To my dear friend Maria João Sequeira, whose vision for women in science and belief in the humanism of knowledge will always inspire me

Dwelling in the field: time, trust and immersion

1The challenge of narrating 40 years of fieldwork in India goes beyond reconstructing a chronological account of research or revisiting the anthropological texts that emerged from it. It also involves an examination of what has long been an intrinsic part of my subjectivity and life experiences: the shared struggle against marginality and discrimination alongside Dalits and women, especially Dalit women. The field did not merely accommodate my presence as an observer; it required engaged and self-reflective participation, revealing the interconnectedness of method and lived experience, of ethnography and personal narrative. As I write about this journey, I seek to trace both an anthropological history and a personal one – a progression from initial involvement to the complexities of reflexivity, ethics, and shared vulnerability.

2From a methodological standpoint, this raises important questions regarding how long-term immersion transforms not only our ethnographic understanding but also the frameworks and standards through which we produce knowledge. By bringing these elements together, I am invited to engage with the foundational ethos of anthropology while also addressing the silences that the discipline has historically left unexplored.

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3Let us begin at the beginning, during what might be seen as an “age of innocence”: the 1980's. This was a time when anthropology still heavily leaned on Malinowski’s legacy and the established principles that canonised the profession of anthropologists, particularly the authority of “being there”. It was within this academic context that my research in India commenced. At the same time, the 1980's witnessed subtle but significant shifts within the discipline. Postcolonial critique, feminist theory and reflexive anthropology began to challenge the previously unquestioned authority of the ethnographer. As questions regarding representation, voice, and power gained prominence, the simplicity of the Malinowskian concept of merely “being there” began to give way to new uncertainties about what it meant to write about others and to voice these perspectives. Entering the field during this period implied navigating the influence of two key forces: the enduring impact of traditional anthropology and a growing awareness that its foundations were neither neutral nor stable.

4The decision to conduct fieldwork in an Indian village and to live with a caste of Dalits was determined by a critical awareness of the gaps in the anthropological literature on India. By the 1980's, the so-called “village studies” had already produced a substantial body of literature to illuminate the dynamics of caste, kinship, and agrarian life. However, these studies predominantly favoured the perspectives of dominant groups, particularly Brahmins or locally influential castes. Dalits were often mentioned only in passing, portrayed as marginal figures viewed through the lens of their high-caste neighbours' observations and biases. My project aimed to challenge this inherited perspective. By shifting the ethnographic focus toward Dalits, the intention was not merely to add another viewpoint but to illustrate how the caste system appears from its margins rather than its center, from its bottom rather than from its top.

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8Revisiting these texts after four decades of ongoing engagement reveals not only the silences imposed by disciplinary conventions but also the epistemological consequences of those silences. The voices of Dalits, particularly Dalit women, have always been present in my life and work, yet they were often constrained by the textual forms through which anthropology sought legitimacy at that time. Writing today under the theme of “beyond silence, beyond stigma” leads me to acknowledge that long-term ethnography not only generates alternative archives and perspectives but also compels us to reimagine the forms through which anthropological knowledge is conveyed.

Where voices meet texts: subaltern lessons from the field

9My long-term fieldwork revealed caste as a constantly negotiated landscape of stigma, exclusion, and resistance. Yet, Dalits, far from being passive victims of oppression, emerged as active subjects – narrating their experiences of discrimination, interpreting their own histories, and devising strategies for survival and dignity. What previous studies often depicted as peripheral to village life turned out to be central to understanding its social dynamics and, therefore, knowledge produced from elite standpoints was incomplete and distorted, calling for a shift in viewpoint to recover the voices of those who were rendered subaltern, silenced, or invisible (Perez 2004).

10While I was conducting fieldwork in Gujarat, the historians of the South Asian Subaltern Studies Group began publishing works that significantly influenced my academic itinerary. Over time, I had the privilege of engaging directly with some of the group’s most prominent figures, including Dipesh Chakrabarty, Partha Chatterjee, and Gyan Prakash. My engagement with these thinkers was not abstract but profoundly transformative in how I conceived knowledge: they prompted me to consider not only whose stories were told, but also through which archives, categories, and frameworks of understanding.

12The Subaltern Studies collective progressed Said’s critique, underscoring that even counter-hegemonic historiographies can inadvertently reinforce the silences surrounding the subaltern. Ranajit Guha’s analysis of colonial and nationalist archives, coupled with Gayatri Spivak’s (1988) provocative question – “Can the subaltern speak?” – raised challenging yet crucial issues about representation, mediation, and voice. These insights have shaped my methodological approach, compelling me to reflect on the ethical boundaries of what an ethnographer can genuinely know and highlighting the importance of acknowledging the structural vulnerabilities of the communities with whom I engage. Their work continues to reverberate my own, often through a mode of reading “against the grain”, a deconstructive idiom they sometimes invoked. Ranajit Guha’s (1983) central insight remains impactful: the subaltern, often excluded from the historical record as a hegemonic subject – whether in colonial archives or in narratives crafted by “educated” native elites – still makes its presence felt in the fissures of hierarchy and hegemony. Therefore, the subaltern is not merely passive or absent, acted upon from above; it possesses agency, creating effects that are not always predictable or easily understood within dominant paradigms or state frameworks.

14In distinct ways, both Said and the South Asian Subaltern Studies Group represent intellectual lineages to which I remain profoundly indebted. Said’s incisive deconstruction of the epistemological violence inherent in orientalist discourse heightened my reflexive awareness of anthropology’s historical complicity with colonial representation, compelling me to re-evaluate the positionality of the ethnographer. On the other hand, the Subaltern Studies collective highlighted the necessity of constructing what could be deemed counter-histories – narratives that are attentive not only to domination but also to the fragmented and often obscure ways in which subalterns resist or avoid incorporation into dominant narratives. The intersection of postcolonial critique and subaltern historiography has become more than just an academic orientation for me; it has shaped the ethical and methodological sensibilities that guide my teaching and writing. I acknowledge my intellectual debts through the questions I choose to explore, the careful approach I take towards the voices and silences of marginalized individuals, and my ongoing concern about how knowledge can be used responsibly and must be held accountable in contexts of vulnerability.

From Gujarat to Goa: contingency, voice, and the redirection of ethnographic trajectories

16It was at this juncture that chance – often underestimated in discussions of academic trajectories – redirected the course of my ethnography. An invitation to collaborate on an exhibition about Goa (Perez 1997) unexpectedly drew me to that state. What initially appeared to be a detour from my focus on Dalits ultimately became the foundation for a new dimension of my research.

17The prevailing assumption – held by some academic voices and echoed in public discourse – characterized Goa as predominantly Catholic, as if centuries of Portuguese colonialism had erased or diminished its Hindu presence. From this perspective, Goa seemed marginal, even irrelevant, to discussions of caste and untouchability. However, this assumption is profoundly misguided. Hinduism has always been and continues to be a significant force in Goa, where practices related to caste and ritual marginalization persist (Perez 1997, 2012).

19At the dawn of this century, I had the extraordinary privilege of meeting Dadu Mandodkar, a prominent Dalit activist, poet, author, and intellectual from Goa. Mandodkar, who hailed from the Mahar caste, devoted his life to combating caste discrimination and fostering the social, cultural, and political empowerment of Dalit populations. Profoundly influenced by the ideals and writings of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, Mandodkar embraced Buddhism and became a passionate advocate for disseminating Ambedkarite thought among Goa’s marginalized communities. His works, including Bahishkrut Gomantak (“Untouchable Goa”, recently translated into English), powerfully articulated the pain and struggles of Dalit life. Our extensive conversations significantly enhanced my understanding of untouchability in Goa; furthermore, Mandodkar introduced me to individuals from the Chamar and Mahar castes, thereby expanding my perspective on their lived experiences. However, two key factors prompted me to explore a different intellectual direction. In my quest to gain a thorough understanding of Dalits, most of my other interlocutors often guided me to the devadasis of Goa’s Hindu temples and their children – a marginalized and frequently overlooked group within caste studies. More critically, I became aware how, during this time, Dalits in India were increasingly asserting their political and civic agency, articulating their demands for representation. This awakening raised an important ethical and academic question for me: what right did I have, as a scholar and outsider, to appropriate or speak for these voices now that they were claiming their own?

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20Two decades later, a new opportunity – the invitation to serve as a visiting professor at the Indian Institute of Technology Gandhinagar – redirected my ethnographic focus back to the Dalit community, specifically to Dalit women in an urban setting. The resulting research project, titled “Of sandalwood and women: an interdisciplinary approach to technology and health,” was conducted over three years in a slum in Ahmedabad, concentrating on Dalit women employed in the informal economy of agarbatti (incense-stick) production. This study highlighted the interconnected systems of women, caste, and social oppression, illustrating how these women’s labour existed within frameworks of precarity and invisibility that perpetuated historical marginalization.

21My fieldwork revealed practices that emphasized the contradictions between constitutional guarantees and the realities faced by these women. Despite child marriage being formally illegal in India, early marriages and premature motherhood remained prevalent social norms (Perez 2022b). The intergenerational cycle of illiteracy, particularly the exclusion and early dropout rates of young girls from education, further entrenched cycles of dispossession and marginalization. My research also uncovered how girls entering the wage labour force during adolescence normalized child labour within gendered and caste-based economies of survival, blurring the lines between domestic responsibilities and (poorly) paid labour (idem).

22The physical impacts of these intertwined systems manifested through the chronic suffering experienced by women workers. Many faced orthopaedic disorders caused by the repetitive and harmful postures required in incense rolling, along with severe respiratory illnesses resulting from long-term exposure to dust and poor-quality chemical oils. In spite of these occupational hazards, women were excluded from any form of state-sanctioned medical care, even though article 9 of the Constitution recognizes the right to health as an integral part of the right to life. This exclusion underscores the persistent gap between constitutional rights and social realities, wherein gendered labouring bodies are both heavily exploited and systematically omitted from institutional frameworks – be it educational, medical, or political.

23Notably, unlike other extensive ethnographic studies that produced written material such as articles and monographs, this project remains largely unwritten. There is a partial exception in a text titled “Bhavan” (Perez 2022b), which narrates my relationship with one of my women interlocutors. This lack of written documentation is not incidental; it stems from the methodological foundations of collaborative ethnography on which the project was based. The women’s illiteracy necessitated a halt in the writing process, emphasizing the epistemological and ethical responsibility to ensure their narratives are not recorded without their active involvement. As a result, the project remains in a state of deferred writing, waiting for the right temporal and relational conditions before I can once again enter their small “houses” in the slum and fulfil my role, both literally and methodologically, as a scribe who translates their voices into written form. Simultaneously, these voices serve as an expression of subaltern agency, fostering empowerment not only within the caste but also in the broader social landscape. They will align with the voices of Dalit across India, who collectively reframe their identities as a political subject in the ongoing struggle for rights and recognition.

Itineraries of marginality: women dancers from a Hindu temple of Goa

25The portrayal of bailadeiras in Portuguese colonial rhetoric was inherently ambiguous and contradictory: colonial writers frequently shifted between fascination and condemnation, simultaneously eroticizing the dancers while regarding them as threats to Christian values and social order. These representations can be contextualized within a broader framework of orientalist stereotypes, highlighting a recurring pattern in which gender asymmetry acts as a central metaphor in imperial encounters. This inherent ambiguity embodies what I refer to as “erotic exoticism”, or, if we prefer, “exotic eroticism” (Perez 2005).

26However, it is important to recognize the difference between how the representations of the devadasis were articulated under Portuguese colonial rule in Goa and those defined by the internal frameworks of Hinduism, even if these discursive constructions cannot always be regarded as entirely independent of one another. Historically, the term devadasi refers to a woman who dedicates her life to the worship and service of a temple or deity, often performing ritual dances and ceremonies. The ethnographic research I carried out at the temple of Manguesh in Priol revalidated, in a broad sense, this conceptual orientation and, from an anthropological standpoint, simultaneously displaced it into a different epistemic register, thereby expanding its analytical scope and interpretive potential (Perez 2012).

28Symbolically wedded to the deity, the devadasis were supported by affluent Brahmins, often forming lifelong “monogamous” relationships with them, which sometimes resulted in children. This connection enabled them to achieve a relatively higher social status within the temple gender hierarchy (see Perez 2012), thereby challenging the oversimplified view that devadasis represent a uniform group with fixed status rankings.

29I have illustrated that a hierarchical structure exists among women within the Manguesh temple complex, with the devadasis occupying the highest position in this social order (Perez 2012). This internal stratification, evident in this context and others like it, emerged through extensive ethnographic fieldwork. Such immersive research enabled me to critically assess the stark contrast between the social representations and perceptions of devadasis in Goa and their actual status within the temple environment, as well as within the broader scope of Hindu religious practice. Notably, while devadasis enjoy a prestigious position inside the temple, their social status is significantly diminished outside its precincts and the surrounding landscape of Hinduism. This devaluation is enduring and often spans multiple generations, despite the considerable efforts made by these and other devadasis to invest in the education of their children, many of whom pursued professional careers in fields such as law and advocacy.

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30At the outset, there are significant parallels between the Dalit women I lived with in a village in Gujarat and the devadasis at a temple in Goa, particularly in terms of stigma, social devaluation, and the resulting experiences of discrimination. However, the contexts in which these similarities are situated differ markedly. In Gujarat – whether in rural or urban areas – British colonialism maintained a relatively distant presence, leading to the marginalization of Dalits as deeply embedded in the internal dynamics of the Hindu social order. In contrast, Goa experienced a long and pervasive Portuguese colonial rule, which significantly contributed to the stigma associated with the devadasi institution. This comparative approach is particularly valuable, as it encourages us to explore how experiences of discrimination are localized and historically mediated.

31This mediation became particularly pronounced during my ethnographic fieldwork with Dalit women and devadasis. As a white European woman, I evoked a sense of profound strangeness and curiosity among the Dalit women, as they had never seen a white person before. This unfamiliarity was due to the village’s lack of electricity – a situation that persisted long after my arrival, with television only reaching the community years later – and the limited mobility of its inhabitants. Although my solo travel went against local norms – where women are typically identified in relation to men as mothers, wives, or daughters – I did not experience any rejection. Instead, from my very first day, I was greeted with considerable warmth and hospitality.

32My encounter with the devadasis of the temple of Manguesh stood in stark contrast to my experiences with Dalit women. Despite my initial assumptions – which, in hindsight, were both uninformed and presumptuous –, I was met with clear rejection. Although I stayed with a close friend who is a Brahmin and whose ancestors had maintained relationships with devadasis and fathered children with them, my identity as a Portuguese woman, and, for them, a Catholic (Perez 2014), positioned me within a community that continued to stigmatize them, albeit often in a discreet manner. Furthermore, this identity connected me to a nation with a long history of devaluing the bailadeiras. Unlike the Dalit women of Valthera, who welcomed me with a meal upon my arrival, it took considerable time and effort to navigate different barriers before I was extended an invitation for even a cup of tea. This experience illustrates the intersection of fieldwork positionality and the steadfast boundaries upheld by a historically marginalized community. It also highlights how identities shaped by history, culture, and religion can influence access and relational dynamics within ethnographic research.

From religious legacies to political resistance: women Nationalist in Goa

33Like many anthropologists, I hold that serendipity is a vital aspect of the fieldwork process. Unforeseen encounters and contexts can provide fresh perspectives, lead to surprising insights, and significantly shape the trajectory of research. As I reflect on my journey in anthropology, I recognize the important role that serendipity has played. It highlights the dynamic and fluid nature of my ethnographic fields, where research sites and questions often evolved through new experiences rather than conforming to rigidly predetermined plans. Thus, serendipity has served as both a creative and epistemic force, enriching and broadening my understanding of anthropology, enabling me to transcend initial hypotheses and discover new dimensions in my research.

34As my fieldwork with the devadasis at the temple of Manguesh advanced and my relationship with them deepened, I gained access to remarkably rich life histories. Some of these narratives were rooted in the temple and the broader religious context of Hinduism in Goa, while others extended into wider social realms. One of my most significant engagements was with a woman who was the daughter of a devadasi and had herself been initiated into temple singing and rituals, trained to live as a devadasi. She left the temple at a young age and had a relationship – never openly discussed during our visits, including my stays at her home – that resulted in two children who studied in the United States and built their personal and professional lives there.

35One monsoon evening, while sharing a cup of chai, she revealed a fact that challenged my previous assumptions about the nationalist movement in Goa, which I had believed to be predominantly, if not exclusively, male. She spoke of her active participation in this movement. Initially, I saw her involvement as that of an occasional participant – an inspiring woman who, at the time of our acquaintance, had dedicated her life to meditation and solitary reading in her small white house, where she lived until her death. However, she corrected my perception, disclosing that there was a significant movement of women, originally from Goa and, in some cases, from neighbouring states like Karnataka and Maharashtra. These women, including her, defied familial and societal expectations that confined them to domestic roles. This encounter ultimately led me, a few years later, to connect with these women who collectively challenged restrictive social norms and made meaningful contributions to Goa’s anti-colonial struggle.

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36The dominant historiography of Goa has long characterized Goan society predominantly as Catholic and Portuguese-speaking. This scholarship has focused primarily on male experiences while marginalizing or entirely excluding women’s perspectives. Furthermore, Goan society has often been examined through the narratives of dominant, privileged groups, whose accounts, despite being hegemonic, are neither fully consensual nor universally accepted. Indigenous viewpoints have been systematically omitted from Portuguese colonial descriptions and subsequent analyses, as have women’s voices in both colonial and anti-colonial histories and ethnographies. Women’s representations have frequently been neglected, relegated to marginal archives, or irretrievably erased.

37My research revealed a significant group of women who actively participated in the nationalist movement in Goa and faced severe repression for their involvement. These women were detained under harsh conditions, worsened by the lack of dedicated female prisons in Goa. They were subsequently tried by the Tribunal Militar Territorial (“Territorial Military Tribunal”), the colonial court established by the Portuguese regime to prosecute anti-colonial activists.

38The historiographical silence surrounding women in the Goan nationalist movement dissipates when secondary archives and subaltern voices are explored. Therefore, archival research must extend beyond canonical texts to include colonial periodicals, bulletins, records, and local oral histories, each offering fragments of women’s experiences, encouraging strategies that can center women’s agency and resistance within historical narratives, challenging hegemonic historiographies and amplifying the voices of women whose histories have remained in the shadows for too long.

39To analyse this women’s movement, I employed three fundamental methodological approaches. First, I conducted a detailed examination of the trial records from the Territorial Military Tribunal. These documents provide essential insights into the legal mechanisms of colonial repression and the narratives constructed to criminalize women’s political activism. Second, I analysed newspaper articles documenting these women’s roles in the liberation movement. This included regime-affiliated publications such as the Diário da Noite, as well as opposition newspapers published outside Goa, particularly in Bombay, which offered alternative perspectives on the nationalist struggle and female participation. Research into women’s portrayals in colonial periodicals reveals their voices – often only alluded to, occasionally recovered from the silence of non-canonical archives, and sometimes produced by Catholic authors.

40Most crucially, I utilized an ethnographic approach that involved interviewing some of the surviving women, who are now advanced in age, as well as engaging with family members and close friends of those who have passed away. The vivid and detailed memories preserved within these individuals illuminate the lived experiences of these women in ways that official documents and the press cannot capture.

41This realization encourages us to reconsider the role of women in the anti-colonial struggle, highlighting their emancipatory actions under colonial and patriarchal constraints that limited their political and civic participation. A thorough examination of their lives reveals the significant impact these women had on the Goan political agenda during the final decades of Portuguese colonial rule and in the post-colonial period (Perez 2018).

42Such a triangulated methodology allowed me to access memories and narratives that were systematically suppressed or erased within colonial official records. The ethnographic approach, in particular, was instrumental in preserving the personal and collective histories of these women and providing a crucial counter-narrative to dominant historical discourses that have marginalized female agency in the nationalist struggle. Together, these sources and methods reveal the formidable resilience and contributions of Goan women nationalists. Despite facing physical and psychological torture, imprisonment, and legal persecution, these women actively resisted colonial rule and challenged the patriarchal structures that sought to silence their political and civic participation. Their stories deserve recognition not only as a testament to their courage but also as an essential dimension of Goa’s anti-colonial history.

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43A book has been patiently awaiting completion at the conclusion of this extensive ethnographic journey. Some chapters have already taken shape, crafted in fragments over the years. Yet, the finalization of this work – now in progress – has frequently been interrupted by various commitments and urgent matters, serving as both diversions and justifications for what has always been a demanding endeavour. Unlike my previous works, this book cannot seek the approval, nor risk the disapproval, of the women whose lives, stories, and memories initially infused it with meaning. Their voices, once so present, can no longer guide my writing; instead, I bear the responsibility of memory and the task of honouring their presence in their absence.