Beyond the “Food Desert”: Waking Up to Food Apartheid

Jonelle
Oct 20, 2025
7 min read

From Food Deserts to Food Apartheid: How Systemic Racism Shapes What’s on Our Plates

From “Food Desert” to “Food Apartheid”

Most of us have heard the term “food desert.” Popularized in the early 2000s, it’s commonly used to describe areas with limited access to affordable, nutritious food, usually low-income neighborhoods with no nearby grocery store. The image “food desert” evokes is a naturally empty wasteland. But that image is misleading in two big ways. First, these communities are not lifeless voids, many have backyard gardens, fruit stands, community kitchens, and informal food networks. Calling them “deserts” can erase the vibrant life and resilience in these neighborhoods. Second, and most important, deserts are natural; food deserts are not. Actual deserts form due to climate and geography beyond human control. Food deserts, by contrast, are created by capitalist human decisions.

That’s why food justice advocates like Karen Washington argue for the term “food apartheid.” The word apartheid means a system of segregation and discrimination on the basis of race, which is exactly what has shaped our food landscape. Washington, who first popularized the term “food apartheid,” notes that healthy, fresh food is easily found in wealthy (often white) neighborhoods, while cheap, unhealthy options dominate in poorer (often Black or Brown) areas, a divide created by decades of discriminatory policy and planning. In short, food apartheid exposes the intentional, man-made nature of these inequalities.

It’s a strong term, yes. I remember my co-host Karen initially worrying that calling it “apartheid” might turn people off. But as we talked it through, we agreed that clarity is more important than comfort. We can’t fix a problem we refuse to name. If the term makes us uncomfortable, we should lean into why; maybe it’s because it implicates a system we’re part of. “Food apartheid” forces us to confront the racialized reality behind the grocery gaps. And if that discomfort gets our attention, maybe it’s exactly what’s needed to wake us up.

If you're reading this and thinking, 'I never noticed this in my neighborhood', that's exactly the point. Not noticing is a privilege. Our ability to overlook inequities in our food systems is part of how these systems stay invisible to those of us who benefit from them.

The Systemic Roots of Food Apartheid

So how did we get here? Why do so many low-income urban Black and Brown neighborhoods lack supermarkets, while wealthier areas (often suburbs or gentrified enclaves) have plenty? The answers lie in historical policies and practices that deliberately excluded certain communities from investment. One major factor was redlining. In the 1930s, federal home loan maps coded minority neighborhoods as “hazardous” (outlined in red). Banks then refused to issue mortgages or business loans in those areas, leading to decades of disinvestment. Grocery store chains and other retailers followed the money and avoided redlined districts, a practice sometimes termed “supermarket redlining.” Even long after redlining was outlawed, its effects persisted.

Another driver of food apartheid is profit motive. Large grocery companies choose locations based on expected profits. This often means they build stores in higher-income areas and avoid low-income areas, assuming the latter won’t be as profitable. But this assumption ignores the data. Studies show that people living in food apartheid actually pay more for groceries, between 3% and 37% more, because they’re often forced to shop at smaller stores or corner markets with marked-up prices (1). Not only does this create an unfair economic burden on already financially stretched communities, but it also proves there's significant demand and purchasing power being overlooked. Rather than being unprofitable, these neighborhoods represent a large, underserved market that continues to be dismissed due to systemic bias and outdated assumptions. It becomes a vicious cycle: the longer a community is without a supermarket, the more data “proves” that people there spend less at grocery stores, but of course they spend less, because there’s nowhere local to spend it.

A listener recently pointed out another perspective: not all so-called food deserts stem directly from racial segregation and therefore cannot always be labeled “food apartheid.” Some appear in industrial zones being converted into mixed-use spaces with new offices and apartments. However, in most of these cases, those areas were historically segregated by income or race, and once gentrification begins, grocery stores tend to follow quickly as the population changes. It's a reminder that even seemingly neutral development patterns often trace back to deeper systemic inequities.

There’s also the rise of dollar stores and fast-food outlets filling the void. In many rural and urban food apartheid zones, dollar store chains (which sell mostly packaged, not fresh, foods) have multiplied. They give the illusion of offering “food,” but you won’t find apples or fresh meat there. And fast-food restaurants heavily target these areas. The planning and zoning of our cities often allowed a high density of fast-food and liquor outlets in minority neighborhoods, while wealthier (often white) neighborhoods strictly limited those businesses.

Crucially, food apartheid is not just about poverty, it’s about race intersecting with poverty. Studies show that even when comparing communities of similar economic status, predominantly Black and Latino neighborhoods have far fewer supermarkets (and more convenience stores) than predominantly white neighborhoods at the same income level. All of this reflects structural racism, the cumulative result of housing discrimination, corporate decision-making, and government neglect over time.

How Food Apartheid Hurts Communities

For those living in food apartheid, it means higher rates of hunger and food insecurity among marginalized groups. In the United States, food insecurity is starkly divided along racial lines. In 2023, 23.3% of Black households and 21.9% of Latinx households experienced food insecurity (2), both more than double the rate of white households.

Indigenous communities face even greater challenges: one in four Native Americans is food-insecure, and many reservations lack basic infrastructure to support grocery access. The Navajo Nation, for example, has only 13 grocery stores across 17 million acres (3).

Limited food access also fuels health disparities. Diet-related illnesses are significantly higher in areas of food apartheid. One study in Chicago found the death rate from diabetes in neighborhoods without grocery stores was double that of areas with grocery access (4). However, a USDA analysis later found that new grocery openings sometimes produce mixed results on changing long-term eating habits, suggesting that broader systemic factors must also be addressed (5). Black and Latino populations suffer disproportionately from conditions like obesity, type 2 diabetes, and heart disease, not because of genetic differences, but because of a toxic food environment.

Challenging the Bias

One of the most insidious effects of food apartheid is how it reinforces harmful biases about people in these communities. I’ve had uncomfortable conversations where someone blames low-income Black or Latino people for their food choices, without acknowledging the systemic barriers. These biases often sound like assumptions that people in these communities don’t care about nutrition, are lazy, or rely too heavily on government aid. But data shows the opposite: surveys reveal that families in low-income and marginalized neighborhoods report wanting more fresh produce options and spend a higher percentage of their income on food than wealthier households (5). Many also work long hours or multiple jobs, leaving less time to cook from scratch even when food is available. The problem isn’t willpower or values, it’s access, time, and systemic neglect. When we view food choices through a moral lens instead of a structural one, we reinforce the myth that poverty equals irresponsibility, rather than seeing the ingenuity and resilience that people display in feeding their families despite inequitable systems.

Media representations often fuel this bias. Studies have shown that media often depict “food deserts” with images of rundown streets lined with liquor stores, reinforcing stereotypes (6). Meanwhile, research from the USDA and academic studies demonstrate that when new food access points, like groccery stores or farmers’ markets, open in underserved areas, fruit and vegetable consumption increase. (5,7).

We have to shift the narrative away from blaming individuals and toward recognizing the systems that constrain their choices. As my co-host Karen noted, it's often easier for us (white women) to blame individuals because acknowledging systemic injustice means we might have to do something about it.

Seeds of Change

Despite these barriers, communities most affected by food apartheid are leading the charge to change it. Here are a few organizations doing incredible work:

Alimentando al Pueblo (8): This Latinx-led food justice collective began as a culturally relevant food bank during the COVID-19 pandemic and now works to advance food sovereignty in South King County.
Soul Fire Farm (9): An Afro-Indigenous-centered community farm that trains new generations of BIPOC farmers and leads national food justice advocacy. Their “reparations map” connects donors to Black and Indigenous food sovereignty projects.
Black Church Food Security Network (10): Connects Black churches with Black farmers to create hyper-local food distribution systems, turning church land into food-growing spaces and parking lots into farmers markets.

From Awareness to Action: What White Women Can Do

Learning about food apartheid can be overwhelming, especially for those of us who are new to examining our privilege. But guilt alone won’t change anything, action will. Here are a few places to start:

Rethink your language. Use “food apartheid” or “food segregation” instead of “food desert.”
Support BIPOC-led food justice groups. Donate, volunteer, or amplify their work.
Shift your shopping habits. Support local co-ops, farmers markets, and community-supported agriculture programs that serve marginalized communities.
Vote and advocate. Pay attention to policies around zoning, urban agriculture, and food access.
Challenge bias. If you hear someone blaming individuals for health outcomes, ask what systemic barriers might be at play.

Food apartheid isn’t just a food issue, it’s a justice issue. And as white women waking up, we have a responsibility to listen, learn, and act. Let’s be part of the solution.

Be curious, stay open and keep waking up!

-Jonelle

References

1. Food Empowerment Project. "Food Deserts." 2023.

2. Feeding America. "The State of Food Insecurity in the United States." 2023.

3. USDA Economic Research Service. "Access to Affordable and Nutritious Food: Measuring and Understanding

Food Deserts and Their Consequences." 2009.

4. Chicago Department of Public Health. "Healthy Chicago Report." 2020.

5. USDA Economic Research Service. "Recent Evidence on the Effects of Food Store Access on Food Choice and

Diet Quality." Amber Waves, May 2016.

6. Hollis-Hansen K., et al. "The Introduction of New Food Retail Opportunities in Lower-Income Communities and the

Impact on Fruit and Vegetable Intake: A Systematic Review." Nutrients, 2022.