A conversation about fatherhood: being a student and daughter

The incident described was held in the public room of Pramana's home, a room Pramana had previously used for running informal educational sessions for his and the neighbouring children. As tradition in this region, we all sat on the floor and exchanged general conversation over coffee before the interview began. Pramana, who was a 66-year-old man, was joined by his wife and variably by two of their six children (both daughters) who moved in and out of this communal space. I was dressed appropriately with arms and legs covered, but my hair uncovered as accepted and indeed expected as a non-Muslim in this specific region and household. My notebook and pen were in my hands and the dictaphone lay on the floor in front. I was set physically, practically and intellectually, poised to hear the story Pramana would choose to tell.

While discussing the impact the stroke had on his life, Pramana raised the topic of education. He explained how education was one of the key responsibilities that a parent must provide for their children, but also emphasised that this role was as important to deliver to his daughters as his sons, acknowledging the presence of his daughters as he spoke. This egalitarian view of education has been previously noted in the region (Bowen Reference Bowen1991) and so I was not unduly surprised by this inclusive approach. However, as mentioned above, Pramana was Javanese and I consequently wondered if inclusivity was a previously held commitment or one adapted to the specific environment in which Pramana now lived. This conversational turn to ungendered education alongside the performance of the father–daughter connection was not, however, only an intellectual observation, but also instigated a shift in my experience of myself within the exchange. I became aware that I had until this point positioned myself, both within the conversation but also literally on the floor with my trappings of note taking, as a student, eagerly listening to the teacher who would educate me on their experience, taking notes and asking pertinent questions. I not only positioned myself as a student, I was one, a point not lost on either myself or Pramana who was aware that it was this identity that had brought me to his home. Moreover, while I was somewhat older than most of his students, I was nevertheless over 20 years his junior and in life terms, as unmarried and without children, shared more with his charges than he himself, a situation frequently encountered within gerontological research.

My embodied performance of student as highlighted by my notebook and dictaphone, but also my gentle nodding, attentive eye contact, probing questions, reinforced the value of the topic in question, but also his position as the educator, implicitly encouraging the conversation through our mutually collaborative roles. So while an ‘other’ in age terms, it was an ‘otherness’ that was within a mutually recognisable frame. The shared experience of the teacher–student relationship, albeit with different and complementary roles to play, created a salient mutually recognised platform. This apparently reduced the appearance of ethnic or religious differences as important features. Such gendered and generational roles have been discussed elsewhere in relation to cross-cultural and age scenarios (Rubin Reference Rubin2012). Less has been said about how being a daughter influences the interaction, yet a subtle shift in the conversation that continued with Pramana brought this aspect of my embodied presence to the fore.

As the conversation progressed to confront the loss of this educational role as a consequence of his stroke and the fear that his younger daughters may not be educated as he was now too tired and unwell to provide, this student body I had inhabited was hijacked by a more personal and emotional engagement as a daughter. My thoughts as I listened to this man share his vulnerabilities and fears became peppered by my late father, an academic who had died many years before my education was complete. These thoughts were echoed in the conversation as Pramana shared his hopes that his children could complete their education as I had, and verbalised the pride I imagined my father would have had on completion of my studies. While emotionally disarmed by the unexpected inclusion of my father, I quashed my instinct to verbally react to this statement, allowing the presumed shared connection between Pramana and my deceased father to persist. My engagement with the conversation however altered, I physically softened, rested my hands in my lap and my note taking basically ceased.

Later, reflecting on the conversation, my father reappeared, prompting the following entry in my diary:

During the provisional analysis that followed, the emotional weight of the loss of my father in his educational role and the series of questions I personally still had unanswered heightened. I began to feel the frustration that this imbalance in capacity and social duty created, but also the potential complications for the younger children. Would they resent their older siblings if they were not afforded the same opportunities? How would they relate to their father who until now had provided effectively under difficult social conditions? My emotional connection as a daughter who had experienced this loss, albeit under very different circumstances and place, stimulated a deeper consideration of the consequence of loss, but also how those potentially changing relationships would impact on Pramana. I wondered if he engaged in this forward thinking and if the sadness he expressed was not just for the loss of role as teacher and provider, but also his potential fear of a loss of love, of respect and the instability in the family structure that may evolve. These were topics we had touched on in relation to his need to be cared for, but it was only later that the connections between this cared-for role and the multi-layering of the educational provider role began to merge, stimulated by the merging apparent in my own past experiences. Through this process, the parallels and differences between the two fathers evolved. I further considered the shared roles they held and the desire to complete socially accepted responsibilities, and within this how my ethnic ‘otherness’ was diminished. The differences in vulnerability created by place and socio-economic and political context insured the ‘otherness’ was all too apparent. My education was completed despite my loss of father, whereas for Pramana and his daughters such security was not available.

Within the space of one conversation my embodied presence and experience as a young person, a student, a woman, a daughter bereaved of father and a person socio-economically privileged emerged, dissolved, merged and shifted in unique and temporally situated ways, illustrating the fluctuating and interactive nature of embodiment. Crucially, not only did these shifts potentially result in different stories being shared, but awareness within myself facilitated a more engaged analysis where acknowledgement of our common worlds, but also more radical differences, facilitated a deeper and more emotionally engaged reflection on the words spoken. A focus on any one of these embodied presences alone and/or an assumption that they are static within the evolving relationship between interviewer and interviewee would risk simplifying this dynamic interaction and in doing so the insights gleaned from a deeper engagement.

Gendered vulnerabilities in ageing: women from different worlds

Through the course of the research I met a number of women who had been left by their husbands, or were fearful that they would be deserted and who in some way related these events to their stroke. In contrast, none of the male stroke survivors had been left by their wives. The stories which developed over time were a rare insight into the social dynamics of marriage and how they interplayed with Islamic law and local Gayonese culture. On the one hand, participants explained how land could be owned and worked by women and therefore the potential for security remained if their husband had left them. Yet at the same time, the partner who owned the land was morally responsible to support the other members of the family. Consequently, female stroke survivors whose husbands had left them explained how they had to farm their land not only for their survival and that of their children, but also to provide for their previous husband and in some cases, his new wife. They discussed how this was not official law in the area, but the norms of behaviour between couples were influenced heavily by local interpretations of Islamic doctrine. As women they felt disempowered to question these norms which were in turn reinforced by a strong social pressure to behave socially as a ‘good Muslim’, prohibiting them from open discussion of discontentment of their position (for further discussion on this concept, see Norris Reference Norris2009). These narratives of engendered vulnerability in later life demonstrated a complex mix of cultural and religious interpretations which contrasted with the more dominant narratives of family unity (Norris Reference Norris2009).

Their telling was undoubtedly facilitated by my being a woman, but more specifically a young, single, Western woman. My lack of husband, marked by the absence of a wedding ring which did not go unnoticed by the women, was drawn into the conversation with reference to how lucky I was not to have marriage complications coupled with advice to stay single. While an ‘other’ in terms of marital status, an apparent solidarity had been created though our shared gender. The experience that marriage created vulnerability was one these older women wanted to protect me from, irrespective of our different ethnic/cultural/religious backgrounds. While this aspect decreased my apparent ‘otherness’, it was emphasised by my position as a non-Muslim, non-Gayonese/Acehnese/Indonesian. For these women, being seen as a ‘good Muslim’ was essential to their social standing, reinforced by the ethnic complications that had been wrought by the civil conflict (Norris Reference Norris2009). Yet as an ‘other’ I was an apparently safe ear to which their experiences could be told. Frequently, comments were made when others, including my co-researcher, had left the room, when the dictaphone was switched off or when physical props such as photographs or indeed coffee trees were available for the interviewee to facilitate the conversations. In doing so it was as if they were talking to rather than with someone, sharing their story with a neutral presence but only in a unilateral direction. But this potential assumption that I, like the photograph, was a neutral ear is untenable and not supported by my reflexive engagement.

I was brought up a Christian and I live in a country (UK) in which Islam is a politically and socially potent term, and where reference to women's position is subject to frequent social commentary (Poynting and Mason Reference Poynting and Mason2007). Yet I was born and brought up in a Muslim country and spent five years living in a predominantly Hindu one. Religious plurality, in short, is my background and with it an agnosticism tinged with deep interest in the nature of religious belief, including Islam. Concepts of the ‘good Muslim’ were of interest to me both academically and personally, but took on a different significance when combined with gender and my own social concepts of equality and marital relationships. While my gender and lack of husband (which was mirrored by my co-researcher) were particular assets in facilitating this topic, I am a woman from a very different cultural and social background. The combination of solidarity and ‘otherness’ resulted in a strong emotional engagement with the narratives. An extract from my diary written directly following one interview highlights my reaction:

My engagement with this topic is clearly illustrated by my fuming body which wanted to vent its anger through a physical act of violence to the perceived perpetrator of wrong-doing. Also apparent are judgements based on my personal experiences and expectations of life and my own behaviour as a researcher. I express concern that my Western self may erupt, creating the potential that its distinctive ‘otherness’ would interrupt the connection that had been created through gender bonds. Consequently, I actively shielded part of myself from my participants, taking care to protect our relationship from views that were distinctly my own and an emotional response that was out of keeping with the current context (in terms of socially acceptable behaviour and my position as a researcher). This awareness of my ‘otherness’ resulted in feelings of vulnerability, but also shame. I was aware I was trying to shape myself to conform to acceptable local behaviour, while feeling dishonest for hiding myself and in doing so not demonstrating solidarity with these women as I would in my own familiar context.

The embodied experience of both my frustration and anger, which I consciously suppressed in public, and my sense of vulnerability highlighted something regarding the social experience of these marginalised voices (Sharma, Reimer-Kirkham and Cochrane Reference Sharma, Reimer-Kirkham and Cochrane2009). The intersectionality between age, gender, martial position, religion, social discontinuity post-conflict, ethnicity and disability carved a uniquely vulnerable position for these women which I experienced viscerally. By exploring my anger and my gendered experience of living both within the UK as well as in this unusual research context, that vulnerability took shape. These women had not only been deserted by their husbands, but also by the society in which they lived. The need to remain within social boundaries prevented other women from aligning themselves with these women. My shame at inaction ignited awareness that I had also deserted them because of my concerns with emphasising my social ‘otherness’ and my need to collect data. This subsequently assisted my understanding that expressing dissatisfaction with their position would have potentially positioned these women as ‘others’ within their community and hence their need to confide where there was apparent space; myself, the trees, the photographs.

This example once again emphasises the fluctuating influences on embodied identity, but also how this impacted on the research itself. The participants' and my own contradictory utilisation and camouflaging of my ‘otherness’ facilitated the story. By taking note of my emotional response, my appreciation of their story altered. When removed from the constraints of the field, those emotions lingered and grew, directly influencing what I chose to report. These stories were a minority finding, but I chose to present the case of one of these women while others were omitted, writing ‘because of its salience to the individual affected it is important to report’ (Norris, Allotey and Barrett Reference Norris, Allotey and Barrett2012: 832). While I am confident of the importance of these stories for the participant, a more honest presentation would also have acknowledged their importance to me, one which my embodied frustration forced me to consider, but also one which is born from my unique embodied presence and negotiations of status within the community.

Embodied presences: being the body

In the UK, at nearly six foot I am above average height and considered obese. I use what Warin and Gunson (Reference Warin and Gunson2013) call the ‘O’ word intentionally to indicate my size, but also to draw attention to the social and moral associations that it entails within the dominant UK culture. I am a fit and healthy young(ish) woman who grapples daily with the knowledge that I am labelled, as Warin and Gunson (Reference Warin and Gunson2013) describe, a moral failure, a failed citizen – social narratives I have absorbed. But my embodiment of failure is drawn from and lived in a particular time and place, where specific cultural values of the ideal body dominate. Indonesians, according to some scholars, share some of these views with the ideal body considered svelte, supple and lean (Ferzacca Reference Ferzacca2001), a view at odds with my robust and somewhat rotund body. Consequently, even before arriving in Aceh I was aware that my physical stature could influence the research process. I questioned whether my height and size would be intimidating and whether negative social judgement would follow me to the field. On arrival my physical ‘otherness’ was impossible to ignore, I was not only white but also compared to my participants I was huge (see Figure 1). I therefore considered my presence as an ‘unexpected body’, one which disrupts normalcy for the interviewees (Kannen Reference Kannen2013), and I questioned what impact that disordering of expectations would have on the narratives produced. Over the course of the fieldwork I was further alerted to the internal experience of my physical presence and its impact on myself and the interactions with participants.

Figure 1. My physical presence (centre) in relation to one participant (left) with her grandchildren.

Initially it became apparent that the description of the ideal body, drawn from fieldwork in Java, was not completely shared with participants in this study. For the vast majority of people, life in this mountainous region is physically demanding. Small holdings (kebun) were owned by most families and so farming was an everyday occupation for both men and women. I heard and observed these physical demands but also experienced them while walking through the coffee plantations, to people's homes and assisting with the clearing of scrubland when neighbours required the assistance. Within that context I was an interesting physical proposition. I was considered ripe for working in the kebun, which frequently came up in conversation, but my physical presence and embodied experience of the environment were also potentially active players in the discussions regarding participants' lives.

Stroke typically results in physical as well as many other deficits, as may ageing more generally. It was therefore unsurprising that concerns with the physical were articulated both through the interviews and in the photographs taken by the stroke survivors. Of interest, however, was the dominance of the physical (over and above the social, for example) and its nature as these concerns were predominantly functional rather than those with either cosmetic implications or how the sense of self had been altered as a consequence of stroke (both frequently mentioned in other stroke literature, e.g. Ellis-Hill, Payne and Ward Reference Ellis-Hill, Payne and Ward2000; Wiles et al. Reference Wiles, Ashburn, Payne and Murphy2004). The participants discussed in depth and illustrated the activities that they were required to do, which frequently involved those activities that they had related to my perceived capacity. They also considered the reliability (or lack of) of their bodies which now prevented them from independently participating in desired physical roles and in some cases the real physical roles required in order to sustain their position as an active member of their family (see Norris, Allotey and Barrett Reference Norris, Allotey and Barrett2012). In this region of Indonesia, retirement was not a held concept and physical work regardless of age was a required part of everyday life. The only participants who diverged from this position were two who remained ill following their stroke and subsequently focused more on end-of-life issues relating to religious obedience and duty to their spouse.

These conversations were often held in relation to my physical stature and capacity, thereby explicitly drawing me and my body into the story of their stroke. Yet in the telling and performing the participants' story my body became a prop both literally and metaphorically. I was a physical reminder of what they wished to be and had lost due to their stroke, but I was also physically utilised within the telling process. My legs and back were slapped to illustrate their strength, and my forearms pinched. Jokes were made about how I would be able to lift them with one hand, invitations made to come and work in the field with them. This performative aspect of interviews has been discussed in depth elsewhere (Hyden and Brockmeier Reference Hyden, Brockmeier, Hyden and Brockmeier2008), but my focus here is less on the performance of the interviewees and more on my improvised delivery, in which my bodily presence, inscribed by my own perceptibly unique cultural and social history, was launched into the heart of a story for which I was somewhat unprepared. Of note in these interactions was the lack of reference to my age, gender or ethnicity, which were not raised within this context by participants. It would appear that my literal physical presence and its association with their current physical experience of life post-stroke and their wishes for the future resulted in these apparent indications of ‘otherness’ to be somewhat hidden, irrelevant or even meaningless.

Being seen as physically robust with a useful body was a counter-narrative to my everyday life within the UK. The moral baggage of obesity appeared to hold no sway here. These interactions did not, however, normalise me, but de-normalised me in a different and positive context. So the ‘unexpected body’ was not just mine for the interviewees, but how mine was now constructed by me. This changing relationship with my own body was, I believe, directly and indirectly an active feature in the research process. I explicitly, although not necessarily consciously, encouraged the physical performances and through that a focus on physical functionality. I allowed my body to be handled and did not stifle conversations regarding my regular swimming, walking and martial art training which were observed and subsequently shared in the community. I was becoming more comfortable with this new self-image, and as it appeared to facilitate a specific rapport with the participants I utilised it as a research tool. More indirectly, my body was simply present. I moved confidently and fluently through the terrain surrounding the participants' home, sitting on the floor and rising with ease, all activities my participants had once taken for granted but could no longer. Such physical differences are not uncommon in gerontological research.

Yet there was also an opportunity for me to refocus on my ‘normative’ Western self. One conversation around caring resulted in three adult daughters discussing their difficulty with toileting their mother, whom they needed to carry. I was sitting on the floor next to the mother and I looked at her to consider the impact of this difficulty. The eldest daughter immediately followed this with a comment that the daughters should be grateful their mother was not my size as they would never manage. This led to much laughter and agreement from the whole room including myself. Despite the jovial turn, my feeling of physical vulnerability and negative social judgement was immediate and internally I slumped, the awareness of my own weight bearing heavily. But within the context of the juxtaposed position of positivity, this awareness was incredibly valuable. My instant change in confidence and self-worth that resulted assisted me in considering not just the functional difficulties that the interviewees with stroke articulated and the practical implications for their family, but also the potential emotional consequence of unreliability, of social judgement, of the participants' embodying a distrust of their body in everyday life and the literal physical weight of requiring care. These insights encouraged an exploration of these topics in subsequent interactions and hence a development in the data collected. They also facilitated a deeper consideration of the concept of unreliability in the analysis which resulted in a more nuanced presentation of the consequences of stroke and one that moved beyond the initial functional description (see Norris, Allotey and Barrett Reference Norris, Allotey and Barrett2012).

Sharma, Reimer-Kirkham and Cochrane (Reference Sharma, Reimer-Kirkham and Cochrane2009) suggest that the researcher's experience of an environment can assist in understanding the participant's world by compelling the researcher to consider how the participant's body interacts in the participant's world. My experience emphasises the potential insights gained from being in the environment physically, but also how that physical being is constructed and experienced socially and morally, by oneself, by the participants and within the shared encounter that results. Furthermore, experiencing a shift in my own body awareness created further fields of possible enquiry, enhancing an appreciation of the complexity of the participants' construction of their body.