Mirjam Dorgelo

In de Berlijn Blogs doet antropologiestudente Mirjam Dorgelo verslag van haar veldwerk in Berlijn. Waarom Berlijn? “Omdat het een stad is waar geschiedenis en herinneringen rondspoken”, schrijft ze op haar blog. “Een stad waar plaatsen tot symbolische plekken verworden. Een stad die ruim twintig jaar na de val van de Berlijnse Muur nog steeds verdeeldheid in zich herbergt. Een stad waar niet wordt opgehouden met bouwen. Een stad waar op bijna elke straathoek wel een herdenkingsmonument te vinden is.

“Een stad van kunstenaars. Een stad van Ossi’s, Wessi’s, Wossi’s en wereldburgers. Een stad met zo’n 3,5 miljoen inwoners. Een stad van Checkpoint Charlie, Under den Linden en Brandenburger Tor. Een stad van 890 vierkante kilometer. Een stad die imponeert.” Mirjam hoopt in haar onderzoek antwoord te vinden op de vraag hoe de relatie tussen fysieke plekken in de stad en ervaringen van burgerschap onder voormalig Oost-Berlijners zich over de afgelopen veertig jaar heeft ontwikkeld. Deel 1 van de serie: hoe anti-graffiticoating het verleden van Duitsland oprakelt.

Tekst en foto’s van Mirjam Dorgelo

zur erinnerung an 96 von den national-sozialisten ermordete reichstagabgeordnete der Weimar Repblik

Heinz Sokolowski – 48 J -Ost Berlin – 25.11.65
Nach 7 Jahren DDR-haft erschossen auf der flucht

Toen ik maandag tussen de 2700 betonnen zuilen van het holocaust monument liep moest ik denken aan Philippe Remarque.* Dat krijg je dus wanneer je je van tevoren besluit in te lezen in een stad. Dan denk je aan een Volkskrant correspondent terwijl je eigenlijk respectvol wilt stilstaan bij de vernietiging van zoveel Joodse levens. Maar het enige wat in mij opkwam (dankzij Remarque) was dat de antigraffiticoating van deze betonnen blokken geleverd is door het chemiebedrijf Degussa, en dat een dochteronderneming van Degussa in de nazi-tijd het gifgas Zyklon-B produceerde waarmee de Duitsers in de kampen miljoenen joden en andere slachtoffers vermoordde.**

Anna-Riikka Kauppinen reports from Ghana regarding her research on beauty centers. This post is part of the fieldwork 2010 series.

Shea butter is warming up in my hands. I rub my palms together in order to dissolve the waxy texture into a soft and glowing substance. Akosua, 3 years old, is sitting still on the bed. I start applying the cream over her tiny body. First come the shoulders, neck and back. She raises her hands so that I can rub the armpits and stands up to let me work on the belly, buttocks, tights, legs, feet and toes. Lastly, I gently rub her cheeks and forehead.

Fieldwork could be compared with what Virginia Woolf calls balancing between “moments of being” and “moments of non-being”.Moments of being are temporal fragments of time when we are perfectly conscious of our surroundings. This moment could also be described as an experience of the world as a genuinely meaningful entity beyond seemingly trivial details. Moments of being are memorable – we can recall the exact same situation accurately even after a long time has passed.

Rubbing Akosua’s skin on that Sunday morning was probably one of such “moments of being” during my fieldwork on the Ghanaian beauty culture in Accra. I can remember the smell of the shea butter as vividly as if it were right now, at the moment of writing, on my hands. I remember the smoothness of her skin, the kind of velvety surface that using those rich, dense, oily creams brings about. I remember her mother’s smile when she came to the room and said: “Anna, you are trying, looks good. Now hurry up, we are late for church.”

Woolf opposes moments of being to “cotton-wool”, the flow of time consisting of routine actions, events and details that are easily forgotten, such as walking and eating. Sometimes I felt the need for more cotton-wool. Exhausted of the noteworthy details in every conversation, public sign, smell, advertisement, dress, hairstyle, way of walking and painted nail, I would escape to an air-conditioned cafeteria that appeared as the most “meaningless” place to be. There would certainly be nothing special to see, hear, feel, taste or smell.

How wrong. That cool, luminous, pastel-colored space occupied by Ghanaian corporates and foreign diplomats was far from cotton-wool. Now, different meanings would emerge. It seemed that the “temperature of globalization” never exceeded +23, according to the digital numbers on the air conditioner placed in a visible place beside the counter. When it showed +25, the clients would complain. In this temperature, it was easy to be “beautiful”: no sweat, no dust, no loose hair, no oily faces.

Interestingly, fieldwork experience seems to cultivate the skill of noticing details in “cotton-wool”, even in spaces and instances that could be regarded as the most familiar. At least all the five senses tune into a more receptive mode, which does not necessarily “switch off” at home. Can we sense “the field” in our backyards, bathrooms, grocery stores, jogging routes and favorite cafés? Is cycling a means of transport, or a journey? Ultimately, are we “in the field”, or is the field in us?

Anna-Rika Kauppinen is a Master’s student in Social and Cultural Anthropology at VU University Amsterdam.

Photo by Clarence Sinclair Bull

By Rachel Visscher The colour of the hat was brown, the kind of brown a nice piece of chocolate has.

Every Sunday during the church sermons the chocolate-brown hat encapsulated my head. Its shape reminded me of the hats that are often seen in old twenties’ movies. Classical, yet slightly funny on the sides, a hat worn by the heroine of a film, an intriguing woman with a pale skin and smoky eyes.

The smoky eyes I did not have. They would not have been allowed in the orthodox Dutch Reformed church around which my anthropological fieldwork revolved. The pale skin, however, I did have, as an inevitable consequence of three months of fieldwork during wintertime.

Although the twenties’ movie star hat was not in fashion in the town of my research, it was rewarded with many compliments. It made me look ‘nice’ and ‘like a real Dutch Reformed girl’, the people of the church often remarked. These comments puzzled me. How did these people perceive me, I wondered. It seemed as if simple changes in my clothes were able to move me into a different person. I became “one of them”. On the outside surely, not on the inside.

In anthropology, the fieldwork experience is often referred to as ‘going native’. The ethnographic researcher immerses him or herself into a new community, is willing to change his or her appearance and adapts to laws and customs of the local people.

During my fieldwork, I aimed to unravel the habitus and rituals of a community of orthodox Protestants. I made an effort to understand the meaning of the faith in these secular times. I learned how this required more than wearing a chocolate brown hat. Knowledge of theology, language and history were pivotal elements in order to understand the people I talked to.

The fieldwork experience is demanding. It requires openness and flexibility. It is an interesting phase a researcher goes through. It is said to be a life changing experience. I do not know if I agree. Every experience in our life seems to change us, transport us into a different part of our life, a new role, a new identity. Our identities are not fixed. They are susceptible to change. We as people seem to be in a continuous process of alteration. Dynamically we transform, in and through time, to become new people along the way.

I changed during the fieldwork experience. It took me small, almost unnoticeable steps that slowly moved me into a different “me”. A real me and yet, not the real me I had been, since all the new things that I integrated had previously been unfamiliar.

While in the field, I listened to people’s stories, prepared, dressed up. I developed and changed. In this perspective, the field itself might be seen as a theatre stage. An anthropologist works in a similar way as any actor or actress; preparing to go on stage, learning lines, dressing up, holding a specific posture. All these preparations are necessary to become the person one needs to play.

Ultimately, we all do this in our daily lives, every single day. We get up, dress up, go to work and become different persons. Every situation in life is a kind of stage that transforms us and requires us to play our parts.

The chocolate brown hat is in my cupboard these days. The people’s stories are in my head, in my heart, even in my veins. They will, however, slowly fade away when there will be a new role for me to play.

Rachel Visscher is a Master’s student in Social and Cultural Anthropology at VU University Amsterdam. She also writes plays and short stories.

All photos by Gijs Verbossen

Our Master student Gijs Verbossen conducted field research in the occupied territories of Palestine. He lived in a Palestinian refugee camp in the West Bank, adjacent  to the city of Nablus. He focused on young Palestinian refugees’ experience of Israel’s occupation. In this photo reportage Gijs gives an eye-witness account of a violent encounter between Palestinians and the Israeli army.

From Nablus buses go to all destinations within the West Bank. They do not go across the separation wall, which Israel built on Palestinian land, annexing territory within the West Bank’s borders of 1967. Public buses cannot go inside Israel, because almost no Palestinians have a permit to cross the wall. Jerusalem for them is inaccessible. Foreigners are able to cross the wall, entering Israel. I had an appointment in Jerusalem today, March 20^th. I took the bus from Nablus, passing Ramallah, to Qalandia; one of the largest checkpoints between the West Bank and Israel. The previous days many boys from the refugee camp remarked that today protests would be held throughout the West Bank, especially at the Qalandia checkpoint, because it is a symbol of the Palestinian powerlessness to reach their foreseen capital of East Jerusalem. So I borrowed a camera, and headed for Jerusalem. This is what I saw today. I took these photos because they tell a story, a story larger than merely the event of that day, it is the story of Palestine’s young generation. Nevertheless, keep in mind that the events of today do not happen every day.

On the way from Nablus to Jerusalem you pass at least three checkpoints, that is if the Israeli army did not decide to increase the number of standard checkpoints by so called flying checkpoints. Note, this is all occupied Palestinian territory, and people need to pass these checkpoints also when only traveling between Palestinian cities. This is number one: Huwara.

Checkpoint three: Qalandia. Behind the soldiers is the checking terminal for all people that want to enter into Israel. Only a few Palestinians have permits to cross the wall. Three weeks ago it took me two hours to pass from one side of the wall to the other. Normally there are no soldiers standing here, in front of the terminal, maybe the boys from the camp were right and something is going on.

In front of the Qalandia terminal, I get out of the bus. And indeed, there must be tumult somewhere, because I hear shots. I walk on the road towards the city of Ramallah. On the dirt hill on which the separation wall is built about a dozen soldiers are standing, facing the road where about two-hundred young Palestinian men are gathered, chanting. One of the soldiers takes aim while lying on the ground. At this moment I can only guess, just as the protesters can only guess, whether he is aiming live rounds or rubber coated bullets. Probably, and hopefully, it is the latter.

The little barricade that was initially erected at the end of the street, between the protesters and the army, is slowly growing bigger and car tires are put on fire, reinforcing the Hollywood-like idea of a riot. To me it seems that there is a rather clear safe zone. The boys are not afraid to go towards the soldiers to hurl a stone, yet it is far enough from the soldiers not to be hit directly by a rubber teargas grenade. However, I know that the Israeli army also shoots with metal high velocity teargas grenades and that it uses rubber bullets to disperse crowds, and instances of live rounds killing Palestinians in similar protests are repeatedly reported.

Some of the boys are looking out for my safety. Sharing cigarettes and my broken Arabic easily breaks the initial hesitance towards me. They tell me that the Israeli army is trying to get into the neighborhood surrounding the street. Carefully they take me into a side street, where a group is trying to prevent the soldiers from coming into their neighbourhood. Stones are constantly being thrown, but I have the idea that the Palestinian guys know that they cannot confront the armed Israeli power, because with every sound of a shot the group retreats.

“The boys of the stones,” they were called in the first and the second intifada. They express their anger in every stone they throw. There is excitement with this moment of power. At this moment they are no victims, they claim authority over the army. While, at the same time they know the army can smash their protest at any time. Then, I think, power lies exactly there; in the fact that they continue protesting.

The teargas feels like a thousand bees stinging the lungs, the face feels like it is drenched in acid. A t-shirt tied around the head does not help much. The protest is like a game, with rather clear rules. About two-hundred boys and men gathered in front of the Qalandia checkpoint; teargas grenades and stun grenades are fired and drive them back; when the tear gas clears up, a small group runs forward towards the soldiers to throw some stones; again teargas grenades, stun grenades, and rubber bullets are returned; the gas clears up and the sequence repeats itself, slowly driving the protesting group backwards.

These soldiers just come back from action at the rooftops around the demonstration, they penetrated the neighbourhood. The masked soldier, the second from right, just shot high velocity teargas shells from the rooftop of a shed right in front of my feet, an unmistakeable reminder of the risk involved. Life goes on as usual on the other side of the street, cars are passing as quickly as possible, because they drive through the teargas clouds, and if the gas gets stuck into your car you are in trouble.

I decide to follow an army unit that entered the neighbourhood adjoining the demonstration. I want to know what happens when an army unit enters a neighbourhood, an intimate zone of safety. They tried to climb over a wall, to enter the house behind, probably in order to climb the rooftop and from there disperse the crowd. This exercise is not working out, so they try to kick in the backdoor of the house instead. The lady of the house comes out and screams at them to wait; stena shwai, and reluctantly she opens the door for them. Soldiers regularly enter houses. Imagine what it means when an army unit overrules you in your own house, you loose control over your most intimate space; that of the household.

This is what a sniper looks like when he just entered your shop to climb the roof. For the soldiers this must be like guerrilla warfare, their whole outfit, armament, and coordinated drills show they have been trained to fight a war, while in fact they are controlling a riot. There is a great gap between the war Israeli soldiers get trained for, and the civil control task they finally conduct. This dissonance leads to unnecessary use of armed violence by soldiers and works very provocatively towards Palestinian society, as I observed during my field work.

Ambulances are driving up and down the road, between the protesters and the army, to pick up the wounded. Yet, observing closely, I notice that some of the wounded are not as wounded as the screaming and the ambulance makes them look. It seems that being driven out by the ambulance is a moment of fame, which is cultivated by the bystanders. I am thinking of the analogy of a theatre. The protest is a theatre where victimisation and heroism are on display, carefully choreographed by the protesters and the Israeli army. Nevertheless, the consequences can be very real. I feel tired, it is too late to go to Jerusalem, and probably the Qalandia checkpoint is closed because of the protest anyway, so I go back home, to my ‘brothers’ of the refugee camp.

Gijs Verbossen is a Master’s student in Social and Cultural Anthropology at the VU University Amsterdam. He has completed a Bachelor’s in Interdisciplinary Social Sciences, with a focus on Conflict Studies.

On the Israel-Palestine conflict, see also Erik van Ommering’s ‘Zo dichtbij, zo onbereikbaar: een blik over het beloofde land’ and the posts by Erella Grassiani.

Marieke van Bommel

Master studente Marieke van Bommel heeft collectieve grondrechten in de binnenlanden van Suriname onderzocht. Hieronder een persoonlijke impressie van haar ervaringen.

Sneeuwwitje, Sneeuwwitje! Taxi voor u? Kom in mijn auto hoor, ik kan je gelukkig maken.

Hoewel ik al eerder in Suriname verbleef was ik afgelopen januari toch een beetje vergeten hoe het eraan toe ging. Op het vliegveld werd ik meteen weer met mijn neus op de feiten van het Surinaamse sjansen gedrukt. Gelukkig ik ben er weer!

Af en toe had ik spijt dat mijn onderzoek niet om man-vrouw relaties op straat draaide. Het hebben van een Y- en een X-chromosoom heeft een onmisbaar effect in het openbaar, mannen in Suriname zijn onverbeterlijk en niet te overtreffen in de moeite die ze doen om de aandacht van het andere geslacht te trekken. Van piepjong tot stokoud, ze trekken bijna allemaal alles uit de kast om dames ouderwets het hof te maken. In Nederland bestaat dit fenomeen niet wanneer je het vergelijkt met de kunsten van de Surinaamse mannen. Een kennis zei me dat hij het ongelofelijk vond om in Nederland te zien dat als een vrouw op straat loopt, niemand daarop reageert: Dat kan je als man toch niet maken!?

Deze manier van omgang tussen mannen en vrouwen is bekend en gerespecteerd. Als vrouw op straat hoef je niet lang te wachten op de dubbelzinnige opmerkingen en complimentjes. Kijkend door een westerse bril zou men dit als seksisme kunnen beschouwen, maar in Suriname kan je dit in de meeste gevallen maar beter als een oprecht compliment beschouwen. Het is een stuk beter voor je humeur wanneer je je gecomplimenteerd voelt in plaats van bedreigd in je vrouw-zijn. Het is even wennen maar het werkt.

Dit verschijnsel leverde komische momenten op tijdens mijn onderzoek. In een serieus gesprek krijg ik interessante informatie, de man weet veel en praat veel. Het moment dat ik hem bedank voor het gesprek en ik mijn vinger van de stopknop haal, vraagt hij me ‘off the record’ of ik al de échte Surinaamse warmte heb gevoeld. Aan zijn grijns weet ik dat dit niets met graden Celsius te maken heeft, maar ik houd me van de domme: De echte Surinaamse warmte? Nou ik puf wat af iedere dag, probeer ik nog onnozel te zijn. Nee, nee de echte Surinaamse warmte, die warmte van de Surinaamse man! ? ‘Wow’ denk ik, zegt hij dit nou echt of ben ik bevooroordeeld en hoorde ik het daardoor niet goed? (Reflexief zijn is belangrijk tijdens antropologisch onderzoek leren wij in college). Maar nee, hij zegt het echt. Ja, want als je zou willen, dan kan ik natuurlijk wat voor je regelen? Kijk ik heb wel een vrouw, maar als er een goede maaltijd voor mijn neus staat zeg ik gewoon: Here zegen dit spijs en eten. Ik friemel opvallend aan mijn ring (die ik draag om te fungeren als afleidingsmanoeuvre) en leg uit dat ik gelukkig ben met mijn man in Nederland en dat ik dat graag zo wil houden. Je bent toch nu hier, alles is mogelijk in Suriname? Tja, goed punt maar toch bedank ik hem, ach het was hoe dan ook een goed gesprek.

Om niet te generaliseren moet ik erbij vermelden dat uiteraard niet iedere Surinaamse man bovenstaande eigenschappen heeft, maar het is een veel voorkomend fenomeen. Als vrouw in Suriname ben je of niet anders gewend of, als nieuwkomer, zal je ermee moeten leren leven. Ik heb het snel leren waarderen en gebruik het verschijnsel om er mijn voordeel mee te doen en als ‘female methodology’. In Amsterdam zou ik waarschijnlijk op dit soort situaties hebben gereageerd met een ouderwets ‘sóódemieter op’, maar in Suriname had ik die neiging niet (okay okay, eerlijk, 90% van de tijd niet, de rest waren wel gewoon echt vieze mannetjes). Waren er in Nederland maar meer creatievelingen die je met een grote glimlach aanspreken: U heeft een prachtige spitse neus hoor, dame! of het wat plattere (maar strikt in de context gezien ook wel te waarderen): Lekker weertje voor een op-en-neertje vandaag, vindt u niet?, dan zou er volgens mij een heleboel meer gelachen worden op straat.

Terug in Amsterdam mis ik, naast het nooit aflatende fluiten van Grietjebie’s en de warmte, bovenal het oude vertrouwde gesis en het goedemorgen schatjelief in het straatgeluid. Bijna zou ik iedere dag een stukje om fietsen langs de bouwvakkers bij mij om de hoek, maar ik weet niet of dat hetzelfde gevoel geeft.

Marieke van Bommel volgt de master opleiding Social and Cultural Anthropology aan de VU.

Laura van Deventer. Foto Mirjam Dorgelo.

In this part of the series, Laura finally reveals her research topic.

You have all been waiting. Now is the time. I did research among the CHECHENS!!! Or the Noxchi, which is the name they use to refer to themselves. You might have guessed it… that’s where the ‘N’ referred to in my mysterious posts. Why were they mysterious, Laura? Well…

A few months ago, as I was preparing my fieldwork in Moscow, I made a few phone calls to arrange contacts in the city. One of them was to a befriended Russian, who is currently living in the Netherlands, and who lost his wife as a result of the 2002 hostage taking in the Dubrovka theatre in Moscow. In and after this horrible event, he had a severe encounter both with fanatic (Chechen) fighters/terrorists, and the Russian government, against which he started a court case, since his wife had died from the gas that the government used before storming the building. When I told him about my plan to do research in Moscow, his immediate response was that I’d better not do that, that the Russian government would find out within a day that I’m there, and wouldn’t be pleased. He was willing to help me with contacts, but his advice was to not go through with the project.

Needless to say, that was a bit nerve-wrecking and made me feel like I should seriously reconsider my plan.

And then there was one of the teachers of my department who, when asked by my supervisor about the level of secrecy I should observe when talking about my endeavours, responded by saying: Oh no, it’s fine! Only a few of them get killed!

The above may make it somewhat understandable to you, that I wanted to be cautious in disclosing what group my research was amongst. It would be terribly inconvenient to get killed before finishing my thesis.

Now that I’m back, I can tell you all that Chechens are a fascinating group of people with a strong sense of being a nation, and keeping their cultural traditions, and who, surprise surprise, are NOT all bandits, criminals and terrorists! Who would have thought!

On the day that I left the city, the 29th of March, explosions happened in the metro system in Moscow. This again has brought a sense of fear among the Russians in the city that (most) Chechens/Kavkazi people are or may be dangerous. However, many Chechens also experience fear – fear that they will be discriminated, beaten up, not hired for a job, or generally seen as savage.

It it strange that the very thing that my research in the past 3 months has focused upon (feelings and experiences of Chechens who live in Moscow) all of a sudden was ‘on the edge’ because of these bombings. As far as I heard, all my contacts and friends are okay. One of my contacts was in the metro before the one that exploded. As her brother wrote me: “3.5 minutes saved her life”. Crazy.

I was in a Dutch television program (Pauw&Witteman) the night I arrived back in Amsterdam (29th of March), where I commented on the events and the experiences of Chechens in Moscow.

Greetings from Amsterdam and thanks for your patience

Laura van Deventer is a Master’s student in Social and Cultural Anthropology at the VU.

Laura van Deventer. Foto Mirjam Dorgelo.

In part 5 of the fieldwork 2010 series, Laura van Deventer posts an update on her research in Moscow.

A few weeks ago I told you about my arrival, getting settled and first contacts with the ‘N’. Some of you have inquired about this mysterious group – who are they, what am I doing here? Although I can answer the second  question, and will try to do so in this post, I will not disclose what group it is I am doing research among. This is for security reasons. The ‘N’ have received some harsh treatment in the past and me mixing with them and gathering data about that, well, I’m just not quite sure if the authorities applaud that. Once I’m back in April, I’ll make it public, promised!

So I’ve been hanging out with some N – visiting in their homes, sometimes going out on the street, sharing stories, eating and drinking (I may have gained a pound or two… keeps me warmer ; ). I’m basically trying to find out what it is like for N to live here, for individuals, but also as a group. What problems they may encounter, and what ‘being N’ and ‘home’ means to them.

That life in Moscow can be dangerous is illustrated by what happened to a young, nice lady I’ll call Maria. In 2003, she was on an excursion in the city with her class. A skinhead spotted her, grabbed a bottle and tried to smash her face with it. She was able to protect it by holding her hands before it – leaving her hands wounded from the glass. As her clothes were stained from blood, not to mention the shock this assault must have caused, she went home. When her older brother heard what had happened, he went out to find the skinhead. He didn’t succeed, but he did spot a cute looking lady at the bus stop. Hearing that she spoke the N language, he made a move… They dated for a year and are now married!

Now is that what you call a bloody romance?

Maria suggested to her brother that he should thank the skinhead – but I don’t think he ever did…

Negative behaviour against N is not just something of the past. A few days ago, my N friend Sven and I went out on a mission to find the office of the embassy for N people in Moscow. As the address I had was not entirely clear, we asked some people for help. One security man pointed us to a building further up the street: ‘There are lots of N.’ Inside the place (probably a hotel), Sven asked the security guys if they could tell us where the office was. The moment he mentioned ‘N’… we were kicked out of the building! Not friendly asked to leave, simply kicked out. Thank you. [We never found the office – ended up at the Omnipresent Mc Donald’s instead.]

As a good anthropologist, I try to honour and respect the traditions of the people I’m staying with. When I visited a new family about two weeks ago, I figured I’d do as nearly all of their ladies do – wear a skirt (yes, with my snowboots). About 5 minutes after I arrived, the mother of the family inquired if I don’t own any jeans. It’s cold outside! Before leaving at the end of the evening, she again restated her concern: ‘Laura, you are our guest. Please, wear jeans next time!’ Well yes, I just thought… nevermind.

Now this ‘respecting their culture’ thing took a bit of a different turn in my conversation with Sven. He suggested ‘do your scarf like this. Over your hair. Yes, like that. That’s how our ladies wear it. It looks good…. Do you do lines on your eyes?’ Me: ‘You mean make up? Yes.’ He: ‘It would be better if you wouldn’t.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because then people look at you.’

So the next time I visited his family, I put on some extra eye-liner. Not only are there limits to adjusting to your research population, there is also a thing called the rebellious female anthropologist.

These stories give you some insight into my life as researcher. For those of you wondering – yes, there are also Miserable Moments in Moscow. Moments where I am fed up with the ‘here now – gone 5 seconds later’ internet connection in my room. Moments where I miss my friends and family; where I really really don’t want to spend many hours typing out conversations and observations; moments where I genuinely feel like Moscow is a boring city. I am still the only person that sings in the metro.

If more people would do that, this would be a better place.

Francien Barske

In part 4 of the fieldwork 2010 series, Francien Barske tells us how it is to go back to highschool…

Over the past seven weeks, I have been researching Hyves misuse and online identity forming among young adolescents in two Dutch high schools, one in Amsterdam and one in Limburg. How does the social network site Hyves influence identity forming of young adolescents in the Netherlands and how do adolescents use Hyves-pages for creating new (online) relationships or misuse it as a tool for e-bullying? Not the most common research topic when thinking of Social & Cultural Anthropology, however, very ‘hot’ at the moment and not boring at all!

The first days of my research were, of course, terrifying, even though I am staying in the Netherlands, I felt like a stranger. I can hardly imagine how the other students must feel while doing their research abroad! I was the new one in school, did not know my way around and was afraid the kids would laugh at me when I asked them questions about Hyves. I felt like a brugklasser (freshman) all over again! The only difference was the fact that I now carried a (fashionable) handbag, instead of a giant Kipling backpack, loaded with books. I have to be honest now: collecting information is easy. Kids are easy to talk to, especially when it is about something they like. They are funny. They are honest. They do like to exaggerate, sometimes…

When I started this research, I was afraid no one would want to talk to me and share stories. At this point, I already spoke to so many kids, just randomly in the cafeteria, in focus groups, during interviews, during class discussions (yes, I have even become a teacher while doing research!) and so on. And now, sitting in the teachers’ room of one of my schools, I finally found some time to write about my research. I have had interviews, both formal and informal, focus groups and as a teacher, I ‘teach’ or rather show the kids what happens online on Hyves pages. Most of them are shocked when they view this new type of bullying. I also ask about their experiences regarding bullying, identity forming and online friendships.

Online, I found about 20 anti-Hyves pages, all were against one person only, on which the most hateful messages and photos were posted. On one of the schools, someone made a YouTube movie called “The Whores of the School”, in which photos from Hyves pages from about 35 girls appeared. Others told me they were stalked by people who found their address on their Hyves pages and who were much older than they were, and some kids just used Hyves as a dating site, to meet others for sex. Sexual harassment, bloody pictures, pictures of people holding knives and guns, name-calling, you can find it all on Hyves.

Unfortunately, I am afraid this is just the tip of the iceberg. By studying the use of Hyves as a social network site, either as a tool for creating identities – both online and offline – or as a tool for bullying, I hope to get an insight into Dutch youth culture and adolescent identity forming.

Francien Barske is a MSc student in  Social and Cultural Anthropology at VU University Amsterdam. She has completed a BA in International Communication.

Earlier posts in this series:

Right around the corner (Katie Rabar)

Greetings from Moscow (Laura van Deventer)

Een ecologisch bolwerk in Bolivia (Mandy Ronda)

I have slowly been making myself known among the tenants of the Asylum Seekers’ Center in Noord Holland: it’s a well known tourist city and among my research subjects it is known as one of the best centers to be placed in the Netherlands. Why? Well, it is close to Amsterdam for a start. Although it doesn’t always feel that close to me, as I continue to live in my apartment in Amstelveen, taking the two-hour journey with public transport a few days each week, and I’ve had to get used to beginning my days at 6am.

It is one of the disadvantages of not living among my research population, but perhaps it authenticates my position among the staff at the center as most of them live in different cities as well. Many may question the authenticity of this type of field research: I am not living in the field exactly. But I am an Australian, living at the other side of the globe, and the climate (snow and temperatures below zero) has definitely distinguished my experience from that of living in a place of comfort and familiarity… For starters, it has been an adventure riding a bike through snow and ice!

Katie Rabar is studying for a Master’s degree in Social and Cultural Anthropology at VU University Amsterdam.

Earlier posts in this series:

Greetings from Moscow (Laura van Deventer)

Een ecologisch bolwerk in Bolivia (Mandy Ronda)

Laura van Deventer. Photo: Mirjam Dorgelo.

In part 2 of this series, Laura van Deventer looks back on her first weeks of fieldwork in Russia.

I will live in Russia’s capital city for three months, as part of my master’s program in anthropology, to find out how a group of people that I will refer to as the N., is living here.

Initially, it was arranged for me to live in a pension run by the company where a friend’s father works. This turned out to be very expensive. Using the network of friends and family, another room was organised for me. Now I live with a Russian lady, Nina, her 30 year-old son, and their dog called Brunhilde. Nina told me that the grandmother was a spy for the KGB in Poland. Then her son said: “You’re drinking your tea from a FSB-mug: ‘souvenir.’” Wow, until now I have only read about these things. Now I’m living right in the middle of it. I might as well be a Bond-girl!

To get anywhere in this city, I take the metro. It’s supposedly the best metro system in the world. Probably the cleanest also. There is no litter. At all. Anywhere. No bins either. Which makes me wonder – am I the only person eating a banana underground, being left with the peel in my hand for the rest of the trip?

Oh, I’m sure you all want to know about the cold. Well, it’s fine. Really, when it’s cold, it’s cold: you dress warm and deal with it. I do miss wearing skirts though. I mean, I could, but it just doesn’t really combine well with my snow boots.

In my room, as in all of Moscow, the heater is on 24/7. Which makes it nice and cosy now, when it’s – 15 outside. However, central heating will be on until the 1^st of April. It may be 18 degrees in March, doesn’t matter, the heat is on. So you open your window. Climate change, anyone?

These first three weeks I’ve re-opened my Russian study books and tried to get in touch with N. families to hang out with. It’s intense to spend so much time with people, especially when they are very hospitable: 22:30, I want to leave. ‘You are going home? You can sleep here! There is space!’ Boy, I arrived at 6 pm, yes, I want to go home. And mind you, this is a two-bedroom apartment where 5 adults and 1 child live. Oh, that’s right. The living room is a bedroom too. Every couch you see in the apartments of these people is a bed in disguise.

Most of my conversations are in Russian. I’ve gotten quite good at pretending I understand. The trick is to find the key word (noun or verb) in what the person just said, and repeat that. It totally makes it appear as if you understood what was said. Really, you should try this. And of course, always laugh at the right moment.

See, that’s how I survive in Moscow. Laugh at the right moment.

And always wear your snow boots.

Laura