FIRST RELIGIOUS FIELD-WORK On popular Islam, highlands of northwestern Tunisia, 1968 Wim van Binsbergen |
1.*)
Scattered throughout the landscape
on the two hundred kilometer-long drive from Tunis to cAyn
Draham, I did indeed see the white domed shrines which, as
centres of the cult of saints, had played a major part in my
research planning back in Holland. If you are all set to study
the popular religion of North African peasants such a
confirmation is quite welcome when the long distance taxicab, in
which you are sitting crammed tight with five fellow students, is
driven headlong around hairpin bends from the open plains into
wooded country bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to the
surroundings of rural holiday resorts visited in childhood. The
cold fog turns into rain and we find ourselves amidst the hotels
and public buildings of yet another déjà-vu:
cAyn
Draham.
After having pored over foreign language publications on
socio-cultural phenomena far and near for three and a half years
with varying interest, without having done any empirical social
research as yet, and with mounting doubt that my training within
the field of anthropology was a suitable preparation for such
research (or for anything for that matter), I was at long last
allowed to take part in the research training-project which the
University of Amsterdam had organized in Northwestern Tunisia for
the past three years.
During a preparatory period of half a year the six prospective
participants had had ample opportunity, at weekly meetings, to
get acquainted with the team of four that would be in charge: an
experienced North Africanist; a younger lecturer whose brilliant,
virtually completed dissertation about India was merely proof to
us that he could not in any way be knowledgeable about North
Africa; and two assistants who had already gone through the North
African baptism of fire. We brushed up our French and discussed
some relevant general literature in that preparatory group, all
of which mistakenly confirmed our suspicion that there was hardly
any anthropological information available about the research
area. In those days our orientation was still quite
mono-disciplinary; one hardly searched for historical sources,
for instance. Neither did we receive any training in how to open
up and use bibliographies, archives, etc. Besides the lassitude
caused by the shots, doubts about what would be the best
equipment, and financial worries (the grant of the University
would turn out to barely cover half the costs), the fear preyed
on our minds that we were not able to prepare ourselves in the
best possible way for the research project neither in a
scientific respect, nor for the living conditions and the
expectations of the local population regarding our behaviour out
there. And so the physical and mental tribulations that would
afflict us with growing intensity once in Tunisia, as our India
expert kept emphasizing gleefully, already began in Holland.
Much time was spent in discussing these problems and in
convincing us (for a few hours) of the fact that they were truly
insoluble. The individualistic set-up that had been opted for, in
which each participant would be wholly responsible for his own
research, inevitably meant enormous uncertainty, and the pretense
of more effective preparation would not alter that anyway.
Unforeseen contingencies would occur up to the very last day in
the field. All of this did not, however, relieve us of our task
of writing up a detailed research proposal and once in the
field, that turned out to have been extremely useful.
The human aspect concerned us most of all. Accounts from the team
of supervisors and previous participants became so distorted in
our minds that during those last weeks before setting out for
Tunisia our future informants, and especially the interpreters
who had been recruited for us, had turned into double-dyed liars,
not to be trusted in anything, only after our money and
possessions from the first moment on, exceedingly unsavoury in
all their manifestations, and capable of lapsing, at any given
moment, into the acts of violence which had characterized the
highlands on the border between Tunisia and Algeria before the
colonial conquest (1881) and which had even been the
pretense offered for that conquest in the first place. The most
hideous rumours circulated, as amongst novices in seclusion, the
night before their initiation.
To top off the preparatory stage we were presented, shortly
before our departure, with an elaborate schedule of our
obligations regarding the reporting and processing of materials
after the field-work; whereas until then any possible results of
our research had been played down as unimportant.
Perhaps I was the only one who spent that final night in Holland
delirious and vomiting. Perhaps it had to do with those last
shots. At any rate, during my first intercontinental journey (at
that time still by car and ferry) to my first research location,
much of this anxiety had given way to a certain touristic?
excitement, followed by weariness and slight disappointment. The
initial accommodation did not exactly contribute to making the
anthropology students dream come true: a three-room
apartment (ugly and dreary as any comparable concrete building in
Holland) was to house the six participants and all of their
luggage for the first few weeks. Someone had been hired to do the
cooking and the cleaning. The supervisors stayed in a nearby
hotel.
2.
Gradually, in well-calculated
doses, Khumiriya and its inhabitants are set loose upon us. We
meet the first interpreters hailing from villages in the
vicinity: neat, intelligible and friendly. On two fascinating
walks around the best known sheikhdom (the smallest
administrative unit) the project leader opens our eyes to the
ecology of the mountain region and the ensuing socio-cultural
impact. No more enjoying the scenery: even the most magnificent
valleys turn into social/economic/political units bound by
nature, woodlands left intact indicate the absence of
springs (the land would have otherwise been cultivated),
the signs of erosion are not picturesque but tragic. The distance
of the tourist fades away and participant observation begins to
take its place.
Then it is time for our first independent exercise: groups of two
students and an interpreter are formed, to each map a section of
Hamraya, an extensive village about two and half miles from cAyn
Draham. Hasnáwi bin
Tahar, the eldest interpreter at thirty-nine, will work with
Tamsma and me in a part of Hamraya where he had lived the
previous year with one of our predecessors, Guus Hartong.
The interpreter steers us up against the mountain at a rapid
pace. At the edge of the forest we manage to take refuge, for
half an hour or so, in a lengthy discussion about the symbols to
be used on our map. The interpreter gets bored. Then the terrible
moment comes when we finally have to step into Khumiri village
society on our own responsibility. Tamsma takes it upon himself
to map the highest part of the village all by himself. Hasnawi
and I will focus on the lower compounds. Stumbling I follow the
interpreter into a farmyard, where he calls out to the invisible
occupants, and I frantically start to pace the area while taking
notes and avoiding the gazes of people appearing in a doorway. My
intention is to pretend that these lonely activities are very
absorbing and seem as a matter of course to me, but the feeling
that what I am doing is completely insane, in the eyes of the
onlookers as well as my own, keeps getting stronger. In the end I
find myself standing on a large jutting rock about sixty feet
from the farmyard, in a expert observer pose, but I seem to be
unable to create, on paper, a coherent pattern out of the tangle
of roads, paths, clusters of trees, huts, small plots of land,
the brooks down below and the wooded slopes in the distance. I
break into a cold sweat. See: even at the first, most simple,
attempt I give myself away, I am not an anthropologist at all and
will never be one...
Our India expert drops by and takes some of the tension away.
Tamsma returns, we are invited into a house and drink strong
sweet tea. Once the people stop being faceless it actually proves
to be possible to carry on a simple conversation through the
interpreter. Ignorance of what is considered polite here does not
immediately lead to catastrophes at all: interpreter and host
obligingly enlighten us. The name of Msjeyer
Monsieur Goos (Guus Hartong) is mentioned; as
brothers of Goos we are invited to
continue his friendly relationship with the residents. The spell
is broken. When we return the following day, making a map no
longer poses a problem.
Then it is time for collecting census data and genealogies in the
same village. Our interpreter is closely acquainted with the
inhabitants and has had ample experience with the Dutch
students weird interest in long deceased or migrated
relatives. And sure enough, to our great satisfaction our
informants dish up genuine and elaborate genealogies without any
problems. The most impressive sections of our textbooks thus come
within our reach. Because we have an easy time in gathering this
kind of information, and because we are so flabbergasted at
seeing it all work, we forget that these interviews are rather
tiresome for the people involved. And we are tongue-tied as soon
as the conversation takes a less standardized turn. The
informants are, however, very patient. And Hasnawi is very
talkative in our stead. One of the interlocutors (already we only
refer to them as our informants) starts telling about
the origin of his lineage and with bated breath we jot down our
first real myth.
Every day interviews are conducted
or processed. And at nightly meetings the Indologist (the North
Africanist has gone back to Holland for a short while),
extemporizing in a captivating manner, points out the
social-structural principles which can already be observed in our
modest material and informs us on various technical aspects of
the field-work: dealing with the interpreter, interview
techniques, ways of making notes, processing data systematically,
bookkeeping.
All of this proves a great stimulus to our enjoyment of the
analysis. We work hard and keep to strict timetables. We
continually seem to be in a hurry. A few participants come down
with a heavy case of research fever and keep on struggling with
lengthy genealogies till the early hours of the morning, tallying
up marital relationships. Why do their girl-friends have to be so
far away for so long...
The first letters from Holland are long in coming. And at night
it is bitterly cold in the student hostel, everyone has a cough.
Being in each others presence continuously, night and day,
starts getting on our nerves. There is hardly any co-operation or
exchange of information between the groups, as though conflicts
only remain suppressed by grace of that avoidance (a
classical concept in anthropology), or as though we are already
real anthropologists, protecting our own little area, our own
material. Our hesitant attempts to relax seem to be looked upon
with suspicion by the Indologist and his assistant; our only day
off in three weeks turns into an over-collective and
over-directed school outing to the ruins of Bulla Regia, an old
Roman city.
At the end of the last interview
day all the participants and interpreters walk across the
densely-forested slope to the VW-van that will bring us back to
cAyn Draham. Due to the local taboo on all reference to bodily
functions I have to lag behind unnoticed and the next thing I
know I have lost sight of the group. I follow the path down,
running where possible, but do not catch up with them. When I ask
a young boy if he has seen them, he of course does not understand
what I am saying and directs me further up the mountain. Soon
there are no more paths, I am walking through an overgrown
clearing. Lost. And at that moment I realize I have not been
alone for even one second in the past three weeks. Some of the
weight of having been compulsively preoccupied for months now
with the research and the preparation for it, is finally lifted
from my mind I am in a beautiful oak forest, a brook with
strange red foam flows alongside of me, there are nice little
birds. I relish the silence and delight in being a tourist once
again for just one moment.
But it is getting dark, I have no map or compass and think of the
enormous boars that allegedly roam these forests. In my
minds eye I see supervisors, participants, interpreters and
inhabitants of surrounding villages desperately searching through
the night, a disaster for the whole project. I call out. After a
while I hear the horn of the van being honked in the distance
below, and moving towards the sound I pretty quickly meet up with
the group again.
A beaming Hasnawi claims to have saved me: he was the only one to
notice that Msjeyer Weem was
not there when they were just on the point of driving off. He is
the interpreter assigned to me, who will live with me for three
months in a one-room house of fifteen square feet.
3.
My lodging had taken quite some
doing. Popular religion was seen as a painful symbol of the
backwardness of their country by the Tunisian authorities, since
it varied considerably from the formal, although at that time
rather elastic, Islam advocated by urban religious leaders. So my
research subject was delicate, and the supervisors had selected
an area for me to work on in a sheikhdom with which the project
had been on very good terms right from the start. Several
students had done field-work there in the previous years and the
population had found that research was nothing to be scared of.
The area designated to me consisted of two villages situated one
above the other on a mountain slope and separated by a stretch of
uncultivated land. The lower village was the location of a big
shrine dedicated to one of the most important regional saints,
Sidi Mhammad, from whom the settlement took its name. The upper
village was called Mayziya. Another participant in the research
project, Coen Beeker, had researched residence patterns in Sidi
Mhammad in 1966, building up excellent relations with the
inhabitants which he still maintained by sending letters and
parcels. As he had hardly paid any attention to Mayziya, it
seemed reasonable that I should focus on this village in
particular. A small house for me to live in had in fact been
found in Mayziya during the preparation stage, long before my
arrival. However, right before I was to take up my residence in
the village, it appeared that this dwelling had been deemed as
not impressive enough by the local branch of the Tunisian unitary
party which had proceeded to select a house for me on the edge of
Sidi Mhammad. By local standards it was indeed grand, with a
decent roof, a good lock on the door, a large yard, a clear view
of the major shrine of Sidi Mhammad (he turned out to have four
of them within a radius of two kilometers) and of the
Mediterranean, twelve kilometers away. The owner was left to
build a shelter for his family from faggots as best he could,
elsewhere on his property. This man turned out to be, of all
people, the person Beeker had particularly warned me about: I got
the most controversial figure in the village as a landlord,
someone who cared little for the traditional rules and who was
the only avowed antagonist of the local sheikh (not a religious
figure here, but rather a kind of mayor). Our Indologist could
not do anything about it either.
With other lodgings I undoubtedly would have produced different
results. Not so much on account of the disappointment of the
inhabitants of Mayziya (who would also have liked to receive
letters and parcels) or my landlords peripheral position in
the village, but rather because with him, his mother and his
brother (under quasi-kinship obligation to me because of their
proximity), I now proved to have some extremely intelligent
informants, who had intimate knowledge of popular religion and
were devoted participants in all the attending ritual activities.
My first weeks in the village were not half so bad as I had
expected. The accommodation and lack of conveniences were no
problem at all: there was not any gas, electricity or running
water of course, nor a toilet or a shower, but it was less
primitive all in all than any hike through the mountains in
Europe. That my informants were able to lead a complete life
without all the material achievements of my own society, and that
I could adapt myself to a fair degree to their situation, I found
almost edifying after a while. And besides, Hasnawi saw to it
that I had my cup of plain ordinary Dutch weak tea in the
mornings (it was his third year as interpreter for the research
project) a despicable beverage in Khumiriya where tea is
supposed be black, strong, syrupy and extremely sweet.
My landlord actually seemed quite sympathetic; although it did
get very much on my nerves that he had to closely observe in all
detail, the very first day, whatever I had to unpack in the way
of kitchen utensils, office equipment and provisions. His house
was decorated with colour photographs cut out from Paris
Match (which hardly anyone in the village
could read, though): a photo report of the coronation of the last
Shah of Persia, and a series of cheerful photographs of a girl
showing what one can do with camomile, prepared in various ways.
I gladly left them on the walls. They were a fitting preparation
for the bust improvement advertisements I was soon able to admire
in the major shrine of Sidi Mhammad, pinned up between the sacred
flags and votive candles, right above the tomb of the saint
himself.
My first scouts around the village and surroundings yielded a
wealth of fascinating information, because besides being a
European and (hopefully) a prospective anthropologist I was a
stupid city dweller to boot, without any knowledge whatsoever of
farming. Those nice green blades of grass that I enthusiastically
wrote home about, turned out to have developed into stalks of rye
and wheat after a few weeks. Everywhere I only met friendly
people. I made a speech in the local store-cum-mens
assembly, in which I held forth on the close ties that connected
me with Msjeyer Coon.
Everything I said was well-received, even when I told them
outright that I was interested in the local saints and their
veneration. They would help me with everything, and that is
exactly what happened.
As for the reaction of the population, I only experienced one
real anxious moment. On the morning of my second day in the
village an official of the local unemployment relief works (the
villagers main source of income) came along to my little
house to see Beekers mimeographed field-work report. The
pages which this much-feared official opened up to contained, to
my horror, tables with names of villagers and amounts of money:
an innocent statement of the amount of rent they would be willing
to pay if they should move to a newly constructed village, but
was not the official who naturally could not read Dutch
certain to misconstrue this as an indication that I was
here to serve a sinister, political end? And it was just these
kind of complications that the supervisors had explicitly warned
us about! I realized only years later that it was probably the
threat of association with a higher bureaucratic power which
these tables represented that prompted my visitor to beat a hasty
retreat.
Later that day I began the interviews. Pretty soon I got into the
habit of starting off each conversation with a new informant with
questions about census data and genealogies. In this way I could
find out about someones qualities as an informant in an
area where he or she could easily supply me with answers without
becoming insecure or suspicious. I had worked up these kind of
questions during the preparatory village survey and could keep
the conversation going even though I had hardly any sensible
questions to ask yet about religion. The informants got used to
the interview situation (in so far as still necessary after
Beeker) and to talking through an interpreter while I, as an
unexpected bonus, gained insight into the complicated kinship
structures. In the course of the research these proved to be more
and more relevant to my actual subject. Usually the genealogical
exercises developed into a more religion-orientated conversation
after about half an hour.
I resolutely forced myself to always walk around with my notebook
and to take notes, necessary or not, ridiculous or not. Within a
few days everybody had gotten so used to this that no more
attention was paid any more. Hopefully this cancelled out the
danger of my informants being able to tell by my occasional,
excited scribbling which spontaneous statements or actions roused
my interest, and this having too much of an influence on their
remarks and behaviour. At the same time it also provided me with
a concrete possibility of identifying with my researchers
role, which helped me to overcome a lot of diffidence.
I would continually stumble upon new aspects of the religion. I
explored the first of the dozens of shrines which I was to find
in my immediate research area. After one day I was already
allowed to witness a ritual slaughter and a sharing-out of meat
in honour of Sidi Mhammad. The high point of those first days was
a séance (I was to experience many more) during which the local
representative of the Qadiriya brotherhood, widespread throughout
the whole Islamic world, went into a trance accompanied by
singing and flute and drum music, and manipulated cactus leaves
with enormous spines. I was deeply moved by the experience. That
night I wrote in my journal: If I will be able to penetrate
into the conceptual world and the motives behind all this, my
stay here will have been worth-while. (It proved indeed to
be just that.) My lack of interview technique hampered me more
than the much-feared reticence of my informants. Even the women
turned out to be surprisingly approachable. It only took a couple
of weeks before our interviews with them apparently no longer
needed to be chaperoned by older men. After the first ten days I
was already under the impression completely unjustified of
course that I was beginning to somewhat comprehend my
subject.
In those same deceptively euphoric first weeks, however, my main
tool, my relationship with the interpreter, was almost
irreparably damaged.
4.
The dangers of getting into an
over-friendly and free relationship with ones interpreter
had been stressed to such an extent during the preparations in
Holland and cAyn Draham, that I eagerly in this respect it
was at least clear what I had to do applied the Western,
businesslike, virtually impersonal relationship model: He
is being paid comparatively well to do this job, and that is
that. I actually saw Hasnawi as a, needlessly complicated,
instrument to amend certain bothersome yet minor shortcomings in
my intercommunication with the informants: the mere fact that (in
spite of having studied Arabic) I neither understood their
dialect nor had a clue as to their customs and manners. I refused
to be aware of my total dependence on Hasnawi (though it had been
over-emphasized by the supervisors), not only in terms of the
language, but in fact at every step I took. And when he alluded
to it (overtly supported by the supervisors in his sense of being
utterly irreplaceable), I flew off the handle. I accused him,
occasionally in the presence of others, of not translating
everything that was being said. That he should be allowed to
decide for himself what was relevant enough to translate, never
entered my mind I did not realize that the conversations
we took part in, outside of the interviews, were generally of the
same silly and diffuse nature as conversations in the pub, the
launderette or the doctors waiting-room in Europe. We did
not come to any normal discussion about the organization of the
research (my research) or our stay. And so, at the same time as
the informants were seeming to me to be the most fascinating and
sympathetic people alive, an unbearable tension developed between
Hasnawi and myself which expressed itself numerous times a day in
peevish or quarrelsome remarks, alternated with irritated
silences.
And that despite the fact that the fellow was forced to abandon
his house and compound, cow and wife for a pittance to work
himself to the bone, apart from one day off a week, one and a
half hours walk away under the unsteady guidance of someone
young enough to be his son, and work, not only as a
translator (which is tiring enough) but also as a cook, cleaner,
informant, P.R.-man and singer-musician (a specialty of Hasnawi
which came in handy in the religious sphere). And, even more
importantly, where his culture demanded the most far-reaching
identification between people who work, eat, drink, sleep and
spend their spare time together, with a continuous exchange of
gifts and services, cordialities and confidences. He surely had
reason to complain, and that is exactly what he did in all tones
of voice.
My informants of course did not fail to notice the tensions and
several marginal characters from the village (among them my
landlord, i.e. my most important contact in the village next to
my interpreter), aspiring to the lucrative and seemingly cushy
job, came to defame Hasnawi when he was not there. I decided I
had to get rid of him as soon as possible. What use was he to me
anyway?
Fortunately our Indologist was able to intervene just in time.
His general anthropological insights, and the way in which he
applied them in his organizational contacts with the local
society, more than counterbalanced his lack of specific knowledge
about Khumiriya, as I began to realize. In a number of
heart-to-heart talks my shortcomings were made quite clear to me,
as well as the fact that I would have to get along with Hasnawi
anyway, as one was not allowed to change interpreter.
Now, over thirty years later, Hasnawis way of behaving and
his idiosyncratic French vocabulary continue to be standing
references, cryptic to others, in the family which I have since
raised. I still have terrifying dreams about him, and have
finally written the novel which details the story of our
collaboration; the interpreter comes off a lot better in it than
the young researcher.
5.
After several weeks I had quite
gotten over whatever initial exhilaration. The conflict with my
interpreter had taught me (at least that is what I read in it)
that field-work requires the researcher to be aware at all times
of his own actions and of the premises on which they are based,
and to perpetually keep track of how his presence influences the
relationships of the people around him. These are inhumanly
arduous demands, especially at the outset: when new impressions
so overwhelm the researcher that he can barely take any distance
from himself, can hardly predict how his behaviour will be
interpreted, and also cannot yet fully assess in which respects
the society he is researching allows him to be himself, to have
his own opinions and preferences, to say no when he
does not feel like doing something. Human life and living
together require a minimum of distance, knowledge, predictability
and routine. With these one has a grip on reality, and the
possibility of behaving spontaneously and being happy. I more or
less saw myself voluntarily deprived of these basic conditions
and placed in a kind of laboratory simulation of the genesis of
neuroses.
This had little to do with culture shock. Apart from the bloody
slaughter of sacrificial animals, Khumiri society failed to shock
me. The subject I had chosen to study had only confirmed my
position as outsider. Coming from a family utterly shattered by
kinship-based conflicts in a working-class neighbourhood of
Amsterdam I was not exactly handicapped by a love for the
dominant, bourgeois customs of my own European society
into which I had not been effectively initiated until I went to
grammar-school. As an adolescent I had had the same problems of
disorientation and despair with Dutch society that I now had with
these Khumiri peasants. Having just turned twenty-one I was
experiencing an accelerated second puberty, and it was even more
painful than the first time around.
If there was a lack of distance, this had nothing to do with
European society but with the professional expectations to which
I considered myself to be subjected. I only realized much later
that my self-imposed cramped defencelessness in the field was
mainly due to my inability to appreciate the relative nature of
the advice given by the supervisors. It was not my informants who
made exorbitant demands, it was me. I saw my field-work as a
Spartan learning strategy for humility, patience, improvisation
and living with insecurity. I felt I was continually dancing to
the tune of my interpreter and informants, and yet still doing
everything wrong.
Nothing went smoothly. My feverish attempts to discover and
adhere to certain rules of interaction did not, at this stage,
arise from respect or admiration for the society in which I found
myself. I merely wanted to get rid of that paralyzing insecurity.
Every word I uttered and every gesture I made, for weeks, was
consciously aimed not so much at getting information (which
gradually seemed to become less desirable to me) but above all at
making me acceptable in the eyes of my interpreter, informants
and the team in charge of the training-project. I derived
absolutely no satisfaction from my contacts in the village. I was
just playing at dealing with people, but it was a terribly
difficult and disagreeable game to me, and I constantly had the
desperate feeling of being incapable of ever achieving any real
contact with what was, after all, my immediate environment for
the duration of the field-work. This absence of intimacy and
spontaneity was all the more distressing because, except for the
few minutes each day when I washed or when nature called, I was
always surrounded by people. Even at night there was still the
bodily presence of Hasnawi, one meter away, snoring or calling
out in a nightmare; this instead of my girl-friend.
For several days I experienced a feeling of almost total
distress. I had completely lost my sense of motivation, the
results of my research seemed utterly worthless and meaningless.
By now I knew the local platitudes about religion by heart, but I
felt I had no real insight into the system. My interview
technique and my experience with analyzing conceptual systems
were as yet far too inadequate to draw out what was not exactly
unconscious, but rarely or never needed to put into words in
normal, day-to-day life, even for the most intelligent
informants. Instead of being an engaging interlocutor, I was at a
loss to bring up new subjects at crucial moments in the
conversations. I started to speak more and more with a stammer.
And as soon as an interview seemed to be going the right way, I
nevertheless irritated people (including my interpreter) through
my lack of understanding of the basic social codes of their
society, and my diffidence and inability to use their cultural
idiom. Citing examples from daily life in Khumiriya,
interspersing ones conversation with kinship terms, the
name of God and the Prophet, profusely wishing people good health
I did not yet know how to make use of all that. However
detrimental it was bound to be to the progress of my research, I
was really completely tongue-tied at times. My ears were ringing
with the loud voices in that still almost unintelligible Arabic
dialect, and I often could not see a thing in the dark huts, much
less recognize faces or make notes.
I just wandered aimlessly around the village with Hasnawi.
Occasionally my depressions were quite apparent even to my
informants. The heavy rains and the mail that failed to arrive
greatly contributed to my despair. More than once I toyed with
the thought of dropping the whole affair and flying back home at
the first opportunity. So I would not be an anthropologist. At
those instances little but the shame of being a failure in the
eyes of my friends and loved ones back home, kept me from running
away. Next came daydreams about horrible illnesses, real or
feigned if necessary, which could only be cured in a
well-equipped Dutch hospital and which would therefore swiftly
and without loss of face extricate me from my ordeal. Any falling
back on the supervisors was out of the question at that point in
time, as the Indologist had just gone back home and the North
Africanist had not yet returned from Holland.
The turning-point of this crisis remains in my memory as the most
important moment of my field-work. We had slept badly as usual
because of the enormous quantities of strong tea we were forced
to drink an important physiological factor in my distress.
After breakfast I listlessly followed Hasnawis suggestion
to make an interview in Mayziya that morning, where the eldest
informants of my research area lived. The forested stretch of
land between the two villages afforded ample opportunity for
reflection. At first I was once again seized with the panic of
the previous days, but after a few hundred steps I all of a
sudden decided, with a clarity of mind which I had not been
capable of since my arrival in the village, to keep a stiff upper
lip from now on and to make the sizable investment of time,
energy, frustration and money that my participation in the
research project had already cost me and others, pay off. Why was
that addition which I had made so often before without shaking
off my paralyzing depressions, now suddenly relevant? Maybe the
gentle spring rain reminded me of Holland. I had trudged up the
slope to Mayziya before, but this time leaving the strip of
forest behind and setting foot on the open fields of this other
village meant shedding all fear. Behind me spread the valley of
Sidi Mhammad in all its glory. The mountain range which bordered
it across the valley seemed to have receded further away and was
no longer threatening. I felt relaxed when we reached the
village. The interview was pleasant and interesting. I stopped
stammering. Food was served and we took the youngest son back
home with us to give him some sticking plaster for his cousin who
had been butted by a ram while we were there.
Some days later the supervisor of the project appeared in my
yard, wearing a parka and a woolen cap as if we were not in
Africa. He had braved the sharp-edged, newly cut stones of the
metalled roads, recently built by unemployment relief work, in
his basic Citroèn Dyane, in order to deliver my mail and take
out time for the long, intense scientific discussions which
repeated once every two weeks from that point on
were to be the backbone of my first field-work. The link with my
own world had been re-established, but I also could not have
wished for a better guide to the North African world. And he even
juggled with theories and generalizations, in that yard with a
view of the shrine of Sidi Mhammad and the distant Mediterranean,
as Hasnawi and my landlord looked on, whispering in awe.
6.
The main problem of field-work,
from a scientific point of view, is the enormous distance which
exists between the observations and statements the researcher is
confronted with on the one hand, and the generalizations about
this raw material he has to arrive at on the other
generalizations which moreover have to be relevant in the light
of some fundamental theory or other, abstracted from ethnography.
And it is already tough enough in the course of a research
training-project of several months, without thorough theoretical
or regional preparation and with no time to let everything sink
in now and then, to keep working towards something and not lose
track of ones goal.
By now, though, some aspects of the Khumiri material were no
longer new and strange to me. I was particularly struck by the
many similarities between Khumiri popular religion and the
Catholicism with which I had been brought up. In many respects
the basic concept of North African religion, baraka,
corresponds with the Roman Catholic concept of divine
grace. Many details of the cult of saints (the burning of
candles in niches in little white chapels, incense, prayer
postures, the eating of consecrated cakes) and some features of
the religious brotherhoods seemed very familiar to me. In part
this can be attributed to the diffusion of cultural elements:
both Islam and Christianity originate from the same Mediterranean
cultural area, Khumiri popular religion is partly rooted in
religious modes which are widespread throughout the Mediterranean
and much older than these world religions (so that baraka
e.g. corresponds with the Hebrew barukh),
and the inhabitants of North Africa and Southern Europe have
belonged to the same or closely related political units for most
of the past two thousand years. This parallelism had both
advantageous and disadvantageous implications for the research.
Because of my background I was perhaps able to penetrate more
quickly into some aspects of Khumiri religion than would have
been possible without my experience with, in form and history, a
kindred religion. But on the other hand it is quite likely that I
let myself be unduly influenced by my background, especially in
defining the conceptual content and in interpreting the phenomena
I encountered in a wider social context.
I had no doubts actually that at some time, later, behind my
faraway desk, I would be able to write a pretty decent report
about my research. But that was by no means my most important
incentive for working hard. When I was not engaging myself with
people, I was defenceless against the social and sexual
frustrations of the field-work situation. Which was one of the
reasons why I hardly ever got around to working out data or
taking naps in the afternoon: I just could not stick it. Another
factor was that Hasnawi could not stick it either: his main
assignment, as he saw it, was making interviews with me, and I
must not frustrate that assignment by working out notes or
sleeping! I became more and more fascinated with the ethnographic
data though and with my interaction in this society. As I
dug deeper into the world of my informants, I finally started to
enjoy each new step which brought me closer to an understanding
of increasingly more complicated situations and ideas. In the
field, with the living material almost too close for comfort
around me, and in the fruitful contact with experienced
researchers, I figured I was truly beginning to somewhat
comprehend what I had already been studying for several years:
human interaction, its complicated manifestations and
interrelationships, the tension between expectations and
evaluation from various sides, the place of relatively fixed
factors such as norms, collective representations and material
objects, conscious choices and such restrictions of choice as
were, unconsciously, imposed upon the informants by their social
environment. I was still a long way off from problems of power;
social change; the interplay between heterogeneous semantic,
social and economic systems within one field of interaction;
corporeality and self-reflection later to become the
predominant themes of my scholarly work but I nevertheless
was getting to feel like an anthropologist. It was the decade
when transactionalism was introduced into Dutch anthropology, and
in keeping with the times I was modishly disillusioned, in the
field, with a social science which in the main seemed to aim at
abstractions about enormous masses of people (and which applied
these abstractions with a tendency to reification), but appeared
to have no finely differentiated concepts that were of use in the
field, for the more or less inchoate, ephemeral micro phenomena
on the individual human interaction level however much
these micro phenomena were anthropologys main source of
material, and for the informants the very essence of their lives.
None the less, I could not avoid having to work towards macro
abstractions and in this the existing Grand Theory proved to be
much more of a support (thanks to the research plan I had drawn
up back in Holland and the talks with the supervisor) than I was
willing to admit. Studying theories of religion (especially those
of Émile Durkheim) had put me on the track of a number of
fundamental problems, particularly regarding societal
integration, the relationship between symbol and that which it
refers to, and the relationship between religious and
non-religious organizational structures. Although Durkheim
hitched his splendid generalizations (according to which each
society essentially worships itself in its religion) somewhat
unfortunately on to the distant and in those days ill-understood
Australian aborigines, there was nevertheless a direct connection
between those generalizations and the Mediterranean popular
religion I was studying through Robertson Smiths Religion
of the Semites (1889)
Durkheims main influence when writing his Les
formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse.
Transposed back into the Mediterranean region, the relevance of
those basic tenets (despite the limitations of Durkheims
idealism) became more and more clear to me in the field, and this
was very encouraging. Saints indeed proved to be direct symbols
of the kin groups and neighbourhoods which venerated them; groups
identified and differentiated themselves from others by erecting
their own shrines; the ascent and decline of shrines coincided
with the political and demographic rise and fall of local groups;
and even legends about saints I was gradually able to decode as
more or less historical statements about the settlement history
of various kin groups.
The eagerness with which I occasionally imagined seeing
affirmations of Durkheims theories around me, as embodied
in the ideas and interactions of my informants, was also of
course due to the pressure under which I lived. But I flattered
myself with the thought that the concrete, highly quantifiable
material I was collecting, would be solid enough to turn whatever
chimerical notions might have crept into my vision of Khumiri
religion, into verifiable scientific assertions, occasionally
with verifications and all. I especially relied upon my elaborate
card index system of data, hypotheses and ideas which I in the
end used to formulate a limited amount of concrete questions for
a successful systematic inquiry among all adult women of Sidi
Mhammad and Mayziya. I proudly worked towards what I then still
envisioned to be a scientific ideal: a conclusive statistical
analysis of miscellaneous forms of local religious behaviour
so that I would ultimately be able to predict with
certainty, for instance, for literally every female inhabitant of
Sidi Mhammad, which four or five of the many dozens of local
shrines she visited, and why; or so that I could trace those
factors of affluence, political power, order of birth and family
tradition that determined exactly which particular thirty percent
of the local men were to be recruited as ecstatic dancers within
the Islamic brotherhoods.
Now, of course, I can see that I opted for the mere surface of
religious phenomena; but it was a strategically correct choice
because I lacked both time and training for more in-depth
research and exploring the symbolic and deep-psychological
aspects of the cult of saints.
7.
After our initial clash Hasnawi
and I occasionally still had our problems. He had certain
definite ideas as to the desired procedure of things, based on
his experience with previous training-project participants, and I
could not always bring myself to conform. But I was now more
quickly aware of any hitches, and from the material handed to me
by Khumiri society (through my interpreter!) I was able to glean
strategies to obviate such friction. I got to know about a bit
about the complex, semiconscious methods by which people in
Khumiriya (as in every society) can satisfactorily comply with
the demands which close relationships impose on them and can none
the less keep pursuing their individual goals.
But not only was I becoming more aware of the roles played by my
interpreter, his initially completely disappointed expectations
regarding me and the possibilities at my disposal to manipulate
this field of forces. I also began to realize what tremendous
sacrifices he was making for my sake and in spite of his
incessant whining (about what an exemplary life he led, how
wicked some other people were especially other
interpreters -, how much I owed to him), his sometimes really
inexplicable moodiness, his nonplussing bustling about early in
the morning and his modest forms of blackmail, I really came to
value him a lot. He gradually managed to get me somewhat
accustomed to the local, rural rhythm of life, in which the time
around noon, and the evening, are not meant for work. Once this
principle had been accepted he put up with the fact that the
social musical evenings which we witnessed almost daily in the
village, invariably turned into work for us
and Hasnawi perhaps made his greatest contribution to the
research on those evenings while putting in double overtime as
both an interpreter and a singer-musician. He kept giving me
evermore detailed advice about how I could protect myself from
the continuous assaults on my health by natural and supernatural
forces and beings. And also on my part the now continually
vocalized concern for his health, part of the cultural idiom I
had picked up, no longer was just feigned civility.
Hasnawis influence on the course the research took was
considerable, even apart from his increasingly exemplary role
during the interviews and musical evenings. Just like me, he was
haunted with the fear of failure. Although he did not have to
pass any academic exams, he was scared to lose his well-paid
interpreter job for the following years, and to fail in the eyes
of his environment. We constantly had to work, and real work
exclusively meant making interviews, he thought. If I stayed home
in the daytime to work out notes he became restless and
insufferable, so we quickly set out for the village once again. I
often felt forced to comply with his wishes, also when it did not
seem of any use for an efficient and thorough gathering of
material. But I could afford a second crisis with my interpreter
even less than a day lost. Often his suggestions turned out to be
valuable, however. In this too my opportunism gradually gave way
to spontaneity. While I learned to rely more on Hasnawi, he
started taking a lot more pleasure in his work. After a while we
really worked together like brothers, as the
indigenous ideology stipulated.
The definitive victory in our relationship was when he (greatly
weakened in the last weeks of our work just as I was because of
bad water, lack of fresh vegetables and the nocturnal religious
and musical séances) did not any longer blame his ailments on
the hard work I made him do, but on the Evil Eye which certain of
our informants in a neighbouring village had cast upon him,
out of jealousy about his good position as an
interpreter!
But all my good will, or the advice of the supervisors, or
Hasnawis devotion, would not have accomplished anything if
my informants had not been so incredibly helpful and hospitable.
Once I had gotten rid of my initial crampedness? and fear, my
attempts to as much as possible be one of them, for the duration
of the project, were amply rewarded by my informants: with a
wealth of data of course, and that was exciting and instructive,
but even more important during those last few weeks was that I
felt at home in the village, having gratifying relationships with
dozens of people whose ideas and way of living no longer were
quite that alien to me and who in many ways even had become dear
to me. I could also carry on simple conversations now without my
interpreters help, their facial expressions and gestures
conveyed something to me, and sometimes I was even able to catch
their humour. Much to my surprise I now and then adopted their
prejudices and imagery.
But my heart sank, up till the very last days, each time when I
walked the few kilometers from the motor road to Sidi Mhammad,
after a short visit to cAyn
Draham for supplies and my regular vitamin-B shots to keep me
going.
It was a great pleasure to be allowed to take part in the
relaxation of my informants, especially as the music which was a
regular feature at those gatherings, greatly appealed to me.
Pleasure was combined with business, as love-songs were
lightheartedly alternated with sacred songs in honour of the
Prophet or to accompany the ecstatic dances in honour of the
local saints. I was thus able to take a relative view of at least
one of my Durkheimian premises: unlike the theory, my informants
by no means treated the supernatural with the utmost respect
which Durkheim, via various symbolical detours, presents as the
basis of societal order. If there was any dancing, I had to dance
along with them and was given directions as to how it was done.
What more effective way is there to get to understand the
symbolism of the ecstatic dances, which the people themselves for
the most part were no longer aware of. At first these dances took
place at peoples homes, in front of a small group of men,
but at the spring festival of Sidi Mhammad I had to dance for
half an hour, in honour of Him, with the best dancers from the
vicinity, while two hundred onlookers watched approvingly.
At a party I had a cordial letter to my girl-friend dictated to
me by the villages prominent men and women, with the
prediction that I would be so strong after all this
continence that a son would be born to us soon after my arrival,
at the intercession of their and my grandad Sidi
Mhammad. It turned out to be a daughter, but she did get a
Tunisian name. She visited the shrine while still in the womb and
there apparently was filled with baraka.
At another party I was joined in a mock-marriage with the
youngest daughter of uncle Salah: the climax of merry
deliberations about an effective way to present my girl-friend in
Holland with the fait accompli of a Khumiri co-wife, and
meanwhile provide my Khumiri father-in-law with three Dutch girls
who would have to be less closed than his own
middle-aged wife.
I eagerly, although at first somewhat over-zealously, ate and
drank everything that was offered to me. During the preparations
in Europe much attention has been paid to the social implications
of food, and the offering of food, as part of ones
field-work strategies. We were made well-aware of the Miss
Ophelia complex the white lady from Uncle
Toms Cabin who has the best of
intentions towards the darkies but shies at any
normal contact. I was convinced that with that food and drink I
also, almost tangibly, ingested the culture of and relationships
with those people. I usually was grateful for the hospitality and
lightheartedly took the risk of a TB infection or being infected
with one of the other terrible diseases which some of the
villagers suffered from. Through my unreserved eating behaviour I
indeed prepossessed people in my favour. And not to forget: a
great deal of the food was consecrated to a local saint, and by
eating it I entered into a relationship with this supernatural
being which has apparently been propitious for my work and later
life. In fact I have continued to consecrate meals of kouskous
and ritually pure meat to Sidi Mhammad in my home, once every few
months.
Besides all the large and small feasts we were almost daily
invited to dinner somewhere. The obligation of hospitality called
for an elaborate meal, with expensive meat, and consequently I
often had the feeling that the kindness shown to me by my hosts
had eaten up a whole weeks budget. By
organizing a few feasts myself I fortunately was able to do
something in return. It was not only neighbourly love, however,
which weighed upon me. In the form of dinner invitations to
Hasnawi and me, all sorts of rivalry was being settled, over our
heads, between my informants (belonging to different families,
kin groups, factions, neighbourhoods, village, clans, sheikhdoms)
and more than once it got us into problems. Although these
invitations resulted in fruitful situations for casual interviews
and observations, they were not always opportune: either because
we wanted to do something else; or because the intimate, almost
sacred bond which eating together creates in Khumiriya, seemed
undesirable to us with that particular host; or because we
already had had to stuff down a large meal elsewhere only an hour
before. Refusing food and drink that is offered to you is,
however, impossible in this region; and the host mercilessly
takes care that his guest wants for nothing. So we often overate
ourselves, an unusual but heavy sacrifice for science. When I
returned to Holland I was fat for the first (but not the last)
time in my life.
It was particularly satisfying to me when my landlord on one of
the last days, and in the presence of others at that, refused the
tea I offered him. This vicious attack transgression of
the same code which had forced me to reluctantly consume all
those loads of food and liters of boiled tea I was going
to riposte! It turned into a big argument which I participated in
with concealed irony and in which my landlord remained just a
sympathetic in my eyes as he had been before. Hasnawi and I
became the winning party, according to the local
rules of the game, that is by in the end presenting the landlord
with the field-work kit which he had (unjustifiedly) feared he
would not get when I left, and which was why he started the whole
row in the first place.
8.
Three weeks before my departure I
had progressed to the point that I could pierce through the
commonplaces about religion and was able to reach what lay
beneath the surface.
The method I had followed in the first weeks its
shortcomings had definitely been a factor in my distress
consisted in trying to elicit statements about indigenous
conceptions from my informants by asking as vaguely and
elliptically formulated questions as possible, and in noting down
the statements thus provoked as best I could without, however,
mentally absorbing them. In doing so their content slipped from
me right there and then: I did not bother to really try to
understand and use the system during the interviews, but hoped to
distil a correct and sound system from all those (seemingly)
conflicting statements by comparing them with each other once I
had returned to Holland. It was like mindlessly collecting
phrases and expressions among a group of native speakers, in
order to learn their language or reconstruct its structure after
coming back home, instead of trying to master that language on
the spot, in continuous contact with the speakers. It was a
superficial and unreliable method which caused irritation: much
to their despair informants were urged, for the first time in
their life, to give abstract general definitions of their
religious concepts, and were baffled when, during a subsequent
interview, it appeared that l still did not understand anything
at all.
With the help of the project supervisor I finally hit upon a
better approach. Informants usually were capable of giving an
indication of the limits of their conceptions what was
still considered baraka and what was not, for instance
even though they were not really able to define a concept in a
positive and abstract sense. Confronted with hypothetical cases
that were recognizable to them (thought up between the project
leader and myself), they were able to pursue an abstract line of
thought even though they could not spontaneously describe
to me the connections between various conceptions and activities.
From those parts of the complex of religious conceptions which I
thought I knew by now, I deduced statements about concrete
situations. The informants proved to be able to assess these
statements without difficulty, either as being correct and
inherent to the system, or as nonsense, and in this way my
insight into the system was constantly being tested and adjusted,
which enabled me to penetrate into evermore complicated
interrelated structures.
Hasnawi and I pursued our best informants for days with questions
about the specific forms of baraka which various fictitious
sacrifices to different local saints, in all sorts of situations
of ritual obligations and misfortune that we spun out with
relish, would yield to us, in various more or less convincingly
acted capacities of pater familias, village elder, female leader,
poor widow, a woman recently married into a family, a childless
woman of forty, etc. And at long last, with meaning looks of
mutual understanding, the informants gave us concrete answers
instead of the hermetic commonplaces of the first weeks.
The method worked, especially because Hasnawi and I were by now
well-attuned to each other in conducting interviews which made
people feel more at ease. Working with an interpreter hardly was
a handicap any longer. The connections that I had previously been
searching for with purposely vague questions, all at once became
clear to me, and my informants were visibly relieved that I
finally appeared to have some understanding and insight.
Although the relatively simple tracing of concrete facts from the
present and the past continued all through the last phase of my
research, I mainly focused on the values and conceptions behind
the facts. The result was fairly satisfactory, considering the
limited amount of time at my disposal.
9.
The fervour with which I had
initially searched for ways of getting a grip on my interpreter
and informants, in order to protect myself, equalled the disgust
I felt when I had discovered some of those ways towards the end
of my stay and was actually at times capable of manipulating
people. I felt like a hypocrite when my sweet-mouthed talk proved
to be able to get Hasnawi going again, even though he was
justifiably exhausted. But time pressed.
The villagers, too, began to reveal things they apparently would
have rather kept secret, thus enabling me to complete my most
important cases, such as that of the daughter of Mansur, a
penniless ecstatic dancer who lived out his life as a
share-cropper with the sheikhs family into which his sister
had married. Owing to a ritual transgression, the daughter had
come into conflict with a local saint (who naturally was still as
invisible as ever), which in her case expressed itself in acute
paralytic seizures. I already suspected that all this was a
reflection of a kinship conflict between her family of origin and
the family into which she had married, in Khadayríya, two
valleys off: she was alleged to have accidentally killed a cock,
which she had at first dedicated to Sidi Mhammad, in honour of a
local saint in Khadayriya... We had heard the rumour but wanted
to get this important piece of information straight from the
horses mouth. Several courtesy visits had only yielded
evasive answers. Finally we took the son of Mansurs sister
into our confidence, Jilani, a boy of my age. When he accompanied
us on our umpteenth courtesy call he made such a quasi-accidental
but irrevocable slip of the tongue in Mansurs disfavour
that Hasnawi was able to immediately thrust some directed
questions at the latter.
Till then I had conscientiously, and at the first indication,
respected the limits which the villagers set to the flow of
information. But it was evident that in their associations with
each other they also could overstep and manipulate these limits,
and I began to learn the rules that went with this
game. That my most important informants
contrary to all the accepted wisdom with regard to social
research in Islamic societies were women, and that I could
count all female inhabitants of both villages as my informants,
already showed how far one could go in this.
Although, after twenty years, I can still recall in detail the
landscape of Sidi Mhammad, the names of the people, their faces
and their social and kinship relations to one another, I have
since experienced other field-work in other cultures much more
intensely, or at least with a more conscious, personal and
radical commitment on my part. In Sidi Mhammad I hardly
overstepped any other limits than the existentially least
important ones: I could manipulate people with words and gestures
somewhat resembling their own for goals which were alien to them
(science, my own career), and thus gained my own personal access
to what was after all public information. Conspiring with Hasnawi
and being elated with the scientific results, I did not realize
how meager the yield was from a human point of view. After my
initial struggle to find a way-in into Khumiri culture, I was
already dangerously close to the exit again at such moments. And
in the sudden distance that this manipulation brought about, the
material poverty and the medical needs which had previously
escaped my notice (or which I had not deemed of any importance as
long as I had still felt I was at their mercy), all of a sudden
came home to me. The scales fell from my eyes, as in the Garden
of Eden after the Fall of Man, and I saw my
informants in their true colours: with their
frayed blue overalls issued to them by the unemployment relief
work, without shoes, with empty storage tables in their huts,
coughing, slouching along people who were willing to shed
all dignity as soon as the possibility of working as an immigrant
worker in Holland was mentioned. With these phrases I finally had
a hold over them. But what was the most authentic phase in our
contact?
Anthropology is more than just a sublimated form of sleuthing or
espionage. Through the by now well-balanced collaboration with
Hasnawi, through the very specific nature of verbal communication
in North Africa where every sentence is, even more than
elsewhere, a maze of multiple meanings and references, and above
all of contradictions and gradations of the truth and also
because of my position of dependency as a trainee-researcher, I
was driven across boundaries in this particular case which I have
since approached differently in my later research. When I
subsequently kept being drawn to those boundaries and often
managed to go beyond them, a much more wide-ranging longing for
personal contact rather than mere scientific curiosity was my
primary concern. Not the clever mimicry of an acquired local
idiom but an absolutely vulnerable attitude on my part,
abandoning scientific instrumentality, became the condition for
such a boundary crossing, the researcher, not as the
Faustian manipulator, but as the equal of his informants in
accessibility and awkwardness.
I was still a long way off from that attitude during my first
field-work. I was too young, too frightened of failing in a
scientific respect, and had not yet reflected upon the obvious
conflict between scientific and human priorities in my
personal life as well as in my dealings with people from another
culture. And besides, the preparatory phase and the supervision
of the research training-project had emphasized the strategic
rather than the existential aspects of the anthropological
encounter. Apart from being touched by the harmonious Khumiri
vision of nature, life and fertility and by the
incarnation of that vision: Najma bint (daughter of) Hassuna,
married into Sidi Mhammad from Hamraya, only a few years older
than I but the radiant mother of four children I did not
get beyond manipulation during my first field-work. And yet, when
I stumbled along the familiar cacti hedges towards midnight to
the car that was waiting for me on my last night in Sidi Mhammad,
after the ritual slaughter of my calf, after the last musical
evening, Aunt Umborka, the elderly mother of Jilani, suddenly
darted out of the shadows; she had been waiting for me, far away
from the festive commotion, to secretly give me a last kiss, and
this time not the formal kiss on the hand which is the customary
way people here greet each other, but a big smack right on my
mouth.
Thus my first field-work ended in real contact. When I began to
work out the material I had collected, the instrumental,
manipulative side continued to dominate, and by quantifying and
abstracting it I managed to partly fulfil the scientific
ambitions I had at that time in my report. And yet, in the
following twenty years, the existential side of my first
transcultural encounter kept looking for an outlet in my life.
Perhaps this tension explains why I have continued to cling to
the material and the memories from Khumiriya in a much stronger
manner than the length of my stay or the significance of the data
which I brought back home would warrant. My eldest child had to
be named Najma. And the title of the novel which Khumiriya has
finally yielded to me, Een Buik openen
(To Open A Belly),
does not only refer to the bloody sacrifices I had to witness,
and to the occult information which also in Khumiriya is read
from the entrails of sacrificial animals (the anthropologist
obtains his data in a less direct way), but also to a birth
as if the hackneyed comparison of field-work with
initiation, and the rebirth which universally constitutes the
underlying model of initiation, really holds true in this case
upon second thoughts.#)
*)
© 1987, 2000 W.M.J. van Binsbergen;
#)
Original Dutch version published as Eerste veldwerk:
Tunesië 1968, in Wim van Binsbergen & Martin Doornbos
(eds), Africa in spiegelbeeld,
Haarlem: In de Knipscheer, 1987, pp. 21-55. Translated by Susan
Janssen. I wish to register my great indebtedness to Douwe
Jongmans, Klaas van der Veen, Marielou Creyghton and Pieter van
Dijk, who had the academic and logistic supervision of the
research training project as described here.
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