The Tzedakah Box
Recommitting to our values in a time of tragedy
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
“What’s that?” I asked, gesturing to a simple wooden box affixed to the kitchen wall. It had a slit on top for an opening—just big enough to fit a piece of paper. We were at the home of my husband’s Haredi cousin in Brooklyn, so I assumed it had something to do with Judaism.
“Is it a suggestion box?” I jokingly probed my husband and mother-in-law. “Is it for tips?”
My mother-in-law laughed in her usual boisterous, delighted way.
“No, it’s tzedakah,” she replied, smiling. “You put money in the box and when it’s full, the money is donated to a charity.”
“But how would I get the tax deduction?” We all chuckled, then turned our attention to the six-month-old baby squirming unhappily on the floor.
It was Chanukah 2024—445 days since hostages were taken—and we had gathered in Flatbush to celebrate the holiday with kosher Chinese food, Middle Eastern snacks, and locally made sufganiyot. There were four generations, and at least five menorahs, packed into one living room.
The singing was loud, but the conversations and ongoing chatter of toddlers, teens and adults was louder. Holidays: another excuse to gather the tribe. The kids ran around the living room while the adults piled mountains of food onto our plates, candles flickering in the backdrop. Joy radiated from every corner of the room, simply because we were all together, happy and healthy. As I alternated big bites of lahmacuns (meat pies) with slurps of noodles, my mind turned to tzedakah.
When I was a child in New Jersey, our family Chanukah parties would typically end with my grandfather gathering my siblings, cousins and me around him. He would then present us with cash—half of which we were to keep, half of which we were to donate to our favorite charity. He would talk about the power of tzedakah to bring hope, light, and fairness to the world, and then give us a choice: if we wanted to donate more than half of our Chanukah gift, we would have to write him a paragraph about why. I always wrote the paragraph.
Chanukah was not the only time that we were expected to be thoughtful and generous. My siblings and I were always encouraged to be intentional and kind, to contribute to the world, to say “please” and “thank you” and to hold the door for the people behind us.
With each passing Chanukah, my understanding of the world grew—along with my desire to make it better. When I learned about the concept of tikkun olam, “repairing the world,” it only partially described my goals. “Repairing” sounded too mechanical: how did the world break in the first place? “Healing” is more my style: a softer touch, a long-lasting shift. The drive to improve others’ lives guides everything I do—from choosing a career in environmental sustainability to using all five love languages to take care of my friends and family. I especially enjoy giving gifts—in the form of chocolate chip cookies and handwritten letters.
Witnessing the hatred, fear and uncertainty of the past year has only strengthened my determination to do good. On October 8, as the horrifying news from Israel trickled in, I was far away, in Westchester, preparing to officiate my older sister’s wedding. Like the stomp of the glass, that weekend marked both a joyous milestone and a terrible tragedy. I left the wedding with a heightened sense of how fragile existence is.
As I tried to grasp what had happened in Israel—and why people across the globe were responding with such misdirected revulsion—I felt deeply out of sync with my communities. But I knew had to maintain my commitment to heal the world. It took the form of donations to places like Friends of the IDF and Magen David Adom, as well as a renewed appreciation for my heritage and community. I pulled my family in close— reveling in our accomplishments large and small, celebrating holidays about survival, commemorating ancient losses. Most importantly, I took every moment I could to be with them—to eat, laugh, and commiserate, agree and disagree about world affairs.
Like the miracle of Chanukah, we possess an unrelenting light and flame. Like the generations who came before us, we meet suffering with strength. When we hear the pained rallying cry of our people, we act. We do everything in our power to protect each other and to repair the world. We show up.
We put money in a box that is neither a suggestion box nor a tipping box. We carry our “chosen people” title with our heads held high and our hearts pulling towards justice. Nothing and no one can take our values away from us.
Michelle Aboodi comes from a long line of resilient, wandering Jews. She is a writer and sustainability professional living in Queens, New York. She writes her own Substack, Drunk on Democracy, and has been published on Tablet Magazine, hey alma, and Trellis (formerly, GreenBiz).
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
 | A guest post by
|