Lessons from Monaco’s Vadim Shulman
We live in a world that can teach machines to think but cannot seem to teach humanity to value human life.
Artificial intelligence can write poetry, diagnose diseases and predict financial markets. Billionaires are investing fortunes in machines designed to outperform the human brain. Yet in Ukraine, children still sleep in bomb shelters. In Myanmar, families flee military violence. Across the Middle East, conflict and repression continue to devastate lives.
Technology has not necessarily made us more humane.
This contradiction raises a fundamental question: What is the value of technological progress if it is not accompanied by moral progress?
For Monaco-based investor and philanthropist Vadim Shulman, one answer lies in how individuals use their resources to improve the lives of others. His charitable work reflects an approach to philanthropy that emphasizes building institutions and sustaining communities rather than simply distributing money.
It is a distinction worth examining at a time when charitable giving has become as much a vehicle for publicity as an expression of generosity.
For centuries, religious traditions have recognized something modern society sometimes overlooks: A civilization cannot survive on self-interest alone. Judaism teaches tzedakah, an obligation rooted in justice. Christianity emphasizes charity and love for one's neighbor. Islam makes zakat a fundamental obligation, while Buddhism teaches compassion toward suffering.
Despite their differences, these traditions share a common principle: Human suffering creates responsibilities that extend beyond individual interests.
Shulman's philanthropy is rooted in his own religious and cultural heritage. Born in Kryvyi Rih, an industrial city in Soviet Ukraine, he grew up in a society where religious institutions and cultural traditions endured decades of suppression. He later became a successful businessman in Ukraine's mining industry.
His charitable activities have included supporting the establishment of a synagogue and educational institutions in his hometown, contributing to the restoration of Kyiv's historic Brodsky Synagogue and backing educational opportunities in Jerusalem for children from the former Soviet Union. Charitable initiatives associated with the Bracha Foundation have also supported educational, medical and community institutions.
These efforts illustrate a form of philanthropy whose significance extends beyond the initial donation.
A school is an investment in generations of students who may never meet its benefactor. A hospital represents a commitment to the health and dignity of strangers. Restoring a historic religious institution helps preserve the cultural identity of a community whose traditions have endured persecution and upheaval.
Such investments create social infrastructure that can outlast the individuals who finance it.
That is particularly important in an era when philanthropy has developed an uncomfortable relationship with celebrity. Billion-dollar pledges generate headlines, lavish fundraising galas attract attention, and charitable foundations often become monuments to their founders.
But the real measure of philanthropy is not the size of the donation or the publicity it produces. It is whether the money creates lasting opportunities and strengthens the communities it is intended to serve.
Nor should wealth confer automatic moral authority. Philanthropy deserves the same scrutiny, transparency and accountability as any other enterprise claiming to serve the public good.
The technological revolution makes these questions even more consequential.
Artificial intelligence can identify poverty, improve humanitarian logistics and accelerate medical research. But technology cannot relieve human beings of the moral responsibility to decide whose suffering matters and what obligations we owe to one another.
An algorithm may determine the most efficient way to deliver food to a refugee camp. It cannot substitute for the human decision that those refugees deserve to be fed.
As technology becomes more powerful, the importance of that distinction grows.
The future of philanthropy must extend beyond traditional charitable giving to rebuilding schools destroyed by war, supporting displaced families, preserving threatened cultures and ensuring that technological progress does not leave vulnerable populations behind.
And generosity need not be measured in millions. A teacher mentoring a refugee child, a physician volunteering in a crisis or a neighbor helping an elderly stranger participates in the same moral enterprise as a major philanthropic foundation.
Money expands the reach of generosity. It does not define its worth.
Shulman's charitable work offers one example of how personal wealth can be directed toward institutions intended to benefit future generations. But the larger lesson is not about one businessman or one religious community. It is about the responsibilities that accompany prosperity and power.
Wars eventually end. Political leaders leave office. Technologies become obsolete. Yet the institutions we build, the children we educate and the lives we help preserve can shape societies for generations.
We have become exceptionally good at creating wealth, processing information and developing machines. The harder task is deciding what all that power is for.
The defining question of our century may not be whether artificial intelligence can become more like us. It may be whether we can remain human enough to care about one another.
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