(photo by M. A. al Awaid)
When I worked at Sloan School of Management, one of the business books that was often mentioned was In Search of Excellence (1982) which includes the theory of “management by walking around.” This idea posits that good managers leave their desks and talk to other employees to figure out what is going on in the company.
I like that concept because some of my ethnographic work comes from my deciding on a research question and some comes from “anthropology by walking around,” meaning that I am living my life and an ethnographic puzzle falls into my lap. Sometimes, ready or not, the research comes and finds you.
In September 2022, my dear friend Steve Cass died suddenly. I had met him on the first day I was in Oman, so we had known each other for 17 years; 15 of those years our offices were next to each other so we chatted several times a day about teaching issues.
He was a well-respected colleague and teacher, so I knew that he had affected many Omanis but I was surprised to find that many people wanted to process their sadness through me. In the weeks and months after he passed away, several of his former colleagues and students would stop by my office, talk about what a wonderful man he was, weep, then leave.
It felt like being ambushed as no one ever let me know ahead of time that they were coming. I would be in the middle of grading papers or writing an exam, trying to keep myself on an even keel – then suddenly I was dispensing Kleenex, bottles of water and sympathy. My days were often derailed by these unexpected visits as my own grief, carefully bottled up for work, came spilling out.
The worst part for me is that I was expected to listen to their sorrow, but not share my own. People who had not seen him in years would want a detailed description of how he died, cry and tell me stories about Steve, but if I tried to say something, I was interrupted. Even close Omani friends would let me say a sentence or two, then change the subject.
Eventually I started to wish that the mourners would bring their sadness to someone else. I felt that I, with the least resources available, was forced into the position of dealing with other people’s unhappiness when I could scarcely handle my own. People with a spouse, children, a secure job, a house and support systems would express their sorrow, then exit my office, leaving me a complete wreck.
I kept thinking of Ring Theory, the idea that you should dump your emotions on people less affected by a problem [ https://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-xpm-2013-apr-07-la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html ]. I was experiencing the opposite effect. If I was with someone who knew Steve and tried to talk about my feelings, they would interrupt and talk about their distress. If the person did not know Steve, then they would listen to me for a moment or two, then interrupt to tell me that I should not dwell on his death.
For reasons I did not understand then, Omanis did not want me to verbally process my feelings. People who could easily talk for an hour straight about a minor irritation in their life refused to listen to me say for more than a few sentences about the loss of a 17-year friendship. I could not find a vantage point to understand these conversations; I endured the best I could and eventually those type of interactions stopped.
Then in April 2024, I started to tell Omani friends that I was leaving Oman and I fell into a new series of problematic interactions. The main reaction to learning that I was going was rage and, as Omanis rarely show fury, it was extremely disorientating to hear “no, you are not going. That is the wrong decision.” I weathered these storms of anger with increasing confusion and, eventually, my own anger.
No one said, “I am sorry you are going”; they went straight into pointed, hurtful declarations, telling me straight out that I was making the wrong choice, demanding to know my reasons then refuting them, telling me to change my mind and saying that I would regret my decision. I was already sad at the thought of leaving; receiving no compassion, understanding, support or empathy made it worse. A European friend who had left Oman a year before me had mentioned the anger of their colleagues when they said they were leaving but I did not expect such vehemence.
And people who knew full well why I was going tried to spin my leaving as my choice. One Omani colleague said, “You are leaving because of your family.” I stared at them and said, “No. Not because of my family at all.” There was a strained silence, then we parted.
Others, after our initial conversation, studiously avoided me with the attitude of “you are making a bad choice and I will leave you alone until you rethink.” Their silence was broken by periodic check-ins, “Are you really still going?” To which I replied, “I would not tease you by saying that I was leaving as a joke!’ This was followed by more silence.
Even saying that the administration had quickly accepted my resignation without talking to me did not elicit acceptance. “No, go take your letter back! You will not resign!” was the response. Any sign of sadness was interpreted as proof that I had made the wrong decision
As the brutal “you are wrong” conversations continued, I wondered if the reaction was because I had made such a big decision without asking for advice. Since I had wanted to know about the local cultures, I was always doing what I could to adjust, taking to heart any suggestions and corrections that were offered by Omanis. I checked in with the research guys before deciding things like where to live; for the two cars I bought, I left the choice entirely in their hands. Maybe the issue was that I had not shown grief over sad events such as my father’s death so perhaps my Omani friends thought I was much tougher than I am. Maybe it was a reflection of Omanis’ fear of the unknown, their confusion as to how I could quit my job without having another job lined up.
One American friend pointed out “they are making it easier for you to leave” and I realized sadly that it was true. Good friends, people I liked and respected, brow-beat me to tears. Then I had an awful day full of problematic conversations, culminating when a dear friend called and asked what, to me, were a series of ridiculous questions about people’s response to my leaving: Of course A had done this nice act, yes? No, they had not. Well, of course B person had done that nice thing to help me, yes? No, they had not. Well, of course, C and D had done this nice action, yes? No, they had not.
I wanted to fling the phone across the room. I had spent the last 2 hours throwing out dozens of carefully collected and organized files full of poem, stories and dramas that represented 19 years of hard work finding good texts for my students. There was no one to give the files to which made me sad and this ridiculous conversation in which my friend kept asserting that there were many helpful people doing positive things made me wonder, why was my friend being such an obtuse Pollyanna? I was miserable, where was the sympathy?
I thought of a recent time when I had been supportive of a close Dhofari friend who had just lost a close family member. As I reflected, I realized that my friend was calm and collected when I came to give my condolences. They, and all their relatives, talked peacefully, trying to put me at ease. In the Dhofari perspective it is the job of the person most affected by a problem to appear the most serene, making a difficult situation easier for others. And finally my perspective shifted and I was able to see the previous few weeks from a new point of view.
I have written a lot about the importance (and difficulty) of “self-control,” but now I was living that cultural aspect and failing miserably. The problem was me. My Omani friends were giving me chances for me to display my self-control and trust in my decisions while I was flailing around like a dying fish. They were leaving me alone so I could save “face” at a time when I was totally uninterested in “face.” They were waiting for me to pull myself up as I felt pulled under.
Of course they were ignoring me, when the going got tough, I resorted to acting like a child, complaining, crying, blaming others and showing sadness. This was exactly the wrong way to go about dealing with a difficult decision. I should have channeled Cyrano and Candide, loudly and happily proclaiming the self-agency of my decision.
They were giving me the compliment of assuming I had their grace and poise but I was abnegating my social responsibilities. Their interruptions of my attempts to verbally process were done in the spirit of kindness; they were trying to stop me from making a fool of myself. I had written about their impressive insistence of public composure at all times in my first book, but now that I was supposed to do that myself I did not have the strength.
The Omani colleague who asked me if the reason for my going was “my family” was allowing me to show that I was not so weak as to leave because someone was treating me badly. They were trying to let me have my self-respect but I blew that interaction. And I blew the phone call with my friend who was trying to give me chances to show how I didn’t care if people were behaving badly. Instead I was petulant and aggrieved.
As soon as I made this breakthrough I tried it out on an Omani friend. “You think I should be strong! You think I am a Dhofari! You think I am hakli! HAH! I can’t carry my sadness like you.” They instantly understood what I was getting at and answered, “Yes, I don’t understand you. I thought you would be strong but you are so weak.” Their framework was: yes, X is horrible but I should not give up my power by saying that X influenced my decision to leave. I should proclaim that was my choice to go.
Then they told me a story of someone who had gone through much more hardship than I but had stayed pleasant and friendly to everyone, acting as if nothing bad had happened. I said I did not have that much power and we had a long talk about differing responses to hard times.
Later, I had the same conversation with several other Omanis, always starting with something along the lines of, “in your culture, the saddest person must be the strongest so maybe you were thinking I would be strong about going, but I cannot be as tough as you.”
The reaction was always laughter, agreement and a discussion of cultural perspectives, with many remarks about my odd behavior. My stating that I understood what was expected of me yet I could not meet those expectations allowed our relationships to smooth out. My despondency ebbed as we all got back on regular footing.
When an Omani friend asked me to dinner, I agreed, then left them a long voice message explaining that I did not want to spend our time with them demanding that I stay and me defending my position. This was very un-Omani boundary setting but now that I was seeing the outline of the problem, I knew I needed to get out in front of it.
At the dinner we discussed my new insight, and I mentioned how I really struggled with interactions after Steve died.
They said, “People were coming to your office to share your grief.”
“But I could never talk!” I responded.
My friend shook their head in exasperation, “You are not supposed to talk!”
“But I wanted to talk!”
“No! They came to show that they are sharing your feelings.”
We stared at each other. It was one of those moments in which the right behavior is so clear, it’s impossible to understand why someone is not agreeing with you.
So, while I still don’t see all the contours of the issue and I can’t easily or automatically adjust, at least I now can, mostly, get myself into the correct mindset. The day after that dinner, two people came into my office to discuss my leaving and I, with difficulty, handled the interaction appropriately.
I smiled, didn’t complain, listened to everything they said with a benign expression and thanked them for their kindness in stopping by. When each person left, I unclenched my jaw and congratulated myself for managing an approximation of the right behavior.
I can now see that if I hadn’t reflected on Omani responses to my leaving, I would never have understood all these interactions. I knew the cultural rule, but it had never been applied to me with such force.
In After Babel, George Steiner asks the hypothetical question “if you speak more than one language fluently, how do you tell what is your real language?” then gave various answers including, the language you choose when you are talking to the person you are in a romantic relationship with, when you see a small child, when you are in danger or when you are sad. That question helps me frame my last few months in Oman. Despite 19 years trying to learn Omani cultures, when I was sad, I went straight back to my American culture, forgetting the lessons I had learned.
The research guys often told me “congratulations” when I said I was sick. It was their understanding that being ill gave you the chance to reflect on your mortality and improve your behavior. So congratulations for this chance to become a better person! Any inconvenience, from running out of cooking gas in the middle of making dinner to loud construction noise that started at 6:30am, was dismissed as “it didn’t kill you, why are you complaining?” They stay calm in every difficult circumstance and expected that strength from me. Somewhat similar to the understanding that you don’t know if you have a good life until you die, you don’t understand a culture until you leave it.
Reflections on Ethnographic Work: Ending and Beginning
Reflections on Ethnographic Work: The Grasshopper
Antigone and Ismene – Making Difficult Choices
Reflections on Ethnographic Research: Deciding to Hire Expat Workers (part 1 of 4)
Two poems for courage: “Against Hesitation” by Charles Rafferty and “Thalassa” by Louis MacNeice
Come From Away 
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