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At the height of the West African Ebola epidemic, West African governments and Mobile Network Operators (MNOs) were barraged with requests from international humanitarian and Western data analytics agencies to provide Call Detail Record data. This data could furnish the large-scale ambitions of data modelling to track and predict contagion. Despite its utility in tracking mobility and, as such, disease, CDR’s use raises many privacy concerns. In addition, embedded within a turn towards datafication, CDR technologies for surveillance embed specific ontologies of the data-focused society they emerge from. There is a false equivalence embedded in the relationship between humans and technology. The predominantly Western idea that one phone equals one person underlines the claim that CDR data accurately tracks distinct user movements, encoding a Western “phone self-subjectivity” (Erikson 2018). However, the refusal by some African actors to hand over sensitive mobile data to international agencies was met with forceful rhetoric of Africa’s moral obligation to comply—to forgo privacy rights in the name of ‘safety.’ The Ebola context reflects an emergent digitization of emergencies in the Global South, which is reshaping the way societies understand and manage emergencies, risk, data, and technology. The big data frenzy has seen a rising demand to test novel methods of epidemic/pandemic surveillance, prediction, and containment in some of the most vulnerable communities. These communities lack the regulatory and infrastructural capacity to mitigate harmful ramifications. With this emergence is a pivot towards 'humanitarian innovation,' where technological advancements and corporate industry collaboration are foregrounded as means to enhance aid delivery. In many ways, these narratives of innovation and scale replicate the language of Silicon Valley’s start-up culture. Surveillance of the poor and disempowered is carried out under the guise and rhetoric of care. In this scenario, market ideals and data technologies (re)construe social good as dependent on the “imposition of certain unfreedoms” as the cost of protection (Magalhaes and Couldry 2021). As big data technologies, they foreground a convergence of market logistics and global networks with existing and already problematic international humanitarian infrastructures (Madianou 2019). These convergences create new power arrangements that further perpetuate an unequal and complex dependency of developing countries on foreign organizations and corporations. Pushback against these data demands showcases competing notions of where risk truly lies. While resistance to data demands was at the state level, community responses to imposed epidemic regulations ranged from non-compliance to riots. These resistances demonstrated how the questions of ‘who and what is a threat?’ or ‘who and what is risky?’ and ‘to whom?’ experience shifting definitions in relation to these technologies as global, national, and community imaginaries are reinforced and reproduced as cultural, political, as well as biological units. 

Source

Akinwumi, Adjua. 2023. "Technological care vs Fugitive care: Exploring Power, Risk, and Resistance in AI and Big Data During the Ebola Epidemic." In 4S Paraconference X EiJ: Building a Global Record, curated by Misria Shaik Ali, Kim Fortun, Phillip Baum and Prerna Srigyan. Annual Meeting of the Society of Social Studies of Science.

(MNOs) were barraged with requests from international humanitarian and Western data analytics agencies to provide Call Detail Record data. This data could furnish the large-scale ambitions of data modelling to track and predict contagion. Despite its utility in tracking mobility and, as such, disease, CDR’s use raises many privacy concerns. In addition, embedded within a turn towards datafication, CDR technologies for surveillance embed specific ontologies of the data-focused society they emerge from. There is a false equivalence embedded in the relationship between humans and technology. The predominantly Western idea that one phone equals one person underlines the claim that CDR data accurately tracks distinct user movements, encoding a Western “phone self-subjectivity” (Erikson 2018). However, the refusal by some African actors to hand over sensitive mobile data to international agencies was met with forceful rhetoric of Africa’s moral obligation to comply—to forgo privacy rights in the name of ‘safety.’ The Ebola context reflects an emergent digitization of emergencies in the Global South, which is reshaping the way societies understand and manage emergencies, risk, data, and technology. The big data frenzy has seen a rising demand to test novel methods of epidemic/pandemic surveillance, prediction, and containment in some of the most vulnerable communities. These communities lack the regulatory and infrastructural capacity to mitigate harmful ramifications. With this emergence is a pivot towards 'humanitarian innovation,' where technological advancements and corporate industry collaboration are foregrounded as means to enhance aid delivery. In many ways, these narratives of innovation and scale replicate the language of Silicon Valley’s start-up culture. Surveillance of the poor and disempowered is carried out under the guise and rhetoric of care. In this scenario, market ideals and data technologies (re)construe social good as dependent on the “imposition of certain unfreedoms” as the cost of protection (Magalhaes and Couldry 2021). As big data technologies, they foreground a convergence of market logistics and global networks with existing and already problematic international humanitarian infrastructures (Madianou 2019). These convergences create new power arrangements that further perpetuate an unequal and complex dependency of developing countries on foreign organizations and corporations. Pushback against these data demands showcases competing notions of where risk truly lies. While resistance to data demands was at the state level, community responses to imposed epidemic regulations ranged from non-compliance to riots. These resistances demonstrated how the questions of ‘who and what is a threat?’ or ‘who and what is risky?’ and ‘to whom?’ experience shifting definitions in relation to these technologies as global, national, and community imaginaries are reinforced and reproduced as cultural, political, as well as biological units. 

Akinwumi, Adjua. 2023. "Technological care vs Fugitive care: Exploring Power, Risk, and Resistance in AI and Big Data During the Ebola Epidemic." In 4S Paraconference X EiJ: Building a Global Record, curated by Misria Shaik Ali, Kim Fortun, Phillip Baum and Prerna Srigyan. Annual Meeting of the Society of Social Studies of Science. Honolulu, Hawai'i, Nov 8-11.

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The U.S. subsidiary of Formosa Plastics Corp (1301.TW) has agreed to pay $7.5 million and to cooperate with plaintiffs to settle an antitrust lawsuit alleging the company and others curbed the supply of a widely used chemical in a scheme to inflate prices. (Scarcella, August 16, 2023)

“When the government of Taiwan planned for the future of Taiwan several decades ago, it focused exclusively on industrially stimulating the economy. It has been promoting that kind of economic growth and development since the 1970s, making it appear as if industrial growth is the only factor to consider with regard to the country’s future. In the name of progress and economic revitalization, state-led industrialization walks hand in hand with private corporations. Together, they compete for the world’s largest petrochemical plants. The industrial development policy of Taiwan is one of the factors in the loss of Taiwan’s coastal wetlands, the subsiding of land from industrial water withdrawal and sand mining, and the increase of toxic air emissions, contaminated water, and toxic buildup of metals in soils (Wu and Wu 171–2). This “macroeconomy” policy ruins bioregions.” (Chang, 2023, p. 171)” 

The Taiwanese Formosa Plastics Corporation (FPC) is the tenth largest petrochemical company in the world. Focused primarily on the production of polyvinyl chloride (PCV) resins (Wu 2022), the FPC is the main subsidiary of the larger Formosa Plastics Group (FPG), a vertically integrated, global conglomerate that owns businesses in biotechnology, electronics, and logistics, among others (Wikipedia 2020). Formosa’s four main subsidiaries (all petrochemical companies) account for an estimated 10 percent of Taiwan’s gross domestic product (Wu 2022). The most important sites for production are Formosa plants in Yunlin County (Central Taiwan), Point Comfort (Texas), and Baton Rouge (Louisiana). Enabled by the shale gas boom discussed above, plants at all three sites are subject to ongoing expansions, including a proposed $200 million plant in Texas, and the $12 billion industrial complex in Louisiana. Formosa also operates a steel plant in Central Vietnam that is the focal point of much local and transnational activism.

Formosa’s current economic and cultural standing is deeply connected to Taiwan's history of industrialization. The Formosa Plastics Corporation and Group were founded by Wang Yung-ching and his brother Wang Yung-Tsai in Kaohsiung in 1954. Born under Japanese occupation, Wang Yung-ching made a living selling and delivering rice as a young boy, and later operated his own rice shop as a teenager. Eventually, Wang transitioned into the lumber business and benefited from market liberalization following the end of Japanese colonial rule (Lin 2016). However, since US military forces destroyed one of his mills during WWII, Wang received $800,000 from USAID, which he used as capital to found Formosa Plastics (Shah 2012). Until his death in 2008, Wang became one of Taiwan’s richest persons and remains widely known as the “god of management” (Huang 2008).

In Taiwan, conglomerates like the Formosa Plastics Group are called guanxiqiye (“related enterprises''), a colloquial term for tightly-controlled, family-owned businesses. According to anthropologist Ichiro Numazaki (1993), the expression emerged from 1970s business discourse and quickly became a self-identifying status symbol for many corporations (Numazaki 1993, 485). Numazaki argues that Chinese trading tradition (emphasizing partnerships) and Taiwan’s vexed relationship to Japan and China contributed to the rise of family-owned enterprises. Daughter Cher Wang has co-founded important businesses outside of the petrochemical sector, including consumer electronics company HTC. However, the Formosa family has also experienced a series of conflicts: in 1996, Wang Yung-Ching expelled his son Winston for extramarital affairs, who later became involved in ongoing efforts to disclose his father’s substantial tax evasion (Offshore Alert 2018). Today, the Formosa Group is in the process of transitioning key positions away from family members (Taipei Times 2021).

Formosa’s operations have further been shaped by Taiwanese politics and cross-strait relations with China. Considered a moderate liberalizer, Wang held close ties to Taiwan’s democratic party, but also continued to push for expansion in the Chinese mainland during his lifetime, often leading to conflicts between Taiwanese and Chinese administrations (Lin 2016, 81). In 1973, Wang’s plans to build a large petrochemical complex in Taiwan were halted by the authoritarian Kuomintang (KMT) government, but following the lifting of martial law in the mid-1980s, Formosa made a second attempt, suggesting to build the complex in the scenic Yilan County (Ho 2014). Rising concerns over petrochemical development and pollution, however, led to mass protests by local residents and fisher people, creating a landmark moment for Taiwan's larger democracy movement (Ho 2014). In face of this opposition, Wang arranged secret trips to mainland China, and later announced that the plant would be built on the island of Haitsang in Xiamen province. Yet, economic sanctions between China and Taiwan, combined with pressure by the nationalist KMT government, eventually led to construction of the vast petrochemical complex in the rural and impoverished Yunlin County in Central Taiwan (Lin 2016, 82).

“...Toxic Wastes and Race at Twenty (Bullard et al., 2007) revealed that communities of colour and poor communities were still being used as dumping grounds for all kinds of toxic contaminants. The authors discovered evidence that the clustering of environmental hazards, in addition to single sources of pollution, presented significant threats to communities of colour. Furthermore, the research showed that polluting industries frequently singled out communities of colour in siting decisions, countering the “minority move-in hypothesis”: the claim that people of colour voluntarily move into contaminated communities rather than being targeted in situ by dirty industries.” (122)

“Bullard (1990) has highlighted the problem of “Black Love Canals” throughout the United States, where issues of environmental injustice are deeply connected with environ- mental racism. For example, Bullard highlights the case of toxic DDT water contamination in the African American community of Triana, Alabama. In 1978, in the midst of the national media attention focused on Love Canal, residents in Triana raised complaints over ill-health effects and contaminated fish and waterfowl. Lawsuits in Triana against the Olin Corporation continued throughout the 1980s. Although the case is noted within environ- mental justice histories (see Taylor, 2014), it is not widely recognized or commemorated.” (126)

“Underpinning the slow, structural violence (see Galtung, 1969; Davies, 2019) of unequal and unjust toxic exposures is the problem of “expendability” … Pellow (2018) proposes that indispensability is a key pillar of critical environmental justice studies (alongside intersectionality, scale, and state power). This idea builds on the work of critical race and ethnic studies scholar John Marquez (2014) on “racial expendability” to argue that, within a white-dominated society, people of colour are typically viewed as expendable.” (127)

“National and international media headlines followed the Flint water crisis story as it unfolded, but, after the initial shock, Flint faded from media attention. It shifted from being a spectacular disaster to a case of slow violence. This paral- lels the dynamics of public memory surrounding many toxic disasters, struggles, and legacies.” (128)

The author’s main argument is two-fold. Acute environmental disasters (e.g., Chernobyl, BP Horizon Spill, Hurricane Katrina) that garnered public attention leave behind legacies of increased support for environmental action and legislation, although the public attention span is often too short for lasting change. At the same time, these disasters have received a disproportionate amount of public attention compared to the many more slow-moving toxicity disasters that affect people in more systematic but often less visible ways. Examples of this disparity include the contrast between the 1984 Bhopal disaster coverage, and the persistent toxicity in the area in the time since then in the form of industrial waste and infrastructure that is not maintained. It is additionally important to note that the cases that don’t receive much attention often affect marginalized groups (by race, socioeconomics) disproportionately.