When formal systems stop working, neighbors turn to each other in what many call ‘mutual aid’

In early November, Kashish Ali shared a simple message with her Instagram followers: “Times are tough. We take care of us.” These words capture the essence of her years-long commitment to purchasing food and stocking community refrigerators in Atlanta and New York, where she now lives. As a first-generation Pakistani immigrant, Ali has channeled thousands of dollars from friends and family into this grassroots effort.

Ali’s work exemplifies the growing movement known as “mutual aid” – a community-centered approach where neighbors directly help neighbors. With rising prices, cuts to government assistance programs, and political uncertainty, organizers report surging interest in these initiatives. It also provides an alternative way to participate in GivingTuesday on December 2, beyond traditional nonprofit donations.

The concept struck Ali in 2020 when she spotted a community refrigerator outside an Atlanta brewery. After connecting with organizers and completing a brief orientation, she posted on Instagram about her plan to purchase and deliver groceries. The response was overwhelming.

“I ended up raising $700 in like three to four hours, which was insane,” Ali recalls.

What began as a volunteer activity has evolved into a fundamental part of her life. When stocking refrigerators with granola bars, fruit, and yogurt, she experiences immediate community connection as people gather to chat and collect food. She documents her efforts by posting grocery receipts and photos of the filled refrigerators on Instagram.

“What I noticed was a lot of my friends and family and coworkers and colleagues, they all want to give back,” she explains. “But sometimes donating your cash or money to whatever organization, you don’t really see what happens with it per se, especially not immediately. So this was a way to get almost instant gratification.”

Mutual aid fundamentally differs from traditional charitable models. There are no identification requirements, income verifications, or residency checks. The initiatives are typically run entirely by volunteers, with organizers often being recipients themselves – deliberately blurring the line between helper and helped. Many embrace the philosophy of “solidarity not charity,” emphasizing community interdependence rather than hierarchical assistance.

Interest in mutual aid typically surges during crises. The COVID-19 pandemic triggered widespread adoption, and now economic uncertainty and political transitions are driving another wave of engagement.

Aaron Fernando, an organizer at Shareable, which publishes resources about mutual aid and cooperatives, witnessed this firsthand when their “Mutual Aid 101” webinar attracted 1,100 attendees earlier this year – dramatically higher than their typical audience of 70.

“It just is and continues to be a disempowering and scary time for a lot of populations,” Fernando notes, explaining that this environment encourages people to seek new ways to secure resources and protect their communities.

While mutual aid may not be widely discussed during stable periods, marginalized communities have long relied on these exchange systems. Fernando describes how these small-scale support networks can rapidly expand when disruptions occur.

“Once things go south, those systems, even though they’re just like rickety scaffolding, they get built up a bit, and then, they can catch people if communities have them,” he says.

In Brooklyn, Yoly Nuñez has been coordinating food distributions and exchanges of clothing and household items through the Collective Focus Resource Hub since the pandemic began. A former fashion merchandiser, Nuñez and her colleagues have developed expertise in sourcing free items.

What started as conversations with friends in the service industry about restaurant food waste has evolved into formal arrangements with retailers like Trader Joe’s and Wegmans to collect food that would otherwise be discarded. The fresh produce and prepared foods they stock in community refrigerators outside their Brooklyn location disappear almost immediately.

“We thought, we need to organize and see how we could help each other,” Nuñez explains. “And that’s literally the whole thought process behind it is like, we’re scared and we need to huddle in and help each other.”

Her group now regularly receives inquiries about starting similar initiatives, which they actively encourage. “Usually, we want people to branch off and make their own groups because if we all have groups, it just makes us stronger,” she says.

While Collective Focus eventually incorporated as a tax-exempt nonprofit to afford rental space, they maintain collective decision-making processes and primarily rely on volunteers. They do employ some staff members, including 30-year neighborhood resident Georgina Edmonds.

During a recent food distribution featuring lentils, tofu, and fresh vegetables, Edmonds described how the organization empowers members to shape their work. She plans to collaborate with a nearby community garden to grow medicinal herbs.

“In the beginning, I found myself deferring a lot to everybody else until someone called it to my attention,” she reflects. “It’s like, ‘You know, you don’t have to keep asking, you can just do it.'”

As economic pressures and uncertainty persist, these community-driven mutual aid networks continue to demonstrate how direct neighbor-to-neighbor support can effectively address immediate needs while building stronger, more resilient communities.