Factfulness: Ten Reasons We're Wrong About the World – and Why Things Are Better Than You Think (22 page)

People in North America and Europe need to understand that most of the world population lives in Asia. In terms of economic muscles “we” are becoming the 20 percent, not the 80 percent. But many of “us” can’t fit these numbers into our nostalgic minds. Not only do we misjudge how big our war monuments should be in Vietnam, we also misjudge our importance in the future global marketplace. Many of us forget to behave properly with those who will control the future trade deals.

Often the best thing we can do to make a large number more meaningful is to divide it by a total. In my work, often that total is the total population. When we divide an amount (say, the number of children in Hong Kong) by another amount (say, the number of schools in Hong Kong), we get a rate (children per school in Hong Kong). Amounts are easier to find because they are easier to produce. Somebody just needs to count something. But rates are often more meaningful.

I want to return to the 4.2 million dead infants. Earlier in the chapter we compared 4.2 million babies to the 14.4 million who died in 1950. What if fewer children are being born every year and that’s the reason fewer babies are dying? When you see one number falling it is sometimes actually because some other background number is falling. To check, we need to divide the total number of child deaths by the total number of births.

In 1950, 97 million children were born and 14.4 million children died. To get the child mortality rate, we divide the number of deaths (14.4 million) by the number of births (97 million). That comes out to 15 percent. So in 1950, out of every 100 babies who were born, 15 died before their first birthday.

Now let’s look at the most recent numbers. In 2016, 141 million children were born and 4.2 million died. Dividing the number of births by the number of deaths comes out to just 3 percent. Out of every 100 babies born across the world, only three die before reaching the age of one. Wow! The infant mortality rate has changed from 15 percent to 3 percent. When we compare rates, rather than amounts of dead children, the most recent number suddenly seems astonishingly low.

Some people feel ashamed when doing this kind of math with human lives. I feel ashamed when not doing it. A lonely number always makes me suspicious that I will misinterpret it. A number that I have compared and divided can instead fill me with hope.

“The forecasts show that it is China, India, and the other emerging economies that are increasing their carbon dioxide emissions at a speed that will cause dangerous climate change. In fact, China already emits more CO
₂
than the USA, and India already emits more than Germany.”

This outspoken statement came from an environment minister from a European Union country who was part of a panel discussing climate change at the World Economic Forum in Davos in January 2007. He made his attribution of blame in a neutral tone of voice, as if he were stating a self-evident fact. Had he been watching the faces of the Chinese and Indian panel members he would have realized that his view was not self-evident at all. The Chinese expert looked angry but continued to stare straight ahead. The Indian expert, in contrast, could not sit still. He waved his arm and could barely wait for the moderator’s signal that he could speak.

He stood up. There was a short silence while he looked into the face of each panel member. His elegant dark blue turban and expensive-looking dark gray suit, and the way he was behaving in his moment of outrage, confirmed his status as one of India’s highest-ranking civil servants with many years’ experience as a lead expert at the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. He made a sweeping gesture toward the panel members from the rich nations and then said loudly and accusingly, “It was you, the richest nations, that put us all in this delicate situation. You have been burning increasing amounts of coal and oil for more than a century. You and only you pushed us to the brink of climate change.” Then he suddenly changed posture, put his palms together in an Indian greeting, bowed, and almost whispered in a very kind voice, “But we forgive you, because you did not know what you were doing. We should never blame someone retrospectively for harm they were unaware of.” Then he straightened up and delivered his final remark as a judge giving his verdict, emphasizing each word by slowly moving his raised index finger. “But from now on we count carbon dioxide emission
per person
.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. I had for some time been appalled by the systematic blaming of climate change on China and India based on
total
emissions per nation. It was like claiming that obesity was worse in China than in the United States because the total bodyweight of the Chinese population was higher than that of the US population. Arguing about emissions per nation was pointless when there was such enormous variation in population size. By this logic, Norway, with its population of 5 million, could be emitting almost any amount of carbon dioxide per person.

In this case, the large numbers—total emissions per nation—needed to be divided by the population of each country to give meaningful and comparable measures. Whether measuring HIV, GDP, mobile phone sales, internet users, or CO
₂
emissions, a per capita measurement—i.e., a rate per person—will almost always be more meaningful.

The safest lives in history are lived today by people on Level 4. Most preventable risks have been eliminated. Still, many walk around feeling worried.

They worry about all kinds of dangers “out there.” Natural disasters kill so many people, diseases spread, and airplanes crash. They all happen all the time out there, beyond the horizon. It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Such terrifying things rarely happen “here,” in this safe place where we live. But out there, they seem to happen every day. Remember, though, “out there” is the sum of millions of places, while you live in just one place. Of course more bad things happen out there: out there is much bigger than here. So even if all the places out there were just as safe as your place, hundreds of terrible events would still happen there. If you could keep track of each separate place though, you would be surprised how peaceful most of them were. Each of them shows up on your screen only on that single day when something terrible happens. All the other days, you don’t hear about them.

When I see a lonely number in a news report, it always triggers an alarm: What should this lonely number be compared to? What was that number a year ago? Ten years ago? What is it in a comparable country or region? And what should it be divided by? What is the total of which this is a part? What would this be per person? I compare the rates, and only then do I decide whether it really is an important number.

Factfulness is … recognizing when a lonely number seems impressive
(small or large), and remembering that you could get the opposite impression if it were compared with or divided by some other relevant number.

To control the size instinct,
get things in proportion.

An orange sun was setting behind the acacia trees on the savanna of the Bandundu region south of the Congo River, half a day’s walk from the end of the paved road. This is where you find the people who live in extreme poverty: they are stuck behind that mountain, beyond where the road ends. My colleague Thorkild and I had spent the day interviewing the people in this remote village about their nutrition, and now they wanted to throw us a party. No one had ever walked so far to ask them about their problems.

As Swedish villagers would have done 100 years ago, they were demonstrating their gratitude and respect by serving their guests the biggest piece of meat they could find. The entire village was gathered in a circle around Thorkild and me as we were presented with our plates. On top of two large green leaves lay two whole, skinned, grilled rats.

I thought I might throw up. Then I noticed that Thorkild had already started eating: we were both very hungry after a whole day’s work with no food. I looked around at the villagers who were smiling at me expectantly. I had to eat it, and I did. It was actually not that bad: it tasted a bit like chicken. To be polite, I tried to look happy as I swallowed it down.

Then it was time for dessert: another plate, full of big, white larvas from the palm nut tree. And I do mean big—each one was longer and thicker than my thumb, and had been lightly fried in its own fat. But I wondered, had they been
too
lightly fried? Because they seemed to be moving. The villagers were proud to offer us such a delicious treat.

Remember, I am a sword swallower. I should be able to push anything down my throat. And I am not usually a fussy eater: I had even once eaten porridge made from mosquitos. But no. This, I couldn’t do. The heads of the larvas looked like little brown nuts and their thick bodies like transparent wrinkled marshmallows, through which I could see their intestines. The villagers gestured that I should bite them in two and suck out the insides. If I tried I would puke the rat back up. I did not want to offend.

Suddenly, an idea. I smiled softly and said regretfully, “You know what, I am sorry, but I can’t eat larvas.”

Thorkild turned to me, surprised. He already had a couple of larvas hanging out of the corners of his mouth. He really loved those larvas. He had previously worked as a missionary in Congo, where they had been the highlight of every week for one whole year.

“You see, we don’t eat larvas,” I said, trying to look convincing. The villagers looked at Thorkild.

“But he eats them?” they asked. Thorkild stared at me.

“Ah,” I said. “You see, he comes from a different tribe. I come from Sweden, he comes from Denmark. In Denmark, they love eating larvas. But in Sweden it’s against our culture.” The village teacher went and got out the world map and I pointed out the water separating our two countries. “On this side of the water they eat larvas,” I said, “and on this side we don’t.” It’s actually one of the most blatant lies I have ever told, but it worked. The villagers were happy to share my dessert between them. Everyone, everywhere knows that people from different tribes have different customs.