What if food was a human right?
Story by Leila Hawkins
Photo by nrd / creative licence
Food prices are becoming increasingly unaffordable around the world — from Sweden, where consumers recently boycotted supermarkets over soaring prices, to the Central African Republic, where it takes 30 days of labour to be able to pay for a basic food basket. What’s making it so expensive to eat?
Let’s start with eggs.
The price of a dozen eggs in the US has reached record highs, rising to more than $6 — nearly three times more than they cost last year. ‘Eggflation’ has been trending on social media all year, as people stockpile and strip shelves, feeding a loop of panic and misinformation, a reminder of the toilet roll frenzy of pandemic days.
Eggs are so sought after now, that reports suggest these are currently being smuggled in greater numbers than class A drugs. Indeed, writer Cory Doctorow has likened food companies to cartels who take advantage of events like avian flu to hike prices in what he calls ‘greedflation’.
While bird flu could be pinpointed as one of the causes, with farmers forced to cull their chickens to prevent the spread of disease, the crisis points to something deeper. Eggs are now a political flashpoint that both the Republican and Democrat parties have wasted no time seizing upon. Meanwhile, as the US administration grapples with increasing imports of eggs while simultaneously waging a trade war, food insecurity around the world continues to grow.
In short: the global food system is full of cracks, and corruption.
The global food machine
In 1993, a group of almost 200 farmers from 80 countries formed ‘La Via Campesina’ (‘the farmer’s way’ in Spanish). They had identified that the system of globalised food trade was seriously flawed. World Bank and World Trade Organisation (WTO) policies were not increasing access to food locally or benefiting farmers, quite the opposite — these agreements were, and remain, money-making deals created to benefit the interests of transnational companies.
They have led to bizarre scenarios where the vast majority of meat and cereals available to buy in African countries are imported from the European Union and the US, despite the continent’s significant farmland. This heavy reliance on imports undermines the livelihoods of local farmers, who struggle to compete with products from overseas sold at lower prices thanks to government subsidies.
A very small number of very large corporations dominate food production globally. As an example, giant chemicals companies are major players in the seed business — linked to grain traders and food processors in the production chain. The same companies buy, ship, and mill grain, then feed it to livestock or turn it into cereal, often crossing several national borders in the process.
One of these is Cargill, which controls a huge stake in grain handling, corn exports and beef packing. To know why this is controversial, you can read the report produced by the Bureau of Investigative Journalism and Greenpeace about how they operate, which includes such unsavoury practices as child labour, deforestation, and unsafe measures that caused bacteria outbreaks that led to several deaths. And that’s without getting onto their penchant for tax avoidance which has no doubt contributed to making the Cargill family billionaires.
The cost of abundance
The globalisation of the food trade means we can buy South Asian dragon fruit in London corner shops and Italian truffle oil in Bangkok’s high end stores. But on the flip side it has led to hundreds of millions of farmers giving up their traditional agricultural practices, and in many cases emigrating. Aggressive agri-farming methods have had a severe impact on the environment over the last 25 years, but the profits are high and shared between a small number of companies, giving them power to set rules with local governments.
In her book ‘Moveable feasts’, Sarah Murray notes how salmon from Norway that’s destined for European supermarkets is frozen and packed on a boat to China, where factory workers defrost the fish, skin it, remove the bones and fillet it before re-freezing, packaging and returning it ready for consumers (although recent political turmoil has meant a lot of this is now being done in Vietnam).
Illogical as this seems, this journey across the oceans and back is the cheapest way to supply supermarkets en-masse, as loading products onto a ship requires a forklift and minimal manpower, and ships typically carry thousands of other items at the same time.
However if the shipping trade was a country, it would be the sixth largest producer of greenhouse gas emissions. And it is allowed to pollute with minimal regulation.
Food sovereignty: the local way
La Via Campesina coined the term ‘food sovereignty’ in 1996, a concept where farmers’ livelihoods are supported, food is guaranteed in their communities, and there are clear environmental safeguards. The group wants to exit WTO agreements and for exports to be deprioritised, in its own words, “It puts the aspirations and needs of those who produce, distribute and consume food at the heart of food systems and policies rather than the demands of markets and corporations.”
This isn’t just a theoretical concept. In Venezuela, food sovereignty is written into the constitution, and has been essential to ensure food security despite heavy sanctions from the US. Hyperlocal initiatives like the Vertientes de Agua Viva Cooperative in the Andes sell produce to consumers directly from farmers at an affordable price. It has managed to resurrect native potatoes, of which there are eight different varieties — these can be kept for up to a year after harvesting, much longer than the commercial potatoes they would usually grow from seeds imported from Canada.
In 2020, I spoke to the cooperative’s co-founder Martha Lia Grajales, who explained: “In Venezuela there are a lot of successful projects that have a community-led power structure. Right now, these initiatives are proving that through collective, communal efforts we can face and transform the difficulties that have arisen not just from the pandemic, but the blockade on our country. They allow us to not just access food but also basic, everyday items.”
In Paraguay, the Organisation of Peasant and Indigenous Women (Conamuri) has a similar aim: promoting the rescue and conservation of native seeds while campaigning against harmful agrotoxins. They also work to increase the visibility of women farmers, and campaign against violence against women. (Notably, many agrarian cooperatives are led by women, and advancing women’s rights underpins La Via Campesina’s movement.)
These projects represent a different model of food production and distribution that is rooted in mutual aid. “We see examples of mutual aid in every single social movement,” Dean Spade writes in their book ‘Mutual Aid, Building Solidarity During This Crisis (and the next)’. “They directly meet people’s survival needs, and are based on a shared understanding that the conditions in which we are made to live are unjust.”
Mutual aid: how communities could feed each other
At its core, mutual aid involves the voluntary exchange of things that people need, where value is placed on the support and care offered to others for the greater good of society, rather than on profit. It is itself derived from mutualism, an economic theory developed in the 19th century. As philosopher Peter Kropotkin described it, it’s about “cooperation, not competition.”
An example of this were the ‘national kitchens’ of early 20th century Britain. Although eventually subsidised by the government, this grew out of voluntary projects in working class communities to address disruption to the food supply during World War I. An important aspect of these was that they were not a charity — staff were paid, and meals were affordable, but not free.
This model was the inspiration for the 21st century’s National Food Service, which ran in 13 locations for a number of years across the UK (sadly, a lack of funding post-pandemic meant it didn’t survive, but its flagship, the Foodhall Project in Sheffield, ran successfully for eight years.)
Reimagining our access to food
The National Food Service proposed that people could become active participants in their local food supply. Meals were made with food that would otherwise go to waste and served in pay-what-you-can cafes or community centres where people ate together, as well help run the centres, whether by preparing and serving the food or hosting events that were of interest to the community.
Distinguishing this from the traditional charity model was important. Food banks, for example, horrifyingly in demand, are not designed to be empowering experiences. Anyone who has used a food bank will be aware of the scarcity of fresh ingredients and the demoralising aspect of relying on limited vouchers for food. Here was a service model created to transform the relationship between people in need — living in unjust circumstances — and the support available to them.
There have been moves from progressive politicians to enshrine the right to food as a basic human right in law. This could include requiring that public bodies take actions to reign in everyday costs such as utility bills so families don’t have to choose between food shopping and bills; and improve access to nourishing food, through free school meals for example.
We know that scarcity isn’t the issue — it is access, and who controls it. Shifting away from mass production and globalisation would be better for the planet. Food sovereignty, mutual aid, food cooperatives and community kitchens show us how rethinking these systems could work, ensuring access to staples at times of crisis. So we can’t dismantle a powerful global system; but if we can build an infrastructure that delivers out-of-season avocados across the planet, we can build a national network of local food providers that meets local people’s needs when shelves run empty.
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