They do not want to tell where they come from.

A problem- they are here and thereillegally. Illegaly in Tel Aviv and illegally in their motherland.

Centre of Tel Aviv, Israel.

Tall modern skyscrapers, lovely cafes with Hebrew music, frequented by free spirits,artists, hipochondriacs, hysterics and international boheme.
Several hundreds meters away, Ethiopian and Eritrean immigrants occupy slums and streets. During the day they visit their own clubs, always darkened and filled with smoke, lit with the glimming kitschy bulps, like in Africa. To get away from the sun.

 At nights they go outside to wander about, to sell sex or to run small shops and hairdressers.

They are unwanted in Israel, as they found their way there usually via human traffickers- they do not speak Hebrew. Their Jewishness is not necessarily recognized by the authorities.
 Muslims and Christians from Africa do not enjoy support that Jews might get. They have to rely on already overstretched charities.

Daniel, my interlocutor, cannot come back to Eritrea. He was in the army for 7 years. He did not want to kill anymore, so  decided to leave his motherland. If one does not want to serve in the army, they are sent to prison.

His friend, Tesfay, doe-eyed, beauty and body like that of sculpture, spent 3 years in the army.

We sit in a tiny, cozy cafe, wrapped in the smoke of nargila. A beautiful Imanesque girl- hostess guards the door, preparing dark coffee at the same time. She is maybe in her twenties. Her face is of a shape of a almond, her skin tone is honeyish, eyebrows remind wings of a flying bird, or, as One Thousand and One Nights authors put it,  the letter Alif itself.

Her name is unpronouncable.

Tesfay does not trust us at the start. His English is very poor, so Daniel, who lives in Leeds (UK) explains that Tesfay is on the run in Israel as well. He cannot find a job, he cannot rent a flat, as he is skint (he lives along with seven other Eritreans), he is not entitled to benefits and he even cannot to become a victim of crime, as he would be sent back home. He cannot do anything. Whatever he does or whatever is done to him, might result in him being deported to Eritrea, and, as a consequence, he can be put in jail.

He will never see his family that he has left behind. He cannot contact them. In Israel, he is reluctant to make friends, as here you never know who may be your enemy. It is a matter of survival.

So- Tesfay just IS, suspended between two worlds that he cannot access.

His reality, his existence is confined to few streets in Tel Aviv that he never leaves.

Tesfay drinks and watches everybody, withdrawn. However, after some time he starts to open up- no wonder, we speak with a funny accent, do not know Hebrew (so we are not government spies) and he smiles a little, showing shiny white teeth. Then, he starts to  his hands to tell his story.

Imanesque beauty directs the breeze produced with a bamboo fan towards coffee being brewed in a muddy jug. She will give us two miniscule cups of the strongest and sweetest liquid I have ever drunk  in a moment.

Daniel has a British passport. He does not answer to my question how that is possible, as his English is not very basic, so we assume he is a political refugee. Daniel considers himself lucky. No, he will never come back to his country, but, contrary to those Trapped Between The  Two Words, he can travel freely.

Yes, he had some bad memories. From home. Too bad to talk about.

I tell him about my Ethiopian friend from the UK. She was gang-raped. While defending herself, one of the perpetrators hit her with a machete. Her scar that she sees everyday brings the memories of not only physical pain back.

The Trapped in Tel Aviv, those who left Africa, learn to know their district very well. Also, by chance, they learn other cultures, as this part of Tel Aviv is inhabited by goldenteethed Russians, who do not speak Hebrew and sell second hand goods and Ethiopians, their historical enemies, that they have to tolerate and accept.

Tefsay wants to work. And to move out somewhere else.

On our way back to the centre of Tel Aviv to out elegant and sophisticated neighbourhood, we pass by dark-skinned prostutitutes with blond dyed frizzy hair, damaged with a cheap chemicals. They address my partner, Mariusz, even though they can see we are together.

And then, not that far, the colourful lights of banks and restaurant. It reminded me of Washington, where, in its very center, so thriving and hectic during the day, filled with click-clacks of dear high-heeled shoes and the sight of expensive suits, after six oclock in the evening the homeless gather and wait for ” Martha`s Table”, whose volunteers serve meaty soup and sandwiches.

But the Washington homeless are trapped in the whole large continent. Some of them manage to save some money to spend the winter in warm California- to beg there.

Eritreans in Tel Aviv spend winters and summers in the same place – on several square kilometres in the center of Tel Aviv. Sometimes warm wind feels like a hot breath of Africa,  their home.

Text: Aleksandra Lojek

http://www.f8mag.com/download/item/f8mag-6?category_id=182

Locals are required to leave the buses and cross the checkpoint on foot. We did it as well, howeverwe did not have to – just wanted to experience life of a privileged (sic) Palestinian. Privileged as possesing an ID card allowing him to visit Jerusalem.

A maze of grills and passages, leading to mini-terminals manned by bored Israeli kid soldiers. Cold and windy air, 8 C. Terminals are not (or were not at the particular day) heated, some of them were closed, so we crowded at the only one that was functioning. Only three persons are allowed to go through the steel automatic gate at a time.

Sometimes a fourth person, who missed the counting, gets stuck in the gate and has to wait for the gate to be released. It will not happen, however, unless the first three people get carefully checked. So, they are suspended for at leat 15 minutes between a Palestininan and Israeli world, separated from both with a steel grill. It happened to a young French girl, who was standing right before us. Nobody reacted to her pleads and protests.

If the first three are Palestinians – it takes longer that 15 minutes to unblock the gate.

There was no courtesy towards Palestinians. Everything- shouting, firm voices, countless checks of their belongings, but no courtesy. Kid soldiers made several breaks, sitting in the warm rooms behind a thick dirty glass. They chatted, texted, checked emails. In the very same time Palestinian families froze waiting for their pause to end.

There was courtly politeness towards all foreigners. Having been carefully checked, I heard a kind :”Thank you” and “have a nice day” (even though my earing got lost in the Xray mashine and nobody cared about that). When Palestinians cross the gate, thet never hear these words in any language.

Another time, a bus driver left us in a place only for Israeli ID holders. There was nobody there who could direct us, so we rushed towards a kid- soldier standing in front of the check-point.

- Lo- he shouted in Hebrew – La!- corrected himself in Arabic- NO! – added promptly in English.

The watchtower spoke to us in a litany of Hebrew exclamations. Using a gesture language I showed the kids stationed several meters above me, that I did not understand a word. The watchtower continued. We decided to ignore it and got on another bus, whose driver was not so restrictive and only informed us that it was our risk. Palestinian drivers are not particularly happy when they have passengers who might attract Israeli soldiers` attention – it might mean a significant delay in entering Israel.

After some time two kid soldiers entered a bus, aged, more or less, 18 yrs. The first one check if the bus was safe – raising his gun towards passengers, the second asked for the ID`s. Polish passport did not impress him much, but he clearly did not like the documents handed to him by an elderly Palestinian, sitting behind me. He ordered him to leave the bus.

- I am 67 years old- said the man, dressed in a very modest dirty suit- There is a new law that people at my age do not have to walk through the checkpoints. But apparently today is different. Yesterday I passed the checkpoint in the bus, today I need to stand in this long queue.
The kid-soldier asked a young Arab lady with a new-born baby to leave the bus as well. He pointed at a crowd of freezing Palestinians waiting for their turn to cross the border.
We left undisturbed. We are not Palestinians, after all…

Text: Aleksandra Lojek-Magdziarz
more pictures from Palestinian Autonomy and Israel available on my  website: http://www.mariuszsmiejek.com

Where you went in National Geographic Traveler – My picture from Lisbon