's hope 'to activate' all members of society, and especially those that seem not 'active' enough (cf. Kessl 2019).

corona pandemic and/or care obligations. These are not necessarily compatible with the current trend of publication cycles becoming faster and faster (cf. Günel et al. 2020). Therefore, some authors call for a new form of ethnographic research – especially questioning the ideal of the classic one year of fieldwork or village study in the Malinowskian tradition – under the buzzword "patchwork ethnography" (ibid).

While these works provide fascinating insights, in the context of my research, patchwork became significant as a methodological point of reference in a broader sense, due to the many limitations and restrictions heaped upon both research and private life in the wake of the corona pandemic. Additionally, though, the boundaries between these two spheres became increasingly blurred, as in the course of my fieldwork patchwork also became a creative occupation and offered the possibility to engage with others on a personal level in times of spatial distance and social distancing. Therefore, my 'private' interest in patchwork and sewing as creative techniques led to a new focus of attention: while engaging with patchwork and quilting as subjects of anthropological inquiry and through conversations with my interlocutors, I became more attentive to any kind of handicraft activities in the field and its embedding into gendered, class-related and racialised dimensions of the everyday life of researchers and research partners. These included not only the differing and unjustly distributed opportunities to learn and pursue such a 'hobby', but also the (questionable) significance of voluntarily producing material aid objects in the wake of disaster.

Furthermore,it made me aware of the recurring connection between manual care work and notions of what can be considered an appropriate occupation for women – as a general category but (with slightly different implications) especially for women addressed as refugees against the background of the activating German welfare state. Finally, this new research lens made obvious not only our differences and commonalities as researchers and research partners, e.g.,our shared difficulties in dealing with new living circumstances in the pandemic, but also our (different but related) struggles of living as women in a society profoundly shaped by patriarchy and racialisation. Once more, this might be taken as a reminder that researchers and research partners are not trapped in different times and spaces but should rather be considered as "actors within the same political and societal surrounding, although they occupy different positions" (Sökefeld 2002: 89, my translation).

Against this backdrop, it has to be acknowledged that I was not the only researcher (or ethnographic patchworker) in this context, as my interlocutors were also highly involved in the joint discussions on first ideas and interpretation, as well as constructive critiques regarding the whole research process. Therefore, I owe them a lot of gratitude for teaching me how to "weave" (cf. Ingold 2000) together the various patches that come together to make up this research.

Finally, patchwork and ethnography might be regarded as two related trades, as they both rely not only on a rigorous methodological procedure, but also on the element of surprise. Furthermore, as ethnographers *and* quilters, we often need to make various attempts to rearrange 'the material' until we can recognise any overarching themes and patterns that might help us make sense of all those bits and pieces we have collected over time. However, we have to acknowledge that any resulting insights are never just on our own merit but depend on the patterns designed by those that came before us and the knowledge of those that kindly take the time to talk and explain to us how it all fits together.

### **References**

# **The Travelling Carpet** Mobility, Trade and Identity along the Karakoram Highway

*Alessandro Rippa*

I had already been in Pakistan for about two weeks, which I had spent mostly between Islamabad and Rawalpindi. I had already interviewed several Uyghur migrants and two former engineers, who had worked on the construction of the Karakoram Highway (KKH) in the 1970s and met some traders I knew from previous fieldwork in China's Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. On that day, a Monday in February 2013, I visited the Pakistan-China Institute, a think-tank aiming at promoting Sino-Pakistani ties and 'people to people' exchanges.There, I spoke with one of the assistant editors of *Youlin Magazine*, a monthly publication co-sponsored by the International Culture Exchange Association of Xinjiang. In the afternoon, I spent a few hours at Quaid-i-Azam University, where a colleague from the Department of Anthropology helped me locate a few Master's theses I was interested in. One caught my attention: it focused on carpets and carpet-making, featuring fascinating images of how designs were rendered on paper and written into what the author called 'carpet language' or 'design script' (see Figure 3). I was not sure whether this would be useful for my doctoral research – which centred on trade and migration along the Karakoram Highway between China and Pakistan – but I decided to make copies of it just in case. After a *chai* with a couple of instructors from the Department of Anthropology, and quite happy with a productive day of fieldwork, I headed backinto town to have dinner with Martin Sökefeld.

I had never met Martin before, but we had been in touch throughout the previous year via email. I had contacted him regarding some of his work in Gilgit-Baltistan and asked if he knew any members of the Uyghur community in Gilgit. Martin put me in touch with colleagues at Quaid-i-Azam University as well as a few other scholars I would meet during my time in Pakistan. In previous months, I had also applied for a short-term fellowship to spend some months in Munich, with the intention of writing a chapter of my thesis under his supervision.Only two weeks before our first meeting in Islamabad, the application turned out to be successful and I was thus keen to thank Martin in person for his help. He had supported me without really knowing me – a PhD student from the University of Aberdeen.

Martin suggested that we meet at Kabul Restaurant,in Jinnah Super. "I am already longing for Kabuli kebab," he wrotein an email the previous January, as we planned our meet-up in Islamabad. I was rather happy with his choice, partly for my own appreciation of Afghan food, but also for the central location of the restaurant and its proximity to some of my favourite carpet shops.The food, to be sure, did not disappoint, and over dinner we spent a couple of hours talking about the Karakoram Highway, the state of construction work around the Attabad Lake and trade with China. Given my background and experience in Xinjiang, I knew a lot about the Chinese side of the border, but much of what Martin told me about Gilgiti traders was new. I left the restaurant convinced that I would have a productive time in Munich the following summer, and with a very positive impression of Martin.

Following dinner that day, I did not go straight to my guesthouse. Instead, I decided to stop by 'Saarouq Carpets', a small shop tucked away on the second floor of a rather shabby building in one of the least busy areas of Jinnah Super. During my time in Islamabad, I had already been to Saarouq Carpets twice: I liked what they offered and enjoyed talking with the owner, Arslan, even more. Originally from Afghanistan, Arslan had inherited the shop and a distinct passion for carpets from his father. Over the years, they had gathered an impressive collection, with some unique Turkmen pieces. My own appreciation of carpets, I had told Arslan the first time we met, grew out of the time I spent in Kashgar, in Xinjiang, over previous years of travel and research. There, not only did I learn about local designs, but I also had a chance to see some beautiful Afghan, Kazakh and even Iranian carpets. Arslan, it turned out, was quite interested in learning more about Xinjiang carpets. He had seen a few 'pomegranate' pieces, he told me, but he would have liked to see more. I promised that I would come back with my laptop so that I could show him some pictures I took in Kashgar.That evening, I did just that – and we spent a couple of hours browsing through carpet pictures and talking about what makes a good example. I could never grow tired of those conversations, and, apparently, neither could he.

Over the following weeks, I returned to Arslan's shop several times and purchased a few carpets for friends in Europe who had asked me to keep an eye out for good specimens. With this goal in mind, I visited many carpet shops, including Arslan's, and took pictures of some of the best on display. I then shared those pictures and made inquiries about specific pieces, at times negotiating prices and placing orders. For me, this was not about making a profit – I never got anything out of those exchanges, and I bought fewer than ten carpets in total. Nevertheless, I not only enjoyed spending time in these shops, but this activity also allowed me to gain precious insights into the nature of commercial exchanges in both Xinjiang and Pakistan. More than that, though, I learned how carpets represented a unique commodity exchanged along the Karakoram Highway and how the history of their designs could shed additional light on the nature of transnational mobilities in the area. In other words, from being a small side-interest, a personal passion, carpets played a serendipitous role (Hazan and Hertzog 2011; Rivoal and Salazar 2013) in how I thought about the Karakoram Highway and the nature of crossborder exchanges between China and Pakistan.

In this chapter, I build onmy experience with and among carpet dealers in Islamabad and Kashgar to recount the little-known story of Xinjiang carpets from Khotan and their unique designs, as these have travelled between China, northern Pakistan and Afghanistan since the opening of the Karakoram Highway in the 1980s. Through this story, I show how Khotanese carpets have become both a symbol of local identity and the transnational mobility of goods and capital, and how the Karakoram Highway features prominentlyin these narratives. I conclude by discussing how this example can contribute to ongoing ethnographic studies of roads and by commenting on the value ofmulti-sided ethnography. In doing so, and in line with the purpose of this volume, I show how a side-interest, a distraction, a personal passion, can become a surprising opportunity for seeing connections and dynamics that would otherwise remain out of sight.

I begin, however, with a brief history of the road that made these exchanges possible: the Karakoram Highway, or KKH.

### **The Karakoram Highway**

The People's Republic of China and the Islamic Republic of Pakistan share just over 500km of (contested) border in the high Karakoram mountains. The boundary itself was agreed upon by the two countries in 1963 and has never been recognised by the Indian government, thus making it a very sensitive area of both connections and disjunctions (Lamb 1973, Fravel 2008). Following the 1963 agreement, China and Pakistan developed one of the world's closest bilateral relations. Leaders of both countries, in fact, rarely miss an opportunity to remark that their relationship is 'higher than the Himalayas and deeper than the Indian Ocean' and 'sweeter than honey'. Throughout the decades, this pompous vocabulary has taken some concrete form in various coordinated projects, with an explicit effort to improve the security and economic ties between the two countries (Small 2015). Surely the most outstanding result of this relationship is represented by the Karakoram Highway, which connects Kashgar to Islamabad (Figure 1). In addition to its obvious strategic value, the road, open to civilian traffic since 1982, was built to foster trade and enhance both countries' control over the border regions (Kreutzmann 1991; Stellrecht 1997; Haider 2005). For Pakistan the road provided improved access to the disputed territory of Kashmir and has become the main factor in the economic and political integration of Gilgit-Baltistan with the rest of the country (Sökefeld 2005).

*Figure 1: The Karakoram Highway*

Map designed by the author

Within this context, the KKH remains today the region's most important infrastructure, and while it would be wrong to argue that Gilgit-Baltistan was isolated before the construction of the KKH (Sökefeld 2014; Stellrecht 1998: 80–1), it nevertheless remains evident that the road has radically transformed the region (Karrar 2020). As Sherbaz Ali Bercha, librarian at the Gilgit Municipal Library and historian of the region, told me:

Before the KKH was opened, people here in Gilgit-Baltistan were selfsufficient. The KKH connected us to Pakistan, which is a good and important thing, but there are also negative aspects. For instance, our dialect has been hurt. And, most importantly, now we are completely dependent on the road. If the road is blocked for some sectarian violence, or for some natural disaster, we suffer too much (Interview, June 2013).

The issue of Gilgit-Baltistan's dependency on the KKH is a topic of frequent discussion in the region, particularly when the road is obstructed for natural or political reasons and shops throughout the region run out of certain items. In fact, over 30 years after its official opening, the Karakoram Highway remains today a precarious infrastructure. The highway's accessibility is constantly threatened not only by natural factors such as landslides and precipitations, but also by its use during protests and demonstrations of various kinds, or the closure of some of its sections due to sectarian violence and other security reasons. Nonetheless, from its very conception, it seems to express powerful promises: connectivity, development, mobility and business opportunities. Although, here as in other contexts, roads often fail to fulfil most of their promises, the powerful sense of mobility that they embody remains generally untouched (Campbell 2012; Khan 2006; Jamali 2013). In the case of Pakistan, Haines has persuasively shown how the Karakoram Highway was part of a national integration, modernisation and development project. Through the trope of the 'Silk Road', moreover, the highway became a major connector between an imagined past and a likewise imagined future (Haines 2012). Promises of 'progress and prosperity' have more recently taken the shape of the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) and its integration as one key vector of China's ambitious Belt and Road Initiative (Oliveira et al. 2020; Rippa 2020a, 2020b).

To understand how infrastructural promises are negotiated on the local level, Penny Harvey and Hannah Knox (2012) apply the notion of 'enchantment'. They suggest that the experience of roads' dereliction and abandonment, for instance, "strengthens the desire for them and constantly renews the sense that sometime soon they will appear and life will change for the better" (534). Rather than diminishing people's faith in the positive impact of road development, or in the government's ability to deliver it, moments of failure can thus strengthen the promises that infrastructure holds.This dynamic is confirmed by my observations along the Karakoram Highway, where regular encounters with the material disintegration of the road, or its closure for political reasons, seem to reinforce people's expectations and belief in the ability of the road to improve their futures. In the case of the highway, the framework is even more complex, given the transnationality of the road, a condition which – particularly in Gilgit-Baltistan – seems to intensify those expectations. In the region, there is a widespread belief in both China's capacity and commitment and in the proclaimed strategic relevance of the CPEC, which has often led locals to conclude that, this time, "Pakistan cannot forget us."1

The Karakoram Highway,in this sense, possesses a subversive power, too. Being the product of a joint effort by the governments of China and Pakistan, it has become the locus of thoughtful discussions and painful comparisons. In the Pakistani context, as mentioned, the road has been a major means for channelling state power and forging the nation-state (Haines 2012). This narrative, produced and sponsored by the Pakistani state, currently faces a major contradiction posed by the conditions of the road itself. At the time of my fieldwork,in 2012 and 2013, for instance, the highway was blocked due to a major landslide in Attabad, and a Chinese company – the China Road and Bridge Corporation (CRBC) – was constructing the necessary tunnels around the lake as well as undertaking important upgrading work on the Khunjerab-Raikot section of the road. In the eyes of most inhabitants of Gilgit-Baltistan, this represented a sign of Pakistan's incapacity – and/or unwillingness – to invest seriously in the region (Sökefeld 2012). This perception, certainly connected with the status of Gilgit-Baltistan within Pakistan, seems, then, to be

1 On the feeling of abandonment, and even betrayal, felt by many in Gilgit-Baltistan, due to the region's lack of political representation and right, see Ali (2019).

constantly reinforced by encounters with Chinese road workers, or by the experience of the road itself.

Cross-border traders have an even more defined idea of China's role in building and maintaining the Karakoram Highway. Throughout my fieldwork, I had countless discussions about the different conditions of the road on the two sides of the Khunjerab Pass – smooth on the Chinese side, bumpy and often interrupted on the Pakistani side. A direct experience of the highway itself thus produces narratives that often contradict the official version sponsored by the central states, and in this way it becomes a mirror for what are considered the lies, weaknesses and empty promises of the state. On the other hand, the Karakoram Highway also provides an emblematic example of Chinese state power,another topic of numerous discussions, particularly in Gilgit-Baltistan. In some of those discussions, the road becomes a means through which the Chinese state is attempting to infiltrate the region: it is not only an infrastructure for economic development, but also a tool for social, cultural and even political change. Many people in Gilgit-Baltistan shared with me their fear of losing their own culture and traditions, or even their limited political and economic independence. To borrow an expression from Harvey and Knox, this seems to be yet another case of *disjunctive doubling*,i.e., "where roads are dreamed of as solutions to a pervasive sense of abandonment and underdevelopment, and yet dreaded for their proven capacity to destroy fragile natural and social environments" (2015: 135).

Over the course of my fieldwork, and mainly driven by my personal interest in carpets, I also came to appreciate some of the more subtle ways in which the Karakoram Highway affects and engenders social lives in China and Pakistan. Below, I discuss the example of Khotani carpets and their circulation across the Karakoram. As several recent studies point out, objects are both bearers and makers of social change – and carpets represent a case in point (Dzüvichü and Baruah 2019; Tagliacozzo and Chang 2011). More generally, as I discuss towards the end, such an object-oriented approach can help us appreciate some of the least apparent consequences of road construction and can thus represent a welcome contribution to the growing field of infrastructure studies in anthropology.

### **Transnational carpets**

Different kinds of carpets move along the Karakoram Highway in opposite directions. Shortly after the KKH was opened for civilian use in 1982, a few Pakistani dealers began to transport handmade carpets to Kashgar. Most were either made in Peshawar or Afghanistan; occasionally, however, Iranian, Turkmen and even Uzbek pieces were sent to Xinjiang as well. Most of these carpets were quite expensive and not meant for the local Uyghur market; rather, they were intended for Western – and increasingly Han Chinese – tourists visiting Kashgar. Indeed, a few carpet shops opened around the main touristic spots, namely the Chini Bagh Hotel, the main bazaar and the Idgah Mosque area. During my fieldwork, I repeatedly visited these places and became particularly close to one local carpet dealer: I shall call him 'Polat'.

Polat was born in a small village on the outskirts of Kashgar, and as a young man he used to visit the city weekly to sell leather and vegetables at the local bazaars.One day, he told me, he visited a small carpet market in Kashgar and thought about his home village, where a few families were still weaving these items in the traditional way.The next time he travelled to Kashgar, he brought a few of these carpets with him and immediately sold them, making a good profit. "This is how I became a carpet dealer", he told me. "It was 1987, and I didn't know much about carpets back then" (interview,May 2013). Shortly afterwards, he met some Pakistani dealers and learned that they were not only interested in selling Afghani carpets, but also in buying old local pieces. He thus travelled extensively around Xinjiang and collected an impressive number of old rugs, particularly 'Khotani', some of which are extremely valuable. 'Khotani' carpets were made around Khotan, in the south of Xinjiang, once famous for producing these items with very peculiar designs, including complex compositions of pomegranates and large medallions. Polat bartered many of those carpets with Pakistani dealers in exchange for new Afghani pieces. In 2001, he opened his own shop.

Polat was not the only Uyghur trader involved in this kind of business, and hundreds of old Khotani pieces in those years were moved across the Karakoram into Pakistan, from where they would be sold to international dealers across the world (Mascelloni 2015). Today, Polat told me, it is difficult to find old Khotani pieces in good condition, and as a result he has stopped searching for them around Xinjiang. Although he still owns a few of them, his main business now lies in selling new Afghani pieces to Western and Han Chinese tourists. Among those pieces, however, some are weaved in a 'Khotani' design similar to the old ones he once sold to the Pakistani dealers. He explained this to me in the following way:

Nowadays, people in Khotan don't make good-quality carpets anymore. But the design is very beautiful, so now they make them in Afghanistan. They copied the design from the old carpets I sold to the Pakistani, and now they bring me new ones. This [pointing at one of those carpets] is made in Afghanistan, but the design is from Khotan. It's a local design (interview, May 2013).

*Figure 2: Old (above) and new (below) Khotanese carpets.*

Photos by the author

Although a close examination of old and new Khotanese pieces would reveal significant differences in the complexity of their design, and the quality of the wool and that of the dyes, the resemblance is still significant (see Figure 2). More interestingly, for the argument of this chapter, this 're-localisation' of the production of Khotanese carpets happened entirely because of the Karakoram Highway. Not only are carpets woven today in Afghanistan imported into China via the highway, but many of the designs themselves have travelled in the opposite direction on the same road. Even more significantly, in the process of selling these carpets to tourists, this whole story was continuously re-enacted by Polat as if it were adding value to the carpet. As I observed – and helped – him on several occasions he was trying to sell a carpet, I noticed that he particularly insisted on the trans-local character of the piece, pointing out that although the design was from Xinjiang, it was made in Afghanistan and had been brought to Kashgar by Pakistani traders through the Karakoram Highway. The narrative concerning the carpet, its story, eventually seemed to become as relevant as the object itself. The carpet was valuable not only because of the originality of its design, or the quality of the knot work, but also because of its adventurous, transnational story. It was treated by Polat as both a local and a transregional product, a symbol of Uyghurs' long and rich cultural history and an indicator of Kashgar's historical role as a key trading hub and of the international flows of contemporary trade.

Within this story, the Karakoram Highway played a double role. It served as a prime artery for the exchange of goods (carpets) and knowledge (carpet design), but it also figured in the stories related to these carpets as a dangerous, exotic and inaccessible mountain road. These carpets, in my discussions with Polat, seemed to embody a local, Khotanese tradition as well as a trans-local element well-expressed by the Karakoram Highway, which functioned both as a form of narrative and fascination. The highway had thus become part of the carpet, defining its trajectory and contributing to its story.

### **Roads and carpets**

After flipping through some of my carpet pictures from Kashgar, Arslan and I continued looking at some of the items he had in his Islamabad shop. At one point, he unrolled a carpet I had not seen before,in a particular design I did not recognise. I asked him if he knew what that design was called. His answer was rather straightforward:

Look, I don't really know the name of this [carpet's] design. My father used to tell me that when he was young, they knew three or four designs. Now there are hundreds, so dealers who don't know them will make up some name just to sell more. I won't lie to you. And it's not important. Look at it [he points at the carpet]: what really matters is not the name of the design but the quality of the material. Look at the knots [he turns the carpet over and scratches a row of knots with his finger nail], look at the pile [he brushes the pile with his palm], this is a good carpet. This is a very good quality carpet; you can wash it a hundred times and it won't wear out. This is what's really important (interview, February 2013).

This conversation echoes what many carpet dealers in China and Pakistan regularly hinted at throughoutmy fieldwork, namely theimportant difference between the design of a carpet and its material characteristics, such as the quality of the wool and of the knot work. But how do the design and materiality of a carpet inform one another? What are the circumstances through which a piece comes to be made – and how? These are questions I kept asking myself during my fieldwork in China and Pakistan, prompted by encounters and conversations such as the one I just described. Over time, I recognised, I began thinking not only about carpets, but also about roads in similar terms. In the case of the KKH, this turned out to be an useful exercise in my attempt to reconcile the promised function of the road, with its (dire) material conditions. Once again, from being a small side interest, the stories of carpets and their design serendipitously informed my thinking about infrastructure, mobility and identity along the Karakoram Highway. For this reason, I now turn to weaving, before heading back to roads and trade.

In anthropology, among the authors who have engaged with the process of weaving, Tim Ingold's discussion of 'making' is particularly interesting (2010). Ingold argues against what he calls the 'hylomorphic' model of creation, based on the Aristotelian principle that creation is a coming together of form (*morphe*) and matter (*hyle*). The hylomorphic model, accordingly, envisages that a pre-existing design is imposed by the creator upon passive matter. Against this view, he contends that making is rather a practice of weaving: "not the imposition of form on pliant substance but the slicing and binding of fibrous material" (2010: 92). The hylomorphic model is thus turned upside down, and primacy is given to "the processes of formation as against their final products, and to the flows and transformations of materials as against states of matter" (2010: 92). Furthermore, materials are constantly in a state of variation, and to separate the design from the making, or to disengage it from the material, means avoiding such consideration, thus treating the material for what it cannot be: a passive recipient of human agency.

Returning to the carpet trade along the Karakoram Highway, the examples of old Khotani pieces brought to Afghanistan and 'copied' seem to fit quite well within the 'hylomorphic' paradigm. Apparently, a specific design is taken and copied, probably sketched on a piece of paper and then hung beside the loom so that the weaver does not lose track of it (Figure 3). And yet, the carpets I used to see in Polat's shop reveal another story, particularly when compared with the old pieces he possessed. The reproduction of old designs holds a creative element. The general idea of the design did remain similar, and certain motifs – such as the typical pomegranate – look almost the same, but then each and every carpet has some interesting singularities. First, the dyes and the quality of the wool are radically different, which brings about different changes in the design itself, as different kinds of wool imply different degrees of 'precision' in the weaving process, while 'new' colours allow for different combinations.The new Khotani carpets, moreover, included in their designs a few geometric details and motifs that did not appear in the old ones. In some cases, a distinct Caucasian or Iranian influence was clearly discernible. Each carpet, thus, not only was inspired by a specific design, but also expressed the personality and the taste of the weaver – or, more likely, echoed some changes in the demand of the market.

*Figure 3: Carpet language / "design script"*

Photo from Mushtaq 2009

In fact, even when hung on the loom, a 'design script' always leaves room for some sort of improvisation and inventiveness. Mistakes are quite common, rather unsurprisingly, given the conditions where the weaving process takes place, as the work of small-scale weavers can be constantly interrupted by other activities that need to be carried out. Even professional weavers – as anybody who has ever visited a carpet factory must have realised – work in very confusing environments where people chat, eat and pray around the looms. The design of a carpet, therefore, rather than being simply the result of the imposition of form upon matter, not only exists exclusively through this 'matter', but also owes its characteristics to a complex entanglement of various elements: the ideal design, the quality of the wool, the taste of the weaver, work conditions and so on. In other words, design and materials do not

exist as a separate dichotomy but instead represent a coming together of ideal motifs and mundane instances, symbolic forms and practicalities. In this sense, carpets function as a particularly apt metaphor for roads: not in that they connect, but precisely because the connections they engender inevitably contribute to re-making social, cultural and political worlds. Furthermore, as the interruption (in trade and mobility) caused by the Attabad Lake shows, such connections are never given once and for all: they are instead continuously challenged, shaped and informed by the lives of other forms and materials.

This understanding of roads is not new in the growing anthropological literature on the subject, and so they been shown to allow the ethnographer to work through and across different categories and disciplinary boundaries and represent an ideal point of entry for anthropological analysis (Dalakoglou and Harvey 2012: 2; Dalakoglou 2010, 2012; Mostowlansky 2011; Argounova Low 2012; Rest and Rippa 2019). Echoing this literature, and moving from my experiences across many carpet shops, I address the Karakoram Highway not only as an object of analysis per se, but also as an inclusive space created by economic, social, cultural and material interactions. The road is thus understood as both a cross-contextual category of analysis and as the privileged locus of ethnographically bounded, localised dynamics.

The example of handmade carpets further highlights the connections between roads and the commodities that travel along them, hence showing the complexity of material encounters along the Karakoram Highway and the different directions in which the road seems to run. Polat's story shows the entanglement of local and transnational, personal and material, which characterises encounters along the road. Carpets are made in Afghanistan, based on a Khotanese design, and are sold in Kashgar as exotic products that have travelled through the high passes of South and Central Asia. In Kashgar's carpet shops,moreover, this transnational character is combined with the origin of the design, renewing a sense of belonging and proximity to the Khotanese tradition. When dealing with Western and Han Chinese tourists, as shown above, these two elements help (without apparent contradiction) add value to the carpets, as visitors often seem stunned by the mixture of tradition and trans-locality

they seem to reflect. To put it differently, as a road like the KKH cannot be studied without considering the expectations, promises and fears it continuously evokes, in Polat's shop, a carpet would lose meaning and value if detached from its story.

### **Conclusion**

A road project might be completed, but as shown by the continuous making and unmaking of the KKH since its opening in the early 1980s, it is never quite finished. Carpets, too,might be woven; yet, throughout their lifetimes they might be repaired, their colours will fade and some of their corners will be eaten by bugs. Even more so, their stories will take thousands of different shapes and forms. Indeed, as Ingold puts it, nothing is ever finished, i.e., "everything may be something, but being something is always on the way to becoming something else" (2011: 3). Ingold makes a similar point while discussing what he sees as a 'radical distinction' between objects and things. Things, as opposed to the completeness and finitude of objects, are "a gathering of materials in movement" (2012: 436). Moreover, a thing does not stand before us "as a fait accompli, complete in itself " (2010: 96), but rather as potential "for further making, growth, and transformation" (2012: 435). The world of things, in other words, is a world of becoming, of transformation, namely a lifeworld. Things, as I have shown, particularly concerning carpets and roads, are necessarily intermingled with the meanings and narratives they continuously evoke. Meanings, however, are not simply 'attached' to objects by their human users or creators; rather, they emerge in contextualised encounters between things and actors, places and stories. The advantage of ethnography is precisely its ability to address these encounters in the details where lifeworlds are continuously generated and through often unexpected opportunities that emerge through fieldwork.

Therein lies a crucial element of much ethnographic research that needs to be explicitly addressed: the passion and care that drives it and the often seemingly futileinterests of the ethnographer that shapeit.The example of my work with carpets outlined in this chapter is an apt example in this regard.Carpets ended up playing a significant role throughout the course of my fieldwork. At first, however, my interest was due simply to the fact that I found handmade carpets, rugs and kilims utterly beautiful and fascinating. Carpet shops were places where I enjoyed spending my time, and conversations with carpet dealers occupied a significant part of my days. I also had the opportunity to see weavers at work, an experience which produced important insights for my own research. Carpets thus became an object of my investigations, and as this chapter reflects, an important tool for thinking about roads and transnationalism in the context of the KKH.

To take a cue from the title of this volume, one could say that ethnographic research is always – and inevitably – multi-sided. Our passions, private lives and personal trajectories often drive not only *where* we work but how we conduct our research, who we spend time with and the issues we attempt to unravel.Were it not for my appreciation of carpets, for instance, I would probably never have met Polat and Arslan, nor would I have ever learned about how carpet design travelled between China, Pakistan and Afghanistan, affecting an entire segment of the market. Possibly, I would have ended up with a rather different understanding of what a road like the KKH is and what it means for those who travel and trade along it.

### **References**

**Section Two: More-than Kinship**

# **Ethnography with a Faith Community**

Oscillating between In- and Outsider

*Deniz Coşan Eke*

### **Introduction**

First let me introduce myself, I am a Turkish Alevi woman who immigrated to Germany and then, throughout her academic journey, discovered her deeply veiled identity and belief. That said, although I grew up in an Alevi family and an environment in which many Alevi live, I only started to identify as an Alevi after I started my PhD research. The main reason for this wasmy personal security, becauseinmy childhood,Alevis' religious activities were mostly carried out in secret, as Alevism was not considered a legitimate (in either legal or religious terms) faith group in Turkey. Another reason was fear of discrimination, which is a common feeling amongst Alevis, not only personally, but also as a community of faith. My family warned me not to say explicitly that I was an Alevi, in order to protect myself from discrimination and socio-cultural pressures (Erdemir et al 2010). Consequently, I did not carry out any research on the Alevi faith until my doctoral research, and I did not participate in any religious rituals or practices during my time in Turkey due to the chilling effect of religious pressure. Therefore, my doctoral studies were a unique experience, in that I faced my own fears and in turn learned about the intricacies of my own identity. During my research, I was in a unique 'insider' position, as I was not only a curious PhD researcher, but also had the same cultural and religious background as the participants. Being Alevi evolved into a relational interface that has helped me to position myself within the existing networks of Alevi communities.

In my PhD research, I conducted ethnographic research on Alevi communities in Turkey and Germany in order to set the theological tradition of a faith sanctified in texts in relation to being embodied in rituals and practice (Wigg-Stevenson 2018). Hence, I analysed Alevi practices to explore how spirituality contributes to collective memory and identity. In brief, I examined the Alevi faith not only from its own internal perspective, but also to develop an external perspective by exploring narratives about believers, especially religious leaders.

### **Boundaries between the insider and outsider**

During four long years of doctoral studies in Social Anthropology at LMU in Munich, I had the chance to do research both at home, in Turkey, and away from home, in Germany, in a country foreign to me, whilst also working with an inside belief group as a member of that group. This allowed me to "immerse in the social context under research" (Sökefeld/Dürr 2018:230). When I started my research, I defined Turkey as my home country, as I knew its language, culture, politics and social structure better than Germany. However, after many years of living in Germany, and with my time in Turkey dwindling, it was difficult for me to describe the latter as fieldwork at home.Of course, this does not mean that I would describe Germany as fieldwork at home, either. Rather, my situation and experience of feeling at home was time-dependent, as the Italian sociologists Paolo Boccagni and Carlos Vargas-Silvas also point out:

As immigrants' life course proceeds, feeling at home has to do less with continuity with the past than with the possibility to live in a place perceived as safe, familiar and orderly, possibly with one's own family members. As time in immigration goes by, home ends up being a matter more of perceived normality than of ethnicity (2021: 12).

The changing meaning behind the concept of 'home' – for me as an immigrant – shaped my research and constantly led me to reconsider both my ideas and my feelings of belonging. During ethnographic work, researchers often discuss how they can reveal their identity, which in turn affects their research (see Smith 2016; Atay 2017).

After a while, my investigation also became an auto-ethnography in which I looked at myself as both an insider and an outsider to the group I was studying. This personal process allowed me to focus on many new topics, such as belonging and related experiences of fear and trust that were challenging for me.

Drawing on these personal experiences and feelings in my PhD researchinspiredme to write this article aboutmy fieldwork, whichin turn may provide insights for other researchers in this domain.Therefore, the main research question of this chapter examines some of the difficulties I encountered as an insider researcher doing ethnographic research within a faith community. I argue that research depends on whether the person conducting the research defines him or herself as a member of that belief or not. In other words, the vulnerabilities and privileges of researchers who are 'insiders' of a faith differ from those who are 'outsiders'. At the same time,my own example shows that the boundaries between insider and outsider are not that clearcut but are fluid and shaped by complex social, political and historical processes.

### **Religious ethnography**

For an insider researcher, although research may seem to have many advantages in establishing close and trusting relationships with research participants, this position may represent the risk of losing critical distance and objectivity (Denscombe 2010). For example, the supernatural *Keramet* (miracle) stories that are part of Alevimysticism are used by *dedes* to gain authority and legitimacy in front of their followers and against non-Alevi communities in Islam (Tee 2010).This authority may influence the researcher and make him or her want to believe in miracles.

However, there are two important points in this regard. First, when the researcher carries out fieldwork and runs with the narratives of these miracles, they may have more chance of understanding the practices and rituals of belief more deeply than an outsider researcher who does not believe or is not a member of the group. Second, if the researcher is a member of this group, questions about whether they believe in these miracles can be used to test how much they relates to the faith group. In either case, the researcher can use their insider theological knowledge, i.e., knowledge of the divine of religious belief, as an additional tool in their ethnography,in order to gain insights into different places, actions, ideas and groups.

Ethnography as "dense description" (Geertz 1973) can help in discovering believers' theological perspectives about a faith by using qualitative methods such as participant observation, field notes, interviews, diaries and document analysis (Whitehead 2005).

According to Julian Murchison and Curtis Coats, "ethnographic methods will also allow us to remain attendant to the social dimensions of complex flows and networks and avoid the tendency to perceive these religious practices as entirely individualized" (2015: 991). Along these lines, theological knowledge, discovered through ethnographic methods, can ensure that research on religion is an in-depth and comprehensive analysis. In this way, as James Bielo points out:

Religious ethnography pushes the limits of the anthropological imperative of total fieldwork immersion. Ultimately, religious ethnography provides a sharp reminder that fieldwork is not simply a research task and a social endeavor, it is a moral, existential, and ontological project (2015: 33).

A researcher studying a faith community must consider that everyone therein has an idea, a feeling or an understanding of that faith. Thus, when one takes on the role of a researcher of a faith, even if they are a member of that faith, their expertise in all aspects of that belief will be tested by its followers. This testing situation can sometimes involve questions, and sometimes it can be in the form of observing the researcher's participation in belief rituals.While the researcher observes a community, they are also observed by that community. In ethnographic fieldwork, surveillance or being observed by research participants is experienced for different reasons and to varying degrees (see Sökefeld and Strasser 2016).Most of the Alevis involved in my research, who had taken an active role in or supported leftist ideological movements, had had experience with state surveillance and were therefore sensitive to being observed, and thus they observed me in order to protect themselves from oppression and discrimination.

However, this observation – and this is what I wish to underline in this article – is not only a group's desire to ensure its own safety or to control the researcher, but it also an opportunity to ensure how sincere the researcher is in their expression and presentation of religious belief.Therefore, the researcher may perceive even more pressure than the believers of that faith to know in detail the sacred, theological and historical details. Despite this burden, the other important point is that ethnographic research involves serendipity and is based on social relationships and intensive interactions with research participants; hence,it often produces non-expected results. Therefore, the questions asked at the beginning of the fieldwork may change during the research and/or be enriched by complementary fieldwork as more and different questions arise. The methodological practice of anthropology, which characterises its difference from other disciplines,is aptly summarised by Martin Sökefeld and Miriam Ince (2016):

For anthropology it is not a methodological problem to change the research question or the original research hypotheses in the course of research. On the contrary, it is almost a methodological premise of anthropology that the research perspective changes, because this is evidence that we have learned something new 'in the field' and therefore have to adapt our original research question to the new findings. Field research is thus based on the principle of trial and error and the constant feedback of (preliminary) results on the research question and methodology (2016:6).

I had a similar methodological problem when I started my PhD fieldwork and was flying blind until I found suitable questions for my research. I felt really stressed when I decided to change many of the questions I wrote down at the very outset. Throughout my earlier academic career in sociology, I had researched mainly by trying to answer the following questions: "What happened? Has it happened everywhere? Has it been repeated over time? What are the underlying causes of this phenomenon?" Consequently, I did not need to change the research questions, as I was collecting data around more generalised questions. In contrast to sociological research, as stated by Biole, "ethnographic success and failure hangs in the balance of how well relationships with fellow humans are established and nurtured" (2015: 31). As a matter of fact, ethnographic research as the primary methodological approach used to analyse faith groups makes it possible to communicate effectively and build mutual trust with them.

By participating in the research group and their religious and cultural activities, my PhD thesis advisor, Martin Sökefeld, stated that establishing a bond of trust, especially with the members of a belief community, is the most fundamental condition of cooperation with any research participants,in order to engageinmore face-to-faceinteractions, reflect the characteristics of the group and ensure the reliability, validity and accountability of research findings. Therefore, ethnographic research on a belief group, exploring religious, practical and socio-cultural dimensions and spending a certain amount of time with them in a particular place, helps formulate research questions to reflect issues within the group. Thanks to his guiding suggestion at the beginning of the research, both my relationship with the research group and my views on the research questions and objectives changed as time spent in fieldwork increased.

Another important contribution to my thesis was Sökefeld's book on the Alevi community, namely "The Struggle for Recognition: The Alevi Movement and the Transnational Area in Germany" (2008), which examined changes to and the transformations of Alevis through ethnographic methods in the context of Alevi organizations. For this purpose, he carried out field studies, focusing on the German city of Hamburg, with Alevi cultural centres between 2000 and 2004. This book, which gave me an idea for my doctoral research, is used as one of the main reference sources in academic studies on Alevis in the diaspora. What makes it a standard reference is that it is an important academic study on a religious group with transnational levels on the politics of identity within the debate on recognition, as well as the contribution of its theoretical framework in the fields of religion, diaspora, identity and social movements. Also, his research raises awareness that general models of immigrant and religious groups that are essentialised into homogeneous and monolithic categories should be avoided to ensure broader and more careful considerations of different minority communities within Germany. Before sharing my experiences and research based on the Alevi community, it is essential to provide a brief overview of my research group, i.e., the Alevi faith group.

### **The Alevi community**

In addition to the historical origins of Alevism as a faith, which is closely related to Sufism, Alevi society has actually been influenced more by the unique characteristics of Turkey's historical, political and socio-cultural infrastructure. Alevi values and rituals are mostly studied as part of Turkey's local and national religious contexts. As a religious and cultural community, Alevis define their faith as a spiritual path to awakening the sacred, divine power within itself. According to Alevi mysticism, it is the unity of the creator and the created, and the harmonious unity of creation is the cause of creation and the basis of its continuity. In Alevism, there is a belief that each part of the universe in some way reflects the whole or God. Alevis also believe that humans, as God's supreme creation, have divine power (sacred power) within themselves. The God of Alevis is the divine spirit that is in everything and everyone. This divine spirit is hidden in the human heart. The phrase "Do not

seek God outwardly! If your heart is pure, God is within you" has been accepted as one of the guiding principles by Haji Bektasch-i Veli1 .

The main religious ritual of the Alevis is a *cem*, and Alevis gather for their religious rituals in *cemevis*. Alevi clergies are referred to as *dedes* (the male form) and *anas* (the female form). For example, the spirituality of *dedes*, who are religious leaders, is based on their genealogy and their ability to perform miracles (*keramet*), which is also believed to be an inherited characteristic. Since *dedes*' spirituality includes a divine and sacred power, *talips* (believers in Alevism)2 believe that *dedes* can realise their wishes and desires (Cosan Eke, 2021). As the social anthropologist David Shankland (1998: 18), who has worked with Alevis for many years, stated, "In the context used by the Alevi, it is used to mean favored by God by virtue of being able to perform a miracle, as in Sufism in general" (1998: 18). Men and women pray in the same place during *cem* rituals, during which Alevi *dedes* address members of the congregation as "*Can*", meaning "pure soul", because Alevis believe there is no ethnic, economic and/or gender difference between those who attend the *cem* ritual after passing through the door of the *cemevi*. Although Alevis live predominantly in Turkey, Alevism as a faith has been part of transnational flows and networks in recent years, and they have settled in various countries as international migration has increased. Despite being a minority group wherever they live, they are the second largest belief group after

1 One of the most important Turkish Sufi orders, Bektashism, is named after the Anatolian saint Haji Bektash Veli (d. 1271). Alevis place great importance on Haji Bektash because Haji Bektash Veli has a sacred authority in Alevism, given the messages of universal peace, unity and togetherness. (More information: Küçük, Hülya. 2002. *The Role of the Bektāshīs in Turkey'sNational Struggle.AHistorical and Critical Study*. Leiden u. a. 2002. Dressler, Markus. 2015. *Writing Religion: The Making of Turkish Alevi Islam*. Oxford University Press. Kara, Cem. 2019. *Grenzen überschreitende Derwische Kulturbeziehungen des Bektaschi-Ordens 1826–1925. Gottengen:* Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

2 Not every Alevi can be called a *talip*. To be a *talip*, a person must define himself as an Alevi, belong to a particular *dede*lineage and promise a *dede*from his own lineage to abide by the rules of the Alevi faith.

the Sunni group in Turkey. However, this fact has not yet led to official recognition of their religious and cultural identity by the Turkish state.

There are two main reasons for this non-recognition. First, in the Turkish understanding of the secular state, there is a soft separation between religion and the state, because Sunni Islam has a privileged status in relation to political, economic and legal interests determined by said state. Second, under Turkish law, Alevis are included in the general Sunni-Muslimidentity and are not defined as a separate faith group. Moreover, Alevism is used as an umbrella term to describe many different faith communities, including Nusayris, Bektashi, Abdals, Tahtacilar, Yörüks and Kurdish Alevis.

Alevis in Turkey lament that the political doctrine deprives them of their social, political and cultural rights, thereby causing a sense of social exclusion. Such a lack of official recognition has led to a position of undefinable and undebatable discrimination against Alevis in Turkish society. Moreover, they have been exposed to social repression, and evenmassacres, for centuries because of their faith,and so they have preferred to conceal theiridentity, a practice thatis called *takiyye*(dissimulation). The beginning of the process of giving up hiding their identities is emigration, which has been increasing since the 1960s (Cosan Eke 2021).

The migration process from Turkey to Germany started with a recruitment agreement in 1961. This migration, which increased very rapidly with the recruitment of less educated and less skilled workers living in the villages in 1968, continued to increase in 1973 when immigrants started to live with their families in Germany under the Family Reunification Law (Cosan Eke 2021). It is estimated today to be around 4 million people of Turkish origin living in Germany (approximately 4% of the country's population) (Curtis 2013:69). Although the cultural representation of immigrants from Turkey as 'others' who do not want 'integration' is still being discussed, Martin Sökefeld underlines the studies that show that immigrants from Turkey have a high level of emotional attachment to Germany in terms of both media use and language skills (2004).

It is estimated that 48.5% of the population of Turkish Alevis living in Germany were born in Germany, and the majority of them are German citizens (Sirkeci and Erdoğan 2012). According to Alevi organizations in Europe, 25% of Turkish immigrants in Germany are Alevis, while the AABF (The Alevi Federation Germany *e.V.* (Turkish: *Almanya Alevi Birlikleri Federasyonu*, abbr.: AABF) states that there are 700,000 Alevis in Germany alone (AABF homepage). It is difficult to talk about exact figures because there is no official data on the Turkish population based on their religious or ethnic identity. The emergence of organisations established by Alevis, which started in Germany at the end of the 1980s and spread to other European countries.These organisations have a very important place in the Alevi movement through their solidarity network, which includes local, national and transnational processes.

Nevertheless, there is currently no comprehensive study of all of the individual and collective rituals, ethical rules, canonical texts, doctrines, daily practices, roles and behaviours of religious leaders, organisations, identities, places of worship and activities that make up the Alevi faith, because local differences are integrated with the national and international divergences of Alevi communities. Jeremy Menchik explains this trend in his article:

This heterogeneity means that what constitutes religion is historically specific rather than universal. This fundamental observation has clear implications for researchers. A suitable theoretical starting point for researchers is institutionalized practices (contextualized and historical) in which practitioners of religions are involved. (2017: 564).

By following Menchik's contextuality, I designed my research on the institutionalised practices of a religious group, thus helping to limit my dissertation, and I focused particularly on Alevi associations and federations in Turkey and Germany. Although Alevis are exposed to assimilation, discrimination and legal non-recognition as a religious community in Turkey, they are nevertheless officially recognised as a divergent faith from (Sunni) Muslims in some German states3 . As part of my thesis, I

3 The five states, namely Berlin, North Rhine Westphalia (NRW), Hesse, Baden Württemberg and Bavaria, accepted the applications for recognition of Alevis

discovered that the Alevi movement in Germany has endeavoured to develop its identity by combining religious, ethnic and national elements. Although Hurd (2008, 16) points out that "to define the boundaries of the secular and the religious is itself a political decision", I have observed that the Alevi identity constructed in Germany has become more secular and has developed in ways that lead to a multi-layered transformation of their identities through migration experiences and political and legal arrangements (Cosan Eke 2021).

Consequently, thanks to their efforts, Alevi associations in Europe have been strengthened, and they have transformed themselves from a social movement into a transnational community (Sökefeld 2008).

### **Conclusion**

Returning to my research question of whether I encountered any difficulties when doing my ethnographic research with a faith community, I can answer this question from two main perspectives. The first lies in the difficulties involved in doing research on religion itself, as it contains meanings, not only in terms of certain rules and practices, collective rituals and activities, but also in the personal and daily life routines of individuals. The meanings that this belief produces are involved in people's interactions with one another, in the form of language, objects, practices, written sources and stories (Wuthnow 1994). Therefore, religion is a multi-faceted research phenomenon and a "too unstable category to be treated as an isolable entity" (Hurd, 2015). Furthermore, due to a religion's inherent fluidity and heterogeneity, it is difficult to generalise about a faith group (Menchick, 2017). According to the British anthropologist Simon Coleman, who focuses his research on global Christianity, religion is a particularly difficult subject for the field researcher to

as a belief community. Alevis in Hamburg (2012), Lower Saxony (2013) and Bremen (2014) signed an 'Equality of Rights Agreement' with these state governments, thus granting them important rights and providing the community with legal status.

handle, partly because of its non-empirical nature and partly because of the "rational assumptions of most social sciences" (2002b: 77). It is difficult to deal with the theological frameworks of faith because the theological background of faith, as a form of spiritual discipline, is not an area of in-depth knowledge enjoyed by all people within that faith.These difficulties in defining faith, especially the theological narrative, may be a compelling reason for analysing field notes.

In this regard, the conceptualisation of religion consists of seven dimensions developed by Ninian Smart (Smart, 1998, 1999), which help the researcher gain insights into the fuzziness of religion and shape their field notes.These dimensions are narrative/mythological, doctrinal, ethical,institutional,material, ritual and experiential.The narrative dimension refers to the historical stories of a religion, communicated either orally or in written form. The doctrinal element refers to the philosophical nature of the religion, such as the nature of God. Next, the ethical dimension means the rules or laws of a religion. The institutional dimension includes the organisation of a religious community, for example within a church, a mosque or a temple.The material dimension refers to specific places that are important to a religion, whilst the ritual dimension concerns specific practices, such as prayer and meditation. Finally, the experiential dimension means strong emotional experiences generated by rituals (Smart, 1999).

Another difficulty relates to the position of the researcherin the field. At the beginning of my research, I did not have to put in much effort to be accepted locally, because most of the people involved in the research trusted me once they knew that I was an Alevi. However, I have not had the same migration experiences as the majority of Alevis living in Germany because the vast majority of the group I focused on in my fieldwork were Alevi immigrants from Turkey who had immigrated to Germany after the Bilateral Labour Recruitment Agreement in 1961 (Steinert 2014; Kolinsky 1996; Abadan-Unat 2011) 4 or were born and raised in Germany

4 After World War II, there was a major labour shortage in Germany and high unemployment in southern European countries, including Turkey. The German government signed bilateral labour recruitment agreements with Italy

and had little or no personal life experience in Turkey. In terms of migration history, I can also define my position as that of a partial outsider to the research group.

Performing religious ethnography as an insider might make it seem that one is more competent in understanding a religious group and their experiences more deeply and authentically (Stringer, 2002 in Ganiel & Mitchell, 2006). Therefore, my research participants had high expectations fromme andmy work, especiallyin terms of Alevi theology, history, political and sociological knowledge.

As far as I am concerned, my insider position gave me a chance to gain access to the group, albeit this insider position as an Alevi was at the same time an outsider position, namely that of a researcher doing fieldwork. It was mostly difficult for me to live up to the expectations of the participants as an insider researcher because my position was not aligned with the migration process or the economic and social status of the participants. As a result, I decided to focus my research on participant observation and in-depth interviews as an outsider. At the end of my research, I noticed that the multiple identities involved in field research provide an opportunity for comprehensive perspectives. As claimed by Wilcox:

Many permutations of partial insider, totally inside and totally outside identities among researchers offer us a range of perspectives on the same phenomenon (2002:51).

Although the analysis of the researcher's position in fieldwork is complex, they are simultaneously an insider *and* an outsider, though the

(1955), Spain, Greece (1960), Turkey (1961), Morocco (1963), Portugal (1964), Tunisia (1965), and Yugoslavia (1968). More information: Steinert, Johannes-Dieter.2014. "Migration and Migration Policy: West Germany and the Recruitment of Foreign Labour", 1945–61. Journal of Contemporary History. Volume 49, Issue 1. Kolinsky, Eva. 1996. "Non-German Minorities in German Society" in Horrocks, David & Kolinsky, Eva (eds). Turkish Culture in German Society Today. Oxford: Berghahn Books. Abadan-Unat, Nermin. 2011. Turks in Europe: From Guest Worker to Transnational Citizen. New York & Oxford: Berghahn Books.

dichotomy can disappear in the same research. After a while, when they started to invite me to their religious and cultural activities, they knew that I was not only a believer, but also a researcher from a university. Generally, the people who participated in my research allowed me to record their religious services for my research, even though they felt somewhat uncomfortable with this arrangement, because they had been pressured in the past in Turkey. This is a prime example of combining my internal and external positions. As stated by Setlhabi (2014), members of other cultures become insiders by researching a social setting and sometimes by spending extended periods of time in the field; on the other hand, members of a culture become outsiders thanks to their position as researchers.

During my doctoral studies, Martin Sökefeld provided me with unique advice, backed up by his theoretical and methodological knowledge and critiques of my research, which would also apply to future studies. Indeed, one of the most important perspectives he gave me for ethnographic study with a belief group is that it is necessary to avoid categorically problematising, essentialising and fixing differences therein, since ethnographic research can offer a comprehensive and deep analysis that includes changes and transformations within the boundaries of social and cultural contexts, in which 'reality' itself is actively created by all interactions.

After a long period of ethnographic research, I argue that the paradigm emphasising the duality between outside and inside, or between observer and observed, can be used to describe the diverse and ever-changing position of a researcher. This fluid status has positive effects on gaining access to data and the acquisition of multi-layered information in the field (Narayan 1993; Caronia 2018). Religious identity especially can be grasped deeply in the context of debating multiple identities. As argued by Martin Sökefeld, identities shaped by personal experiences are never fixed, as they are always "under construction" (2008: 20). In this context, both the position of the researcher and the identity of faith groups formed in the context of migration processes are subject to such dynamic variability, and both should be assumed to be always 'under construction'.

### **References**

#### 132 Section Two: More-than Kinship

Reshaping the ethnography of religion, pp. 47–62, New York: New York University Press.

Wuthnow, Robert (1994): Producing the Sacred, Urbana: University of Illinois Press.

# **Family 'Opening' the Field**

From Ethnographic Odds to Ethnographic Teamwork

*Menahil Tahir*

### **Acknowledgements**

I want to extend my heartiest gratitude to my friend, who prefers to stay anonymous, for her feedback on the many different drafts of this chapter and for staying with me throughout the publication process. Here, I would also like to acknowledge the role of the editors of this Festschrift, without whose reviews this text would not have acquired its present form.

### **Family 'opening' the field: From ethnographic odds to ethnographic teamwork**

I had met Rubab1 multiple times in the café, where she worked long hours. We used to talk when there were no customers to deal with, but for a detailed conversation, we decided to meet at my house on her only day off, i.e., Sunday. The afternoon was cloudy and presented with no sunshine to enjoy, but she still chose to sit outside.

"Our house [in Afghanistan] also had a little garden like this," she remarked.

1 All names used in this text are pseudonyms, based on various Afghan musical instruments.

It was only when the evening dawned upon us and started to make us feel cold that we chose to go and sit inside.

Just before she was set to depart,my mother came into the room with a little present for her. It was a small jewellery item, thinking that Rubab would like it. Exhibiting her usual concern – with which I am not at all unfamiliar – my mother added a pack of chips and biscuits to the package, since Rubab had not taken much with tea and was leaving without having had dinner with us. This was something rather unimportant for me in that moment; however, it acquired a great deal of significance because of the emotional worth that became associated with it.

Rubab was the only one from her family who migrated to Pakistan, in December 2021, with a group of her colleagues from Afghanistan. Her family (parents and siblings) moved to Iran a few weeks after her own migration. In those few hours we talked, she mostly discussed her family, including the many crucial and grim times they had gone through. Her voice remained steady throughout. At times, though, she struggled to find words – not because she was overwhelmed with emotions, I felt, but because she was talking in a foreign language, namely English, despite being fluent in it.

However, the pack of chips was what forced the tears to flood from her eyes.Huggingmymother, she cried uncontrollably;mymother wept, too! I was there, sitting next to Rubab, not knowing what to do in such a situation and for the most part just being a silent observer.

"My mother used to bring this for me whenever she went outside, because she knew I really liked it!" Rubab expressed while still crying and holding that pack of chips in her hands.

My mother responded consolingly.

"You are always welcome here; come whenever you desire."

My mother reminded Rubab of her own mother. I had an idea this may be the case, because, more than once, she had stated, "You are very lucky; your mother is with you."

The discussion with Rubab left me wondering if my understanding of the 'field' and the people constituting it could ever be complete and entirely wholesome without my family in it!

This vignette presents a glimpse into what I had never expected of my fieldwork – the active engagement of my family in the field, and then the field site eventually coming to include my home in it. As Stars et al. (2001:76) rightly noted, "To bring fieldwork and family together is a joy, if a refined and nuanced one." My 'partial sightedness'2 served as the first and the foremost reason for my family getting involved in my ethnographic fieldwork. In their efforts to ensure that my impairment would not pose significant limitations and hinder the construction of ethnographic knowledge, my family played an active role throughout, thus enabling me to keep going, thanks to their multifaceted support in the field.

In ethnography, the field has been defined as "an almost random assemblage of sites that come into coherence through processes of fieldwork itself " (Ready 2009: 90) and "a thoroughly social network" (Middleton/Pradhan 2014: 363). In my ethnographic experience, my family significantly – if not equally – contributed to making and negotiating the field and in mobilising social networks. This subsequently opened new ethnographic possibilities for me, many of which I now intend to elucidate through this text.

### **Setting up the field**

Peshawar is the administrative capital of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province in the north-western part of Pakistan. With the aim of conducting ethnographic research with Afghans in Pakistan, I selected this city as the primary site for fieldwork, based on two premises. First, Peshawar was close to the Pak-Afghan border crossing at Torkham, and second, a considerable number of Afghans had been residing there for decades. Up to that point, most of the involvement I expected of my

2 The use of 'partial sightedness' here is only to make it clear for the readers and/or listeners, based on the general understanding of the term. But in fact, for me, it refers to my ability to see as many others do not, despite my inability to see as many others can.

family in my research was to mobilise their social network(s) and to find suitable accommodation. This is in line with what other female anthropologists, who were unmarried at the time they conducted the ethnography, have (briefly) dwelled upon by mentioning their fathers accompanying them to the field. For instance, Lila Abu-Lughod's (2016 [1986]) father, who himself was an Arab (though not a Bedouin), understood the culture and society well and was the one to introduce her to the Bedouin community in Egypt. Later, she realised that his presence ensured respect for her in that society as a result of being accompanied by male kin. Something similar was noted by Vandana Chaudhry (2017), whose father accompanied her on fieldwork in India, to help her make initial arrangements. Based on her experience, she opined:

I quickly realized that his presence in the field, even briefly, was commensurate with cultural norms of gender and familiarity. In the context of a patriarchal regional culture, having my father in the field established social boundaries of propriety and provided security for me to conduct my research (2017: 74).

In addition, I also sought the support of my family in finding a dependable companion for the fieldwork, keeping in view my personal limitations – based on my 'partial sightedness' – and the associated potential challenges related to orientation, navigation, and safe mobility in an unfamiliar space.

My initial plan was to stay for a couple of weeks with my family in Rawalpindi before starting fieldwork in Peshawar. All was set, but almost nothing went according to plan. Just a day after I landed in Pakistan, a suicide bomb explosion in a mosque in Peshawar during the Friday prayer on March 4, 2022, claimed over fifty-five lives and injured more than 190 worshippers. This was one of the first steps in taking me away from Peshawar. There is a history of police harassment towards Afghan refugees following terrorist incidents, particularly after the massacre in the Army Public School (APS) in Peshawar in 2014 (cf. Human Rights Watch 2015).

Considering that the number of undocumented Afghans residing in Pakistan had increased significantly after the Taliban came into power in August 2021 (Voice of America 2021; UNHCR Pakistan 2022), local informants told me that areas hosting a greater number of Afghans were under increased surveillance. Subsequently, I expected that doing ethnographic fieldwork in Peshawar might not turn out to be as productive as I had previously hoped, keeping in view the heightened insecurities and concerns of my prospective interlocutors. Simultaneously, during the first few weeks in the Twin Cities of Rawalpindi and Islamabad, where I intended to conduct only a few meetings with some official sources, I realised that the Afghan population had increased significantly,3 as evidenced by their discernible presence in public places such as markets and parks. Despite not giving up hope for fieldwork in Peshawar, I actively started to explore the Twin Cities as the field site which allowed my family to become part of my fieldwork and the field also came to include my home in it.

### **Navigating the field with my parents**

Both of my parents had already retired from service when I began my fieldwork in March 2022, and so they were readily available to facilitate me in my research. My father, a doctor by profession, worked in one of the biggest public hospitals in Rawalpindi for most of his career. My mother, on the other hand, primarily worked as a public education administrator. As such, both had a wide range of experience when it came to meeting people from all strata of society. Their involvement in my fieldwork was neither planned nor sudden; it was progressive. It

3 More than 73,000 individuals had been registered by the Society for Human Rights and Prisoners Aid (SHARP) office Islamabad by March 16, 2022 (number disclosed in personal communication), which is responsible for the reception of asylum seekers in the capital city and its adjoining/neighbouring areas/cities. See also, *UNHCR Operational Data Portal, "Afghans in Iran and Pakistan"* for updated data on Afghans in Pakistan.

began due to my mother's protective nature and her repeated concerns "*mujhay tasalli nahin hoti*" (I don't feel satisfied), followed by their somewhat evident motivation to address the practical challenges in the field so that my ethnography would not become a "broken" one characterised, according to Randol Contreras (2019: 2), by setbacks and obstacles, "or one that seemed impossible to finish – or get off the ground".

Trying to keep (field)work and family apart, I exhibited much reluctance in the beginning. During the initial months, with a few exceptions, it was only my father who often became a part of my research, as I usually went with him to meet my research partners. Despite my utmost longing, however, I could not be the 'lone ethnographer' and was to rely on another individual for safe navigation of the field. This led me to having a general feeling that I was received differently when accompanied by a non-related assistant4 and when with any of my family members. Whether it was the intimacy of the relationship (i.e., a daughter accompanied by her parents) or their credentials that influenced behaviours, I was welcomed more warmly, respected and readily trusted when accompanied by one or both of my parents.

Many ethnographers, in addition to dwelling on the positives of going into the field with family – especially children – have also brought into the discussion a number of complications, such as lodging, logistics, caregiving and dealing with the tantrums and moods of children (cf. Starrs et al. 2001; Stobart 2020; Johnston 2015). Contrastingly, I found it convenient and less challenging, primarily because I was accompanied, in most cases, by one or both of my parents, who not only ensured my security and safety, but also made the environment light and open, owing to their amicable and sociable natures. Starting with the spirit of support, it became a matter of companionship – and clearly the field would not have opened the way it did for me if it were not for my parents.

4 In my research, non-related assistant refers to any individual who offered help to navigate the field, mostly by accompanying me to interviews, outside of my parents and sisters.

### **From reluctance to acceptance**

During the first week of my fieldwork, in March 2022, I met Tambur, an official of a non-governmental organisation (NGO) that is also one of the implementation partners of the United Nations Refugee Agency (UN-HCR) in Pakistan. Starting with a warm reception to leaving the office with a souvenir (a mug with the organisation's logo on it), the meeting of over an hour (in which my father also accompanied me) was very revealing for me. Largely remaining focused on the topic, it was only towards the end of the meeting that I no longer remained his addressee. He had assigned that role tomy father, telling him about his parents, particularly his mother, and their role in his life, also in the form of their dreams for him and their prayers that kept him motivated to achieve those dreams. "He would not have shared this if you had not have been there," was my remark to my father on the way back home – an opinion he also supported.

It was only in June 2022, at an event organised by UNHCR on World Refugee Day, that I met Tambur again – this time, with both my parents. Quite interestingly, he shared the same information about his parents with my mother. "You are very lucky that both your parents are here with you," was one of the few sentences Tambur said directly to me. Having lost both his parents at an incredibly early age, he was referring to the support that my parents had extended to me to realise my research. I had so far been hesitant towards my parents accompanying me, particularly in formal settings, but it was from this point on that I settled on seeking no other assistance, and they formally became my research companions.

### **Engaged presence: Enablers or influencers?**

My family became a valuable resource in establishing deeper relations in the field, fostering an environment that further enabled me to conduct my ethnographic fieldwork. I particularly owe my mother's presence extensive credit for allowing and aiding me to develop more accomplished relations in the field. Having met Ghichak, along with his wife and children, multiple times in the protest being staged by the Afghan immigrantsin Islamabad,5 we decided to meet him at his house.He lived on the first floor, and the staircase had no railing on the side.  In relation to this statement, I had become his sister by the time we departed, and he clearly expressed this sentiment while bidding us farewell – and with that, he shook hands with me.6 In addition to addressing me as '*Menahil jaan*' (dear Menahil), he also started using the term '*khahar jaan*' (dear sister). From that day onwards, we maintained our fictive relationship, which owed its basis to my mother.

Correspondingly,it became very usual for my interlocutors to ask me about my parents, if they did not meet them with me, and resultantly asked me to convey their regards to them. The warmth and affection exhibited towards me by my family, also in the form of support, did not escape the notice of many of my interlocutors. Apart from the remarks such as "Your mother is very kind" and "Your father loves you a lot," their presence (including that of my sister), even if only for a few minutes, was sometimes enough to prompt a conversation about my research partners' loved ones, particularly those who were no longer with them.

In the café where Rubab worked, my sister accompanied me a few times to ensure that I arrived there without any trouble, following which she would leave and then return after a couple of hours for us to go back together. One day, while I was there, Tula, another of the staff members, asked me if my sister would be coming that day. When I informed her that she might arrive a bit later, Tula took a seat in front of me and started talking about her sisters in Afghanistan regarding their education and (unfulfilled) desires and dreams about their professions (one of

5 This protest, in front of the National Press Club, of the Afghan immigrants/ asylum seekers – most of whom migrated to Pakistan after the Taliban took charge of the country's affairs in August 2021 – started as a sit-in in April 2022, with the slogan "Kill Us". Over time, the protestors divided into three groups: 'Kill Us', 'Save Us' and the 'Hazara Asylum Seekers'.

6 This came as a bit of a surprise to me, as two unrelated individuals of different genders, culturally, do not come into physical contact with one another.

them had the same profession as my sister). Although my sister was not there, she had a role to play in shaping our conversation and making Tula believe that I would understand her feelings for her sisters, with whom she shared a strong bond.

Going into the field with my family brought to the fore some aspects of my familial life, in addition to me being the researcher. Hence, having my family with me also contributed to an increased rapport without any conscious effort on my part. With most of my interlocutors, I had developed a reciprocal relationship whereby I was not the only one accessing personalinformation,as they also got to knowmy family andme.This resulted in reduced suspicion, increased trust and a greater willingness to have open, honest and comfortable conversations.This complements the views of Chaudhry (2017: 74), who has maintained that the socialisation at this level, where the ethnographer presents his or her familial being, has the potential to help gain "social legitimacy" and "cultural synergy", which was also evident in my interactions in the field. The multifarious roles that my family took on during the fieldwork all indicated one common aspect – their influence over the extent or depth of the emotional relationships I formed with my research partners. Additionally, in a way, they also sometimes guided the content of the discussions even without being present.

### **My perfect companions**

The engagement of my parents not only contributed to establishing a comfortable setting in which to conduct difficult conversations, but their socialisation skills and an immense pool of stories based on the people they knew proved to be an added advantage. This was further illustrated in May 2022, when I went for a short trip to Peshawar accompanied by my parents. I had already established some contacts through telephone or during my previous visits, but this trip was dedicated to Zirbaghali, an Afghan residing in the central part of the city. We had met him previously, during one of the visits in April, and also had *Iftaar*7 at his home with his family. Zirbaghali had agreed to introduce me to a few individuals in his Afghan network. The next day, he took us to his friend's place. His friend, Daap, was born in a refugee village in Pakistan but had stayed for a few years in Kabul (Afghanistan) for the sake of his degree in medicine, after which he returned to Pakistan in 2017.

The sitting room presented an amalgamation of Afghan and Pakistani styles – a couple of sofas and a centre table (the Pakistani element) in addition to floor cushions (the Afghan component) lining the opposite wall. My mother and I settled ourselves on one sofa while my father and Zirbaghali sat on the second, in a position perpendicular to ours. The host chose to go for the floor cushion in front of me and my mother, with Zirbaghali on his side of the sofa. Our conversation, after some time, shifted to his choice of profession, which was influenced by his brother, who had also been a doctor. When I probed into the use of the past tense in reference to his brother, he confided that he had been missing since 2005. My father, sitting next to Zirbaghali, heard him say something to Daap in a relatively muffled voice and in Pashto,8 after Daap mentioned his brother who went missing. Following his instinct, my father related an anecdote of one of his colleagues who went to Afghanistan to fight and was killed when a rocket hit him outside a cave.

This brief account was what made Daap comfortable enough to open up. He picked the conversation up from there and continued, talking about his brother who had gone with his wife to Afghanistan; both had, in fact, conducted suicide blasts targeting foreigners. He also shared details about the date and location of the blasts as well as the number of casualties and their nationalities. It took me a couple of minutes to recover from the shock of the information shared.Meanwhile,my mother, out of sheer curiosity, asked a couple of questions regarding his brother's family, not only leading the conversation, but also giving me ample time to

7 Iftar is the fast-breaking evening meal of Muslims especially during the month of Ramadan.

8 The conversation was otherwise carried out in Urdu. I have only a basic knowledge of Pashto; my parents do not.

recompose my thoughts. This vignette provides an insight into how my parents turned out to be my perfect companions in the field, complementing my (in)abilities with their exposure, experience and amiability.

### **(Supporting) 'sight' at my side**

Planning my field activities with my parents not only made it all much simpler, but also gave me an added sense of security and comfort. Furthermore, through them, I gained access to supplementary '(eye)sight' to complement mine.This also facilitated me in 'looking' for familiar faces, especially in larger groups, as my parents (owing to their sustained engagement) started to recognise them all, and vice versa. In March 2023, an educational institution for the Afghan community, founded by a couple of Afghanimmigrants, celebratedits first anniversary,in which I participated with my mother.The event, organised on a rooftop, had a gathering much larger than I expected.My mother,in this setting, played two crucial roles: first, by identifying the individuals we were meeting as well as pointing out who else was present there from the ones we knew,9 and second, helping me make sense of the happenings around us through her 'running commentary'.10 Consequently, it was through her that I got to know the details, including the type of (traditional) dresses (and jewellery) the participants wore and the performances on the stage.

This 'running commentary', or verbal description, was not limited to special occasions. Instead, my family members also lent me their eyes to make sense of the visual content (such as photos and/or videos) shared with me or else shown to me by my interlocutors.These ranged from the pictures of their houses in Afghanistan to photographic evidence of the physical torture that some of them had experienced before coming to Pakistan.

9 It is challenging for me to recognise individuals in large gatherings, with noise as an added factor contributing to this difficulty.

10 This is a habit my family members subconsciously developed over time, benefitting me immensely.

From May to July 2022, I paid frequent visits to the Afghan immigrants' protest site(s) in front of the National Press Club in Islamabad.11 With the exception of the first few visits, I was always accompanied by both my parents. Being the only Pakistanis visiting the protest site rather frequently, we started to receive a warm welcome, with hospitality extended in every possible manner.12 As my mother always remained by my side, her 'running commentary' explained most of what was going on around us. It became a routine that our way back home (not only from the protest but everywhere) turned into a debriefing session, with either or both of my parents sharing their part of the story with my insertions in between.

Admittedly, the 'running commentary', as well as the sharing of information afterwards, served as an important part of my data collection process.This primary data from fieldwork,mostly based on visual observations, took the form of secondary data for me, as it was perceived by eyes and processed by a mind other than mine before it made its way to me.This complicated the dynamics of me being the participant observer in my ethnographic study. My parents, who often assumed the activities that any fieldworker would undertake, were not intentionally being participant observers. Instead, my fieldwork served as an episode in their personal lives whereby they were simply accompanying their daughter in the field.

### **Blurring distinctions: Fieldwork or family time?**

Where relationships extended also to my family, it became even more difficult to draw a distinction between the private and the professional. Introduced to them through fieldwork, from having meals to celebrating (cultural) events together, I became entangled in the conundrum

11 One of the groups (mentioned in footnote 5) moved to a different place for almost a month in between.

12 We were offered drinks (including water), watermelon and boiled eggs, depending on availability.

of whether to record conversations and observations in fieldnotes or to keep them as part of my personal life, as those moments were not shared with me as an ethnographer but were rather family oriented. For instance, I experienced this on the day following Shab-e-Yalda (the longest night), i.e., 22 December, 2022. Ghichak, who had been living with his family in Pakistan for over ten months by then, shared a song in Persian related to the festivities of *Shab-e-Yaldah*. Following this, he invited us (my family) to have dinner at his house. I had not met him and his family for the previous several months, as I had been in Germany. I deliberately chose not to take fieldnotes of this occasion, considering it solely an interaction between two families. However, I did talk to Ghichak about some points later that had been brought up in our meeting that evening – ensuring I did not miss something significant in my research because of the entanglement of the (field)work and family.

Unlike the aforementioned interaction, when I decided to keep it private, the gathering of friends to celebrate Nowruz (the New Day) did make its way into my ethnographic data. Nowruz is celebrated on March 21 to mark the Persian New Year. In 2022, it fell on a Monday, a working day in Pakistan.Therefore, a group of Afghans had decided to gather in a public park on Sunday to celebrate the day in advance. Mangey, who also partly assisted me in the first couple of months of my fieldwork, being one of them, invited me (with family) to the gathering that evening. As I was only a week into my fieldwork, I found it a good opportunity to get introduced to his acquaintances, with whom I could arrange individual meetings later.

This group of Afghans was diverse in composition, ranging from those born to refugee parents in Pakistan to others having arrived in the country only a couple of weeks prior to our meeting. It also included Afghans visiting Pakistan for the first time, in addition to the multiple crossers, i.e., those who had lived (as refugees) in Pakistan before, returned to Afghanistan and then travelled back to Pakistan in 2021. Greatly intrigued by the diversity and richness of their experiences, I was on my toes all the time, so as not to miss anything or any conversation going on with or around me. It was only after dinner that I became more actively engaged in the festivities, in which my family (parents

and sister) had been involved from the beginning. My parents, being the oldest at the gathering, enjoyed special status and were referred to as '*hamaray mehmaan*' (our guests). Though Mangey was the one who had invited us, the whole gathering extended immense hospitality, trying their utmost to ensure that no one was left unaccompanied or unattended.

In addition to this celebration, which turned out to be a recreational activity for my family, a couple of trips to Peshawar in April 2022 also turned into a family vacation. They were planned especially for weekends so that my sister could also join us. It was not only the family that travelled together, but also Mangey, who had arranged the meetings in Peshawar. Going with my mother and sister was particularly beneficial, as they could accompany me inside the house, where male and female guests were hosted separately. Also, the usual 'running commentary' of my family members – including reading sign boards, picking out the names of shops and scripts on any passing vehicle and commenting on whatever they thought might be interesting – always made any form of travel much more enjoyable for me.

Taking the Grand Trunk (GT) Road for our trips, this commentary made the presence of Afghans very evident as soon as we entered the territory of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province. Starting from Nowshehra to Peshawar, the names of 'driver hotels' and restaurants increasingly depicted an Afghan element in them, primarily through the use of 'Kabul' in their names. From eating Mantoo (from the place recommended by the locally residing Afghans) to having the typical Afghan *Jalaibi* (much different from the usual Pakistani style ones) in Board Bazaar Peshawar, and then also having *Iftaar* in an Afghan restaurant on the way back, all were made possible solely because of arranging it as a family trip. It was moments such as these that added an extra flavour to the ethnographic experience, making it more memorable while at the same time contributing to the increased indistinctness between the fieldwork and family time.

### **Remaining situated in the field**

The increased presence of my family during fieldwork, aligned with the fostering of family ties, had a few expected as well as surprising outcomes. Many of my research partners struggled with language and communication-related issues during their initial few months in Pakistan, and the lack of valid travel documents further compounded their troubles. These issues also aggravated their access to free medical facilities provided by the government in Pakistan. Since my father had maintained contacts at the hospital he previously worked at, which was also in close proximity to many of my research partners, it not only presented us with opportunities to express solidarity, but it also became a means of extending relations with them. In many cases, they directly contacted my father, who always tried his utmost to facilitate them. As my father made himself available in case of any need – even when I was not there – he also became a reason for them to cooperate with me.

Upon my return to Pakistan for the second phase of my fieldwork, after around five months, one of my research partners – after affirming his support – remarked, "Do pass on my *salaam* (regards) to Uncle (referring to my father); your dad is such a gentleman!" Hence, the fieldwork resulted in me as well as my family making friends in the field; a few of them even became Facebook friends with my father. After almost a year since I began my fieldwork, it came as no surprise when my father received a message from one of my research partners to inquire about our safety after an earthquake hit Afghanistan and Pakistan on March 21, 2023. From receiving greetings on special occasions, such as Eid, to hosting people (with or without family), originally known through my ethnographic fieldwork, in our home, even in my absence, this clearly indicated the formation and sustenance of 'family' ties in the field. Korpela et al. (2016) highlighted the same when stating that, for accompanying family members, these relations (in the field) are not associated with any (field)work but form part of their private/social lives.

Having my home in the same city, namely Rawalpindi, meant that my family was situated in the field without having to exit it, even when I had to do so via a return flight to Germany. This further contributed to strengthening certain relationsin the field. For some,who had either lost their intimate relations or were away from them, my parents, especially my mother, were much-desired company. For instance, Dahina, who lost her mother in the suicide bomb blast at the Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul in August 2021 (which claimed more than 180 lives and injured more than 150 individuals), asked my mother to continue visiting her even after my return. Hence, even when I left the field, my family remained in situ. As a result, I came to realise that the presence of my family in the field played an added role in sustaining relations with my interlocutors.

### **Concluding remarks**

I cannot agree more with Starrs et al. (2001:74), who maintained that "Fieldwork with family invokes a whole range of experiences". These experiences are not only limited to the fieldworker, but also extend to family members. This text, nevertheless, only presents my voice and sheds light on my thoughts and reflections as an ethnographic fieldworker accompanied, for the most part, by her family in the field. In attempting to engage in the discussion on mitigating the practical and methodological challenges during my fieldwork, I also acknowledge the fortuitous yet significant role of my family, particularly my parents, in producing ethnographic knowledge, which is, nevertheless, not free from their influence.

Presenting a reflexive account of our ethnographic teamwork, I dwell on how the field was co-constituted by me and my family. My 'partial sightedness'is what resulted in their involvement, and paradoxically this sameimpairment opened up new avenues forme to explore. Perhaps this appears as an ethnographic odd, but I share my methodological experience as a researcher with a relatively different set of (in)abilities, which ultimately led me to explore ways to not 'see' my personal limitations as hurdles but to transform them into creative opportunities. My family contributed to the relationships I established in the field by fostering trust, comfort and openness which subsequently influenced the quality of the information shared and the time spent together with my research partners. Hence, I maintain that it was largely my family, my parents in particular, that brought the field into existence for me.

### **References**

# **Giving Up the Field** When Friendships Outweigh Scholarship

### *Stephen Lyon*

Earning the trust of people in a community, and particularly in specific families, is time-consuming and imposes obligations on all parties. In ethnographic research based on long-term participant observation over several years, the relationships that develop invariably veer into a host of different forms. Not all of them become close or affectionate, but as with our natal family relationships, there are levels of intimacy that affect people across the entire network. I carried out field research in a Punjabi village in 1998 and have continued to visit this community on a semi-regular basis ever since. It took years to work through locals' expectations of how guests must be treated and how unrelated men could interact with local women. After more than a decade, I felt rewarded with a 'goldmine' of anthropological access. I worked with a handful of households in a community that was ostensibly very closed to outsiders but who had nonetheless generously opened their doors to me. It was at this point, however, that I began to realise there was a new barrier to my research ambitions. Although I now had privileged access to several households, documenting and reporting on their private details was tantamount to a betrayal of the people I had come to love and think of as my own family. On the one hand, I was in a much better position to understand the ethnographic phenomena that are the bread and butter of anthropology, but on the other hand, publishing ethnographic accounts from my 'primary' field site could hurt people. Like Martin Sökefeld, I believe I have come to prioritise the research that might be the most beneficial for the people I have come to care about, rather than ruthlessly, in

my view, pursuing the research questions that might be the most compelling to me personally.Ultimately, I am not convinced that my research contribution will be less significant, but I am aware there is knowledge that will never be shared with wider audiences – and that is not something I would have predicted would be part of my scholarly legacy. To be clear,itis unlikely that the people with whom I have worked will ever read my publications in particularly large numbers, but details about human weakness and mistakes can be used to undermine the reputations of individuals and households. To disguise identities whilst divulging private information would invite speculation that could wind up being directed at anyone.The last thing I want is for my work to become fodder for baseless accusations that could damage someone's standing in their community.

### **Best laid plans…**

Anthropological research rightly encompasses scientific approaches, and it should be empirical, rigorous and, above all else, honest. I have taught multiple cohorts of students to think carefully about their research design before they commence fieldwork. I make them read methodological discussions in the discipline from the days of armchair anthropology, the early field working anthropologists, the challengers to paradigmatic unity following the Second World War and, of course, the heady days of Marxist and Feminist anthropology in the 1970s and the nod to literary approaches of the 1980s and 1990s.The fragmentation of methods has mirrored the breaking up of theoretical approaches in the discipline throughout this time. Some of this fragmentation has unquestionably been positive for the discipline, but it has resulted in an academic field that often appears in disarray and as if it cannot agree on its own boundaries or priorities. My aim in this chapter is not to lament the loss of an anthropological paradigm but rather to offer a brief description of my personal journey, from intellectual certainty to the shifting sands of a scholar who has had to prioritise people's wellbeing over some research aspirations.

My journey maps on to some of the decisions that Martin Sökefeld has made in his career. Like me, Martin's anthropological studies were conducted in the shadow of Writing Cultures (Clifford and Marcus 1986). We were both trained in Europe, but the differences between Anglophone UK traditions and those of Germany may have affected some of our decisions.

My doctoral fieldwork began in early 1998, when I arrived in a Punjabi village to understand local farming practices. I had a clear agenda that included participating directly in farmers' tasks. I wanted to till soil, join in with the routine maintenance activities of farm equipment as far as possible, sow seeds, engage in weeding and harvesting activities and then tag along when the crops went to market. My aim was to learn local dialects and hang out with the people who actually worked on the land. I had little interest in the powerful landowners, but of course, I understood that I would never be granted permission to carry out any research without their consent and support. So, my introduction to the 'village' was actually to the landowning households.My first visit was in the company of extension workers and agricultural scientists working for an international NGO and the national Agricultural Research Center. As a result of the specific entrée into the village, I wound up interacting with the peasant farmers associated with the household that first welcomed me.

I had lived in Pakistan before, so I knew the significance of hospitality; as a guest, I would not immediately be allowed to engage in work that made me tired and got my hands dirty, but I was confident that I would eventually work past the constraints of hospitality and become someone more useful to my new neighbours. Following those initial visits to the village in early 1998, I returned to the UK and created a detailed research plan to cover not only twelve months of fieldwork, but also the writing up and publishing parts of the process that followed. I therefore arrived in the autumn of 1998, fully armed with a detailed, week-by-week research plan to learn as much as I could about local farming practices, social organisation and economic patterns.

It will come as no surprise that very little of my elaborated research plan survived beyond the first few weeks. I continued to try to force bits of the plan back into my daily activities, but the resilience and determination of the local community proved far more effective than my will. In the end, I had to write a very different doctoral thesis, and my research questions were completely derailed to match the observable priorities of the landowning households. The capacity, and indeed the necessity, to adapt to local priorities is perhaps one of the more common features of ethnographic fieldwork.

The reality of my straitjacket came home to me in a number of visceral ways throughout that doctoral research period. Forinstance,on one occasion, I was hanging out with some local peasant farmers who were cutting fodder with a hand scythe. I squatted down and used the hand scythe to imitate them. I was doing an okay job, though clearly not as efficiently or as elegantly as the people around me. They found this very amusing and were happy to let me carry on for about 10 minutes. As I started to really get into my stride, a car drove by on the nearby road, about 100 metres away. On seeing the car, the men immediately jumped into action and took the scythe away from me, manhandled me onto the *charpai* and shoved a cup of tea into my hand. They frantically told me to relax and look like I was having fun.

I was a little taken aback and asked why I could not continue cutting fodder. They looked nervous and explained that the car belonged to people from a neighbouring village. They then went on to say that if those people reported to the landlords in our village that the European guest was being made to do manual labour, they would all be in a lot of trouble. I argued with them and said that it was my job – I was *supposed* to be doing manual labour. I told them, not for the first time, that I did not come from a rich family; part of my ancestry was Appalachian hillbillies who knew all about hard labour and surviving off the land. It will come as no surprise, however, that they were not persuaded.

I raised the matter with the landowners, who were equally unmoved. They reminded me that I was their guest, and they would never ask their guests to do manual labour. In one exchange that I now find amusing but which was frustrating at the time, I shouted at my best friend that he was interfering with my work. He shouted back that it was *his* village:

"The happiness of everyone in my village is *my* responsibility!" he shouted at me.

"You don't know what will make me happy!" I shouted back.

 *I* know better than you what will make you happy in *my* village!"

I learned so much from this man, but much of it was difficult and even sometimes infuriating. After the fact, though, I can look back with eternal gratitude. He did not let me do what I wanted to do, but he *did* help me understand his village and his culture *far*, *far* better than my carefully crafted research plan ever could have done.

### **Narratives and reputations…**