When a video of veteran humanitarian Ramzan Chhipa went viral this July, the internet didn’t know whether to laugh, cringe, or applaud. In the now-famous clip, Chhipa surprises a young boy with a birthday cake at a shop. With a film director’s precision and an unmistakable performative flair, he instructs the shopkeeper: “Write on the cake that it’s from Chhipa Sahab… but don’t tell them I arranged it.” The contradiction was so stark, so meme-worthy, that social media couldn’t resist. It spread like wildfire.
Viewers initially gasped, then shared: "Is he serious?" "Wow, did he really just do that?" Amid the jokes, more genuine reactions followed – comments applauding his dedication, discussions on the importance of visible kindness, and appreciation for getting youth to pay attention to philanthropy. Conversation spiked not just around the cake clip, but about the Chhipa Welfare Trust itself – leading to surges in search interest and social chatter.
On the surface, these series of latest Chhipa videos seem simple, an act of generosity caught on camera. But the execution was so theatrical, so drenched in awkward sincerity, that it sparked a polarising debate: is this the future of public service communication, or the death of dignity in philanthropy?
Whether we like it or not, cringe is the new cool. What once would have been dismissed as awkward or embarrassing now functions as a content strategy. It’s shareable, relatable, and ironically engaging. Chhipa’s video embodies what some digital theorists call affective friction: the tension between sincerity and discomfort that compels viewers to watch, react, and reshare.
In an online world oversaturated with hyper-produced, algorithm-optimised content, it’s the unfiltered, offbeat clips that break through. And that’s where Chhipa succeeds, intentionally or not. The jarring sincerity of his monologue, and the earnest absurdity of “write my name but don’t tell them it’s from me” offers the perfect mix of emotional confusion and feel-good purpose.
This is exactly why it worked. Audiences – especially younger, Gen Z viewers – respond not to polish but to rawness. Chhipa’s video got them talking about ambulance services, emergency response, and underfunded welfare. Not through a policy paper or a donation appeal, but through a birthday cake and a viral contradiction.
When virality undermines substance
Yet the same elements that made the video successful also raise red flags. Critics, including model and TV personality Nadia Hussain, slammed it as “cringe content and pathetic,” igniting further debate. Some social media users pointed out the inherent contradiction in announcing a secret gift. Others questioned whether such theatrics diminish the gravity of humanitarian work, turning service into spectacle.
And they have a point. When philanthropic gestures become viral content, there’s a risk that the work itself gets diluted. The metrics shift from lives saved to likes gained. Empathy becomes episodic. Worse, it sets a precedent where humanitarian credibility is measured by media visibility, not long-term impact.
What happens, then, to the millions of essential acts that go unseen? What happens to dignity when charity becomes entertainment?
The valorisation of “cringe” content as an engagement tactic is often misread as democratising in a way that it invites Gen-Z attention, dismantles hierarchies, and embraces imperfection. But this is an ignorant reading. Cringe is not neutral. It is coded by class, taste, and digital capital. When elite platforms endorse awkward philanthropy, they re-inscribe who gets to be taken seriously while trivialising the very labour they purport to promote.
Critics might argue that this style trivialises serious work, accusing it of “TikTok‑ifying” charity and reducing complex social care into bite-sized, memeable chunks. Purists might say such tactics demean philanthropic gravity. Yet supporters counter: if a simple cake-sharing video redirects even a fraction more youth attention to ambulance services or food drives, hasn’t impact been expanded?
However, such celebratory readings, explained better by academic concepts such as “cringe as currency” or “affective friction” risk mistaking spectacle for substance. They flatten the deeply political and ethical terrain of public service into digestible tropes, ultimately legitimising a troubling trend: the commodification of altruism under the guise of accessibility.
By reducing philanthropic gestures to shareable moments, we enter the territory of performative neoliberalism where visibility becomes a substitute for structural change. What does it mean when a welfare organisation’s impact is measured not in lives improved but in meme traction and algorithmic reach?
The tightrope of digital credibility: Lessons from JDC and beyond
Still, to dismiss Chhipa’s video outright is to misunderstand the evolving logic of communication in the digital age. This is not about abandoning seriousness – it’s about recognising that seriousness alone no longer moves audiences. Visibility is a gateway to impact. What matters is how that visibility is used.
The Chhipa Welfare Foundation has a decades-long legacy of ambulance services, body retrievals, and public service. That reputation gives Chhipa the moral capital to experiment with format. His video worked not just because it was “cringe,” but because it came from a person with deep-rooted credibility. Cringe alone doesn’t translate; cringe backed by character does.
But virality is a double-edged sword – it can build as swiftly as it destroys. The same platforms that elevate can also erode. Consider the case of JDC (Jafaria Disaster Cell), once hailed for its wide-reaching emergency relief and disaster response initiatives. As the organisation leaned into mediatising content ranging from dramatic food drives to high-production social media campaigns, it saw a surge in popularity and public engagement. But it also found itself at the centre of controversy.
A particularly symbolic moment came when videos of Sehri meals made with ostrich eggs surfaced during Ramzan. Intended as a gesture of generosity or perhaps novelty, the footage was instantly polarising: some praised the organisation for bringing dignity and abundance to marginalised communities, while others derided it as performative and wasteful.
The spectacle of ostrich eggs for the poor became more meme than mission, diluting the seriousness of JDC’s work in the eyes of many. Overnight, its legitimacy was no longer anchored in logistics or impact, but optics. What followed was a wave of public questioning, digital backlash, and a noticeable shift in how people viewed the institution – not as a relief organisation, but as an internet personality.
This illustrates the broader dilemma: when philanthropic credibility becomes tethered to virality, organisations are forced to operate in a perpetual visibility loop, where each act must be bigger, stranger, or more emotionally charged than the last.
Ramazan Chhipa’s video clearly doesn’t offer a new playbook but it does reveal the fragility of public discourse around service. If cringe is the price of attention, then we must ask: who pays for the joke? Until such strategies are grounded in transparency, systemic critique, and a commitment to dignity beyond virality, they will remain aesthetic distractions; seductive, yes, but ultimately hollow.
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