People aren't against aid, they just want to know that it works

Time to turn the page on the development story.

Signs of scepticism amongst the UK public towards the 0.7% spending target is often seen as evidence of waning enthusiasm for aid and development. Yet political consensus holds sway across Whitehall that development is an endeavour core to Britain’s values and interests. The austerity agenda, it is assumed, means an end to the British public’s compassion towards those worse off than themselves. To test these assumptions, Overseas Development Institute (ODI) and IPPR set out across the country to hold a series of deliberative workshops with UK voters, exploring the logic and understanding that shapes attitudes towards development and aid. We found that despite the current economic climate, there is still a well of public support for development spending but - and it is a significant but - people are beginning to reject the way the fight against global poverty has been portrayed in the years since the first Live Aid concert.

Strong moral values underpin commitments to development, which persists despite recent polling. Issues of fairness came up repeatedly across the workshops, with gross inequalities between nations and peoples’ generally seen as being ‘not right’. While International Development Secretary Andrew Mitchell has talked about the need to find strategic ‘win-wins’ for the UK, we found this argument less convincing to people than the moral imperative. 

Despite this latent support, findings suggest a shallow and narrow understanding of issues of aid and development, however. Discussions focused on what developing countries did not have, with little choice or control for people within those countries. As a participant in London said “In terms of poverty, as well as lack of luxury, it’s a lack of a future, it’s a trap, poverty trap they’re stuck in, just living for the day, where there’s no option”. There was seemingly little awareness of the realities of people’s lives and experiences in poorer countries. For example, developing countries were viewed as something of a ‘blank slate’ – in need of jobs, education, food with little recognition of what countries may already have (in terms of indigenous knowledge, economy activity and so on).

Crucially, our findings suggest this shallow understanding reflects not a lack of interest but rather some of the limitations of the public discourse and messaging to date. Workshop participants repeatedly asked for a richer understanding of these issues, and in some cases, there were signs of growing rejection of the predominant imagery and messages they feel they have received.

There were repeated references to the original Live Aid concerts, revealing the influence of these high profile events but also that they can unwittingly reinforce a sense that progress is lacking : “I was around when Live Aid shocked everybody and still the problem hasn’t been sorted” said a participant in Edinburgh. And there were signs of growing scepticism at the tactics and images used to raise funds – “You get the child on adverts looking miserable and they’re all malnourished and they look miserable and the adverts show the most saddest, miserable child you could ever have but that might not be the case…”

Thus, while heartstring campaigns and appeals may well have proven effective at putting hands in pockets, they seem to be affecting the wider climate of public opinion – and may have negative impacts in the future quest for hearts and minds.

What needs to be done differently? There is a common assumption that the general public has limited interest or ability to understand complex issues; and that simple messages and appeals are likely to be most effective. In contrast, our research shows real appetite for a much greater understanding of how progress happens, and the process through which change occurs.

This came through strongly in all the workshops – participants were most engaged when they heard stories of progress and were intrigued to know more how about how change had happened.

Rather than being told ‘aid works’, they wanted to know how aid works (and were open to hearing why it may not always work). This means providing stories, not statistics, that show how change happens. There is a clear desire to know when countries or communities graduate out of receiving aid – indicating this should be something that is celebrated and championed, when done for the right reasons.

This is a wake-up call – our findings indicate that the UK public wants a deeper understanding of how development happens and how it can be supported; and they are sceptical of conventional campaigns and messages which they perceive as offering only a partial picture. It’s a moment of opportunity to reshape some of the public discourse here; particularly as David Cameron takes up his co-chair of the new UN committee on the next round of global development targets to replace the Millenium Development Goals, and as UK NGOs and others gear up to develop new joint campaigns. And some of this is already underway - the ODI is building a library of progress stories, that catalogue how change has been achieved in different countries. Others, such as Comic Relief are experimenting with new ways of communicating. But it hasn’t yet gone far enough.

The world has changed. The public know this, but don’t know how. It’s time for those who built the current consensus to start painting a new picture of efforts to end global poverty.

Read IPPR and ODI's new report: Understanding public attitudes to aid and development

Leni Wild is a research fellow at the ODI

Haitians receiving international food parcels. Photograph: Getty Images
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad