*New paper* ‘Do our bodies know their ways?’ Villagization, food insecurity, and ill-being in Ethiopia’s lower Omo valley

Some results from my research in Ethiopia are now available, ahead of publication in African Studies Review. The paper, co-authored with Lucie Buffavand, is a product of several years work in the lower Omo valley, where a massive hydroelectric dam and sugar plantations are reshaping the landscape and people’s opportunities to live within it. We investigated the experience of people subjected to a campaign of ‘villagization’ – resettlement associated with the establishment of plantations on lands previously used for farming, herding, and foraging.

At the heart of the article is ethnographic work that Lucie carried out among the Bodi, who were the first people in the region to be displaced by plantations. These ethnographic data are juxtaposed with a survey of food insecurity that I coordinated in the villagization sites and in a community not yet subjected to villagization.

One of our main findings is that the food insecurity survey (which resembles the data that policy makers might use to evaluate the villagization scheme) fundamentally misrepresents the situation on the ground. In government-designed villages, people reported less intense food insecurity, but this was not because the techniques of irrigated agriculture they’d been introduced to were working, but rather because the government was giving them food aid to tide them over. The ethnographic data make it abundantly clear that food security in a broader sense – a sense of confidence about supporting oneself in the long term – was better in those communities still able to make a living from their herds, from rain-fed fields, and from river-bank cultivation.

Ethnography also sheds light on the texture of life in the villagization sites, including the disruption and the isolation that the move entailed. “Do our bodies know their ways?” is a question asked by a man who was struggling to make it in one of the new villages, and who chafed at the conditions imposed by the scheme’s architects. He lamented the loss of old routines. Small pleasures like drinking coffee with your friends take on new importance when the circumstances you live in make them impossible.

shelter from sun

During a break from weeding, workers rig up a makeshift shelter and drink local beer.

The paper illustrates something I stress when I teach anthropological research methods, namely the value of using mixed methods. By holding the household survey data up to the light of ethnography, we got a better sense of what each represented than we would have done had we used one or the other method alone.

Since we carried out our research, things have gotten even more difficult for people in the lower Omo valley. In 2016, completion of the Gibe III dam led to the end of the annual flood that was the lifeblood of the region. Deprived of a reliable source of water for growing their crops, the Bodi and their neighbours are paying the costs of development, while others of us reap the benefits.

 

 

 

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Living on a fault-line

Or, the challenge of thinking geologically.

Last week I attended the Oxford Desert Conference, to bang the drum about work my colleagues and I are doing in the Turkana basin (stay tuned for more on that). I came away reminded of some important ideas that I’d not thought about for a long time.

The stand-out paper for me was about geology and cities. Richard Walker, a geologist who’s carried out long-term research in Iran, showed that several of the country’s cities are located at points of seismic instability. The places where you find the most people, in other words, also tend to be places with the highest risk of earthquakes.

Why? Because that’s also where groundwater is most likely to seep up through fissures in rock. And in arid or semi-arid parts of the world, the major limiting factor for life is water.

This phenomenon – the coincidence of settlements, springs, and seismic instability – is something I’d encountered 20 years ago, during my days as an archaeologist. From a season working on a field survey in north-central Turkey, one of the things that I remember most clearly is that scatters of pottery (the remnants of long-buried settlements) were most common along geological fault-lines.

This stuck with me because I recognized that it was emblematic of an important dimension of human experience that lies beyond ordinary perception. The choice of where to live (one of the most important decisions we make) is rarely one we make independently. And these communal decisions often expose us to substantial risks – risks that are often difficult to quantify, but real ones nonetheless.

Here, as often, global warming comes to mind. Like the tempo of earthquakes, the time horizon on which climate change plays out is longer than the one we ordinarily think with. Perhaps our brains aren’t wired to deal with slow-burning problems like these, as George Marshall has argued. [1]

That we’re vulnerable and short-sighted isn’t news. But we’re better equipped to make decisions (choosing where to live, or how to mitigate the risks of climate change) if we recognize the constraints we operate under.

As Jerome Bruner has written, “We cannot adapt to everything, and in designing a way to the future, we would do well to examine what we are and what our limits are.” [2]

***
References:

[1] Marshall, G. 2014. Don’t Even Think About It: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Ignore Climate Change. Bloomsbury.

[2] Bruner, J. 1972. The nature and uses of immaturity. American Psychologist, 27, 8, 687-708.

My thanks to Troy Sternberg for the invitation to attend the conference in Oxford.

 

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Misrepresentation

On holidays I sometimes go to car boot-sales – what in the U.S. they call rummage sales, where people carry their spare or unwanted belongings to a field, and unload them onto tarps or picnic tables. You get to see a sort of cross-section of people’s lives, in the form of bric-a-brac. Every now and then you find something remarkable.

At one of these sales I recently came across an issue of the Harmsworth History of the World, a history magazine published in the first years of the 20th century. The issue I picked up was about the British Empire. In rather breathless prose, the magazine described the various parts of the world that Britain claimed at the time, plus some that the authors expected would soon fall under her dominion.

Among the things that most struck me were the photographs of parliaments and executive councils in British-administered territories. These councils, in Asia, Africa, or Australia, consisted exclusively of white men – almost all of them with large moustaches – lounging on chairs in well-upholstered rooms.

Why did this surprise me? That was how the world worked a century ago, right?

On reflection, I think it was not so much the then-ness but the now-ness of the images that produced my emotional reaction – not their strangeness, but their familiarity.

I knew that was how things used to be; what startled me was how much the make-up of those council chambers resembled the parliaments I’m most familiar with today.

Maybe it’s partly because I live in a neighbourhood of London where there are as many Africans as Europeans, or because I have a mixed-race family. The disproportionate representation of wealthy white men seems like an anachronism. It reminded me of the inertia of our political systems.

Despite decolonization and the massive waves of migration that have broken over the U.K., Australia, and North America, the parliaments and houses of representatives of these cosmopolitan states are still predominantly white and male. And race and gender are only the most obvious forms of bias in our institutions. There’s also bias towards the educated, the urban, and the professional. British MPs, for example, are more than four times as likely to have attended a fee-paying school as are members of the general population.

As Simon Woolley puts it, “Our institutions don’t look like us, and don’t sound like us.” [1]

It doesn’t have to be this way.

If only we would look, we would find a rich array of democratic possibilities to draw on. The Athenian option, according to which representatives were chosen by lot from the entire citizen body, is just one among many models of democracy that we could take inspiration from.

democracy notes

Back to the drawing board

At a seminar I attended some years ago, a professor recalled that in the Soviet Union, many ancient texts were banned, because it was recognized that they were subversive. They pointed the way to a different world.

The ancients won’t necessarily help us in our decisions about this week’s General Election. But to find solutions to the problems we face in the longer term, we’d do well to consider the ways people in other times in places have made, and remade, society.

We’d do well, in other words, to have a rummage through history’s great car-boot sale.

 

[1] Simon Woolley of Operation Black Vote, interviewed on Radio 4’s Today Programme, 22 May, 2017, 07:15

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Afterlife

One of my favourite works of anthropology is a study of infancy among the Beng of Cote d’Ivoire. For people in this West African community, children are understood to come from the Afterlife. In their way of thinking, people’s spirits enter a sort of limbo when they die. When babies are born, they gain passage back into life.

Babies are welcomed home, cared for and venerated partly because they are recognized as the reincarnations of dead ancestors. [1]

There’s truth in the Beng way of thinking, because in a real (biological) sense children are the reincarnations of ancestors.

Michael Jackson (of Harvard’s Divinity School) used this as an example of alternative ways of conceiving of time, in a lecture at the ASA conference in Durham last year.

I cast my mind back to it recently in a reflection on the relationship between an aunt of mine who died six years ago and my daughter, who’s not yet six months old.

Reference

[1] Alma Gottlieb.The Afterlife Is Where We Come From.  University of Chicago Press (2004).

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Maps and the twentieth century

There is no internationally agreed map of the world. This is one of the more memorable things I took away from a recent exhibition at the British Library.

The exhibition, entitled “Maps and the Twentieth Century: Drawing the Line,” reviewed   landmarks in cartography over the course of the century, from schematic mapping of the New York subway system to the challenges of mapping glaciers that are melting faster  than we print atlases.

A project proposing an internationally agreed map of the world (based on a standard set of universally recognized coordinates) “was proposed by German geographer Albrecht Penck in 1981, and taken over by the United Nations after the Second World War.” “To date,” the exhibition suggested, “about 40% of planned world coverage has been produced.”

Interestingly, a parallel initiative was undertaken in the USSR using “Sistem 42,” “a geodetic system enabling standard grid reference system across all Soviet maps.”One of the maps on display at the BL was a remarkably detailed (1: 10,000) map of Brighton and Hove produced as part of this Soviet project in the late 1980s.

Maps and theory

In teaching anthropology, I use maps as a metaphor for theory. Like a map, theories  reveal something of interest to us at the expense of leaving other things out. A 1:1 representation of reality is rarely useful.

 

 

The exhibition at the British Library closed last week, but much of the content remains available through the BL’s website.

Maps and the Twentieth Century: Drawing the Line ran at the British Library from November 2016 to March 2017

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Books of 2016

These are the books that have made the greatest impression on me this year.

1. The idealist, by Justin Peters

Aaron Swartz was an IT prodigy who hacked the scholarly literature database J-Stor.  Brought to trial for doing so, he killed himself before the lawsuit was over. Much of this book is actually a primer of intellectual copyright law, a subject that sounds dry as can be, but which comes to life in relation to Swartz’s story. His idealism centred on a (fairly commonplace) belief in the power of technology and ideas to improve humanity, and a (more radical) conviction that “information should be free”. The lawsuit that serves as the hinge of the plotline opens up important questions about ownership. Who owns ideas? Writing? (Authors? Publishers?) Questions on which a lot hangs.

2. Cadillac desert, by Marc Reisner

Have you seen Chinatown? That classic movie is an allegory for the history of the American west, which rests in large part on the heroic measures taken with the region’s great rivers, variously dammed, rerouted, stolen, resold, and sucked dry. It’s an epic and tragic story of grand visions and wild successes, but also of profligacy and ruin. Despite the cautions that might be drawn from the experience, it’s also a history that’s being energetically emulated and repeated the world over, notably in Ethiopia. A good TV documentary based on the book was made in the 1990s.

3. Ecological imperialism, by Alfred Crosby

This could be read as a prequel to Cadillac Desert: it’s about the making of what Crosby calls the Neo-Europes, a process that included genocides in the Americas, Australia, and elsewhere. This is the original sin of Western civilization. Acknowledging it reframes what justice looks like in the present, for example at Standing Rock.

2016-books
4. Writing for social scientists, by Howard Becker

This book is useful. Thanks to it, I’ve gotten more writing done this year than I would have done otherwise. Becker advises not just how to get published but how to write well — or at least, how not to write in the standard, turgid way. His advice, in a nutshell, is: Draft, and redraft. Avoid unnecessary citations. Don’t use five words where two would do. Write in your own voice.

5. The Faber book of children’s verse, edited by Janet Adam Smith

At bedtime my son likes to hear poems. This book contains some great ones. Although it’s compiled with children in mind, the anthologist made her choices on the assumption that children shouldn’t be condescended to, and that they can handle profound themes like love and death. (I’m increasingly led to think that children deal better with these aspects of life than many of us adults do.)

I leave you with a poem that’s helped me this past year, when despair has sometimes felt inescapable.

Everything changes. We plant
trees for those born later
but what’s happened has happened
and poisons poured into the seas
cannot be drained out again.

What’s happened has happened.
Poisons poured into the seas
cannot be drained out again, but
everything changes. We plant
trees for those born later.

— Cicely Herbert

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Evidence for zombies

Last Friday I came home from Edinburgh, head buzzing with ideas after a 2-day meeting on evidence in development and global health. ‘How is evidence defined?’ the speakers from universities and NGOs asked. ‘How is it generated and used?’

Or should we say, ‘How is it fabricated and abused?’ On the face of it, gathering evidence that development programmes have achieved what they set out to do is a good thing – keeping systems functioning, keeping people honest. But, as presenters at the conference showed, it can look quite different from the perspectives of the people actually engaged in the evidence-gathering, or those from whom evidence is being extracted. Development is big business, and the money involved, together with the remoteness of many projects’ aims from local concerns, sets up perverse incentives.

Did you know, for instance, that there are twenty-five thousand NGOs in Nepal alone – almost one for every thousand people? That’s a nice factoid, and now it’s out here on the internet it may go and take on a life of its own. Deepak Thapa of Social Science Baha, from whom I got it, was actually careful to point out that the 25,000 figure includes all registered community-based organizations, from chess clubs to major charities. Stripped of the caveat, though, it makes a nice talking point. It resonates with preconceived ideas we may have about NGOs gone wild, the aid gravy train, etc. This is the fate of many statistics that, relieved of such niceties as standard errors or confidence intervals, colonize our brains. Zombie statistics, some people call them.

Or is it we who are the Zombies? Normative ideals (also called schemas, frames, or cultural models) are part of our make-up; and it’s these that make dispassionate evaluation of evidence in development so difficult. If you feel about anything, “Wouldn’t it be nice if…?” then you have them. We all have them. What varies (what determines our degree of zombiness) is how accessible they are to conscious reflection. If you really think about it – if you’re honest – encounters with “facts” are always partial. As George Lakoff has written: “If the facts don’t fit the frames in your brain, the frames in your brain stay and the facts are ignored or challenged or belittled.” [1]

The topic of evidence in the context of development is especially thorny because international development is a moral as well as a technical project: It involves imposing values and ideals on people whose sense of what matters is often different. A case in point: Tim Allen told the story of how, in the early 2000s, deworming went viral in the Economics and Development communities. Within a few years, giving deworming pills to children had come to be seen as the most effective development intervention out there. This was despite a paucity of evidence; the single academic paper in which the case was made was an anomaly (and, it turns out, based on a flawed analysis). But it fit a frame – the idea that getting rid of parasites in early life should have long-lasting effects – so it stayed. Thousands of children were given deworming pills without their parents’ permission, and without clear understanding of what it was supposed to achieve. [2]

One response to this state of affairs is to say we’d be better off without all this so-called evidence. Another is to ask how evidence gathering could be done smarter and better. One obvious way is to involve the presumed beneficiaries in deciding what to measure, and take account of their priorities are in terms of problems to address. This is not a new idea; it’s the central idea behind so-called participatory approaches that go back to the 1960s. [3] Unfortunately, it runs counter to much global health and development practice these days.

Turning the juggernaut around

My feeling is that meetings like the one in Edinburgh are vitally important. I’m grateful to the organisers for making it happen, and including me. But the voices that were so clearly audible at this conference are hard to hear over the din outside from so many organizations and vested interests. To have impact, people concerned about these issues need to find allies, not only with established NGOs and governments, but with movements – with organized labour, with opposition parties, with students – with allies of all shapes and sizes.

This is easier said than done, of course. Ethiopia can serve as an example: a place where, under adverse circumstances, a movement has emerged in the last few years to address inequity in access to the benefits of development. But how do advocates work with movements like this – without leaders, without clear organizational structure? Given the violent response of the Ethiopian authorities to demonstrators and to critics in general, solidarity is risky. Perhaps these risks come with the territory, wherever an established system of power is challenged.

Some movements may be easier to work with than others, though. In the last session of the workshop, Marlee Tichenor told the story of health workers in Senegal who imposed a boycott on data-collection in their clinics. Between 2010 and 2013, clinicians refused to record routine patient data, which they saw as a distraction from their core responsibility to care for people. Because international donor funds were in jeopardy, the government of Senegal was forced to pay attention. [4] In this case the boycott was organized by health workers’ unions, which have a structure of the sort that that researchers and NGO workers are familiar with.

On the train home to London I reflected on the lessons of the conference: To ask, when examining any development project: who set its goals, and who’s benefitting? To bear in mind that we think in terms of frames, and we evaluate evidence in relation to them, on the fly. And to remember that not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.

***

The conference on ‘Evidence and Organisations in Development’ was part of the Spaces of Evidence project.

[1] George Lakoff (2014). The ALL NEW don’t think of an elephant! Know your values and frame the debate. White River Junction: Chelsea Green. P. xiv.

[2] The story is told at greater length by Duncan Green & Mohga Kamal-Yanni in  ‘Deworming delusions’.

[3] Participatory Learning and Action is a good source on these approaches. Sadly it’s no longer published.

[4] See Marlee Tichenor. (2016). The power of data: Global malaria governance and the Senegalese data retention strike. In V. Adams (Ed.), Metrics: What counts in global health (pp. 105–124). Durham: Duke University Press.

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