Rastafari roots of plant-based eating

An Ital meal of rice, ackee, callaloo, and veggie chunks.

Source: Wikimedia Commons (2009)

In considering a vegan diet, I imagine a young, progressive urban consumer motivated by environmental or animal welfare concerns. In other words, someone who likely shops at a Whole Foods. In the West, veganism is packaged as something performed through individual consumer choices. That framing obscures the structural conditions shaping diets, and reinforces the mistaken belief that veganism is a modern invention. The “Ital” tradition complicates the popular narrative of modern veganism. Long before plant-based eating carried a price premium in Los Angeles, it was ordinary in the hills of rural Jamaica. 

The Rastafari movement began in the 1930s in Jamaica among the working poor who had been devastated by the global financial crash of 1929 and prolonged colonial mismanagement. These forces created mass unemployment and rural-to-urban migration into the slums of west Kingston. Rastas fled to the rural mountains where they could access land and practice self-governance without persecution.  

Leonard P. Howell, an early Rastafari leader, drew on the practices of Hindu indentured laborers in Jamaica to promote what became known as Ital living. The word “Ital” comes from “vital,” dropping the first letter to emphasize the pronoun “I”. This linguistic practice signals unity with the speaker, the listener, and Jah (God). Ital eating is an expression of “livity,” a Rastafari concept that the individual can embody and express spirituality through the practices of daily life.  For Rastafarians, Jah exists in all of creation, including plants, animals, and people. As such there is a divine force or energy in everything. 

What one puts in one’s body either enhances or degrades this life force. Food that has been processed or chemically altered is considered corrupted and further from Jah’s creation. Life force does not begin at the moment of consumption. Powell’s research participants described farming, cultivation, and conservation as the literal pouring of one’s energy and emotion into the earth. The sincerity of this effort determines how the earth responds and reciprocates that energy. 

Rural Rastafari food is shaped by what the land yields. Coconuts are naturally abundant across Jamaica. They are cracked, drained, grated, and squeezed into milk that forms the base of most dishes. Vegetables and aromatics are sautéed in coconut oil. The food typically contains beans, spices, chili peppers, and the coconut milk, stewed for hours over low heat and eaten communally. A strict Ital diet rejects salt as “a needless adulteration” of what Jah placed on the earth, so herbs and dry seasonings are key. Scotch bonnet peppers, thyme, lemongrass, allspice, and nutmeg build complex flavor without salt. 

The one-pot stew is a practical response to the rural conditions of Rastafari life. Land access is limited, so the range of available produce is narrow. A single pot stretches what is on hand to feed the community. Cooking takes place outside in clay pots often balanced over a wood fire by three stones. Metal cookware is avoided on the belief that it harms the body. 

In Saint Lucia, a young Rasta farmer described conversing with plants throughout their life cycle to transfer positive energy to them. He explained that during planting one must ensure a positive heart is present because this very energy will be transmitted to the earth. The same is true of cooking. Ital food involves preparing food with a clean heart to transfer life force into the food. Food must be cooked slowly, with intention and gratitude. This preserves and transmits the life energy that began in the soil. Food is not just physically nourishing; it is also spiritually nourishing.

Food that is rushed or processed severs the energy force and transmits a lower form. It follows too that food grown under corporate conditions is spiritually degraded. Jahson Peat, who runs a vegan restaurant in London called Zionly Manna, presents Ital as a process of relearning that strips away the method of eating brought about by colonialism. This is inseparable from a rejection of capitalism itself. Commitment to Ital eating is tightly linked to a broader turn away from the imported industrial and materialist ways of life, which are all combined under the Rastafari concept of “Babylon.” 

By contrast, mainstream veganism operates according to market logic. It converts diet choices into an ethical identity. For some, it is an exercise in personal branding, where what you eat signals who you are. This channels genuine ethical concerns for animals and the environment into demand for plant-based products. In this sense, the market-based vegan movement can be seen not as a challenge to the current food system, but a force that risks expanding it further, as seen through the IPO of Beyond Meat. The growth of this plant-based segment does not depend on replacing meat consumption, only on expanding overall consumer demand. The Ital diet is not a consumer identity. It seeks to reject the economic system and the very notion of consumerism upon which it relies. 

However, Ital does not operate entirely independent of market forces. Jaffe’s concept of “Ital chic” describes the convergence of middle-class consumerism and the Ital diet. In Kingston, Rasta symbols have been used to market artisanal soap lines and premium vegetable products. When a brand sells coconut-milk products with Rasta packaging, it co-opts a tradition built on self-sufficiency and places it inside the very market that tradition was designed to reject. This dynamic is similar to that explored in a blog post from this semester about rural tourism. It noted that rural culture is often packaged to meet consumer expectations, with authenticity operating as a selling point. 

Plant-based eating did not begin with a farmer’s market or with a marketing campaign. It owes some of its roots to rural Jamaica, where people grew what the earth offered based on a theological conviction. That story deserves to be remembered before it is repackaged.

Spain's rural de-population . . . and maybe repopulation

In 2019, I went studied abroad in Salamanca, Spain. I am part Spanish, but my great-grandmother's birth records have since been lost to us. My mother often told us stories of the days when the Spanish and Native American part of the family had a small farm in Texas. They were always juxtaposed with how things went horribly wrong in my grandmother's marriage, which led to the relocation of my mother's family to Mexico. My great-grandmother, born Josephine de la Garza in 1898, had thirteen children and lived the rural life you would imagine in the run up to the Great Depression. She, her husband, and her children, including my grandmother, milked cows, kept chickens, and made ends meet by picking cotton for other people. Because of this, I always associated rurality with Hispanidad or Spanish-ness. 

I learned many things when I went to Spain. My brother who went before me, Ian, was right that we get many of our cultural cues from Spain. The type of dry, morbid, blunt, and sometimes insensitive humor I got from my family was ubiquitous in the part of Spain where I studied. Unlike in America, no Spaniards stopped being friends with me because a joke landed the wrong way. 

In some ways, Spain's politics felt less divided than in America, even in the midst of the Catalan separatist referendum on the other side of Spain. Spaniards on the left seemed more socially conservative than their American counterparts, with one self-described feminist Spanish language professor calling the term "Latinx" grammatically incorrect. Spaniards on the right were far more economically progressive than their American counterparts. I recall that my conservative friends from the local fencing club were immensely proud of Spain's socialized healthcare system. If you've seen my previous posts, this should ring a bell. Rural Americans tend to poll as more socially conservative and fiscally progressive than their metropolitan counterparts. 

Among other things I learned, I quickly became aware that Salamanca was a culturally rural place, with many of the people I interacted with either growing up rural or whose families moved to the city in the past few generations. 

Spain's population dilemma

With a population of around 47 million people, Spain also has some of the most densely populated cities of Western Europe and least densely populated countryside. The rapid industrialization of the 1950s and 1960s brought the vast majority of Spain's rural population away from the villages and into its cities. Exacerbating the issue is Spain's low birth rate, the average number of children per woman fell to 1.10 in 2024. 

The birthrares among each Autonomous Community ("Comunidades Autonomas" are Spain's rough equivalent to states) vary. Some communities like Madrid are very urbanized while others like Asturias are rural and mountainous. The Instituto Nacional de Estadistica records birth rates, infant mortality rates, life expectancy at birth, and the proportion of people over certain ages by province. The site also differentiates between total births, births from exclusively Spanish mothers, and births from foreign-born mothers. The last delineation is helpful in assessing one proposed solution for Spain's depopulation, which is the encouragement of immigration to Spain from the Spanish-speaking countries in Latin America. 

In 2024, the provinces scoring the highest birth rates to mothers of Spanish origin are Ceuta and Melilla, two of Spain's remaining urban port enclaves in North Africa. The two cities are also undocumented immigration hotspots for Spain. Ceuta had a rate of 7.17 births per 1,000 inhabitants, and Melilla had 7.54 births per 1,000 inhabitants. Counting Spanish and foreign mothers, the rate rose moderately to 8.22 and 9.19 births per 1,000 inhabitants. Just across the Strait of Gibraltar, Andalucia and Murcia boasted higher numbers of children born to Spanish mothers than in Spain's northern regions, with 6.45 live births per 1,000 people and 6.81 live births per 1,000 people respectively. Calculations including foreign mothers yielded a very mild increase to 6.95 in Andalucia and a moderate increase to 7.93 in Murcia. 

According to the Spanish Ministerio de Agricultura, Pesca, y Alimentacion (Agriculture, Fish, and Food), Andalucia, Murcia, Melilla, and Ceuta appeared to host significantly more urban communities when compared to autonomous communities in the interior of Spain. The most rural autonomous communities were Extremadura, Castilla La Mancha, Castilla y Leon, and Aragon. According to the Instituto Nacional de Estadistica's 2024 data, Aragon, Castilla La Mancha, Castilla y Leon, and Extremadura had birth rates of 5.27, 5.76, 4.57, and 5.82 per 1,000 inhabitants respectively. Counting foreign mothers, the rates increased to 6.33, 6.71, 5.23, and 6.20 per 1,000 inhabitants. Today's immigration may prove to be a long-term solution to Spain's rural depopulation crisis.

Credit: Ministerio de Agricultura, Pesca, y Alimentacion.

While the comparatively lessened birth rates in rural Spain might seem like a cause for alarm, it is important to consider that the median age in rural Spain is much higher. In many cases, however, young people whose families left Spain's rural villages have been the ones trying to revive Spain's countryside. 

Immigration in Spain

Anecdotally speaking, I made friends with many immigrants in Spain: a Venezuelan family that owned a bar in the middle of my 35 minute walk to religious studies class at the Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca; an Ecuadorian churchgoer; an Argentinian fencer; a Chinese fencer; and a Black American Navy veteran who found work as an English professor. I never heard anything negative about Spain from any of them. Most Spaniards I met welcomed me, although they often mistook me for an Italian or Central American from my accent. Most never guessed me to be an American due to my obvious lack of North European features or (thankfully) fashion sense. 

Spain is an immigration hotspot in two ways: it is the bridge between Africa and Europe, and it has a long-standing policy of giving immigrants from its former colonies an expedited path to citizenship in the hopes that such immigrants remain in Spain. Most preferred immigrants come from Latin America, but the Philippines and Equatorial Guinea are also on the list. Even dual Latin American-United States citizens are eligible for the two-year fast track. Conversely, Spain generally does not have birthright citizenship for being born on Spanish soil. The contrast in treatment creates a strong preference for immigrants from the former Spanish viceroyalties in Latin America. 

The Instituto Nacional de Estadistica traces both immigration and emigration data for Spain, among other demographic data. South American immigrants, not even including Central and North Americans, outnumbered all African immigrants by a ratio of 335,185 to 128,527. Despite its preferred status, the Philippines only contributed 3,305 immigrants. With over 600,000 residents emigrating annually, most of whom are foreign-born, Spain has issues retaining immigrants. Nonetheless, with a total immigration of 1,288,562 in 2024, Spain still has a positive balance of net immigration. Furthermore, for both male and female immigrants, the single largest age cohort of immigrants is between 23 years of age and 33 years of age. In other words, Spain receives statistically prime working age immigrants.

Spain's most anti-immigration party, VOX, is split on the issue of immigration from Latin America, with younger party members opposing all immigration. Establishment party members believe that Latin Americans share a cultural and linguistic heritage with Spaniards that prime them for citizenship. Partido Popular (PP), the center-right party, outlined its 2026 immigration platform calling for tougher enforcement of immigration laws and stressing the meteoric rise of the population born overseas by 1.5 million people over four years. Reading between the lines of its five principles, "Order & Legality," "Contribution Should Be A Condition For Remaining," "Integration With Demands," and "Zero Tolerance For Crime," it is clear that Partido Popular does not share concerns about immigrants competing with Spaniards for employment opportunities. Explicitly under their 2nd proposal prong "employment as a port of entry," Partido Popular says that Hispanidad, understood as a shared space of language, history, and values, will be a positive factor in the evaluation of visas. 

 Unlike with VOX's split, PP does not appear to be advocating for a change in Spain's immigration structure, but rather stricter enforcement of existing law. With a mere half of Spain's extreme right turning against immigration from Latin America, it looks like Spain's incentives for Latin American immigration will remain in place.

For reasons likely dating back to long-standing historical grievances, VOX and Partido Popular, the center-right party, oppose North African immigration. In Moorish Blood: Islamophobia, Racism, and the Struggle for Identity in Modern Spain, Fernando Bravo Lopez acknowledges that the long Moorish occupation of Spain resulted in various reactions to that part of Spanish history. Modern Spanish reactions range from an attempt from Spaniards to erase marks of the occupation to an embrace of the past occupation as a part of Spanish history. 

The currently governing PSOE (Partido Socialista Obrero Espanol) on the left appears conciliatory toward irregular migrants, most recently granting amnesty to 500,000 undocumented immigrants and allowing immigrants without legal residency access to Spain's public health services. It goes without saying that PSOE is also perfectly fine with immigration from Latin America. In any case, the proportion of Latin American migrants has eclipsed migration from North Africa, and given the political landscape, will likely continue to do so.

Foreign-Born Population of Spain by Region of Birth, 1998 and 2022

Source: Claudia Finotelli and Sebastian Rinken, Migration Policy Institute

In particular, rural communities came to rely upon Latin American immigrants who work in the agricultural and hospitality sectors of the economy. South American immigration has revived some rural villages in Teruel, Leon, and Palencia, proving that the system can work at scale. A 2023 article Is Spanish depopulation irreversible? Recent demographic and spatial changes in small municipalities by Fernando Gil-Alonso, Jordi Bayona-i-Carrasco, and Isabel Pujadas-Rubies noted factors aiding or hindering the recovery of rural Spanish communities from depopulation. The researchers concluded that while immigration has historically benefitted Spain's rural communities, migration patterns depend upon the health of the economy. Migration growth was also mostly able to compensate for negative natural growth in most cases.

Credit: Fernando Gil-Alonso, Jordi Bayona-i-Carrasco, Isabel Pujadas-Rubies. Charts derived from the Instituto Nacional de Estadistica (INE)

Infrastructure and grassroots efforts

While helpful to the recovery of Spain's villages, immigration can only go so far. Infrastructure is needed to keep rural communities livable, connected, and economically viable in the 21st century.

As illustrated by this video from early 2026, the resettlement of Spain's villages carry different challenges. One isolated Aragonese village named La Estrella in the mountains, until very recently inhabited only by an elderly couple, is less likely to be repopulated than the long-abandoned village of Sarnago in the Castilian plains. Aside from access, one key ingredient to the revival of Sarnago is the fondness that the descendants of former residents still hold for the village. 

Once a week, the relatively young descendants of Sarnago's villagers converge upon the village to repair its buildings in the hopes that the site one day can again be livable. The group even created a museum out of an old schoolhouse, potentially attracting some small measure of tourism. Illustrating further the difference between Sarnago and La Estrella is the 2023 piece by Fernando Gil-Alonso, Jordi Bayona-i-Carrasco, and Isabel Pujadas-Rubies addressing whether Spanish depopulation is irreversible. The researchers ultimately concluded that while rural communities may survive through bonds with larger municipalities, rural communities that are distant from metro areas will likely never recover.  

Villages in Western Castilla y Leon experienced the greatest population loss in the twenty years preceding the 2020 pandemic, followed by small municipalities in Aragon, Castilla La Mancha, and Extremadura. Some "villages situated far from the coast in Galicia, Catalonia, and Andalusia" also suffered heavy population losses. In total, the researchers concluded that 40% of Spain's municipalities face "a bleak demographic future." Nonetheless, efforts against rural depopulation continue on the activist level, the national level, and even at the level of the EU. The President of the EU, Ursula von der Leyen, "created a Vice-Presidency for Democracy and Demography." The office will be responsible for assessing the link between rural demographic changes and access to services. EU efforts on rural depopulation will need to be covered in a different blog post. 

Local passion met institutional support as early as March of 2021 when the Spanish government introduced a $11.9 million plan to improve internet infrastructure in the countryside. The plan came as part of a greater effort to bring digital nomads to Spain during the pandemic years. Sarnago was among the villages attempting to attract digital nomads. By late 2024, Spain continued efforts to extend 5G internet service to rural areas with the collaboration of private companies like Vodafone and Telefonica. As of 2025, Spain's fiber optic internet connectivity coverage reaches 46% of the rural population. According to the Spanish Ministerio del Economia, Comercio, y Empresa (Economy, Commerce, and Business), rural internet coverage exceeds the coverage available to rural French, German, and British communities. 

In spite of the federal and grass-roots support for the restoration of Spain's villages, some efforts find themselves halted by local governments. In 2023, the Autonomous Community of Castilla La Mancha threatened to fine or imprison a group of young Spaniards seeking to revitalize the village of Fraguas because the village site now lies within a natural park.

Tourism: a problem in the cities; a solution in the country

Spain is a major tourist destination for both international and internal Spanish tourists. The site of a confluence of Celtiberian, Carthaginian, Roman, Visigothic, and Moorish civilizations, in addition to the native Spanish Catholic peoples in Spain, the nation hosts fifty UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Four of the World Heritage Sites are national parks. 

Recently, however, urban Spaniards have protested against the tourism industry because of the rising cost of living in Spain's cities. In a seeming contradiction from Spain's earlier efforts to attract digital nomads to its countryside, Spain's government recently proposed a 100% tax on property purchases by non-EU citizens. While tourism may strangle the budget of locals in already saturated cities, it may at the same time provide a lifeline to rural communities. 

I specifically recall during trips from Salamanca to Valladolid, Madrid, Toledo, Avila, and Zamora that the train or bus would pass by old medieval watchtowers and beautiful scenery. There is little doubt that Spain's countryside holds untapped potential for tourism. 

The Camino de Santiago, a set of pilgrimage routes, stretches across Spain and ends at Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. Each of the routes necessarily pass through stretches of rural lands and communities which could use the business more than cities like Barcelona, Seville, and Madrid. 

Credit: https://www.pilgrim.es/en/routes/

The pilgrimage is traditionally completed on foot. Most of the routes run through the rural regions of Extremadura and Castilla y Leon before ending in the comparatively urbanized Galicia. The two most urbanized routes appear to be the Portuguese route and the Ruta Norte (Northern Route), which runs through the Cantabrian Mountains on Spain's northern coast. 

Portuguese Route on the Camino de Santiago 

Credit: Lisa R. Pruitt (2019)

Pilgrims stop along the route in hostels specifically for pilgrims or "albergues." Most albergues are located in urban centers, but it is conceivable that some pilgrims need to stop between cities due to lengthy distances. Furthermore, the albergues are relatively inexpensive, and in many cases, managed by the public specifically to host pilgrims rather than general tourists. For example, between Caceres and Salamanca are numerous smaller cities and villages whose economies could be bolstered by the presence of publicly funded albergues. While urban Spaniards rail against the tourism industry for raising the cost of living, rural Spaniards could preserve their communities with the aid of rest stops for weary and hungry pilgrims. 

Credit: Google Maps

Conclusion

Spain's rural depopulation crisis may seem insurmountable. Gil-Alonso, Bayona-i-Carrasco, and Pujadas-Rubies were not optimistic in their article Is Spanish depopulation irreversible? Recent demographic and spatial changes in small municipalities. However, a number of unique solutions are available to Spain. Furthermore, strong institutional support from the Spanish government and the EU may extend the services and internet connectivity needed for geographically distant villages to survive and perhaps flourish. Finally, if Spain could come back from an even worse episode of depopulation during the Reconquista, it can surely come back from this. 

The ronda and the rope: Parallel justice systems and the dangers of legal abandonment in rural Latin America

Peruvian President Ollanta Humala delivers a speech in rural Puno.
© Presidency of Peru, 2015 

Much has been written about the lack of access to legal services and the reduced capacity of state and legal actors in rural areas of the United States of America. Savvy writers usually stay clear of making worst-case-scenario predictions. This is understandable, as nobody wants to be the person who says the sky will fall. I shall not make such calamitous predictions either. What this article contains is instead a view into a place in which legal systems have failed and given way to other forms of "justice."

This article is a small survey of parallel systems of justice in rural and remote areas of Peru, a country with which I am intimately familiar. Over the course of this post I will go through the circumstances that led to the formation of such systems, their current status, and some of their worst excesses. Peru is not the United States. Its geography, history, and demographics are radically different. The underlying conditions that produced these parallel systems are not, however, unique to Peru. It is worth asking what fills a vacuum when the courts do not play a role. Some particular responses have emerged in Peru. Whether such responses might ever emerge in rural America is for the reader to imagine.

The geographical roots of legal absence

A lone truck challenges the curves of the Pasamayo Serpentine.
© Santiago Stucchi, 2008.

Peru's geography represents a major obstacle to the nation's political integration and by extension, to its legal system. Peru is vertically split in half by the Andes Mountain. The Andes are flanked on the east by the Amazon rainforest and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. Peru's capital, Lima, is home to one-third of the nation's population. This results in an extremely centralized nation, dominated by its political and economic coastal elites. Its mountainous terrain makes transportation quite difficult as well, with some highways like the infamous Serpentine of Pasamayo--an extremely narrow 14-mile stretch of highway which has mountain on one side and abyss on the other--being the only way between different regions of the country.

In many remote areas, especially in the Andes, there is very little formal policing. Courts are a distant, nonoperative institution. Language barriers do not help either, as about 15% of Peru's population speaks Quechua as their main language. But many Peruvians--especially those working in government--do not speak Quechua at all. Historically, communities in such areas have governed themselves with little involvement from the central or even regional government. They often handled disputes through informal assemblies or through respected community leaders. The first rondas campesinas (meaning "peasant patrols") were established in the northern Andean region of Cajamarca in the late 1970s. These early rondas were primarily created to deal with property crimes, the main one being cattle theft.

Sendero Luminoso and the militarization of the rondas

A painting displayed on the First Military School of Sendero Luminoso.
On the left, the students. On the right, Sendero's leader, Abimael Guzman. Above him the figures of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin and Mao Zedong.

In May 1980, the Maoist terrorist group Sendero Luminoso (literally "Shining Path"), a primarily rural Andean movement, declared war on the Peruvian government. It was led by Abimael Guzman, a professor of philosophy at a university in Ayacucho (a region in the southern Andes). Part of Sendero's strategy was what they called "batir el campo" (meaning "scouring the countryside," destroying all non-Sendero authority in such regions). Initially, many rural communities sided with Sendero, agreeing with their message of discontent against the ways in which the government had neglected the people of the Andes.

When confronted with the violent revolts happening in the Andes, President Fernando Belaunde dismissed them, assessing the threat as nothing more than small issues with cattle rustlers. Sendero held "people's trials" against those it considered "antirevolutionary elements." The subjects of these trials were often community leaders, and the price of resistance was massacre. The most notorious of these was the Lucanamarca massacre of 1983, in which over 60 people (ranging from ages of 6 months to 70 years of age) were killed with machetes and axes, in retaliation for the killing of one of Sendero's commanders. What followed were years of massacres in the Andes, with most of the human cost falling on the rural communities who lived there.

Eventually, in the early 1990s, the Peruvian government found its footing in the fight against Sendero, and the war started to turn. Under the leadership of President Alberto Fujimori, the rondas started being armed and supported by the government. This cooperation proved instrumental to defeating Sendero in rural regions and displacing them into other areas where the government had an easier time fighting them. On September 12, 1992, Sendero's leader Abimael Guzman was captured in a safehouse in an upper-class neighborhood in Lima, where he was being hosted by a wealthy classical dancer. That was game over.

Constitutional recognition

Guzman's capture was an inflection point from which Fujimori moved forward with a series of reforms. Chief among them was the Peruvian Constitution of 1993. In its Article 149, the constitution recognizes the authority of the rondas campesinas within their jurisdictions, as long as they "respect the fundamental rights of people." The same article calls for the cooperation of the "traditional" judicial power and these parallel systems of justice going forward.

How the project of cooperation and respect for the fundamental rights of people is going is difficult to assess with precision. But, where statistics are scarce, it is always good to tell a story.

A Canadian in Ucayali

The village of Nuevo Jerusalen in the Ucayali Region of Peru.
© Vratislav S, 2012

Imagine you are a young (ish) Canadian man. Like many of your peers, you seek enlightenment. You doubt Western medicine and respect indigenous cultures. So, you decide to look into the real stuff. You travel south, to Peru, perhaps farther south, to the Ucayali Region of the Amazon rainforest. You do ayahuasca. It changes your life, so you seek to go further down the rabbit hole. You seek a teacher, Olivia Arevalo Lomas, a well-known elder, healer and community leader. You dedicate ten years of your life to this. Then one day, a bang, and your teacher is dead, three gunshot wounds.

The police eventually show up (it takes them some time), and everyone is really angry. Even worse, they think it is your fault. Oh no. Facebook posts start to be circulated. "WANTED" they say, then a picture of you, then a plea for clues on your whereabouts. People in the comments express their wishes that you are brought to justice; others propose rewards for hunting you down. Things are looking really bad for you.

But actually, these latest developments are not that bad, since you are already dead. Police soon find a phone which contains a video recording of your last moments. A mob got to you, quickly, well before the police ever got there, since you are conspicuously foreign. There was no trial, no evidence, no attorneys. You have been lynched, and your manner of death was strangulation.

Your family says you were really nice, hated guns, and just loved ayahuasca. The locals will remain convinced it was you who killed Arevalo Lomas. The rest of the world will never know. This story is not a thought experiment. This happened to Sebastian Woodruffe, a Canadian tourist. His death drew international attention in 2018 before disappearing from the news cycle within days.

Gerardo's choice

If you are in any way like me, you may have heard the story and said to yourself, "only one way to avoid a similar fate, stay as far away as possible from that region if you are not a local."

This is not, however, a solution. In 2007, in the village of Patascachi (near the border with Bolivia, population around 1000), a mob descended upon the house of Gerardo Parisuana, a farmer. Nearly the entire town was there. The occasion? Gerardo's son Gary was accused of being a cattle rustler, and the mob had had enough of him. The evidence against him? A gang of cattle rustlers, upon capture, had accused Gary of being their leader. The police arrested Gary, but found insufficient evidence to hold him and soon released him. For the rondas, however, the "trial" had already happened. The verdict was in. There was no room for appeals. Gerardo now had a choice: to lynch his own son, or to have the rest of his family share his son's fate. Gerardo made his choice. According to witnesses, the crowd tortured Gary before Gerardo hanged him.

The mayor on trial

A sign near the city of Ilave, in the Puno Region.
© TeshTesh, 2015

Not even money and power are enough to protect one from such a fate. In 2004, in the city of Ilave (elevation 12,000 feet, in the Puno Region, near Lake Titicaca in the heart of the Andes), the mayor of the city, Cirilo Robles, was lynched by a mob. It all started with a protest sparked by allegations of corruption and embezzlement. Aymara-speaking peasants made camp in front of the municipality's doors, protesting that the mayor had promised to pave the Ilave-Mazocruz highway, a promise yet to be fulfilled. The mayor left the city as soon as the protests started, returning only weeks later. When he finally came back, he held a meeting with his council at his private residence, in which he resolved to resign.

The mob found out about the mayor's return, and they soon descended upon his home. They breached the house and dragged the mayor out after giving him a beating. He was tortured for hours before being hanged in the city's square. His lifeless body was found under a bridge. Later that year, Peru's Government Accountability Office investigated the allegations against him. They found no evidence of embezzlement and exonerated him. The Supreme Court of Peru sentenced two members of the mob to 30 years in prison. Mayor Robles' successor, Miguel Flores, closed this somber chapter with a comment that could be considered the most Peruvian aphorism, "Everything remains the same for us."

Conclusion

The rondas campesinas are not just a series of horror stories. They emerged from genuine necessity and fulfilled a role that nothing else could. They even have constitutional recognition. But the results they tend to generate speak for themselves. Formal policing and legal institutions are not perfect, but they tend to produce less shocking and violent results. 

Peru is not the United States. The Andes are not Appalachia. The Amazon is not the Ozarks. But legal vacuums do not know borders, and the dynamics that fill them may follow recognizable patterns. Whether those patterns may ever extend to the United States is, as said in the introduction, for the reader to imagine.

The Banshees of Inisherin: Friendship and the village

Irishmore, Ireland

Image Source: Wikimedia Commons (2005)

The Banshees of Inisherin is a dark comedy film that came out in 2022. It is set in the 1920s and was written and directed by Martin McDonagh. The movie centers around two longtime friends, Colm, and Pádraic, living on a fictional remote island called Inisherin off the west coast of Ireland. These two friends used to spend their days in the pub, drinking the day away, until Colm decides to abruptly end the friendship.  Colm explains that Pádraic is just too “dull” for him and that he has no desire to waste more time hearing him talk. Colm is a composer and is motivated to leave a legacy through music. When Pádraic refuses to accept the termination of their friendship, Colm escalates the conflict by threatening to cut off one of his own fingers every time Pádraic talks to him. 

This film has a lot to say about the nature of friendship in remote areas. After Colm cuts off his first finger and throws it at their door, Pádraic’s sister is convinced it is time to leave the village and move to the big city. She tries to convince Pádraic to join her, but he remains committed to the village.  

This raises the question: could a feud escalate like this in a big city? I doubt it. The extent to which the two friends are entangled in one another’s lives would be highly unlikely in a big city.  In this village, there is just one pub, only a handful of roads, and Colm and Pádraic continue bumping into one another. 

Despite the conflict, neither is willing to give up their village life.  Pádraic loves his donkey and his daily rituals. The social fabric of Inisherin gives him a sense of rootedness. Is it because he is dull that he has no ambition beyond the remote island? This is a central tension in the film. On the one hand, Pádraic does not crave legacy. Rather, he enjoys modest pleasures: arriving at the pub at 2 p.m., taking care of his donkey, chatting about nothing, really. This contentment reflects his orientation, not his intellect. He values kindness and kinship. 

Colm, by contrast, equates ambition with depth. His prioritization of ambition may reflect a kind of urban-centric orientation. A post from 2014 demonstrates popular culture contributes to simplified or stereotyped portrayals of rural life.  Those tropes exist in Banshees, but by complicating them, the film offers a more layered representation of rural life. 

Why can’t the ambitious composer leave the island? Colm craves the quiet of village life, so he can focus on his composing, but he is unwilling to accept that village life requires him to tolerate the villagers. Would he actually be happier in the big city? In Dublin for example, what he would gain in anonymity, he would certainly lose in other ways. Yes, he wouldn’t have to put up with Pádraic, but he would have to deal with consequences of city life like noise and chaos. Colm’s anxiety about legacy would not disappear in the city; it would likely intensify.  The competition and indifference of urban life could make fear of insignificance more apparent to Colm. In a place crowded with other musicians and artists, he may be forced to confront how ordinary he might be. By the end of the film the irony is apparent. The ambitious composer, Colm, has self-mutilated. His ambition does not make him morally superior to Pádraic.   

The film also invites us to consider whether there is an obligation to remain friends with people we can’t stand. Most people are comfortable with the idea that individuals have a right to decide not to be someone’s friend.  In a big city, Colm could more easily exercise this right. On a remote island, less so. Island life necessarily conflicts with the individual rights urban dwellers take for granted. Individuals cannot freely choose their associates in a place this small and remote.  In a rural context, residents must coexist, even if that means tolerating an unwanted interaction from time to time. This demonstrates that individualism and notions of free will are often constrained in practice by forces like geography. 

The central tragedy for Pádraic is his realization that the social order is collapsing. When his fellow villagers don’t believe in the community, he can no longer experience the sense of belonging he craves. Inisherin represents the type of rural environment that is stuck between two worlds. It is unable to deliver the sense of community that Pádraic relies on, but it also cannot deliver the sense of individuality that Colm seeks to assert. The tension between community and autonomy is thus at the heart of the film’s tragedy. 

The extinction of mermaids

Photo Credit: UNxArtPartner Create COP25 Haenyeo 2019

Emerald sequins bathed in refracting light. Lavender velvet crushed beneath loose limbs. Shimmering turquoise dappled with the tacky remnants of a cherry ice pop. These were the qualities that sketched the lines of one of my most treasured childhood possessions: a swimsuit, inspired by the 1989 film, "The Little Mermaid." 

In a plastic pool in late 90s, Castro Valley, California, I would spend hours baking under the gaze of an overzealous sun, grieving the mythos of creatures that existed only in daydreams. However, nearly six thousand miles away, on the Island of Jeju, mermaids were very much a reality. 

Photo Credit: UNxArtPartner Create COP25 Haenyeo 2019

The sea women

Evidence of female free divers, or haenyeos (Korean:해녀), first appears in literature dating to the 17th Century. What began as a solely male-dominated field soon shifted into one of the quintessential representations of semi-matriarchal family structure in Asia. To become a haenyeo, women must join a fishing village cooperative, requiring the agreement of other members. Diving rights are often passed on from elderly haenyeo to their daughters and daughters-in-law. 

Diving barehanded, clad in simple cotton mulsojungi, without oxygen tanks or other technological adornments, these women routinely plunge their bodies into the gelid waters off the southernmost coast of the Korean peninsula. For seven hours a day, 90 days a year, haenyeo dive up to 20 meters below the surface to harvest marine resources, including abalone, other mollusks, octopi, sea urchin, seaweed, turban shells, and other shellfish for their families and the community. According to Kim Hoo-ran of The Korean Herald, the spirit of the haenyeo is communal, "The women seek equitable distribution of their harvest, giving away part of their catch to a diver who has a poor catch. Such favors are always returned by the recipient."

As Dr. Miyoung Kim of Ewha Women's University notes, the lifestyle is not without its dangers:

These divers are [also] exposed to decompression sickness because they perform breath-hold dives, and these dives can cause neurological problems, such as muscle weakness and dysthesia, as well as other symptoms, such as vertigo, dizziness, and nausea. In addition, increases in intraocular pressure while diving damage the optic nerves and lead to headaches. Among this group, 83.5% take analgesics and antihistamines during work to prevent the headaches and earaches that occur due to diving, and they often take more than the recommended doses; thus, drug overdose is a serious problem. 

Photo Credit: Blog Duam 

Translating the currents

The adversities, however, are paired with marvels. According to a new study in Cell Reports, generations of diving has literally altered the genetics of divers and their children, passing down a series of psychological adaptations allowing them to dive more safely. Dr. Melissa Lardo and her team observed that:

Haenyeo's heart rates drop[ped] about 50 percent more during simulated dives compared with other groups, which helps them hold their breath longer by limiting oxygen that the body needs and reducing the work the heart needs and reducing the work the heart needs to do...This blood pressure genetic variant can protect the haenyeo as they dive while pregnant-typically, pregnant haenyeo will dive up until the day they give birth, says Ilardo. Researchers suggest this lower blood pressure genetic variant could protect against complications like preeclampsia, a health risk for pregnant women that can be exacerbated by diving. 

Centuries of diving has not only changed the anatomy of these women's bodies; it has embedded in them, what Dr. Samantha Chisolm Hatfield calls Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK). 

TEK "specifically relates to the environment in a given traditional homeland of Indigenous groups and/or Usual and Accustomed areas. This may include but is not limited to: botany knowledge, medicinal application (collection and/or administration), hunting, fishing, gathering, processing of materials(s), caretaking such as burning, coppicing, thinning, astronomy, phenology, time, ecological markers, species markers, weather, and climate knowledge."

In a paper published in the Journal of Marine Island Cultures, Hatfield and Dr. Sung-Hee Kong interviewed haenyeo and concluded that they have highly developed environmental acuity, a unique ability to read environments and document information on environmental changes. This is particularly vital as the collection of resources has steadily declined, and sustainability efforts are necessary to mitigate the ravages of climate change. 

Photo Credit: Bernard Gagnon

The ebbing tide 

After thousands of years, the mermaids of Jeju face extinction. According to Katie Hunt of CNN Science "The practice is dying out. Young women are no longer continuing this matrilineal tradition; the current group of haenyeo divers, with an average age of around 70 years years may represent the last generation." The recalibrated values of a modern Korea are looking increasingly incompatible with this practice, threatening to erase the women of Jeju and their stewardship of the peninsula's marine ecology. 

Without haenyeo governance, author Taeyoung Kim expresses concerns that the combination of non-traditional extraction methods and capitalism-driven development will irreparably damage rural Jeju:

“Rapid economic progress [has] led to the exploitation of working class, women, and rural areas to reinforce the progress of national economic development. This action was justified as a means for "nation building", which led to severe repercussions to the natural habitat in Jeju marine ecosystem…External capital inflow extracted profits by expropriating Jeju people's land, resources and communal assets, which is a common mechanism used by traditional colonial extractive industries.”

Photo Credit: Peter Chanovec

A coruscation of hope

However, as in all fairy tales, the hope of happy ending remains. In 2016, the haenyeo were included on the UNESCO List of Intangible Cultural Heritage and just this month, haenyeo was added to the Oxford English Dictionary, which many hope will raise awareness for this vanishing way of life. Furthermore, although the population continues to dwindle, younger generations are beginning to answer the haenyeo's siren song. Together, these factors may protect the last of the mermaids. 

The changing Chinese attitude towards the rural

I was born in Shanghai at the turn of the century in Zhongshan Park, rooted in the heart of the city. In the 1930s, my grandfather watched as the roots of the first international port in China shot off into a burgeoning international hub. Following WW2, my father watched factories churn out concrete and asphalt onto the packed dirt and cobblestone streets of the city as the rapid industrialization of China choked out any surviving remnants of Imperial China.

 

    Old Shanghai Circa 1960s

By the time I was born, modern Shanghai had been presented to the world, a true “global” city by the metrics of the size of its economy, China’s New York and London wrapped into one neon package. In the twenty years since, it has only grown, the bright skylines on both sides of the Huangpu River, Puxi and Pudong, divided in appearance only by the living memory and history of Pudong’s more humble origins.

View landing into Shanghai Pudong International Airport, Oct 2025

  The Bund, Shanghai, Oct 2025

In the day of my father, the city was the desired end goal, the only location where the rapidly industrializing China could be experienced by the formerly agrarian subsistence farmers who had always comprised the bulk of China's populace. The city was where any enterprising person could get rich, the gateway to the unimaginable international world. A hukou (a little more about that in this prior post and the Economist) in the city was the most desirable to be able to get the exclusive social services reserved for the residents of the city.

And yet, core to the Maoist goal of uplifting the “pure” agrarian proletariat was the belief that the city cultivated undesirable pro-bourgeois sentiments, and thus, from the 1950s to the 1970s, urban youths were all sent to countryside (a collection of photos detailing the Back to the Countryside Movement collected by the University of Dartmouth here). The thinking was that the hard work of rural life would leave them firm believers of social equality, while also fostering the toughness that only farming and ranching builds (Read more here).

Until the Back to the Countryside movement ended in the 1980s, the idea to stay in the rural communes was unthinkable, the whole experience a memory in the same type of biting poverty that they had lived through during the revolution. In many respects, the rural people were the same people as the impoverished peasantry that had long suffered. In some parts of China today, any reference to the mountains still carries the old reference to the impoverished villages that remain in those areas (a la hillbillies). The food of such areas remains directly translated as “dirt food” or peasant food.

Today, however, a growing counterculture has emerged, two generations after the boom. Rising costs in the city make finding a job, buying an apartment and starting a family prohibitively expensive for graduates of even the most elite universities. Rising youth unemployment (near 20%)  reveals the worst job market China has ever seen (A slight improvement in this new 2026 quarter by South China Morning Post). Even in the context of urban opportunities, the struggle and competition itself can be overwhelming even for those who grew up with it.

Growing numbers of Chinese youths seek to escape to the rural, rather than continue in the race of urban life. This trend continues even with the now easier process for the obtaining of a hukou, and the friendlier sentiments inviting these new exurban residents to new cities. 

The Economist points out that:

It had taken just two generations for a Chinese family to pass from pre-industrial agrarianism to post-material urban malaise

In this, the Chinese and the Americans are now more similar than different. As China’s growth slows as America's did in the 1980s, and the glow of the urban lights burns more than it inspires, with it will come the nostalgia for what is gone. When the struggles of rural poverty are removed, only the admittedly beautiful view remains.

  My Mom's hometown, now a highway, circa 2010s

Literary Ruralism (Part LI): Attention to "rural" in Dan Wang's Breakneck, on China's rise

Breakneck:  China's Quest to Engineer the Future by technology analyst Dan Wang was published last month by W.W. Norton.  The promotional blurb touts the book, in part, thusly:  

Wang blends political, economic, and philosophical analysis with reportage to reveal a provocative new framework for understanding China—one that helps us see America more clearly, too. While China is an engineering state, relentlessly pursuing megaprojects, the United States has stalled. America has transformed into a lawyerly society, reflexively blocking everything, good and bad.

I came to the book after listening to Ross Douthat's interview with Wang on the "Interesting Times" podcast.  While Wang's book primarily contrasts the differing approaches to development and infrastructure of the United States and China, it often raises the matter of rural-urban difference and how those differences play out in the two countries.  I was intrigued, for example, by Douthat's comparison of Guizhou, a backwater Chinese province that Wang uses to illustrate an underdeveloped place, to West Virginia.  The transcript from the podcast features this from Wang: 

Guizhou... is a land where a local said, “Not three feet of land is flat, not three days go by without rain and not a family has three silver coins.”  China’s fourth-poorest province, I was surprised to see, had much better levels of infrastructure than one could find in much wealthier places in the United States, like New York State or California.

We saw very tall bridges all around us. We saw a guitar-making hub. We saw a lot of fancy new roads that were a cyclist’s dream. And it was only afterward when I realized how bizarre it was that China’s fourth-poorest province — about the level of G.D.P. per capita of Botswana, much less than Shanghai or Guangdong — was able to build all of these things.

It is a province with 11 airports, 50 of the highest bridges in the world and brand-new, spiffy highways — and that’s because China was just building a lot in its equivalent of a South Dakota or West Virginia.

That's a good introduction to the book excerpts that follow.  I have highlighted the word "rural" in context.  

Modern China has many tools of social control. Within living memory, most Chinese residents worked inside a danwei, or work unit, which governed one’s access to essentials like rice, meat, cooking oil, and a bicycle. Many people still live under the strictures of the hukou, or household registration, an aim of which is to prevent rural folks from establishing themselves in cities by restricting education and health care benefits to their hometown. Controls are far worse for ethnoreligious minorities: Tibetans are totally prohibited from worshipping the Dalai Lama, and perhaps over a million Uighurs have spent time in detention camps that attempt to inculcate Chinese values into their Muslim faith. 

The engineering state can be awfully literal minded. Sometimes, it feels like China’s leadership is made up entirely of hydraulic engineers, who view the economy and society as liquid flows, as if all human activity—from mass production to reproduction—can be directed, restricted, increased, or blocked with the same ease as turning a series of valves. (pp. 5-6)

* * * 

The Guizhou locals we chatted with were prouder of their bridges than anything else. My friends and I cycled across bridges that were set above plunging ravines. State media boasts that Guizhou has become a “museum of bridges,” a few of which are trying to develop into tourism sites: The tenth-highest bridge in Guizhou (which is twenty-third globally) hosts the world’s highest bungee jump. Each time the engineers build a bridge, they inevitably announce that travel times between two towns have been cut from many hours to perhaps a few minutes. That creates real convenience and connection for rural people. Some of these are bridges to nowhere, but after a few years, they become somewhere. 

(I am reminded of what a "bridge to nowhere" connotes in the United States; read some of my analysis of the political implications of the phenomenon here). 

Still, beneath Guizhou’s engineering marvels are counties mired in poverty. At $8,000 per capita, the province has the income of Botswana, 40 percent below China’s national average and less than a third that of rich coastal cities like Beijing and Shanghai. One day, Christian remarked on how few working-age adults we saw in Guizhou: Those who don’t have a job making guitars have mostly migrated to other provinces, leaving small children in the care of grandparents. In 2010, only half of Guizhou’s children attended high school—the lowest rate in the country. News reports often featured stories of children having to rise at the crack of dawn and hike through harrowing mountain paths, some with rope ladders, to be able to attend school. 

In spite of the challenges of deep rural isolation, China’s fourth-poorest province—where household income is one-fifteenth that of New York State—has vastly superior infrastructure: three times the length of New York’s highways, as well as a functional high-speed rail network. And Guizhou isn’t exactly an exceptional Chinese province. Across the country, the engineering state has relentlessly built public works, making Guizhou an extreme case of China’s growth strategy rather than a deviation from it. 

Modern China has been on a building spree. It began in the 1990s, after economic reopening took hold, and then received another boost in 2008, when the central government approved vast public works to respond to the global financial crisis. (pp. 27-28)

* * * 

The Fourteenth Five-Year Plan outlines interstellar research and other state-directed megaprojects. There’s something for the ordinary consumer too, but it’s nowhere near as exciting. To promote consumption, the plan suggests measures like “expanding the coverage of e-commerce in rural areas,” “improving product recalls,” and “improving in-city duty-free shops.” Fine measures, but puny relative to orbiting Mars. The economic planners have obviously poured their hearts into the scientific projects, whereas the consumption measures look like a hasty afterthought. When Chinese officials talk about promoting consumption, it often involves building new malls or replacing old industrial equipment. In other words, it’s still more about investing to build stuff rather than shifting the propensity of households to spend a greater share of their income. 

Under Mao, China practiced a more literal form of Marxism, with full state control of the means of production. Deng Xiaoping pivoted the country away from that failed experiment. As Deng was fond of remarking, the defining feature of socialism was not economic redistribution but rather “concentrating resources to accomplish great tasks.” That flexible definition allowed for greater adaptability, generated higher growth, and sustained the regime into the twenty-first century. Under Deng’s definition, the United States has also achieved plenty of socialism. The Manhattan Project, the Interstate Highway System, and the Apollo Program all concentrated resources to accomplish great tasks. Maybe even Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative could have been understood as socialism. When the engineering state works, it can produce beautiful cities like Shanghai. But Shanghai is exceptional: It has been China’s richest and most westernized city for the better part of a century. The engineering state also produces a lot of problems. To see them, we should return one more time to Guizhou. 

Under the gleaming new bridges lurk not only poverty but also a massive debt burden. The underlying hope of Guizhou’s construction is that infrastructure will invite lasting economic activity. Part of that has worked out: Guizhou incomes have risen by nearly 10 percent annually from 2011 to 2022, driven partially by urbanization and by the tourism facilitated by new infrastructure.  (pp. 37-38)

* * *  

But most of Guizhou’s infrastructure spending looks dubious. Its super-high bridges aren’t producing the revenue to recoup anywhere near their super-high costs. Of Guizhou’s eleven airports, five have less than a dozen flights each week—and there are three more airports still under construction. Guizhou has become one of China’s most indebted provinces, and it’s starting to feel real fiscal distress. In an unusual move, Guiyang’s finance bureau issued a public outcry in 2022 that it was at the end of its ability to deal with the debt. Quickly afterward, the government deleted its own admission. 

Guizhou’s debt has kindled Beijing’s wrath. In China, the only people scarier than debt collectors are political inspectors from the central government. The Communist Party has unleashed teams of officers from the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection to descend on Guizhou. They are unbound by even the modest levels of legal niceties afforded in China. Rather than investigating legal crimes, their remit is to find “violations of party discipline,” a nebulous charge that includes not only corruption but also misuse of public funds and political disloyalty to the Communist Party. That makes the commission akin to the Inquisition, enforcing doctrine and discipline on its members. (pp. 38-39) 

The worst-affected people are targeted minority groups, who have to bear Beijing’s social engineering. The state has singled out, for example, Tibetans, who are forced to relocate from high-altitude mountains, where they are able to graze their yaks and horses, to lower-altitude farms in part to monitor them more easily. What are yak herders supposed to do when they move down to apartment blocks? Rural people who know only their farming or pastoralist lives are often at loose ends when the government resettles them into rows upon rows of high-rises. Two researchers at the University of Colorado have documented China’s coercive tactics to compel locals to leave their homes. It is a process it calls “thought work,” ranging from presenting resettlement as a voluntary and happy choice to holding intensive one-on-one meetings with recalcitrant folks who do not want to leave. Officials mix inducements with threats until they wear down the farmers. Thus, the state has been able to achieve “voluntary” resettlement rates of 100 percent. 

Reckless construction has often produced rubbish quality. Builders employed cheap materials to construct even schoolhouses. The 2008 earthquake that tore through Sichuan also shattered thousands of schoolrooms, killing five thousand children (according to official figures).  (pp. 48-49)

* * * 

Though rich students in Shanghai score splendidly on international exams, education in China’s rural areas is still often abysmal. The Covid pandemic revealed that the country’s health care system is weak, with shortages of doctors and nurses and six times fewer intensive care unit beds per capita than in the United States. An official like Li Zaiyong might be more interested in building a gleaming hospital filled with sophisticated equipment. Their attention drifts, however, when it comes to installing the trained technicians capable of operating the facility, since the Communist Party is better at rewarding new construction than health outcomes. 

The engineering state is focused mostly on monumentalism. Though there are many public toilets, provision of toilet paper is only a sometimes thing. Nowhere in China is it advisable to drink tap water. Not even Shanghai. The engineering state has engaged in wild spasms of building over the past four decades. That has achieved considerable wonders and a fair degree of harm. The future would be better if China could learn to build less, while the United States learns to build more.

I’ve come to realize that there are many ways that China and the United States are inversions of each other.  (pp. 49-50) 

* * * 

China’s overbuilding has produced deep social, financial, and environmental costs. The United States has no need to emulate it uncritically. But the Chinese experience does offer political lessons for America. China has shown that financial constraints are less binding than they are cracked up to be. As John Maynard Keynes said, “Anything we can actually do we can afford.” For an infrastructure-starved place like the United States, construction can generate long-run gains from higher economic activity that eventually surpass the immediate construction costs. And the experience of building big in underserved places is a means of redistribution that makes locals happy while satisfying fiscal conservatives who are normally skeptical of welfare payments. 

Rather than worry about bond vigilantes, the engineering state has focused on delivering material improvements for the people. Rural folks in Guizhou have seen their material conditions of life improve immeasurably over the past few decades. The mixture of permitting free enterprise while building big infrastructure is part of the reason that the Communist Party has held on to consent of the governed.  (p. 54) 

I'll write a separate post later about the rural-urban divide in relation to China's one-child policy.  

From Benin City to global stages: what Rema's journey teaches us about rural potential

When we talk about rural areas, we often associate them with limited opportunities, economic struggles, and slow-paced lifestyle. However, raw talent and unique cultural identity are hidden in these communities. When nurtured, they can thrive on global scale. A perfect example of this is the story of my favorite singer, Divine Ikubor, popularly known as Rema. The Nigerian Afrobeat sensation rose from Benin City to international fame. In my opinion, his journey reflects the reality of many rural areas worldwide: full of talent just waiting to be discovered.

 

The singer’s beginnings were undeniably humble. He was born in 2000, in Benin City, Nigeria, a region that isn't traditionally known for producing mainstream music stars. Like many people from smaller towns, Rema had to navigate economic and social challenges while chasing his dream. According to the World Bank’s “Nigeria Poverty Assessment 2022”, about 40% of Nigerians live below the national poverty line. In many regions, especially in the north, access to quality education and basic infrastructure such as clean water and electricity remains limited. To make matters harder, the Afrobeat sensation lost both his father and brother at a young age, forcing him to take on responsibility for his family. Before his breakthrough, he worked multiple jobs to support them.

 

What makes Rema stand out globally is his ability to blend Afrobeat with international influences while staying true to his Nigerian roots. Rural communities have rich cultural histories that can become assets rather than obstacles. For example, rural tourism seems to be growing worldwide, as people are increasingly interested in authentic experiences: learning traditional farming techniques, attending local festivals, and exploring indigenous arts. By embracing these traditions, rural communities can turn their heritage into a source of income and pride. 

 

Just like Rema’s talent was waiting to be recognized, rural areas worldwide are filled with people whose potential remains unseen due to lack of exposure. Technology and social media are slowly changing this narrative. The singer used to make music as a teenager and post it online. One of his freestyles went viral and caught the attention of music executives, which led him to sign with Mavin Records, the label that launched his international career. Similarly, South African singer Tyla also gained international recognition through her 2023 hit “Water”. The song amassed over 10 billion views on Tiktok.

Rema’s journey is inspiring but it’s not just about music. It is a case study about how potential can flourish with the right mix of talent, opportunity, and technology. For rural communities to thrive, they need more than just ambition —they need support. In that context, Nigeria has taken steps to support its booming creative sector. Initiatives like the Creative Industry Financing Initiative (CIFI), launched by the Central Bank of Nigeria, provide financial support to young creatives in music, fashion, and film. Similarly, the African Creative Blueprint, backed by a $3.5 million USAID investment and run by Ascend Studios, provides training and mentorship in TV production and other creative fields.

But despite these good intentions, initiatives like CIFI and the USAID-Ascend partnership are often centered in urban hubs, where exposure, and industry connections already exist. For a gifted musician in a rural area with no stable internet, no mentors, and no recording gear, these programs can feel out of reach. In her blog post, Sophie Roppé made a good point about rural festivals like Bonnaroo and Hinterland: they’re not just music events —they’re economic catalysts and cultural lifelines for smaller communities. Similarly, if countries like Nigeria could host festivals outside of urban centers, it could celebrate local talent and stimulate local economies.

If Nigeria truly wants to nurture the next generation of creatives, it must dig deeper. Funding is a start, but it must be followed by real infrastructure, decentralized mentorship, and digital access that reaches every corner of the country. Like Rema, rural talent is ready to shine. The question is: Are we ready to invest in it?