Kasai, Ethiopian Jew

Where were you born?

— I was born in Ethiopia, in a village called Belsa. We are six children, I am the second to last. On my father's side, there are two more, on my mother's side, one more. In total, nine children. Everyone is in Israel now.

My father was a farmer. My mother was a housewife who raised the children and worked a bit with pottery. I come from a religious family. In the village, there was no such thing as a secular Jew. We observed Halacha [i.e. Jewish religious law and customs] strictly.

Later we moved to the city Addis. We came as a Jewish community that wanted to immigrate to Israel. We waited there for about two years until we actually immigrated.

Why did your parents decide to immigrate?

— For generations upon generations, we all grew up with stories about Israel, Jerusalem, and being part of the Jewish people. We would wake up in the morning and say a prayer about Jerusalem. So it was clear to us that we were waiting for the opportunity to move to Israel with great anticipation. There were Ethiopian Jews who made the journey through Sudan to reach Israel, walking by foot. Many of them died or lost their loved ones trying to get to Israel.

From the embassy they took us to the airport. The plane didn’t have seats to fit as many people as possible. I don't know how many were on the plane, I can only say that if you wanted to turn right or left, it was impossible.

What was your move to Israel like?

— One morning, after waiting for about two years, people from the Jewish Agency came to us and said we need to go towards the embassy because today we’regoing to Israel. We didn’t take any clothes or equipment, didn't sell anything— we walked just as we were, no money, nothing. The excitement was so great!

From the embassy they took us to the airport. The plane didn’t have seats to fit as many people as possible. I don't know how many were on the plane, I can only say that if you wanted to turn right or left, it was impossible. It was crowded to the point that it was hard to breathe.

I don’t remember how long the flight was, but today it takes about four and a half hours to fly from Ethiopia to Israel. I remember the moment of landing and getting off the plane, which was amazing. We waited for this our whole lives and it was unbelievable that it was actually happening!

It felt like there was a missing puzzle piece in the story of life, and suddenly, we found that piece. I remember the women, especially the older ones, bowing down and kissing the ground.

Where did you go from the airport?

— The buses took us to an absorption center in the kibbutz Ma'agalim near Netivot, where we spent three years studying Hebrew in Ulpan. They settled us in a huge caravan site.

It was like a ghetto. There were only us, new immigrants. Kids like me were running around outside, riding bicycles, it was safe. We didn’t have to deal with a different reality yet. Those three years were really wonderful. We were still innocent.

After three years, all my older siblings went to boarding schools, while my parents, my younger sister and I went to Kiryat Malachi for permanent housing. That is when all the challenges began.

Why did your parents choose Kiryat Malachi?

— The state gave us an initial amount to take a mortgage. With this money we could only afford to live in a place like Kiryat Malachi.

Looking at it today, I can say that it was a very clear tracking system, with an agenda to house people who “don't contribute much economically” only in these peripheral, disadvantaged areas of the state, so we wouldn't mix and go to other places and so that we would only have certain roles in society.

What kind of roles?

— I think they needed laborers to do the simple jobs. Building houses. So there was a tracking system that positioned Mizrahi and other kinds of Jews on the margins of the society.

My parents and my grandparents devoted their lives to the Jewish people, but when we actually came here we suddenly heard from our new fellow citizens that we're black, we're not Jewish, and need to go back to where we came from.

What was it like living in Kiryat Malachi?

— It was like I suddenly woke up. We have always said and still say, thank you to the State of Israel for bringing us here. But on the other hand, my parents and my grandparents devoted their lives to the Jewish people, but when we actually came here we suddenly heard from our new fellow citizens that we're black, we're not Jewish, and need to go back to where we came from. And the only part of the narrative that remained surrounding our immigration was one of superiority, telling us to be grateful that they brought us here.

In Kiryat Malachi, there was an old population, second-generation immigrants from Morocco, Iraq, there were also Russians, Bukharians, everything — a representation of all the waves of immigrants who couldn’t buy a house in a better place. They too got the message of "say thank you." So I say, we got it, and we say thank you, and we really appreciate it. But at what cost? And when will this “thank you” stop?

As children, the experience was one of rejection, being unwanted, being the other.

We brought with us an amazing culture. What we hear was that your culture isn't worthy. Erase it.

I think Israel missed out on us significantly. And it continues to miss out even today.

Everything we had was considered useless, starting with our names, that we were told to change.

You were told to change your name?

— They gave us names from the Bible: “you are Jacob, you are Ruth, you are Moses”. Maybe they thought that if we had names from the Bible, we’d be more Jewish. They gave me the name Ruth. I used it until 12th grade. And I had straightened hair until after the army. I couldn't even imagine myself with an afro; it wasn't even an option.

In the 1980s, our men even had to undergo a kind of special procedure to confirm circumcision again, even though they were already circumcised. In 2013 a story was published revealing that back in the 90s in the absorption center, Ethiopian women were given contraceptives without their consent. If any doctor had done this to a white woman, he’d be sitting in jail today.

I think that over the years of immigration and “absorption” to Israel from all countries, not just Ethiopia, it was always that as an immigrant, you basically have two choices: either assimilate completely, denying your own identity, or not to integrate, and feel left out.

Today, I think the only thing that saved us was that we couldn’t change our color.

What did you do after you finished school?

— I worked from the age of 12. I worked as a cleaner. I wanted to go shopping and buy shoes, like my white friends did. I bought a car at a very young age.

And after school, I enlisted in the army and I had a very good experience in the army, but the crisis came after the army.

I would come home and complain to my mom, saying they told me I stink. She would ask, "Well, do you stink?". I’d say, "No." Then she’d say, "So why do you care?"

What happened?

— I returned to the same area where I grew up. I started to look for a job, but nobody would hire me. Once again I was considered the black one who should be deported.

I would come home and complain to my mom, saying they told me I stink. She would ask, "Well, do you stink?". I’d say, "No." Then she’d say, "So why do you care?" “But when they called me black, it hurt me.” She’d respond, "So they said. Did it harm you?"

She was very wise, and she understood that if we focus on what hurts and on what’s insulting, it won’t move us forward. She taught us to think of it as words floating in the wind, like it couldn’t touch you.

I remember waking up one morning, cutting off my straightened hair, and saying: if anyone has a problem with my afro, it’s not my problem.

Did you finally find a job?

— I worked nine months in an ice cream factory. Then for nearly six years I worked in a clothing store, while also doing my bachelor’s degree in Social Work, at Sapir College. The desire to be an agent of change, to influence others, to help, is part of my personality or part of the home I grew up in.

During our studies we had a program called International Social Work, and we had to go to Ethiopia. In my fantasy, I was about to return home to the country where I was born and grew up. I thought it was going to be easy for me and I would help my white friends who come with me. Finally, I wouldn’t be a minority, I would be the black majority there. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like that. During this trip I experienced another identity crisis.

Because when we immigrated, I thought I was Israeli. After the army I accepted that I was Ethiopian. Then I returned to Ethiopia and felt I wasn’t Ethiopian. Then I returned to Israel, and didn’t know who I was anymore.

Why?

— We studied and worked in really tough places. We went to help people who are in such a poverty that it can’t be described or compared to anything else.

I also found out that my language wasn’t like the local language. Everything was very difficult. The first thing I did was call my mom, I told her, “Mom, I want to go home.” That was the first time I understood that Israel was home. When I returned, it took me a long time to recover. Because when we immigrated, I thought I was Israeli. After the army I accepted that I was Ethiopian. Then I returned to Ethiopia and felt I wasn’t Ethiopian. Then I returned to Israel, and didn’t know who I was anymore. Till this day, I sometimes feel that I can’t answer this question.

What did you do after you finished your studies?

— I always keep learning, because to grow professionally, you need to constantly learn. I did my master's degree, I trained in group facilitation, did personal coaching, I am currently studying sexology and I work with people living with HIV at Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv. I work in a very supportive organization that finally sees me. I think it's the only place where I feel seen as Kasai—beyond my color.

Many years have passed since the great Ethiopian emigration. How are things now with the integration of Ethiopian Jews into Israeli society?

— Recently, a white woman hit a three-year-old Ethiopian child and kept driving, the child died. In court, she claimed she didn't see him. The family requested to see the camera footage, but it wasn't available. Not long ago, an Ethiopian teenager had a confrontation with a policeman, who shot and killed him. The family asked to see the footage, but again, the cameras weren't working. If these kids had been white, it wouldn't have gone unnoticed. The state would have taken action.

If you look on the internet and search for "Ethiopian immigrant," you'll find that a very high percentage of what appears is in a negative context: an Ethiopian murdered his wife, an Ethiopian stole something, Ethiopians protested and caused trouble. If it happens to a Moroccan, a Yemenite, or a Russian person, their origins are not mentioned because this isn’t relevant to journalists.

Racism and discrimination is here and it will be. Arabs suffer from it, addicts suffer from it, LGBTQ+ people, homosexuals and lesbians suffer from it. Elderly people suffer from it. Everyone at some level feels it. It’s a disease. But unlike genetic diseases, it can be cured. But it starts with us, as a society. If we see any racist, exclusionary, or discriminatory action, we need to fight it.

I can’t say I fight against racism only when it suits me. When the Druze were gathering for a demonstration to fight for their rights, I was there with them. I am not LGBTQ+, but do I have to go out to demonstrations to support them when I see harm and injustice done to them? Of course, I do. But when we went out to protest with the family against racism towards Ethiopian people near the Azrieli Center, I could count on one hand the number of white people who were there.

Have you seen this slogan all over Israel, “Together we’ll win”? Well, we’ve already lost.

You live in North Tel Aviv, a very upscale neighborhood. How do you feel here?

— We moved here in 2017. When I talked to the realtor, he said, “You have a nice name, what is your last name?”' I told him, and he responded, “Oh, okay, but have you seen the prices in the area?”. I said, “Yes”. He said, “Oh, okay, so I'll call you”. He didn’t call me. In a few days, I called him again to schedule a visit, but once more, he never returned my call. Then I realized the situation, and I asked my husband, who is white, to call and schedule a meeting without mentioning me. I went to see the apartment alone because my husband was busy. At the entrance, I said, “Hello, I’ve come to see the apartment”. He said to me, “I didn’t schedule with you”. I replied, “Right, you scheduled with my husband”. So it forced him, and he had no choice.

So I’ve never experienced really bad situations, just the small and trivial things like this. But I learned to adopt avoidance mechanisms. I won't walk around here at ten at night. I might go out with a white friend who will accompany me, but never alone. And not because I'm afraid. I don't want to be embarrassed that a policeman will catch me and ask for my ID.

What do you think about the current war in israel?

— You can see everywhere on the streets this slogan: “Together we will win.” Who is together? Palestinians and Jews? Religious Jews and non-religious? Black and white? There is no togetherness in Israel. Since October 7th, this country has been burning, and we haven’t been together for a moment and there’s no winning in this situation. We've already lost. So maybe we should replace this slogan with: “Together we can get through this.”

* The interview is translated from Hebrew.

Text Asya Chachko
Illustration Victor Melamed

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