Thesis Chapter: Profitable Collaborations & Commodification of Victimhood

This is an excerpt from my thesis where I develop the idea "Commodification of Victimhood" a concept that arose during my fieldwork in post-earthquake Adıyaman.

A photo from mount Nemrut in Adıyaman, a UNESCO cultural heritage site and one of the only tourist attractions Adıyaman is known for. I visited there with my collaborators in August 2023. It was an unforgettable experience, a good one, unlike what will be told in the following text.

Commodification of Victimhood

I met many remarkable people during my fieldwork, and Berzan was one of them. He was a significant supporter throughout my research, actively introducing me to individuals who could benefit my study and taking me along whenever he visited the city centre or the container settlements. As someone who had started as a volunteer and later became a paid employee of the NGO, Berzan was responsible for coordinating volunteers in the field. Confident and outgoing, he had a talent for networking and building connections with various people and organisations. So, when he said, “Get in the car; we are going to meet someone who could be beneficial for your research,” while driving a van filled with aid boxes, I knew our trip would be a defining moment in my research. That day, he took me to a support container for women, established through a collaboration between Hearts for Society, the NGO I was volunteering with, and a multinational Fast Moving Consumer Goods (FMCG) company named Pluriscope. After about thirty minutes of driving, we arrived at the container settlement. We parked in front of a bright pink container labelled “Young Women Support Centre,” with stickers displaying the logos of Hearts for Society and Pluriscope.

This was the day I met Arjin, another one of the brilliant people I met. She was not living in the warehouse with us, so I have never had the chance to meet her before, despite hearing her name several times before. As we unloaded the supplies, a young woman welcomed us. Arjin, a university student around 20 years old, had recently started working there and was finalising preparations to open the centre.  Like many others, she was a victim of the earthquake who had volunteered in the warehouse before starting her full-time role here until universities reopened in the fall.  During our conversation after dropping off supplies, whenever Berzan and Arjin discussed field-related problems, she would immediately contact the necessary contacts to resolve the issue. I was impressed by her dedication and confidence at such a young age, which also attracted the interest of other organisations. 

As we sat in the support centre, I mostly listened to Arjin and Berzan, as Berzan often took the lead in conversations. We spent time there until six o'clock, waiting for Arjin's shift to end. As soon as the clock struck six, we left the centre. Arjin joined us on the way back to the warehouse, where she was scheduled to meet with visitors from an NGO specialising in women's rights, who were staying there for the week. However, by the time we returned, the visitors had already left for an activity in one of the tented communities, which allowed me to speak more with Arjin. 

We sat together with Miraz, one of the most dedicated volunteers I had met in the warehouse.  We were on the balcony, where the intense heat had given way to a pleasant, warm breeze as the sun set, creating an ideal atmosphere for our conversation.  I took this opportunity to inquire about the collaboration between Hearts for Society and Pluriscope and how the support centre had come into existence. She explained that there was an open space for NGOs to provide psychosocial support to the victims, particularly in the container settlements where public institutions had not established such centres. She also mentioned that governmental institutions would reach out to NGOs during the planning stage of the container settlements to inquire if they had any projects that needed a container within these settlements. This indicated that the government recognised its own limitations and actively sought to address them by involving NGOs in planning social activities and establishing support services in the temporary settlements. 

While Arjin’s remarks suggested an environment open to collaborations between public and private organisations, she continued to share her experiences with the Turkish Red Crescent staff, which was heavily affiliated with the governmental institutions (as explained in the introduction) who were working in the same container settlement as she was:

•  “I heard they were holding daily knitting workshops, so I met them, hoping we could collaborate. When I asked about it, they said, 'No, we do not need this right now. We would appreciate your considering our schedule when planning your activities.' They do this to ensure they are the only ones doing something, preventing other NGOs from contributing.”

The following chapter will cover this multifaceted relationship between governmental institutions, organisations with close ties to them, and NGOs in the field in more depth. 

After learning about the rationale behind opening the support centre, I asked Arjin for her thoughts on the presence of for-profit companies in the field and their collaborations with NGOs. Given her role as an employee involved in one such partnership, I was particularly interested in her perspective. I started by asking: 

• “What do you think about brands requesting photos of us distributing their products to survivors or promoting themselves when they fund activities in the field?”

• “The principle here is not to do anything that would harm an individual’s dignity.” 

It was as if she had been anticipating this question. I followed up:

• “Is taking photos and collecting data on victims appropriate?”

• “These photos benefit the brand's public relations and create awareness of them and the situation here. Owing to these effects, attracting more donations and aid here becomes more feasible. We are okay with it because we know this.” 

Noticing my perplexity, she continued to explain:

• “Brands are here for their brand image. When consumers see their products in the supermarket, what sets one brand apart  from another is the perception of 'we were there, we did not leave you alone.'”

Miraz agreed with her by saying:

• “Advertisement is always good.”

At that point, more people began joining us on the balcony to spend the evening together, bringing my conversation with Arjin to a close. However, I was still taken aback by Arjin and Miraz's acceptance of companies using the situation to enhance their brand image. The idea that the government should cover all the relief efforts, thus leaving less room for for-profit companies, seemed out of the question. However, then, what was the role of the state? Why was there no discussion about how profiting from people’s pain and despair had become normalised?

Arjin mentioned that “the NGO's essential duty is to be where the state is not and to do what the state cannot.” However, where do we draw the line between mutually beneficial and efficient collaboration for the well-being of citizens and the excessive shifting of responsibility without considering the implications for those in need of these social services beyond times of emergency?

The theoretical framework chapter explained that “Disaster Capitalism” was a specific form of capitalism where the government leverages the state of emergency to advance its neoliberal policies and further the political and economic interest of the capitalist elites, relying on the exceptionality of the situation (Schuller & Maldonado, 2016, p. 62). This process allows businesses to profit from the tragedies of a disaster and create financial opportunies (Adams, 2013, p. 7).  

The concept of disaster capitalism is apparent both before and after the Turkish earthquake. However, Arjin's perspective sheds light on a slightly different aspect of disaster capitalism than typically discussed. Instead of focusing on companies aiming to profit from large-scale government-managed projects like reconstruction contracts, the emphasis here is how victims become the subjects of profit-making ventures by businesses offering aid. Many for-profit firms involved in the relief efforts exploited the victims' vulnerable conditions under the guise of corporate social responsibility, using the situation to enhance their brand image and boost their sales. In contrast, the actual aid provided to the victims was worth only a fraction of the benefits these companies potentially gained.

Contextually, the earthquake struck one of Türkiye's less developed regions, which did not significantly affect the purchasing power in the more economically developed Western areas. This presented a short-term opportunity for businesses to expand their presence in the West by supporting relief efforts in the East. Additionally, as Arjin noted, residents of earthquake-affected areas are likely to favour brands that have actively participated in relief efforts over time. Companies can arguably gain more than they invest by aiding those in need and incorporating their involvement into their communication strategies. Even if their contributions are not as substantial as portrayed, their ability to control the narrative around their activities allows them to enhance their brand image and profitability. At the very least, they could deduce some of their expenses from their taxes (Uçar, 2023). 

As part of the disaster capitalism paradigm, I will define this process as the commodification of victimhood. This term describes instances where an individual’s access to aid becomes contingent upon the documentation and public display of their interactions with a company's relief efforts. Prominent examples of this commodification include situations where companies "gift" items to event participants while ensuring that the moment is recorded or when they require NGOs to collect data about recipients of their products, including photos of the products being held by victims. An ethnographic example of the commodification of victimhood will be explored further in this chapter.

The concept of the commodification of victimhood critically analyses the for-profit sector’s humanitarian involvement while strategically enhancing its brand image and profitability by appealing to a broader audience. This aligns with Foucault’s interpretation of Homo Economicus, where the neoliberal subject sees themselves as an entrepreneur, an entrepreneur of themselves, being their own capital (Foucault 2008, 226).

My understanding of the commodification of victimhood mirrors this neoliberal expectation, where individuals, through their victim status, become a specific kind of capital. Drawing on Bourdieu’s theory on capital and his terminology (Bourdieu, 1986), the status of being a victim becomes symbolic capital that can be turned into economic capital if the individual plays the role of a neoliberal subject who invests in themselves properly.

On the other hand, acquiring resources related to victimhood status is contingent upon companies' activities in the field, which are inherently tied to their marketing strategies. Once these companies cease their operations, the aid provided to victims also halts, irrespective of the victims' recovery status. The value of the commodity—victimhood in this context—is dictated by its immediacy, how it is performed, and the priorities established by mainstream media agendas. This process mirrors the life cycle of a product, with the main distinction being that it involves individuals affected by a disaster.  This relationship highlights the connection between Homo Economicus as the entrepreneur of the self and the commodification of victimhood: victims must actively work to maintain the relevance of their victimhood. For corporations, the emphasis is on public reaction rather than the genuine recovery of victims. Consequently, victims are compelled to comply with increasing demands for showcasing the relief process. To sustain the earthquake narrative's relevance over time, firms must generate progressively sensational content, placing greater demands on the victims.

Explained plainly, this process is highly problematic, and indeed it is. However, it is not only the companies and NGOs that participate in this process; it is primarily the limited opportunities offered by neoliberal governance that push people to seek alternative means of survival. This dynamic will be further illustrated in the following ethnographic account, where I inadvertently became part of this process, effectively becoming a commodity myself through my role as a victim.

Becoming a Victim:

When Berzan informed me that Arjin had extended an invitation for Zeynep and me to attend the official opening of the Women’s Support Centre, I was eager to participate. The centre had been operational for a week, providing a space for women and children to read, study, and socialise. Arjin had also organised a couple of get-together sessions for the young women living in the container settlement where the centre was located. Arjin had also organised several social gatherings for the young women living in the container settlement where the centre was located. However, Pluriscope desired to hold an official opening to showcase the project's outcome with their representatives in attendance. I regarded this as an invaluable opportunity for my research to observe the event and the interactions between the earthquake victims and the Pluriscope representatives, so I enthusiastically accepted the invitation, assuming we would assist Arjin as volunteers. I soon realised this assumption was mistaken.

The evening before the event, Zeynep and I were informed that our invitation was primarily to ensure a well-attended event, as Arjin was concerned about a potentially low turnout. Consequently, we were also expected to participate in the arts and crafts activities planned for the day.  There was, however, a minor issue: the event was intended for earthquake survivors resettled in the container settlements where the centre was located, and neither Zeynep nor I were dwellers of the settlement. Zeynep, a fellow volunteer who had joined later in my fieldwork, quickly became a close friend. She was a university student from another city in western Turkey and had volunteered in the warehouse two months before. Despite Berzan’s lighthearted remarks about her being wild, Zeynep was, in reality, witty, humorous, and intelligent. Her distinct style and appearance made her stand out from the locals of Adıyaman. Nevertheless, we decided to attend and support Arjin in recognition of her efforts with the centre despite our awareness that we could not fully relate to the experiences of the settlement’s residents.

The following morning at 10:45, Zeynep and I arrived at the support centre, where Berzan had dropped us off. The centre was filled with people from the NGO’s headquarters in Istanbul, representatives from the partner firm, Arjin, women from the container settlement, and a two-person camera crew. Although we were all in the same room, not everyone was gathered around the table, which was set up with paints, brushes, and papers. While Zeynep, I, and the women from the settlement sat uneasily around the table, waiting for instructions, Pluriscope and Hearts for Society representatives observed us from across the room with smiles as if we were part of a spectacle. I felt as though I was an experimental subject under their scrutiny and wondered if others shared the same sentiment. After what seemed like an extended period, one of the representatives took the initiative to ask us to introduce ourselves around the circle.

The first person to introduce themselves was Zeynep. She began by honestly sharing her name, where she came from, and her field of study until the moderator asked, “But you are from here, right?” Reluctantly, Zeynep confirmed this. I saw her blushing. Then, it was my turn. I faced a dilemma. Although I did not want to lie, revealing that I was studying abroad might attract undue attention and suspicion. To avoid disappointing Arjin, I described my life from two years prior, when I was a 23-year-old university student in Istanbul. Thankfully, she skipped my turn without asking any further questions.

The other women around the table introduced themselves one by one. Unlike Zeynep and me, I believed they were genuine residents of the settlement and had experienced the earthquake firsthand. They did not seem bothered to be there, but many appeared reserved. After our introductions, the representatives began introducing themselves; they were not reserved. They were engaged, smiling and showing interest, and made efforts to facilitate conversation.

Following their introductions, the moderator explained why a camera crew was in the room. She stated, “What we are doing here today is so beautiful, and we would like to share this with our colleagues who are not here.” Apparently, they still needed a professional crew to record our memories despite the ubiquity of smartphones. She added, “We will only be recording visuals; you do not need to worry about your voice being captured.” Subsequently, she distributed three-page consent forms for us to sign, which required our names, surnames, and identification numbers. These forms indicated that our information, along with videos, photos, and audio recordings, could be used for various purposes, including social media, promotional activities, and internal communications.

Everyone in the room signed the papers with little to no reading. I chose to use a pseudonym and a false identification number, though I remained doubtful that this would prevent my information from being used on any platform. Once the forms were signed, the moderator addressed us again:

• “We saw you entering the centre in the morning. You looked so beautiful walking into the container. We did not manage to record that moment. Can you do it once more so that we can shoot it?”

We all stood up and went outside to re-enact our entry.  By then, it was noon, and the sun was blazing. It was around 41 degrees outside, and we had to line up under the scorching sun, waiting for the camera crew to prepare and re-enter one by one as though it were our first time.  It took two takes, after which one of the Pluriscope representatives said humorously, “These are the hardships of being an actor, but getting the shot in only two attempts is impressive.” Zeynep and I were growing increasingly uncomfortable. We were the only volunteers present at the centre, as male volunteers had been excluded to ensure the comfort of all the women during the event. However, the cameraman, who was male, was still present.

Eventually, we transitioned to the arts and crafts segment of the event, which started with a painting activity. A painting instructor assisted us in recreating sample illustrations she had found online. The session was frequently interrupted by the camera crew, who asked people to stand a certain way, repeat what they had just done, and interact with the teacher while representatives watched us from the other side of the room as if we were mice learning to paint. I tried my best to keep my composure, smile, and not make them uncomfortable. Suddenly, I realised the camera crew was placing the Pluriscope’s brochures around the table as we worked on our paintings, ensuring they were in the frame. Although I felt increasingly frustrated with the situation, the other women seemed relatively at ease, with some appearing even excited about being photographed. I had no clue what they were sincerely thinking—whether they were accustomed to this type of ordeal, simply happy to engage in a leisurely activity under limited circumstances, or if any of them shared my frustration. I could not find a moment away from the cameras and representatives to ask them about their feelings. The only thing I was sure of was that Zeynep felt the same way I did, as we had the opportunity to discuss this later. 

We continued the day with a beading workshop, followed by lunch. As with the painting session, we were frequently asked to pose for photos and videos. The final part of the day was an informational seminar on sexual and reproductive health. The male camera crew was asked to temporarily leave the room to ensure participants felt comfortable asking questions. The day's final segment was an informational seminar on sexual and reproductive health. The male camera crew was asked to leave temporarily to ensure a comfortable environment for questions. Some representatives had departed by this time, citing their busy schedules, while a few remained to observe.

After the Q&A session, as we were practising a self-breast exam, the camera crew returned to capture additional photos and videos. Once we were done with the self-breast exam, the representatives distributed "thank you" bags adorned with the brand's name to all the participants, including Zeynep and me. We already knew what was inside since Zeynep had packed them herself. The brand had provided travel-sized shampoos and combs, which Zeynep had individually placed into the bags before we brought them to the centre for the event.

Arjin informed us that before the event, many residents from the settlement had visited the centre to inquire about the products, likely due to the inclusion of the brand name Pluriscope in the support centre's title. This likely led them to expect that there would be some products available for giveaway. However, they have not received any items until that moment. Arjin recounted a previous occasion when she organised a "get-to-know" tea party with women from the settlement. During that event, one of the women called a friend in Kurdish, saying, "Do not come; they are not giving anything out." Helin, who understood Kurdish, overheard this remark without the women’s knowledge. Another woman criticised Arjin for inadequate preparation, particularly for failing to distribute shampoos by the brand.

On this occasion, the situation was different. Participants in the event and those who consented to be filmed were given travel-sized shampoos and combs as compensation—items that would barely last a week for a family. As Zeynep and I opened the boxes, we could not help but laugh at the irony of the situation, which attracted the videographer’s attention. He requested that we repeat our actions: smiling and displaying the box's contents for the camera. We complied with the request and played our assigned roles.

Despite my own reservations, everyone seemed satisfied with the day’s events. The earthquake survivors were pleased to receive some products and enjoy leisure activities amidst their numerous responsibilities and hardships. The representatives seemed content, both personally fulfilled by helping those in need and professionally satisfied with the favourable photos they had captured of the event. Overall, the exchange seemed mutually beneficial, though the benefits were notably uneven.

This ethnographic moment is a prime example of what I call the commodification of victimhood, wherein the precarity exposed by the earthquake becomes a commodity with exchange value. It is a particular process where others extract significant value from the victims' suffering while the victims themselves receive only the crumbs, assuming that they played their part well. This process is not unidirectional; it entails an exchange between companies and victims, which became necessary due to the government's failure to ensure the well-being of its citizens. For Arjin, it was disheartening to see women showing more interest in the products than in the events and activities she had carefully organised. However, it reflects a typical behaviour of Homo Economicus informed by neoliberal ideology: Individuals investing their time and attention where they perceive the most profitable returns in their lives.

During a state of emergency, the moral economy promoted by neoliberalism—characterised by the demonisation of poverty and the linkage of social rights to the notion of deservingness (Somers, 2022, p. 663)—operates in a more nuanced manner. Rather than excluding the disadvantaged, this approach leverages their suffering as a domain from which benefits can be extracted. This dynamic necessitates the consent and participation of the victims, a condition I explore through the concept of commodification of victimhood.

Fassin also explores a similar dynamic in Humanitarian Reason. He describes how contemporary moral economies centre around the misfortune and suffering of individuals, prioritising sympathy over justice (Fassin, 2012, pp. 5-8). Fassin’s analysis critiques how this moral economy reconfigures social inequalities into forms of psychological suffering, enabling governments to avoid addressing underlying structural issues (Fassin, 2012, pp. 23-27).

The commodification of victimhood is a product of such governance, relying on the visibility of victims' suffering to generate value. Suffering that elicits compassion and emotional responses becomes increasingly valuable for both corporations and aid recipients. Although similar to Fassin’s Humanitarian Reason, my concept of the commodification of victimhood functions as a complementary sub-term that explicitly addresses what kind of an impact this moral economy and its political ramifications have on victims and examines how it affects their interactions and experiences. This concept explores how victims navigate their precarious situations and engage with other actors within the moral economy. While Fassin’s work offers a brilliant critical analysis of an ideology that perpetually disregards the disadvantaged, even under the guise of sympathy, my research focuses on the practical responses of the victims themselves. I investigate how they actively participate in this neoliberal relief system by utilising their victimhood, how this engagement shapes their approach towards the aid process, and what it means for the future of the welfare state.

Victims, including the woman who dissuaded her friend from attending due to the lack of product distribution, are focused on meeting their immediate needs rather than reflecting on how the neoliberal economy exacerbates social inequalities and impacts the extent of the earthquake’s destruction. The urgency of their situation often prevents them from considering the origins of the aid they receive. This dynamic allows the government to evade responsibility and scrutiny, as private actors provide these basic necessities—though under certain conditions. In navigating their precarious circumstances, victims become part of the neoliberal recovery process, commodifying their own victimhood. This moral economy, which prioritises short-term sympathy and care, obstructs collective efforts to address the underlying structural issues that intensified the earthquake’s impact, echoing Fassin’s arguments.

In fact, many people frequently confused our NGO with the Turkish Red Crescent or AFAD (The Disaster and Emergency Management Presidency, a governmental disaster management organisation under the Turkish Ministry of Interior) when we reached out to assist them. When we explained that we were not collaborating with the state, they often seemed indifferent or dismissed the distinction as unimportant. Many were not particularly concerned about the source or conditions of the aid as long as it was delivered, as Arjin had noted. Unless explicitly clarified by the event organisers or aid distributors, victims often assumed that aid came from the state. This lack of awareness about the contributors to the relief efforts was partly due to specific strategies implemented in response to the earthquake. These strategies, including strict regulations  and limitations on field access, will be explored in detail in the next chapter.