I’m starting a new blog but don’t worry, I can explain!

As the readership of my Peregrinations blog has grown, it has become clear to me that the content of this blog should primarily focus on my ethnographic work, on Shaligram research, and on my continued relationships with the Hindu and South Asian community. In other words, it has come to my attention that the readership of Peregrinations is, aside from friends and family, almost exclusively Shaligram or pilgrimage based and, as such, some of my more general, political, or media oriented commentaries aren’t fitting to the readers.

Therefore, I am splitting my online writing into two sites. Peregrinations will now focus completely on my anthropological and ethnographic work. I will continue to post about my publications, my research, Shaligram discussions, my work in Nepal and India, and so on right here. However, my new blog, Mocking the Apocalypse, will now focus on the particularly political, social, religious, media, and popular culture discussions I tend to engage in otherwise.

So, if you like my writing, feel free to follow both. But you’ll have to catch my more controversial arguments at


My Divine Pet Rock: Notes on Gender and Authority in Anthropology

“Isn’t He just adorable.” Gangadevi laughed, clutching the small Krishna Govinda Shaligram in her right hand. “I have had Shaligrams for many years but He is special, you see. Krishna was my very first Shaligram. The very first Shaligram I ever dressed or offered praśadam to. The first every morning to received sandalwood tilak and water. You know, I call him my divine pet rock.”

Chuckling together, I feigned incredulity. “A divine pet rock?”

“Oh yes!” She replied with glee. “But we wouldn’t use those googly eyes for his face. That would just be cruel.”

The first time I related this story, I was conducting a fieldwork presentation to a room full of colleagues, students, and peers some three months after returning to the United States in the fall of 2012. It had always struck me as a particularly humanizing and fun anecdote from my fieldwork in India, one that demonstrated the multiple, and sometimes humorous, ways in which people engaged with their religious traditions and sacred objects. Gangadevi’s use of the term “divine pet rock” was also particularly fascinating because it helped her not only to explain her beliefs and actions to someone not otherwise familiar with them (me) but allowed her to interact with her faith in compliment with her ebullient and jovial personality. In fact, I had many such stories from Gangadevi, several of which included joking renditions of ritual failures told with animated delight or notations on the amusing tales she loved to tell her grandchildren about the occasional slap-stick exploits of God in the world. It was therefore to my surprise when my tale was suddenly met with harsh criticism.

“You shouldn’t mock your informants.” An older, male, professor warned sternly. “You need to take your work seriously. Poking fun at your research isn’t going to be viewed lightly.”

“Yeah!” A male graduate student interjected approvingly. “You should watch your tone if you want to present this at a conference.”

The women in the room looked at the floor.

Negotiating authority and respect both in the field and in academia is nothing new to female scholars. As an anthropologist who works in religion, I am often deeply cognizant of the ways in which I interact with my research informants, often in terms of what I say; especially in cases where women are not allowed to fully participate in certain practices (as is the case in some types of Shaligram worship) or are not considered to be capable of holding expertise in esoteric subjects. But my use of humor also uncovered the deeply troubling truth about negotiating authority and respect in academia as well; where, ostensibly, my advanced PhD candidate status and extensive fieldwork in South Asia should equalize my claim to a seat at the scholarly table. Or, at least, as I had assumed, earn me the benefit of the doubt.

This was not the first time something like this had happened. Once, while teaching an undergraduate class in the Anthropology of Religion, a male upperclassman repeatedly and disruptively challenged my description of a particular ritual drawn directly from my own ethnographic work. Later on, while we discussed the incident in office hours, he admitted to knowing nothing himself about the ritual in question but simply shrugged and said “You didn’t sound like you knew what you were talking about.” Even in my course evaluations, which are generally positive overall, I am apparently constantly swinging between “should be more nurturing” and “acts entitled to use complicated words.” I have also faced down my fair share of peer reviewers and conference participants who’ve rejoined with some variation on “you should be more scholarly.” Nothing specific to the content of my research or the quality of my analysis, just the presentation of my character. Apparently, as long as I maintain a “mind-to-be-reckoned with/take-no-prisoners” attitude, I can enjoy the derision of one side who feels that my demeanor is arrogant and inaccessible and the policing of the other who is sure to let me know exactly what it means to be “professional” and “academic.” What is not lost on me, or really any other women for that matter, is that these critiques largely come from men. The critique and engagement of my female mentors, while strict and to a high standard, have never taken this form.

Balancing wit and wisdom is often difficult for even the cleverest scholars, but it has become clearer to me over the years that the icons of the venerable sage and the irascible raconteur are images largely reserved for men. In short, we as a culture don’t quite seem to know how to interact with women who don’t obviously fit the role of the “loving, maternal, guide” or the “power-hungry, frigid, bitch.” The former, of course, being highly regarded for supporting their students and academic departments under a load of uncompensated emotional labor (see especially Bellas’ “Emotional Labor in Academia: The Case of Professors” and Guy and Newman’s “Women’s Jobs, Men’s Jobs: Sex Segregation and Emotional Labor”) and the latter being the ivory-tower elitist everyone just loves to hate. If the only way to demonstrate my knowledge is to be mean about it, it starts to feel an awful lot like having to be mean to the guy constantly asking you out on a date, because if you’re nice he doesn’t get the message.

The worst thing about it all, sadly, is that the majority of my male colleagues have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, and when I bring it up, they shake their heads and throw up their hands. “Well, I’ve never seen it. Maybe it was something you said.”

But it wasn’t about what was said. It was about who said it. They use humor and crack wise all the time, to no detriment (rather, they are usually lauded for it). Their students don’t write out class evaluations complaining about their emotional distance or about not feeling sufficiently cared about. Their colleagues don’t remind them to watch their tone otherwise people won’t take them seriously. But my female colleagues know it all too well, nodding their heads in silent solidarity each time someone sees fit to pipe up during a roundtable and call out the woman presenting for how she presumes too much, takes herself too seriously (or not seriously enough!), how “stuck up” her tone is. How “condescending.” How “ ‘splaining.”

It was a really funny story about a pet rock though. Or maybe you just had to be there.

A Theory Relatively

In most modern day feminist circles, opposing the practice of female circumcision is a given. To oppose female circumcision, or female genital mutilation (FGM) as the practice is often called, is to oppose the very definition of gendered oppression and the restriction of female sexuality under patriarchal rule. These views tend to go against the more classically relativist approach of social science which typically seeks to understand female circumcision on local terms without immediately imposing obvious agendas to eradicate the practice. To say then that I am against female circumcision might then appear to be in line with typical Western ideas of individuality, political autonomy and freedom, and notions of bodily integrity and the self. But I do not oppose female circumcision as a practice in and of itself and, in fact, do not advocate for blanket bans of the practice at all. This is because I do not locate the problem of female circumcision in concerns about sexual function (Ahmadu 2007), in its short term or long term health implications (Al-Hussaini 2003 and Sayed et. al. 1996) or in its cultural symbolic value (Boddy 1982 and Ahmadu 2000). Instead, I locate the problem of female circumcision in the problem of choice. Just as we recognize the meaningfulness and cultural validity of marriage as a cultural institution, most anthropologists would likely still oppose instances of forced marriage, particularly among young children. Similarly, female circumcision per se is not the problem, forced circumcision is. While for many of us this reveals our own distinctly Western position and dedication to discourses of human rights, it does not negate the traumatic experiences of many women who have undergone female circumcision without consent and who now speak out against the practice and the harms it can and does cause. Acknowledging the positive and affirming aspects of female circumcision also does not mean anthropologists cannot oppose its darker aspects. In this way, we must seek an altruism that is not grounded in “othering,” but in a universalized principle of choice. This principle of choice is not unproblematic, however, grounded as it is in homogenizing rhetorics of global human rights. But the point here is not to seek a one-size-fits all policy regarding female circumcision but to use choice as a method for guiding global responses to local practices that produce both cultural meaning and injury.

In “Searching for Voices,” Christine Walley proposes one way to get beyond the binary and polarizing viewpoints commonly expressed toward female circumcision in the West (either moral outrage or hyper-relativistic tolerance) in an attempt to reconcile a feminist with an anthropological response. It is Walley’s contention that both humanist critics and cultural relativists share an unacknowledged common thread:“a hardened view of ‘culture’ based on a rigid essentialist notion of difference that can be historically linked to the colonial era” (Walley 1997:407). Addressing the deeper nuances of the practice, as she advocates, can then stimulate a more productive feminist and anthropological debate that moves past binary limitations of “us” and “them.” By noting the powerful presence of African voices on both sides of the debate as well as the continued realities of global communications, multinational corporations, migrant communities, refugees, and tourists, Walley demonstrates that global transformations “are breaking down what has been a pervasive, if always problematic assumption—namely, that internally homogeneous First and Third Worlds exist as radically separate ‘worlds'” (1997: 406). This also means that the increase in the permeability of national, cultural, and ethnic boundaries does not unfairly place female circumcision within global discussions of universal human rights or consent and the treatment of minority populations. But I take to heart the danger in continuing to frame the discussion on female circumcision in terms of Western and Imperial notions of sex, sexuality, gender, and power. Therefore, I agree with Walley that altruism and activism must be based on “alliances and coalitions” (1997: 430) so that when communities request or welcome assistance from outsiders, aid workers and anthropologists alike will be “capable of critiquing practices such as clitoridectomy and infibulation without resorting to neocolonial ideologies of gender or denigrating the choices of women who support such practices” (1997: 430). The role of choice then, is to focus aid and activism efforts specifically on those in need and not on an any kind of essentialized or naturalized category of “victim”. By attending to issues of individual and group consent versus protest, people who intervene in a spirit of altruism might better avoid vilifying societies where female circumcision takes place and denigrating those cultures as primitive and backward. Failing to understand the cultural and social needs that female circumcision fulfills and undermining the culture of practitioners is, ultimately, unproductive and will do nothing to improve the lives of women and girls who are harmed by or refuse the practice of female circumcision.

In the end, we must get beyond the basic dilemmas of ‘ban completely’ or ‘allow unfettered’. Far too many case studies become mired in questions of medical imperatives, criminalization and punishment, or cultural backwardness and “tradition”. If we are to take a position of altruism, then it must be an altruism of support, an “other” altruism where we the Western, the educated, and the feminist are “othered” in relation to the selves of indigenous women as they distinguish their own boundaries of certainty, uncertainty, identity, and meaning. This means supporting the choices of those who seek refuge from forced circumcision without imposing a necessity for these women to assimilate to Western modes of thinking. It also means giving resources to those harmed by female circumcision without demanding a complete eradication of the ritual or leveraging judgments of inferiority. Through the discourses of choice and consent, the focus is shifted from social action to its effects and from demonizing women who find significance in the practice to caring for women injured by it. Choice means accepting nuance and affecting a kind of humanitarianism that doesn’t automatically imply authority. As Kenyan anthropologist Achola Pala-Okeyo cautions, quoted in Walley: “the role of [Western] feminists is not to be in front, leading the way for other women, but to be in back supporting the other women’s struggles to bring about change” (1997: 430). This is the other side of altruism, the side that gives its power so that others may speak.

Works Cited:

Boddy, Janice. 1982. “Womb as Oasis: The Symbolic Context of Pharaonic Circumcision in Rural Northern Sudan.” American Ethnologist (1982) 9(4): 682-698.

Ahmadu, Fuambai. 2000. “Rites and Wrongs: An Insider/Outsider Reflects on Power and Excision,” in Female “Circumcision” in Africa, Bettina Shell-Duncan and Ylva Hernlund, eds. (Lynne Rienner Publishers 2000): pp. 283-312.

Ahmadu, Fuambai. 2007. “Ain’t I a Woman Too? Challenging Myths of Sexual Dysfunction in Circumcised Women,” in Transcultural Bodies: Female Genital Cutting in Global Context, Ylva Hernlund and Bettina Shell-Duncan, eds. (Rutgers 2007): pp. 278-310.

Walley, Christine. 1997. “Searching for Voices: Feminism, Anthropology, and the Global Debate over Female Genital Operations,” Cultural Anthropology 12(3): 405-438.

Al-Hussaini, Tarek. 2003. Female Genital Cutting: Types, Motives and Perineal Damage in Laboring Egyptian Women. Medical Principles and Practice, 12, 123-28.

Sayed, G., M.A.Abd El-Aty, and K.A. Fadel. 1996. The Practice of Female Genital Mutilation in Upper Egypt. International Journal of Gynecology & Obstetrics, 55.3, 285-91.