The faces behind the numbers

This post appeared in Dutch on the Oikocredit Netherlands website. 

Today is Blog Action Day. On this day, people around the world post blogs to draw attention to a designated theme. This year: inequality, a topic that I focus on in my research.

I travelled to Bolivia two years ago. During my stay I interviewed individuals about their experience with inequality. I was perfectly prepared. I had carefully drawn diagrams representing different income distributions on my computer. Identical rectangles pieced together into a pyramid or an hourglass. The questions – thanks to my language course – were translated to Spanish. And, of course, I had read all the relevant academic papers. I was ready.

My host family in Tarija, a small town close to the Argentinian border, warmly welcomed me. I went to a wedding, celebrated New Year’s Eve, and got acquainted with all the aunts and uncles. The culture shock that I had expected didn’t come. The heels were a bit too high for my Dutch feet and the language was more melodious than my own. But with Teresa, the host family’s daughter, I chatted as I would with my friends at home. We shared experiences, enjoyed the same food, and our jeans looked alike.

Shock

The biggest shock I experienced in those first days was that I sometimes felt relatively poor. Like when Jorge – member of the local Rotary Club – showed me a new Santa Cruz neighbourhood. Ten years ago it had been a deserted area, now it was filled with villas, fancy cars, and high fences. Or the time that I was invited for a lunch in an old colonial house filled with antique furniture. When we had finished our starters, my host rang a copper bell. A second later, the two helps entered to clean the table and serve the main dish.

The fifty-eight year old woman Venita broke my bubble. Equipped with a stack of questionnaires, I had arrived at the office of Mujeres en Acción. This organisation aims to empower women that work as household help. Since recently this occupational group was legally entitled to the minimum wage. However, in practice little had changed.

Venita was shorter than me by twenty centimeters. She was dressed in a gray sweater and a worn pair of jeans. “How happy are you on a scale from one to ten?” “One” she answered. She looked fragile and I wondered whether I should just leave her alone. “My employer pays me 200 bolivianos (23 euro) per month. I don’t dare to ask for more. They will probably fire me if I do. And I have no other place to go. I am too old. I live outside in a small tent.”

Rich and poor

“Next, I am going to ask you some questions about the distribution of money between rich and poor in Bolivia” I continued. I glanced at the abstract diagrams I had designed in The Netherlands. Venita could neither read nor write. I cursed at myself. How was she supposed to understand these collections of rectangles? But before I could ask my first question, she started to talk. “Let me tell you how Bolivia works. There are many poor people and very few rich. There is nothing in between.” She straightened her back. “And it only gets worse. People are not to be trusted, let alone the government. Many words, but no actions.” She looked at me with her dark eyes. I bit my pen and flipped through the questionnaire. Venita had just, without realising, answered two pages of questions.

I sometimes think of her when I am gazing at averages, standard deviations or regression coefficients. Because Venita hides behind these numbers. Or Jorge. Or Teresa. People who sometimes taught me more than a dozen academic papers. People who gave faces to abstract concepts. People who answered questions that I could not have thought of. It is their voice that I want my research to echo.