Jews can’t buy love with charity.
The Jewish cause is not every cause. We must stop funding everyone else’s problems. We don’t need to prove our morality. We need to ensure our survival.
By Joshua Hoffman
Last week, the Jewish Federation of New York announced it was sending $1 million to an Israeli NGO to provide food, medicine, and water filtration systems for — wait for it — displaced Gazans.
Many applauded the decision as an act of compassion.
But let’s pause.
Gaza does not suffer from a lack of aid. Billions have poured in from the international community. What Gaza lacks is a government that prioritizes the welfare of its people instead of investing in jihad and terrorism. More food parcels, more medicine, more water filters will not fix a political and moral rot.
This moment underscores a deeper problem in the Jewish communal mindset: the belief that our cause is every cause. That if we show up for others, they will show up for us. That if we fund their struggles, they will defend ours. History, and recent history especially, proves otherwise.
When Jews marched with Black Lives Matter, what did we get in return? Leaders of that movement openly celebrated Hamas’ atrocities on October 7th. When Jews poured resources into “progressive” coalitions, what came back? Silence at best, betrayal at worst, when antisemitism surged on campuses and in the streets. The bargain was a fantasy. We cannot buy safety, respect, or solidarity with our donations or our presence.
The Jewish cause is not every cause. The Jewish cause is the Jewish cause. It is the defense of Israel. It is the continuity of Jewish life. It is the fight against antisemitism. Every dollar, every ounce of energy diverted away from these priorities weakens us. Gaza does not need Jewish philanthropy. Black Lives Matter does not need Jewish solidarity. The global poor do not lack advocates, allies, or funds. But the Jewish People? We are just 0.2 percent of humanity. If we don’t stand for ourselves, who will?
Our generosity is legendary, and our conscience is wide. But our survival is not guaranteed by donations and resources to non-Jewish causes. The lesson of the last century should be burned into our bones: Jews who believed that supporting the broader good would ensure reciprocity were abandoned when the world turned against us.
Time and again, Jews have been at the forefront of other people’s struggles. Jewish activists were leaders in the U.S. civil rights movement. Jewish intellectuals shaped European liberalism, socialism, and revolutions for equality.
And what was the reward?
Betrayal, exclusion, scapegoating. As soon as Jewish identity conflicted with the majority’s agenda, Jews became expendable. This cycle should have taught us: Our cause cannot be diluted into someone else’s cause.
Perspective matters. Again, Jews are 0.2 percent of the world’s population. There are 49 Muslim-majority nations, scores of Christian-majority ones, and countless NGOs and charities addressing global crises.
Aid to Gaza flows from Qatar, Turkey, the European Union, the United Nations, and beyond. Gaza’s needs are not unmet. But there is only one Jewish state, only one Jewish People. If we pour our scarce resources into every global cause, we hollow out the very core that allows us to survive.
Let me be blunt: Every Jewish dollar that goes to Gaza strengthens Hamas, even if indirectly. Humanitarian aid allows Hamas to divert its own resources toward terror. Every gesture of solidarity with movements that delegitimize Israel undercuts Jewish morale and confuses Jewish priorities.
Compassion is noble, but compassion misdirected is dangerous. It is possible to be both empathetic and disciplined — and discipline means saying “no” when others demand our help at our own expense.
This is because the idea of “allyship” has failed us. After October 7th, feminist organizations ignored the mass rapes of Israeli women. Human rights groups condemned Israel, not Hamas, in the wake of terror. Campus activists who had once spoken of intersectionality chanted for the destruction of Israel.
If reciprocity cannot be counted on when Jewish blood is spilled, then what exactly are we buying with our donations and solidarity? The answer is nothing.
And, if we’re being honest, part of this problem is internal. Jews feel an almost compulsive need to prove our compassion. Centuries of being accused of clannishness, greed, and selfishness created a reflex: If we give more, if we show up more, maybe they will stop hating us. But guilt-driven generosity only leaves us weaker. It doesn’t buy us love; it buys us exploitation.
Our enemies understand this weakness. They exploit it. Hamas knows that Jewish organizations will rush to fund aid in Gaza, and so Hamas pours its own money into jihad and terrorism instead of food. (And let’s be honest: If Gazans truly wanted Jewish aid, they could start by stopping terrorism. The greatest humanitarian gift Israel could give Gaza is not another water filter, but liberation from Hamas’ iron grip. Until then, every Jewish dollar sent there is a dollar stolen from Jewish survival.)
Meanwhile, “progressive” movements know that Jews will eagerly sign on to “justice” campaigns, and so they extract our money and credibility, only to discard us when Israel comes up. Jewish compassion has been weaponized against us, turned into a political tool by those who despise us.
Other groups do not respect weakness. They do not admire people who sacrifice themselves for others while ignoring their own. They respect strength, pride, and clarity of mission. A Jewish community that boldly defends its own interests will be far more respected, and far safer, than one that tries to please everyone at its own expense. History shows that respect comes not from charity toward others, but from resilience within.
Universalism is a beautiful concept, but only if built on strong foundations of particularism. Jews cannot heal the world if we cannot even secure our own future.
The Jewish value of “tikkun olam” (Hebrew literally meaning “repairing the world”) has been distorted into a license to neglect Jewish needs for global ones. But the original Jewish vision was always clear: Repair begins at home. And Jewish survival is not selfish; it is the prerequisite for contributing to the wider world.
Jewish leaders often say: If we don’t step in, who will? But the answer is: Many others will. There are Christian NGOs, Muslim charities, UN agencies, and entire governments ready to help Gaza. They have scale, numbers, and wealth that dwarf our tiny people.
But who will defend Jewish life if not us?
Nobody.
We are the only ones who can, and that is where our energy must go.
Hence why the Jewish world needs a new framework: survival first. Every dollar, every volunteer hour, every philanthropic gesture should be measured against one question: Does this strengthen the Jewish People? If the answer is no, it should wait until our core needs are secure. Once our schools are strong, our security ensured, our continuity safeguarded, then — and only then — can we look outward.
Imagine what $1 million could do if invested in Jewish schools, Jewish security, Jewish education, and Israel. Imagine how much stronger we would be if those resources fortified Jewish continuity instead of subsidizing Gaza’s dysfunction. Strength inspires respect. Survival earns dignity. Nobody admires a people that sacrifices itself for others while neglecting its own.
The Jewish cause is not every cause. The Jewish cause is the Jewish cause. Our task is not to be the world’s saviors. Our task is to ensure that the Jewish People survive, thrive, and stand tall in our own right. That is the Jewish cause. And it is enough.
