Beyond the Crescent: Sustaining the Spirit of Giving

This heightened emotional state often translates into immediate action. When hunger is no longer abstract but felt — even if only for a few hours each day — the instinct to respond grows stronger. This is perhaps why donation drives flourish during Ramadhan, especially for rental flat communities. The motivation feels both urgent and personal, rooted in a shared sense of experience.

The empathy-altruism hypothesis, proposed by C. Daniel Batson², suggests that acts of giving can be triggered by empathetic concern — particularly when people feel emotionally close to another’s suffering. But this also reveals a limitation. Emotional proximity — like the kind intensified by fasting — is not a constant. It fluctuates and as the immediate experience of discomfort fades, so too can the drive to act.

This pattern is reflected in broader trends on giving in Singapore. The National Giving Study (2023)³ by the National Volunteer and Philanthropy Centre (NVPC) found that while religiosity is often correlated with giving behaviour, the link is not always straightforward. Those who saw religion as important and regularly attended communal religious practices were more inclined to donate or volunteer.

One interpretation of this pattern is that structured environments serve as built-in prompts for charitable behaviour. When people are regularly exposed to appeals for help, they are more likely to respond. In contrast, when those cues are absent, even individuals with strong charitable values may give less frequently.

This mirrors what happens during Ramadhan. The month itself becomes a collective prompt; a period where giving is socially encouraged, emotionally resonant and culturally visible. When the season ends and the cues recede, so too does the urgency to act. For residents in rental flats who live with persistent, year-round challenges, this can mean a sudden disappearance of visibility—support fades, not necessarily because people stop caring, but because the signals to act are no longer there.

The question, then, is not about the sincerity of our care. It is about sustainability. How might we design our giving in ways that are not dependent solely on seasonal emotion or institutional reminders? How might we build habits of solidarity that persist beyond the peak moments of spiritual or emotional intensity? Consistency does not always have to look like big gestures. Much like watering a plant, it is not the occasional heavy pour that helps it thrive, but the regular, small doses of care. Giving works in the same way. A grand act once a year may feel impactful, but it is the quieter, ongoing support that nurtures long-term change.

Behavioural scientist BJ Fogg calls this the Tiny Habits⁴ approach. Rather than relying on occasional motivation spikes, Fogg advocates for simple, repeatable routines. This reframing of giving — from the spectacular to the sustainable — shifts the narrative. It reminds us that we do not need to wait for the “right” moment to do good and that the spirit of compassion so present during Ramadhan can carry into the ordinary days too. When we embed that into our lives, even gently, we move from reactive gestures to intentional, long-term care.

Especially for residents of rental flats, whose needs do not begin or end with the Ramadhan season, this consistency matters. Many live in chronic precarity—not visible crises, but low-level struggles that persist year-round. In such contexts, giving often takes the form of food. However, beneath the surface of a well-meaning food donation lies a question we often overlook: Is this really what they need?

For instance, the story covered by Channel News Asia (CNA)⁵ of Ms. Jalila, a single mother of 5, who lives in a 2-room rental flat in Woodlands. With multiple chronic health issues in her family, fresh, home-cooked meals have become a necessity, prescribed by her doctors. However, the rising cost of fresh ingredients has made it increasingly difficult to maintain this diet. She shared that all 5 of her children are not well, and she tries to prepare home-cooked fresh fish and chicken but with groceries costing her at least $500 to $600 a month, she often relies on food rations

from charities — though these often lack the fresh produce her family needs.

This case reflects a broader challenge faced by many low-income families in Singapore: despite a strong desire to eat healthily, the rising cost of living makes it difficult to afford fresh, nutritious food. The CNA article⁶ brings light to the struggles of families like Ms. Jalila’s, who struggle with the high costs of food while trying to meet medical and dietary needs.

While charities play a critical role in providing food relief, they are often limited by logistical and financial constraints, which results in food donations that consist mostly of non–perishable goods like canned items. These, while helpful, fail to meet the dietary needs of families relying on fresh meals for their health.

This raises an important question: What does it mean to give meaningfully?

Charities and donors must consider the quality and relevance of the food given to these families. According to a study done by the Lien Centre for Social Innovation at Singapore Management University (SMU) in 2022⁷, supermarket vouchers offer food-insecure families the flexibility to make their own informed choices, enabling them to purchase what they truly need, rather than receiving a generic food package that might include items they cannot or normally do not use.

This approach also links to a larger principle: the importance of relationships in charitable giving. Meaningful support arises not from assumptions, but from a deep understanding of what people actually require. It is essential that charities and donors go beyond asking but listening to those they seek to help. Only then can we ensure that donations meet the actual needs of the community, rather than adding to the clutter of well-meaning, but sometimes irrelevant, offerings.

A prime example of this is the way MTFA Darul Ihsan Orphanage operates. Every month, the orphanage publishes a transparent wish list detailing the specific items they need and the amount, from daily essentials like food and household items to educational supplies such as school shoes and socks. This system not only allows donors to know exactly what their contributions will be used for, but it also ensures that donations meet the real, immediate needs of the children. It is important to recognise how this system benefits both the recipients and the donors. It removes the guesswork and uncertainty that often clouds charitable giving, allowing donors to feel more connected to the cause they are supporting.

As we reflect on the purpose of giving, it is also crucial to ask ourselves: What is my goal here? Is it to feel good about helping? Or to make a lasting impact? These questions are more than just rhetorical; they help shape the way we approach charity and the role we play in the lives of others.

The difference between charity and justice is essential to consider here. Charity is often about responding to immediate needs—the kind of quick fix that feels good in the moment. It is giving food, clothing, or even cash to alleviate an immediate hardship. However, justice is about addressing the structural issues that create those needs in the first place. It is a longer-term approach, aiming to dismantle the systems of inequality and access that keep people in cycles of poverty and deprivation.

While none of us can single-handedly fix these systems, we can all think more critically about how we show up in small, yet impactful ways. One of the most important shifts we can make is moving beyond just alleviating short-term struggles and instead thinking about long-term solutions that can empower and uplift communities sustainably.

Every year during Ramadhan, something shifts.

Our eyes, hearts, and minds open in ways that bring us closer to the needs of our neighbours and our communities. We recognise the struggles and the potential to make a difference. The act of giving becomes more than just a gesture—it becomes a way of life. But as the month draws to a close, that awareness often fades. The urgency lessens, and the momentum slows. Yet, what if we kept that momentum alive? What if, instead of pausing after Ramadhan, we continued to give—not just during the month, but throughout the year?

Imagine a future where our generosity is unwavering, where the spirit of Ramadhan does not just end with the sighting of the new moon but lives on in our everyday actions. Let us make that a reality.

Sherlita Almeyra Sherhan is a graduate of Raffles Institution and currently a Research Intern at RIMA. Her research interests lie in exploring social issues affecting the Malay community and the perservation of Malay culture in the context of global influences. She is the Co-Founder and pro-bono CEO of MudaSG, Vice-Chairperson of M3@GeylangSerai and Youth Lead for M3@Jalan Besar./