A couple weeks ago, I
participated in a different kind of seder,
the Jewish ritual feast that marks the beginning of the Jewish holiday of
Passover. Those participating were neither Israeli nor Jewish, but they were
all too familiar with the narrative of the Passover holiday; having escaped
harsh dictators, destitution and slavery. What was different about a night like
this was the unusual role reversal—those illegal immigrants who usually picked
up Israeli’s garbage, or cleaned their dishes, were the ones sitting, enjoying
the music and warm Mediterranean breeze, while Israelis served them. The night
was replete with guest speakers, music, dancing, and lots of matzos. The good vibes were palpable.
The first home for many refugees is Tel Aviv's Levinsky Park,
where the event was held. Their visas permit them to stay in Israel, but they
are not allowed to work, nor do they receive any state benefits, so making a
living is often a difficult challenge. Standing at the entrance to the event, a
middle-aged Israeli man walking by came up to me and asked what was going on. I
responded that we were celebrating the Passover holiday with African refugees;
a response that I suddenly regretted after seeing a look of anger and disbelief
appear across his face. “Did you check each one to make sure that they are in
fact refugees?” he snapped. Emboldened
by his animosity I decided to engage him in discussion. My attempts were to no
avail; for him non-Jews, especially blacks, had no place in Israeli society,
and he cited many oft quoted statistics about the increase in crime and filth
the Africans had brought with them. Seeing his anger mount at my every
response, I decided to end the discussion. My rebuke angered him and he
proceeded to shove his hand very forcefully into the face of my friend standing
next to me. He then ran from the scene.
Shocked, angered, disappointed and saddened, I knew he had no
right to act as he did, but that a growing percentage of Israeli society shares
his racist and xenophobic sentiments. In the past decade,
Israel has absorbed up to 60,000 African immigrants. These refugees are fleeing
genocide, harsh dictatorships, and civil war-- mostly Sudanese and Eritrean
nationals, they entered Israel through the porous border with Egypt, where they
were often enslaved by Bedouins, or shot at by Egyptian border guards.
It was a night to forget the differences in race
and religion; to remember that each refugee has a story, a story that resonates
very closely with the Jewish narrative of displacement and persecution; a truth
that the Israeli population often forgets.
I vowed not to let this man and his negative feelings ruin my night, and
his anger made me realize the importance of the work I was doing, and I could
not give up. The questions we pose ourselves at the Seder night are universal
and very relevant to the state of modern world. How do we relate to freedom,
slavery, and exodus? With over 16
million refugees and asylum seekers worldwide, originating from all corners of
the world these questions take on a global importance. So to this man who chose aggression in the face
of animosity, and to the rest of the Israeli public who believe these asylum
seekers have no place in our society, here is my reply:
Is this the fate of
our country? Are we allowing ourselves to repeat the crimes and injustices
inflicted upon us by the myriads of discriminatory governments throughout our
history? How easily we forget, that less than a century ago, we ourselves were
refugees, kicked out of our countries of residence, with no place to call home.
Sixty-two years later, after establishing a state, is it not our moral duty to
ensure that these refugees, who face a clear and present danger to their
safety, be granted asylum? Is it not our moral responsibility to afford them
basic rights, such as health care and jobs, to assist them in rebuilding their
lives, and live in safety?
If the
aphorism that the moral test of any society is how it treats its weakest
members were true, Israel would fail. We, the Jewish people, should know better
than anyone else what being “the other” in a strange land is. It is not only
the government, but Israeli citizens themselves, who are apathetic to the
refugees’ plight. This is antithetical to the core Jewish belief in the
importance of social responsibility and helping others. In the meantime, however, I will continue to
love the strangers in our land, to help them and be kind to them, and to draw
strength from the moral compass that is a vital part of our Israeli identity.
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