Tag: Relationships

Climate Emergency and Spiritual Ecology

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“On this side, where our world stands now, we each live our separate lives, isolated within our individual, anxious self. On the other side, we feel the patterns of interrelationship that support and nourish us, and can commune together as a single living community; we feel the mystery and magic of a world full of sacred meaning and purpose. It is only when we stand on this other shore that we can hope to heal our world, to help it to become free of this nightmare of materialism that is destroying its fragile and magical beauty. Only then can we return to our ancient heritage as guardians of the Earth” (Vaughn-Lee 2013: iii).

Sorry for the long hiatus, my passion for anthropology dwindled a bit during these long COVID months. I think we’ve all lost parts of ourselves during this time, no? I am now in the period of remembering who I am and re-imagining my future.

Of course, COVID isn’t far from the mind when thinking about the future, nor is climate change – now officially recognized as a climate emergency. I have just begun the essay anthology Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth, written in 2013 but more poignant now than ever. I read it with a sadness and a fear in my heart; what will our future look like? How will generations to come view the earth, both literally, with their eyes, and figuratively, with their hearts? 

Where do you stand with your relationship to the earth? What steps are you taking to mend the fissures between you and nature? This past year–despite COVID–has been great for me in regaining a relationship with my childhood landscapes. I moved back in with my parents and have been exploring the woods, field, and lake on their land. I have learned the names of many plants, found which ones are edible, and I have found another passion that has taken up much of my time this past year: natural dye. In many ways, I feel like coming back to Minnesota and being forced to stay in place was good for me.

My thirst for travel and experience didn’t go away, however, and I recently traveled to the island of Tahiti to meet with some friends from my fieldwork days. I spent a month and a half there not as an anthropologist but merely another tourist (albeit a tourist that stayed with a local family and not in hotels). I brought some yarn and t-shirts along with me and asked Tatie Tahia, the matriarch of the household, which plants could be used for dye. It was refreshing to connect once again to another culture’s traditions and remember how much I love hearing stories about the past and how we can bring these stories into the future. Listening to and working with the past will be vital in the process of imagining a sustainable nature-oriented future.

References:

Vaughn-Lee, Llewellyn. 2013. Introduction. In Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth (pp. i-iv). Point Reyes, CA: The Golden Sufi Center.

The Intimacy of Milk

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“As a metonym for the mother-child relationship, milk may be used metaphorically only in relationships that share some of the same intimate qualities. To allow milk to circulate in relationships lacking such qualities is considered shameful. When outsiders receive milk as a gift, it is an unmistakable sign of devotion or love, or at the least it is a strong invitation to establish or reproduce a close relationship. Europeans and other educated immigrants are usually aware of the fact that milk may transfer bacteria which cause serious diseases such as brucellosis and tuberculosis. When offered milk in an Iraqw household, they will in many cases politely reject it, out of fear that the milk has not been boiled. The double tragedy of such situations is that the guests seem to be completely unaware of what their Iraqw hosts are communicating by offering them milk, just as the hosts may be unaware of the health scruples of their guests” (Rekdal 1996: 376).

The Iraqw are a group living in the north-central regions of Tanzania. They are pastoralists, and as such milk* is an important product of their society with strong cultural symbolism. Rekdal, writing in the 1990’s, writes of the ability of milk to form and reinforce intimate relationships between people. Milk was never sold; a small cafe in Maghang – the village of Rekdal’s research – had to import milk from Kenya in order to sell it with tea and coffee.

Milk – the name of which, ilwa, should not be pronounced aloud in fear of potentially creating scarcity – is susceptible to ritual sorcery and should only be given to people who can be fully trusted not to curse the milk and therefore curse the calf that should rightfully be drinking it.

What I like about this quote, however, shows the clashes that can occur when two people of opposing cultures meet, or when a person enters the land of a foreign culture. As an anthropologist, imagine sitting in the house of an Iraqw family who has offered you a glass of milk. As you stare into the liquid you imagine the potential life-threatening bacteria, but also the warmth and intimacy of important anthropological relationships. Something as simple as a cup of milk can define how you are perceived. The question then, is how to proceed?

* Note that the milk I’m referring to here is what Rekdal calls “traditional milk” as it comes from zebu cows. Milk from imported European cows does not follow the same restrictions and is considered “modern milk,” which can be sold in markets. Rekdal notes this as an important distinction in which  the “social and cultural continuity” of traditional milk is maintained (1996: 378)

References: 
Rekdal, O.B. 1996. Money, Milk, and Sorghum Beer: Change and Continuity Among the Iraqw of Tanzania. Africa 66 (3), 367-385.

Talking with the Fishes

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“In the old days we used to fish even at night. When we were stung by scorpion fish or pinched by crabs, we’d let out a yell, scolding them, ‘You old scorpion fish,’ or ‘Damn you, crab!’ Fish, crabs and men would be engaged in conversation. All things are related, like links in a chain. Though they may not belong to the sphere of humans, we can still communicate with them–fish, cats, dogs. It’s painful to realize that we are losing even this sensibility” (Oiwa 2001: 35).

This quote from Masato Ogata’s life history, Rowing the Eternal Sea: The Life of a Minamata Fishermen. The relationship between all things is a central theme throughout his narration, and it includes non-living companions in life as well, for example, fishing gear: “Around here we don’t say, ‘the net is torn.’ Rather, we say, ‘the net has been injured,’ as if it is a living thing. […] Whether it be boat, the net, the tide, or the fish, we treat all of our partners as living things” (35). When we see other living and non-living beings as partners or companions that we share the world with, we pay them more respect. As Masato-san has noted above, this idea is dwindling and we reach further and further into modern/technological/capitalistic society. How can we rekindle these relationships?

References:

Oiwa, K. 2001. Rowing the Eternal Sea: The Story of a Minamata Fisherman (M. Ogata, narr., K. Colligan-Taylor, trans.). Lanham, MA: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, Inc.

Minamata for the Future (2/3)

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“We have another expression, gotagai, which means ‘we’re all in this together.’ This doesn’t mean simply that we humans rely upon each other for our existence but that plants and animals are also partners in this life. Gotagai includes the sea, the mountains, everything. Human beings are part of the circle of gotagai; we owe our existence to the vast web of interrelationships that constitute life. Words like ‘settlement’ and ‘compensation’ are shallow terms, related only to human society. Of what meaning are these terms for the fish, the birds, the cats that were poisoned and killed by organic mercury? You can’t compensate for their suffering and death with money. What about our rich intertidal and subtidal zones, or old-growth forests? How can you make up for their loss? You certainly cannot force them into a ‘settlement.’ I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” – Masato Ogata (Oiwa 2001: 164).

I lied, I said I would give you the words of Ishimure for the next couple of posts, but I found an English Translation of Ogata Masato’s life story and thought it would provide a different viewpoint for Minamata Disease. Masato-san is a Minamata Disease Victim himself, and I have met him a couple of times during my two trips in Minamata. He is a fishermen, stone-carver, writer, and spokesman. His book is called ‘Rowing the Eternal Sea‘ and tells about the traditional lives of fishing families during the time of Minamata Disease.

I like this quote because it contrasts money and relationship. I can’t remember who said it, but recently I read somewhere that “relationship is the opposite of capitalism’ and the words reverberated as I read this quote from Masato-san’s book. No amount of money will do right the wrongs done to people and the surrounding environment. Furthermore, the cost of the pollution has amounted to about 1 billion yen per year (paid by Chisso) for compensations, land reclamation and health care, but if Chisso had originally built a facility to clean the water in which the waste was dumped, it would have been a one-time cost of 1 billion yen (this information from an interview with Minamata Disease Museum staff Hatsue Koizumi, 11/20/2019). If instead, Chisso had honored human relationships with each other, the land, and the sea, had honored this term gotagai, then not only would economic costs have been lower, but more importantly lives would have been saved. We cannot think in terms of short-term economic gain, we must think in terms of meaningful relationship and the interconnections between all living things.

References:

Oiwa, K. 2001. Rowing the Eternal Sea: The Story of a Minamata Fisherman (M. Ogata, narr., K. Colligan-Taylor, trans.). Lanham, MA: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.

Maa

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Day 67, 8 – 10 November 2014

There are (at least) two baby goats, one mama dog, four puppies, two children, me and my Maasai mama living in this room. It is dark and hot and smokey. Welcome to the world of the Maasai.

My mama is thirty years old and her name sounds like Melanie but with an N. Nelanie. Communication is near impossible except with gestures, short one-word sentences and laughter. She speaks no Swahili and I speak no Maa. She has three children, and her husband has three other wives (I think). Musa is the youngest (2), then Sirgoit (4) and Langona (10). Today we drank chai, washed dishes, made dinner, and then threw dirt on the roof of the house because of the rain (it being the first rain in awhile).

This house is a sauna that burns your throat and eyes. Some might call it ‘cozy.’ It consists of two wooden beds, a fire pit, and some shelving for pots and pans. The walls are made of thick dark clay and the only light comes from a tiny baseball-sized window and the ever-flaming smokey fire. I sit on my bed as Nelanie cooks chapati soaked in tasty fat. Sirgoit looks at me, his eyes big. He begins to bang on a water canteen, rhythmically, like a drum. I clap my hands on my knees and a big smile spreads across his face. We play simple music together while mama cooks a basic meal with flour, fat, and cooked cabbage. I will never forget Sirgoit’s young smile. He never once speaks to me, but his smile, laughter, and curious eyes are enough to know that he cares, and that through this strange experience we are connected.

Language learning is an important part of the anthropological process. Many languages, especially smaller or threatened languages, cannot be learned beforehand in classes or online, but must be learned simply through immersion.

I have had the amazing experience of being immersed in many different languages, some of them common, like Spanish, French, and Swahili, and some of the uncommon, like Marquesan and Maa. Above is an example of anthropological field notes and language jottings for your enjoyment and curiosity.

Papa’u Ani

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On a typically warm morning in Vaitahu, Tehei and I set off from the house in search of a grassy plant called the kakaho, the expedition spurred forth by a conversation with Papa’u Ani held weeks ago. We find patches of kakaho sprouting alongside the single road leading down into the town center. Tehei reaches up the small embankment, and with his machete chops around fifteen stalks of the tall grass. We bundle the grasses in our arms and then walk to Papa’u Ani’s home, just up the hill. 

Fatieua Barsinas, who goes by the nickname Ani, is my oldest informant at the age of 84. He has a beautiful view of Vaitahu Bay, where sailboats often mix with small local fishing boats. When we arrive at Ani’s house he is filleting fish for an afternoon meal. Tehei asks him in Marquesan if he could show us how to construct the traditional fishing torch we had discussed a few weeks before, and so he pushes aside the pink fish flesh and takes the leafy kakaho into his arms. 

Ani ties the stalks together using the bark of a hibiscus tree (tumu fau). While matting down the leaves, he explains that ideally one would strip off the leaves and use only the thick stems of the grass. To prepare for a night fishing trip, he says they might construct five or six of these six to eight foot bundles, attaching dried coconut leaves to the top. Once out in the ocean they would stand the bundles up in the pirogue and light the coconut leaves. The fire burning in the darkness of the night would attract fish. The kakaho, being a very flammable grass, will spatter small sparks and flames on those sitting in the boat, Ani explains. “It’s dangerous,” he says, laughing and swatting at his clothes, imitating what it was like when the flames jumped out.

On July 2nd, 2019 Fatieua Barsinas, known lovingly has Papa’u Ani, passed away. My oldest friend, he had so many fishing stories stored in his memory, most of which I will never have the chance to hear. I am, however, so fortunate and so grateful to have met this wonderful man, a true fisherman, who had a great sense of humor. You will forever be remembered and forever missed, Ani.

It is an anthropologists job to get close to people, and often – especially for somebody studying tradition and changing cultures – elders become significant friends and knowledge-givers. In their old age they have many stories to share. In ethnographies I have often read anthropologists’ sadness at the loss of an important person who informed much of their research, but this is the first time I have experienced it. Anthropology is an emotional field of study; our hearts swell to the brink with incredible relationships, which makes us all the more breakable when these same relationships are inevitably ruptured, whether through leaving a field site, or through leaving this world.

The quote at the top is from my dissertation, titled “Change and Continuity of Fishing Practices in the Marquesas Islands.”