Negotiating Access and Acceptance in the Field: Entering an Unknown Territory
Ikhlaq Ul Rehman Mir
PhD Scholar, Institute of Kashmir Studies, University of Kashmir Srinagar
My doctoral research is on digital media literacy in the informal sector and looks at street vendors in Srinagar. My field site was Srinagar’s hustling-bustling vendor lanes, busy footpaths and sidewalks with vending carts from the famous Dargah Hazratbal market (also a famous shrine in Sringar), to the vending zones of Lal Chowk at the city centre and Batmaloo bus stand. Echoing the sounds of survival and hope, these footpaths carry stories of everyday courage, resilience, and strength of of vendors. Approaching such a field site was not merely exploring the new territory; but entering lives shaped by precarity, instability, and insecurity concerning jobs incomes, and overall well-being, along with legal restrictions imposed on them.
Gaining access to this world was not limited to consent forms. It was about standing beside the carts under the open sky and leaning against the same rusting carts, waiting patiently for a nod, a smile, a positive gesture and potentially for an informal conversation to begin. Amid the painful waiting and even rejections, I succeeded in entering their world to unfold the untold stories of digital media presence in their lives.
Amid the ever-present threat of eviction, harassment, and exploitation at the hands of police and state, my entry into the field as both, as an insider and outside, provided me with an edge to examine their vulnerabilities at length. My position as a researcher made me an ‘outsider’, while being Kashmiri and having lived in Srinagar for ten years had made me by and large a known face among the vendors. From buying vegetables, fruits to other household items daily from these vendors, and sometimes offering prayers together helped me to become familiar with them. Further, my extroverted personality helped me in building a rapport with my participants. First, I established a link with one fruit seller near the masjid who then introduced me to the president of the vendors’ group. However, I also had the experience of one street vendor misguiding me when I approached him for an interview. Upon deliberating on my purpose of visiting and approaching him, he straightway said, “Look bro, these exercises are a waste, and it does not give any benefit to us. Many people came and took data from us, but we have not seen any change.”
These vendors owed me nothing, yet they gave me their time, their voices, and stories of their struggles. And I, in return, gave them the truth of who I was. I never pretended to be a customer or a journalist. Deception may bring quick data, but it leaves behind broken trust. I never wanted to be treated as an outsider, instead I wanted to be an in-group member. Over time, that hope found roots and instead of considering me different from them because of my education, they started sharing their personal stories with me. Now, three years have passed since I first stood in those lanes, notebook in hand and uncertainty in my heart. Today, those once-strangers greet me like family. One participant even wanted to act as a matchmaker for me.
Here is another moment from my fieldwork journey that blurs that line of formality and distance between researcher and participant. It was my fourth visit to Javaid’s cart, a familiar spot for me in a silent corner of a busy path. It was evening time, and the sun was hiding behind the lofty snow-clad mountains. Javaid was casually sitting on a broken wooden chair near his cart talking to a customer. When he caught sight of me, a quiet smile flickered across his face. He didn’t say a word, just nodded and gestured to me to sit on the auto-rickshaw parked beside his cart. That auto was more than just a vehicle. Every morning, Javaid drove it to the mandi (fruit market) to fetch crates of fresh fruit. After that he turned it into a makeshift shelter for the rest of the day and occasionally took a nap, sipped tea, or chatted with friends when the customers were not around during hot afternoons. That day, it became my shade.
After negotiating with the customer, Javaid turned to one of the banana crates tucked inside the auto and peeled open the box. His face changed. Disappointment crept across it as he stared at a heap of spoiled bananas, their brown-spotted skins sagging with the day’s heat. He let out a sigh: half anger, half resignation.
“These bananas are burying me in debt,” he said bitterly, tossing a few aside. “They go bad so quickly. But what to do? I can’t sell these to customers. They trust me, that’s why they came here. I can’t break that.”
Javaid sat beside me, and we talked at length about the business and problems in the fruit vending business. As I was about to leave as it was getting darker, Javaid plucked a banana, the best of the lot, and handed it to me. Then he offered me a cup of tea that was left by his mother on his cart. That was the moment when I felt,not in his words, but in his eyes a warmth: the building of trust that I had so hoped for.
Since then, two years have passed. What began as cautious fieldwork has grown into something deeper. When I vanish for a few days, my phone buzzes with a missed call or a simple message: “Kidhar ho? Sab theek?” (Where are you? All good?) I have many such stories to tell and memories to share and cherish.
Leaving the Field but Continuing to Recall Emotions
Research among the marginalised is not just data collection; it is negotiation, humility, and above all, responsibility. I succeeded in building trust and gaining field access. Behind the transcripts and data are people who live in the margins but speak from the centre of their own lives. Over the course of these three years, I didn’t find just participants, but people who embraced me with open arms. Some of them have become more than just voices in my research—they have become my new family.
Although my formal chapter of fieldwork is over, the bond with my participants is still there. Whenever I take a break from work, I come and sit with them and together, we chat and laugh. We share stories about business and discuss politics, cricket and what not. Sometimes I just observe their grim faces that have a lot of stories to tell. Now when I think of a final departure from here, I find myself in a conundrum of what scholars in anthropology call the ‘exit’. How do you walk away from people who opened their world to you, not for money, not for recognition, but for trust?
One of my participants, who has now become a close friend, treats me not as a researcher but as a messiah who can solve all their problems. He along with other vendors vend on the footpaths outside the university and they are most vulnerable to government and police interventions. Recently they were removed from the site. He straight away called me for help and possible intervention . He expressed his feelings saying: “Humein police nay yahan say hataya, kuch karo bayi.” (The police has removed us from here, please do something brother).
What I could offer him at that time was just sympathy, but I assured him I would help them raise their voices if they needed my support. In the end I came to understand that research is a continuous tussle between being the familiar and the unfamiliar. That is, what we think we know and what unsettles or challenges that knowledge. However, meaningful research, especially with marginalised communities, must therefore extend beyond intellectual curiosity and embrace ethical responsibility and human connection. I believe in the healing power of the right intentions and honest words. So, when I finally leave this place after my PhD journey, I will not just say goodbye to them but will greet them with a promise: ‘We will meet again.’
Bio: Ikhlaq Ul Rehman Mir is a PhD scholar at the Institute of Kashmir Studies, University of Kashmir Srinagar. He has completed his Masters in Mass Communication & Journalism. He writes on issues of digital media literacy in marginalised communities which also constitutes the heart of his doctoral research.