I honestly don't know when this shift happened. Was it during the pandemic? Is it the rise of non-stop digital consumption? Or is it just that we are getting older? But somewhere in this journey of creating a for-purpose company, people just stopped caring. Or maybe they started caring less.
Our profession requires us to care—to care about women who need work, about small-scale tea farmers, about children without parents. And our tea company can only sustain if we can convince other people to care. But I think people are just getting tired of caring. They want tea without the story. They understandably want the lowest price (which often comes at the highest cost to others).
Gaza, Climate Change, the Supreme Court, Ukraine, Forest Fires in the winter, do you want to close the computer yet? Do you want to stop reading? Is your heart tired? Do you want to lay down for a second with your eyes closed and imagine the bluest sky and the strongest cup of tea? I do.
But, but, but . . . how nice to be able to close my eyes. How nice to be alive. How nice to feel the tinges of anger on the fringes of my apathy. There. I wrote it. Apathy. We are experiencing a season of apathy. And a quick google search leads me to believe that I'm not alone in my observations.
But Sara and I cannot retreat into the grayness of apathy because we still need to teach our scholars to have hope in this world. The opposite of apathy, we believe, is to have hope. Because to have hope is to care. We need to walk with our scholars and show them that the world is theirs to change.
And if this is all too much for you. If you need to duck out and breathe the cold air and walk in the mud and jump in a puddle and have the hem of your pants get soggy and your feet cold, we'll be here waiting for you with the kettle on. We'll look at you knowing you felt something. And we will remind you that to be alive is to be hopeful and that spring is coming. We'll bloom together. We might just have to wait a bit more.
Thank you for never giving up on us. Thank you for caring with every purchase.
Asante sana,
Kate, Sara, and Ann
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At Ajiri, we feel so lucky to be on this earth at the same time as all of you. Your purchase of tea holds a lot of that elusive power of art. Sure, your purchase is the transference of physical money that goes to support women and children. But your purchases of tea, time and time again, transfers this feeling of belief. You believe in these women. You believe in these kids. You believe that the world can be a better place.
People in the U.S. like to lament that there is no “village” anymore when raising children. But here’s the thing, Thomas was born without a village to support him. We made that village. You are that village. Every box of tea, every donation, gave Thomas the love and structure and opportunities to grow.
We will continue to share our good fortunes with others. We will continue to run Ajiri Tea throughout this tariff madness. We will continue to run Ajiri until we can’t. Running Ajiri is a type of protest in this constricting capitalist world. If to grieve means to have loved, then to protest means to hope.
Kate Holby
Author