COVID-19, precarity, and the sustainability of life. Some experiences from Mexico.

In March 2020, COVID-19 created a situation of international chaos. No country from across the globe was free from the threat of the virus and the possible consequences of its spreading. This reality, familiar to most of us, accentuated a socio-economic crisis that had been, nevertheless, going on for some decades. The virus did not create the crisis, but it openly revealed the precarity central to the lives of  most citizens around the world: it rendered visible how our existence as human beings is not guaranteed, how being vulnerable is a characteristic that we all share as humans, and how that vulnerability is politically created and unequally distributed.

I. Placing COVID-19 in a context of precarity

The impact of COVID-19 can be analysed from a diverse range of perspectives due to its complexity and magnitude. The theoretical corpus around the categories of ‘precarity’ and ‘precariousness’ is relevant to the understanding of the social reality in which COVID-19 is taking place, as well as for the political possibilities that can be created or strengthened if we conceptualise the crisis of COVID-19 as a portal, as scholar Arundhati Roy has explained (2020), as the threshold of a society moving towards change and new possible ways of understanding existence.

Precarity is a concept that has gained visibility in social sciences in the last few decades. International compilations around this topic have been published in recent years (Lambert and Herold 2016,  Armando and Murgia 2017, Rachwal, Hepp and Kergel, 2020) in an effort to theorise ways of working and living under neoliberal globalisation. The term precarity, therefore, has been used mostly to explain the realities of the labour market in what has been labelled a post-Fordist moment. Guy Standing explains this in the following way referring to ‘the precariat’ as workers who embody the precarity of the labour market:

A feature of the precariat is not the level of money wages or income earned at any particular moment but the lack of community support in times of need, lack of assured enterprise or state benefits, and lack of private benefits to supplement money earnings (….) The precariat experiences the full force of wage flexibility. Its wages are lower, more variable and more unpredictable. The variability is unlikely to correlate positively with personal needs. When those in the precariat have above-normal financial needs, as when they have an illness or family setback, they are also likely to be receiving a below-average income (2011: 44)

Precarity, therefore, has been a concept developed to analyse the neoliberal labour market, the characteristics of jobs after decades of labour transformations, the weakening of the discourse around worker’s rights, and an intense ideological project aimed to transform social subjects into entrepreneurs of themselves, removed from collective identities and struggles around their working and living conditions (Hall 1988, Brown, 2003). Precarious jobs, hence, are characterised by the following dimensions according to authors like Leah Vosko (2009):

• Temporal: work insecurity, whether through short contract duration or unpredictability of hours
• Economic: low pay or lack of opportunity to improve it
• Social: subordinate employment leading to exclusion from social, welfare or labour rights
• Organisational: absence of coverage by collective bargaining or union representation

The concept of precarity denotes a material reality marked by uncertainty, a lack of different resources, and, therefore, a worsening of the economic conditions of workers around the world. This has affected more women than men, who are overrepresented among workers in precarious employment; it has been suggested that we are experiencing a feminisation of precarity (Standing, 1999) as women are more prone than men to be working under these conditions.

In this way, the category of precarity is very close to precariousness as a concept that, emerging from the field of philosophy, theorises human existence as an existence that is not guaranteed, over which humans do not have total control. Although this is a characteristic that all humans share, precarity nevertheless highlights the political organization of that existential condition, as Judith Butler elaborates:

“Every political effort to manage populations includes a tactical distribution of precarity, more often than not articulated through an unequal distribution of precarity, one that depends upon dominant norms regarding whose life is grievable and worth protecting, and whose life is ungrievable, or marginally or episodically grievable – a life that is, in that sense, already lost in part or in whole and thus, less worthy of protection and sustenance.” (2012: 9)

It is precisely in the political and economic spaces, where axes of power like class, gender, sexual orientation, race, among others are at play, where precarity takes shape and organises society in what can be called a continuum of precarity: not in the form of a stable and contained empirical object but, instead, as an experience that is relational, dynamic, and contingent (Neilson and Rossiter, 2008).

The emergence of COVID-19 has destabilized the economies of countries where precarity was a widespread condition even before the appearance of the new virus. In this context, precarity has been made visible in an undeniable way:  the virus threatens the very conditions of existence of human beings, but this threat is different to everyone in a context where power relations and hierarchies organise not only the way in which different social subjects exist, but also which of them are considered as having the right to exist (therefore provided with the resources that ensure this right), and which populations are considered as lives that are unworthy or ungrievable.

In this way, precarity is a reality that goes beyond the labour market and affects the very conditions in which life is sustained. Because this has been historically women’s responsibility, they have had to face the worsening of the conditions that make possible the reproduction of life in a broad sense. (Pérez-Orozco, 2014).

II. Precarity and the Global South

Even though the concept of precarity is useful to the understanding of the current historical moment, its theoretical and political development has been critiqued from a Global South perspective, cautioning, against the problematic assumption that the world shares the same precarious reality, ignoring historical differences between regions and countries.

It is important to consider these critiques, especially in the middle of a pandemic like COVID-19. Although the effects of this pandemic have been disastrous to the planet in general (demonstrating the irreversibility of globalization and the way in which today’s world is deeply interdependent), it is necessary to critically analyse whether this pandemic is creating a more homogeneous global context or if, on the contrary, it is sharpening the differences among regions and countries.

The critiques from the Global South of the concept of precarity provide fruitful insight into understanding the historical differences between the Global North and South, and acknowledge the importance of the South as a site of knowledge production and relevant historical experiences (Comaroff and Comaroff, 2012).

Ignoring the South in the theorisation about precarity is one of the main issues that has been pointed out by authors like Ronaldo Munck (2013), Ben Scully (2016), Franco Barchiesi (2017), and Ritu Vij (2019). This ignoring takes place by at least two different argumentative strategies. The first one is by the intense focus on precarity as something new, revealing a Eurocentric approach. Guy Standing, one of the most famous writers on this issue, is one example of this insistence on the fact that precarity has configured a new reality that is giving place to a new social class; according to him, the precarious labour market is the consequence of the dismantling of the welfare state and the rising of the post-Fordist model of production. Although this is true and can be relevant to the analyses of the Global North, it has been argued that, in fact, Fordism and the welfare state were a reality only for a minority of the global population and that, for the rest of the world, precarity is not a novel condition but, on the contrary, it is the standard experience of work under capitalism. Moreover, authors like Barchiesi (2017) have asserted that precarity in the Global South is part of a project to actively create bodies as disposable as a result of the constant interaction between capitalism, racism, and patriarchy. In regions like Africa, where his analysis is based, precarity is not only historical but it is also part of colonization and a process aimed precisely at the precaritisation of bodies and lives.

The second argumentative line through which the Global South has been excluded in the theorising about precarity is by merely extending to the South the analytical framework on precarity developed in the Global North, without consideration of the historical differences between these geopolitical spaces. The affirmation that we are all precarious now, accompanied by the appearing of a global subject of precarity, only concedes that the Global South was a precursor to precarity in the North, asserting that globalised neoliberalism has created a homogeneous condition of precarity and suffering around the world. Although precarity is indeed a widespread characteristic of both the North and South, it is not possible to only extend the category to the South without taking into consideration the specificities of this reality and, more importantly, the meanings and practices that in the Global South have been developed to make life liveable in a context of historical precaritisation.

In order to reflect on the relationship between precarity and the Global South in a way that takes into consideration the nuances, histories, and complexities of both categories, two possibilities arise. The first one is to analyse precarity in the South as the result of historical processes of Othering and exclusion and, in this way, to contribute to the strengthening of an intersectional approach to the understanding of precarity, one that historically places this experience as the result of interactions of systems of oppression like patriarchy, capitalism, and racism, among others. The second possibility is to reflect on the set of meanings, social practices, and subjectivities that in the Global South have allowed the reproduction and sustainability of life, even in a context of sustained precarity; as Vij suggests, it is necessary to observe “the mobilisation of a vast repertoire of cultural, spiritual, and social resources and the multiple temporalities contained therein, that enables modes of life and living that abjure vulnerability as abjection” (2019: 9).

I suggest that one of the resources in the Global South has been the community as a space of socio-affective relationships enabling liveable lives and deploying economic practices that challenge neoliberal rationalities.

The precaritisation of life and living sharpened by COVID-19 around the world has not only created a fruitful context to critically reflect on the processes that organise and distribute the precariousness of human lives; it has also allowed the visibility of collective economic practices that protect lives and strengthen a sense of community and commoning (Federici, 2018). Because women have been historically in charge of reproducing and sustaining life, these communitarian strategies form part of economies of survival constructed and sustained mainly by women as part of their reproductive role. In this regard, it is important to consider their lived experience in order to understand how life is protected through a wide range of affective, material and subjective practices.

III. Sustaining life through community: Mexican women’s experiences during COVID-19.

To understand social reproduction as a site where social practices aimed at the sustainability of life are developed implies making visible the way in which women not only reproduce life through unpaid domestic and care work. Furthermore, as part of this process, they construct certain social relations and economic practices that take place in a communitarian context as a way of survival. This essay focuses on two economic practices developed by women to sustain and protect life in a context of scarcity, in general, and in the context of precarity sharpened by COVID-19 in particular. These two practices are what I call ‘communities of survival’ and ‘economic tools of survival’.

In this regard, the concept of survival is crucial to my analysis and it does not mean a reduction of life to its minimum (“barely surviving”) but, instead, it follows the theorisation of scholar Nthabiseng Motsemme (2011) about survival wisdom. In her research, this concept denotes the set of social, spiritual and material practices deployed by Black women from South African townships, aimed not only at protecting life in its material and bodily dimensions, but also as practices directed at the healing of the community in the context of apartheid and, in this way to the creation of spaces of liveable, protected lives. This approach understands survival as resistance, and this is particularly relevant in the discussion about precarity because it resonates with the critiques of authors like Vij (2019) highlighting the meanings, subjectivities and practices that form part of the histories of the South. This contrasts with the vision of authors like Standing that, as has been mentioned, establishes a relationship between precarity and isolation, and presents precarity and dependence in a negative way. I propose that, on the contrary, community and interdependence as historical practices of survival allow the theorisation of precarity in a more complex way.

In a country like Mexico, where 60 percent of the labour force is in the informal economy (International Labour Organization, 2014), and 50 percent of the population does not have savings at all (Mexican Association of Retirement Savings, AMAFORE, 2015), a situation like the one created by COVID-19 portended a disastrous situation. The Mexican government decided not to impose a strict national lockdown and instead followed a different strategy, consisting of daily press conferences offered by the Secretary of Prevention and Health Promotion, Hugo Lopez – Gatell. In these conferences, that have taken place since February 28th, different measures have been announced alongside the presentation and discussions of the state of the pandemic in the country. Some of the most important measures have been the suspensions of classes at all levels, the encouragement to stay at home as much as possible, and the observation of social distancing in public spaces. The government was highly criticised for not declaring a national lockdown, and for merely suggesting the measures that citizens needed to follow; by August 31st there had been 606,036 confirmed cases of coronavirus in the country, and 65,241 deaths.

The high levels of informality in the Mexican economy, as well as the absence of public policies to financially support Mexican citizens, created a situation in which a vast percentage of the population lost their sources of income and had to turn to their communities in order to survive. During April 2020, I interviewed twelve women who were either financially supporting someone or were receiving financial help by someone close to them. Most of these experiences reflect how extended families play a strategic role in material reproduction, but they also show how the concept of community is dynamic and also includes spaces involving the church, friends and neighbours. The following testimonies by Mireya and Ema[1] are useful to understand how these networks of protection work:

“Right now I am sending money to my sister in law every two weeks. My brother just disappeared, he has never fulfilled his responsibilities to his children. My sister in law was working as a hostess in a very fancy restaurant but with this situation they just fired her. Well, they didn’t fire her, but they are not paying her and she has to wait until the restaurant reopens. We are not very close, but when I found out I immediately started sending her money, I just can’t stand the idea of her and my nephews not eating, you know? (Interviewer: and has this happened before? How long would you be able to do this?) It has happened before, every time she has an emergency she knows she can call me. I work as a consultant, for now I still have some projects, I will be without income in, let’s say, 6 months from now. I’m just hoping that by then something has changed, otherwise…. we’ll see” (Mireya, 42 years old, married, 2 children, lawyer)

“My two parents lost their job due to COVID-19, my mom was a cook for a family, and my father was a waiter. I was unemployed but then the situation became very desperate so I accepted the only available job: working in a superstore. It is very risky and they are paying me 5,000 pesos (227 USD) per month, which is not enough for me and my parents. I told my two best friends about this situation, they are both postgraduate students and we have been close for many years. They have been sending money, not much, let’s say 1,000 pesos (45 USD) but it really helps. (Interviewer: has that happened before? How does that make you feel?) It has happened before, yeah, the same friends sent money when I needed it, let’s say it happened just once before this time. It makes me feel awesome, to be honest, I know I have them and I can count on them, and we are friends but we really are family. We are there for each other so, how can you say to someone ‘I love you’ and then not being there with everything you are?” (Ema, 38 years old, single, no children)

These examples illustrate how communities of survival work, how they protect people in a crisis like the one created by COVID-19, and some of the affects and subjectivities present in these economic practices of sharing. Due to extension constrains of this text, I would like to highlight only three of their characteristics: 1) These communities did not emerge due to COVID-19; they were part of the economic repertoire of most of the interviewees; 2) The sense of interdependence is not perceived negatively but, instead, as a sort of common sense or embodied knowledge (“I immediately started sending money” or “I can count on them” denote this normalisation), and 3) Although people helping financially are in a privileged position, this is very relative; as Mireya explained, she only had resources for her and her sister in law for the following six months. This shows a specific temporality in which the urgent is that people survive together during the present crisis, and all efforts are directed towards this goal; it also reveals horizontal relationships of mutual aid, instead of more vertical ones like charity or social solidarity in the form of donations from highly privileged people to less privileged ones.

I identified two economic tools of survival that are deeply connected to the histories of the communities:  tandas, and fiado. Tanda is a group saving scheme based on trust where there is a number of people, for example ten, and everyone gives the same amount of money (x) every month for ten months so that each one of them receives money (10x) in a different month. This allows one person to receive money (10x) once, even though she is saving monthly. Fiado is a simpler practice: it is buying on credit without any formal or legal mediation; it is also based on trust and it usually happens only among members of communities that know each other. The following testimonies by Lorena and Juliana speak about the importance of these practices for day to day life and, especially, during a crisis like the present one:

“The women from the church decided to start a tanda as soon as this crisis started. It will be a small tanda, just eight women and we have to pay just 300 pesos (14 USD) per month, so that’s 2,400 (109 USD) pesos that you receive but it is important, you know? Specially now that so many people are losing their jobs, at least with the tanda you can use the money to buy whatever you need, or to save, we are going to need it, that’s for sure (Interviewer: is this the first time that you participate in a tanda?) No way, you know tandas (laughs), every year I’m in a different one.” (Juliana, 55 years, married, 2 children, informal worker)

“I sell clothes on fiado (credit). I have a lot of clients, most of them from the neighbourhood, they come, they buy, they pay a little bit every month. It is good for me because I have a stable income, let’s say, it is irregular but stable, and this has been my source of income for the last 10 years. Now with the crisis…. a lot of my clients are obviously not paying. That’s not an ideal situation for me but, on the other hand, I know my clients, I know they will pay as soon as they have money, and for now I understand there are more urgent things. But, listen, some of them are still paying, maybe less than before, but they are making an effort also because they know me.” (Lorena, 58 years, married, informal worker)

These economic strategies or tools of survival are based mostly on trust, and thus, they happen among people that know each other. According to the National Survey of Savings for the Retirement (Mexican Association of Retirement Savings, 2015), 20 percent of the Mexican population that saves any money do it through tandas. According to the same source, only 22 percent of Mexican people have a bank account, which explains informal systems of credit like fiado.

These knowledges and systems have been developed due to the inaccessibility to formal financial institutions but also because they are deeply embedded in community ties. I suggest that they reflect a different way to access credit and a different understanding of economic practices in the day-to-day life: as something personal, based on trust, good faith, and the protection of the community members.

Conclusions

This essay presents the preliminary results of exploratory research focused on practices of survival in contexts of precarity in the Global South. I intend to understand these practices not as inferior to more regulated and formal ones (loans from the bank instead of tandas, formal credit instead of fiado, social grants instead of financial help from family and friends) but, on the contrary, as practices that make visible a different way to understand the self, community, and economy as a social practice embedded in particular contexts.

Survival wisdom involves not only subjective, affective and spiritual practices; it also includes material practices directed to take care of the body and to sustain life in a broader sense. I propose that these knowledges and practices are relevant to feminist economics as a source of radical thinking for social transformation. The communities and tools of survival that I have briefly mentioned are the crystallisation of histories where precarity has been the result of processes of exclusion but where, precisely because of that, people have resisted precarity by protecting and being protected by the community. In the neoliberal context that promotes a fierce individualism and competition, these alternative ways of thinking, being and surviving are sites of resistance that, although threatened, have persisted over time because of the efforts made by the populations involved. This is not to say that these practices should be romanticised or that they should displace the discussion about worker’s rights and welfare policies. Rather, it is to say, echoing Silvia Federici, that “commoning initiatives are more than dikes against the neoliberal assault on our livelihood. They are experiments in self-provisioning and the seeds of an alternative mode of production in the making” (2018: 89). Taking into consideration the experiences of women in the Global South is necessary for this enterprise because their survival wisdom reveals the complex ways in which they have been active agents of their histories, and places the relationship between resistance and the sustainability of life as a relevant topic in the theoretical and political discussions about precarity.

When the pandemic COVID-19 is over (if it can be ever over), we will all need to discuss the realities that have been made undeniable by it: social injustices, economic inequality, the prioritization of profits over lives. But it will also have to be acknowledged that many of us owe the collective experience of survival not only to the measures taken by the Government, but also to family, friends, neighbours, tandas, fiados, and other mechanisms that protected us and, by doing so, reasserted our lives as liveable and our bodies as mournable.

[1]    The names of the participants have been changed to ensure the confidentiality of the study