In the June 1958 issue of the Nchanga Drum, Dominico Chansa, a social welfare worker on the Northern Rhodesian (Zambian) Copperbelt, asked readers the question, “Is Beer Drinking a Good or Bad Habit?”
The author claimed that there was “no subject on the Copperbelt today which draws more heated debate”—a surprising yet surprisingly accurate assertion. Surprising because this was a period of rapid and sometimes violent political change that would culminate in Zambia’s independence from Britain in 1964, and the question of who would rule was by no means settled. Surprisingly accurate, because the local press and official and corporate records are filled with discussion and debate over alcohol use and regulation (Zambia’s reputation would make it one of the case studies in the well-known WHO cross cultural study of alcohol use from the 1970s). Writers on this blog have focused a great deal recently on addiction and disease models—to stimulating effect. Yet I have been struck with just how Eurocentric these debates appear to be. Today’s post updates Mr. Chansa’s question, asking “was beer drinking a habit in colonial Zambia?”
Chansa himself concluded that there was nothing wrong with beer drinking, but that there was “everything wrong with the way it is drunk on the Copperbelt” – the mining zone that had made Zambia one of the most industrialized and urbanized territories in Africa by the 1960s. What is especially striking to me is that in the myriad articles and reports that examined the alcohol problem in Zambia during this period, including a series of four articles on “drunkenness” that appeared in mining company magazine, Mufulira African Star in 1960, excessive drinking is treated exclusively as a “social problem” not as a disease or addiction. Those four articles, for example, catalogued in great detail the damage done by excessive drinking, but betrayed no interest in the issue of why people drank.
Whites justified the strict regulation of African access to alcohol in predictable, racial, terms: Africans, collectively, were both more susceptible to inebriation and unable to limit their consumption. Alcohol abuse among the substantial white settler population was in contrast characterized in individual terms, as a disease or addiction.
A small, whites only, AA group began on the Copperbelt in 1951, and in 1957 a private society secured funds to open a residential clinic to treat white alcoholics. As independence approached, Zambia slowly desegregated public facilities, but the clinic remained exclusively white. In 1963 six African men approached the society for assistance in dealing with their alcohol problems, but no consideration was given to the possibility of treating them at the clinic. The idea of exposing Africans, in the intimate confines of the clinic, to “diseased” whites—male and female—remained unthinkable. Residential treatment was deemed inappropriate for African problem drinkers—the term “alcoholic” was rarely associated with Africans.
With independence the society brought Africans onto its board, quickly reinvented itself as the Zambia National Council on Alcohol and Addiction, and closed down the clinic. Reflecting its links to AA, the old organization had focused its attention on the treatment of individual white drinkers. The new one launched an ambitious education and training effort designed to limit the production and consumption of alcohol nationally—a modernized version of the racial model of African susceptibility, a model that persists in studies of “Third World” drinking. What are we to make of this? The kinds of public health approaches to African drinking advanced by the ZNCAA beginning in the 1960s are probably more in line with current research on alcohol abuse than a focus on individual pathology, yet these approaches clearly have a heritage in a colonial racial order that resisted full personhood for Africans.
Interesting post, Charles. One of the findings that struck me hardest in the Zambian survey data (from the old WHO study you cited) was that heavy drinking and feeling the effects of alcohol were actually normative in the Zambian conttext. This may help explain why the alcoholism model got relatively little traction — since drinkers were not violating norms of moderation in their drinking behavior but instead conforming to heavy-drinking norms and expectations. This sort of finding was also in evidence in the Mexican data, although the structure of access-to-drinking norms were structured differently there. Scottish and U.S. samples in the study, in sharp contrast, embraced the norm of drinking in moderation — although, of course, such norms are not always wholly followed in the conduct of some drinkers some of the time. This finding — the normative character of heavier episodic drinking in the Zambian and Mexican contexts contrasted with the overarching norm of moderation in the Scottish and U.S. samples — led me to put forth my hypothesis about “universal moderation and differential access” as alternative cultural models of the normative control of drinking, based on the remarkable and eye-opening WHO study.
But would those norms that you correctly cite for urban drinkers in colonial Zambia, have been so very different from those of industrial workers in the late 19th century in the US? And among the “respectable classes” in Zambia in the 1950s were large numbers of abstainers and those who advocated more moderate drinking. Yet alcohol abuse was generally characterized as a collective affliction–not so very different from the characterizations of drinking among London’s poor in the late 19th C. I remain impressed with the ease with which collective racial arguments (still very explicit in the late 1950s) were refashioned in social scientific terms by the 1960s. Indeed, as my little narrative of the history of the Zambian ZNCAA it happened virtually over night!