Remember Slavoj Žižek's brilliant take on Titanic? The philosopher argued that Rose, the wealthy socialite, needed Jack's lower-class vitality to restore her ego and sense of purpose. Once Jack served his function of making her feel alive, the iceberg conveniently solved Rose's dilemma – saving her from the "dangerous" prospect of actually marrying someone beneath her station.
Sound familiar?
The recent freeze on USAID funding exposes a similar dynamic in international relations. The United States, like Rose, enjoys the moral superiority that comes with being the benevolent provider to lower-income countries. We get to feel generous, righteous, and important – until we don't.
With a simple executive order, the Trump administration threatened billions in aid programs across the world. Programs fighting HIV/AIDS, supporting vulnerable communities, and building infrastructure were suddenly left adrift. The message? These relationships exist at our convenience.
A federal judge may have temporarily thawed this freeze, but the damage to trust is done. The ease with which these commitments were discarded reveals the uncomfortable truth: much of our "aid" architecture may be more about feeding American ego than creating sustainable partnerships.
And let's be honest about what we witnessed with the USAID freeze – the casual flexing of imperial muscle. With a stroke of a pen, thousands of healthcare workers were dismissed, life-saving programs suspended, and decades of relationship-building jeopardized. Organizations like The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) in Uganda, which receives half its funding from USAID, were left scrambling as their clients faced "panic, fear, and anxiety" about continued access to treatment.
This cavalier approach to international commitments betrays a fundamental misunderstanding – or perhaps disregard – for what these relationships actually mean on the ground. When we speak of "foreign aid," we're not discussing abstract budget lines but real human lives interwoven with American promises. The ability to disrupt these relationships so abruptly suggests they were never valued as true partnerships to begin with.
The Savior Industrial Complex
American foreign aid has long suffered from what some critics call the "savior industrial complex" – the self-congratulatory notion that we are rescuing the less fortunate through our benevolence. This framing conveniently ignores the complex historical and economic factors that created global inequality in the first place, many of which involved American and Western exploitation of resources and markets.
When countries become dependent on American aid – often by design rather than accident – we create power dynamics that mirror colonial relationships. The provider maintains control, dictates terms, and can withdraw support at any moment. The recipient must remain grateful, compliant, and forever in our debt, both literally and figuratively. Is it any wonder that such arrangements breed resentment even as they create dependency?
Perhaps most disturbing is how easily global health initiatives became political pawns. HIV/AIDS programs that took decades to build, that represent significant diplomatic as well as humanitarian achievements, were imperiled overnight not because of their effectiveness or importance, but because they made convenient bargaining chips in domestic political games.
The 90-day review period announced by the administration wasn't about improving aid efficiency – it was theater. If genuine program improvement were the goal, targeted evaluations with contingency plans would have preceded any funding adjustments. Instead, we witnessed the diplomatic equivalent of flipping the game board because you're losing – regardless of the consequences for those relying on the outcome.
This episode highlights the fundamental double standard in how we approach international commitments versus domestic ones. Imagine if Social Security checks were suddenly frozen for 90 days while the government "evaluated the program." The political backlash would be immediate and severe. Yet when it comes to commitments made to international partners, we treat these promises as optional and conditional.
This double standard reveals a troubling hierarchy of whose lives and needs matter. American voters' immediate concerns trump the life-or-death healthcare needs of HIV patients in Uganda. This approach isn't just morally questionable – it's strategically shortsighted, eroding America's standing and influence abroad.
The damage extends far beyond the immediate program disruptions. We've created what might be called a "trust deficit crisis." Every current and potential international partner now must factor in the possibility that American commitments could vanish without warning. This uncertainty will make cooperation more difficult across every domain – from health initiatives to security partnerships to climate agreements.
The iceberg has revealed structural flaws in our approach. Now we must decide whether to address them or continue sailing toward disaster – this time with the whole world aboard.
