So, having described some of the obstacles to actually
finding these kids, I’ll flesh out what the survey process actually looks like,
from start to finish.
Step 1: Approach the
house unannounced. Call the mother away from her chores to ask if she has “any
children ages 14-21 years old in their home.” The woman considers her children
for a moment and replies no, she doesn’t.
Step 2: Repeat the
question. She might change her mind.
Step 3: Lure the boy
or girl close enough to explain the survey. If they are under 18, request
their mother or father to sign the consent document. *Note: this is a
particularly cruel part of the process, as many parents are illiterate and
writing their own name is embarrassing task.* They take a moment to wash their
hands for this special occasion, wiping them on their clothes to dry. They regard
the pencil and paper with alarm, as if the proffered objects are snakes, or a pistol.
They write it painstakingly, and hand the paper back to us proudly and a little
relieved, at which point I must inform them that they have to sign their name three more times. Sometimes, they just
bag the whole enterprise and start making scribbles across the page.
Step 4: Conduct the
survey. Interviews and surveying are quite public events in Nepal. Kids,
relatives, and utter strangers want to listen in; but this poses a problem when
the survey contains sensitive subject matter, as these people are generally
just putting their nose in where it doesn’t belong. Two options for dealing with unwanted
spectators. You can a) hatch a diversion, or b) shoo them away. I am
unfailingly the bait for the former strategy. I lure the onlookers away from
the interview, and showcase my outrageously bad Nepali skills. During this
time, I refer to a script I’ve developed, which includes everything they could
possibly ask me during this brief interaction. I’m from the United States.
America. Yes, I like Nepal very much. Yes, I suppose I could marry your son. Is
he handsome? I’m 27 years old. Yes, I know its past time to have children, don’t
rush me. Yes, I have gray hair, and no, I will not dye it.
Step 5: At the
conclusion of the survey, extricate yourself delicately from the situation. Our
questionnaire, because it focuses on issues of mental health and identity,
includes some sensitive questions, compelling the kids to reflect a little bit
on their own emotions. Some teens flippantly answer the questions, as if
they’ve never experienced any symptoms of depression or anxiety first hand and
can’t be bothered with it. (I’m usually incredulous with these types—what
teenager hasn’t “been irritable with others in the last two weeks?” Clearly
they are in self-denial.) Other kids need to take a few moments to compose
themselves; every prompt an unwelcome ghost of the darkness that threatens to
choke out the light.
Step 6: Give yourself
some poorly composed justification of why you’re doing this research in the
first place. It’s at these times when I feel like a spectator of human
suffering—like the nosy neighbor wielding binocs, peeping in an achingly
personal expose from their window—not an ethnographer. I can’t offer them any reprieve;
I only come to put hash-marks on paper, the contents of their bared souls I
check into neat boxes. After such an intimate exchange, it seems rather
churlish just to get up and walk out, as if you don’t have to do 299 more of
just the same, and their experiences aren’t just a tiny cog of a large
statistical jigsaw. The post-survey climate requires some validation. Some reassurance that this excavation of
their emotions wasn’t to no end, and that you appreciated them giving official
authorization to mine pieces of their life. In lewder terms, do some pillow
talk.
Because in a way, the ethnographic encounter is like a
romance, and survey research a one-night stand. You must, on a smaller scale of
course, and keeping your hands to yourself, establish an element of trust, and
capitalize on that tenuous trust in order to get what you came for—reliable
data. Sometimes it feels manipulative. Sometimes exploitative. Sometimes you have to tiptoe out of the room before the subject begins to openly regret the encounter, with a muttered "I'll call you" or "We'll talk later." And true to expectations of all bad one-night lays, we rarely do.
But, ultimately, I can’t say that this trust is altogether misplaced.
Something will come of it. Because, unlike a snooping neighbor, after
witnessing this sort of suffering, we will phone the authorities. Intervention
is at hand, but evidence must be collected and presented. And the basis for
that bond between researcher and subject, however slight, must be made
manifest. It must be followed through as something more than a blurb on my
resume and a few published articles to advance a career. Something so that, through
this brief acquaintance forged over several pages of checklists, we together
have contributed to the alleviation of the suffering of others. Something.
