It is important to note that this experience of working for the military had a lasting impact on medical doctors. It provided them with a future reference on the national poor based on the encounters with the troops. While their tasks gave the doctors access mainly to men, this nevertheless allowed them to draw conclusions for the health of women and children (González de Reufels 2020) and what to them were alarming morals and "bad habits" that undermined the health of the masses. High rates of sexually transmitted diseases in soldiers such as syphilis meant that women sufered from the disease as well. Tis required the control of prostitution, characterised in 1869 by a military doctor as the "shadow of the military" (González de Reufels 2020, 122), so doctors began to pressure the Chilean state to take measures. Tuberculosis and related diseases were as rampant as alcoholism that wrecked families, caused poverty and produced sick and weak national citizens (González de Reufels 2020). Tis also led to high infant mortality (Chávez Zúñiga 2019) that highlighted the shortcomings of welfare and medical progress. It furthermore endangered Chilean demography that also mattered to the military.

Te military and medical doctors advocated for vaccination against smallpox, although liberal Chilean governments were reluctant to implement vaccination laws and the diferences between the measures that were debated and the measures that were implemented became very clear (González de Reufels 2020). Here, both groups sought to protect the health of the general population and the troops of the present. When they argued for the fght on syphilis and on tuberculosis, they also hoped to secure the health of future generations, taking an active interest in the health of new-borns, young children and the training of mothers. Tis became a priority of the Chilean government in the early twentieth century, and an "Institute for Small Infant Care" was founded in 1906. Tis feld of public health also was of concern to the military: in 1920 the military journal *El Memorial del Ejército* demanded in a long article that Chilean government should implement, among others, "ample laws to protect childhood as part of a solid social constitution" (Maldonado 1920, 194). Tere the military also advocated for restrictions on child labour, which were considered detrimental to the health of the young.

Te coalition between the two groups reached into national politics in the early twentieth century (Cruz-Cooke Madrid 1995). As part of the national government, the coalition efectually implemented institutional changes, laying the foundations for further welfare development. When a military junta assumed power in 1924, medical doctors seized the opportunity to establish a ministry of health they had demanded for many years (Bennett Argandoña 1926, 243). Tis *Ministerio de Higiene, Asistencia y Previsión Social* was headed by Alejandro del Río Soto-Aguilar, who was a leading fgure in medicine and involved in the creation of the National Institute of Hygiene (Cruz-Cooke Madrid 1995). Clearly, the coalition of medical doctors and the military also impacted institutional and bureaucratic development.

Finally, during the frst Popular Front coalition, the two professions were willing to "defend the race", as contemporaries put it. Tis became a topic in the early twentieth century, and it was argued for by medical doctors and the military alike. Tis is furthermore exemplifed by former military doctor Carlos Ramírez Bravo who in 1938 referred to his experiences in the military (Ramírez Bravo 1938, 627) to demand active intervention by the national government because the mothers of the urban poor were allegedly slowly eroding the health of the Chilean masses (Ramírez Bravo 1938, 629) and degenerating the race. Tis, Ramírez Bravo wrote, forced physicians to take measures as the defence and the productivity of the fatherland depended on the health of its population.

In Chile, eugenic sterilisation was openly discussed during the fnal years of the 1930s. While this reminds us that at this time a growing number of Latin American doctors were advocating eugenics whose ethics they did not question, this calls to mind that the military was also in favour of it. But the reach of the coalition between the two groups had its limits, and these limits were set by other actors such as the Catholic Church. Tus, Chile debated but never implemented eugenic legislation.

### **5 Conclusion**

Social policy development in the feld of public health was in large measure driven by medical interests and specifc military concerns. When the medical and the military professions rose and professionalised in the nineteenth century, they sought to establish alliances with the state and to impose their own views on which course public health was to take. Te brief case study points out how a strategic coalition between the two groups had lasting and far-reaching implications for the policy feld examined here; the coalition also afected their own progress as professionals.

Tis coalition was made possible by professionalisation, which started the complex causal mechanism examined here. It was also made possible by the opportunities the Armed Forces ofered to doctors and was then advanced by shared experiences with the poor male population, the shared experience of war and, most importantly, by converging interests. Tese lay in the eradication of endemic diseases, the prevention of disease and the development of measures that would improve the health of civilians and the troops. At the same time, doctors and the military sought to make Chile a modern country inhabited by healthy people on whom the nation could rely in peace and war.

Te dynamics of the coalition depended on past strategies of professionalisation and their lasting infuence on, among others, the selfconception of the professions, shared attitudes and expectations. Here, the interdependency of the transfer of ideas and its impact is very clear. Because other Latin American countries also imported European models to professionalise both, medicine and the military, and sought to prevent deadly diseases and to improve the health of the population in general, it is fair to assume that the coalition observed in Chile occurred elsewhere as well. It is therefore necessary to study the points in history when these groups professionalised, examine the social policy measures they were particularly interested in and look for connections between physicians and military ofcers in diferent countries and diferent aspects of public health over time.

Te convergence of interest between both professional groups and its impact on social policy become particularly clear with the concern for the health of Chilean children. Ten both, medical doctors and the military, warned against the dangers posed to the country by sick future generations. Here the coalition between the two groups addressed the present and unfolded their vision for the future by demanding public health measures focused exclusively on children. Teir nutrition, living conditions and physical training became a priority of the Chilean state whose public health development was particularly calibrated by two professional groups that joined forces.

**Acknowledgements** Tis chapter is a product of the research conducted in the Collaborative Research Center "Global Dynamics of Social Policy" at the University of Bremen. Te centre is funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation)—project number 374666841—SFB 1342.

### **References**

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons licence and indicate if changes were made.

Te images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

## **7**

## **Social Policy and Britain's 1929 Colonial Development Act**

**Amanda Shriwise**

### **1 Introduction**

In 1929, Britain passed the Colonial Development Act (CDA), codifying its obligation to the development of the great estate with which it had been "entrusted". Te CDA created a new fnancial instrument—the Colonial Development Fund (CDF)—and an accompanying advisory body—the Colonial Development Advisory Committee (CDAC)—that was responsible for making recommendations on how to allocate funds from the CDF to British colonies. While the CDA was not the only institutional mechanism through which Britain distributed aid to its colonies, it does represent the frst time that colonial development assistance was centrally and systematically allocated across the British Empire.

A. Shriwise (\*)

University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany

University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS, USA e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>
Drawing on reports from the CDAC, parliamentary debates and secondary literature, this chapter examines social policy in a British colonial development context through the lens of the CDA from 1929 to 1940. It argues that while the CDF was a redistributive mechanism, it was far from progressive in both concept and implementation. As this chapter will demonstrate, the CDA aligned with and built upon previous notions of colonial development as economic development rather than subverting or transforming Britain's approach to colonial development policy in pursuit of social progress. As a result, social policy was part and parcel of fundamentally contradictory claims about welfare in the British Empire. Britain portrayed itself as a duty bound and philanthropic colonial power on the one hand while simultaneously pursuing a colonial development agenda that explicitly prioritised metropolitan economic gains over the welfare of local and indigenous populations on the other. Britain began to substantiate its commitment to social policy within its colonies only after the establishment of international standards through the League of Nations mandates system and when its image as a benevolent hegemon was threatened.

Tis chapter begins by briefy outlining key concepts for understanding social policy in a British colonial development context. Ten, this chapter empirically examines British colonial development assistance from the CDF, focusing on the politics and objectives of the CDA, the CDA's implementation, the rationales and justifcations that supported the approval of CDF funds spent in social policy areas, and the geographic and sectoral allocation of CDF funds for social policy in the colonies, before concluding.

### **2 Social Policy in a British Colonial Development Context**

In the British Empire, social policy and welfare were integral to mechanisms of othering that underpinned colonialism itself. Colonies were established and perpetuated, in large part, through the annexation of territory and subsequent installation of extractive practices and racial hierarchies. As illustrated in seminal works by postcolonial scholars (e.g. Gramsci 1971; Said 1979), the latter was accomplished through the institutionalisation of implicitly self-referential, Eurocentric social frames, which not only excluded but also obscured, disempowered and even dehumanised alternative ways of being, living and seeing, further reinforcing the dominance of colonising powers. Social policy and welfare provision were no exception:

Te basic ideology of the British Empire was built around spreading Victorian notions of betterment, improvement, progress, prosperity and civilization where there was perceived to be savagery, chaos, despotism, poverty, and slavery. In this sense, the British Empire was always a *Victorian* empire with an umbrella of broad welfare benefts at the heart of its selfpromoting ideology. (Lewis 2011, 26 - original emphasis)

Similar logics pervaded early conceptions of colonial development in the British Empire. Shortly after his appointment as Secretary of State for the Colonies, Joseph Chamberlain made a speech in the House of Commons on 22 August 1895 that signalled a shift from laissez-faire management of colonial development based on ad hoc ofers of grant-inaid to colonies experiencing fnancial difculties to one in which the state took a more active role in promoting economic development:

I regard many of our colonies as being in the condition of underdeveloped estates, and estates which can never be developed without Imperial assistance. It appears to me to be absurd to apply to savage countries the same rules which we apply to civilised portions of the United Kingdom … I shall be prepared to consider very carefully … and then … confdently submit to the House, any case which may occur in which, by the judicious investment of British money, those estates which belong to the British Crown may be developed for the beneft of their population and for the beneft of the greater population which is outside. (House of Commons Debate, 1895, Volume 36, Columns 640–6).

Trough Imperial investment in colonial transportation and communication infrastructure, Chamberlain argued that Britain could enable private investment in its colonies, resulting in both colonial economic development and metropolitan profts.

Both Chamberlain's vision of colonial development as state-enabled, privately driven economic development and the notion of Britain having a duty and responsibility to develop the great estate with which it had been entrusted were only furthered after World War I (WWI), with greater attention to welfare. At the League of Nations, the notion of trusteeship became the dominant normative framework for the administration and development of mandated territories (Pedersen 2015). Frederick Lugard, former Governor-General of Nigeria and British Representative to the League of Nations Permanent Mandates Commission, describes this approach at length in *Te Dual Mandate in British Tropical Africa*, referring to it as:

Te principle that "the wellbeing and development of peoples not yet able to stand by themselves forms a sacred trust of civilization" … Te responsibility is one which the advantages of an inherited civilisation and a superior intellectual culture, no less than the physical superiority conferred by the monopoly of frearms, imposes upon the controlling Power. (Lugard 1922, 57)

During the early interwar period, ideas on how to further British colonial development began to circulate, with some suggesting that the British Government should secure loans raised by colonial administrations to spur economic development and with others calling for the extension of government grants, interest-free advances and subsidised loans, depending on the context. However, in the absence of both the right political window of opportunity and high-level support from the British Cabinet, none of these discussions resulted in the formulation of new policy or legislation to support colonial development across the British Empire in the early 1920s (Malmsten 1977).

### **3 Social Policy and the Colonial Development Fund, 1929–1940**

#### **3.1 The Formative Politics and Objectives of the Colonial Development Act, 1929**

Unemployment became an urgent political problem in Britain in the run up to the 1929 election, which took place several months before Black Tuesday. With considerable support in the Cabinet, an interdepartmental committee began reviewing proposals that could quickly reduce unemployment, and it was suggested that investment in colonial development could aid in this endeavour by catalysing Imperial trade and economic growth (Malmsten 1977). In the end, no formal action was taken on colonial development before May 1929, when the Conservatives lost their majority.

Less than two months after the election of the minority Labour government, the CDA became law on 26 July 1929. While it was widely known in political circles that investment in colonial development could make only a very limited contribution to alleviating unemployment in Britain (Morgan 1980), this framing positioned the CDA as one solution to the political problem of unemployment, which the new government had promised to take action upon during the election campaign (Constantine 1984, 191).

Te CDA had two objectives: to aid and develop agriculture and industry in Britain's colonies; and to promote commerce with or industry in the United Kingdom (Colonial Development Act 1929, 1). Te CDA applied to all British colonies and protectorates that were not selfgoverning, including the mandated territories Britain was responsible for administrating on behalf of the League of Nations (Colonial Development Act 1929, 3).1 Colonies in receipt of grant-in-aid from Britain were also eligible to apply; however, in practice, these colonies often had less

1 In essence, the self-governing Dominions—India, Southern Rhodesia (present-day Zimbabwe), Malta, the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (present-day Sudan and South Sudan), Iraq, and the New Hebrides (present-day Vanuatu)—were all excluded (Cmd. 3540, 7). However, both Newfoundland, which shifted its status from a Dominion to a crown colony in 1934, and Malta later received funds from the CDF (Cmd. 4916, 5).

capacity to support development initiatives, making them less likely to beneft from the Act (Cmd. 6298, 9; Wicker 1958).

Te CDA stipulated that its objectives were to be achieved through a number of means of economic development as well as through the promotion of public health, which presented the clearest link between the CDA and social policy in British colonies. One of the frst debates with respect to the CDA on 24 February 1930 in the House of Commons suggests that public health was included, in part, because it provided a clear way to demonstrate support for the well-being of colonial inhabitants, which was a core element of trusteeship at the League of Nations and mandatory powers were wise to pay some homage (House of Commons Debate, 1930, Volume 235, Columns 1949–81). Furthermore, reducing the threat of infectious disease helped to protect international trade and colonial troops, administrations and settlers, as well as the supply of indigenous labour upon which colonial plantation owners and mining magnates depended. Moreover, improving public health through modern sanitation systems and Western medicine reinforced the image of colonialism as a civilising mission, which was doubly important given the history of European colonisers introducing infectious diseases that ravaged indigenous populations (Chakrabarti 2013).2

To support these means to colonial development, the CDA created the CDF, which received £1 million from Parliament each year.3 Tere is evidence to suggest that the fgure of £1 million was based on estimates of what colonies could reasonably absorb over the course of one year (Wicker 1958, 175). Te CDF was allowed to make grants or loans to British colonies that "may be applied by the Government to which they are made either directly or through any person or bodies of persons" as His Majesty's (HM) Treasury saw ft (Colonial Development Act 1929, 2). Tis clause efectively opened the door for colonial governments to channel CDA funds to private entities within their territories, whether

2Te impact of infectious disease introduced by European colonisers on indigenous populations was particularly pronounced in the Americas, where "it is estimated that up to 90 per cent of the indigenous population in certain parts of the Americas were wiped out" (Chakrabarti 2013, 73).

3Between 1929 and 1939, £1 million was, on average, the equivalent of approximately £68.9 million in 2020.

for-proft frms or not-for-proft entities, such as missions. Colonial governments were also allowed to use CDF funds to cover the interest on development loans raised independently by colonial governments for a period of up to ten years (Cmd. 3540, 21).

Parliament's annual £1 million contribution to the CDF came with two conditions: the observation of fair labour conditions (including both standard wage rates and no forced or child labour, defned as the employment of those under twelve years of age), which also aligned with standards set for mandatory powers at the League of Nations; and ensuring that colonies beneft from any profts derived of the back of CDF investments (Colonial Development Act 1929, 3). Finally, any CDF loan repayments would be paid into the Exchequer, not to the CDF specifcally (Colonial Development Act 1929, 4).

Te CDA also calls for the creation of what came to be known as the CDAC to make recommendations on the allocation of these funds throughout Britain's colonies. Te committee was to be appointed by the Secretary of State for the Colonies subject to approval by HM Treasury (Colonial Development Act 1929, 4). Te CDAC was not empowered to suggest development projects or initiatives within colonies nor did it have a comprehensive picture of the developmental needs of each colony; instead, the Committee members evaluated requests for funding in line with the Committee's mandate to stimulate economic development in the colonies in a way that increased trade and fostered job creation in the metropole.

#### **3.2 Implementation of the Colonial Development Act, 1929**

As indicated in its frst report, the CDAC derived its mandate directly from the CDA's twin objectives of promoting economic development in Britain's colonies and promoting commerce and job creation in the United Kingdom. Te Colonial Ofce (CO) took a number of executive actions to ensure that the Secretary of State for the Colonies was in compliance with the conditions of the legislation. In addition to ensuring standard wages and the absence of forced and child labour, Sydney Webb, then Secretary of State for the Colonies, suggested that colonial governors consider ways to acquire a share of any increase in land value that resulted from investments made by the CDF. Furthermore, in all cases where funds from the CDF were meant to be channelled through a company, Webb called for the consideration of: "(i) whether, and if so to what extent, the Government should participate, either as a shareholder or otherwise, in any profts of the Company directly attributable to that assistance, and (ii) whether it should assume a share of responsibility for the direction of the Company" (Cmd. 3540, 10). Te CO also clarifed that projects funded by the CDF should endeavour to place orders for imported material and equipment in the United Kingdom—a criticised, but ongoing practice across a number of countries today referred to as "tied aid"—and that colonial governments should submit bi-annual progress reports to the CDAC on the implementation status of CDFfunded projects, including reporting on associated labour conditions (Cmd. 3540, 11).

At its frst meeting on 1 August 1929, the CDAC clarifed the institutional mechanism supporting the allocation of funds from the CDF

**Fig. 7.1** Institutional mechanism supporting the allocation of funds from the CDF

(Fig. 7.1), provided input on guidance for colonial administrations on how to apply to the Fund, which was sent in a circular dispatch on 10 August 1929, and recommended that this dispatch was preceded by a circular telegram informing colonial administrations of the passage of the CDA, which was sent on 7 August 1929 (Cmd. 3540). In total, the CDAC held ffteen meetings during its frst seven months of operation alone, not least because the frst £1 million issued to the CDF needed to be allocated before the end of the fscal year; otherwise, these funds would revert to the Exchequer, in addition to raising more fundamental questions about the viability of implementing colonial development projects (Cmd. 3540, 23).

Te CDAC proved to be a functional and politically stable entity. From its frst meeting in August 1929 to the end date of its eleventh and fnal report on 17 July 1940, the Committee met at least 125 times, or approximately once per month. During the formulation of the CDA, there was some debate over whether the CDAC should be chaired by government ofcials and comprised of individuals with business experience and representatives from colonies or whether it should be a more independent body without governmental representation. In the end, the Government's preference for a more independent committee that was less subject to ongoing disputes between the CO and HM Treasury but with business experience prevailed (Overseas Development Institute 1964, 16). Over time, the CDAC was comprised of individuals who together had extensive experience in the areas of fnance, trade union organisation, chartered accounting, engineering and public works, and colonial governance, as well as board members of several infuential frms, including Cable and Wireless and De Beers Consolidated Mines and chairmen of several chambers of commerce; while some of the committee members were sympathetic to the provision of social services, especially medical and health research, none of the committee members had extensive expertise in these areas (for names of CDAC members, please see Cmd. 3540, Cmd. 3876, Cmd. 4079, Cmd. 4316, Cmd. 4634, Cmd. 4916, Cmd. 5202, Cmd. 5537, Cmd. 5789, Cmd. 6062, and Cmd. 6298).

#### **3.3 The Allocation of Financial Support from the CDF**

Te CDAC's frst meeting report specifes a number of criteria used to decide whether or not projects should receive support from the CDF in line with its legislative mandate (Cmd. 3540). In particular, the CDAC was looking for schemes that were well placed to have a positive multiplier efect (Abbott 1971), whereby colonial economic development projects also stimulated the need for items manufactured in the United Kingdom, thereby fostering job creation in the metropole while improving the condition of the colonies. However, the CDAC also required that proposed schemes were economically sound, that they could not be undertaken by colonial governments with their own resources and that colonial governments could take on any maintenance or recurring expenditure that resulted from CDF investments. Te CDAC and HM Treasury also occasionally placed conditions on colonial governments in line with the receipt of CDF funds, and, in many cases, projects were jointly fnanced with colonial governments and other entities.

Additionally, the CDAC made clear that they were not keen to fund anything resembling normal, recurrent expenditure in the colonies in line with the long-standing view that colonial governments should be fnancially self-sufcient entities. While this principle proved detrimental to funding education expenses through the CDF, as stated explicitly in the CDAC's frst annual report (Cmd. 3540, 17), funding for health fared much better given its explicit inclusion as a means through which to support colonial development in the Act itself. Health was conceptualised largely as preventing negative multiplier efects and funding justifcations focused in particular on preventing disease and improving hygiene and sanitary conditions within the colonies, with occasional support for expanding health infrastructure, such as hospitals and dispensaries. Over the lifetime of the Committee, the CDAC allocated 16 percent of the CDF to public health, second only to the 30 percent allocated to transportation and communications (Cmd. 6298, 11).

While the CDAC explicitly set out to avoid providing temporary assistance during times of distress without the prospect of a permanent economic beneft (Cmd. 3540, 16), welfare ultimately proved difcult for the Committee to ignore. In particular, failures in the sugar market in the West Indies resulted in high levels of distress and instability, and eventually, a Royal Commission was tasked with examining both economic and social conditions in the region. Te Commission released their report in 1940, fnding that:

Tere is a *pressing need* for large expenditure on social services and development which not even the least poor of the West Indian Colonies can hope to undertake from their own resources. (as quoted in Wicker 1958, 180—Wicker's emphasis)

Te Commission's fndings played a substantial role in the reformulation of the CDA as the Colonial Development and Welfare Act, 1940. As suggested in its short title, the Act placed a greater emphasis on welfare in colonies, including the ability to fnance education, in addition to increasing the funding ceiling for colonial development fvefold to £5 million a year and the forgiveness of any outstanding debt colonial governments had to the CDF. However, emphasis on welfare and implementation of the new approach was overshadowed by the onset of World War II, and Britain spent less than £6 million in total on colonial development and welfare between 1940 and 1945 (Wicker 1958, 176).

Furthermore, as argued by Malmsten (1977), high-level support for including welfare in colonial development eforts grew not only out of concerns related to poverty or social unrest—which had been persistent and ongoing throughout the British Empire—but out of the need to protect and preserve Britain's image amid its hegemonic decline. In 1938, Malcom MacDonald, then Secretary of State for the Colonies, told a CO colonial development committee that:

In the future, criticism of Great Britain would be directed more and more against her management of the Colonial Empire, and it was essential to provide as little basis as possible for such criticism. It was an essential part of her defence policy that her reputation as a Colonial power should be unassailable. (Malmsten 1977, D1283)

In a fashion somewhat analogous to the initial passage of the CDA (Malmsten 1977, D1286), MacDonald successfully made the case to expand the Act's scope and fnancing in 1940 based not on the social needs of colonial inhabitants but on the grounds that colonial development *and welfare* were in Britain's self-interest—and this remains the most robust line of argumentation for development and foreign assistance to date.

## **4 Conclusion**

Social policy in British colonies was representative of contradictory tensions underpinning Britain's justifcation for its position as a hegemonic colonial power. British colonial development policy was originally conceived to promote colonial economic development and metropolitan profts, with minimal concern for the welfare of local and indigenous populations. However, after WWI, emphasis on trusteeship and the welfare of indigenous populations in the League of Nations mandates system did lead to greater funding for public health in British colonies, which emerged as the second largest area of investment for the CDF after transportation and communication. After market failures and subsequent unrest in the West Indies, further investment in colonial development and welfare after 1940 was supported largely to preserve Britain's image as a philanthropic and benevolent hegemon amid its decline. While CDF investments in health in British colonies were likely far too small to result in substantial welfare gains for local and indigenous populations, these fndings suggest that international visibility through the mandates system did nudge colonial powers towards greater accountability and constrain their ability to side-line welfare concerns in pursuit of economic development and metropolitan profts. Ultimately, arguments emphasizing why the welfare of colonial inhabitants was central to Britain's self-interest were most successful in garnering metropolitan support for advancing social policy in Britain's colonies, however minimal these gains were in practice.

**Acknowledgement** My thanks to Jakob Kaiser for his research assistance on the background and experience of members of the Colonial Development Advisory Committee.

#### **References**

#### **Legislation**

Te United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. 1929. *Colonial Development Act*. 20 Geo. 5 Ch. 5. London, July 26.

#### **Parliamentary Debates**

#### **Parliamentary Papers**

Secretary of State for the Colonies to Parliament by Command of His Majesty, July 1939, London: HM Stationary Ofce.

Cmd. 6298—*Colonial Development Advisory Committee, Eleventh and Final Report Covering the Period*. 1st April, 1939–17th July, 1940, Presented by the Secretary of State for the Colonies to Parliament by Command of His Majesty, July 1941, London: HM Stationary Ofce.

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons licence and indicate if changes were made.

Te images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

## **8**

## **The Colonial Legacy and the Jamaican Healthcare System**

**Elsada Diana Cassells, Gabriela de Carvalho, and Lorraine Frisina Doetter**

### **1 Introduction**

Jamaica became a British colony in 1655. For the next two centuries, Jamaica's incorporation into the British Empire was as the crown jewel, the site of a very successful sugar and slavery operation. After the abolition of slavery in 1838, Jamaica became a backwater flled with the broken bodies of the formerly enslaved, and a hotbed of destitution, disease and death. In the wake of independence in 1962, Jamaican policymakers were faced with enormous social policy challenges, particularly in the area of health, while coping with the trials of political transition and severe economic constraints. In the present study, we explore the colonial

Purchase College, SUNY, Purchase, NY, USA e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>
G. de Carvalho (\*) • L. Frisina Doetter University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS><EMAIL_ADDRESS>
© Te Author(s) 2022 **89**

E. D. Cassells

F. Nullmeier et al. (eds.), *International Impacts on Social Policy*, Global Dynamics of Social Policy, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-86645-7\_8

legacy on healthcare in Jamaica, casting an eye especially to the long-term policy conditions introduced by years of foreign rule. More specifcally, we ask, *how did British colonialism impact the nature of choices and challenges confronting Jamaican policymakers as they grappled with a national response to healthcare post-independence?* To answer this question, we begin by exploring a number of key insights from extant scholarship regarding the intersection between colonialism and social policy, as well as outline our main assumptions. We then trace policy developments across two time periods: Te colonial-era up to independence in 1962, and postindependence to the present. Our study concludes by refecting on the consequences of colonialism and its legacy on the trajectory of healthcare policy in Jamaica.

### **2 Colonialism and the Emergence of Social Policy**

Classical welfare state scholarship often explains the formation and ongoing development of social policy with reference to domestic factors, such as the role of industrialisation or economic development, as well as the ideological leanings of political parties. Te last decades, however, have seen the emergence of new studies that consider external factors like globalisation and the infuence of international organisations as (additional) drivers of social protection and social policy reform. Tis has come to include a focus on the role of colonialism in explaining welfare state development. Such literature argues that, in many instances, social security can be traced back to the colonial period and that the ongoing development of social policies is directly related to this time. Te French Empire, for instance, had an active role in supporting social security legislation in its colonies, shaping both the institutional framework and the way the state would behave in countries post-independence (Schmitt 2015).

Although colonial powers have pursued diferent paths and approaches in relation to their territories, responsibilities in social protection for colonial populations typically arose at the beginning of the twentieth century. Tis mainly took the form of employment-related injury benefts as a response to the expansion of labour movements (Midgley 2011; Schmitt 2015). In contrast to the Spanish and French, the British Empire did not follow a centralised and universal approach to social policy in the colonies. Te very few common responses to social afairs came about only in 1929 and 1940, decades later than in other empires, with the ratifcation of the Colonial Development Act (see Shriwise in this volume) and the Colonial Development and Welfare Act, respectively. Tese provided fnancial assistance in the form of grants and loans for socioeconomic programmes, such as sanitation and transport (Colonial Development Act 1929). Public health measures represented 16 percent of the total amount recommended to fnance projects, totalling £1,460,3881 for the 1929–1940 period (Colonial Development Act 1929). Te amount of funds available for each territory, however, was quite limited: for instance, the total assistance for all programmes recommended by the Colonial Development Fund to Jamaica over the same period was only £219,000 (Colonial Development Act 1929).

Te publication of the Beveridge Report2 in 1942 and the massive impact it had in Britain encouraged the debate over social security systems across British colonies. However, colonial ofcials maintained their position against a universal response and indicated (a) the need to create programmes that could be integrated into pre-existing territorial structures; and (b) that colonies were responsible for fnancing any programmes, despite their constant economic constraints (Midgley 2011; Schmitt 2015). Tis led to highly heterogeneous and delayed developments in social policy for British colonies, with most social protection programmes only introduced post-independence and in select countries. By way of comparison, whereas healthcare programmes are currently in place in 94 percent of former Spanish territories and in 91 percent of former French colonies, only 58 percent of former British territories provide some form of health coverage for their populations (Schmitt 2015). Given such divergent trajectories in social policy in (former) British colonies, the question necessarily arises, what leads one country to adopt a specifc response to addressing social protection versus another, or none

1All fgures reported as in historical Acts.

2Te Beveridge Report is the most infuential report in the foundation of the UK's welfare state. It advocated for fat-rate universal contribution and benefts.

at all? Moreover, are such choices shaped by the policy imprint of the colonial period?

While the present study cannot provide full answers to these questions, in what follows we take a frst step at exploring the role that colonialism played in the introduction of the healthcare system in Jamaica. Our working assumption is that policy developments specifc to health, however embryonic, witnessed during the colonial period left an indelible mark on the policy choices subsequently made and faced by Jamaican politicians. Tis might have manifested in anything ranging from the full embracing of the colonial policy legacy to the absolute rejection of all social policy modelled by the former colonial power. Moreover, we assume that the experience of colonialism, with its deeply rooted social inequalities, generated long-term consequences for the health of the people. Tis left national policymakers post-independence to struggle with the colossal task of having to address decades' worth of systematic neglect and abuse concerning population health. Tis presumably created policymaking conditions that were constraining in both their urgency, and the nature and range of choices available to decision-makers at the time. Bearing these assumptions in mind, we now turn to trace the history of healthcare in Jamaica, starting pre-independence, to explore the intersections between colonialism and the birth of a healthcare system.

### **3 The Development of Public Health Services in Colonial Jamaica**

To understand the development of healthcare in Jamaica requires an interrogation of the processes that accompanied the radical shift from a slave-based free labour economy to an independent nation state. Te public healthcare system in Jamaica grew out of a turbulent and traumatic post-emancipation process during which disease and social dystopia set the framework for healthcare delivery in the period leading up to independence. Tis section explicates the healthcare landscape in Jamaica from the epoch of slavery through to independence in 1962.

#### **3.1 Slavery and Post-Emancipation Dystopia**

During slavery, estate infrmaries, sick bays, alms houses, lunatic asylums and the Kingston Public Hospital established in 1776 formed the totality of the institutional framework in place for healthcare provision for the majority of the population. Medical ofcers recruited from abroad attended to colonial administrators, civil servants, the plantocracy and military personnel. Post-emancipation access to healthcare for the newly freed former slaves and their descendants was conditioned upon their willingness to remain as labourers on the sites of their former enslavement. Most chose, instead, to disappear into the hinterland, in forested areas devoid of resources for sustainable livelihoods. Tis contributed to grave public health consequences. With the emergence of these informal settlements, poverty, poor housing and squalor, the island became a petri dish of tropical diseases, among them, yaws, tuberculosis, cholera, malaria, as well as high mortality and morbidity rates, especially among infants (Pemberton 2012).

It was not until the mid-nineteenth century that state considerations for public health policy would come into focus because of three signifcant agenda-setting events. First, the inhumane treatment of mental health patients was classifed as cruel and revoltingly criminal in a report commissioned by the colonial government in 1861 (Jones 2008; Fryar 2016). Second, signifcant population loss as a result of the cholera epidemic of the 1850s signalled to the authorities that race-based public health strategies were inefective and only led to the rampant spread of disease. Te ravages of communicable illnesses, high death-to-birth ratios and uncontrollable waves of infection propelled the colonial government to establish the Central Board of Health, a short-lived entity (1852–1854), as a knee jerk reaction to the public health crisis (Roberts 2013).

Tird, the Morant Bay Rebellion, a class-based revolt in 1865 which challenged the economic and social marginalisation of the Black population, led to a series of institutional reforms by the British Empire. Tis included the 1875 establishment of the Island Medical Services (IMS), an entity that brought together disparate elements of healthcare services under one umbrella. Propelled by the need to provide care for the Asian indentured workers and the collapse of the estate-based healthcare system, the IMS centralised accessibility to the few medical practitioners who had not repatriated to Britain after emancipation. Tis culminated in the incorporation of parish infrmaries, asylums, 'lying-in' maternity centres, and dispensaries into a government medical service (Davidson 2013).

### **3.2 Rockefeller Intervention**

Te global infuenza pandemic compounded the deleterious economic and social conditions in Jamaica at the dawn of the twentieth century. Together these threatened the economic base of the island as the indentured labour pool succumbed to disease and ill health. In response, the colonial government ofered up the territory as a laboratory for the Rockefeller Foundation3 to carry out epidemiological research. Beginning in 1918, the Rockefeller International Health Commission incorporated Jamaica into its network of studies on tropical illnesses such as hookworm infestations, tuberculosis, malaria and yaws, among others. Te direct policy implications of the Rockefeller intervention manifested in the 1927 establishment of a national health education bureau geared towards providing rudimentary primary health services, particularly clinics for venereal and communicable diseases (Altink 2018).

### **3.3 Moyne and Irvine Commissions**

Te turbulence occasioned by the Great Depression, the waning imperial ambitions of Great Britain and unsettled questions of Jamaican humanity under the matrix of colonialism led to widespread riots and violent labour-related actions during the 1930s. Economic contractions during the inter-war years fuelled a contentious class battle between Jamaican

3Te Rockefeller Foundation is a New York based philanthropic organisation established in 1913. Although it develops activities in diferent felds, medical and health sciences have been the focus of the foundation since its creation (Birn and Fee 2013).

workers, landless illiterate peasants and the colonial elite. Moreover, the Colonial Development Act of 1929 increased Jamaica's foreign debt, as loan repayments well exceeded the actual loan amounts (Abbott 1971).

Mass unemployment, low wages, poor living and deplorable working conditions culminated in island-wide disturbances. Several categories of workers, among them dockworkers, agricultural workers, ex-servicemen and public-works labourers, engaged in generalised work stoppages and strikes. Te ensuing riots and violent disruptions proved to be a watershed moment, as it led to the formation of the labour unions and afliated political parties that would preside over the development of national health policies after independence (Dawson 2016). Accordingly, from the 1938 riots onwards and during the Second World War, Jamaican elites, the peasantry and assorted ideologues were locked in a struggle regarding the future of the nation. Te nascent independence movement was viewed with distrust by the colonial authorities (Palmer 2014). Tis period marked the genesis of Jamaica's political divide as the political culture that was birthed during this time continued to shape social policymaking long after independence.

Britain responded by convening the Moyne Commission (1938) to assess social, economic and political conditions, and the Irvine Commission (1943) on higher education, in its Caribbean colonies. Te Moyne Commission recognised the structural defciencies that plagued the region and ofered a range of recommendations that included provisions that propelled a revolutionising of the public health landscape forward. Te West Indies School of Public Health inaugurated in 1943 in Jamaica as a regional training institute for public health ofcers and allied health works was a product of this commission. Meanwhile, the Irvine Commission advanced the idea of establishing a regional university in the Caribbean, the University of the West Indies in Jamaica, founded in 1948. In recognition of the precarious health profle of the region, the frst class at this new institution consisted of thirty-three students in the faculty of medicine. Ten, the institution operated as a franchise of the University of London, with curriculum and faculty imported from abroad. Te rise of political autonomy, however, with Jamaica and Trinidad and Tobago gaining independence in 1962, and the dictates of national health policy ultimately led to an indigenisation of all aspects of the institution. Notably, in the lead-up to Jamaican self-government in 1957, the British Empire sought to decolonialise district medical ofces and assorted medical departments by consolidating them into a Ministry of Health in 1955 (Campbell 2013). Tis introduced a novel and enduring institutional landmark into the healthcare architecture of the soon to be former colony.

### **4 Healthcare Post-Independence**

Te political parties formed in response to the 1938 labour disturbances—the conservative Jamaica Labour Party (JLP), which attracted agricultural and urban workers, and the People's National Party (PNP) with its middle-class membership—would become the two dominant political entities in the nation post-independence (Bradley 1960). Following in the footsteps of the former colonial power, Jamaican political elites opted for a Westminster style parliamentary system. Te JLP, the ruling party at independence having defeated the PNP in a national referendum, withdrew Jamaica from the British-infuenced West Indian Federation in 1961. Tis set the stage for full independence in 1962. After independence, the new government was challenged by labour– management tensions inherited from the colonial period and this delayed the implementation of many social policies (Johnson 1980), including health insurance.

For the frst quarter of the twentieth century, Jamaican life expectancy hovered around 35.5 years. At independence, this and other demographic trends steadily improved owing to public health interventions. Te challenge for the nation was to decrease the prevalence of infectious diseases and to eradicate and prevent the re-emergence of communicable diseases while building up a public healthcare system (Riley 2005; Figueroa 2001). Te frst major piece of legislation ratifed in the post-colonial period that concerned fnancing of healthcare services for specifc segments of society was an addendum to the National Insurance Act (1966) approved in 1970, eight years after independence. Compensation for healthcare was initially introduced as part of a larger package of services which included "old age beneft, invalidity beneft, widow's or widower's beneft, orphan's beneft and special child's beneft" (National Insurance Act 1966, 43). Funded by compulsory contributions (pay-as-you-go) by employers and formal employees, cash benefts for medical treatment and pharmaceuticals were provided to those benefciaries who sufered workrelated accidents or illnesses. Te introduction of legislation protecting specifc groups by regulating labour and industrial relations points to the segmented nature of the healthcare system at its starting point postindependence (Braveboy-Wagner and Gayle 1998). Tis feature mimics the colonial period's approach to providing rudimentary social protection in the area of health as a means of keeping the workforce active and avoiding social unrest.

One limitation of this frst social insurance scheme was the narrow scope of coverage. Te plan targeted employed persons, the self-employed and voluntary contributors, with no coverage for informal and unskilled labourers or the unemployed (Innerarity and Risden 2010). Given that rampant unemployment threatened real access to health services, high rates of strikes, industrial action and health-related grievances continued to plague the nation (Lacey 1977). It was not until the election of a democratic socialist government in 1972 that a more expansive national healthcare response would take of. Te wide-ranging social programmes of the Michael Manley administration revolutionised welfare services for Jamaican citizens, especially for those descending from enslaved populations that were set adrift after 1838. More specifcally, the government sought to expand healthcare services, exploring universalism in a green paper on the National Health System, which reached Parliament in 1974. However, prevailing economic conditions derailed the implementation of the provisions which included proposals for health sector development and a contribution-based fnancing scheme (Lalta 2009).

Tis derailment deferred any kind of comprehensive restructuring of the national healthcare system for more than a decade. In the intervening years, Jamaican healthcare policy was infuenced largely by external engagements, especially within the region. Tis included cooperation around the aforementioned indigenisation of Caribbean medical education. Hemispheric partners such as the Pan American Health Organization (PAHO) provided technical assistance, while Cuba aided with the construction of medical facilities, and provided medicines, medical staf and other technical professionals. Meanwhile, at the broader international level, the World Health Organization's (WHO) Alma-Ata Declaration of 1978 set in motion a greater focus on primary health services in Jamaica (WHO 1978). Tis period was marked by an altogether new kind of opening of the country to include a strengthening of regional ties and exposure to international policy ideas. Still, severe constraints on its economy limited the possibilities for more progressive reform.

It was not until the passing of the National Health Services (NHS) Act in 1997 and the National Health Fund (NHF) Act of 2003 that a dramatic shift in policy paradigms and a major restructuring of health services would take place. Tis led to the current tax-fnanced Public Health System (PHS). Whereas at independence Jamaica did not possess the resources to dismantle its colonial medical architecture, by 1997 healthcare would come to be seen as a public good (PAHO 2001). Access to healthcare is now a government-funded enterprise with adjunct private sector fnancing, as well as individual out-of-pocket expenditure. An NHF Card subsidises pharmaceuticals for ffteen chronic diseases for a cross-section of the Jamaican population, while the Jamaica Fund for the Elderly Program (JADEP) provides access to medications for ten illnesses for those over the age of sixty. Another programme, the Government of Jamaica (GOJ) Health Card, provides general access to healthcare facilities and pharmaceuticals. Te NHF also contains a funding mechanism for private sector institutions that engage in health education and health promotion, as well as funding for public sector health infrastructure. Beyond this, a network of 24 government-owned and administered hospitals, some 250 plus clinics, a national blood bank, a national public health lab and other allied institutions are the cornerstone of the Jamaican PHS.

Despite the successful expansion of the public healthcare system, achieving coverage for the majority of the population remains an unattainable goal in Jamaica: in the fscal year 2018–2019, a total of 818,563 people or about 30 percent of the population were enrolled in these programmes (Chao 2013; Ministry of Health 2020). Crucially, what has emerged post-independence is a fragment or far more rudimentary version of the state-based NHS system found in Great Britain (see e.g. Grimmeisen and Frisina 2010). Based on the developments reported on here, it is difcult to determine whether Jamaican policymakers actively looked to the former colonial power for inspiration, or, rather by chance, stumbled on a similar policy path out of necessity. What is clear, however, is that Jamaica stepped away from the social insurance model it once sought to advance in the direct aftermath of independence in favour of a tax-fnanced system. Tis coincided with the changing of political parties in power, from the conservative JLP to the socialist democratic PNP, as well as a growing and new form of international interconnectedness with the embracing of Alma-Ata principles and a substantial role for development assistance.

#### **5 Discussion and Conclusion**

Troughout the colonial period, Jamaica sufered from the absence of health policy coherence. Hastily constructed, crisis-driven policy prescriptions did little to address the myriad of public health concerns that plagued the society. Health policy considerations were driven by anti-Black biases of elites, the agendas of international public health partners and regular civil unrest. A distinctive feature of the colonial health policy landscape was the institutionalisation of crisis-driven policymaking. Major policy initiatives were designed either to react to burning health issues, such as the cholera outbreak, or to address civil unrest, as seen in the Morant Bay rebellion and the 1938 labour riots. As such, colonial health policy represented piecemeal policymaking on demand.

When it was time for independence from British rule in 1962, Jamaican decision-makers were faced with the challenges of puzzling together a policy response to generations of systematic neglect of the social needs of the people. Much of Jamaican healthcare policy since then has sought to overcome this legacy. Developments in national legislation and regional coordination, the indigenisation of medical training, reform of psychiatric services, introduction of a comprehensive primary health programme and the embracing of the Alma-Ata Declaration signal a substantive delinking from its colonial past.

Still, despite progress in many areas, issues of fnancing continue to plague the PHS and coverage through its various schemes remains low. Te problems of the healthcare system are compounded by other issues that could not be covered here but which include: *brain-drain* involving the loss of medical personnel; the macro-economic realities of debtservicing; the challenges posed by small island environmental and climatic vulnerabilities; as well as emerging and recurring communicable diseases (Duncan et al. 2017). While many of these issues cannot be directly attributed to the role of colonialism, the historical developments traced in our case study point to severe constraints placed on the country that are deeply rooted in the colonial period. What emerged as the haphazard policy responses of a colonial power that saw health provision as a last-resort measure to quell acute circumstances would develop into a long-lasting double-bind for its social policy agenda: not only has colonialism contributed to the social conditions responsible for exacerbating the need for a comprehensive healthcare system, but it also set the country on a trajectory of development that would hamper a robust state-led response to meeting that need. Further research is needed that can unpack the complexities of the long-term impact of colonialism on social policy in present-day societies. Tis may be key to moving forward with policy responses to undo this legacy.

**Acknowledgements** Tis chapter is a product of the research conducted in the Collaborative Research Center "Global Dynamics of Social Policy" at the University of Bremen. Te centre is funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation)—project number 374666841—SFB 1342.

## **References**

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons licence and indicate if changes were made.

Te images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

## **9**

## **Between Aspiration and Reality: The Effect of the French Colonial Legacy on Old-Age Pension Coverage in Africa**

**Aline Grünewald**

## **1 Introduction**

For a long time, the labour question and the associated demands for social protection were not on France's colonial agenda. But starting in the 1930s, peasants' and workers' strikes, especially in the railway sector, gained momentum in French colonies, culminating in the famously known general strike of Dakar in 1946 (Cooper 1990, 166). Amid these domestic struggles, international pressure on colonial powers increased, too. In the Declaration of Philadelphia, the International Labour Organization (ILO) noted that all human beings "have the right to pursue both their material well-being and their spiritual development" (ILO 1944, Chapter II (a)) and included a catalogue of social policy measures that should be promoted in its member states to meet these ends. Most remarkably, the ILO argued that these measures could also be applied to "peoples that are still dependent" (ILO 1944, Chapter V) and thus made

A. Grünewald (\*)

University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>
© Te Author(s) 2022 **105**

F. Nullmeier et al. (eds.), *International Impacts on Social Policy*, Global Dynamics of Social Policy, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-86645-7\_9

colonial powers accountable for providing social protection in their colonised territories. Subsequently, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights fnally codifed "the right to social security" in 1948 (UN 1948, Article 22). Tis combination of both external and domestic pressures, as well as France's own aspirations to reduce its World War II debt by implementing new economic initiatives in her colonies, culminated in the promulgation of the French Labour Code for Overseas Territories (LCOT) in 1952 (Act No. 52-1322). It was expected that the expansion of the imperial economy could only be achieved with improved welfare conditions in the colonies (Cooper 1990, 166). While the French Labour Code defned the rights and duties of workers, regulated the activities of trade unions and determined wages, it also defned social security rights comprising "a medical or health service for the workers employed" (Act No. 52-1322, Article 138), maternity benefts (Act No. 52-1322, Article 117) or payments in case of sickness (Act No. 52-1322, Article 48). In consequence, French colonies saw a rapid increase in social security legislation after 1952 (Schmitt 2015, 336). However, the Labour Code did not include an explicit regulation of social protection for the elderly. Oldage pensions were only mentioned in relation to trade unions. Tey were given the opportunity to establish pension funds "if they comply with the laws in force" (Act No. 52-1322, Article 21). Only after their independence did former French colonies implement their frst public and statutory old-age protection schemes, which were nevertheless modelled after French social insurance (Schmitt 2015, 335). But to what extent did the French colonial legacy also afect other dimensions of old-age pension programmes?

Tis chapter takes a closer look at the legal pension coverage rates of the frst pension systems that were implemented in all former French colonies in Africa after their independence. Particular attention is paid to the underlying wording of the respective laws to disentangle the mechanisms by which French colonial legacies prevailed and shaped the legal defnitions of pension benefciaries. Additionally, the performance of these pension systems is assessed in light of labour market structures and current pension developments.

Tis chapter shows that legal pension coverage rates can only be understood by examining the national labour codes that were implemented shortly after independence and generally preceded pension legislation. Tese labour codes copied most of the regulations and defnitions of the colonial LCOT from 1952, including the defnition of a wage worker, which was later used to defne pension benefciaries in an attempt to close existing social protection gaps of the LCOT and to foster modernisation. However, targeting pension benefts on wage workers largely ignored the labour market structures of these countries as wage workers only constituted a negligible part of the workforce (Martens 1979). To this day there has been no signifcant change.

### **2 Legal Pension Coverage Rates in Former French Colonies in Africa**

Figure 9.1 maps legal pension coverage rates of the frst old-age pension programmes implemented in the former French colonies in Africa. Data have been derived from the novel PENLEG dataset (Grünewald 2021a), which defnes a programme that covers at least one out of eleven predefned occupational groups1 outside of the public sector as the frst pension scheme. Additionally, the pension programme must either be defned as a mandatory insurance scheme or must ofer benefts as a matter of social rights (Grünewald 2021b, 94). To code legal pension coverage rates, the original pension laws were consulted. Te constructed indicator, thereby, merges information on horizontal and vertical coverage.

To code the horizontal dimension of the indicator, the number of occupational groups covered by a pension law are counted. Subsequently, the percentage share in relation to the total number of predefned occupational groups is calculated. Te vertical coverage dimension, by contrast, "estimates the extent to which each occupational group (… is) covered and assigns values from 0 (not covered at all) to 5 (completely covered)" (Grünewald 2021b, 97) to all of the eleven occupational

1Tese occupational groups comprise: (1) agriculture, (2) extractive and manufacturing industry, (3) commerce and fnance, (4) students and apprentices, (5) domestic and family workers, (6) home workers, (7) employers, (8) self-employed, (9) temporary and seasonal workers, (10) foreign workers, and (11) all citizens.

**Fig. 9.1** Legal pension coverage rates of the frst pension systems in French Africa. (Morocco and Tunisia were protectorates of France. Cameroon was colonised by France and Great Britain)

groups. If an occupational segment (e.g. industrial workers in the steel industry) of an occupational group (extractive and manufacturing industry) is excluded, one point is subtracted. A vertical score of 1 corresponds with the coverage of a single occupational segment. Subsequently, the vertical scores are summed and the percentage share in relation to the total vertical coverage that the covered occupational groups can achieve, is calculated (Grünewald 2021b, 97). Finally, both dimensions are merged to a single legal pension coverage indicator (see footnote for precise calculation).2

While the legal pension coverage rates of the frst pension systems around the world were highest in Europe (Grünewald 2021b, 106), the

2Example: A pension law covers commercial and industrial workers, which corresponds to a horizontal coverage rate of 2, or 18.18 percent [(100/11) × 2]. While the commercial sector is covered completely, the pension law excludes industrial workers in the steel industry from the pension system, which results in a vertical coverage of 9 (5 + 4), or 90 percent [(100/10) × 9]. By merging both dimensions, we arrive at a legal pension coverage rate of 16.36 percent [(18.18/100) × 90].

legal pension coverage rates of the frst pension systems in former French colonies in Africa were only 3.07 percentage points lower than the European ones and covered 53.37 percent of the predefned occupational groups on average. A closer look at the exact wording of the frst pension laws reveals that twelve3 out of seventeen former colonies adopted the French defnition of a worker enshrined in the colonial LCOT from 1952 to defne the benefciaries of their frst pension programmes. Te LCOT defned a worker as

any person, irrespective of sex or nationality, who has undertaken to place his gainful activity, in return for remuneration, under the direction and control of another person (including a public or private corporation) called the "employer". For the purpose of determining whether or not a person is to be regarded as a worker, no account shall be taken of the legal position of the employer or of the employee (Act No. 52-1322, Article 1).

Tis broad and unspecifc defnition of a worker is the root cause for the high legal pension coverage rates in many former French colonies (Grünewald 2021b, 106). However, all countries adopting this defnition also excluded specifc occupational groups or delayed their access to the pension system, so that variance can still be observed (see Fig. 9.1). Te frst pension laws enacted by Benin (Dahomey), Niger, Togo and Mauritania, for example, stated that apprentices and trainees were generally allowed to join the pension system, but that the precise conditions for their inclusion would be specifed in the future (Grünewald 2021a). Te Cameroon pension system, by contrast, excluded all people "subject to customary law and (who) work (…) within the traditional framework of the family" (Law No. 67-LF-6, Article 1).

But why did former French colonies adopt this legal provision to defne pension benefciaries?

3Mali (1962), Senegal (1975), Benin (1970), Mauritania (1965), Niger (1965), Togo (1965), Gabon (1963), the Central African Republic (1962), Chad (1977), Cameroon (1969), Congo, Brazzaville (1962) and Madagascar (1969) referred to the Labour Code. Since for some countries such as Benin and the Ivory Coast only secondary information on their legal pension coverage rates was available, conclusions about the impact of the French colonial legacy cannot be drawn, yet.

## **3 The Persistence of French Legislation**

In the following, I argue that the persistence of the LCOT's defnition of a worker can only be understood in the light of the national labour codes enacted shortly after independence, which emulated the legal provisions of the LCOT, including the defnition of a wage worker. Using the LCOT's defnition to defne pension benefciaries mainly refected (1) bureaucratic pragmatism of the newly independent states, (2) attempts to close existing social protection gaps among the emerging working class, and (3) eforts to promote industrialisation.

As Table 9.1 depicts, the frst pension laws were often passed immediately after the adoption of the frst national labour codes. Only in Togo and Congo (Brazzaville) had the colonial LCOT not yet been replaced by a national labour code when the frst pension laws were passed. Te Malian labour code of 1962, for example, was strongly connected to the frst pension law that was enacted ten days earlier. In Article 118 on wages, the Malian labour code mentioned deductions of a "social nature" (Act No. 62-67 A.N.-R.M., Article 118) instituted to fnance the public pension system. Tis temporal coincidence in legislation suggests that both laws afected each other with regard to the choice of legal provisions.

**Table 9.1** First pension laws and adoption of national labour codes in French Africa after independence

This table only includes those countries whose defnition of pension benefciaries refers to the 1952 LCOT's defnition of a worker

*Source*: ILO Legislative Series (2020a), own compilation

In sum, the frst national labour codes in Francophone African countries were strongly inspired by the LCOT of 1952. With the exception of some local adaptations, the labour codes relied on identical defnitions and regulations (Florkowski 2006, 26), including the defnition of a worker. It therefore comes as no surprise that pension laws, which were typically passed shortly after the introduction of the national labour codes, emulated these provisions for defning pension benefciaries.

In countries such as Gabon, the imposition of French legislation during colonial times was not even seriously questioned after independence. Te frst president, Léon Mba, often praised the colonial legacy by arguing that France paved the way for Gabon's future prosperity and independence (Kombila-Iboanga 1985, 33). Gabon therefore saw no reason to repeal the existing laws but retained the French legislation, including the LCOT's defnition of a worker (Emane 2005, 200). However, some legislation was adapted to national requirements.

Retaining the defnition of a wage worker stipulated in the 1952 LCOT also fostered legal coherence with regard to existing welfare commitments that originated from the LCOT. By tailoring pension benefts to wage workers, the provision of old-age protection that was originally missing in the LCOT fnally complemented existing social rights. As early as 1947, a meeting hosted by the Ministry of Overseas France was held in Dakar to address the problem of old-age security in Francophone Africa. Te ofcials argued that it would be illusory to expect that in old age an emerging working class could rely on its customary milieu, with which it most probably would have lost all its ties (Cooper 1996, 281). Tus, ofering old-age protection to the working class defned in the LCOT after independence was just a next step to closing this social protection gap.

Why the LCOT's defnition of a worker survived colonial times and thus inspired the defnition of pension benefciaries cannot solely be attributed to bureaucratic pragmatism or attempts to close existing social protection gaps for the new working class. In pre-colonial societies, in which the family constituted the nucleus of productivity, the category of a "wage worker" was largely unknown (Pougoue 1987, 5). Often interpreted as "part of the civilising mission of the imperialist powers" (Auvergnon 2005, 119, own translation), the legal codifcation of wage work fostered a change in mentalities and social order, which prepared African societies for industrialisation (Pougoue 1987, 14). As the Senegalese case shows, the move towards a legally identifable working class was perceived as a modernisation. Using the LCOT as a blueprint for the national labour code was a logical consequence of this line of thought (Auvergnon 2005, 126). Moreover, as an elected member of the French National Assembly during colonial times, the frst President of independent Senegal, Léopold Sédar Senghor, played an active role in the legislative process of the LCOT. He vigorously promoted a defnition of a wage worker that did not explicitly exclude customary work, which was later codifed in the LCOT of 1952 (Cooper 1996, 294, 296). Tus, legislation tailoring pension benefts to groups other than wage workers was not likely to emerge.

While most Francophone African states feared their independence would spark an economic decline that could endanger political stability (Auvergnon 2005, 128), many countries were keen to maintain or foster their economic ties with France. Instead of shaping their economies to be more responsive to social needs, Senegal, for example, attracted French investors with liberal foreign investment laws (Abdelal 2005, 188). In the Central African Republic, France became the most dominant foreign investor, holding central positions in domains like telecommunications or oil and timber distribution (Bagayoko 2018, 26). In light of the industrialisation that was expected to accompany these policies, it is no surprise that welfare commitments were centred on the newly defned working class. But to what extent did and do these pension systems correspond with the social and economic realities in these countries?

### **4 Between Aspiration and Reality**

Since 1957, the number of wage workers in the nine West African countries—Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso, Niger, Togo and Benin—has increased slowly. In 1974 they only constituted 5 percent of the (potential) working population (Martens 1979, 22). Even though the economies in Francophone Africa expanded during the 1950s, this process stagnated soon after independence due to the persistence of colonial trade patterns. With France retaining a monopoly for exported goods, former French colonies mainly served as providers of raw materials (Martens 1979, 23–24). Tere were some exceptions such as Senegal, which possessed mineral resources and an established industrial base, but in total the potential for economic development and industrialisation was rather weak (Martens 1979, 25). Tus, more than ten years after decolonisation the hopes for an industrialised economy had not materialised in most Francophone African countries.

Recent trends in wage work show that this pattern has not changed tremendously. Table 9.2 depicts the number of wage and salaried workers as a share of total employment during the past three decades, focusing on all former French colonies whose frst pension programmes applied the LCOT's defnition of a worker to defne pension benefciaries. It must be noted that the defnition of wage and salaried workers used below also comprises workers without formal employment contracts, who, therefore, are sometimes exempt from social protection.

Since 1991, the share of wage and salaried workers has, on average, increased by 0.21 percentage points annually. Today, still only about 22 percent of the working populations are wage and salaried workers, which refects only modest advances in economic development. Teir share is lowest in countries like Niger, Chad and the Central African Republic,

**Table 9.2** Wage and salaried workers as percentage share of total employment

*Source*: World Bank (2020)

while it is highest in Gabon, Mauritania and Senegal. As the case of Senegal reveals, the favourable economic conditions after independence spurred wage work in the long run. In Mauritania, the dominance of the public sector contributes to high shares of salaried workers (Jewell 2015). In contrast to these countries, further industrialisation in Niger was strongly hampered by the country's low electricity production and lack of policies fostering processing industries (African Economic Outlook 2017, 280). Instead of working in the industrial sector, most workers in Niger are predominantly employed in agriculture and artisanal trade (ILO 2020b). In sum, the majority of the labour force in Francophone Africa is self-employed and part of the informal economy (Mbaye and Gueye 2018).

Te protracted increase in formal wage work and the dominance of the informal sector are also refected in low efective pension coverage rates (Fig. 9.2). On average, only 11.87 percent of the population over statutory pensionable age currently benefts from old-age protection. While

**Fig. 9.2** Effective pension coverage rates, current years. (*Source*: ILO World Social Protection Report 2017/–19, 2019)

many countries reformed their pension systems in the past decades, social insurance schemes and their connection with the national labour codes are still the guiding principles of French African pension systems (USSSA 2020). Even in countries with high rates of wage workers, such as Gabon or Senegal, the efective pension coverage rates are often much lower than the number of wage workers. Administrative weaknesses associated with the registration and identifcation of benefciaries or the transfer of benefts are additional factors that contribute to low coverage rates in many countries (Gillion et al. 2000, 522).

#### **5 Conclusion**

When implementing their frst old-age protection schemes after independence, former French colonies opted exclusively for social insurance designs following the role model of France (Schmitt 2015). Tis chapter has taken a closer look at legal pension coverage rates of the frst pension systems in Francophone Africa. Legal pension coverage rates were quite high because most former French colonies used the broad defnition of a wage worker stipulated in the LCOT from 1952, which served as a blueprint for their national labour codes after independence. However, by restricting pension benefts to wage workers, African leaders strongly ignored the social and economic conditions of their countries. Even ten years after independence the emergence of industrialised societies was far removed from the actual realities as the low rates of wage workers revealed. Teir numbers have not even increased substantially over time. Te existing pension systems, which are still based on Western social insurance principles and connected to the national labour codes, therefore, fail to provide efective social protection for the elderly. In recent years, many developing countries have moved towards non-contributory fnanced pension schemes that grant pension benefts as a matter of social right (Schmitt 2020). To address the problem of low efective pension coverage rates and to counter the detrimental efects of informal labour markets, this could be a promising possibility for former French colonies, too.

**Acknowledgements** Tis chapter is a product of the research conducted in the Collaborative Research Center "Global Dynamics of Social Policy" at the University of Bremen. Te centre is funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation)—project number 374666841—SFB 1342.

### **References**

———. 1996. *Decolonization and African Society. Te Labor Question in French and British Africa*. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

———. 2021b. Te Historical Origins of Old-Age Pension Schemes. Mapping Global Patterns. *Journal of International and Comparative Social Policy* 37 (2): 93–111.

———. 2020b. Niger. Accessed June 05, 2020. https://www.ilo.org/integration/themes/mdw/map/countries/WCMS\_170055/lang%2D%2Den/ index.htm.

———. 2020. Te Colonial Legacy and the Rise of Social Assistance in the Global South. In *From Colonialism to International Aid. External Actors and Social Protection in the Global South*, ed. Carina Schmitt, 137–160. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons licence and indicate if changes were made.

Te images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons licence and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

## **10**

## **The Colonial Legacies of Copper Dependence: Inequality and Bifurcated Social Protection in Zambia**

**Anna Wolkenhauer**

### **1 Introduction**

Tere is a growing consensus that colonial legacies need to be factored into analyses of African social protection and welfare regimes (Mkandawire 2016). While diferent institutional set-ups and social ideologies might have left their marks until the present day, I argue that another crucial legacy that has infuenced subsequent social policies merits more attention: Te way in which former colonies were integrated into the world economy. Tis shifts our focus onto the social questions that arose from colonial exploitation, and the ways these were politically addressed in subsequent years. Samir Amin (1972) has ofered a broad typology of African countries that is as relevant today as it was at the time of its publication, and the chapter at hand delves into, in Amin's words, one of the former "labour reserve economies" (Amin 1972, 519). Te chapter focusses on Zambia, a British colony until 1964, for understanding how

A. Wolkenhauer (\*) University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>colonial economic legacies have been able to shape the development of social protection systems even after formal independence.

Te chapter identifes two overall mechanisms. Firstly, the dependence of the Zambian economy on copper exports, which was ushered-in during the colonial era, has left the state's budget highly vulnerable to world market copper prices. Tis has not only created public fnance constraints but also led to a concentration of economic activities in a narrow geographical area that has remained inaccessible to most citizens so that wealth has not been broadly shared (Hinfelaar and Archberger 2017). Secondly, the enclave character of mining and industrial activity has equally resulted in an enclave structure of political organisation and representation. Tis has manifested itself in a bifurcation of demand-driven social insurance in the centres, and supply-driven social assistance in the peripheries (Kumitz 2016). While in the new millennium, targeted social assistance programmes, such as a cash transfer, have been scaled up, employment-based social insurance schemes, such as old-age pensions, remain limited to the small formal workforce.1 Tis helps to understand how the country's dependence on an enclave copper sector has remained an obstacle for a state-led, broad-based and adequate social protection system ever since (Mhone 2004). In the following, the colonial impact on Zambia's economic structure is briefy introduced, after which the two identifed mechanisms are further described.

### **2 The Colonial Legacy of the Copper Enclave Economy**

During Zambia's colonial occupation, frst by the British South Africa Company (BSAC) and then by the British Colonial Ofce, the foundation was laid for a stark centre–periphery divide that has lasted up until the present.2 Te origin of this was the opening of several large copper

1 Social insurance schemes cover around 10 percent of the working-age population and their dependants (Barrientos et al. 2005, 23).

2Te resulting centre–periphery inequality somewhat overlapped with an urban–rural distinction, but due to fast urbanisation without sufcient employment opportunities as well as rural class differentiation, there is also a periphery in the urban centres and a centre in the rural periphery.

mines, owned by British, South African, and American companies, in the early 1930s, which led to the geographical concentration of economic activities along the so-called Line of Rail. Besides mining, industries and commercial agriculture also came to be focused there, as production linkages were created close by. For feeding the mine and industry workers, large-scale agriculture was practised by European commercial farmers, who established powerful links with the colonial government. To facilitate this system, the latter supported Europeans' access to good soils. Tereby, a further distinction was initiated: On the one hand, good and accessible land was reserved for the European settlers, while on the other hand, Africans were forced to move to more remote and, by and large, less fertile land. Tis was underpinned by a dual legal land administration system and, in combination, this era created not only an enclave-like economy but also a lasting inequality within the rural sector.

Zambia was ruled without the willingness to invest much money and proft-making was the priority of both the BSAC and the Colonial Ofce. Te emerging mining sector needed migrant labour, for which Africans were forced out of rural areas by varying means of coercion and driven by the need to earn a wage. Tis resulted in a further long-term deterioration of rural livelihoods (Mhone 2004, 315–16). Meanwhile, the mines paid their royalties and tax in London (Roberts 1976, 186–93). Social security was granted to organised European employees in the mines, and to African mine workers once they had become more politically vocal in the late colonial period, especially after the Second World War (WWII). Schemes for smallholders were initiated in that period, too, but were limited in geographical reach and overall coverage, and tended to be biased towards better connected farmers, thereby creating a diferentiation among African farmers (Momba 1985). At independence, hence, there was a bifurcation between workers at the centre with formal social security coverage, and the majority of citizens in the periphery who had fallen through the cracks. Tese were the initial conditions that the new state faced in 1964. In Zambia, as in many African countries, a window of opportunity for structurally transformative state interventions existed in the early years following independence, thanks to a favourable ideational and economic international environment (Mkandawire 1988). Tis, however, ended very soon when, from the mid-1970s, a mutually reinforcing mixture of economic crises and neoliberal reforms began to sustainably undermine the capacity of the state to signifcantly transform socio-economic conditions.

### **3 A Short Post-Independence Window of Opportunity**

In the years following political independence, the United National Independence Party (UNIP) government under President Kenneth Kaunda undertook several interventions aimed at improving the socioeconomic situation of the population. It nationalised the copper sector, set up new industries across the territory and invested in agricultural productivity. Tese measures were underpinned by an ideology of "Humanism" that revolved around nationalism, solidarity, communalism and a mixture of liberalism and socialism (Bowman 2011, 95), and enabled by favourable terms of trade and relatively high gross domestic product (GDP). Between 1964 and 1969, real annual growth stood at an average of 10.9 percent, largely thanks to copper exports (UNCTAD 2016, 2), and hopes among the population were high (Ferguson 1999). Te task of changing the inherited structures, however, was enormous and several challenges impeded success.

In the frst fve years after independence, the copper mines were still in foreign companies' hands, but the government started to take the royalties, raised income tax and introduced an export tax, so that it eventually earned around three-quarters of the mines' profts (Roberts 1976, 230–31). Tis, however, disincentivised the mining companies from making substantial investments, which is why Kaunda declared in 1969 that the mining industry would be nationalised in order to be better able to carry out mining policy decisions and to prioritise long-term investments. Te government bought 51 percent shares of the companies, which it promised to repay from the revenue that was soon to be expected considering the good world copper prices in the second half of the 1960s. Te government also took back the mining rights from the companies as well as rights for future explorations (Roberts 1976, 230–31). Unfortunately, between 1970 and 1974, the price of copper per tonne dropped from 748 British pounds to 500, and, moreover, the attempt to set up an Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) like alliance between copper exporters, that could have stabilised world prices, was inefective due to a limited number of members (Larmer 2010, 40). Te period in which copper was able to fnance public policy was hence short.

Some economic diversifcation was achieved in the frst years after independence, and the value of manufacturing grew threefold between 1964 and 1968 (Roberts 1976, 232). But costs for setting up new industries were high as Zambia incurred high trading costs due to being landlocked and depending on routes through neighbouring countries where liberation struggles were going on (Roberts 1976, 232). Most state enterprises and import substitution focused on consumer goods such as textiles or beverages, as well as chemicals, plastics and rubber (Lombe 2018, 5). Where they were set up outside the usual centres, industrial plants incurred high transport costs and faced severe market constraints (e.g. Peša 2014, 95). Moreover, the new income opportunities were not equally shared but tended to accrue to those who already had some links to privileged strata such as through colonial education or the new state structures (Baylies and Szeftel 1982). Business owners often came from within the state, so that a "bureaucratic bourgeoisie" emerged (Seidman 1979, 43). Tus, in the frst years after independence, the formerly white ruling and business elite had been replaced with an emerging class of wealthy Africans, who had better access to the new social and economic infrastructure (Seidman 1979, 44).

In agriculture, some progress in productivity was achieved, too, but smallholder farmers struggled with poor soils, a lack of technical knowledge and the need for expensive machinery (Roberts 1976, 233). Production was still concentrated in 400 commercial farms that were largely still owned by expats, and efcient and marketable African production remained confned—again—to the better-of Southern, Eastern and Central Provinces (Roberts 1976, 233). While Kaunda appealed with great conviction to the cooperative spirit among smallholders and invested in primary producer societies with an adjacent multi-layer apex body, actual spending on rural development was limited, as mining revenue was reinvested in the mining sector itself as well as in the Line of Rail region (Larmer 2010). In this time, remittances were an important informal redistributive mechanism between the centres and the rural periphery (Larmer 2010). Interventions such as the Agricultural Marketing Board, created in 1969, were meant to keep consumer prices for food low and benefted the mine and industry workers (Chiwele et al. 1996, 7–8), who, it was feared, would otherwise have been in a position to threaten the peace in the country's economic centres (Bowman 2011, 21). Nonetheless, the Marketing Board and the state-created cooperatives did provide an important social contract between the state and smallscale farmers as they ofered some income security, and access to transport and storage (Putzel and DiJohn 2012, 14). Because the Marketing Board made losses from this arrangement, the government, however, began to incur debt and the arrangement was not sustainable in the long run.

Overall, the social question posed by urban–rural inequality was not resolved during the early post-independence period. In fact, as productivity did not rise as fast as the cost of living in the countryside, inequality even increased during this period, and the peasantry began to feel left out of the nationalist project (Muntemba 1978, 85). Where Africans took over jobs vacated by Europeans, they also took over the relatively higher wages, while in more outlying areas, people lived at "sub-subsistence levels" (Roberts 1976, 235). Eventually, in the mid-1970s, the economic basis of the state began to be eroded as the oil price rose and copper prices fell. Te average annual growth rate dropped to 1.5 percent in the 1970s, 1.4 percent in the 1980s and 0.2 percent in the 1990s (UNCTAD 2016, 2). Zambia thus had to enter into several loan agreements with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and structural adjustment programmes with the World Bank; and since then, the international fnancial institutions "have tightly policed Zambia's economic policies" (Fraser and Lungu 2007, 9). In combination with limited budgets, neoliberal policy prescriptions efectively dismantled the state's ability to increase economic opportunities and support formal employment creation as a basis for broad social insurance coverage.

### **4 Demand-Driven and Supply-Driven Social Protection**

Te above has shown how short the window of opportunity was for the Zambian government to solve the social questions created by colonial exploitation. But the inherited economic dualism, with a concentration of wealth in a few centres, was also manifested through a second mechanism. Social policies and their uneven distribution have been locked-in through feedback efects with uneven political organisation. Workers at the centre (frst Europeans, later Africans) have always been relatively well organised and able to make demands, while the dispersed peasantry remained dependent on benign schemes thought out at the centre and implemented in a supply-driven manner. Tis began in the colonial era, when the economic dualism, at frst an unconscious process driven by "economic and autonomous factors", was further entrenched by economic interest groups that emerged, and who lobbied the colonial government to maintain the status quo and protect their privileged access to resources (Mhone 1982, 25).

During the late colonial phase, African mine workers' unions became more vocal and powerful. Tey were able to make demands on the mining companies, who were forced to provide a limited amount of social services (Larmer 2010, 34). During the anti-colonial struggle, miners retained their specifc identity as mine workers, rather than letting the nationalist movement subsume them for overall national development, and retained their specifc lobbying power also vis-à-vis the Kaunda government. Te government, in turn, was torn between giving in to their demands—knowing the importance of the mining sector for national development—and the need to redistribute mining revenue to the rest of the country (Larmer 2010, 43–44). While Kaunda did not give in to mining unions' demands for pay rises, the sector itself provided a relatively generous social environment to mine workers and their communities. In 1969, the mining companies were nationalised and subsequently provided free education for the children of miners, subsidised water, housing, and food, and "literally operated 'a cradle to grave' welfare policy" (Fraser 2010, 8–9). Teir services benefted the wider areas through the maintenance of roads, waste collection, the provision of farm shops, youth skills development schemes, women's clubs, and hospitals (Fraser 2010, 8–9). Tese spillovers were limited to mining regions, however, where a "labour aristocracy", represented by the unions, was able to exert political pressure (Roberts 1976, 245). Other formal sector workers established unions, too, and the trade union movement in Zambia became a strong political force under UNIP (Rakner 2001). Te large majority of informally employed Zambians, however, has remained unrepresented by the unions (Kumitz 2016).

Inequality existed within the agricultural sector, too. Europeans had not only created unions in the mines but also among commercial farmers. During the colonial era, they successfully lobbied the government to protect them from competition from African farmers by creating a Marketing Board that worked in their favour (Chipungu 1987). After independence, the European National Farmers Union became the Commercial Farmers Bureau and later the Zambia National Farmers Union, which retained its base among the bigger, commercially viable farms (Muntemba 1978, 61). Smallholders, for their part, were organised mainly through cooperative structures during the Kaunda presidency (Rakner 2001, 530). While UNIP's origin and support base had been largely urban (Momba 1985, 292), Kaunda encouraged the formation of a cooperative movement and set up a multi-level support structure that assisted smallholders with accessing inputs and marketing their products (Chiwele et al. 1996, 23). Even though theoretically voluntary and bottom-up organisations, the cooperatives remained dependent on support from the state (Chiwele et al. 1996, 23). Politically, too, peasants were dependent on UNIP, which had created them, for communicating their demands to the centre. Tis avenue crumbled during the 1990s after a change in government and privatisation and liberalisation reforms led to the dismantling of the Marketing Board and cooperative structures.

### **5 Conclusion**

Tis chapter has zoomed in on Zambia's early post-independence period when high copper prices allowed the government to attempt to remedy the colonial legacies of inequality and a dual economy. Te inherited economic structure made this task massive, and eforts were curtailed by an ensuing economic crisis that would last until the end of the century. Looking at the early years allows for a better understanding of the mechanisms by which colonial legacies persisted. Tis chapter has focussed on two of them. One is the inherited economic structure that has limited economic opportunities and formal work to a minority of Zambians, meanwhile keeping the state vulnerable to world copper prices and, overall, too poor to substantially address the social questions this structure poses. Te other is a political one. Te lopsided organisation of interests has been a result of, as much as an amplifer of, the socio-economic structure, where workers at the centre were able to pressure companies and the state for social services while those outside the centres have, by and large, remained dependent on a benign state. Tis makes them more vulnerable to changing ideologies at the centres and ultimately on the willingness of the state to allocate a share of its budget to social assistance.

Tis short chapter has demonstrated that analyses of present-day African social protection systems need to factor in colonial economic structures. Not only for understanding where social problems of inequality and exclusion come from but also for understanding the range of imaginable political responses to them. If bottom-up demands are not carried into the political arena, the repertoire of policy options at the centre will remain limited to those that are in line with dominant ideologies. Even though social assistance programmes have been signifcantly scaled up in the new millennium, they refect what has become taken for granted: the inevitable imperative to save the state costs. While the new social protection agenda of governments and donors refects a muchneeded return to social questions, they are unsuited to overcome longentrenched legacies of exclusion and marginalisation. Ultimately, the demand for meaningful redistribution and structural transformation will need to be voiced from the bottom up.

**Acknowledgements** Tis chapter is based on the author's PhD thesis "State Formation after Retrenchment: Social Policy in Zambia", submitted to the University of Bremen in 2020. Te research was funded by the Bremen International Graduate School of Social Sciences. Te author thanks all her research participants in Zambia, as well as the editors of this book for helpful feedback on an earlier draft. All remaining errors and omissions are her own.

### **References**

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license and indicate if changes were made.

Te images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons license and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

# **11**

## **Class-Based Communities: The Postcolonial Reform of School Education in South Africa**

**Alex Veit**

## **1 Introduction**

Te belated decolonisation of South Africa—more than three decades after the African independence wave of the 1950s and 1960s—created a singular predicament for the newly democratic state. On the one hand, South Africa followed in the footsteps of many independent former colonies and settler-dominated states eager to turn the claims and dreams of the anticolonial struggle into reality. Te foremost anticolonial claim in South Africa, as elsewhere on the continent, was deracialisation. As far as schools were concerned, deracialisation in South Africa in 1994 meant ofering the oppressed non-white population and the privileged white minority similar educational opportunities, teaching children of all racialised groups in the same schools. "Te doors of learning and of culture shall be opened!" proclaimed the 1955 Freedom Charter, which summarised the ANC's postcolonial vision for the country. "Education

© Te Author(s) 2022 **131** F. Nullmeier et al. (eds.), *International Impacts on Social Policy*, Global Dynamics of Social Policy, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-86645-7\_11

A. Veit (\*)

University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>
shall be free, compulsory, universal and equal for all children" (Te Freedom Charter 2011).

On the other hand, the decolonisation of South Africa in 1994 took place in a radically diferent global economic and ideological climate than the independence of its fellow ex-colonies to the north. At the time of Africa's wave of independence between 1956 and 1968, the international political climate was fully favourable to the expansion and extension of public welfare. States in Western Europe and North America as well as in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union invested steadily in welfare provision, including the education of underprivileged youth. Across the Global South, states from Cuba to South Korea, regardless of their socialist or capitalist overall orientation, embraced state-centric models of development and welfare. Newly independent African states became part of this global climate and invested in free public education (Aina 2004, 12; Mkandawire 2009, 142).

Deracialisation thus meant expansion, and expansion meant much bigger budgets. Te bills for this expansion were covered by global economic growth, the nationalisation of major economic assets, and comparatively generous credit facilities and grants. By contrast, South Africa's decolonisation took place during the heyday of global neoliberalism. Across the globe, the commodifcation of welfare, including the marketisation of school education, was one important element in a larger context that promoted the privatisation of state assets and fscal austerity. Most former colonies underwent severe economic crises and implemented "structural adjustment programmes" that cut deeply into education budgets. International credit and grants had become scarce. Moreover, economic growth was stalling globally, putting the brakes on South Africa's export-oriented industries.

For South Africa's school education policies, the conficting demands of a postcolonial welfare expansion and a neoliberal welfare contraction posed a substantial quandary. Te democratic government inherited a racially divided public school system, which provided well for the white minority, but ofered only dismal education facilities to the large majority of citizens. In this contribution, I aim to analyse the attempts made to square the circle of postcolonial and neoliberal imperatives.

My focus here lies on the political ideas and options discussed in South Africa in the transitional period, which also took up, mirrored and responded to transnational political discourses of the time. Deracialisation and neoliberalism have been dominant, but contradictory elements in South Africa. A third programmatic and globally signifcant line of thinking complements the contradiction between deracialisation and neoliberalism, namely concepts of "community" and communitarianism.

In the Anglophone world, the idea of "communities" as both engines of change and guarantors of social cohesion can be traced back to the British colonial invention of "community development" (Smyth 2004), for example. Various thinkers have tried to come to grips with the term's analytical value and empirical meaning (Elias 1974).

Communities, while usually understood to imply groups of people enjoying geographical proximity, mutual afection and commitment, and a set of shared values, are summarised by Kymlicka (2002, 208) as a mere ideal appearing in "diferent forms, from class solidarity or shared citizenship to a common ethnic descent or cultural identity," serving to produce, transmit, justify and enforce "shared conceptions of the good" (Etzioni 2016, 1).

Communitarianism, as a political philosophy, is a set of diferent, often contradictory ideas rather than a coherent school. Nonetheless, debates about communitarianism attracted attention in the 1980s. As Miller (2000) suggests, three broad political variations exist, each conceptualising communities diferently: liberally, as value-based voluntarist groups whose members take part in a plurality of communities; conservatively, as an inclusive group whose members are born into rather than voluntarily join the group, which plays a crucial role in preserving social cohesion and hierarchy; and on the progressive left as associations of materially and politically equal citizens engaging democratically in collective self-determination.

In South Africa, these diferent conceptions of community played a role throughout the twentieth century. Especially in the decade before and during the transition (1990–1994/96), the term "community" in South Africa became used as ubiquitously as elsewhere in the Anglophone world. And while it meant diferent things to diferent people, one common denominator was the idea of shifting power from centralised state institutions to local, nonstate institutions. Tis promise cushioned the anxieties of white middle-class parents facing a frst black-majority government. It also inspired progressive antiapartheid activists who had been tormented by the all-powerful militarised state and now hoped for the democratisation of society on all levels.

During South Africa's decolonisation, the idea of community-run schools served to reconcile the contradictory demands of economic neoliberalism and political deracialisation. Schools formerly reserved for the white population were ofcially deracialised; however, school fees determined by school communities efectively excluded the poor (and overwhelmingly non-white) population. While the progressive and liberal variations of communitarianism in particular promised empowerment through the devolution of power, in South Africa's apartheid-shaped structures school communitarianism reproduced segregation. Race, as a category of exclusion, was replaced by class. Tis arrangement worked well for both the white and the emerging non-white middle classes, which as "school communities" gained the right to shape "their" schools.

### **2 Setting the Path: Neoliberalism and Communitarianism in the Late Apartheid Period**

In the second half of the 1970s, South Africa's racialised school education system, like the apartheid system in general, experienced a profound crisis that was driven by two interconnected dynamics. First, the apartheid state had radically underfunded the schools of the non-white majority. Beginning in the 1960s, however, there was a lack of skilled workers for the country's growing manufacturing sector. Te educative marginalisation of the majority turned into an impediment for industrial growth. From 1972 onwards, the government opened more secondary schools (while preserving racialised segregation between the schools), and also put them on a slightly sounder economic basis. Te ratio of monetary expenditure for white and African children decreased from 18:1 to 15:1. Nonetheless, schools for the non-white population remained severely overcrowded and underfunded (Hyslop 1999, chap. 7).

Te rejuvenated resistance movement was a second factor. In 1976, anger about apartheid in general and the education system in particular exploded in the Soweto student uprising. Secondary school students became central actors in the opposition, and schools became central sites of struggle. Troughout the 1980s, recurring national school strikes shattered the non-white education system in the townships. Inside the resistance movement, discussions about the costs of unlimited school boycotts ensued. While the camp arguing for "Liberation before Education" prevailed, the political confict had devastating and enduring consequences for the existing schools in African townships (Hyslop 1999, chap. 8–9).

To counter the deepening crisis, the regime gradually phased out its state-centric development model as well as its most blatant racism, and instead embraced neoliberal concepts pursued by governments in the USA, the UK and elsewhere. In the education sector, the Department of Bantu Education responsible for the education of Africans outside the homelands was renamed Department of Education and Training (DET) in 1984. Te human capital approach, which understands education as an economic investment, became the new leitmotif. Pupils would be channelled into academic institutions, technical schools or directly into the job market according to their "capacities." Given the vastly diferent quality of education provided at an early stage, this arrangement preserved the racialised educative hierarchy with reference to merit rather than biological racism (Chisholm 2002, 98–101). At the upper end of the education hierarchy, the government recognised the contribution of private schools, which before had been viewed with suspicion, and aforded them state subsidies (Du Toit 2003, 382–83).

Another ideological trait gaining traction both in South Africa and across the globe was communitarianism as the idea that "communities" rather than a central authority were best placed to organise social life. As early as the late 1940s and 1950s, the apartheid regime had developed conservative communitarian notions of European and "Bantu communities" (Levy 2011, 177–81), which were to be educated separately for their own good, as their diferent "levels" of development demanded discriminate treatment (Dubow 1992, 231–32). Such conceptions borrowed from and responded to transnational ideas of modernisation, development and scientifc judgement (Kros 2010).

Reforms introduced in 1984 aimed to modernise this system of segregated learners. Primarily, the reforms created many more institutions, each tasked with providing school education for a racialised "community," divided between the white, Indian and coloured populations, the ten ethnically defned homelands or Bantustans (formally autonomous or independent states), and the DET for the mostly urban African population outside the Bantustans (Christie 1990, 38; Chisholm 2012, 87–88).

Te ANC and the liberation movement meanwhile increasingly embraced the progressive communitarian discourse of decentralised governance, and sought to mobilise "grassroots" groups in collective action against the regime (Hirson 2017). During the 1970s and 1980s, the ANC's leadership in exile was heavily exposed to the communitarian thought and community development discourse popular in their host countries, especially in the United Kingdom and Anglophone African countries. Inside the country, the United Democratic Front—the major opposition organisation closely related to the outlawed ANC—similarly embraced a social movement approach based on the notion of community organisation. Crucially, Parent Teacher Student Associations attempted to use schools as a site of political mobilisation, while also developing postcolonial forms of education (Karlsson et al. 2019, 154). Tese discourses and practices obviously were radically diferent from the racialised communitarianism of "self-government" espoused by apartheid ideologues. Te principle of involving school members in democratic decision-making, however, was not that far away from the neoliberal notion of "stakeholders" participating in governance processes. Once apartheid's racist discourse had become politically unacceptable, the liberal and progressive notion of community became a common ground for viewpoints that originally diverged widely from one another.

### **3 Model C: A South African Third Way**

Te ideological marriage of neoliberalism and communitarianism continued to inform school reforms during the introduction of the postcolonial democracy. In 1990, the government agreed to negotiate a transition. Te days of racially segregated schools obviously were numbered. Te prevalent educational concern among the non-white population was the attainment of quality education. Among the privileged white population, it was the loss thereof. Tese concerns brought the top end of the public school system, the schools so far reserved for white students, into focus. Teir reform by the outgoing apartheid government proved decisive for the postcolonial period.

In the spirit of devolving power to school communities, in 1991 the outgoing government's education ministry allowed white state schools to select their future status by a parents' vote. All options included a clause opening the schools to a limited number of non-white pupils. Te choice menu included full privatisation (Model A), continuance as a state school (Model B), or semi-privatisation (Model C). Model C proposed the transfer of school real estate and buildings from the state to the school, to be administered by a school-governing body (SGB). Efectively, this constituted an embracing of liberal over racialised notions of community. School budgets would be covered by a state subsidy (at the time, about 80 percent of operational costs), user fees paid by parents and other school-generated income. After the parents proved slow to embrace change, in 1992 the government issued a decree turning all white state schools into Model C schools if parents had not voted against this. By April 1992, 96 percent of white schools had changed to Model C (Christie and McKinney 2017, 9; Karlsson et al. 2019, 146).

Te ANC initially rejected this decisive reform of the outgoing government. At the same time, the ANC found itself in a period of transformation from liberation movement to the governing party and had no ready-made alternative policies to hand. Beyond public criticism, the ANC did not attempt to stop or change Model C during the negotiation period. After all, the reform also began with the racial desegregation that was of crucial importance to the ANC, and the imminent democratisation of the political system would include an overhaul of the school system as a whole in any case.

Tis democratic, postcolonial overhaul began with the 1994 interim constitution, which abolished the various racialised ministries and departments of education in favour of national and provincial administrations and culminated in the South African Schools Act No. 84 of 1996. In the discussions about the Act, for an extended period, it seemed that the elected government would reverse Model C semi-privatisation. Te ANC-led Department of Education argued as late as 1996 that Model C "ensured a perpetuation of substantial advantages and privileges," such as the best facilities and most highly qualifed teaching staf, to those groups "who had historically been most advantaged by the policy and practise of racial preference in this country" (Department of Education 1996).

Besides a large number of diferent stakeholders involved in the contentious policy-making process, two foreign consultants are ascribed a major infuence, especially concerning the maintenance of a semiprivatised, community-run school system. Christopher Colclough, a British academic working on education and development, and Luis Crouch, a US expert in the economics of education, provided "perhaps the most persuasive case for school fees" (Fiske and Ladd 2010, 136), arguing that the quality of former white schools would deteriorate if fees could not be used to hire teachers and maintain facilities. Tey predicted that "key opinion- and decisionmakers" would move their children into the private school system. Future governments, uncontained by a powerful civil society group interested in quality public education, would hardly invest appropriately when resources were scant. Te public system's quality, catering only for the poor, would continue to deteriorate. Te solution was fees used to keep the middle class in the public system. Resulting savings in the state budget could be invested in schools in former homelands and townships. Fees, originally regarded by the ANC as detrimental to those who could not aford to pay, would then actually help to raise up the poor (Fiske and Ladd 2010, 136–37; Jansen 2001, 276).

Te 1996 Schools Act, which formally ended Model C, expanded many of its features to the national public school system. Crucially, it allowed schools to set an individual fee structure. Enormous diferences between schools developed: while especially schools in the most impoverished rural areas, the former homelands, charged either very low fees or none at all, the leading Model C primary schools in the mid-2010s would often charge around 25,000 Rand per year (about 2,000 US dollars at the time) (Businesstech 2016). In 2015, this amounted to 18 percent of the average South African household's annual income, but less than 6 percent for white households, and almost 27 percent for the average black household (average household incomes according to Stats SA 2017, 14).

To counter the resulting educational inequality between rich and poor and white and nonwhite students, a 1998 provision exempted poor households from fee payments (Fiske and Ladd 2004, 65). In 2006, schools were allowed to apply for additional public funding and become fee-free schools (Ahmed and Sayed 2009). Primarily schools with a poor student population qualifed for increased funding and moved back fully into the state fold. Tis restructuring reproduced the pre-existing bifurcation between semiprivate, community-run schools on the one hand and fully funded public schools on the other.

Te politics of continuity, despite the ANC's commitment to postcolonial equality, refected the country's complex economic and social legacy and the new governing party's complicated relationship with diferent groups. Inside the ANC's core constituency, the non-white population, class divisions emerged. Diverging class interests needed to be addressed without being formally acknowledged. Beyond its electoral constituency, the ANC government also sought to uphold the compromise solution at the root of the postcolonial transition and fnd common ground with the business sector interested in highly skilled workers, the white middle class who still made up the best-educated strata of the workforce, and not least the administrative apparatus inherited from the previous regime that kept the state machine going. Charging fees from those who could aford them freed up scarce public resources to be spent on the education for the poor—efectively a promise to raise the quality of schools for the poor to the level of former white schools in the distant future—while reassuring the old and the new middle classes in the immediate present. Te retention of Model C allowed the new political elite and the "emerging black middle class, including legislators and ofcials, to silently permit their own class interests to be taken care of without confronting (or clashing with) their own, largely poor, constituencies" (Karlsson et al. 2019, 150).

Te break with earlier promises and the ongoing glaring educational inequality resembling the social structures established by the apartheid system called for a legitimating angle acceptable to a wide array of constituents and partners. Te overlaps between diferent communitarian variations provided the ideological glue between these diverse groups and constituencies, as well as between postcolonial and neoliberal ideals and ideas. Te structural epitome of this convergence is the school-governing bodies (SGBs) introduced in Model C schools, which resemble the parent teacher student associations born in the antiapartheid struggle. Te extension of SGBs across the public school system in 1996 was "surprisingly uncontroversial," as they built on the shared ideal of school community self-government (Karlsson et al. 2019, 154). Teir ability to use fees to improve school attractiveness allowed schools with a wealthy parent body efectively to shield their educational advantage against the poor, overwhelmingly non-white population. In poor communities, SGBs worked much less efectively, as parents lacked the time and capacity to engage with schools.

### **4 Conclusion**

Te story of the persistence of Model C schools highlights the importance of global historical timing for postcolonial social policy. Te belated deracialisation and democratisation of South Africa posed a question similar to other decolonisation projects: how to achieve both equity and quality in the school system? In the frst three decades after World War II, both the discourses and structures of the international system allowed newly independent states to pursue a vision of free public schooling. By 1994, discourses and structures had fundamentally changed. Political discourse favoured a much-reduced role of the state and the marketisation of education. Economic stagnation added material authority to ideology: losing newly won sovereignty to international fnancial institutions was a threat that loomed over the incoming postcolonial government. Communitarianism, an increasingly infuential concept both inside the country and internationally, provided a compromise between diferent expectations and approaches: it made it possible to impose a fee on the middle class that could be understood as a tax, while in return devolving power to emerging class-based school communities.

Tese school communities changed over time. Te attractiveness of former Model C schools among the striving non-white middle class and among some poor parents who would make additional sacrifces to send their children there—changed these schools' composition over time (Msila 2005; Hunter 2010). Today, former Model C schools are the schools that most closely resemble the country's overall "racial" demography. At the extreme ends of the spectrum, meanwhile, are the much more expensive private schools with an overwhelmingly wealthy and white student body, and the struggling schools in former townships and especially in former homelands, whose students are almost uniformly non-white and poor.

**Acknowledgements** Tis chapter is a product of the research conducted in the Collaborative Research Center "Global Dynamics of Social Policy" at the University of Bremen. Te centre is funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation)—project number 374666841—SFB 1342.

### **References**

**Open Access** Tis chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons licence and indicate if changes were made.