New all-digital Hunger Museum charts US response to food insecurity through a Jewish lens
An 1888 portrait of Ellen Swallow Richards and her all-female home economics class at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. A 1915 campaign poster that maps out the 20 states providing food assistance for widows and single mothers. A 1940 photo of Japanese-American children eating hot dogs at a World War II internment camp in Idaho. A video of the 1950 launch of the “Betty Crocker TV Show.”
These are among the fascinating artifacts and mementos on exhibit at the Hunger Museum, a new barrier-breaking museum that seeks to inform and raise awareness about hunger in the United States.
A virtual project of MAZON: A Jewish Response to Hunger, the museum’s six galleries chronicle well over a century of U.S. hunger and anti-hunger public policy, from the Civil War through 9/11, the 2018 government shutdown and the COVID-19 pandemic.
The all-digital Hunger Museum was conceived by Abby J. Leibman, president and CEO of MAZON, a national organization based in Los Angeles. It took three years to put together and opened on March 9.
“The Hunger Museum began as an idea, and it has exceeded my wildest expectations,” said Leibman, who has led MAZON since 2011. “It’s visually stunning and incredibly immersive, as if you’re in an actual exhibit space. There’s so much to learn as you move through the museum’s galleries and artifacts.”
The website, developed by Dan and Tamara Zimmerman of Loyal Design, has six galleries with multiple exhibits and hundreds of webpages. Leibman says there is growing interest in and awareness of the issue of hunger among Americans generally — and U.S. Jews in particular.
“Because of the pandemic, hunger registered in a far more present way than it ever has before — and not only because millions of people instantly became food-insecure as jobs were lost and businesses closed,” she said. “It was also evident in media coverage and photos of literally hundreds of cars waiting in line for free boxes of groceries.”
MAZON, which produced the all-virtual Hunger Museum, envisions it as on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. (Courtesy of Mazon)
Besides its galleries, the Hunger Museum, like any physical museum, also features venues such as a multistory lobby overlooking an atrium, an auditorium (for online events), the Terrace Restaurant and a Wishing Tree inspired by Yoko Ono’s Wish Tree that allows visitors to leave a wish for those who struggle with hunger. However, at this museum, all these features are virtual. There’s also the SNAP Café — where virtual diners can select dishes from the five major food groups and calculate how much that meal would cost, and whether they could afford it if they were on SNAP (the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program formerly known as food stamps).
“This is really an innovative initiative, not only in the way it’s being delivered as a virtual museum, but also because of the story it tells about hunger in this country — and our response — over a 100-year period,” said Mia Hubbard, vice-president of programs at MAZON, which has 23 full-time employees and an annual budget of $8.5 million.
“Food insecurity is a pervasive and persistent part of our history, and that becomes clear as you go through the galleries,” said Hubbard.
The Hunger Museum aims not only to raise awareness and inform people about hunger’s history in America, but also to create a Jewish call to action — to inspire people to help fight hunger.
“We are focused on social justice and repairing the world, and since hunger has been an enduring part of the American social condition, it requires constant vigilance,” Hubbard said. “Part of MAZON’s role is to rally the Jewish community, and in turn, create the political will to end hunger.”
Naama Haviv, MAZON’s vice-president of community engagement, said that while plenty of brick-and-mortar museums have created online exhibits, nobody has ever done an entirely virtual museum before.
The most significant changes in American society on hunger issues occurred during the 1960s and ‘70s, Haviv said, when bipartisan efforts shifted public understanding and political will to address hunger more comprehensively.
“Americans started to realize that hunger was not a personal moral failing. It was systemic and based on people’s lack of access to economic security, and oftentimes lack of access to government safety net programs,” Haviv said.
She added that hunger in America can be solved because it was solved once before, citing household surveys showing that just 3% of Americans went hungry in 1969. Today, by comparison, 12% of the population is on SNAP, and over 34 million people are food -insecure.
A wishing tree at MAZON’s new Hunger Museum is inspired by Yoko Ono’s Wish Tree project, inviting visitors to leave a wish for those facing hunger. (Courtesy of Mazon)
“During the first few months of the pandemic, that number skyrocketed to around 80 million, but then, because we had robust government investment in food safety-net programs, we saw those numbers drastically reduced,” Haviv said. “We are now below pre-pandemic levels.”
But instead of understanding the lessons of history, and learning from the recent experience of the pandemic, efforts to make it more difficult for those who struggle to find stability and food security are now underway, she warned.
For example, under current U.S. law, SNAP work requirements restrict essential benefits for “able-bodied” adults without dependents between ages 18 and 49. Rep. Dusty Johnson, a Republican from South Dakota, has introduced a bill to expand this category to age 65. Earlier this year, Sen. Rick Scott, a Florida Republican, introduced similar legislation that would raise the restriction to age 59. Both bills would also bar states from seeking a waiver to the “able-bodied adults” time limit—even if there aren’t enough jobs for all those in need.
“These changes are unacceptable and will make matters worse, because not only do they ignore history — they rely on narrow thinking about the lives of struggling Americans while ignoring the many systems that contribute to hunger, and thus to its end,” Leibman said.
“But,” Leibman added, “we know we can end hunger in America. The proof is in our history.”
A little‑remembered Gilded Age millionaire helped make milk safe for American kids through his ‘retail giving’
The 1844 edition of the widely used schoolbook written by William H. McGuffey, “Newly Revised Eclectic Fourth Reader,” includes a dialogue about the difference between “true and false philanthropy”:
Mr. Fantom: I despise a narrow field. O for the reign of universal benevolence! I want to make all mankind good and happy.
Mr. Goodman: Dear me! Sure, that must be a wholesale sort of a job: had you not better try your hand at a town or neighborhood first?
As the discussion continues, the lesson becomes clear. Mr. Fantom’s approach is too ambitious to accomplish much, while Mr. Goodman’s, if narrower in scope, was likely to be more useful in practice.
Nathan Straus made his mark in philanthropy after a successful career running the Macy’s department store. Library of Congress Image by
Many of Straus’ contemporary philanthropists were setting lofty goals for their giving. In oil magnate John D. Rockefeller’s case, it was promoting “the welfare of humanity throughout the world.” For steel tycoon Andrew Carnegie, it was “to promote the advancement and diffusion of knowledge and understanding.”
Straus pursued more mundane objectives that included championing milk pasteurization. Although his efforts are not as well known today as those of his more ambitious – and wealthier – counterparts, they accomplished a lot and showed that what might be called “retail giving” can have far-reaching effects.
Successful immigration story
The Straus family came to the United States from Germany in the 1850s during the first big wave of Jewish immigration. Lazarus Straus, Nathan’s father, followed a familiar path for Jewish immigrants at the time, beginning as a peddler and eventually establishing his own store in the small town of Talbotton, Georgia, where the members of his family were the only Jews.
He prospered, became a respected citizen and saw that his children received good educations, including in their religion.
Then the Civil War upended the family’s life, first by reviving antisemitic prejudices and then, eventually, by destroying the family’s business.
Starting anew in New York City, Lazarus and his older sons, Isidor and Nathan, began to sell imported china, glassware and other crockery to retailers in the Northeast and South. One was Rowland H. Macy, who had founded an eponymous store that was on the cutting edge of what Fisher calls a “retailing revolution.”
Macy’s innovations included stocking large inventories of many kinds of merchandise, competitive pricing, extensive advertising and providing a variety of services like public restrooms and a cafeteria to make shoppers’ experiences more pleasurable.
Aided by the rapid urban and economic growth of the late 19th century, the model flourished. Department stores displaced smaller, specialty shops. Other retail powerhouses, such as Bloomingdale’s and Lord & Taylor, soon competed with Macy’s.
The Straus family sold their wares at Macy’s. After Rowland H. Macy died, the Straus family became partners with its new owners. By 1896, the Strauses owned the store outright. And Macy’s was expanding: It bought another department store in Brooklyn and created a flagship building on Manhattan’s Herald Square, which Macy’s still occupies.
The landmark Macy’s department store in New York’s Herald Square opened in 1902 while Nathan and Isidor Straus ran the retailer. Library of Congress Image by
His philanthropy journey begins
While Isidor Straus oversaw the store’s internal operations, Nathan focused on the company’s external activities, such as purchasing, marketing and dealing with government and business leaders.
A third brother, Oscar, pursued a career as a politician and diplomat, eventually becoming secretary of commerce and labor under President Theodore Roosevelt and the first Jewish member of a presidential cabinet. Perhaps inevitably, this led to a series of public appointments for Nathan Straus.
However, as they became wealthier, Nathan and his wife, Lina, increasingly devoted their attention to a series of philanthropic projects.
In 1893, the U.S. entered a four-year economic depression, its worst until the 1930s. As unemployment in New York City rose, Nathan Straus used his merchandising skills to address the needs of the jobless and poor.
He created a number of “depots” near tenements and boarding houses that sold coal, food and fuel at discount prices. Fisher, Straus’ biographer, rightly calls these early examples of what is now known as “social entrepreneurship”: the application of business principles to solving social problems.
Making milk less deadly
As these efforts were getting away, Straus also launched what would become his major preoccupation: promoting pasteurized milk.
In New York City in the early 1890s, Fisher writes, “the annual mortality rate among children under five was about 15 percent,” or 18,000 infants and toddlers per year. A main cause was consuming raw milk, which, unless certified by inspectors, was likely not only to contain a variety of pathogens, such as tuberculosis bacteria, but spoil easily going from farm to table.
Although scientists had long known that heating could make milk safer, doctors and public health officials worried that sterilizing milk might also destroy its valuable nutrients.
Straus, who had lost one of his own children to what he believed was a milk-borne infection, built on his projects for the unemployed by working with New York social service agencies to develop pasteurization plants and infant-milk stations near low-income neighborhoods.
They sold sterilized and refrigerated milk at below-wholesale prices, or donated it to those who could not afford to pay. Businesslike efficiency kept costs low, as did donations. Multilingual ads publicized the product’s availability, doctors and nurses advised parents on child-rearing, and careful recordkeeping aimed at assessing the program’s health benefits.
Straus and his wife devoted much of their time and money to this work. In addition to establishing 297 milk stations in 36 cities, they also spoke and wrote widely about the merits of pasteurization.
By 1908, their efforts paid off when the U.S. Public Health Service endorsed pasteurization and state and local governments began requiring that milk sold in their jurisdictions be pasteurized. Raw milk remained available in many states, and debates over its safety continue to this day.
As a result of this and other Progressive Era measures, New York City’s health commissioner estimated that infant deaths dropped by two-thirds
during the first two decades of the 20th century, with similar declines elsewhere in the country.
The coastal Israeli city of Netanya was named after philanthropist Nathan Straus. Jack Guez/AFP via Getty Images Image by
Other causes
While most of Nathan Straus’ efforts occurred in the U.S., he used his trips to Europe for Macy’s to promote pasteurization on the continent.
During a 1904 visit, he toured the Mediterranean and stopped in Palestine, then part of the Ottoman Empire. Impressed by the early Jewish settlements and holy sites he saw, Straus became an ardent advocate for creating a Jewish homeland in the Middle East, an unusual position for a Jewish businessman of that era, according to Fisher.
On a subsequent trip, a broken leg kept Straus from returning to New York on the maiden voyage of the Titanic; his brother Isidor and sister-in-law Ida were not so fortunate.
In the U.S., Nathan Straus led Zionist organizations, while in Palestine, his chief contributions involved supporting a variety of health care and economic development activities, including Hadassah, the women’s health and community development organization founded by Henrietta Szold.
Nathan Straus’ achievements as a philanthropist are not widely known today because he did not create a grantmaking foundation that outlasted him, as Rockefeller and Carnegie did.
Instead, by the time of his death in 1931, Straus had donated much of his fortune. Fisher writes that Straus used to invoke an old Hebrew proverb: “Money given in health is gold. Money given in sickness is silver. Money given after death is lead.”
He also didn’t donate heavily to the burgeoning network of communal organizations set up to assist the growing population of Jewish immigrants, as did the financiers Jacob Schiff and Felix Warburg, who were also affluent Jewish immigrants from Germany.
As Fisher notes, this pattern of philanthropy resembles that of Straus’ friend – and pallbearer – Julius Rosenwald, the longtime head of Sears, Roebuck and Co. Both supported Jewish causes as well as major initiatives aimed at helping others: In Rosenwald’s case, it was schools for African American children in the South, while for Straus, it was milk pasteurization in New York City and beyond.
During and after World War I, they worked together to assist Jewish refugees in Europe. Fisher might have added that neither Straus nor Rosenwald sought much recognition for their work.
His thorough account should help give Straus the credit he deserves for his philanthropy. It should also show that donors do not have to aspire to “make all mankind good and happy” to make an important difference.
In many ways, Nathan Straus was an old-fashioned do-gooder, responding to the needs he saw with innovative solutions. As a result, he wound up accomplishing a lot of good.
“Emma,” a young Jewish woman who we met in 2019, didn’t belong to a synagogue. She didn’t have a Jewish partner. She didn’t observe Jewish rituals regularly. On most surveys about religion, she would not seem very engaged with Judaism.
But as Emma talked about what she did in her free time, a very different picture began to emerge. She visited Jewish websites and enjoyed listening to Jewish music. She read books about Jewish topics and had recently attended a retreat for young Jewish adults to learn Torah while also doing yoga.
She was highly invested in learning about Judaism, but she explored her identity without joining traditional institutions.
Most major surveys about religion ask whether someone belongs to a congregation, how often they attend services, whether they pray regularly and whether belief is important in their lives. Those measures help identify broad shifts, like the growing percentage of Americans who are religiously unaffiliated: the “nones.”
But many Americans’ religious lives, like Emma’s, are not disappearing; they are moving away from membership of traditional institutions. To understand what religion looks like in 21st-century America, researchers may need to ask different questions.
Learning through art
As scholars of Judaismand education, we have been exploring how people learn about religion beyond traditional places like synagogues, Jewish schools and summer camps. Between 2019 and early 2023, we spoke with hundreds of people and explored different leisure time activities to discover what people learn about Judaism and Jewishness through cultural arts.
We interviewed dozens of audience members at Jewish-themed shows on Broadway, such as “Leopoldstadt”and “Parade.” We attended Jewish concerts and asked attendees what they learned. We explored how social media communities offer spaces to talk about different Jewish topics, like what fans learned about ultra-Orthodox Judaism from watching the television show “Shtisel.”
‘Shtisel,’ an Israeli series about an ultra-Orthodox family in Jerusalem, ran for three seasons.
Our research revealed that there is a vibrant ecosystem of people learning about religion in their leisure time. Through the arts, both Jews and non-Jews encounter Jewish history, Jewish religious practices and representations of Jewish communities.
Screen and stage
Most people we spoke with told us that they felt meaningful connections to Judaism during activities that would rarely appear on a standard religion survey.
“Joan,” an unmarried woman in her 50s from Connecticut, told us that she was deeply invested in Judaism, but felt that synagogues and Jewish community centers were not welcoming to single people without families. Instead of joining a Jewish institution, she watched Jewish-themed TV shows and movies on Netflix, and joined social media communities to chat with other fans.
“Luis,” who lived in Boston but was born in Argentina, was a Sephardic Jew, a group that traces their ancestry and traditions to Jewish communities who once lived in Spain and Portugal. His wife was Ashkenazi, meaning her ancestors came from Central and Eastern Europe. She considered herself secular, and so the couple joined the Worker’s Circle, a nonreligious Ashkenazi institution rather than a synagogue.
Yet Luis loved deepening his knowledge of Sephardic culture, and he often attended concerts of music in Ladino, a Sephardic language related to Spanish, with other Sephardic immigrants.
American singer Sarah Aroeste writes and performs in Ladino.
For Joan and Luis, these activities were not peripheral to their Jewish lives. Rather, they were central avenues for learning and community. We interviewed hundreds of Jews who told us that cultural experiences were opportunities to reflect on Jewish practices, explore questions of belonging, connect with family histories and find friends with common interests.
New questions
Some aspects of these patterns were distinctive to Judaism. Historically, many Jews have understood Judaism to be a cultural world, and not only a theological tradition. Learning about cultural dimensions of Judaism has long been part of Jewish education.
The broader phenomenon of informal learning, though, extended far beyond a single tradition. Across America, increasing numbers of people learn about religion through media, cultural productions and digital networks. Christians may study biblical themes through podcasts, online discussion groups or religious influencers. Muslims may participate in online learning communities that connect believers across the world.
The challenge for religion researchers, then, is not simply to determine whether engagement with religion is rising or falling. Rather, it is to develop more nuanced ways of understanding how people explore religious themes and practices, beyond traditional institutions. Only then can we more fully understand how contemporary Americans actually live their religious lives.
