Susan Appe, University at Albany, State University of New York

The U.S. government gives other nations US$68 billion of foreign assistance annually – more than any other country. Over half of this sum is managed by the U.S. Agency for International Development, including funds for programs aimed at fighting hunger and disease outbreaks, providing humanitarian relief in war zones, and supporting other lifesaving programs such as the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief.

President Donald Trump suspended most U.S. foreign aid on Jan. 20, 2025, the day he took office for the second time. The next day, Secretary of State Marco Rubio issued a stop-work order that for 90 days halted foreign aid funding disbursements by agencies like USAID.

A week later, dozens of senior USAID officials were put on leave after the Trump administration reportedly accused them of trying to “circumvent” the aid freeze. The Office of Management and Budget is now pausing and evaluating all foreign aid to see whether it adheres to the Trump administration’s policies and priorities.

I’m a scholar of foreign aid who researches what happens to the U.S. government’s local partners in the countries receiving this assistance when funding flows are interrupted. Most of these partners are local nonprofits that build schools, vaccinate children, respond to emergencies and provide other key goods and services. These organizations often rely on foreign funding.

A ‘reckless’ move

Aid to Egypt and Israel was spared, along with some emergency food aid. The U.S. later waived the stop-work order for the distribution of lifesaving medicines.

Nearly all of the other aid programs remained on hold as of Jan. 29, 2025.

Many development professionals criticized the freeze, highlighting the disruption it will cause in many countries. A senior USAID official issued an anonymous statement calling it “reckless.”

InterAction, the largest coalition of international nongovernmental organizations in the U.S., called the halt contrary to U.S. global leadership and values.

Of the $35 billion to $40 billion in aid that USAID distributes annually, $22 billion is delivered through grants and contracts with international organizations to implement programs. These can be further subcontracted to local partners in recipient countries.

When this aid is frozen, scaled back or cut off altogether, these local partners scramble to fill in the gaps.

The State Department manages the rest of the $68 billion in annual U.S. foreign aid, along with other agencies, such as the Peace Corps.

How local nonprofits respond and adapt

While sudden disruptions to foreign aid are always destabilizing, research shows that aid flows have fluctuated since 1960, growing more volatile over the years. My research partners and I have found that these disruptions harm local service providers, although many of them manage to carry on their work.

Over the years, I have conducted hundreds of interviews with international nongovernmental organizations and these nonprofits’ local partners across Latin America, Africa and Asia about their services and funding sources. I study the strategies those development and humanitarian assistance groups follow when aid gets halted. These four are the most common.

1. Shift to national or local government funding

In many cases, national and local governments end up supporting groups that previously relied on foreign aid, filling the void.

An educational program spearheaded by a local Ecuadorian nonprofit, Desarrollo y Autogestión, called Accelerated Basic Cycle is one example. This program targets young people who have been out of school for more than three years. It allows them to finish elementary school – known as the “basic cycle” in Ecuador – in one year to then enter high school. First supported in part by funding from foreign governments, it transitioned to being fully funded by Ecuador’s government and then became an official government program run by the country’s ministry of education.

2. Earn income

Local nonprofits can also earn income by charging fees for their services or selling goods, which allows them to fulfill their missions while generating some much-needed cash.

For example, SEND Ghana is a development organization that has promoted good governance and equality in Ghana since its founding in 1998. In 2009, SEND Ghana created a for-profit subsidiary called SENDFiNGO that administers microfinance programs and credit unions. That subsidiary now helps fund SEND Ghana’s work.

Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee and the Grameen Bank, which is also in Bangladesh, use this approach too.

3. Tap local philanthropy

Networks such as Worldwide Initiatives for Grantmaker Support and Global Fund for Community Foundations have emerged to promote local philanthropy around the world. They press governments to adopt policies that encourage local philanthropy. This kind of giving has become easier to do thanks to the emergence of crowdfunding platforms.

Still, complex tax systems and the lack of incentives for giving in many countries that receive foreign aid are persistent challenges. Some governments have stepped in. India’s corporate social responsibility law, enacted in 2014, boosted charitable incentives. For example, it requires 2% of corporate profits to go to social initiatives in India.

4. Obtain support from diaspora communities

Diasporas are people who live outside of their countries of origin, or where their families came from, but maintain strong ties to places they consider to be their homeland.

Local nonprofits around the globe are leveraging diaspora communities’ desire to contribute to economic development in their countries of origin. In Colombia, for example, Fundación Carla Cristina, a nongovernmental organization, runs nursery schools and provides meals to low-income children.

It gets some of its funding from diaspora-led nonprofits in the U.S., such as the New England Association for Colombian Children, which is based outside of Boston, and Give To Colombia in Miami.

A push for the locals to do more

Trump’s stop-work order coincided with a resurgence of a localization push that’s currently influencing foreign aid from many countries.

With localization, nations providing foreign aid seek to increase the role of local authorities and organizations in development and humanitarian assistance. USAID has been a leading proponent of localization.

I believe that the abruptness of the stop-work order is likely to disrupt many development projects. These projects include support to Ukrainian aid groups that provide emergency humanitarian assistance and projects serving meals to children who don’t get enough to eat.

To be sure, sometimes there are good reasons for aid to be halted. But when that happens, sound and responsible donor exit strategies are essential to avoid the loss of important local services.

Susan Appe, Associate Professor of Public Administration and Policy, University at Albany, State University of New York

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Yalda T. Uhls, University of California, Los Angeles

After many years of partisan politics, increasingly divisive language, finger-pointing and inflammatory speech have contributed to an environment of fear and uncertainty, affecting not just political dynamics but also the priorities and perceptions of young people.

As a developmental psychologist who studies the intersection of media and adolescent mental health, and as a mother of two Gen Z kids, I have seen firsthand how external societal factors can profoundly shape young people’s emotional well-being.

This was brought into sharp relief through the results of a recent survey my colleagues and I conducted with 1,644 young people across the U.S., ages 10 to 24. The study was not designed as a political poll but rather as a window into what truly matters to adolescents. We asked participants to rate the importance of 14 personal goals. These included classic teenage desires such as “being popular,” “having fun” and “being kind.”

None of these ranked as the top priority. Instead, the No. 1 answer was “to be safe.”

What was once taken for granted

The findings are both illuminating and heartbreaking. As a teenager, I did countless unsafe things. My peers and I didn’t dwell on harm; we chased fun and freedom.

Whereas previous generations may have taken safety for granted, today’s youth are growing up in an era of compounded crises — school shootings, a worsening climate crisis, financial uncertainty and the lingering trauma of a global pandemic. Even though our research did not pinpoint the specific causes of adolescent fears, the constant exposure to crises, amplified by social media, likely plays a significant role in fostering a pervasive sense of worry.

Despite data showing that many aspects of life are safer now than in previous generations, young people just don’t feel it. Their perception of danger is further shaped by events like the recent fires that devastated Los Angeles, reinforcing a belief that danger, possibly caused by global crises like climate change, lurks everywhere.

This shift in perspective has profound implications for the future of this generation and those to come.

Especially vulnerable time

Adolescence, like early childhood, is a pivotal period for brain development. Young people are particularly sensitive to their surroundings as their brains evaluate the environment to prepare them for independence.

This developmental stage – when the capacity to regulate emotions and critically assess information is still maturing – makes them especially vulnerable to enduring impacts.

Studies show that adolescents struggle to put threats into context. This makes them particularly vulnerable to fear-driven messaging prevalent in both traditional and social media, which is further amplified by political rhetoric and blame-shifting. This vulnerability has implications for their mental health, as prolonged exposure to fear and uncertainty has been linked to increased rates of anxiety, depression and even physical health issues.

So when the media that Gen Z consumes are dominated by fear – be it through headlines, social media posts, political rhetoric or even storylines in movies and TV – it could shape their worldview in ways that may reverberate for generations to come.

Enduring generational impact

Historical events have long been shown to shape the worldview of entire generations.

For instance, the Great Depression primarily impacted the daily lives of the Silent Generation, those born between 1928 and 1945. Moreover, its long-term effects on financial attitudes and security concerns echoed into the Baby Boomer generation, influencing how those born between 1946 and 1964 approached money, stability and risk throughout their lives.

Similarly, today’s adolescents, growing up amid a series of compounded global crises, will likely carry the imprint of this period of heightened fear and uncertainty well into adulthood. This formative experience could shape their mental health, decision-making and even their collective identity and values for decades to come.

In addition, feelings of insecurity and instability can make people more responsive to fear-based messaging, which could potentially influence their political and social choices. In an era marked by the rise of authoritarian governments, this susceptibility could have far-reaching implications because fear often drives individuals to prioritize immediate safety over moral or ideological ideals.

As such, these dynamics may profoundly shape how this generation engages with the world, the causes they champion and the leaders they choose to follow.

Room for optimism?

Interestingly, “being kind” was rated No. 2 in our survey, irrespective of other demographics. While safety dominates their priorities, adolescents still value qualities that foster connection and community.

This finding indicates a duality in their aspirations: While they feel a pervasive sense of danger, they also recognize the importance of interpersonal relationships and emotional well-being.

Our findings are a call to look at the broader societal context shaping adolescent development. For instance, the rise in school-based safety drills, while intended to provide a sense of preparedness, may unintentionally reinforce feelings of insecurity. Similarly, the apocalyptic narrative around climate change may create a sense of powerlessness that could further compound their fears and leave them wanting to bury their heads in the sand.

Understanding how these perceptions are formed and their implications for mental health, decision-making and behavior is essential for parents, storytellers, policymakers and researchers.

I believe we must also consider how societal systems contribute to the pervasive sense of uncertainty and fear among youth. Further research can help untangle the complex relationship between external stressors, media consumption and youth well-being, shedding light on how to best support adolescents during this formative stage of life.

Yalda T. Uhls, Founder and Executive Director of the Center for Scholars & Storytellers and Assistant Adjunct Professor in Psychology, University of California, Los Angeles

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Alexandra Moore, Binghamton University, State University of New York and Elizabeth Swanson, Babson College

When Moath al-Alwi left Guantánamo Bay for resettlement in Oman, accompanying him on his journey was a cache of artwork he created during more than two decades of detention.

Al-Alwi was detainee number “028” – an indication that he was one of the first to arrive at the U.S. military prison off Cuba after it opened in January 2002. His departure from the detention center on Jan. 6, 2025, along with 10 fellow inmates, was part of an effort to reduce the prison’s population before the end of President Joe Biden’s term.

For al-Alwi, it meant freedom not only for himself, but also for his artwork. While not all detainees shared his passion, creating art was not an uncommon pursuit inside Guantánamo – indeed it has been a feature, formally and informally, of the detention center since its opening more than 20 years ago.

As editors of the recently published book “The Guantánamo Artwork and Testimony of Moath al-Alwi: Deaf Walls Speak,” we found that art-making in Guantánamo was more than self-expression; it became a testament to detainees’ emotions and experiences and influenced relationships inside the detention center. Examining the art offers unique ways of understanding conditions inside the facility.

Art from tea bags and toilet paper

Detained without charge or trial for 23 years, al-Alwi was first cleared for release in December 2021. Due to unstable conditions in his home country of Yemen, however, his transfer was subject to finding another country for resettlement. Scheduled for release in early October 2023, he and 10 other Yemeni detainees were further delayed when the Biden administration canceled the flight due to concerns over the political climate after the Oct. 7 attacks in Israel.

During his detention, al-Alwi suffered abuse and ill treatment, including forced feedings. Making art was a way for him, and others, to survive and assert their humanity, he said. Along with fellow former detainees Sabri al-Qurashi, Ahmed Rabbani, Muhammad Ansi and Khalid Qasim, among others, al-Alwi became an accomplished artist while being held. His work was featured in several art shows and in a New York Times opinion documentary short

During the detention center’s early years, these men used whatever materials were at hand to create artwork – the edge of a tea bag to write on toilet paper, an apple stem to imprint floral and geometric patterns and poems onto Styrofoam cups, which the authorities would destroy after each meal.

In 2010, the Obama administration began offering art classes at Guantánamo in an attempt to show the world they were treating prisoners humanely and helping them occupy their time.

However, those attending were given only rudimentary supplies. And they were subjected to invasive body searches to and from class and initially shackled to the floor, with one hand chained to the table, throughout each session. Furthermore, the subject matter for their art was restricted – detainees were forbidden from representing certain aspects of their detention, and all artwork was subject to approval and risked being destroyed.

Despite this, many detainees participated in the classes for camaraderie and the opportunity to engage in some form of creative expression.

A window to freedom

Making art served many purposes. Mansoor Adayfi, a former Guantánamo Bay detainee and author of “Don’t Forget Us Here: Lost and Found at Guantanamo,” wrote in his contribution to the book on al-Alwi that initially, “we painted what we missed: the beautiful blue sky, the sea, stars. We painted our fear, hope and dreams.”

Those who have been transferred from Guantánamo describe the art as a way to express their appreciation for culture, the natural world and their families while imprisoned by a regime that consistently characterized them as violent and inhuman.

The Statue of Liberty became a frequent motif Guantánamo artists deployed to communicate the betrayal of U.S. laws and ideals. Often, Lady Liberty was depicted in distress – drowning, shackled or hooded. For Sabri al-Qurashi, the symbol of freedom under duress represented his own condition when he painted it. “I am in prison, not free, and without any rights,” he told us.

Other times, the artwork responded directly to the men’s day-to-day conditions of confinement.

One of al-Alwi’s early pieces was a model of a three-dimensional window. Approximately 40 x 55 inches, the window was filled in with images carefully torn from nature and travel magazines, and layered to create depth, so that it appeared to look out on an island with a house with palm and coconut trees made from twisted pieces of rope and soap.

Al-Alwi was initially allowed to keep it in his windowless cell, and fellow detainees and guards would visit to “look out” the window.

But, as far as we know, it was eventually lost or destroyed in a prison raid.

Art as representation and respite

In another example of how artwork can be an expression of what former detainees call their “brotherhood,” Khalid Qasim, who was imprisoned at the age of 23 and held for more than two decades before being transferred alongside al-Alwi, mixed coffee grounds and coarse sand to create a series of nine textured, evocative paintings to memorialize each of the nine men who died while held at Guantánamo.

Especially in periods when camp rules allowed detainees to create artwork in their cells, the artists’ use of prison detritus and found objects made the artwork more than simply a depiction of what the men lacked, desired or imagined. Artwork helped create an alternative forum for the men’s experiences, especially for those artists who, along with the vast majority of Guantánamo’s 779 detainees, never faced charge or trial.

The pieces served as symbols and metaphors of the detainees’ experiences. For example, al-Alwi describes his 2015 large model ship, The Ark, as fighting against the waves of an imagined, threatening sea. In creating it, he wrote, “I felt I was rescuing myself.”

Constructed out of the materials of his imprisonment, the work also points to the conditions of his daily life in Guantánamo. Made from the strands of mops, unraveled prayer cap and T-shirt threads, bottle caps, bits of sponges and cardboard from meal packaging, al-Alwi’s ships – he went on to create at least seven – reveal both his artistic ingenuity and his circumstances.

Guantánamo artists talk about the artwork as being imprisoned like them and subjected to the same restrictions and seemingly arbitrary processes of approval or disappearance.

The transfer to Oman of al-Alwi and his artwork releases both from those processes. It also creates an opportunity to inform the public about what Guantánamo meant to those who were held there, and to the 15 men who remain.

Alexandra Moore, Professor of Human Rights in Literary and Cultural Studies, Binghamton University, State University of New York and Elizabeth Swanson, Professor of Arts & Humanities, Babson College

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.