A Cycle of Dependency: How Donations Worsen Income Inequality

Regardless of the good intentions behind donations, the short-term gain experienced by poor communities often leads to the persistence of income inequality and an endless cycle of dependency. 

Secondhand clothing in Haiti. Vanberto. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 

Donations are often associated with a positive image of helping destitute populations get the resources they lack. Yet, this short-term aid often results in far-reaching consequences detrimental to a country’s economy, which leads to the persistence of income inequality.

The donation of money that goes toward buying resources for impoverished communities often creates an endless cycle of dependency, especially if such service is repeatedly conducted through organizations or companies. First, the repeated nature of such service creates a false assumption among receivers that there will always be a supply of that resource without work, making them reliant on such aid. Moreover, the organizations themselves are indirectly relying on marginalized areas to promote their businesses’ charitable work. For instance, back in 2006, when TOMS started its “one for one” program, it would donate a pair of shoes for every pair that was purchased. Although the company’s motive seemed to be pure, it relied on underprivileged populations’ need for shoes to increase its business revenue. 

84% of unwanted clothing is thrown into landfills

When donations are consistently provided, those living in poverty often learn to become dependent on the donors as they see less reason to get out of their current situation. Local businesses also shut down, as the need to produce items goes away when high-quality donations are provided at a minimal price from external sources. Although that may come as great news for citizens of developing countries, most of the profit in this exchange goes to the exporters. A 2006 report found that, “textile and clothing employment in Ghana declined by 80% from 1975 to 2000; in Zambia it fell from 25,000 workers in the 1980s to below 10,000 in 2002; and in Nigeria the number of workers fell from 200,000 to being insignificant.” Such statistics imply that despite the good nature of external aid, it often comes at the expense of the receiving countries.

Haiti is a common dumping ground for secondhand clothing primarily from the United States, and due to its regular occurrence, locals have given this process the name “Pepe.” The Netflix documentary “The True Cost” elaborates on how Haiti’s textile industry is suffering due to the widespread popularity of Pepe, leading the country’s local clothing industry to disappear. For this reason, some countries have started to refuse the import of secondhand clothing, and more of it ends up in recycling facilities. Yet according to Newsweek, 84% of unwanted clothing is thrown into landfills. 

To combat waste, then, the fast-fashion industry needs to start recycling its own goods, minimize seasonal sales, make more durable products and normalize wearing recycled apparel. Additionally, governments need to start promoting the creation of more jobs for impoverished communities, so that all the necessary resources are available in the market at reasonable prices. Finally, donors should remember that regardless of good intentions, deprived communities may suffer long-term consequences due to misunderstood charity work.

Swati Agarwal

Swati Agarwal is a sophomore at University of California, San Diego, where she is studying Environmental Sciences and Theatre. Although born in India, she was raised in Tokyo, which gave her the opportunity to interact with diverse people from distinct cultures. She is passionate about writing, and hopes to inspire others by spreading awareness about social justice issues and highlighting the uniqueness of the world.

In the Czech Countryside, a City Eaten Alive by Its Own Beauty

Since the fall of communism, Český Krumlov has transformed from relic to hotspot—but has it lost its authentic appeal along the way?

The Czech capital of Prague is known the world over for its storybook beauty, manifesting most dramatically in the towering gothic facade of the St. Vitus Cathedral and the sprawling tableau of red rooftops visible from atop Petřín Hill. Yet just over 100 miles away is another sparkling jewel in the Czech Republic’s crown: Český Krumlov, a city of only 13,000 residents whose 13th-century castle and picturesque riverbanks have brought it not only recognition as a UNESCO World Heritage site but also an increasing influx of tourists that now threatens its very identity. 

Former Czechoslovakia’s communist regime, which lasted from 1948 to 1989 before it was ushered out by the Velvet Revolution, left much of Český Krumlov in disrepair. Yet the city’s neglected state lent it a sense of mystery and charm. In the years since, Krumlov—much like the country’s capital, Prague—has been transformed into a tourist wonderland, with historic buildings being renovated and revitalized and ensuing increases in tourist income bolstering the city’s economy.

City streets. Hindol Bhattacharya. CC BY-SA 2.0

As the city has changed, so have the demographics of its visitors. In an interview with Radio Praha, Krumlov’s mayor, Dalibor Carda, explained that an initial boom of Austrian and German tourists after 1989 gave way to an influx of Americans, many of whom settled in the city indefinitely. Today, for locals—whether native-born or transplants—the off-season is a thing of the past, with tour groups flooding the city on a year-round basis. “[I]f you want to have a pristine Krumlov,” writes Jan Velinger in a piece for Radio Praha, “you have to get up very early to ever have its romantic streets, or overlooking castle, ramparts to yourself.” Fed up with the unrelenting crowds, locals have largely migrated to the outskirts of the city, resulting in an exodus of local businesses: Bakeries, hardware stores, and family-owned shops are now difficult to find, having been replaced with bars, restaurants, and hostels catering to short-term visitors.

One of Český Krumlov’s bars, popular among tourists. kellerabteil. CC BY-NC 2.0

In some respects, Český Krumlov has moved to mitigate the encroaching tendrils of tourism, notes reporter Chris Johnstone, pointing to a ban on advertising and the exclusion of cars and buses from the city center. Moreover, just this June, the city established a tariff on buses in an effort to regulate the influx—up to 20,000—arriving each year. The plan is the first of its kind in the Czech Republic, although Salzburg and other Austrian cities have imposed similar measures. Now, all buses rolling into Krumlov must book in advance, navigate to one of two designated stops, and pay the toll of CZK 625, approximately $28.

Tourism has inspired not only legislative changes, but also works of art—as in the case of “UNES-CO,” a 2018 project by renowned conceptual artist Kateřina Šedá. Responding to the profound impact of visitors on the distribution of local populations, Šedá conceived of a work that involved relocating a group of individuals and families to the heart of Český Krumlov for three months at the height of the tourist season. The participants were provided with starter apartments and jobs “on the basis of what Krumlov most needs,” which Šedá deemed to be “the pursuit of normal life.” The title played on the city’s status as a UNESCO World Heritage site and on the Czech words “unést” and “co,” meaning “take away” and “what,” as in “What do visitors get out of this place?” Šedá, whose work often involves social themes and who is famed for relocating an entire Czech village to London’s Tate Modern in 2011, stressed that the project was not intended to be a show for tourists, but rather a social experiment.

Houses along the banks of the Vltava River. P. N. CC BY-SA 2.0

On the opposite side of the artistic spectrum, Huawei—the Chinese electronics behemoth currently facing scrutiny from the U.S. for potential security issues—announced in January that it would build an exact facsimile of Český Krumlov at its headquarters. The Huawei campus, which lies just outside of Shenzhen in the city of Dongguan, will also count Granada, Verona, Paris, Budapest, and Bruges among its plethora of reconstructed European cities. “I heard about it when they started preparing it,” commented Cardo. “The fact that they [are] building it without at least contacting the city does not sit well with me.”

The Krumlov replica may well draw more Chinese tourists, who already represent the largest segment of visitors to the historic city. Yet for embittered locals, the mini-city could be a grimly apt representation of what their home has become: a mere palimpsest of its original iteration, and a cautionary tale depicting how capitalism and tourism can spur unwelcome transformation.

Talya Phelps

Talya hails from the wilds of upstate New York, but dreams of exploring the globe. As former editor-in-chief at the student newspaper of her alma mater, Vassar College, and the daughter of a journalist, she hopes to follow her passion for writing and editing for many years to come. Contact her if you're looking for a spirited debate on the merits of the em dash vs. the hyphen.

Destination Travel in the Age of Social Media

When it comes to being inspired by social media, Instagram travel feeds are there ready to lure us in. Each feed presents itself like a journey all on their own — with enviously gorgeous images beckoning a traveler onward. It’s a shame to learn then they’re ruining it for the rest of us.

In fact, according to the National Park Service, between 2008 and 2017 places like Yellowstone National Park gained a 40% increase of visitors. And since the onset of COVID-19, those numbers have only got worse. In an interview with The Guardian, the former superintendent of the park, Dan Wenk says, “Our own species is having the greatest impact on the park and the quality of the experience is becoming a casualty.” And national parks aren’t alone, it’s even affecting farmers like those at Bogle Seeds.

Hundreds of people showed up to take photos in front of the sunflowers that grow at Bogle Farms; you’ve all seen those IG worthy shots, like this:

@protectour_publiclands. Instagram.com

After his farm went viral on Instagram, owner, Mr. Bogle was quoted saying, “I’ve described it as a zombie apocalypse. There were so many cars. People were walking in and around them. No one would move.” People crowded the farm to take selfies and were then accused of doing a lot of damage to flowers.

CBC news in Canada described the sight as “chaos”; and shortly after opening to the public the owners closed it to them for good.

Mr. Bogle is not alone. Just a few miles out from The Grand Canyon, resident of Page, AZ, Bill Diako says that the natural attraction Horseshoe Bend saw a massive spike of visitors when Instagram launched in 2010. He says the numbers grew from a few thousand annual visitors to 100,000 that year. And the phenomenon doesn’t just affect the United States, getting that perfect shot for social media is an international phenomenon.

Tourists posing “holding up” Leaning Tower of Pisa. Pinterest

It’s not just the crowds that are ruining the experience for sustainable travelers. Just like the damage done to the sunflowers at Bogle Seeds, the Great Wall of China has been affected by mistreatment and even theft. Today, if you don’t want to navigate a sea of tourists there, you’ll have to go off-season and in the snow.

Great Wall of China packed with visitors over holiday.

On July 26th Associated Press announced that the Yankee Jims pristine swimming hole in Northern California was closed to motor vehicles due to over crowding. There were about 300 cars spotted parked along the freeway due to the fact that the swimming hole only has 12 spots, which used to suffice. And the local authorities claim that social media is to blame for the surge.

Getting that perfect shot no matter the cost has been a catalyst for movements of change and education. There are even petitions on Change.org to encourage social media users to be more aware of their behaviors when traveling. It would seem that the age of COVID-19 and our need for fresh-air and social distancing has backfired, as the problem only seems to be getting worse. Many would agree there needs to be a sustainable and long term way to travel in the age of social media to prevent the lasting effects on the cultural and historic sites, monuments and lives of people all over the world.

Raeann Mason

Raeann is an avid traveler, digital storyteller and guide writer. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Mass Comm & Media Studies from the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism & Mass Communication. Passionate about a/effective journalism and cultural exchange, she is an advocate of international solidarity and people's liberation. As the founder of ROAM + WRITE and EIC of Monarch Magazine, Raeann hopes to reshape the culture of travel and hospitality to be both ethically sound and sustainable.

Senegal’s Artisanal Fishing Sector Faces a Rising Tide of Troubles

As vaccine rollouts speed up and restrictions loosen, some countries are beginning to piece back together life from before the COVID-19 pandemic. Other countries, like Senegal, have seen just the opposite. 

Fish market in Senegal. Evgeni Zotov. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. 

For many, a job is just a job—a way to keep food on the table and to pay the bills. For others, the wealth brought from working is deeply cultural, offering up a steady stream of personal meaning supplemented by financial gain. In the West African nation of Senegal, artisanal fishermen and women take great pride in their heritage, with the women standing center stage. 

Senegal is a relatively poor nation, with 30% of households grappling with food insecurity. The fishing industry plays a substantial role in Senegalese society: over 600,000 people are employed by the fishing industry and half of the protein consumed by the country’s residents comes from fish.

The women of Senegal’s coastal fishing villages sustain a matriarchy built on the fishing industry. The women process by hand loads of fish brought in by fishermen. They sun-dry and smoke the fish before selling them in local markets and to foreign fishing companies. Their work done by these women upholds their families, with one income from a fish processor able to feed up to eight family members. 

The Senegalese fishing women possess profound resilience; the COVID-19 pandemic has diminished their income to nearly nothing, which only increased their determination and creativity. By pooling money and taking hold of other resources, the Senegalese women have discovered a way to push through the pandemic.

However, Senegal’s artisanal fishing industry faces other major hurdles besides the COVID-19 pandemic. The rising sea levels brought on by climate change have ravaged many families’ coastal homes, with many unable to build new houses on their income. Additionally, rising sea levels have forced the men to venture much farther off the coast to haul in the same catch. This proved particularly difficult with Senegal’s COVID-19 curfew, which limited how far the men could travel out to sea. The women who process the fish have experienced decreased production as well, with many processing sites closed or greatly limited in capacity.

Lastly, larger industries have threatened the livelihood of this comparatively small field. Nearby construction threatens Senegal’s waters with pollution, while major fishing companies easily outproduce the women selling their catch. In addition, the government permits other countries to fish in local waters within regulation, but failure to effectively enforce these rules has greatly hurt the artisanal fishing industry.

Although there seems to be one hurdle after the next, the fishermen and women of Senegal have proven again their resilience. The country’s fishing women, in particular, stand not just as hopeful examples for their neighbors, but as a sign of strength for the entire world. 

Ella Nguyen

Ella is an undergraduate student at Vassar College pursuing a degree in Hispanic Studies. She wants to assist in the field of immigration law and hopes to utilize Spanish in her future projects. In her free time she enjoys cooking, writing poetry, and learning about cosmetics.

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China Weaponizes Tourism to Erase Uyghur Culture

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Indigenous Fashion Hits the Runway

Long overlooked Indigenous artists are revolutionizing the fashion world. Balancing innovation and tradition, these designers envision a sustainable, inclusive way of creating clothes.

Indigenous women sewing. SriHarsha PVSS. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Nothing about this year’s Indigenous Fashion Week Toronto (IFWTO) went according to plan. The pandemic demanded a totally virtual fashion venue without a live audience, forcing the Indigenous communities that comprise it to rethink what a fashion week could be. Then again, reimagining the fashion industry is the forte of many Indigenous designers.

The IFWTO featured 16 designers with their own unique takes on Indigenous fashion, the clothing created by designers from a native background. It included artists from across the world who are united by a shared Indigenous heritage. Combining traditional figures and techniques with mainstream styles yielded some of the week’s most exciting work. Mobilize, for instance, fused Indigenous writing and designs with streetwear hoodies and jackets to innovate style while staying true to its roots. Audiences took well to Mobilize’s style; most of its items sold out. 

Mobilize and other Indigenous brands seek to fundamentally change the fashion industry’s status quo. Jamie Okuma, a California designer of Luiseño and Shoshone-Bannock descent, emphasizes resourcefulness and respect for nature in her garments. “All of my work has tradition at its core ... So I try to utilize everything possible in my work—with my art, supplies, fabric—and not be wasteful.” Crafted with patience, detail and care, her pieces are meant to be worn again and again. “We all have those go-to pieces in our closet that we keep for years and literally wear out before we retire them,” she says. “I'm here to make the go-tos, the keepers.”

Shoes designed by Jamie Okuma. nonelvis. CC By-NC-SA 2.0.

Okuma’s approach is a welcome change to the dominant fad of “fast fashion.” These items, mass produced by large companies, are designed season by season and intended to fall out of fashion and be thrown out within a year. This approach to fashion differs starkly from that of Indigenous creators, who value durability, tradition and craftsmanship, even if it comes with a much higher sticker price. Though fast fashion allows consumers to don the latest runway fashions at an affordable price, it comes at a steep environmental cost. Products often fall apart within weeks or are thrown out having never been worn, earning the style the nickname “landfill fashion.”

A billboard for Grace Lillian Lee’s fashion. Brisbane City Council. CC BY 2.0.

Grace Lillian Lee, designer and co-founder of First Nations Fashion and Design in Australia, seeks a place for Indigeneity in the mainstream. “There’s definitely a lot that non-Indigenous people and designers can learn from Indigenous people,” she says, “especially in terms of sustainability.” Her work relies heavily on the weaving techniques of Torres Strait Islanders. More than a way to promote sustainability, Lee calls her clothing “a soft entry into reconciliation and healing our people.” Such meaningful craftsmanship doesn’t fall out of style by next season; it is passed down through generations.

Lisa Folawiyo. NDaniTV. CC BY 3.0.

Indigenous fashion is just beginning to enjoy its long overdue time in the sun. Dresses by Lisa Folawiyo, a Nigerian and West Indian designer, have been worn proudly by the likes of Solange Knowles and Lupita Nyong’o. Her intricate, flowing dresses explode with color. Boasting hand-embellished designs, Folawiyo’s dresses can take up to 240 hours to complete. Her West African designs have won the plaudits of the international fashion world and effortlessly outshine the mass-produced artifacts of fast fashion.


A dress by Lisa Folawiyo. Museum at FIT. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Indigenous people still generally lack a place at the corporate level. Sage Paul, a member of Canada’s English River First Nation who now lives in Toronto, called for the post-pandemic “new normal” to include the voices of Indigenous people in an article for The Kit. Fashion emerged from a 14th-century European aristocracy, she argues, and colonized Indigenous people to steal resources, goods and fashion trends. “The colonial systems we are operating under no longer serve our society, and the only way we will evolve is by allowing new and interconnected systems to come to the fore.” That means moving Indigenous brands into the mainstream. 

The IFWTO is a good place to start. Its online market links viewers directly to designers’ websites. Live panel discussions provided a glimpse into the questions and concerns of some of Indigenous fashion’s most admired artists. Videos of models strutting the catwalk resembled music videos, showcasing the unbridled possibilities of Indigenous fashion. Most importantly, it put more Indigenous designers on the map. As of now, they show no signs of slowing down.

Michael McCarthy

Michael is an undergraduate student at Haverford College, dodging the pandemic by taking a gap year. He writes in a variety of genres, and his time in high school debate renders political writing an inevitable fascination. Writing at Catalyst and the Bi-Co News, a student-run newspaper, provides an outlet for this passion. In the future, he intends to keep writing in mediums both informative and creative.