Return to the Field

I have been in the US for almost two months now, and I return to Bangladesh in less than two weeks.  As I have spoken to my professors about my fieldwork, they seem to sense a sort of sadness in me.  I don’t know that it’s fair that what I often talk about is how hard it is to do fieldwork in Bangladesh.  It is hard.  It’s hard because of the poverty, it’s hard because of the rigid hierarchical relationships, and it’s hard because I’m a woman who wants people to be happy with my behavior.  I don’t think it’s wrong to want to ‘fit in’ as one does fieldwork, but I also do not like to set up expectations for my behavior.  I’m not a Bangladeshi woman, I never will be, and I only disappoint myself and others when I try to emulate the behavior and attitude of a ‘good’ Bangladeshi Muslim woman.

But I keep going back to Bangladesh, and I am looking forward to returning to my flat in Dhaka, to returning to the orphanage and seeing the faces of all the kids who I have gotten to know personally over the last year.  I am excited to return to my fieldwork, to begin seeing a dissertation in all this research.  I am ready to get back to eating fresh food.

I’m not ready for Dhaka traffic, for getting sick, for the heat that will continue through the end of October.  And maybe I’m not quite ready for bucket showers again, or mosquitoes, or the constant ringing of my mobile.   But I am more excited about returning to Bangladesh than my professors might think.

The Months Ahead

I will be starting my fieldwork in October, I hope. But until then, I have plenty of time to plan and get more anxious. I’ve started a box of things to take with me, including pictures of my friends in Char Fashion, business cards, and a small, battery-powered flashlight. I’ve begun to picture in my mind what it will be like to actually live in the village for a long period of time.

When I went in January, it was a bit terrifying; I think I was feeling a lot of pressure to come back with enough ‘data’ in short period of time. I immediately got sick on the second day, after eating firni. My mobile phone didn’t work because it was from Warid, so I couldn’t even stay in touch with S’s parents in Dhaka. I felt bombarded every minute by the sort of growing anxiety of a village community already on the brink–and now pushed further into poverty by the sky-rocketing prices of food (especially rice). I suppose after that experience, I was even more scared that I wouldn’t be able to return to do long-term fieldwork; I worried that maybe I wasn’t up to it like I had thought. But with a bit more preparation and thought, I think that I can handle this experience.

As I accumulate materials for my trip, I am also divesting myself of some of the things that have been a part of my life. I’m selling my car, for example. And honestly, it feels really good.