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What value do you place on the life of a missing woman? Laurie Penny on gendercide.

The selective abortion of female foetuses tends to reflect the esteem in which women are held in society.

If the words "feminist thought exercise" don't make you moist with anticipation of breathless minutes of fun, I don't know what you're doing reading this column. However, in the event that complex problems of gender and human rights don't of themselves tickle your interest glands, consider this: all over the world, from eastern Europe to India, millions of baby girls are missing.

There is a gap in the census. It howls with the ghosts of girl-children who died young, or who never lived -- tens of millions of potential human beings, neglected to death, murdered at birth or (in increasing numbers) terminated when an ultrasound scan showed that a woman was due to come into the world.

So here's a feminist thought exercise for you. The Council of Europe has just passed a draft resolution whereby expectant mothers across the EU member states might be forbidden from knowing the gender of their unborn child. If the resolution is agreed and passed into law, doctors in the UK and 26 other countries would be strongly encouraged, if not strictly obliged, to refuse parents prior knowledge of whether their baby will be a boy or a girl. The stated purpose of this resolution is to prevent the selective abortion of female foetuses, which, experts claim, has become a trend in several of the former Soviet states.

Chance to live

The word campaigners are using for this trend is "gendercide". Over 20 years ago, the economist Amartya Sen estimated the number of "missing" women -- potential adult females aborted, killed in infancy, or simply denied vital food and medical resources -- at 100 million. That figure is now undoubtedly higher. In China, where the one-child policy conspires with a traditional, sexist preference for sons to make many families desperate for a baby boy, the male-female ratio for children born in the late 1980s is 108 boys to 100 girls. For the generation born in the early 2000s, the ratio is 124:100, and it is an indictment on the global press that the most commented-on consequence of this population shift is the millions of young men in China, northern India and elsewhere who are unable to find brides.

The selective abortion of female foetuses tends to reflect the esteem in which women are held in society. In cultures where girls are barred from education, prevented from inheriting property and valued only as wives and mothers, pre-birth sex selection is on the rise.

The Council of Europe is not alone in considering a crackdown on reproductive freedom as a response to this crisis, though its powers are limited as black-market gender testing is widely available. Moreover, many of those who believe in a woman's right to choose say that it is unethical to deny any woman knowledge about the pregnancy she is carrying. This month, Colchester Hospital foundation reversed its policy of refusing to give out such information after a pregnant woman campaigned to know the sex of her foetus.

Here, then, is the dilemma. What do you do about all those missing women? Do you pass yet another law interfering with women's right to know and make decisions about their own pregnancies to the fullest extent that modern technology allows? Or do you permit the disappearance of thousands more women from history? There is a solution, and it comes from South Korea.

In the 1990s, South Korea had a sex ratio similar to China's but the male-female birth rate is now nearly normal, not because of medical restrictions but because of a change in culture. Better education of girls, equal rights legislation and more participation by women in public life made prejudice against female children seem outdated, according to a recent report by the Economist.

The history of human civilisation is a history of missing women. It is a story of women who never got the chance to live, even if they did make it to adulthood -- women deprived of education, barred from public life, suffering and dying in childbirth, shut up in the home, sold into slavery, perceived only as drudges and sex receptacles and dispensable factories for the production of sons.

In a world where females are still judged as inferior, even before birth, it is not sufficient to legislate so that enough girls are born. If you want to change the world, you have to value those girls when they arrive.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 19 September 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Meet the next Prime Minister

Felipe Araujo
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Hull revisited: What happens when a Brexit stronghold becomes City of Culture?

We report from Hull, to find out if you can replace the kind of nostalgia that led to a Leave vote with cultural investment.

At 75 metres long, the offshore wind turbine blade erected across Queen Victoria Square, in the heart of Hull, is a sculpture intended to mark a new chapter in the city’s history. For the next 12 months, Hull, a city of more than a quarter of a million people in the northeast of England, will be the UK’s City of Culture.

The 28-tonne blade hails from the local Siemens plant. The German technology company employs around 1,000 people in the area, making it Hull’s biggest single employer.

Seen up close in this context – laid dormant in the middle of a town square instead of spinning up in the air generating energy – the structure is meant to remind passersby of a giant sea creature. It is also, I’m told, an allusion to Hull’s rich maritime history.


All photos: Felipe Araujo

Nostalgia is a big thing in this part of the country. At one point, Hull was the UK’s third largest port but technology and privatisation drastically changed that. The battle over cod fishing with Iceland in the waters of the North Sea 40 years ago has also dealt a major blow to a region with a long and proud trawling tradition.

People here still talk about a bygone era when the fishing industry provided jobs for everyone and there was enough money to go around.

Fast forward to 2017, and the country’s new capital of culture is the same city that voted 67 per cent in favour of leaving the EU last June. Its new-found prestige, it seems, is not enough to erase years of neglect by a political class “too busy for commoners like us”, as one resident puts it.

“More than a message to Brussels, it [the Brexit vote] was a message to Westminster,” Paul Leeson-Taylor, a filmmaker born and bred in Hull, tells me. “For the first time in a long time people in Hull felt like they had the chance to change something, and they took it.”

But while speaking to people on the high street and hanging out with locals at the Community Boxing Club in Orchard Park, one of the city’s most deprived areas, there is one word that consistently popped up in conversation – more than any specific policy from Westminster or the much-hated rules “dictated” by Brussels. Foreigners.

According to official figures, Hull’s population is 89.1 per cent white British. Still, immigration is big on people’s minds here.

During my two-day stay in the city, I find myself being the only black person in most places I visit – I’m certainly the only black guy at the boxing club. So when someone begins a sentence with “I’m not racist but…”, I know a tirade on immigrants is about to ensue.

“There are just too many of them,” Nick Beach, an estate agent whose Polish clientele is a big part of his business, tells me as he is about to teach a boxing class to local children. Beach was born in Shepherd’s Bush, in West London, but has been living in Hull for the last 20 years.

“When I go down there these days and go into Westfield shopping centre, it is very rare you get an English person serving you now,” he says. “I just find it disappointing that you go into your capital city and you are a minority there.”

These are the much-discussed “left behind”, a white working-class community that has gained particular prominence in a time of Brexit and Donald Trump. Under economic pressure and facing social change, they want to have their say in running a country they claim to no longer recognise.

For Professor Simon Lee, a senior politics lecturer at the University of Hull, immigration is only a superficial layer when it comes to explaining the resentment I witness here. For him, the loss of the empire 70 years ago is still something that as a country Britain hasn’t come to terms with.

“The reason for us to be together as a United Kingdom has gone, so what is the project?”

As destiny would have it, a foreign company will now play a major role on Hull’s economic future, at least in the short term. In the wake of the Brexit vote, there were widespread fears Siemens would pull out of the region and take its factory elsewhere. With the massive blade looming large in the background, Jason Speedy, director of the blade factory in Hull, assures me that isn’t the case.

“The Brexit decision has made no difference. We have made our investment decision, so Siemens, together with the Association of British Ports, has put in £310m. It’s all full steam ahead.”

As Hull becomes the country’s cultural hub for the next few months, the hope is that its residents stop looking back and start looking forward.

For Professor Lee, though, until there is a complete change in the power structures that run the country, the north-south divide will remain – with or without the EU. “The way you kill nostalgia is to have something new,” he said. “The reason why people here are nostalgic is because there is nothing to replace it with.”

Felipe Araujo is a freelance journalist based in London. He writes about race, culture and sports. He covered the Rio Olympics and Paralympics on the ground for the New Statesman. He tweets @felipethejourno.