Caring in an uncaring world

Caring in an Uncaring World

I’ve been struck in recent years by the lack of care many of us hold for one another. Whether it’s central government continually targeting the most vulnerable in society with their never ending austerity-led cuts or the rampant consumerism that’s overtaking every aspect of our lives, we are fast losing the sense of community upon which we used to rely to help us out in our time of need.

My reflections have led me to wonder what would it look like for people to live with genuine care for one another; sharing skills, resources and time while living more closely in tune with the natural rhythms of the world?

My Caring Community

Recently, I’ve been noticing small but powerful signs of this kind of care bubbling away in my own community. There are multiple monthly Repair Cafés, where broken items are mended for free by skilled volunteers. Instead of tossing something away, people gather, fix, share stories and advice and reconnect with the idea that nothing needs to be disposable.

Then there’s a community café, a place where care is woven directly into its business model. The staff are a mix of locals and refugees and the all vegetarian menu is delightfully culturally diverse. Refugee Action, a national charity with volunteers in caring communities around the UK, gathers there weekly. Volunteers sit with newcomers to help with English, fill in applications, and, just as importantly, eat together. Cultures are exchanged across a shared table and connection is fostered through food.

This week I went to the season’s launch party of our local community-run fringe theatre. I’ll be starting as a volunteer there soon. The venue is a testament to what happens when people commit themselves to creating spaces of belonging; local artists, supporters, and volunteers coming together to keep culture and creativity alive outside of mainstream institutions. I even spoke with a local councillor who, as the town’s anti-racism lead, has faced fierce nationwide backlash for proposing that our area become a City of Sanctuary. The fact that such a vision is met with hostility says much about the political and social divides running through our communities at present.

And the examples keep coming. I’ve learned of a community hub offering everything from martial arts classes to menopause support groups and English lessons. I’ve met Karen, who runs a gardening project in a local park, creating opportunities for those experiencing isolation or mental health challenges to connect with nature, each other and themselves. There’s also a not-for-profit community hub that is home to a cafe, sustainable and affordable food shop, creative co-working spaces and even a games room and support people into work through employment and training opportunities they provide on site.

These are not grand gestures but quiet, persistent acts of care that ripple outward.

The Uncaring Politics of Division

At the same time, the wider picture feels bleak. British flags hang outside pubs and along streets; once a symbol of national pride, but increasingly co-opted into a banner of exclusion and hostility. With the rise of the Reform Party and the emboldening of rhetoric that thrives on “othering,” the conversation around refugees in particular has grown harsher, angrier and less rooted in truth or compassion. Facts and figures rarely matter in the face of fear.

It’s a lot to hold, and requires a lot to fight back against. Indeed, on some days when you see more and more videos of far-right activists angrily protesting against asylum seekers outside hotels, against those fleeing the kind of persecution most of us will be lucky enough to never experience, it feels overwhelming to witness just how uncaring the world can be. And yet, these small, local acts remind me that another way is possible.

Introducing The Care Manifesto

I’ve been reading The Care Manifesto: The Politics of Interdependence, which begins with the sobering acknowledgment that we are indeed living in an uncaring world. Capitalism’s prioritisation of profit over people has pushed us into a culture of competition, encouraging hyper-individualism. Over time, many of us have forgotten, or been encouraged to forget, the deep necessity of collective care. The COVID-19 pandemic revealed just how fragile our social fabric has become (which I wrote about here), but it also reminded us that care is not optional: it is what sustains life.

For me, this ethos is the inspiration behind This Mortal Life. If life is finite, then surely how we live, and how we care for one another, matters profoundly. I don’t want to be swept along by the tide of indifference. I want to live as though community matters, as though generosity matters, as though care itself is the foundation of a life well lived.

The Care Manifesto offers a radical vision: placing care at the very heart of politics, culture and daily living. That vision resonates deeply with me. I believe it’s the antidote to despair; the practice that makes hope tangible. And I don’t believe we offer care based on merit, or where someone was born or the colour of their skin. I believe we can, and should, give a damn, about our neighbours whether they give a damn about us or not.

Taking Action Towards More Care

So I ask again: what would it look like if we chose to care in an uncaring world? What would it mean for us, here in my little community, and beyond, to create a culture where no one is disposable, where resources are shared and where we live with greater harmony with each other and with the earth?

For me, caring is attempting to get to know my neighbours, even though for many of them, having a friendly conversation is an alien concept. It’s offering them my surplus lemons to go with their gin and tonics I have learned they enjoy most evenings. Afterall, sharing is caring.

It’s buying gifts from my local makers market, instead of from Amazon. It’s taking a bag with me on my beach walks and picking up plastic litter as I come across it. And it’s volunteering in my community, even if it’s just once or twice a month, to get to know new, like-minded people while supporting a worthwhile community initiative.

All of these small acts, and more, are the driving force behind This Mortal Life, where I aim to create opportunities for people to come together and share, to be more present with nature and its rhythms, to build supportive networks that encourage and uplift in the face of isolation and fear.

I know I’m not alone in wanting this. The question is, are you with me?