This post is part of Blog Action Day, which aims to unite bloggers around a topic of global importance on one day each year. The theme for this year is inequality. You can check out posts from other Blog Action Day participants and follow the conversation on Twitter (and watch inequality-related segments from Last Week Tonight).
We round the bend. Another hike up a sharp incline reveals a tiny silhouette of a town, scattered huts on stilts surrounded by wandering livestock, with a blue tarped tent in the middle. Somehow, they had managed to bring a tarp and twenty red plastic chairs to the middle of the most remote province in northeastern Cambodia in the worst part of the rainy season. The community is ready. They have been preparing for this for weeks.
A couple years ago, this community started the process to title their land, prompted by local NGOs. For the indigenous people of Cambodia, like billions of people around the world, land is their most valuable, sacred asset. It’s the source of their livelihoods, water, history, culture, and religion, and they will do anything to protect it. Many people have owned or used their land informally for decades or even centuries under customary law, but titling efforts are becoming increasingly necessary as wealthy actors attempt to use local people’s land for mining, timber extraction, or agro-industrial farms.
Land ownership and use is becoming vastly unequal. If a land title will tip the scales in the community’s favour, they’ll try their best to get one.
The community I visited in northeastern Cambodia has a spirit forest where the residents pray and worship. The tent is set up next to it. Elders walk amongst the trees and plead with the forest spirits to rule in their favour today. We sit down in some of the red plastic chairs. A large banner hangs, denoting the purpose of the ceremony (in Khmer): “Self-Identification Ceremony, Sponsored by [NGO], Partnered with the Department of Rural Development.”
The event is one of the first of many steps in the community land-titling process. This particular ceremony is where the government recognises the community’s “self-identification” as an indigenous community, which will mark them down in the official national records and start them on the long (practically endless) course to obtain a land title to formally secure the rights over all the land they own, use and worship.
The stakes are high for the community. Powerful foreigners have been doing “research” on their land and surrounding forest. Over half of Cambodia’s arable land and one third of the country’s total area has been sold to foreign companies, owned by one percent of Cambodia’s population. The village knows this is a trend that’s not slowing down.
Land grabs have become the norm around the world: land is in demand. Governments all over Africa, Asia and South America are granting millions of hectares to investors for agro-industrial development, mining and deforestation projects. As developing countries attempt to incorporate themselves into the global economy, they often use the most readily-available market: natural resources. Much like indigenous people rely on Cambodia’s rich soil to support their livelihoods, the government depends on the land to support the economy – and officials rely on it to pad their own pockets. Some estimate that over 33 million hectares of land have been granted or are under contract around the world – this is likely a gross underestimate due to the lack of reporting on land deals, but even so, it’s over twice the size of the United Kingdom!
The government officials arrive and are welcomed into the tarped tent with a well-rehearsed song. They start asking questions about how the community identifies as their particular indigenous group, the Tumpuon.
In response to the ongoing worldwide land-grab, more countries are adopting laws that allow people and communities to register or title their lands. In theory, legal recognition of ownership increases tenure security, as it helps people stake a claim for their land when they have to compete for it against wealthy investors.
In practice, titling processes are convoluted and cumbersome. Even where titles are granted, investors’ interests trump. Investments often take place in countries lacking rule of law and infrastructure. Most communities are poor and powerless, easy targets, and many live on good soil. The law rarely works in their favour. The investments themselves do little good locally: the agreements lack basic considerations for human rights and the environment, and there is a lack of vetting or oversight throughout the implementation.
This village knows Cambodia’s story, and they don’t want to become a part of it. The government officials get the answers and documents they need, and the ceremony closes with another song, voices and gongs ringing together. The village elders thank us and declare the ceremony a success.
They will likely get through this first step in the process. Unfortunately, it’s less likely their land will be fully recognised. It is this same arable, rich-soiled land the government wants to grant to multi-national corporations. In Cambodia, hundreds of communities have already completed this multi-stepped process, and only a few titles have been granted (compared to the statistic cited above, where over half of the country’s arable land has been granted to investors).
For this community and thousands of others around the world, the need to secure land in the face of more powerful outside actors will continue to escalate. How can communities like this one secure their land – and thus their livelihoods, culture and history? How can they navigate their unequal treatment under the colour of law? Our world is rich in natural resources, with the potential for us all to have a piece. How can we ensure those resources are equitably distributed for all to enjoy?
As I was leaving the ceremony for a long trip home down the rainy roads, an elder approached me with fire in his eyes and said, simply, “Struggle.” He knows this is a fight that will continue, a question that has not yet been answered. Most importantly, he knows his community cannot depend on external actors to secure equal rights of ownership – success will have to come from within.
Featured image is a village in Ratanakiri Province in northeastern Cambodia. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.
“Penie (Πενιη) is indeed well known, even though she belongs to someone else. She does not visit the marketplace or the courts, since everywhere her status is inferior, everywhere she is scorned, and everywhere she is equally hated, regardless of where she is.” – Theognis, Fragment 1. 267 6th Century (BCE)
Penie was an ancient Greek spirit, the personification of poverty. She was a sister to Amekhania (helplessness) and Ptokheia (beggary). Sometimes, she is considered the mother of the god Eros, whose Roman counterpart is well-known to us. (Cupid.) Poverty, it seems, gave birth to desire.
Anti- (ἀντί) comes from the Ancient Greek and is used as a prefix to mean “against.” It has a range of meanings, however, from “in exchange for” to “instead of.” Anti-clockwise, anti-bacterial, anti-matter. Not to be confused with ante, of Latin origin, which means “before.”
Although the Greeks did not have an anti-poverty god, they did have Ploutos, the god of wealth. As the mythology goes, Zeus blinded him so he couldn’t favour righteous men exclusively but might distribute his gifts blindly and without any regard to merit. (Mt. Olympus was apparently a socialist hotbed.) Clearly, Ploutos was not blind and rarely favoured righteous men.
October 12-18 is Anti-Poverty Week in Australia. But, I’m confused (not unusual). What does “anti-poverty” mean? (cf. girl child). I get it as a prefix elsewhere. Antibiotics are substances, such as penicillin or streptomycin, that can destroy or inhibit the growth of other microorganisms. Anti-discrimination is against the unfairtreatmentofaperson,racialgroup,minority, etc., and any actionbasedonprejudice.
If something or someone is “anti-poverty,” what exactly are they against?
Are they against people living below the World Bank’s threshold of $2 a day (PPP) at 2005 international prices? Are they against the OECD standard of 50% of median income, which works out to roughly $51 a day? Almost 13% of the Australian population live below the latter, while 84.5% of Nigerians the former. Or, are they against multidimensional poverty?
The anti-poverty advocate
An article popped up in my Facebook newsfeed, highlighting the story of a young U.S student becoming a “global anti-poverty activist” rather than a doctor (as her parents wished). She should have studied medicine and become a doctor. In Australia, as of 2011, the medical profession is still dominated by men. Only one third of specialists are women. Similar statistics exist in the U.S. And, this is only access. The statistics and stories behind drop-out rate, median incomes and discrimination for women in medicine highlight pervasive inequity.
We don’t need more anti-poverty advocates, because it’s unclear what you are anti- and what you can achieve by being anti-. The message is muddled. Are you against injustice, discrimination, exclusion and destitution? That’s a tall order. Do you want to “Make Poverty History” or just end extreme poverty by 2030? Those are two very different goals that are defined in very narrow terms.
The poverty of anti-poverty
When we speak and think about poverty, our concept is dominated by economic destitution. Ploutos. Cash money. However, wealth isn’t enough. Poverty is multidimensional. India’s economic growth has been strong in recent years; however, the prevalence of child malnutrition is almost 50%. Research shows that those living in poverty describe their lived experiences in broad terms: poor health, malnutrition, inadequate water and sanitation access, social exclusion, low education access, violence, discrimination, shame, disempowerment and the list goes on. Their desire to live free of Penie’s strong grip goes beyond the line of sight of Ploutos.
The UNDP has a Multidimensional Poverty Index (MPI), which was published for the first time in 2010. “Almost 1.5 billion people in the 91 countries covered by the MPI—more than a third of their population — live in multidimensional poverty…This exceeds the estimated 1.2 billion people in those countries who live on $1.25 a day or less.”
However, public advocacy campaigns and campaigners, driven by organisations such as Global Citizen, are narrowing, reducing and defining people’s experience of poverty. The focus is now on extreme poverty. That is, living on less that US$1.25 per day (PPP). It is apparently the campaign of our generation. To end extreme poverty by 2030. We are now asking people to be anti-extreme poverty.
We celebrate the halving of poverty over the past two decades, despite the fact that most of the action was in China after economic liberalisation. This statistic is often used to justify the global development and foreign aid architecture. Yet, over 27% of China’s population still lives below the US$2 per day line (almost 12% below the extreme poverty line of $1.25), the wealth gap between rural and urban citizens is widening, and one in seven of the world’s extreme poor are Chinese.
It is almost unnecessary to use the term “anti-poverty.” Is poverty something that needs an anti- prefix? I don’t think so. Antibiotics effectively fight other microorganisms that could otherwise kill people. Anti-discrimination laws enshrine and secure the right for people to be treated equally in economic, social and political transactions and participation. What does anti-poverty do and mean?
Martin Ravallion evaluates the evaluation of anti-poverty programs, with programs ranging from conditional cash transfers to food-for-education schemes. Besides critical findings such as the need for evaluations to draw on a range of tools and the importance of social and cultural context (duh!), what sticks out is the broad range of programs considered to be anti-poverty. Anything could be anti-poverty.
Ravallion concludes, “We have learnt that the context in which a program is placed and the characteristics of the participants can exercise a power influence on outcomes.” Oh yes, we forgot about them. The beneficiaries. The target population. The people actually experiencing poverty. Being anti-poverty takes the power away from those in poverty and gives it to the program, to the advocate. Anti-poverty frames the lived experience of people around notions of deficiency, destitution and disempowerment.
In an oft-quoted speech in 2005 for the Make Poverty History campaign, Nelson Mandela said, “Like slavery and apartheid, poverty is not natural. It is man-made and it can be overcome and eradicated by the actions of human beings. And overcoming poverty is not a gesture of charity. It is an act of justice.” He called out the generation in front of him to be those human beings. Yet, we often aim to be anti-poverty through charity, rather than justice. Anti-poverty is pro-charity, pro-foreign aid, which is not what is necessarily needed or desired.
You are anti-poverty, anti-racism, anti-discrimination. But, what are you pro? People’s lives are defined by more than what they don’t have or what line they live below or above. Poverty is not someone’s only lived experience. There is love. There is happiness. There are dreams. There is dignity. This is not to romanticise poverty or fall into the “nobility of the poor” discourse. It’s to remind us that poverty is complex and can’t be reduced to a line you can live below or necessarily understand. Most importantly, it is not about you and your desires. Here is where I would tell you what it is about. However, that’s not for me to decide. I know nothing of poverty.
“Ah wretched Penie, why do you lie upon my shoulders and deform my body and mind? Forcibly and against my will you teach me much that is shameful, although I know what is noble and honourable among men.” – Theognis, Fragment 1. 649
Featured image: Statue of Eirene, the Greek personification of peace, with Ploutos, the god of wealth, as an infant. Photo by Francesca Tronchin.
This is the final post in a series of responses to Jonathan Favini’s piece on cognitive dissonance in the aid industry. Check out the other responses here and here, and share your own in the comments.
A few bullet-points, first, then narrative.
The opening scene of the barbershop in Jonathan’s article resonates: I had approximately the same experience in a small town in southern Michigan in about 1991.
Jonathan describes well the cognitive dissonance of being an aid/development worker, but struggles to convey the gaps between what we actually do, what everyone thinks we do and who we are. Hell, I struggle to convey them after more than a decade of writing specifically dedicated to that end. It’s mostly the point of my recent book, Letters Left Unsent (see especially the chapter entitled “Noble Savages”).
In this way, I think aid workers and the aid industry are actually analogous to porn actors and the adult film industry. Powerful, common perceptions about who we are and what we do seldom reflect reality… But since everyone thinks they know, no one bothers actually asking. Which leads to massive misperceptions by those entering or attempting to enter the sector. Which leads to people like Jonathan having cognitive dissonance straight out of the gate, before he’s got much more than entry-level experience under his belt.
How have you integrated recognition of the industry’s flaws into your professional identity?
In pretty much the same way a physician integrates recognition of the healthcare industry’s flaws. Which is to say that I acknowledge them openly, and then assertively use my own (current) influence to correct them or start to correct them where I can.
I recognize the faults and challenges, and take on as a part of my personal responsibility and ethics to do what I can to make it better. In this area, though, I don’t really see that aid and development is any different from most any other industry–the automotive industry, perhaps, or the food industry. I think there’s always a disconnect between, for lack of a better term, the business-end or “industrial” side of any industry and the thing the industry is meant to provide.
For example, the automotive industry is beset with drama and intrigue around what gets decided, how, where and by whom. Then consumers–people like you and me–certainly have opinions about what cars we like, would like to have (whether real and current or imaginary), all to come around to the realities of what we can actually afford.
And so, I suppose, in my professional life, like an engineer or a factory worker at Toyota, I have no problem acknowledging the limitations of what my chosen industry has to offer.
I may even be candid and open about my employer’s comparative and competitive advantages and disadvantages vis-a-vis other providers. I think we can safely assume that in 20 years’ time, the cars we drive will look and work and be quite different from those we have now.
And in the same way, with the aid industry, whether we’re talking about the technical specifications of the actual products we deliver or the industry’s nature and structure, the acquisitions, the shifts in power at the “top” of the industry itself (far from the factory floor, if you will), I think we can freely acknowledge flaws without ever abandoning belief in the value of the product itself or in our own individual and collective roles in making that product happen.
How have you learned to recognize development’s problems, while continuing to do work in the field or advocating for its expansion?
I think there’s a tendency to make this issue seem more black and white than it is, in fact. It’s partially to do with basic human nature–we gravitate toward explanations that feel simple. It’s partially to do, I think, with the way the discussion about aid has evolved, particularly on social media, in the past few years. And I think it also has to do with the fact that the major (which is to say, widely-read) critiques almost all come from industry outsiders who have a vested interest in articulating extreme critique. And here I’m talking specifically about William Easterly, Dambisa Moyo and Linda Polman (among others). “Dead aid” grabs attention, whereas “Aid with a serious, but ultimately curable illness” lacks punch.
Too much of the conversation, in my opinion, is polarized between “aid is dead,” and “OMG, we’re making poverty history!” The truth is that the vast majority is somewhere in the middle.
I think there’s perhaps a generational thing at play, too. Myself at 25, a year or two into my own aid career, I had all the answers. I could give the entire litany of everything wrong with the sector, every decision my boss and my bosses’ boss made was wrong, and so on. Now, 20+ years later, I’m not so sure.
Jonathan asks some tough questions, but lately I’m not so sure they’re the most relevant ones. The question, “Did I ‘make a lasting difference’ during my time as a PCV in Senegal?” is a very, very different question from, “Does aid work or not? And if not, how do we fix it?” And those of us who stick around come to understand that the things that make aid work or not, the problems in real need of redress, have nothing at all to do with whether the white guys and women in rural West Africa are “learning the language and finding a place in Senegalese society.” I think many of us had our equivalent of a barbershop crisis early on. Stay on for a while, though, and see how things actually work, and you begin to understand that the issues are different.
I stay on because I see the potential for good. I’ve seen the good actually happen myself. I stay on because I see the real possibility of changing the industry for the better and at the level at which it truly needs to change. I stay on because I still believe.
How do you motivate yourself on tough days when you doubt the impact of your efforts?
Let me start somewhere else, because I don’t really think this is the best question to ask here. I think it is absolutely critical to understand that this aid or development thing is a job, like any other (even if Peace Corps marketing says otherwise). Maybe you work some long hours. Maybe, in the course of this “ordinary job,” you go to some cool places and have some wild moments. But at the end of the day, it is a job. You go to work, you collect your salary or stipend, you pay your bills, and eventually you retire.
It is critical to understand that liking your job, that feeling as if what you do for work contributes to some greater good–“job satisfaction”–is a luxury and a privilege that many (perhaps most?) people simply do not have. I think too many people enter the aid sector because they anticipate a constant rush of, “I JUST SAVED A LIFE!!”
I see these people day in and day out in my real job: they’re the ones who very easily get bored or disillusioned and leave, or perhaps run off to start their own NGO, before they’ve really understood the reality. I think the sooner we understand that, like with any other job in any other industry, some days are going to be awesome and some days are going to suck, the sooner we’ll get past the stage of existential barbershop crises.
I don’t mean we should become apathetic. Rather, I mean we must understand that this job, this career, carries with it both positive and negative. And further, that just because we have a tough day at the office or in the village, doesn’t mean aid is broken.
ISIS is set to take the key town of Kobane, on the Turkish-Syrian border. Meanwhile, Turkey is garnering support for a buffer zone to protect displaced people.
North Korean leader Kim Jong Un seems to be missing. Unsubstantiated rumours suggest he has gout, is under house arrest, fractured both ankles because of his weight or was tapped on the shoulder by Ban Ki-moon to negotiate a ceasefire between ISIS and the world.
I’ve been sitting on a number of career panels recently. Melbourne is the Australian capital for NGO HQs, social enterprise, development students and cafes. These events are popular. Students are thirsty for the holy grail of career advice. I’m far from the best person to offer advice for a number of reasons. I like to take a different tack.
Ask not how do you get a job in development, but how can you best contribute to justice, human rights and people’s well being.
I’ve considered a number of times asking attendees to “Sell me this pen,” or screaming, “Don’t start an NGO!!” Thankfully, I’m more reserved and promote a reflexive approach to my pitch.
Although Tim Minchin isn’t my favourite comedian (Aamer Rahman), his address to students at the University of Western Australia was poignant, unapologetic and irreverent. Just what I needed to inspire a click-bait friendly post about what he can teach you about working in global development.
1. You don’t have to have a dream
Recently, there has been a trend of blog posts and research advocating for a focus on short-term, discrete goals, particularly when it comes your own life. A range of PhD advice centres on chunks. Don’t get caught up on the whole. It is overwhelming. Break it down into discrete, manageable and achievable tasks.
A dream can be overwhelming, particularly when others speak of having or obtaining one. Ending extreme poverty comes to mind.
Minchin says to be “micro-ambitious” and work with pride on whatever is in front of you. It doesn’t matter if you’re editing a boring mid-term report for a disinterested donor or yet another grant application with a 0.01% chance of success. “You never know where you might end up.”
Working in global development is by no means linear, stable or secure. Yes, there are those who’ve wanted to work for “the UN” since they were the under-secretary of the Model UN at Parkville High School. But, shit happens.
2. Don’t seek happiness
“Happiness is like an orgasm. If you think about it too much it goes away.”
If you want to be happy, make someone else happy. This taps into the notion of mindfulness and awareness about being less selfish, less egotistical. It is difficult. Working in global development sometimes feels like a circle jerk. It can feel really good, and everyone in the circle is feeling good, but it is also wrong. The ethical, philosophical and very practical dilemmas of the industry are hard to reconcile and find happiness within. Can you work in a flawed industry and still do good? Let me put that another way. Can you work in a flawed industry and find happiness?
3. It is all luck
This is about privilege. You can always acknowledge it, and it is important to do so, but you can never outrun it. If you work in global development, you are lucky. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be educated. Lucky to be healthy. You are privileged. Yes, you worked hard for it (some of you didn’t), but as Minchin says, “I didn’t make the bit of me that works hard”.
Don’t take full credit for your successes and don’t blame others fully for their failings. It will make you humble, compassionate and empathetic. Although it sounds like something the Dalai Lama would say with an enlightened smile, they are wise words from a man who wears a lot of black eye-liner.
Take care of your body. Run, jog, practice yoga, do aerobics, try heyrobics, eat well, sleep enough, don’t smoke, drink moderately. Working in global development will pit your emotional, mental and physical energies against the world, against violence, cruelty and hardship.
If you are lucky enough to work overseas, you will most likely experience stress, depression, isolation, compassion fatigue and perhaps even show symptoms of PTSD. You’ve got a long life ahead of you. Get active.
5. Be hard on your opinions
This is my favourite one. Global development is rife with entrenched positions, program inertia and anecdotal evidence. Change does start within. We’re always bashing other people’s theories of change, opinions about development minutiae and where to get the best coffee (Melbourne).
But, what about our own hard-won beliefs, biases and prejudices? “Be hard on your beliefs. Take them out onto the veranda and hit them with a cricket bat”. (A cricket bat.) You know nothing, aid worker. Many of our failings in global development are found in a failure to communicate because we are too wrapped up in our own beliefs.
6. Be a teacher*
Okay, so this is my new favourite one. “Even if you are not a teacher, be a teacher.” But, this comes with a caveat. This does not mean go and volunteer to teach English in Ghana during summer break. No. And I’m speaking to you, the 22-year old white female from [Australia, Europe, North America], studying business but wanting an adventure in Africa over the holidays.
If you want to teach, even just to give it a go – and will commit to it for a period of time – go and get a degree. Read John Dewey, Paulo Freire, Maria Montessori and Michelle Rhee, and get pumped about being a professional educator. You want to change the world and make a difference? Be a teacher.
7. Define yourself by what you love
It is not about what you are in opposition to; express your love for things, places, people and ideas you are passionate about. “Be pro-stuff, not just anti-stuff.”
Yes, yes, yes, we know voluntourism is the embarrassing, slightly perverted uncle of volunteering, but what are the alternatives? What should people who are willing to give their time, and pay for it, be doing?
You are anti-voluntourism, anti-TOMS, anti-IMF SAPs, anti-religion, anti-capitalism. But what are you pro?
8. Respect people with less power than you
How do you treat your interns? How do you treat the community members your organisation works with? Do you show friendliness or friendship?
Friendliness is benign. It is that demeanour you adopt when visiting communities. You arrive in a community and go through the customs of greeting its senior members, with a kind smile on your face, aware of your status and the blessings you bring. You soak up the exoticness of it, aware of your, and the community’s, otherness. You are a Big Man/Big Woman. The magical symbols and capital letters that represent your tribe give you power. At the back of your mind, you hear the faint whisper of Kanye. “I am a god / So hurry up with my damn massage.”
And there is friendship that is powerful, humble and respectful. It takes a step back, relinquishes power and empowers. You are small in the company of others, aware of your privilege but not consumed by it. R E S P E C T. Find out what it means to you.
9. Don’t rush
Relax. You don’t need to know what your career in global development or elsewhere will be. No one knows. It ain’t that simple. Take time to figure shit out. What are you good at? What do you love? Who do you love? What will people pay you to do?
Think carefully before entering global development. We need critical, reflexive, humble people; not just do-gooders. Hell, global development may not even need you. In the wise words of Tina Turner, we don’t need another hero.
This post originally appeared on Devex and is reprinted here with permission.
By Kathleen Buckingham
Trees have become an iconic image of environmentalism, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we should plant millions of them.
While scale is important for landscape restoration, we need to reconsider quality and not just quantity. When does the presence of a tree really make a difference, and when is it neither an environmental or economical solution to a host of complex issues? What are the implications for food security, biodiversity and landscape protection?
First, we need to take a step back — why shouldn’t we count the trees? Planting hundreds or even millions of trees does not automatically translate into an increase in the overall long-term tree population. To increase population levels, survival and planting rates have to outweigh losses from tree mortality and removal.
Challenges in China, Nigeria and Haiti
Traditional Chinese approaches to restoration have focused on afforestation (establishing forest on land not previously forested) as an important tool to control desertification.
However, over the long-term, tree planting projects have actually increased environmental degradation.
In arid and semi-arid regions of China, the fast-growing trees draw moisture from the soil, causing many trees to die in water-stressed regions with low annual precipitation. Since 1949, the overall survival rate of trees planted for afforestation projects has been only 15 percent across northern China. Rather than focusing solely on afforestation, re-creating natural ecosystems would provide a better chance of fighting desertification.
In Nigeria, among the 11 northern states worst-hit by desertification, nearly four out of every five seedlings — 37.5 million out of the 50 million planted each year — wither and die within two months. In these dry areas, water is more valuable than a standing forest.
“You can’t plant a tree in the desert without a water source and expect people who are struggling for water for their human needs to shoulder the extra burden of watering it,” says Kabiru Yammama from the National Forest Conservation Council of Nigeria. Furthermore, since 70 percent of rural Nigerians depend on wood for fuel, there’s little incentive to protect the trees that are left standing.
Haiti, one of the most deforested nations on Earth, could definitely benefit from increased tree cover and could ecologically sustain it too.
Before European occupation, Haiti was almost entirely covered with forests. Tree cover now stands at 3 percent. Although the World Bank spent $4.2 million to plant 20 million trees — of which 60 percent died — over seven years in the 1980s, they estimated that 10 times as many trees would need to be planted to result in net restoration. In fact, in the 2000-2005 period, the deforestation rate in Haiti accelerated by over 20 percent from the 1990s. Although forest-friendly policies exist, demand for energy and markets that encourage deforestation undercuts these policies.
Tree planting 2.0
We need a new agenda to restore landscapes, and looking at the difficulties in Haiti, Nigeria and China can provide ideas for adaptation.
In Africa’s Sahel region, even an individual tree’s value has been demonstrated. Adding single trees to agricultural land across this drought-scarred land creates shade, regenerates soils, fertilizes the ground and fundamentally leads to greater food security. The process of agroforestry has helped the area come back from the brink of severe desertification, starting in the mid-1980s.
Driving this restoration was a locally driven practice called farmer-managed natural regeneration, under which farmers allow native trees and shrubs to regrow from remnant underground root systems and/or plant new ones amidst crop fields. Since 1985, more than a million rural households in Niger have protected and managed trees in agroforestry landscapes across approximately 5 million hectares.
Green corridors in fragmented landscapes
In forests, trees can make a difference by connecting fragmented landscapes.
Most of the Atlantic forest in Brazil has been converted into agricultural land, with only 2 percent of the original forest remaining, dispersed in small patches surrounded by open fields. This kind of habitat loss affects tree species, their pollinators and animal dispersers — animals that consume seeds and excrete them across environments.
Researchers from the journal Nature have called for a new paradigm for forest restoration, and discourage exclusively prioritizing the expansion of existing medium-to-large size forest fragments. Instead, they suggest focusing on planting forest bridges, connecting otherwise disparate clumps of woods to form one large ecosystem.
The recently approved Brazilian Forest Law could help make this a reality. The law requires all rural properties in Brazil to maintain Forest Legal Reserves — to protect natural vegetation on 20 to 80 percent of land according to the vegetation and geography. However, there is a 16-30 million hectare gap between what should be set aside and what actually is. With an estimated 4 million properties not meeting their requirement, BVRio created a Forest Reserve Credits market, which allows landowners to buy and trade restored areas. Now, large landowning companies can pay smallholders to regenerate their own land. This trade-off of small, scattered clumps of restored land for larger, aggregated landscapes on large landowners’ properties could benefit ecosystems in the long-run.
To an economist, the law requires a total amount of land that must be restored, so trading permits for which land is restored creates no net gain. However, environmentalists might ask what the difference is between the two landscapes that could be restored. Trading has the potential to not only incentivize compliance with laws but to connect landscapes. Connectivity has been demonstrated in Puerto Rico by smallholders restoring even small fragments of land.
So before setting out on another billion-tree campaign, let’s put down our spades and ensure that standing trees won’t compete for resources — with local populations, economics or politics — but instead establish where and how a tree can benefit a landscape as well as provide for human needs.
Kathleen Buckingham is a research associate for forest and landscape restoration at the World Resources Institute. Her research focuses on assisting stakeholders to plan and implement successful forest and landscape restoration strategies. She has a PhD in Geography and the Environment from the University of Oxford and an MSc Environmental Sustainability from the University of Edinburgh, and has extensive country experience in China.
Tragedy struck in Japan, as Mount Ontake erupted unexpectedly, killing at least 47 people so far. And two suicide blasts hit Kabul, killing eight Afghan soldiers, just two days after Ashraf Ghani was inaugurated as the country’s new President.
From t-shirts made of organic cotton to shoes made of old tires, ethical fashion is getting more trendy. But do these efforts to be responsible have an impact? Liza Moiseeva explains the fashion industry’s potential to make a difference, and its shortcomings.
How can aid workers sleep at night? Erol Yayboke continues the conversation on cognitive dissonance with advice on how to handle working in a flawed industry – and how we should be thinking about development work in the first place.
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The problems with praising the female pilot who bombed ISIS | Vox
This post is the second in a series of responses to Jonathan Favini’s recent piece on cognitive dissonance. Stay tuned as the conversation continues, and share your own thoughts in the comments.
By Erol Yayboke
Jonathan’s post on the “cognitive dissonance” required to work in development aid concludes with a series of broad questions that can loosely be translated into: how do you (i.e. “older, wiser” development practitioners) sleep at night? Though not an entirely fair translation, his broader aim to question the “development industry” is well taken. Most of us have had similarly awkward encounters with our barbers, taxi drivers and cousins that left us wondering whether we deserved such praise.
Before offering my “sage” responses to the valid questions every development aid worker should ask of him/herself and others, there are a couple points I’d like to make about the arguments that led up to Jonathan’s questions.
First, the “development industry” is a totally theoretical construct that includes countless non-profit, public, private and multi-lateral players, all with competing resources and agendas. We (including yours truly) overuse and abuse it regularly. Also, “development” as presented in the article is heavily skewed towards how “we in the West” have an impact on “those in the rest.” It’s important to note that part of the complexity of development is the fact that this West-centric viewpoint is simultaneously paternalistic and not entirely accurate.
Employees at India’s Ministry of Environment don’t see themselves as working in “development” per se; much like my friend at the U.S. Department of Energy, they’re working within the bureaucracy to improve their country. In other words, there is simply no utopian singular entity called “development” – it is a complex web that doesn’t even begin to understand itself (just ask any UN OCHA employee).
In spite of this, some groups have shown remarkable successes in health, food security and generally getting people to care about things outside their own communities (which I posit is better than the isolationist alternative).
I recommend focusing on criticising and offering improvements to specific sectors and programs based on concrete evidence, as opposed to chastising “development” as a whole.
Second, some of Jonathan’s article relies on one unfortunate tacit assumption: that the Peace Corps is a “development” organisation. Despite claiming that it “[sends] Americans abroad to tackle the most pressing needs of people around the world” and work towards “sustainable change,” at best, the Peace Corps is a diplomatic ideal; it was arguably set up as such by Kennedy during the Cold War.
An admirable service organization that has undoubtedly “helped people build better lives,” Peace Corps is nonetheless one whereby, in practice, (mostly) young, energetic, bright Americans who often lack relevant technical skills (how many of us have met a health volunteer who didn’t know First Aid?) ingratiate themselves to communities that would otherwise probably never meet such aliens (double entendre intended).
More realistically (and acknowledged by the organisation itself), Peace Corps service is a time for self-discovery – as was the case for the volunteers Jonathan knew in Senegal – a time for Americans themselves to grow in compassion, worldliness and resilience. All noble outcomes, none of which have anything to do with “development.”
Now to the “sage wisdom.”
On reconciling the “industry’s flaws” with my own professional identity, I’d say that we live in a flawed world where nothing is ever perfect. Only by understanding and experiencing these flaws can we improve ourselves and the world around us. As professionals, we should constantly be in pursuit of more efficiency, effectiveness and impact. It’s important to establish meaningful metrics for your project (NGO, sector, industry, etc.) and for yourself, referring to – and learning from – them often.
I’m a believer in having opinions based on evidence and in the value of real, long-term, first-hand experience topped with healthy doses of skepticism (of which Jonathan lacks not). Ultimately though, we all must strive to first, do no harm – even the best of intentions have the potential for unintended consequences.
On recognising problems while continuing to work in this field, I’d challenge Jonathan to find a profession that does not toil with this (somewhat existential) question.
To most (in our “industry” at least) who look hard enough, the systemic flaws are readily apparent and littered with political, financial and sometimes even nefarious roadblocks. The challenge (and great reward if you succeed) is to find solutions that are politically supportable, administratively feasible and technically correct. If you can manage to do that, give yourself a hearty pat on the back and scale up!
As for motivation on those ever-present tough days where doubt creeps in? This is a very personal struggle that we all face at points, even while working on the most impactful of projects. Am I truly doing no harm? Am I actually “making a difference?” Alas, there is usually no black and white answer; there rarely is in life. However, the pursuit of impact should drive us to better understand and continually refine our efforts.
This desire for more evidence has even spawned a research-based “industry within an industry” (J-PAL, IPA, EPoD, Evidence Action, etc.) whereby some of the smartest people on the planet (full disclosure: though I work for one of these organisations, I am not one of said geniuses) study the most intransigent development issues. We’re learning more about our impact than ever before.
So, for an inquisitive mind like Jonathan’s, never was there a better time to lace on the boots and head to Busia. Along the way, try not to get overwhelmed with the scope and magnitude of the problems, but to break them into smaller, much more manageable (and ideally measurable) pieces.
My last bit of advice for Jonathan is to accept his barber’s praise. He chose to work in development in order to make a difference, something at which he will undoubtedly get better over the course of his career, as the “dual tides” of experience and healthy scepticism drive him towards greater impact. Jonathan – feel good about what you’ve done, and use the praise as motivation to improve the aid world, or whatever small corner of it you decide to call home.
Erol Yayboke is a Program Manager with the Evidence for Policy Design (EPoD) team at the Center for International Development at Harvard’s Kennedy School and a member of the Board of Directors of the Andi Leadership Institute for Young Women. He holds a Masters in Public Affairs from the University of Texas at Austin and currently lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. You can check our his blog and follow him on Twitter. (Erol’s views are his own and do not represent the opinions of these or any other organisations.)
We’re pleased to announce that Liza Moiseeva is joining us as a regular contributor! She’s previously written for WhyDev on impact investing, and her monthly articles will focus on social enterprise and private sector-approaches to development.
Green fashion, eco-fashion, slow fashion, fair trade. Not to mention the “buy-one-give-one” models that companies like TOMS and Warby Parker so successfully implement, despite ongoing criticism from aid professionals. What hides behind all these trendy terms? And do any of them actually translate into positive social impact?
You might be wondering why I’m writing about fashion on a development blog – surely, fashion is the last thing on the minds of aid workers! Social impact, however, is always on our minds (or at least should be), and the global apparel industry has the means (read “money”) to create it. According to a recent report from Euromonitor, global apparel and footwear sales currently total about US $1.8 trillion and are expected to reach US $2 trillion by 2018. That’s a lot of dough.
Unfortunately, it feels like about 99.9% (my personal estimate) of these revenues go to fast fashion – a term that expresses the speed at which designs move from catwalk to stores in order to capture the latest trends – companies, which spit out new collections and catalogs of “must-have” items that will be heavily discounted and forgotten after six weeks, when the ever-shortening fashion cycle comes to an end.
How much of these revenues go to the producers, whose hands actually stitched together your pants or my dress? The tragic collapse of the Rana Plaza factory in Bangladesh last year, which took the lives of 1,100 garment workers, showed just how bad things are on the flip side of the fashion industry. Workers are not only underpaid, but they often work in unsafe – even deadly – conditions.
But what if the fashion industry could be a source of empowerment instead of exploitation? What if the workers, most of whom are from developing countries, could receive fair pay and work in safe conditions?
Slow Fashion: Beyond the Fair Trade Movement
We all have some idea of what “fair trade” is. According to FairTrade International, it’s “an organised social movement whose stated goal is to help producers in developing countries achieve better trading conditions and to promote sustainability.” Essentially, this means producers get a say in how much they receive for their products. Unfortunately, fair trade is mostly about coffee, cotton, and chocolate.
The apparel industry is a whole other game, and big fashion brands aren’t embracing the ethical consumerism trend as wholeheartedly as they would have us think. Take for example H&M’s Conscious Collection, which abides by seven commitments:
Provide fashion for conscious customers
Choose and reward responsible partners
Be climate smart
Reduce, reuse, recycle
Use natural resources responsibly
The company claims to pay fair living wages to all its workers and impose strict regulations on all its factories. It sounds great, but is it really having an impact? And what about all the rest of H&M’s collections? And the fact that they change every three weeks and that, in the end, they still promote unnecessary and wasteful consumption?
The slow fashion movement goes beyond “sustainable collections.” The term was coined in 2008 by sustainable design consultant Kate Fletcher and is “about the consumer becoming aware of the whole process–from design through production through use and through the potential to reuse.”
Perhaps, the best example of slow fashion is Patagonia, an outdoor clothing company (and a certified B-Corp) that not only promotes fair labour practices through it whole supply chain but also advocates responsible consumption. Through its Common Threads Partnership, the brand actually encourages customers to buy less, by promising apparel of great quality that Patagonia will repair if and when needed.
Now that’s whole different story, isn’t it?
Next, there is a whole generation of companies who work with artisans from developing countries. Artisan trades are the second-largest “employer” in the developing world. However, most of this economic activity is offline, and it faces increasing threats from retail globalisation. But more and more emerging fashion brands are starting to work with artisans – not only providing employment, but also preserving and promoting traditional cultural crafts.
One such brand is Matr Boomie (formerly Handmade Designs), “a wholesale fair trade collection from India that marries modern design sensibility with inspiring traditional art forms.” I’m singling this company out particularly because of their fair trade Artisan Assessment Index (the first of its kind to my knowledge), which strives to quantify Matr’s social impact. While I’ve yet to see the full index, their sustainability report details their wages paid to artisans, sums reinvested in artisanal communities, material scorecards (measuring their environmental effects), air shipping reduction, etc. This is one of the few examples of social impact reporting by a fashion company.
Bringing Artisans Online
E-commerce is taking over global retail, but most artisans have typically worked entirely offline. Now, companies like Ten Thousand Villages, Etsy and Fair Trade Winds sell artisans’ products on the Internet, giving them a global market base. At GlobeIn, the social start-up I work for, customers buy directly from artisans, who receive 100% of the asking price for their products (higher than the price paid to them by resellers from local markets and bazaars.) GlobeIn provides its services for free for all artisans, making the platform affordable for even the artisans living in the poorest and most remote regions of the world. Besides being an e-commerce platform, GlobeIn is also a network of individuals and partner organizations who support artisans on the ground and often provide them with business and computer training. The company has just launched its first iOS app, which turns your phone into a street market – one where artisans get fair prices for their creations.
In conclusion, I have great hopes for the future of ethical fashion and I hope you will as well! If you look hard enough, you’ll discover a whole new generation of new fashion companies, which have a new vision for themselves: good quality products and fair wages and safe conditions for workers.
However, these idealistic new fashionistas are up against a strong enemy (big-name, mainstream companies), who can confuse buyers in no time: what is ethical fashion and what it is not? As with any new movement, there is a lot to be done. Particularly, there’s a need for clear definitions, and a better understanding among the newcomers about what they want to achieve. Do these companies want to create a real social impact or just make millennials feel better about their excessive shopping habits?