In the announcements of eJewishPhilanthropy, the section titled “Major Gifts” usually reads like a ledger of generosity measured in dollars: a foundation endows a program, a donor funds a building, a family establishes a scholarship. This week, however, one item stood out for its utter unconventionality:

“Israeli women have so far donated 46 liters (12 gallons) of breast milk through the Sussman Family Foundation Human Milk Bank for nursing mothers who have been called away for reserve duty or other war-related activities.”

There was no dollar amount, no gala or naming opportunity. Just milk.

At first glance, the announcement feels almost out of place in a philanthropy column. Yet it may be one of the most profound acts of giving listed there in months. Because the sacred practice of giving does not only happen through wealth. Sometimes it happens through the body itself – usually in the form of blood, sweat and tears. This is something entirely different. Philanthropy often privileges what can be counted. We tally campaign totals, celebrate seven-figure gifts, and track endowments with precision. These metrics matter. Institutions depend on them. Communities are sustained by them.

Perhaps the most striking part of the announcement is not the donation itself, but the fact that it appeared under “Major Gifts.” That placement forces us to reconsider what we mean when we talk about philanthropy.

Perhaps the most striking part of the announcement is not the donation itself, but the fact that it appeared under “Major Gifts.” That placement forces us to reconsider what we mean when we talk about philanthropy.

But the donation of breast milk reminds us that some of the most essential forms of generosity to the most vulnerable cannot be transferred by check, credit card or Zelle.

Producing breast milk can come at great financial cost. It involves time, physical labor, and when it has to be produced on demand, it can come from a place of exhaustion. And it’s all worth it because breast milk is care given in the most intimate way one human being can sustain another. To produce it requires sleepless nights, disciplined routines, and a body that gives of itself continuously. To donate it requires even more: the willingness to give beyond one’s own child, beyond one’s own household, to someone you may never meet. Jewish history itself recognizes the life-sustaining role of women who nurse children not their own, beginning with the story of Moses, who survives only because his mother is able to nurse him through the unlikely intervention of Pharaoh’s daughter, a reminder that the survival of a people can depend on the quiet, bodily labor of women whose names are rarely recorded.

In a moment when Israel’s milu’im (reserve duty) has pulled mothers away from home, this form of giving becomes not symbolic but survival itself. Babies still need to be fed even when their parents are on the front lines, in uniform, or in emergency service. Milk becomes infrastructure. And infrastructure is not always built from steel and concrete. Sometimes it is built from the human body.

Since October 7, 2023, much has been written about soldiers, strategy, and geopolitics. Less visible, but no less consequential, is the burden carried by Israeli women as reservists, as mothers, as partners, as caregivers, as the ones holding together households while the country lives in a state of constant mobilization.

Women are serving in the army in unprecedented numbers. They are running businesses while spouses are deployed.They are managing families through sirens, displacement, and uncertainty. And women are also feeding children who are not their own.

A donation of breast milk belongs to this same story. It reflects a society in which the boundaries between private and public responsibility collapse in times of crisis. When the country calls, the response is not only military. It is maternal, communal and it is embodied.

This is not the heroism of headlines.

This is not the heroism of headlines.

This is not the heroism of headlines. It is the heroism of quiet determination that life will go on, that babies will be nourished, that families will function even when everything feels unstable.

There is also something deeply significant about the choice to donate breast milk specifically. Breast milk is not merely food. It carries antibodies, immunity, comfort, and connection. For premature babies and infants under stress, it can be medically critical. In a time of war, when routines are disrupted and stress is constant, the importance of proper nourishment becomes even more urgent. Milk banks exist precisely for moments when ordinary caregiving is interrupted. But they depend on women who are willing to give more than what their own families require. To see such a donation emerge now is a reminder that even under the strain of war, the instinct to nurture has not been eclipsed by the instinct to survive. If anything, it has intensified.

Perhaps the most striking part of the announcement is not the donation itself, but the fact that it appeared under “Major Gifts.” That placement forces us to reconsider what we mean when we talk about philanthropy.

Is a major gift defined by its financial value, or by the depth of sacrifice it represents? Is generosity measured in dollars, or in what we give of ourselves? What would our communal priorities look like if we honored caregiving the way we honor capital?

The listing of breast milk alongside multimillion-dollar contributions suggests something quietly radical: that sustaining life is as worthy of recognition as funding institutions.

In Jewish tradition, the highest form of charity is often described not as the largest gift, but as the one that preserves dignity, sustains life, or enables another person to stand on their own. By that measure, these 46 liters may be among the most significant gifts of the week.

Some people give money, some give time, some give strength, some give comfort. And yes, some give milk.

Some people give money, some give time, some give strength, some give comfort. And yes, some give milk.

In times of war, communities learn quickly that survival depends on many kinds of generosity. Some people give money, some give time, some give strength, some give comfort. And yes, some give milk.

The announcement in eJewishPhilanthropy reminds us that the story of this moment in Israel is not only being written by generals and donors. It is being written by women in kitchens, in hospitals, in reserve units, and in pumping rooms at two in the morning.

Not every major gift comes with a plaque. Some come in bottles, carefully labeled, quietly delivered, sustaining a future that still needs to be fed.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)