What If My Clothing Purchases Are Contributing to Someone Else’s Poverty?

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On January 1, 2018

In Poverty

Let’s say you had a friend who always had the cutest, most stylish clothes, yet you knew was on a tight budget.  One day you asked her how she does it.

“It’s the best thing ever!” your friend gushes.  “I have my very own tailor straight from Bangladesh!  We set up his own work space in our walk-in closet, so he can make the clothes and hang them right up.  And guess what?  We only have to pay him three dollars a day!  You totally have to get your own tailor. Mine says his 14-year-old daughter is almost as good as he is….do you want me to contact her for you?”

Um.  Maybe you would need a new friend.

So the idea of having your own personal tailoring slave in your closet might not sound very appealing.  (Let’s hope not.)  So why then are we not more disturbed when we hear about the conditions under which most of our clothing is made?

Lately, I’ve been noticing clothing labels.

Almost all the labels say Bangladesh, Vietnam, China, or India.  All countries known for their cheap labor.  And I wonder what’s happening on the other side of the world to bring me my affordable clothing.

You’ve probably heard some of the stories.  About the clothing factory that collapsed in Bangladesh in 2013, killing over 1000 tailors who were making American clothes.  Or maybe you’ve heard of this new documentary about clothing workers in India who get paid three dollars a day for over 12 hours of work.  Or the Chinese tailors who get paid $100-$200 a month.

And that’s only one of the problems associated with clothing in the United States.  The other is that we Americans buy way more clothes than we ever need.  So that means that every year, thousands of tons of clothes are given to charity.  Know what happens to those clothes?

Less than 10% are actually re-sold.  Another big percentage is made into rags.  And over a quarter are stuffed into bales, shipped, and sold (at a profit) to markets in Africa.  Our family has become quite adept at shopping in these markets.  But even this is not a solution.

The massive influx of used clothing into Africa has caused the near-collapse of local fabric production. So much so that many African countries, including Tanzania, have pledged to stop these imports by 2019.  And what is the United States’ response?  That these countries are “imposing significant economic hardship on the USA’s used clothing industry” and thus may receive trade consequences.

So not only does the United States source most of their clothes on near-slave labor, we punish the countries who refuse to buy our cast-offs.  

It’s one thing to hear about poverty in the world and know that there’s nothing we can do about it.  But what if we are directly contributing to it?  What if we actually are buying clothes that are made by slaves?  What if our cast-offs are just increasing the world’s poverty?  Should we care?  Will God hold us responsible?

On one hand, there doesn’t have to be anything immoral about being wealthy.  On the other hand, what if the abundance of our possessions is directly related to the poverty of the rest of the world?  What if having our closets full means that others will have to dress their children in rags?

Maybe I’m being over-dramatic. This is deeply disturbing to me, but I don’t know what to do about it.  Buying only name-brand, expensive clothes is not a solution, since even those manufacturers make their clothes overseas.  Boycotting clothes made in developing countries is not a solution, since much of their economy depends on the clothing industry.  The truth is those tailors need jobs–but they need to be paid far wages and have good working conditions.  How can we, the consumers, make that happen?

In Tanzania, one of my favorite clothing options is buying local fabric and taking it to one of the many tailors I know.  But that’s not usually an option in industrialized countries, and I buy many other clothes in the traditional way as well.

Grace trying on a dress in our tailor’s shop.

And really, clothing is just the tip of the iceberg.  Shoes, handbags, toys, electronics–all of these things are produced overseas, sold in America, and then shipped back overseas when Americans don’t want them anymore.  We see these things in Tanzanian markets all the time.  

The question that most haunts me is this: If there was a way to make the world’s economy more fair, am I ready to make the sacrifices that would require?   Have I come to grips with the fact that I can’t have my cake and eat it too?   If there was a way to pressure the clothing industry to become fair-trade, are I ready to pay significantly higher prices for my clothing?  Am I ready to live with less so that I don’t produce as much waste?   

It’s easy to put my head in the sand so that I don’t have to feel the weight of the world’s poverty.  But to whom much has been given, much will be required.  What does God require of me?

Are there solutions?  Do you have ideas?  Can we have a discussion about this?  I would love to hear your thoughts.

Also, if you want to recommend a great fair-trade clothing company, leave their website in the comments either here or on Facebook.

Here’s two from Tanzania to get you started:

Sifa Threads

Karama Collection

You Won’t Find ‘Emptiness’ On a Christmas Card

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On December 24, 2017

In Other

I forget that the story of Christmas is a story of humility.

He made himself nothing….being made in human likeness.

God With Us–Emmanuel.  But what did that require?

He emptied himself.  

He humbled himself.

The God who flung planets into space and kept them whirling around and around, the God who made the universe with just a word, the one who could do anything at all–was making himself small.  And coming down….as a baby.  (Sally Lloyd-Jones)

It’s incomprehensible.  I can’t come close to grasping who God is, so how can I begin to understand what he gave up?

The more I become aware of his sacrifice, the more I wonder why I so easily consume the world’s delicacies:  The highest ideal is your own self-fulfillment.  Anything goes as long as you don’t hurt anyone else.

The problem is that self-fulfillment almost always does hurt someone else.  It’s simply not possible to love myself and love others at the same time.  And in trying, I find neither.  

Love, Joy, Peace, Hope–these are the words we find on Christmas cards.  We forget, though, that none of that would have been possible without humility.  Emptiness.  These are not words that are often used at Christmas, yet just as important.

We want the love and the joy, but without the cost.  We want peace and hope, but on our own terms.  It doesn’t work that way.

Of course, God is not a kill-joy.  He is all about joy.  He is the essence of love.  But as we frantically fight after fulfillment, popping pills and climbing the corporate ladder and swiping credit cards and fruitlessly trying to keep our bodies young, we forget that the way of joy and love is found through emptiness.  

God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.

So why then do we strive so hard after strength?

When I fail, why should I be bothered by humiliation?  When I am inadequate, why should I try to hide it?  Why should there be shame in weakness?  Being brought low is the path to joy.  Emptying myself for others is the way of true love.  

That baby, lying in the manger, represents a lot of things.  But for me, this year, he is a reminder of humility.   

Blessed are the poor in spirit 

        for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Tanzania’s “Christmas Trees” which burst into bloom every December.

The Story of Nikky (and me, and her mom, and Kajal, and God…oh, and red chicken)

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On December 18, 2017

In Other

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Nikky.

We met Nikky when we first arrived in Tanzania, way back in 2001.  We had joined a church that came out of the Indian population of Dar es Salaam.  Nikky, her mom, and her brother were a part of that church.

Nikky and her family were a big part of our lives for those two years.  I was her Sunday School teacher.

And every Wednesday evening, we would go to her family’s house, where Gil would lead a Bible study.  Her mom, Shital, is a wonderful cook, and each Wednesday we would eat her famous red sekala chicken and chips.  It was our favorite meal in Tanzania.

We even had the privilege of being present when Nikky’s mom married her step dad.

When we left Tanzania in 2003, we lost touch with Nikky’s family.  When we returned in 2005, we were living in a different part of the city and fully immersed in Haven of Peace Academy. 

Meanwhile, Nikky and her family starting attending a different church.  The pastor of that church happened to be the husband of HOPAC’s kindergarten teacher.  So when the kindergarten class needed a new teacher’s assistant, she told Nikky to apply.  So imagine my surprise when one day, a few years ago, I saw Nikky (all grown up) walking across the HOPAC campus.

It was a joyful reunion.  We visited their church, where Shital was serving in leadership.  Shital had always loved Gil’s teaching and jumped at the chance to join the Reach Tanzania Bible School.  That was a year ago.

(Shital is front left)

In August, I began my new position as elementary principal at Haven of Peace Academy, where Nikky has continued to work as a teacher’s assistant.  So I became her boss.  

Last week, Nikky got married, and we got to be there.  

This is Nikky with her HOPAC family.

And this is us with Nikky, her mom and dad, and Kajal, another wonderful friend from our old church days together.

(This was Kajal and me in 2002.)

Fifteen years.  I stand in awe of how God has blessed us with such wonderful relationships.  

And almost just as exciting, a few months ago, Shital opened a restaurant in our area.  Where she is selling her red sekela chicken, of course.  Our lives are now complete.  

And we all lived happily ever after.

Tribute to a Good Dog

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On December 8, 2017

In Other

Minnie came home to us in September of 2005.  We had just returned to Tanzania, and we bought her from a friend was was breeding Jack Russells.  

Minnie was our first baby.  

I remember when we had had her for about a year, we thought she was going to die.  We had a team from the States visiting us, and one morning, one of the guys told us that he thought Minnie had eaten his malaria pills.  After unsuccessfully trying to get her to throw up, we called the vet.  He told us there was nothing we could do, that she would die and it would probably take a few days.  We were devastated, but we didn’t want the team member to feel bad, so we didn’t tell the team.  For days, we waited with dread for her to die.  

A week later, the guy casually told us that he had found the pills the next day, that Minnie hadn’t eaten them after all.  Having no idea of our inner turmoil, he hadn’t bothered to tell us!

Since Minnie was our first baby, that’s probably why, once we brought home a real baby, she went through a bit of a shock.  For a couple months, she walked around like she was in constant pain, trembling and with an arched back.  Again, we thought she would die, and I took her to the vet three times.  Each time the vet found nothing wrong with her.  In the end, she recovered, and we attributed it to sibling rivalry.  And once Minnie discovered that this new baby provided a constant source of snacks, all was well.

Minnie was Grace’s first playmate.

And when Grace was in first grade and dressed up like the Grinch, Minnie got to be Max.  Daddy decided that Max needed to be brown, not white, so he dyed Minnie with henna.  Except…she didn’t turn brown, she turned orange.  And she stayed orange for months.

Minnie gave us two litters of puppies.  

Four in the first set.

And three in the second.

I gotta say, not much is cuter than Jack Russell puppies.  They all went to friends and we still see many of them regularly.

A few years ago, Minnie broke her leg.  (Well, her leg was actually run over, but that’s another story.)  The vet made a house call and sedated Minnie on our coffee table while he set her leg.  Grace got to assist.  Since then, she never liked using her back leg.

Minnie killed lots of critters, like any good Jack Russell.  She was loyal and faithful and she loved us, even after we would leave for the States for months or even a year.

Last Saturday night, I could tell that Minnie wasn’t feeling well.  We worried about her all day Sunday, and on Monday I took her to the vet.  He couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, but gave her antibiotics and was optimistic.  

Tuesday morning, I could tell that she had deteriorated.  As soon as we got home from school, Lily and I jumped in the car and rushed to the vet.  She died in Lily’s arms minutes before we arrived.  Ironically, she died on the same day that her second litter was born, six years ago.

Minnie used to sleep in the kids’ room.  But in the last several years, we had such a battle with ticks that Minnie spent most of her time outside.  She and I had a nightly ritual when I would pull off about 25 ticks from her small body…every day.  Thankfully, this last year she was finally tick-free. 

I’m not really a dog person.  We’ve always had dogs because they are important for security in Tanzania.  We’ve had four other dogs die in the last few years, most of whom came to us when they were much older–and I really wasn’t terribly traumatized.  But Minnie is the only one we’ve had since she was a puppy.  She was with us twelve years.  She’s shared our family history since before we even had children.

Losing Minnie makes me feel very old.  Like I suddenly have an awareness of how much time has passed.  It’s so strange not having her around.

So I miss her.  She was a good dog.

Choosing the Desert

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On December 3, 2017

In Other

“Unlike many in the world, I’ve had the incredible privilege of never needing to worry about my daily bread.  Perhaps that’s why God allowed me to be deprived of my daily sleep.  And there are a myriad of other ways we can be sent into the desert involuntarily—cancer, hurricane, betrayal.”

I wrote how Choosing Missions Means Choosing the Desert at A Life Overseas.  But I think this post applies to any0ne who has chosen the desert–and that can look like adoption or foster care (or maybe parenting in general!) or church ministry or any kind of sacrifice made in the name of the Kingdom of God.

So this post is dedicated to those who, for any reason, have chosen the desert.  May God meet you there and show himself as your Bread of Life.

Missions Means Choosing the Desert

Earlier this year, I went through a season of insomnia.  A chaotic furlough, a new job, and lots of life change brought on anxiety, which bred sleeplessness, which bred more anxiety, until I was a mess.

I lay awake many nights and begged God, “You know I need to sleep.  You know I can’t function without it.  I believe you want me to be productive.  So why won’t you help me sleep?”

And the Word of God spoke to me through Deuteronomy 6:



Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands.

There I was, wandering in the desert, feeling desperate, crushed, and abandoned by God.  Until I remembered that the desert is the very best place for God to meet me.   



He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna….to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.



God caused you to hunger.  Just like sleep, bread is necessary for life itself, yet God wanted his people to remember that their very existence depended on God and his Word.

Thousands of years later, our Savior voluntarily went into the desert, and learned for himself that man does not live by bread alone.  And not long after that, he stood tall and declared himself to be our Bread of Life, sent down from Heaven.

Unlike many in the world, I’ve had the incredible privilege of never needing to worry about my daily bread.  Perhaps that’s why God allowed me to be deprived of my daily sleep.  And there are a myriad of other ways we can be sent into the desert involuntarily—cancer, hurricane, betrayal.



As insomnia helped me to understand the value of the desert, I realized that choosing missions is one of the ways we voluntarily choose the desert. 

In choosing missions, we leave behind our support structures:  family, church, friends.

Choosing missions means learning new ways of survival:  how to communicate, how to care for our children, how to provide for our basic needs.  Most of the time, we give up many of the comforts of home, whether it be as simple as McDonald’s Playland or as complex as feeling understood by the people around us.

Missions sometimes means we find ourselves in a spiritual wasteland:  a city where we are one of only handful of believers.  Where the oppression, whether seen or unseen, lies heavy on our shoulders.

Choosing missions means choosing the life of a stranger, an outsider.  We are often misunderstood.  We often feel alone, and as time goes by, we often feel disconnected in our “home” countries as well.  Like it did for our Savior, the desert brings on temptation strong and thick.  But unlike our Savior, we often cave to it.

So why, why, why do we choose this life?  Why on earth would we choose this desert? 

Because man does not live by bread alone, or cream cheese, or even Starbucks.  Man does not live by running water, or air conditioning, or indoor heating.  He is not sustained by paved roads, or fast internet, or stylish clothes.  He even does not live by English education for his kids, by real turkey on Thanksgiving or by cold Christmases and the smell of pine trees.

No.



We live by every Word that comes from the mouth of God. 

Click hereto read the rest.  

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