The explanation of change by the rise of feminism can be summarised as follows:
Malthusians of every stripe relied upon a relation of power in which the State or governing authority could make decisions about a woman’s right to bear children and impose those decisions by hook or by crook; environmental Malthusians were no exception. With the rise of feminism, however, the notion that a woman’s body is subject to control by the State, or anyone else, became anathema. Such was the shift in gender politics that it became all but impossible to openly plan population control via the removal of reproductive rights. This coincided with a major shift in the way that population was problematised. Overpopulation was reframed as a mere side effect of poverty and patriarchy, which could be resolved by increasing women’s access to healthcare, education, and political power. Environmental Malthusianism eventually capitulated to this new paradigm—promoting women’s emancipation as the most effective way to reduce population—but not before its collapse as the dominant discourse of environmentalism. In the absence of environmental Malthusianism, other strands of environmental politics came to the fore—not least ecological modernisation, which was agnostic on the issues of gender, poverty, and population.
The rise of feminism narrative is much less prominent but no less significant than the other three narratives. Although it is alluded to in many of the texts under review here, few actually rely upon it as an explanation of change (with the notable exception of Connelly, 2008, whom I shall discuss later in this section). This is somewhat surprising, since the changes in discursive practices forced by the rise of feminism—particularly discontinuities as to what is or is not acceptable speech on the subject of reproductive rights—was among the most decisive determinants in the recent history of environmentalist thought.
The significance of the rise of feminism may have slipped under the radar because its effects are largely indirect, challenging the basis of Malthusianism in general, rather than its environmental variant in particular. The fact that Malthusianism was going through its environmental phase at the time of its decline could be read as mere coincidence—particularly given that Malthusianism was well established long before environmentalism, and that the environmental movement continued to grow long after Malthusianism’s decline. The fall of environmental Malthusianism need not necessarily be as strongly related to environmental politics as the other three narratives suggest; it may simply have been caught in the crossfire of a much older fight for the emancipation of women. The rise of feminism has since made it all but impossible to seriously suggest the control of women’s bodies in the name of sustainability—which is not to say it does not happen, it most certainly does (Halfon, 2007; Hartmann, 1995), only that the dominant discourse renders it taboo.
There may be an additional reason why this particular relationship between feminism and environmentalism is less prominent in the literature: the movement known as ‘eco-feminism’ may have drawn attention away from the more subtle effects of the rise of feminism on environmentalist thought (see Adams, 2009; Diamond, 1994; Dryzek, 2005; Sargisson, 2001). Eco-feminism’s radical claim to a special relationship between women and nature—relying upon a contentious discourse of gendered biological determinism—has overshadowed other intersections of feminist and environmentalist thought. There are strands of eco-feminism that draw parallels between the subjugation of women and the subjugation of nature, and by extension the emancipation of women and protection of the environment, but this is not pitched as an explanation of change. If anything, the eco-feminist discourse makes the argument that feminism has not affected change, and so the struggle must continue. Thus, the rise of feminism narrative is not to be conflated with eco-feminism. The rise of feminism tells of the effects of women’s rights
on the government of population; it does not privilege the qualities of womanhood in the relationship between human nature and Mother Nature.
Environmental Malthusianism, when it emerged in the mid 20th century, did not begin a new conversation; it entered into an existing conversation about population growth and population control. Nor did it inject a new sense of contention into an otherwise unproblematic debate; Malthusianism had been deeply contentious from the off. Environmental Malthusianism was certainly new in that it problematised population through the lens of ecology, but it did not create an entirely new problematisation with an entirely new problem-solving apparatus; it latched onto, infiltrated, and to a large extent redirected an existing apparatus towards the ends of the modern environmental movement. The fact that it joined in with this existing Malthusian scene has implications for the way in which environmental Malthusianism developed. Not only did it inherit the strengths of its forebear—vast amounts of funding, an established network of institutions, and the support of powerful interests—but also inherited its weaknesses in its association with eugenics, racism, and other forms of biological elitism, not least the oppression of women (Greene, 1999).
Hartmann’s (1995) historiography of reproductive rights enables us to situate environmental Malthusianism in relation to the ‘birth control movement’ that preceded it. She provides an account of the ways in which birth control has been used and abused, promoted and proscribed over the past 150 years or so, including the politics of population control in the mid 20th century. As is so often the case, Hartmann’s narrative is primarily
an American history—how Malthusianism entered America; how it affected the rest of the world via American foreign policy—but that does not devalue it. By the middle of the 20th century, America was the centre of the Anglophone world, and while it did not
contain the whole story, it was certainly home to much of the intellectual development of environmental Malthusianism.
As a prelude, Hartmann offers a quick history of birth control throughout the millennia, highlighting the contraceptive technologies of ancient civilisations, to make the point that birth control is not new in terms of praxis; what is new is its widespread use in governmental strategy, economic policy, and ultimately as a tool of oppression. From the outset, Hartmann is careful not to lump early proponents of birth control into a single group. While neo-Malthusians sought to ease poverty by limiting population growth, feminists and radicals were concerned with the rights of women over their own bodies, whereas eugenicists saw it as a means to control genetic quality. As Hartmann puts it,
“These strange bedfellows combined to give the birth control movement its unique character: It carried within it the seeds of birth control as a liberating force, as well as a means of coercive population control” (ibid., p. 94).
Hartmann recounts the early phase of the birth control movement through the story of Margaret Sanger, an activist and campaigner for women’s rights. Sanger—in line with her contemporaries—saw the plights of women and the working class as part of the same struggle, and forged alliances with other radical socialist and anarchist groups. In 1914, she started her own newsletter called The Woman Rebel, in which she coined the phrase ‘birth control’ (ibid., p. 96). The newsletter was eventually shut down by the authorities, and Sanger was sought by police on two counts of ‘obscenity’. She fled to Europe to avoid arrest, but the birth control movement continued to grow in her absence. By 1916, public support for Sanger had led to the charges against her being dropped. Shortly afterwards, however, Sanger was arrested and imprisoned for opening a birth control clinic.
Sanger’s flirtation with radicalism was short lived. Even before her imprisonment, Sanger’s political thought had begun to head in a very different direction, and her alliance with other radicals began to unravel. Sanger’s allegiance was to women’s rights, not socialism, and at the same time her allies worried that the focus on women was detracting from the issue of class conflict. They argued that the socialist revolution would automatically usher in women’s emancipation, and that a socialist state could keep any number of children out of poverty. They also worried that the prurient nature of the birth control movement was alienating working class traditionalists, who might otherwise support radical economic change.
The parting of ways between birth control and radicalism was abrupt and profound. By 1917, Sanger had formally split with her radical peers, just as the birth control movement had begun to split with radical politics. In 1921, Sanger co-founded The American Birth Control League with the aim of bringing respectability to the movement. She garnered the support of doctors and other professionals who were willing to publicly support birth control. In exchange, Sanger’s organisation supported the doctors’ call for legislation that would limit contraception to prescription-only—giving doctors a monopoly over its provision. This subsequently attracted the attention of others who had a different use in mind: “Eugenicists soon joined the birth control movement in growing numbers, providing it with a new direction to replace the discarded one of women’s rights” (ibid., p. 98).
Of course, the words and deeds of one person cannot be held up as the cause of birth control’s shifting politics, but in Hartmann’s narrative, Sanger’s story acts as a proxy for the story of birth control, and just as Hartmann cautioned, birth control always contained within it the seeds of both liberation and coercion. By following Margaret Sanger’s story, Hartmann simultaneously follows the political and intellectual journey of birth control; from the far left of radical socialism, to the conservatism of the medical establishment. The distance between its radical feminist roots and its eugenicist incarnation may seem vast, but in the personage of Margaret Sanger the two were ever- present. “As early as 1919”, Hartmann notes, “Sanger’s Birth Control Review published eugenicist arguments, including her own famous statement, ‘More children from the fit and less from the unfit—that is the chief issue of birth control’” (ibid., pp. 98–99). Sanger had always reconciled her demand for women’s rights with the belief that some women should have more rights than others.
Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Sanger’s eugenicist leanings developed into full-blown biological elitism. In her writings, she warned that “the illiterate ‘degenerate’ masses might destroy ‘our way of life’”, and called for “the sterilization or segregation by sex of ‘the whole dysgenic population’” (ibid., p. 99). The development of Sanger’s thought was a mirror of the birth control movement more broadly. The organisation Sanger had founded in 1921 eventually began advocating ‘racial progress’ through sterilisation, and in 1940 its successor, The Birth Control Society, invited former president of the American Eugenics Society, Henry Pratt Fairchild, to speak at its annual general meeting. There, he declared that one of the outstanding features of the conference was “the practically universal acceptance of the fact that these two great movements (eugenics and birth control) have now come to such a thorough understanding and have drawn so close together as to be almost indistinguishable” (Pratt Fairchild, 1940, quoted in: Hartmann, ibid., p. 99).
This is the context in which environmental Malthusianism emerged. The reproductive rights of women, bound up with the birth control movement, was rationalised under the auspices of eugenics and medical science. It is unsurprising, then, that the first waves of environmental Malthusians were concerned not just with the problems of ecology and population control, but in most cases with eugenics as well. They gave little thought to the rights of the women who would ultimately bear the brunt of their plans. Indeed, at that time, feminism, Malthusianism, and eugenics were, to borrow Hartmann’s term, ‘bedfellows’, and their relationship would persist for a
remarkably long time, well into the 1970s. The contentions of Malthusianism were fought on many fronts: race, class, and gender—not to mention the veracity of its empirical claims. But the eventual effects of the rise of feminism as the key determinant in the fall of Malthusianism were slow to take hold, and—perhaps necessarily—the last battle to be fought.
The reasons for this delay are unclear. Malthusianism and eugenics were very well established—and well-funded—having had generations to ingratiate themselves into the institutional structures of society, making them resistant to opposition (Greene, 1999). It was not only men who held Malthusian beliefs, women also read the same news and developed the same prejudices in response to the global population ‘threat’, without necessarily interpreting it as an issue of women’s rights (Hodgson and Watkins, 1997). The ‘crisis’ rhetoric of environmental Malthusianism imbued the argument with an existential urgency and magnitude that overrode the more subtle and culturally situated politics of women’s empowerment (Halfon, 2007). Feminist campaigners were fighting on a great many fronts, seeking equality in all areas where it was lacking. From politics and the workplace, right through to the home and family life, women faced a Sisyphean task to redress the imbalances of everyday life, and not every change could happen at once (Freedman, 2002). Even where there were opportunities for feminists to join forces with other maligned groups, against racism and classism, those opportunities were limited by the ingrained sexism in the early civil rights and socialist movements (Evans, 1980). Whatever the reason—or combination of reasons—the outcome was that the relation of power between Malthusians and women did not receive a serious challenge until the 1970s.
Halfon (1997; 2007) provides a detailed and insightful account of the rise of feminism in relation to the problematisation of population. Whilst Halfon’s analysis is mostly concerned with the resulting population discourses in the 1990s, he does offer some explanation of change—and what constituted the change—from the 1960s onward. The key insight that Halfon offers in this narrative is on the nature of the change, as viewed from the perspective of feminist critique: “Within both demographic theory and policy production” notes Halfon, “the framing of women and their reproductive practices has shifted over time” (1997, p. 134). In Halfon’s conception, it is the construction, or subjectivation, of women and their bodies, that constitutes the difference in population policy before and after the rise of feminism.
At its peak, environmental Malthusianism—and neo-Malthusianism more broadly—regarded women primarily as the ‘vehicles’ of population policy. Women provided the data for the all-important ‘birth-rate’ metric, which was the key indicator of whether or not the ‘problem’ was being solved, and women were the site of intervention for contraceptive technologies and training. Under the Malthusian gaze, even a compassionate view of women held that they had “unfulfilled desires”, and were prohibited from limiting their own family size by “social and technological constraints” (ibid., p. 134). The answer to this particular interpretation of the problem was to focus on the provision of contraceptive technologies, and allow ‘rational self-interest’ to do the rest.
In Halfon’s account, it was only after a sustained series of critiques, levelled by demographers and feminists, that this simplistic and uncritical construction of women’s bodies gave way to a more sophisticated understanding of the structural factors that constrain and govern women’s experience and behaviour. “Women's reproduction is now seen as cultural” notes Halfon, “choices are not just economic and rational; rather, they are embedded in a broad array of familial, social, political, and other cultural practices” (ibid., p. 135). Rather than viewing women as fully agentive, requiring only access to the tools with which to manage their own reproduction in a ‘rational’ way, women are now seen as being caught within powerful and sometimes oppressive social structures, which make it all but impossible to engage in meaningful change. The answer to this new interpretation of the problem is ‘empowerment’, which means “providing these women with the resources, knowledge, and desire to resist oppressive structures and to find their own desired levels of fertility” (ibid., p. 135).
Halfon, in fact, gives two parallel reasons for the fall of Malthusianism, one being the rise of feminism, the other fitting what I have termed the political will of the New Right (2007, p. 42). Only one example in the literature surveyed here singles out the rise of feminism as the chief determinant of Malthusianism’s decline—that of Connelly (2008). Connelly’s explanation centres on the United Nations Word Population Conference held in Bucharest, 1974, where the reconceptualisation of the population problem as an effect of social ills, rather than a cause, was first mooted on the international stage.
The Bucharest conference was convened to establish a ‘World Population Plan of Action’, and was attended by delegates from across the United Nations. There was a push for population control attached to aid spending from the American delegation, but there
was also a great deal of dissent from various quarters on the practice of targeting fertility rates without due consideration of related issues—social, economic, or historical. There was a ‘Non-Malthusian Coalition’, who held a press-conference to highlight malpractice and abuse in ‘vasectomy camps’ and other centres of population control. There were also high-profile contributions from influential voices calling for “a deep and probing reappraisal of all that has been done in the population field” giving “new and urgent attention to the role of women” (Rockefeller, 1974, quoted in Connelly, ibid., p. 315). This was in addition to the consistent opposition given by religious organisations, who were opposed to all forms of contraception or abortion, and used the ensuing conflict to their political advantage. Within this context, Malthusianism gained scant support.
In Connelly’s words, “Bucharest was the Waterloo of the population control movement” (ibid., p. 316), but it provided a glimpse of another kind of population politics; one that relied not upon the control of other people, but on providing assistance to people who happen to be embedded in complex social systems. It was being recognised more and more, by demographers as well as feminist campaigners, that the reasons why women around the world have large families is not only because of a lack of access to contraception, but because of a diverse range of locally and culturally specific, social, economic, and historical reasons. The view of experts in the field was that if poverty, health, and education were solved, then population growth would naturally fall.
The crossover was not smooth or instantaneous. Population controllers had been fixated on population targets and fertility rates for such a long time that any new insight into population dynamics was immediately interpreted as a new way to meet their targets. Just as ‘family planning’ had been hijacked by the Malthusian cause, there was always a risk that ‘the status of women’ would be bent to the same ends. But Connelly paints a picture of why things turned out differently this time, and he attributes it to the role of women in the decision-making process:
A far more important factor in fertility rates is whether women have had an education, and thus more opportunities to accomplish things besides bearing children… It is