The Paradox of Charity

Every year on 5 September, the International Day of Charity calls us to pause and reflect on generosity. It appears to be a simple celebration, yet beneath the surface lies a puzzle that is far from simple. Charity is often praised in speeches, tied to development goals and projected as proof of our humanity. But in practice, it rarely unfolds as promised. In Bangladesh today, the question of generosity cannot be separated from the climate of politics. After the July uprising, commitments were made— injured citizens would be supported and bereaved families compensated. Months later, many of those same families remain waiting, entangled in layers of paperwork and verification. Announcements of solidarity have not translated into lived relief. Support, when caught in limbo, becomes almost cruel. The French-Algerian writer and philosopher Albert Camus once defined the absurd as the clash between human longing and a world that does not respond. That is precisely how charity can feel to those still waiting in hospital beds or at government offices.

This paradox extends far beyond one episode. Bangladesh, in the midst of political transition, lives in the tension between lofty promises and stubborn inertia. The interim government has spoken of renewal, of reform and of rebuilding the trust of ordinary citizens. But the pattern is hauntingly familiar: pledges of accountability, committees formed overnight, statements delivered to the press, and still the same delays on the ground. Acts of charity, when filtered through bureaucracy, become performances. A press release announces compassion, yet the recipient sees little. When charity operates in this way, it risks being nothing more than bad faith on a national scale.

Yet, there is another side of the story. Despite these failures, people continue to step forward. When a flood strikes, a factory fire leaves workers jobless or when a student’s treatment costs exceed what any family can manage, citizens act. Strangers donate, friends organise fundraisers, students share appeals online, and neighbours assist what little they can. These are what make society bearable in times of neglect. Camus might have called these actions a form of rebellion, saying “no” to indifference by affirming human dignity. But here lies the danger: if citizens’ generosity becomes the norm in place of state responsibility, then neglect risks being normalised. A donation may ease hunger today, but it does not change the system that creates hunger tomorrow. An online fundraiser may save one life, but it leaves the larger machinery of vulnerability intact.

The same contradictions appear in organised philanthropy. NGOs are frequently judged by how “efficient” they look, forced to cut administrative expenses. So, they can report that nearly every taka goes to beneficiaries. This sounds admirable, but it often weakens organisations from within. Skilled staff leave, technology is neglected and long-term planning suffers. Donors feel reassured, but the institutions themselves grow fragile. Meanwhile, the culture of giving is also shifting. Older generations often place their trust in established institutions, while younger Bangladeshis turn to digital platforms, crowdfunding campaigns and collective giving circles. This democratisation of generosity has enormous potential, allowing many small contributions to build something significant. But it is also precarious. Online compassion can flare up with intensity, but then fade as quickly as it began, overtaken by the next trending appeal. In both philanthropy and politics, the risk is the same: appearances are maintained, but structural change is postponed.

In Bangladesh, relief for disaster-hit families cannot be limited to distributing food for a week but must be linked to long-term policies that reduce their vulnerability. Compensation for victims of political violence cannot remain a headline; instead, it must be delivered swiftly, without humiliating barriers. Generosity cannot be seasonal or symbolic but a part of a broader vision of justice. Without that, charity risks becoming a ritual that soothes the conscience but leaves reality untouched.

When I reflect on this, I return to a memory of reading Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. Dickens mocked what he called “telescopic philanthropy”—grand gestures of compassion for faraway causes while ignoring suffering at one’s doorstep. At the time, I read it as a relic of Victorian England. Today, I see it unfolding in Bangladesh. Announcements of relief, reform and renewal ring loudly, but the person waiting in line for compensation or aid is still asked to come back tomorrow. Camus once wrote that rebellion is not despair but the refusal to accept absurdity as natural. Perhaps true charity must become a kind of rebellion too, not a gesture of pity, but an insistence that neglect is unacceptable. Our generosity must be more than performance. It must resist bureaucracy and complacency.

The writer is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at IUBAT and pursuing a Master’s in Human Rights and Multiculturalism at University of South Eastern Norway