T

he day the campaign went live I was inundated with an influx of messages, emails, links, videos, and graphics and some marketing materials you can share, helpfully forwarded by the PTA.

Arrgh, campaigns. But first, work.

I work in a small office — just two other women, both busy young moms. I posted my fundraising link on our Teams chat — no pressure, if anyone wants to donate, my girls’ school is having a campaign —and decided I’d done my duty for the morning.

Miriam’s head popped out of her cubicle a minute later.

“Talia, what’s this, you’re doing a campaign?”

“Not me. My kids’ school. They gave me a page.”

“Oh, one of those.” Tzippy laughed from across the room. “At least you have your brothers. Ask them for $750 each and you’re sorted.”

“Yeah, well, I figured maybe you two might have ma’aser from a secret inheritance you’re just desperate to donate to my daughters’ school.”

“Hey, I’ll give $18 for a friend,” Miriam said.

Yay, my first donation. But honestly, I had to work now, not waste my hours fundraising. There’d be time enough for that later.

Later that afternoon, just before the kids came home, I sat down with my phone and computer, and dutifully sent out the link to everyone I could think of — everyone I wasn’t too embarrassed to nudge for another crowdfunding campaign, anyway. My mother, my sisters, a couple of aunts, some old friends, one neighbor, done.

Next up, the big guns.

I hesitated a moment. Should I phone Shlomo and Efi? They were my younger brothers, it was weird to be so unsure, but since their business took off, they’ve both been so… busy. Intense. Serious. Like they were somewhat removed from the rest of us because they were wealthy.

They’d stopped showing up for casual family get-togethers around the same time the dinner invites had started, with one of them posting an ad on the family chat displaying the latest dinner where they were being honored. I’d gone to a bunch of those, along with my mother, who hated going without us.

It was special seeing my brothers get honored. But… somewhere along the way, things had become awkward, like there was an invisible line between Them and Us.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called Shlomo directly. We only really messaged these days, and barely did that either. I wasn’t about to do it just to ask for money. Email? WhatsApp? Family chat post? I didn’t want to pressure but, like — well. I did kind of want to pressure. I needed to raise money, I needed it fast, and I didn’t really have much other recourse.

Stop overthinking it, Talia. They’re your brothers!

In the end, I sent a group message on the family chat. Hi everyone! I’m raising money for my daughters’ wonderful school. It would mean so much to me if you could donate what you can… no pressure!

I added the link and hit send. Hopefully they’d respond but if not, I could always send a personal message later.

I

refreshed my page later that evening.

There was $50 from my parents, $18 from my sister Shoshi, another small donation from one of my nieces — sweet of her, but….

I was hovering around $100 now, 15 percent of my goal. Ugh.

Maybe Shlomo and Efi hadn’t seen the message yet? But my post was blue-ticked — everyone had seen it. Joy, now I’d have to remind them.

I waited until the next day, then sent a personal message to Shlomo and Efi separately.

I started typing before giving up and deciding that a voicenote would be more natural and personal.

Hi, how are you? I don’t know if you saw the post, I’m collecting money—

Ugh, stop, that sounded too desperate. Start over, chilled.

Hi Shlomo, how’s it going? I was wondering if—

Too scripted.

Eventually, I managed to record a clear, short message, just a reminder about our campaign, and how much I would appreciate a donation on my page. I hated how nervous I felt, these were my brothers, not some anonymous wealthy men, but I felt that way all the same

They give to everyone. They’ll give to you. They’re just busy, I told myself when I didn’t hear back from either of them right away. They’re at work. It’s supper time. They’ll reply later. Or maybe tomorrow….

Eventually, I closed the tab with the school fundraising page. I’d check in again later. Right now, I’d done what I could, and I had work to do.

A

fter the younger kids were in bed and I’d served a second round of supper to the older ones, I sat down and finally refreshed the page.

There was a new donation.

Shlomo and Efi Klein – $100.

That was it. One hundred dollars from both of them together.

I looked at their names again, feeling the sting of humiliation, the letters flashing through my head even when I looked away from the screen.

My brothers have dropped $360 apiece on some small community campaign. They give $1,000 “to start you off” when their kids have fundraising pages for their schools. One hundred dollars from the two of them is — mortifying? Demoralizing? Like a cruel joke?

Moshe and Talia Reiss, $268 / $1500 raised.

The bar under our names was pitifully empty. Under 20 percent. And I’d exhausted all my resources and connections already.

I knew it was just a school campaign, that the goals we undertook weren’t commitments, that plenty of people raised a couple hundred dollars and called it a day. But they didn’t have brothers who could finance the school building singlehandedly. They didn’t have a pocket-change donation from two major philanthropists, who happened to be their younger brothers.

I knew my brothers didn’t owe me — or the school — anything. But… they gave so much. To so many people. And everyone knew that. It wasn’t just about the mosad or the organization, it was about showing support for friends and family, right? That’s what crowdfunding was all about. What did it look like when two well-known tzedakah players couldn’t cough up more than $50 apiece on their own sister’s page?

First came the shame, then the anger. What were my brothers thinking? They dropped hundreds of dollars on a whim, they were more than flush with cash, they drove the fanciest cars and went on thrice-yearly exotic vacations and were literally known as philanthropists and —

Shlomo and Efi Klein – $100.

The screen flickered and changed, more donations coming in, $18 from Nissim and Sheva Cohen, $50 from Family Y. Blumenthal. Good. The more donations, the deeper my brothers’ meager contribution would be buried.

But I knew that I wouldn’t forget it that easily.

If I could tell my brothers one thing it would be: You give so generously to everyone else — and this donation humiliated me in public.

Shlomo

They come by email, by text, by WhatsApp message, and — for the most persistent — by phone.

Obviously, I’m talking about the campaigns.

Somehow, the crowdfunding campaign thing has made tzedakah both way simpler and way more complicated at the very same time.

It’s simpler for the organizations, that’s for sure. There are a lot of moving parts in a campaign, sure, but it’s been done, there’s a whole science and art and structure to it — the campaign theme, video, assets, whatever. There’s the ambassadors piece, finding people who’ll do a good job as raisers, building hype, motivation, that part. But the actual asking for money part that was what fundraising was always all about? That’s outsourced to the crowds, to the students and parents and community members and volunteers and friends and family who go to their friends and family (and students, parents, and community members) to fill their pages.

People aren’t really giving to the organization, shul, or mosad anymore. They’re giving for social reasons, for the person whose page it is. It is a really smart way to funnel money into tzedakahs, I guess, but at the same time, I find it’s a lot more challenging to be intentional about where tzedakah money is going.

When my daughter took a page for an organization for children with special needs where she volunteers, I gave $500, not because I looked into or vetted or particularly wanted to put my tzedakah into that organization, but because it was my daughter. I was proud of the work she did and wanted to help her with her fundraising.

For friends and family, I’ll give $180, $360, sometimes more, sometimes less. I do try to donate when I’m asked — although, let’s be honest, these links fly around faster than I can even process them sometimes — but I don’t look at these campaigns as the primary destination for my tzedakah. Everyone knows crowdfunding is social. And there are organizations that do incredible work — some a lot more quietly than others — where I prefer to channel my main tzedakah donations.

So when my sister Talia posted a link to her and Moshe’s fundraising page for their daughters’ school, at first, I just scrolled on. Then she sent it to me directly, with some sweet voicenote: Hi, Shlomo, how are you? I don’t know if you saw on the family chat… I’m raising money for Rina and Batya’s school, here’s the link if you’re able to donate something… thank you!

I hit the link. Rina’s and Batya’s school… Bnos Gila High School.

I instinctively recoiled.

I couldn’t believe it.

Did she not remember?

J

ust seeing the name brought back a wave of memories — and not pretty ones.

My Atara had been desperate to get into Bnos Gila High School. Her three closest friends had applied, she knew all about it from her cousins, it was known at a top-tier school on every level, and my wife, Hadassah, was pretty set on the choice as well.

I didn’t know much about girls’ schools, but I trusted Hadassah, and if Atara’s friends were all going there, too, what was the question, right?

We applied, along with many others. I knew there was a tough acceptance process, but all my sisters sent to the school, Atara was an outstanding student, and — look, we had the means to pay what it took.

But when the letters came out… Atara’s friends were all accepted. She wasn’t.

At first, I thought it must be some kind of mistake. Or maybe it was one of those things — they had to put a number of applicants on waitlist while they waited for responses, but surely we’d get in when the next round of acceptances came out?

Turned out, not.

It wasn’t an acceptance-in-waiting. It wasn’t a waitlist spot. It was an out-and-out “we don’t think you’re a fit for this school” rejection.

No reason, no explanation, no discussion.

And we tried everything. We called, pleaded, offered significant donations — and this was before our business took off, before I really had the means to donate a library or fund a new classroom. Our rav called and attempted to intervene on our behalf. We had one askan after another confidently tell us, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen this before, they’ll take you in the end, one thousand percent,” only to get back to us a week or a month later with an apology and a “for some reason, they’re really adamant.”

We ended up scrounging for options during the summer. Atara cried for days on end and refused to go to camp with her friends because “all they talk about is high school….” It wasn’t pretty.

She ended up going to a small high school in a different neighborhood. It took time, real time, for her to settle down and feel comfortable there. She didn’t know a single other girl when she came. And it worked out okay, she’s doing well, but honestly? I think that whole parshah did something to her, like it’s still inside her.

She became a little quieter, more withdrawn. Less confident and sparkly. More… I don’t know, maybe more self-conscious? It was like something shuttered in her when she was rejected so strongly and all her friends got in. Like her “I got this” happy-go-lucky energy dimmed and never quite came back.

She’s in 12th grade now. She has friends. She’s a great girl. But what that school put her through… and the way they did it —refusing to explain, refusing to consider, refusing to hear — left a very bitter taste in my mouth.

I wasn’t going to give anything to Bnos Gila. Not anymore.

E

fi and I were having an impromptu parking-lot “meeting” after Minchah when he swiped at his phone and made a face.

“What’s that all about?” I asked, curious.

“Nothing to do with anything.” He flipped the screen around. “Talia’s fundraising thingy. The school just—” he waved his hand dismissively.

That’s when I remembered, Bnos Gila did the same thing to Efi’s twins, a year after Atara. They’d applied, too, along with most of their daughters’ elementary school classmates, and once again, they were singularly rejected.

Truthfully, it may have been worse for him — they strung him along for a while with excuses: “We’re not sure, we’re figuring out class size, come for another interview, not with the girls, can you sign that you’ll keep a thousand extra rules” —and they still didn’t take them.

“Yeah, I’m with you,” I said. Like, what was Talia even thinking? This school wouldn’t look at our kids. Why should we donate for their new wing or library renovation or whatever?

Efi sighed. Turned his phone screen off and put it back in his pocket. “I just feel bad to ignore it, she’s probably hoping we’ll give something nice.”

I felt the same way. I didn’t want to ignore my sister’s messages entirely.

“Give something small?” I suggested, half-heartedly.

“Let’s do it together, so it doesn’t look ridiculously stingy.” He opened up the page again, scrolled through. “18, 50, 18, okay, let’s put down $100? I’ll put it from both of us.”

Fifty dollars was already more than I wanted to give to this school. But… Talia. I pictured her sending those voicenotes, checking her phone for a reply. We had to send something, if just to get her to stop sending links.

As long as she didn’t ask us again for this next year.

“Yeah, I guess. Go for it.”

It stung. Not the money, that was no big deal. But giving a donation to an institution that had caused me and my wife, and most importantly, Atara, so much pain, hurt.

This is for Talia’s page, not for the school, I told myself.

B

ut she didn’t seem to see it that way.

It was about a week later that we had a major family get together in honor of our parents’ anniversary. The girls had planned the program, Efi and I paid for the hall and catering — why not make it easier on everyone, right? — and it took a while for me to notice anything.

Actually, it was Efi who pointed it out to me. He sidled over while the waiters were clearing the main course buffet and setting out dessert, and asked in a low voice, “Shlomo… did Talia say anything to you tonight?”

“Talia?” I tried to think. “No, really not. I don’t think I even spoke to her at all.”

“That’s my point.” Efi glanced around, then continued. “She isn’t talking to me. Like, I said something to her and she gave me this weird look and turned away. I thought maybe something was up with her, but look, she’s talking to Tzvi and Rikki like nothing’s happened. It’s just… me. Or us.”

Us.

“You think it’s about that donation?” I’d noticed that Talia hadn’t responded or acknowledged that we gave something. Come to think of it, I’d called her a few days ago to confirm the party time and she had ignored the call, not even texted back.

Was she upset that we didn’t give more?

I edged closer to the circle where Talia and a few of my siblings were schmoozing. But when I joined in, Talia gave a very pointed look and walked away.

Now I was really upset.

She asked for money. We gave. One hundred dollars isn’t nothing, it’s a decent donation, and, really, what was she hoping for? That we’d take on her personal goal for ourselves? How could she offer a large commitment with the expectation that someone else would undertake it?

And mainly, how could she expect us to give more to a school that hadn’t ever shown us the wonderful side she was raving about?

If I could tell Talia one thing it would be: Why are you asking us to support a school that hurt our children?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1100)