Why we shouldn’t be too enamored with book donations

By Noel Galon de Leon

There is a familiar image that appears almost every time a literacy outreach program is held. Children line up with newly donated books in their hands, volunteers smile for group photographs, ribbons are cut to inaugurate another “reading corner,” and social media fills with captions celebrating the power of books to change lives. I have stood in those photographs myself. As someone who has spent years working in children’s literature, literacy development, libraries, and community reading programs, I know the joy of seeing a child receive a book. It is a beautiful moment. But over time, I have also learned that beautiful moments can sometimes distract us from difficult questions. Perhaps it is time we become a little less fascinated with book donations—not because giving books is wrong, but because we have mistaken the act of giving for the solution itself.

Book donations have become almost instinctive whenever literacy is discussed in the Philippines. A school lacks a library? Donate books. A community has limited access to reading materials? Organize a book drive. A company launches a corporate social responsibility project? Build a library and fill it with donated books. While these initiatives undoubtedly come from generous intentions, generosity alone does not create readers. We rarely stop to ask more fundamental questions. Who selected these books? Were they written in languages the children actually speak? Do they reflect the children’s own cultures, communities, and experiences? Will there be trained teachers or librarians who can bring these books to life? Or will they simply become another collection gathering dust on forgotten shelves? A book can only transform a life when it is read, discussed, shared, questioned, and loved. Until then, it remains an object.

One of the more uncomfortable realities surrounding book donations is that they sometimes function less as acts of generosity and more as acts of disposal. We have all seen it: outdated encyclopedias, obsolete textbooks, aging romance novels, worn-out paperbacks, and books in languages that no one in the receiving community can read. Too often, we congratulate ourselves for clearing our shelves while assuming we are enriching someone else’s. Donation becomes a socially acceptable way of transferring surplus rather than thoughtfully responding to actual needs. We would never donate expired medicine simply because someone else is poor. Why then do we sometimes assume that outdated or irrelevant books are acceptable gifts?

There is another consequence we seldom acknowledge. Our obsession with free books can unintentionally undermine the very people who make books possible. Behind every children’s book is a long chain of creative labor: writers, illustrators, editors, translators, designers, printers, publishers, booksellers, and librarians. Every time we celebrate book donations without talking about supporting local publishing, we risk reinforcing the illusion that books simply appear through generosity rather than through the sustained work of creative professionals. A healthy reading culture depends not only on readers but also on thriving ecosystems of authors, artists, publishers, and independent bookstores. If we truly value books, we must also value the people who create them.

This becomes even more important in children’s literature. A child does not merely need any book; a child deserves the right book. They deserve stories in which they recognize their own language, their own community, and their own possibilities. Research from literacy scholars around the world consistently shows that children engage more deeply with reading when they encounter texts that reflect their identities while also expanding their understanding of others. Representation is not simply a matter of diversity; it is a matter of educational effectiveness. When children never see themselves in books, reading risks becoming an exercise in observing other people’s worlds rather than discovering the value of their own.

Throughout my work with community libraries and literacy programs, I have witnessed something far more powerful than book distribution. I have seen what happens when books are accompanied by people. A librarian who knows every child’s favorite story. A teacher who transforms reading into conversation. A parent who spends ten quiet minutes reading aloud before bedtime. A volunteer who returns week after week, not merely to hand out books but to build relationships around them. These moments remind us that literacy does not live inside books alone. It lives within communities of readers. It flourishes through human connection.

Perhaps this is why we need to rethink how we measure success. We proudly announce the number of books donated, the number of libraries established, or the number of beneficiaries reached. These statistics are easy to collect and impressive to report. But they tell us very little about what truly matters. How many of those books were actually read? How many children became lifelong readers? How many families began reading together? How many communities developed sustainable reading cultures? Distribution is measurable. Transformation is not. Yet transformation—not distribution—should remain our ultimate goal.

There is also a larger structural issue that cannot be ignored. Public access to quality books should never depend solely on charity. Functional libraries, professional librarians, diverse collections, and locally relevant reading materials are not luxuries; they are public responsibilities. When we rely too heavily on book donation drives, we risk allowing governments and institutions to neglect their obligation to build strong public library systems and adequately support schools. Charity can supplement public investment, but it should never replace it. Literacy cannot survive on goodwill alone.

None of this is meant to diminish the value of giving books. On the contrary, I have witnessed countless moments when a single book opened an entirely new world for a child. I remain deeply grateful to every individual and organization that has chosen to invest in literacy. But perhaps our imagination of literacy must become larger than the donation itself. A truly meaningful book donation is not measured by the number of boxes delivered but by the reading culture it leaves behind. It includes teacher training, storytelling sessions, community librarians, locally authored books, multilingual collections, continuous programming, and long-term partnerships. The donation is only the beginning. The real work starts afterward.

Literacy has never been about the number of books we distribute. It is about the number of lives transformed through reading. And that transformation cannot be donated. It must be cultivated patiently, collectively, and intentionally. If we genuinely hope to build a nation of readers, we must look beyond the symbolic generosity of handing out books and begin investing in the far more demanding work of nurturing reading communities. The greatest gift we can offer a child is not simply a book placed in their hands, but a lifetime of opportunities to open it, question it, imagine through it, and eventually write stories of their own.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and professor at the University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at UP High School in Iloilo. He is also the Secretary of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.