The disability benefits system takes your dignity in exchange for money

It's not pleasant to have to ask for help. The cuts to the Independent Living Fund - delivered in a court room that wasn’t accessible to wheelchairs - are a stark reminder of the reality of life as a disabled person in Britain.

I haven’t been well enough to work much recently. I feel I should say that, though it’s none of anyone’s business. It doesn’t feel good. The fatigue, the pain, whatever. Yes. But the confession of it. Stripping off your privacy in front of strangers. Admitting that you are not doing the things you’re supposed to be able to.

No one should have to do that. No one should have to invite anyone into the most personal aspects of their lives. No one should have to present their incapability and sit with the shame that comes along for the ride.

But, as a society, we force people to do that constantly – that is, after all, how a benefit system works. We take people’s dignity in exchange for money and judge them for needing it.

We could pretend we don’t - or perhaps, increasingly, admit we do and term it the "right choice for difficult times". It does sound uncomfortable when you start to acknowledge it. It begins to feel like the sort of thing that good people shouldn’t talk about. As time goes on, and progression looks more like regression in this country, good people are the ones who start talking very loud.

The disabled, the chronically sick, have always had to lay themselves bare to be deserving. That’s just how these things (apparently) work. There’s a dominant group, and the needy are judged to see if they meet the standards the former in order to get help. Lately, as the welfare system shrivels and shrinks, and our collective empathy seemingly with it, we’ve been judging people for even asking. We’ve been getting very good at that.

It isn’t pleasant to need help. Perhaps, on a pile of falsities and illusions that keep this whole thing going, that’s the central myth that needs to be destroyed. The idea that there is something easy or enjoyable in asking for someone to help you meet basic needs, and that this is such a common, logical trait to being human that swathes of people do it daily.

It is not pleasant to need someone to help you. It is not enviable to have to ask, to admit that you – person, adult – are not able to take care of yourself. That feeling will only ever increase when who you’re having to ask for help makes it clear they’ve really no desire to give it to you. Perhaps they talk badly about you; they might even have nicknames they use behind your back. They might feel so confident that others share their opinion that they say it to your face. Maybe they give you the help but do it begrudgingly, deceiving and demeaning whilst expecting you to be grateful.

And what do you do? You take it. There is no avoiding that. When meals consist of sandwiches and biscuits because you can’t cook hot meals or you’re incontinent but can’t afford the toiletries to clean yourself, there is no avoiding any of it.

That’s the moment of vulnerability; the state that well-meaning supporters often find themselves referring to. It’s a myth that it comes earlier; that a group of people, by virtue of sickness or disability, are simply ‘the most vulnerable’. As if it’s a fixed, natural position, unaffected by how others act. Vulnerability is potential; the risk that one day, on the whim of political pandering the support system crumbles, and you will be lost. Vulnerability is the wait. When you know the fabric of your life is at the mercy of others, the threat is more than enough.

In Britain, that threat has become real. The Independent Living Fund, which has been cut or abandoned to local authorities, is the latest loss to respect and dignity. This particular benefit gives, by definition, life and independence to 20,000 severely disabled people. Although it is a number on a spreadsheet to some, to others it is the personal assistant who comes to help you to the toilet in your own home. A handful of disabled people took the Government to the High Court over it but today lost their case. The news was delivered in a court room that wasn’t accessible for wheelchairs, reminding the excluded and the isolated of their place.

There will probably be talk of the consequences over the next few days. Perhaps stories of how the fund helps recipients get washed each day, or avoid sitting in adult nappies in their home, or being put in residential care. No one should have to say those things but at this point there is little choice.

The system has always demanded that you parade your pain and now the fight against it demands the same. Dignity is donated to the cause. The cause is protecting as much dignity as you can.

A mobility scooter. Photo: Getty

Frances Ryan is a journalist and political researcher. She writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman, and others on disability, feminism, and most areas of equality you throw at her. She has a doctorate in inequality in education. Her website is here.

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The age of China's female self-made billionaires – and why it could soon be over

Rags to riches stories like Zhou Qunfei's are becoming less common.

Elizabeth Holmes, 33, was the darling of Silicon Valley, and the world’s youngest self-made female billionaire. Then, after a series of lawsuits, the value of her healthcare firm plummeted.

Holmes might have abdicated the billionaire crown, but another tech queen was ready to take it. Only this time, the self-made female billionaire was not a blonde American, but Zhou Qunfei, a 47-year-old from China. She dropped out of high school and began working at a watch lens factory as a teenager. In 1993, when she was in her early twenties, she founded her own company. Her big break came ten years later, when Motorola asked her to develop a glass screen for smartphones. She said yes.

Zhou is in fact more typical of the SMFB set than Holmes. Of those listed by Forbes, 37.5 per cent come from China, compared to 30 per cent from the United States. Add in the five SMFB from Hong Kong, and the Middle Kingdom dominates the list. Nipping at Zhou’s heels for top spot are Chan Laiwa, a property developer who also curates a museum, and Wa Yajun, also a property developer. Alibaba founder Jack Ma declared his “secret sauce” was hiring as many women as possible.

So should the advice to young feminists be “Go East, young woman”? Not quite, according to the academic Séagh Kehoe, who runs the Twitter account Women in China and whose research areas include gender and identity in the country.

“I haven’t seen any of these self-made female billionaires talking about feminism,” says Kehoe. Instead, a popular narrative in China is “the idea of pulling yourself up by your boot straps”. So far as female entrepreneurs embrace feminism, it’s of the corporate variety – Sheryl Sandberg’s book Lean In has been translated into Mandarin.

In fact, Kehoe believes the rise of the self-made woman is down to three historic factors – the legacy of Maoist equality, and both the disruption and the opportunity associated with the post-Mao economic reforms.

Mao brought in the 1950 Marriage Law, a radical break with China’s patriarchal traditions, which banned marriage without a woman’s consent, and gave women the right to divorce for the first time.

In Communist China, women were also encouraged to work. “That is something that was actively promoted - that women should be an important part of the labour force,” says Kehoe. “At the same time, they also had the burden of cooking and cleaning. They had to shoulder this double burden.”

After Mao’s death, his successor Deng Xiaoping began dismantling the communist economy in favour of a more market-based system. This included reducing the number of workers at state-owned enterprises. “A lot of women lost their jobs,” says Kehoe. “They were often the first to be laid off.”

For some women – such as the SMFBs – this was counterbalanced by the huge opportunities the new, liberal economy presented. “All this came together to be a driving force for women to be independent,” Kehoe says.

The one child policy, although deeply troubling to feminists in terms of the power it dictates over women’s bodies, not to mention the tendency for mothers to abort female foetuses, may have also played a role. “There is an argument out there that, for all of the harm the one child policy has done, for daughters who were the only child in the family, resources were pushed towards that child,” says Kehoe. “That could be why female entrepreneurs in China have been successful.”

Indeed, for all the dominance of the Chinese SMFBs, it could be short-lived. Mao-era equality is already under threat. Women’s political participation peaked in the 1970s, and today’s leaders are preoccupied with the looming fact of an aging population.

“There has been quite a lot of pushback towards women returning to the home,” says Kehoe. Chinese state media increasingly stresses the role of “good mothers” and social stability. The one child policy has been replaced by a two child policy, but without a comparable strengthening of maternity workplace rights.

Meanwhile, as inequality widens, and a new set of economic elites entrench their positions, rags to riches stories like Zhou Qunfei's are becoming less common. So could the Chinese SMFBs be a unique phenomenon, a generation that rode the crest of a single wave?

“Maybe,” says Kehoe. “The 1980s was the time for self-made billionaires. The odds aren’t so good now.”

Julia Rampen is the digital news editor of the New Statesman (previously editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog). She has also been deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines.