Is the gender gap in earnings the product of "rational" inequality? Picture: Hulton Archive
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Much of women's work is unpaid - but without it, the economy would crumble

Katrine Marçal's Who Cooked Adam Smith's Dinner? reminds us how Homo economicus has always been supported by free, underacknowldged, female labour.

Who Cooked Adam Smith's Dinner?
Katrine Marçal, trans. Saskia Vogel 
Portobello Books, 240pp, £12.99

We don’t normally think of unpaid work as relevant to the economy. Housework – the cycle of cooking, cleaning, wiping, soothing, ironing that forms the daily life of so many women around the world (and yes, the emergence of the New Man notwithstanding, it is still women who do the vast bulk of unpaid work) – is usually excluded from economic analysis. It is made invisible, seen as a limitless natural resource, and therefore as having no value.

But what if one day women all over the world put down their feather dusters? What if we had to start paying for all the free cleaning and childcare? Canada’s national statistical agency has already thought about this: it came to the conclusion that unpaid work contributed between 30.6 and 41.4 per cent of GDP. That is a not insubstantial figure. So, why is such a huge contributor to national wealth being routinely ignored?

That is the question Katrine Marçal sets out to answer in Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner?. She tells us the story of the emergence of Homo economicus, or Economic Man, the mythical figure around whom our world runs. Economic Man is rational. He is an autonomous individual who makes independent choices calculated to maximise his utility (economics-speak for well-being). Above all, he is a man. “[E]very aspect of Economic Man’s personality overlaps with every trait throughout history that we’ve come to call masculine,” Marçal writes. Besides, these traits are “those which we have understood to be superior to and worthy of dominating that which we call feminine”.

And what traits do we call feminine? Well, the opposite of everything embodied by Economic Man, of course. He is rational; she is emotional. He is independent; she is dependent. He is selfish; she’s self-sacrificing. She is everything he needs her to be so that he can be a GDP-generating island.

The thing is, not even man lives up to the myth of Economic Man. Behavioural economics has shown repeatedly that no one takes decisions in a “rational” manner. Our decisions are affected by how we feel at the time we take them, whether we are alone or in company, whether we are hungry. Even the way the choices are presented, or who presents them to us, can have an effect. All these variables can lead us to make decisions that would seem to run counter to our best interest. And yet these “irrational” decisions are the ones we are making every day. Why, Marçal asks, are we so bent on ignoring them?

As for the innately caring, dinner-cooking woman, she is exposed as little more than a rationalisation of inequality. For “the market is always right” fundamentalists, situations in which “women’s work” is unpaid – or where women are paid less for doing the same job, or where feminised industries garner lower wages – must have a rational explanation. Chicago economists, who in the 1950s were among the first to try to include unpaid work in economic models, hypothesised that because women were tired from all the polishing and scrubbing, they were unable to put as much effort as men into paid work. Therefore it was rational that they be paid less. On the other hand, they also reasoned that women did more housework because they were paid less. But then, economists aren’t always the most progressive creatures. The same Chicago economists also posited racial segregation as a rational solution to dealing with a racist workforce and clientele. And when Lawrence Summers was chief economist at the World Bank he defended the “impeccable” economic “logic” of dumping toxic waste from developed countries in the “LDCs” (least developed countries). Rich nations get rid of toxic waste: LDCs get enough cash to compensate for the rise in disease. “Let them eat pollution,” Marçal drily notes.

In this spirited and witty manifesto, she argues that we have allowed Economic Man to invade every aspect of our lives, to our detriment. The myth has even entered our sex lives: books such as Spousonomics advocate that wives control their husbands by “rewarding” them with sex if they behave well. There is no room in this analysis for a wife who wants to have sex because she enjoys it. There is no room in this analysis for anyone doing anything for any reason other than the most calculated self-interest. Love, passion and pleasure are relegated to the realm of the feminine – dangerously irrational.

“We cannot challenge Economic Man without feminism,” Marçal writes, “and we can hardly change anything of importance today without challenging Economic Man.” So, in commanding rhetoric punctuated with spiky wit, she does exactly that. It was Adam Smith’s mother who cooked his dinner: he never married, and lived with her for most of his life. Yet despite his dependence on her care she does not figure in his account of how meals are produced: “It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker, that we can expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.” Unlike the Chicago economists, Marçal does not seek to yoke every last aspect of our lives to the tyranny of Homo economicus. Rather, she asks why we have fetishised the myth, and suggests that man denuded of his humanity is not such a figure to aspire to after all.

Caroline Criado-Perez appears at the Cambridge Literary Festival, in association with the New Statesman, on 14 April. cambridgeliteraryfestival.com

Caroline Criado-Perez is a freelance journalist and feminist campaigner. She is also the co-founder of The Women's Room and tweets as @CCriadoPerez.

This article first appeared in the 06 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, How Islamic is Islamic State?

LORRAINE MALLINDER
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A dictator in the family: why Ebrima Jammeh wants retribution in Gambia

“I want to see Yahya Jammeh jailed and prosecuted in this country. Justice will finally come.”

On 21 January Yahya Jammeh left Gambia. Within minutes of the erstwhile dictator’s departure on a private jet, relieved crowds began to gather at Westfield Junction, a popular meeting point in Serrekunda, the largest town in the country.

For 22 years, Jammeh had cultivated a sorcerer-like persona, claiming he could cure HIV with herbs, ordering a nationwide witch hunt and magicking away countless dissenters to fates unknown.

After losing elections in December, he brought the country to the brink of war, staring down the West African troops waiting at the Senegalese border to remove him. Unable to conjure a way out, he eventually agreed to be exiled to Equatorial Guinea.

Leaning against a car at Westfield, Ebrima Jammeh (pictured above) watched the celebrations with a bitter-sweet expression. Shouting over blaring car horns, he said that he wanted justice for his father, murdered by the regime in 2005. His father, it turned out, was Haruna Jammeh, a first cousin of Yahya. The story of how Haruna and his sister, Masie Jammeh, were “disappeared” by security forces is well known here – a striking example of the former ruler’s ruthlessness.

Days after Yahya Jammeh’s departure, I met Haruna’s widow, Fatimah, with Ebrima and his sister Isatou. They recalled the early Nineties, when “Cousin Yahya” would drop by for green tea in his army officer’s uniform and brag about becoming the next leader of Gambia. “He was very arrogant,” Fatimah said.

Haruna and Yahya grew up on the family farm in Kanilai, on Gambia’s southern border with Senegal. They would play together in the fields. Haruna, six years older, would walk hand in hand with Yahya to school. They were more than cousins, Ebrima said. People called them “cousin-brothers”.

Once they were adults, Haruna remained protective of his cousin. He was working as a restaurant manager, and was a rising star in the Novotel group. Often, he helped out the then-impecunious Yahya with money or food. Few expected the hothead lieutenant to become the next president.

But in 1994 Yahya seized power in a coup. “I heard his voice on the radio and I was surprised,” Fatimah told me. “I phoned my mum and said: ‘Look, he did it.’” By 2000 Yahya had coaxed Haruna into ditching his hotel job and returning to manage the farm. The president had big plans for the farm, which grew into a huge enterprise that controlled many of the nation’s bakeries and butchers – thriving allegedly through land-grabs and subsidies.

Fatimah and the children stayed behind in Serrekunda, but would often visit. Ebrima had happy memories of meals with the extended family. Yahya was by now a distant figure, surrounded by bodyguards on the rare occasions when he visited. Ebrima remembered his uncle telling him to “work hard at school”.

In 2004, Haruna accused some soldiers of stealing fuel and food, and started to speak out against the regime’s frequent sackings and arrests. When he was removed from the farm, Fatimah begged him to come home. But he refused. “He was a strong character, a man of his word, a man of truth. He didn’t take nonsense from anyone,” Ebrima said. Haruna did not expect his younger “cousin-brother” would harm him.

In 2005 Ebrima, by then 21, spoke to his father for the last time after he was arrested in the middle of the night. “Dad said: ‘I don’t know if I’m coming back,’” he told me. “I was scared. I was devastated. I didn’t think I was going to see him again. I knew the kind of person Yahya was and the kind of rages he had.”

Shortly afterwards, Haruna’s sister Masie also disappeared. “My aunt was bold enough to approach the president, but she went missing, too,” Isatou said. “We stopped going to the village. We decided to be quiet because we were so scared they would come after us.”

In the years that followed, Fatimah and the children kept a low profile in the backstreets of Serrekunda. Questions about their surname were common but they denied all links to the president. For a long time, they had no idea whether Haruna and Masie were alive.

In 2014 Ebrima learned the truth from an interview on a Senegalese radio station with Bai Lowe, a former driver with the “Jungulers” (an elite presidential hit squad). Lowe said he had witnessed the strangling of Haruna and Masie Jammeh in July 2005. Their deaths were recorded in a 2015 Human Rights Watch report.

The interview was conducted by Fatu Camara, a former press secretary to Yahya Jammeh, who fled to the US in 2013 after being charged with “tarnishing the image of the president”. She said Masie had threatened to see a marabout, a spiritual leader with reputed supernatural powers, if Yahya did not reveal Haruna’s whereabouts. Having already set the Jungulers on Haruna, Yahya then targeted Masie, too.

On 26 January Gambia’s new president, Adama Barrow, returned from exile in Senegal. He leads an unwieldy, eight-party coalition with differing views on how Jammeh should be held to account. Barrow, who claims to have inherited a “virtually bankrupt” state, has promised to launch a truth and reconciliation process to investigate human rights abuses during the Jammeh regime. In interviews, he has chosen his words carefully, avoiding any mention of prosecution.

But, like many of those who have suffered, Ebrima wants retribution. “I want to see Yahya Jammeh jailed and prosecuted in this country. Justice will finally come.”

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times