By late Purim afternoon, I had heard the Megillah, distributed mishloach manot baskets and eaten the Purim meal. The final mitzvah to be done was matanot le’evyonim – gifts to the poor. Purim is the only day of the year on which we are specifically required to give charity to the poor. The requirement that the money be received by the poor on the day of Purim itself means that our usual ways of giving charity to the poor – through contributions to UJA Federation of Greater Toronto, Mazon or local food drives – do not suffice. 

Normally on Purim, I make a donation to a collective pot in shul, which someone then distributes later that day to those in need. This year, because it was so late in the day, we were concerned we had missed our opportunity. As we began considering how we could distribute the charity ourselves, we realized just how sheltered we are from poverty. While we occasionally see someone asking for money on a street corner, living in the suburbs poverty is hidden.

But poverty does exist on Bathurst Street. In Toronto, more that 24,000 Jews or 12.9 per cent of the community lives under the low income cut-off (LICO) – a Statistics Canada-determined income rate pegged at $35,000 for a family of four. 

It’s a beautiful thing to give anonymously. Distancing the donor from the recipient benefits both. For the recipient, it offers shelter from the embarrassment of asking for and receiving help. For the donor, it enhances the altruistic act of giving, forcing charity to be for the benefit of the recipient rather than the giver. We teach young children the value of this form of giving through Maimonides’ ladder of tzedakah, which values the anonymity of giving and receiving. 

As a classroom teacher, I knew there were students in my classes who lived on the edge of poverty. In addition to tuition assistance, the community provided them with books, the cost of trips and supplies and, for some, with shoes for gym class. But I never knew who was on the list. For our classrooms to operate and for the benefit of the social and emotional learning in our schools, it was critical that we treated these issues with anonymity. The mask of poverty allowed these students to flourish.

At the same time, the mask can be harmful to our community, diminishing the perceived need and hindering our ability to enact change. It’s easy to feel passionate about a cause that you can see, touch, feel and understand. TV ads for starving children in Africa are prime examples, tugging at our heartstrings and encouraging us to give. Because we mask poverty, it’s easy for it to become a set of numbers and statistics, devoid of humanity, character, and impact. 

Between 2001 and 2011, the number of Toronto Jews living under the LICO line grew by four thousand individuals. Each has his own name and story, but will likely remain anonymous. If we knew their stories, would we feel more passionate and more motivated to end poverty in our community?

On Purim afternoon, after wondering where I could give charity directly to a poor person, I found someone who added my money to the communal pot. I pooled my charity with that of others, safeguarding my anonymity and that of the recipient, but at the same distancing myself from the face and reality of poverty. 

I don’t know the answer. On one hand, I believe that anonymity of giving raises the quality of the charitable act. At the same time, however, I believe we won’t be able to make headway on the growing issue of poverty until we are able to more intimately see the face of the issue. 

Daniel Held is executive director of the Julia and Henry Koschitzky Centre for Jewish Education at UJA Federation of Greater Toronto.