Written by Amelia Hancock
Illustrated by Laura Liu
The question of “is charity really charity if you film it?” has existed for as nearly as long as social media itself. However, the rise of TikTok and the ongoing cost-of-living crisis have made this debate even more pressing. With Christmas just around the corner, both charities and individuals have stepped up to help those in need have a joyful festive period. My ‘For You Page’ has been filled with Dunelm’s Delivery Joy at Christmas tags and its American equivalent, Walmart’s Angel Trees, which helps children from low-income families wake up to presents on Christmas Day. Yet, alongside these heartwarming initiatives sits a growing ethical dilemma: to what extent does recording charitable initiatives increase awareness, and when does it become performative and exploitative?
Before social media, charities relied on local communities and word of mouth for awareness, but as the internet grew, visibility expanded, and help could flood in from further afield. Videos of gift-tag programmes are regularly reaching hundreds of thousands of viewers, creating ripple effects of participation. For example, last year, Dunelm and Age UK delivered 272,000 gifts to vulnerable people. This scale of impact that TikTok can bring is one known all too well to a mother in Shropshire. Jasmin came onto TikTok at the end of August this year, needing to raise £1.5 million for her 14-month-old son’s life-saving surgery. Just over two months later, donations from the internet had achieved this goal. From this, it’s clear that filming charitable efforts can mobilise support on a scale that had been thought unimaginable.
But where is that line between genuine visibility and performative charity? Filming vulnerable people comes with moral backlash, but some argue that influencers need to capture their acts to earn the money that they can then give away. Many point out that this can be done without displaying the identities of those receiving help. Finnish influencer Aurikatarina, for example, built her platform by offering free deep cleanings to people in difficult situations, amassing 11.5 million followers on TikTok and 4.6 million on YouTube. She did so without filming the homeowners themselves. Yet, the ethics become even more complex in cases like philanthropic YouTuber MrBeast, whose videos routinely feature people competing for money. Although those who appear in his content give contractual consent, critics argue that this is complicated by financial need.
Another question over ‘visibility versus performativity’ is how we decide which acts should be recorded and which are better left unseen. Does every item you buy for a homeless person outside the shop need to be filmed?
Small, spontaneous gestures, such as buying someone a hot drink or offering money for the bus fare, arguably offer little value by being turned into content. Yet, many smaller accounts film these moments in an attempt to gain followers. TikTokers such as Jimmy Darts or Zachery Dereniowiski (MD Motivator) have succeeded in building large audiences through these acts. In contrast, creators who have substantial platforms already film larger, organised initiatives such as food bank drives or charity fundraisers in partnership with organisations, where visibility can genuinely increase participation. The distinction of performance and exploitation lies in where visibility is given to the cause, not the creator.
Charity is often defined as the generosity towards the needy and suffering. So, when the person performing the good deed gains more than the person receiving it, can we still confidently call it charity? Social media has blurred this line, but its visibility is valuable when directed at large initiatives that benefit from awareness. Smaller acts, especially those involving vulnerable acts, should not require a camera. Even in a digital age, it’s worth remembering that not everything needs to be filmed.
