Worldliness as Cultural Capital: Notes on International Childhood

Worldliness as Cultural Capital: Notes on International Childhood

What appears at first glance as precocious independence among certain children is, on closer inspection, a form of early-acquired cultural capital, in the sense articulated by Pierre Bourdieu. I am not describing children shaped by migration born of economic necessity, but those raised within transnational circuits—familial, educational, and social—that normalise movement across borders, languages, and cultural codes.

These children learn early how to navigate cities such as London or Paris, how to read social cues in unfamiliar environments, and how to remain simultaneously engaged with multiple national contexts—Europe, the Caribbean, Latin America, or the Eastern Mediterranean. Their multilingualism, ease with travel, and familiarity with institutional systems reflect what Arjun Appadurai has described as the production of global cultural flows, where mobility itself becomes a formative social condition rather than an exception.

By university age, autonomy is assumed rather than taught. Managing shared living arrangements, negotiating travel logistics, or organising social life across borders is taken for granted. A striking observation, consistent across regions including Asia, is the prominence of girls within this cohort—self-assured, academically successful, and socially competent. Here, gender appears less as a constraint and more as a site of accelerated agency, echoing broader discussions in feminist anthropology regarding changing forms of female subjectivity in transnational settings.

A small ethnographic moment illustrates this quietly. A sixteen-year-old girl selects an ethnic restaurant(indo-pakistani?) in an unfamiliar city for her French grandparents, orders on their behalf, checks the bill for errors, and offers to pay. Nothing remarkable on the surface—yet deeply revealing of an embodied confidence acquired through repeated exposure to cultural navigation.

Children raised between places—whether in the Cayman Islands and London, Turkey, or Cochin in Kerala—develop what might be called a habitus of mobility. Their competence is understated, untheatrical, and practical. If the future belongs to those able to move fluidly between worlds, then it is already being rehearsed—carefully and confidently—by the young.

Babies Without Diapers: What the Amazon Teaches Us About Care

Along the vast arteries of the Amazon River, Indigenous societies have raised infants for millennia without what the modern world considers indispensable: diapers. This is not an absence born of deprivation, but the presence of a different logic of care—one shaped by climate, ecology, and an intimate attentiveness to the infant body.

Among many Amazonian communities—such as the Yanomami, Kayapó, Ticuna, and Shipibo-Conibo—babies are typically carried naked or lightly wrapped. They are held close to the caregiver’s body in slings, hammocks, or cloth wraps, maintaining constant physical contact. In this context, the infant is not managed at a distance but read, interpreted, and responded to moment by moment.

Caregivers quickly learn an infant’s signals of elimination: a change in posture, restlessness, a facial expression, a brief vocalization. When the signal appears, the baby is held away from the body and allowed to urinate or defecate onto soil, vegetation, or water. The practice resembles what contemporary Western parenting literature now calls elimination communication, though in Amazonia it is neither named nor theorized—it is simply how one cares for a child.

Rivers, central to Amazonian life, make frequent washing both practical and routine. Infants are bathed multiple times a day, reducing skin irritation and infection without the occlusive warmth and moisture that diapers create in tropical climates. In such environments, diapers would not only be uncomfortable but potentially harmful.

Equally important is the social context. Childcare in Amazonian societies is communal. Mothers, grandmothers, siblings, and other relatives share responsibility. This collective attentiveness makes diaper-free care feasible and sustainable. The burden of constant vigilance does not fall on one isolated individual, as it so often does in nuclear-family settings.

From an ecological perspective, diapers never made sense here. Disposable diapers introduce waste into environments where decomposition is sacred and cyclical. Cloth diapers, meanwhile, would require drying and laundering in humid conditions where mold and bacteria thrive. The Amazonian solution is neither primitive nor romantic—it is environmentally rational.

Contact with missions, health posts, and urban centers has introduced disposable diapers into some communities, particularly in peri-urban settings. Their use, however, is often sporadic. Cost, disposal difficulties, and cultural mismatch limit adoption. Where diapers appear, they are usually regarded as temporary conveniences rather than improvements.

Anthropologically, this form of infant care reflects a broader philosophical difference. Western diapering is based on containment: managing bodily processes through technology to preserve cleanliness and convenience. Amazonian care is based on attunement: responding to bodily rhythms as part of relational life. The infant is not something to be managed but someone to be listened to.

There is an irony here. In recent years, Western parents—concerned about skin health, microbiome development, environmental sustainability, and infant autonomy—have begun to rediscover diaper-free practices. What is often presented as innovation is, in fact, a return.

The Amazon reminds us that many so-called necessities are cultural artifacts. When we step outside our assumptions, we sometimes find that what we thought was indispensable was merely habitual—and that other societies have long known gentler, more attentive ways to care for the human body at its very beginning