by Emma van der Tak –
“I saw that you have written for newspapers before,” Albert remarks as the waitress puts down our coffee. While I did so once, I explain that my current fieldwork is not a journalism project. I met Albert at a lecture: a pensioned man who stood out for his eagerness to contribute to my research by sharing his views and introducing me to other attendees who might be interested. Today we met up for an interview to continue our conversation. Albert talks me through his journey of employment and unemployment, which inspired his interest in initiating legal proceedings against the state. As a “sovereign citizen,” he believes in conspiratorial narratives about the government that suggest that it is legally possible to renounce one’s citizenship and become independent from the Dutch state.
As the conversation draws to a close, we end up discussing our generations’ different perceptions of the internet and its impact on the world. Born in 2000, I have not known a world without it, I say, before Albert interrupts: “Yes, because you even had a blog in the early 2010s?” This remark takes me aback—I was convinced that the remains of my awkward early teenage YouTube phase were buried deep in the web. Albert must have found my Twitter account from that time: the only bit of proof that still circulates online since I have forgotten the password.
I take it Albert conducted a thorough background check before meeting me again, and I cannot blame him for it: after all, I would probably do the same before agreeing to tell a virtual stranger my life story. I was, however, under the impression that this is the kind of thing people tend to do without disclosing it to the object of their search. Albert’s repeated referencing of things he already knows about me almost seems like a deliberate demonstration of power. Is this why I leave the cafe feeling slightly uncomfortable?
A few weeks later, I hope to attend a protest at a tax office, but I have no way of getting to the protesters’ meeting point. Albert, who knows the organizers, kindly offers me a ride from the train station. Chatting in his car, I am reminded of my previous uneasiness when Albert suggests that I probably grew up learning all about the Dutch legal system, seeing that my dad is a lawyer. His suggestion annoys me, both because his assumption about my upbringing is wrong and because I never actually told Albert about my father’s profession. Getting another glimpse of the extent of his background check puts me somewhat on edge, a feeling that is not exactly alleviated by the fact that when we arrive at our destination, the car’s desk cam beeps and I suddenly realize that this entire time it was filming not only the road but also us. “Oh, yeah, you are being watched,” Albert jokingly remarks. It surely does feel like that, indeed.
Going into the field, I was prepared for my interlocutors’ suspicion towards ‘the system’ and its representatives to manifest in my relationships with them as well. In practice, however, I rarely encountered suspicion directed at me: most people I met while doing fieldwork were incredibly welcoming and supportive. While Albert, as an incredibly friendly and helpful interlocutor, is no exception, his remarks both reflected and created a sense of mutual suspicion between us. I am very aware of the degree of trust that I ask of my interlocutors, and I therefore tend to make a point of returning this trust to them as well. But while I trusted that Albert had no bad intentions whatsoever, I failed to lower my guard with him for the rest of my fieldwork period.
I strive to always be honest with my interlocutors, as I trust they are with me. Nonetheless, my openness is of a particular kind; it is carefully constructed: I deliberately choose not to disclose some parts of who I am because these might be politicized or because I cannot be certain that they will not compromise my safety in the field. My discomfort with Albert’s elaborate background check stems from this: when he references his knowledge about me, he disturbs my control over the extent to which I am known in the field. And I cannot help but feel hypocritical about this discomfort: surely if I am allowed to probe into my interlocutors’ lives, they should have an equal right to scrutinize me in return.
Still, when I get home, I try out all the passwords I can think of until I manage to log into an 11-year-old Twitter account and delete it permanently.
Emma van der Tak is a master’s graduate of the VU Anthropology programme and is currently doing the Social Anthropological Research Master’s at the University of Cambridge.