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Is charity the opium of the privileged?
The simple moral lesson that the joy of giving is supreme is now wrapped in the gift of capitalist consumerism. But some instances show it doesn’t have to be
This author needed a breakdown in a small Pennsylvania town earlier this year when the world was still in the throes of New Year’s festivities. Some epiphanies can only occur when one is sleepless for 180 hours, eating barely to keep the vital organs chugging, standing on the brink of the abyss of despair. I finally understood that being a receiver was as important as being a giver.
Most of us are raised, at least in letter if not in spirit, that the joy of giving is supreme. This simple moral lesson, having travelled far away from Karna’s final act of giving — he donated his golden tooth moments before dying during the Battle of Kurukshetra in the Mahabharata — is now wrapped in the gift of capitalist consumerism. Add to it the relentless pressures of public perception, and no individual or organisation can resist memorialising their act of giving. Giving gets fetishised, giver smug.
Moving from the inscriptions on the plinths of the glorious Chola temples, to the plaques in numerous hospitals announcing contributions, to the park benches and opera donor boxes, giving is now announced via AI-assisted posts accompanying aesthetically curated photos. After all, public donations, naming rights, or participation in high-profile events have been serving to enhance image rather than primarily focusing on the cause.
How many of us, however, go on a giving trip before it’s the festival and peer pressure season? And seasonal altruism must be digitised — maximum gains for minimal investment. Nobody can tell from the pictures that the blankets distributed are far from warm, and the sweets distributed at an orphanage aren’t really needed. Diapers. Probably the kids there need diapers. Chinua Achebe said, “Charity . . . is the opium of the privileged.” It doesn’t have to be.
As I checked into a house that stood covered in snow, with an unassuming plaque announcing “The House that Love Built,” in January, my heart almost burst out. I had been by my child’s side in the ICU for more than a week as she lay battling for her life. By that moment, I had started recognising almost everyone in the famous and incredibly efficient children’s hospital by name. Someone had recommended this ‘love-filled house’ to keep me from the impending physical breakdown.
An elderly receptionist gave me a tour of this boarding house, resembling a 5-star boutique hotel. There were rooms, multiple parlours, children’s play rooms, adult reading rooms with glass ceilings and windows to trap the fleeting rays, a tastefully done dining room, laundry area, and a huge kitchen attached to a bursting-at-the-seams pantry. The kitchen was overloaded with groceries enough to feed an army. Pots and pans and ovens and stoves and coffee makers and pods and ice cream churners and juicers and blenders. Cheeses and chocolates and pastramis and salamis and soups and pastas and eggs and breads and whatnot.
My room was bigger than the one we once stayed in at a Manhattan five-star hotel during the previous family visit to New York. The toilet supplies were even fancier. The mattress could easily bring my spine to its original shape after the latter had been scrunched in the attendant’s couch for days and nights. The heating was working perfectly, and the water pressure in the bath was heavenly.
As if this wasn’t enough, there was a huge cake in the common area with a note saying, “Good Luck, Rest Well”. Next to it was a basket of hand-knit caps, mufflers, socks, and mittens in assorted colours and sizes. There was also a soda vending machine in a corner for those who must not miss their hourly Diet Coke dose.
All this for $15 per night — the price of a streetside half-meal in the US. One was not obliged to pay even that. This house was a testimonial to a kind of giving that works towards building dignity and not robbing the receiver of it. Altruistic acts may emphasise a hierarchical relationship between the givers and receivers, undermining a sense of equality. According to Immanuel Kant, charity that treats recipients as objects of help, and not autonomous agents, violates dignity. Just because we are giving, the receivers should be okay with our stained clothes, useless books, and expired food items. Just because we are giving, we have the right to violate the receiver’s dignity by taking their pictures and videos to flaunt our largesse. From Gaza to Gurdaspur, this principle of inequality operates and oppresses.
The Ronald McDonald House eschewed this base urge to remind the receiver of their plight. The scent of freshly cooked communal food, the whirring of the coffee machine, and the warmth all around made the guests forget, even if momentarily, the icy reality of their children struggling for life in the hospital next door. My family, forever the ace givers, got its first chance to be on the receiving end of charity for four days. We checked out with our dignity intact.
As the child turns 16 tomorrow, we intend to celebrate not just her life but this true meaning of giving by hedonistically empowering the capitalist McDonald’s Corporation, the force behind the Ronald McDonald House Charities, through a bunch of Happy Meals.
Nishtha Gautam is an author and academician. The views expressed are personal
