Everyday Sustainability

Gender Justice and Fair Trade Tea in Darjeeling

Debarati Sen

• Publisher: SUNY Press
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781438467153
• Topic: Scienze sociali
• Subtopic: Studi di genere

Honorable Mention, 2019 Michelle Z. Rosaldo Prize presented by the Association for Feminist Anthropology
Winner of the 2018 Gloria E. Anzaldúa Book Prize presented by the National Women's Studies Association
Winner of the 2018 Global Development Studies Book Award presented by the Global Development Studies Section of the International Studies Association Everyday Sustainability takes readers to ground zero of market-based sustainability initiatives—Darjeeling, India—where Fair Trade ostensibly promises gender justice to minority Nepali women engaged in organic tea production. These women tea farmers and plantation workers have distinct entrepreneurial strategies and everyday practices of social justice that at times dovetail with and at other times rub against the tenets of the emerging global morality market. The author questions why women beneficiaries of transnational justice-making projects remain skeptical about the potential for economic and social empowerment through Fair Trade while simultaneously seeking to use the movement to give voice to their situated demands for mobility, economic advancement, and community level social justice.SUNY Press has collaborated with Knowledge Unlatched to unlock KU Select titles. The Knowledge Unlatched titles have been made open access through libraries coming together to crowd fund the publication cost. Each monograph has been released as open access making the eBook freely available to readers worldwide. Discover more about the Knowledge Unlatched program here: https://www.knowledgeunlatched.org/, and access the book online at the SUNY Open Access Repository at https://soar.suny.edu/handle/20.500.12648/8447.

1

Locations

Homework and Fieldwork

Research on the everyday experience of social sustainability encounters the ordinary pitfalls associated with workings of power, positionality, complicity, and friction between researcher, subjects, and contexts. Since experiencing social sustainability entails direct and indirect submission to various modes of being and becoming, intimate interactions between the researcher and subject are far from being immediate. The researcher’s relationship with her respondents and her presence itself is a palimpsest of power and desire steeped in long histories of exploitations, hierarchies, and differences. Caught in the mire of very complex histories of marginality, Indian Nepalis may perceive someone like me as one who holds the position of the mainstream oppressor caste/class. Being a Bengali middle-class and upper-caste bhadramohila (respected lady) residing in the United States, I had to engage with the awkwardness of my presence in some of their lives over a decade with my caste and/or class privileges intact. The “data” that fills this book then rests on a layered process of negotiation and positioning with forces in the field and also forces “at home” (in academe).

I also find it paramount to emphasize the importance of grounded feminist ethnographic research for a nuanced engagement with sustainable development discourse and practice. Such an emphasis will enable scholars and practitioners to consider not just the complexity of where the fieldwork is being done, but acknowledge that our academic choices (theoretical and methodological) are also deeply political and may have consequences for our particular ontologies of engaging the sustainable. One needs to be reflexive about such methodological and theoretical selections and contemplate more deeply the perception of such research methods in the fields in which one’s book will be read. Such “locations” often remain under the radar in these days of producing activism and policy friendly research. I believe that the arguments that I have made in this book are possible because of my academic location and the way I approached my field, as a feminist interlocutor deeply mindful of complicities and contours of power.

I begin this chapter detailing factors that shaped my fieldwork experiences; how they affected the minutiae of interactions I had with the participants in the field. This is followed by discussion of this book’s methodology which I call a feminist longitudinal ethnography.

Fieldwork: Pressures to be a “Conventional Anthropologist”

Very early on in my fieldwork, I felt the pressure of being a conventional anthropologist. For instance, even before I had landed in Sonākheti plantation, the owner told me that he had a plan for me. I had already sent him a formal letter explaining my research and its goals so that my intentions would be clear. But he insisted that I study the “cultures and customs among the Gurkhas.”1 He placed another challenge before me stating: “I am not going to give any of this information to you up front. You anthropologists are trained to investigate these cultural things, so please come back after you are done and tell me what I have not found out in my years here.” He soon realized that my objectives were different. He was not the only one. Other bureaucrats or officials in Darjeeling town whom I met had similar responses. At social gatherings, they would introduce me as someone who would write a “book on Darjeeling,” which was true. At other times the introductory sentence would be “she is here to study the tribal culture of the Gurkhas.” I did not object to any of these depictions of my work and my presence out of respect for my hosts’ generosity and time. This way I also got access to powerful people’s extremely pejorative opinions about plantation workers, tea production, regional politics, and Darjeeling’s future. I would frequently find myself in situations where extremely problematic statements would be made, assuming that my caste and class position would make me party to their nuances. Many of these interactions confirmed the existence of popular stereotypes about Nepali/Gurkha men and women, which influenced localized development and Fair Trade interactions as amply documented throughout Everyday Sustainability.

There was another reason why I went along with their depictions of my research objectives. Whenever I mentioned to bureaucrats or plantation owners in detail about my comparative work on Fair Trade, they would quiz me on why I was interested in small tea farmers. Most plantation authorities and tea bureaucrats were in denial about the presence of small farmer-grown tea. Some old officers of the Darjeeling Planters’ Association (now called Darjeeling Tea Association) worked with local NGOs that had become liaisons for transnational Fair Trade bodies. I soon realized that they had very little idea of Fair Trade’s history and association with small farmers even when the state tea board had already begun making inroads into these non-plantation areas for tea farmer training (see chapter 3 for details).

Usually, I handed these people my business card followed by my much-practiced research sound bite. Immediately there would be comments on how local tea farmers were numerically insignificant and yet foreigners (and U.S.-based scholars) were the only ones interested in them. They would ask me the reasons behind this spurt of interest, which had soared between 2004 and 2011 when the bulk of my ethnography was conducted. I would have a tough time convincing them that I was on to something, and the small farmers were not only significant for Western buyers but also for plantations in Darjeeling.

Once the plantation owners realized that I was not studying “Gurkha customs” per se or “tribalism,” they made an effort to monitor my interactions within the plantation. Mapping “Fairness” through plantation ethnography was a real test of patience, irony, and every process deeply fraught with classed, gendered, raced assumptions about my leanings as a Bengali, middle-class bhadromohila from Kolkata via the United States suddenly speaking good Nepali and eating gundruk and dalle (local vegetables)!

People had very little spare time and the workers who were articulate and informative were hesitant to share their views in spite of knowing that I did not intend to put them at risk. This was understandable considering that Bengalis also tend to perceive Nepalis in stereotypical ways, such as they are simple people, they drink a lot, Nepali women are outgoing and wayward, and they are fickle. Nepalis tend to see Bengalis as sharp, privileged, and not as well dressed as them, despite their inherited class privilege of having cushy jobs in the government. These are the dominating representational tropes shaping the friction-laden interactions between two groups. Being a Bengali and discussing politics with Nepalis was tricky. My fluency in Nepali combined with repeated visits without any “project” idea was perplexing for my interlocutors, but they knew I was someone they could eventually trust with their views. I always explained to them that the places and people would be protected with pseudonyms. They knew that I had lived the first five years of my life as an infant in Darjeeling. Once I had stayed in the plantation and cooperative area long enough, the elderly women would refer to me as “Darjeeling ko Chori” (“Girl from Darjeeling”) when they introduced me to strangers and cracked jokes about town traders mistaking me for a stupid Bengali tourist until I opened my mouth to bargain in Darjeeling Nepali.

In the plantations, the strict discipline of field and factory life was made unbearable by the presence of “chamchas” (henchmen of the planter) who literally reported on every aspect of workers’ and “visitors’ ” work and leisure routines. Considering the owners’ presumptions about the liberal and left-leaning politics of academics, they consciously discouraged me from “wasting my time with the union goons.” I would be surprised when the plantation managers would meet me at some corner of their large (more than 400 or so acre estates) and know the details of my previous day’s movements, although we had not met in weeks. They would tease me about becoming too close to Nepalis as if I had transgressed borders of respectability for an upper-caste Bengali woman. In an indirect way a compliment about how well I spoke the local language was always a reminder of their suspicion about my interactions with workers in a setup of intense disciplining of the labor force.

Whenever I asked the planter about collective bargaining, I was directed to closely observe the activities of the Joint Body and was rarely encouraged to talk to key labor union members. The union was not a taboo topic between the plantation administration, and me, but they made a tremendous effort to convince me that the plantation had no “union problems” common in the 1980s and that NGOs were doing such amazing work (see also chapter 4). Some management folks even told me, “Please let me know what you learnt from members of the Joint Body about their feelings about Fair Trade.” One planter’s standard statement was, “The sustainable revolution has already been unleashed in Sonākheti through organic farming and Fair Trade. It was supposed to produce new energy, prosperity and improve plantation life, but we do not know what good things are in store, and I rely on you for all this emerging information.” Apart from politeness, this statement was a reminder that nothing unethical could happen in a Fair Trade−certified sustainable plantation. It was also a reminder of an unspoken expectation of not raising suspicion about this plantation in exchange for the owner’s generosity toward me. He still wanted me to follow closely the “tribal culture” of various Nepali groups present in his estate. He considered it natural that as an anthropologist, I would be interested in tribal customs, as we study culture. He even joked about my lack of excitement about meeting local healers and shamans (jhākri). He told me “All the white researchers and visitors here get so excited when I invite them to meet maila baje (the local shaman) while you have no interest, you seem to be more interested in local gossip.”

Plantation workers in the beginning were extremely hesitant to talk to me, even when I had started living in their homes. I took advantage of homestay programs at the plantations and then gradually went beyond the homestays to interact with other workers and living with them. Naturally many plantation workers saw me as an acquaintance of the privileged plantation management since their bosses often spoke to me in English, Bengali, and Hindi. Some saw me as the owner’s pāonā (guest), but they soon realized that I was far more interested in plantation life under the radar, away from the performances workers put on for other visitors. Compared to how quickly I established rapport with the members of the tea cooperative, it took longer to break ice in the plantation because of the intense gendered surveillance. In Phulbāri the owners were non-resident Marwari, but the resident director was a Nepali gentleman. We frequently met in his factory office and our class status and conversations in English often raised suspicion among workers in Phulbāri as to how much they could trust me. I was an “other” in a community where Bengalis are seen as outsiders.

I detail the history of these fraught ethnic relations in the next chapter. Bengalis and Nepalis have deep animosities because the latter feel exploited by Bengalis or madeshis plains people. The Nepalis in Darjeeling consider themselves to be pāhāDi or hill people. For both Bengalis and Nepalis, the perceived differences result in thinking about each community through stereotypes. Such hostility also exists between Nepalis, Marwaris, Biharis (other non-Nepali communities in Darjeeling), and other dominant regional ethnic groups that exist in Darjeeling. The animosity and ridicule of Bengalis of course has a particular historical backdrop. Darjeeling is a district in the state of West Bengal, and the Gorkhaland movement was aimed at separation from Bengal to form a separate Nepali state within the Indian nation. Bengalis were thus envisioned as immediate oppressors reflecting the neglect of the Indian state toward its regional and ethnic minorities.

There was no denial of my class privilege. Although I was upper caste, being Hindu helped on many occasions considering so many of my informants were Rais and Chettris. I also got along very well with people of Buddhist leanings because I did not practice the strict dietary restrictions like a quintessential Hindu—I was not averse to eating beef or pork. It should be noted that I rarely had Tibetan (bhote) research subjects since Tibetans are mostly residents of urban areas in the Darjeeling district and are not farmers; they are more active in trading and tourism. Sometimes my open dietary practices were a cause of concern for very orthodox Nepali Hindu families (especially the Chetri-Bauns). But soon they realized that I was not exactly invested in being a devout Hindu, and of course, I ate whatever they cooked at home as an exercise in respect for their time and taking care of me. I was, however, forbidden from touching the kitchen chulā (cooking fire) in some Hindu homes even though I was upper caste. The fact that I was married to a Hindu man went in my favor, but not without complications. The mark of a married Hindu woman was wearing vermillion, which I did not use. Initially this resulted in some serious doubt about whether I was actually married. I had some wedding pictures in my laptop which came in handy. But being married without children was another serious issue and a trigger for much ridicule. My respondents advised me to have children before I returned to Darjeeling after my dissertation fieldwork. Being a married woman made it easy for me to discuss delicate household matters, and women assumed that I would understand their personal problems. There were many things I learned about these women that they asked me not to write about, especially details of abuse or violence in family life, and I have kept those details out to honor these requests.

Informant, Interlocutor, Researcher, or Activist?

There were times during fieldwork when I found myself to be like an informant and translator, but I would not call myself an activist (even if some see me that way) for reasons that will become evident in this section. Lower-level bureaucrats would try to understand many things about the Fair Trade movement by quizzing me since none of the training material was available in Nepali between 2004 and 2006. The most difficult questions were from tea farmers and some plantation workers who wanted to know why all of a sudden white people were interested in helping them. Many tea farmers initially saw Fair Trade as an NGO aid or government aid program. Some joked, saying that there was an overflow of money they got from selling their tea. They would use the English word “flow” to interpret FLO (the certifier with which they had become familiar). This was a very useful way for me to engage people on how they viewed Fair Trade and if at all they thought they benefited from it.

My assumptions about what women in the plantations and non-plantation areas should do to scale up their political and entrepreneurial ventures were reigned in from time to time by women reminding me that I would not be there after a few months when they would have to carry on their entrepreneurial ventures and associated community-level strategic interventions. Once I had asked Chitra Rai (an active member of the Women’s Wing of the local political party Gorkha Janamukti Morcha and resident of Phulbāri plantation) why they do not build alliances with women’s wing members of other political parties or activist organizations in New Delhi. She replied with sarcasm:

You think everyone is like you, leaving your home and husband and spending time with us eating pork, joking in Nepali about our lives. Most other educated Indian women think that we are sexually promiscuous, that we are not interested in education or stupid and that we, Nepali women, are best suited to be servants in their home. We will never join with a mainstream women’s organization, this is our fight for dignity of Nepali communities within India.

Sunita, another activist went further to explain why such alliances were not possible. The December 2012 protest against the Delhi rape was the most visible backdrop of her comments. She stated:

[L]ook at all these women out on the streets of Delhi, our country’s capital, fighting for injustice for this young woman who was raped. But every time I think about these protests I cannot forget that Nepali women are killed and abused in Delhi because people think we are outsiders and our girls are prostitutes, sometimes the police refuse to note down FIRs. But we cannot expect anyone to cry out on our behalf, take the streets. Nepali women do not matter. So how can we expect these same NGOs to suddenly support our cause?

The past eleven years of engaging with women in Darjeeling has left me with no option but to engage the “everyday” with the hybridity of an “insider-outsider” (Chowdhury 2011). Women and men have freely critiqued my privilege, at the same time opening up about their intimate lives in ways that I never imagined possible as a fledgling graduate student when I landed in Darjeeling in 2004. The sustained engagement of hybridity has not only shaped what I did while collecting data, but made me conscious about my positioning as a scholar and my representational strategies when I wrote about women in Darjeeling.

In recent years feminist scholars, especially feminist scholars of color (Davis 2013; Chatterjee (2009); and transnational feminists (Alexander and Mohanty 2013; Chowdhury 2011, Nagar and Swarr 2005) have raised rightful concerns over what passes as feminism, gender sensitive research, feminist activism, and, pertinent for this book, feminist ethnography. Such concerns stem from the acknowledgment of highly charged contexts of poverty, violence, marginality, and other gender-based oppression that find their way into research agenda. There is concern with what feminist anthropologists are supposed to do with the “data” they collect and how they manage the desires of their subjects who expect the ethnographer to do something for them in return for their time. There is also unease, bordering on who can call himself or herself a feminist activist ethnographer (Davis 2013, 26−27). These discussions parallel the ones I experience in the interdisciplinary graduate program where most of my graduate teaching is centered. There is a certain kind of celebration of “practice” (perhaps for good reason) in that space but little reflection on the implications of such emphasis and even less reflection on the playing field in which such “practice” or “activism” will play out.

I am not arguing that practice-oriented, applied, and activist projects are not academic enough, but one must reflect on the playing field of practice where complicities are part of the efforts to engage. The tenuousness of the insider/outsider di...