What's the point of doing a PhD?

 

After successfully sitting my PhD viva exam last month, I did something which I’d been promising myself for a long time. I sat down and I re-read all of my undergraduate essays and dissertation. The period of time between starting my undergraduate degree in Anthropology at the University of East London in September 1994, and finishing my PhD at Birkbeck College, University of London in September 2024 – I’m somewhat stunned to realise – is exactly thirty years. But perhaps more remarkable than that was the realisation, as I re-read those essays, that this was probably the first time I’d done so since I’d finished writing them. And, given the number of glaringly obvious typos and grammatical mistakes I now found them to contain, I strongly doubt whether I’d even bothered to proof-read them before I submitted them!

 

There were a couple of reasons why I’d not re-read them before now. Well – firstly, life moves on. And, secondly, at the time I was hugely dissatisfied with my first degree. Consequently, I wasn’t overly proud of much of what I had written towards it. In retrospect, from the very moment I’d finished my BSc., it felt like something I had survived rather than something which I had accomplished. Nevertheless, I knew I wasn’t wholly finished with academia just yet. I’d always intended to go back and do an MA degree, but it took me a long time to think about and decide upon what sort of subject I should choose to pursue next. I joked at the time that it took me fifteen ‘gap years’ to decide. Originally, I’d wanted my first degree to be in Archaeology and Anthropology, but force of circumstances had meant that my first degree had ended up being a single honours in Anthropology (with as much archaeology as I was allowed to cram in!). Those fifteen years, in which I worked full-time in a museum, enabled me to figure out that I was perhaps more interested in and better suited to becoming an historian rather than an archaeologist. However, archaeology and anthropology were still very much part and parcel of my academic soul. These original interests of mine have certainly continued to influence and inform everything I’ve since done academically, including my subsequent MA and PhD studies in History.

 

Consequently, it perhaps shouldn’t be so surprising to find that there is quite a lot of continuity between the things I wrote about and the trains of thought I pursued in my undergraduate studies and my postgraduate interests even though the academic fields of anthropology and history each appear to be quite distinct. Re-reading some of those early essays it is amazing to me to find that I don’t remember the subjects of several of those essays at all (!), but I do recall many of the ideas I described and even certain sentences which I wrote within them verbatim. I’d pretty much disesteemed or mentally struck off most of these essays and my undergrad’ dissertation as (at best) half-hearted attempts at simply managing to scrape by. Trying my best not to flunk when I’d pretty much lost all interest in the degree itself. Thinking back, there was of course a lot more to life going on back then than simply studying for studying’s sake. I moved into a shared student house for much of my first year, but student life didn’t really turn out to be what I’d hoped or anticipated it might be. So I moved home for the last two years of my degree, commuting a long way to attend lectures. But fortunately, my timetable was very condensed, which meant I was able to work while still doing my degree full-time. This wasn’t an ideally conducive situation for making the best of my studies, although it did mean I was in a better position at the end of my degree to get a full-time job. I’d just missed out on that financial golden era of full student grants, but I had managed to dodge the incoming new trend (or, rather, the poisoned chalice) of student loans and skyrocketing course fees.

 

This kind of hybrid-way of studying as an undergraduate also meant I was well-prepared for taking on a part-time MA and then a part-time PhD while continuing to work full-time – although I wouldn’t recommend it. It is hugely demanding and requires a vast reserve of stoicism and staying power. I really wish I had been lucky enough to have experienced that cloistered collegiate system of university learning which I had seen and partly experienced during my initial application process to study “Arc’ and Anth’” at Durham University. It’s a kind of alternate academic universe which I can sort of still picture and imagine myself having lived. However, looking back at the reality of the hand which Fate’s celestial croupier dealt me, I think I did manage to make the best of things in the long run. And, despite the odds against it, even that first disconsolate degree wasn’t wholly a wasted effort.

 

It is fascinating to re-read those early essays and reassess them now. The very first of them are awful. My spelling and punctuation look like I’d typed them while blindfolded! – But the quick shift up in gear shown in the essays that follow, particularly those which were written in my second and third years, is quite remarkable. They very quickly become passable academic efforts, and although my writing style and authorial voice is disarmingly direct and informal (there’s a lot of “But in my opinion …”, “I think it’s clear …”, “We should more correctly say …”, and the like). In some ways, it’s quite amusing and heartening to be re-introduced to this former me – a teenager emerging into his early twenties – with no real knowledge of the world at large, pontificating ever so wisely about the evolution of human societies and the origins of culture. In truth, though – even now, I have no faith in my own knowledge or confidence that I know the first thing about whatever it is I am writing about. I’m constantly haunted by the fact that it might well be (and very probably is) glaringly obvious to everyone else that I’ve got it all completely wrong. Forever walking that overly faux-confident knife-edge between mediocrity and a nervous breakdown. Socrates was right, the more we learn the more we realise how little we actually know.

 

When I began my PhD, I was very aware of the seemingly widespread and all too ubiquitous horror stories of those already swamped in doing theirs. I saw their angst-ridden lamentations vented on-line with the hashtag #phdchat, and I naively – but 100% confidently – assumed that this wouldn’t apply to me. How could it? – I’d had fifteen ‘gap years’ to prepare, and I’d already begun researching and even publishing on my chosen subject. I had always wanted to do a PhD. I can remember deciding I would one day do one when I was just 11 years old! – Consequently, this was something which I had been getting ready for all my life. I was (then) 39 years old. It would be fine. Totally fine. A doddle even, I told myself. But most importantly it would be something which I wouldn’t rush. It would be something which I would do properly and well.

… Ha!

Looking back (but sparing the reader all the boringly intricate and gruesome details), it is something which I did to the best of my abilities given the circumstances; which, ultimately, is all that anyone can ever hope to do in whatever task we apply ourselves to.

 

However. As always, at all levels throughout the course of my formal education, I see the root of all my difficulties and struggles actually lies in the process itself. I’ve always thought education was about learning, remembering, analysing, and applying oneself. But, time and again, what I have consistently overlooked is that it is a process. If you know and understand the rules of the game you can play it and pass, and progress. But what I didn’t realise about the final hurdle of the PhD is that it is primarily about endurance.

 

Re-reading my undergraduate essays, I can clearly see the huge leap up from A-level to degree standard. Likewise, I can see the onward jump in sophistication and refinement to MA level. But the key requisites for PhD survival are something else entirely. It is an acutely observed and intensely mediated process. The kind of criticism you get is constant and relentless. You must learn to forbear because the levels of frustration and the grace with which you endure it is what ultimately defines both you and your PhD experience. It’s impossible to explain this aspect to anyone who has not experienced it. And this isn’t an elitist thing. I’ve found it an incomprehensible process to explain to other people who have not done a PhD. Quite logically, it seems utterly baffling to them: How can you be engaged in something which appears to have no deadlines, and the deadlines it does seem to have in the end turn out to be entirely elastic, such that a PhD appears to be a never-ending process? Essentially, a self-torturing metaphysical path which extends ever onwards into infinity!

 

All levels of education are a rite of passage. But I am a stubborn sort, and so once begun I resolved never to give up. In truth, it probably began on a September day way back in 1981 – my first day at school – although naturally I had no idea at the time. Many of my teachers during my school years used to write damningly in my school reports that I was too slow and methodical, too set upon doing things in my own way when otherwise not totally disinterested in the proceedings. Not bright by any means. Dyscalculiac and put in the “special needs” category early on, I never let the officially-sanctioned dents that got bashed into me put me off. I later spent those fifteen ‘gap years’ immersed in libraries, reading and learning to write, making up for the things I’d missed or wasn’t actually taught (such as the rudiments of spelling and grammar), attempting to find out and fathom for myself the various aspects and fundamental elements which I’d misunderstood. Effectively trying to re-wire my brain so that I could give it my best shot and reach the final finish line. And thankfully, at long last, it seems as though I have finally made it. And most importantly, I’ve reached the end without losing my essential love nor my basic interest in the subject which I chose to research and write about. Looking back at those early undergraduate essays, it’s interesting to see how far I’ve come. My PhD thesis might not be exactly what I wanted or intended it to be, but it has officially met the required standards. It’s done. And as for what happens next, I have no idea if I have the energy or level of intellect required to keep going beyond this point. Feeling somewhat deflated and oddly adrift in the post-PhD doldrums, all I can do at the moment is keep reminding myself that I did it. I survived this last part of the process. It’s done. It’s over (... except for some ‘minor revisions’).

 

I’ll never be able to properly explain what completing and passing my PhD truly means to me, quite simply because it is not in the slightest bit important to anyone else. And that’s the only piece of advice I can or am now fully qualified to give to anyone else who might be contemplating doing a PhD, which is: it’s only worth doing a PhD – if it is important to you – to do a PhD.

Also on 'Waymarks'

Bullsh*t Anthropology

&

A Synopsis of my PhD Thesis

Western Explorers in East Tibet

"Everest Through The Lens" - Exhibition Review

 

Climbing Mount Everest. Under the auspices of the Mt. Everest Committee: the cinematograph record of the Mount Everest Expedition of 1922. EE/6/5/60 (RGS-IBG Collection)

Exhibition Review: Everest through the lens (Royal Geographical Society (with IBG), 1 Kensington Gore, London, SW7 2AR, UK: 5 October 2022-20 January 2023) - this review was originally written for the Other Everests Research Network. 

NB - the exhibition is currently back on display at the RGS from 20 January 2025 - 15 April 2025 (10.00am-5.00pm, Monday-Friday), free entry. Click here for more information.

Everest through the lens was an exhibition marking the centenary of the first two British attempts to climb the world’s highest mountain in 1922 and 1924. It examined the expeditions as seen through the lens of official expedition cinematographer, Captain John Noel. Focussing on the two films he made, Climbing Mount Everest (1922) and The Epic of Everest (1924), the exhibition set out ‘to unpick the uncomfortable and complex social, racial and geopolitical dynamics that shaped the expeditions – from their beginning to enduring legacy.’ Utilising a range of photographic and documentary sources, as well as a handful of well-chosen objects – such as a kinomatograph camera, similar to the one Noel used at high altitude, and Noel’s own Remington portable typewriter – exhibition visitors were guided through the various stages of the two expeditions, from their meticulous preparation, through their actual execution, to their final presentation in both print and film media.

 

As a documentary filmmaker, Noel’s lens was far from an objective one. The narrative of both films gives a distinctly colonialist view of the ‘heroic’ exploits of the British climbers, whilst the far larger entourage of local porters and other indigenous labourers who were key to enabling the endeavour are lost somewhere in the flickering side-lines, obscured by the simultaneous glare of the white snows and the reflected imperial glory bestowed upon the films’ British protagonists. Viewing the expeditions in the context of their times, this was a period when empires and nations vied to best one another in epic feats of exploration in harsh and extreme environments. Notably the British had lost out in the races to be the first to reach the North and South Poles, hence the summit of the world’s highest mountain – or the ‘Third Pole’ as it was then dubbed – represented a last chance at attaining pre-eminence. Together, the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club formed the Mount Everest Committee, which tasked itself with recruiting a team of elite mountaineers and geographers. Naturally these men were all British born and bred, privately educated and recruited through a network of mutual contacts. Letters and medical appraisals show that social considerations of class and military background counted as much as aptitude and experience in mountaineering. We are told that George Finch, as an Australian, was a lone exception to this rule, but that consequently he ‘was looked down on by some team members.’

 

A far more overtly condescending view was expressed with regard to the indigenous communities whom the expeditions encountered as they made their way through Tibet. An intertitle card from one of Noel’s films gives a clear example, stating that: ‘The men and women exist from the cradle to the stone slab, on which their dead bodies are hacked to pieces, without a wash the whole of their lives.’ The British expedition members were genuinely fascinated by the cultures they encountered in the Himalaya. Noel filmed scenes described in another intertitle as: ‘the weird and fantastic devil dances at the sacred monastery of the Rongbuk.’ A Tibetan cymbal brought back by the expedition leader, Brigadier-General Charles Bruce in 1922, included in the exhibition, shows how the British climbers were particularly struck by Tibetan music which must have seemed very different to their unaccustomed ears. Climber and surgeon, Howard Somervell transcribed Tibetan folk songs into Western musical notation, and Noel later had bands perform this music as an evocative accompaniment to the screenings of his silent films.

 

Trailer for Noel's "The Epic of Everest" (BFI)

              

Social hierarchies shaped the expeditions. Base Camp was effectively a small village, run by the British along familiar colonial lines, with clear demarcations according to social, racial and class considerations. The selection process for local porters may have been less careful to note down details, but everyone recruited – ‘from bootmakers to botanists’ – had a role with set expectations and was renumerated accordingly. Ranked highest in this hierarchy were the high-altitude porters, who were very skilled and often more adept mountaineers than the British, who nicknamed them ‘tigers.’ It is notable in many of the photographs of the expedition that there is a marked discrepancy in the size and weight of the loads which these men were charged with carrying compared to the British members of the team. Without their efforts, lugging huge quantities of supplies, equipment and oxygen tanks to the various camps ascending the mountain, the British climbers would have struggled in their attempts to reach the summit. These efforts were not without genuine risk, as a disaster in 1922 made only too apparent. Seven porters – six Sherpa, Thankay, Sangay, Temba, Lhakpa, Pasang Namgya, Pema, and one Bhotiya, Norbu – lost their lives in an avalanche. George Mallory, seen as the hero of Noel’s films, felt himself responsible. Writing to a friend, he stated that the men who died were ‘ignorant of mountain dangers, like children in our care. And I am to blame.’ However, the loss of these men’s lives was dealt with in a bureaucratic manner, with their families in Tibet, Nepal and Darjeeling being financially ‘compensated.’

 

In Noel’s film, the disaster was edited out of the final cut for fear of a negative backlash from viewers. A poignant memorial of this fact is embodied in a small bronze figure of the goddess Tara, which was on display in the exhibition. This was given to the British climbers on their return from Everest by Dzatrul Rinpoche, the Head Lama of Rongbuk Monastery, to commemorate the lives of the seven men who died. This action was filmed by Noel, but in the final version of his film Noel edited and placed these scenes at the start, representing the exchange as though it were a gift given to bless the expedition when it was first setting out.

 

Similarly, Noel appears to have had no qualms about appropriating an image of a deity depicted in a mural at the monastery in order to accentuate the sense of drama. A deity which the British stylised as ‘a mountain goddess angrily destroying the bodies of white climbers.’ As it is well-known, the 1924 expedition resulted in the loss of the lives of climbers, George Mallory and Andrew Irvine, who disappeared from view while making a bid to reach the summit and never returned.

 

The names of Mallory and Irvine, like those of Robert Falcon Scott and his men in Antarctica, were of course duly added to the roster of ‘heroic defeats’ which now characterise the annals of British Imperial exploration. A vision of heroism and self-sacrifice which Noel’s films did much to crystallise. As the final sections of the exhibition showed, this was not without controversy however.

 

Noel very actively sensationalised Tibetan culture as a marketing ploy for his films. He was personally invested in them, having funded much of the 1924 expedition himself in order to retain the rights to his footage. He hired and brought to London a troupe of seven Tibetan dancers to perform at screenings. These ‘dancing lamas’ were in fact Tibetan novice monks rather than lamas. The publicity stunt deeply offended the Dalai Lama and Tibetan government, such that they banned all Westerners from entering Tibet to climb Everest for the next ten years. Despite the fact the British mountaineering community knew that the controversy of the ‘dancing lamas’ was the real cause of the ban, the Everest expeditions were meticulously stage-managed operations, consequently they drew ranks and found a convenient scapegoat in John Hazard, who undertook an unauthorised survey expedition in Tibet also in 1924, pinning the blame on his activities instead.

 

For a small exhibition, Everest through the lens, explored a number of less well-known faces of the two earliest attempts by British mountaineers to ‘conquer’ the world’s highest peak very effectively. It elucidated a number of often overlooked themes, incorporating a rich array of written and visual documentation; particularly Noel’s film, The Epic of Everest, which was screened on a continuous loop as part of the exhibition. Shining a light on the lives of those whose names are well-known to history, such as Mallory and Noel, but more importantly it also highlighted the indigenous team members who have stood, obscured in the background for far too long. Recovering some of those names which otherwise might have been lost to history in the panel and label texts, as well as listing them in the leaflet accompanying the exhibition. In doing so, Everest through the lens showed that there is still much to be learned about cultures of imperial exploration. By taking a closer look, information which has lain hidden in the archival shadows cast by the official record which the two British expeditions carefully created as their own legacy can begin to emerge. Much like the unnamed Sherpa who can be seen steadying the camera tripod, if one looks very carefully, at the well-known photograph of John Noel, seated on a kit box, shooting the first of his films at high altitude in 1922.

Captain Noel kinematographing the ascent of Mt. Everest from the Chang La [one of his Sherpa porters can be seen steadying the tripod] MEE22/0602 (RGS-IBG Collections)

~

'Other Everests: One Mountain, Many Worlds' Edited by Paul Gilchrist, Peter H. Hansen & Jonathan Westaway (MUP, 2024)

For more information on my involvement with the 'Other Everests' Research Network, and my chapter in the forthcoming (open access) edited volume of essays which the network will publish in 2024, see here.

Also on 'Waymarks'

'Other Everests' - A New Research Network

Himalaya - The Heart of Eurasia

Betrayal in the High Himalaya

The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas (1957)

Exploring "Other Everests" - One Mountain, Many Worlds