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הנומש ךשמב .םלצמו ןנובתמ ,םלצמו ןנובתמ .םיררועתמ םיבר תוקפס

הנועט .םישרמ הדובע ףוג קיציא הנב ,םלועב םיטלוב חטש ימלצ לש תירטנמוקודה תרוסמה בטימכ תא שפחל ,םוסגנַאו זָהרת לש םרופיס תא רפסל — ומצע לע לטנש הלועפהו דועיתה תוירחא יטילופ־יתרבח ךלהמ לש םינמסכ ,האירתיראמ טלקמ ישקבמ ,םיטילפ ינש רובע ןוכנה ביטרנה .ויפתכ לע תצבור — ףיקמו לודג .ביבא לת לש השדחה תיזכרמה הנחתב ילש וידוטסב םוליצב ןמא תתיכ יתרבעה 2012 תנשב .םירזה םידבועב ,טלקמה ישקבמב ,םיטילפב קסע אוהו ,"הנורחא הנחת" היה טקיורפה אשונ טקשב .םורדה ןמ םיבר םיסובוטוא הנחתל ועיגה ןיידע םינש ןתואב .םיפתתשמה דחא היה קיציא הוונ תנוכשל ,ריעה םורד תובוחר לא ,םינשה תצורמב םיטילפ יפלא ףאו תואמ ,תורשע םהמ ודרי ,תורוחש ,תוהובג ,תוזר תויומד .2007 זאמ ןאכל ועיגה רבכש ,םיפלאה תורשעל ופרטצהו ,ןנאש תוצלוחב םישובל ,לוכ ירסח ,םילהובמ ,םישולת םישנא ;טסוגוא שדוח לש קהובה רואב תוענ םידגב רורצ .רבדמ ישנאכ

םיקחורמ ,םיפיו םישיגר ,םימח תיפוס/תינמז הנחת רידגהל ןויסינב ,םינושה וינפו חטשה תנבהל ,הריקחלו דומילל ,שופיחל בר ףרח ,תיזכרמה הנחתה יבחרמו ןנאש הוונ תובוחר .השדח תוילארשי ,םייח לש הלחתה ,וז השק תמגוד ,בוחר ימלצל המודב .ולש היישעה הדשל וכפה ,םיחתמו םיישק יריתע תוזוחמ םתויה חטשה תא ךופהל וליכשהש ,)Cudlín( ןילדוק לראקו )Webb( בוו סכלא ,)McCurry( יראקמ ביטס תויציזופמוקה .וז הכובס היישעב חלצ קיציא םג ,חבושמ בוחר ןורטאתל ,םהלש יתיבה שרגמל תושיגרו הרואכל־םיימיטפוא קורי־דורו יעבצ ידי לע תטלשנ ,המח תוינועבצה ;תוקיודמ ולש ןיעל תוגירח ,תוינועבצ תולמשו םידפקומו םיטיוחמ םידגב ,םיסקט הברה ןהב שי .ןוכנה רואל .ץצונו ראופמ עוריאל םידע ונאש ,המדנ עגרל יכ דע ,ונתוא םילשמ הלא לכו ,תימוקמה בחרמה תא ,םיטילפה לש תפטעמה רופיס תולובג תא ןמסל ןויסינב ,דועיתה השעמ ךלהמב הקיטתסאה לע תועיפשמה ,הבושת תורדענ תולאש ,םיבר תוקפס םילוע ,הזה יטילופ־ירוביצ־יטרפה תוכיישל תועגונה תולאש דצל ,םוקמו ןמז ,בחרמ לש ,רסומ לשו הקיתא לש תויגוס :תימוליצה .ישוקה יוצמ םיירפ לכבש יפויל תחתמ .ישיאבו םחב ,הפיב םג קיציא רחוב וימולצתב .תוהזלו ,םינידע םימולצתב םירבדה לש םתובכרומ תא תושיגדמ ,םוליצה השעמ תעב תולועה ,תולאשה ,טקש םוקמב רסוחה תא רקיעבו ,ינועה תא ,באכה תא ,הנידמה לש בלה תוישק תא םיפשוחה .ילכלכ־יתרבח־ישיא ןוחטיבב

לש םירחא םיטביה םג ,ריכהל אלש

תויתד

וא ,םיריכמ אל ונתאמ

םייטילופהו

.הרז ץראב טלקמ

לארשיל םיסנכנה לש ללוכה רפסמה ."םיננתסמ"כ דסממה ידי לע לארשי ןיב לובגה רדג תיינב המלשוה הבש הנשה ,2012 תנשל דע הילא ועיגה עירכמה םבור .64,371 .לארשי תא םהיניבמ 30,000־ל בורק ובזע םינשה ךלהמב .םירצמל םתוהמב הזמ הז םילדבנה םייוניכ ,ילארשיה חישב םהיבגל םיגוהנ םיבר םייוניכ ,רומאכ ולא םישנא הנכמ תימשרה לארשי .םיאשונ םהש יגולואידיאהו יטפשמה ,ירוטסיהה ןעטמבו ימוקמה יטפשמה חישב וליאו ,םתוחכונל סחיב היצמיטיגל־הד רמשלו רוציל הרטמב ,''םיננתסמ'' תבכרומ תוריהב יא הביעמ וז תומימע לע ."םיטילפ" וא "טלקמ ישקבמ" םינוכמ םה ימואלניבהו העורק תימשרה לארשי .יטפשמה םדמעמ תלאשו םהיפלכ לארשי לש

תורשע התבגש המחלמל חתפתה ךוסכסה .היפויתאל לכ לע רסא ,הנידמב חרזאה תויוכז תיברמ תא אישנה לטיב המחלמה תוסחב .םיטילפ יפלא תורמ תלטהב יזכרמ ילכל תדסוממה תומילאה תא ךפהו ,האחמ תעבה לכ לעו תישפוח תונגראתה יזכרמה יעצמאל ךפה ,התואמצע םוימ הב גהנוהש ,םישנלו םירבגל הבוח יאבצ תוריש .תינוטלש הנורחאה םהידומיל תנשב אבצל ףרטצהל םיביוחמ ןוכית ידימלת .הטילשלו חוקיפל ,עומשמל המחלמה הכשמנש לככ יכ ,הלוע לארשיבו םלועב עויס ינוגרא לש םיחווידמ .אבצ תונחמב דובעלו תבוח .12 ינב םידלי וסיוג

םיחירבמ ידי לע ךרדב יניסב תואלכמב .םלועב םירחא תומוקמל וא לארשיל ועיגה רבכש ,םהיתוחפשמ ינבמ םירלוד יפלא םיבר .דועו םירביא תתירכ ,סנוא תוברל ,םידירחמ םייוניע םיאירתירא םישנו םירבג יפלא ורבע .ודרש — ומלישו וענכנ םהיתוחפשמ

,ןאדוסמ םיינקירפאה טלקמה ישקבמ ינושאר ועיגה רשאכ ,2005 תנש ףוסב ,ךכו .טלקמ ישקבמל לש םיניתנ םתויה בקע ואלכנ םה הליחת .העפותה םע תודדומתהל תודסומו םילכ לארשי הרסח תוינידמ השטננ ,האירתיראמ טלקמה ישקבמ םרז רובג םעו הרצק הפוקת רובעכ ךא ,ביוא תנידמ הניא ךא ,בוצק ןמז קרפ ךשמל שוריגמ הנגה הנקמה ,"תינמז תיביטקלוק הנגה" םהל הקנעוהו וז .דובעל תוכז וא תוילאיצוס תויוכז ,תואירב יתורישל תויוכז הנקמ דחמ .האירתיראמ טלקמה ישקבמל רידת הנתשמו םומע םויק בחרמ לארשי תנידמ הרצי ךכ לס ילושבו קוחה ילושב םייוצמ םה אסיג ךדיאמו ,קוחכ הייהש תורשאב םיקיזחמ םה אסיג לש בצמ והז ,רביחנמ היליסס ,תיגולויצוסה ירבדל .םיבשותל םינתינה ,תויוכזהו םיתורישה תואדו יא .תחא הנועבו תעב ותוא ריקפמ םגו וב טלוש םג קוחהש בחרמ :3"תילנימיל תויקוח" תעגונה ,תואדווה יא רקיעבו ,הז בחרמב םייוצמה ולא לש םהייחמ דרפנ יתלב קלח םה תוירירבשו שוריגמ הנגהל תואכזל םינוירטירקה לש תוריהבה רסוחו שוריג ינפמ הנגהה לש התעיקפ דעומל ,םיימואלניבו םיימוקמ םדא תויוכז ינוגרא לש ךשוממ קבאמ רחאל ,2013 תנשב קר .רצעממו בצק ,ולא תורוש תביתכ תעשל ןוכנ ,תאז םע .תוינטרפ טלקמ תושקבב ןודל לארשי תנידמ הלחה ןכש ,בל םות רסוחבו דבלב ןיע תיארמל עצבתמ ךילהה יכ ,םינעוטה שיו ,דואמ יטא םינוידה םלועב רתויב ךומנה זוחאה — דבלב 1%־כ לע םידמוע םיטילפכ טלקמ תושקב ישיגמב הרכהה יזוחא עצוממב םידמועה ,םלועב תורחא תונידמב םיהובגה הרכהה יזוחאל ףירח דוגינב תאז ,יברעמה .םיאירתיראל הרכה 87% לע הרצחב ,םיאירתיראה לש םבור בור הז ללכבו ,תרדומה הרזה הייסולכואה היח םינשה ךלהמב לש תוישממה םהיתוקוצמ .ביבא לת םורד לש םידוהיה היבשות — תשלחומ תימוקמ הייסולכוא לש .תוקפסמ תויתשת רדענו ינע בחרמ ותואב טלקמה ישקבמ לש םתוחכונ בקע ומצעתה םינורחאה .תוצובקה יתשל אושנמ השק םיפתושמה םייחה לוע ,טלקמה ישקבמ יבגל הרורב תוינידמ רדעיהב תומקרנו רחסמ יסחי םיחתפתמ ,םישגרמ םיימוימוי םיישונא םישגפמ םג םישחרתמ ,תאז םע .םלוכל .רתוי בוט דיתעל תווקת םג

Cecilia Menjívar, "Liminal Legality: Salvadoran and Guatemalan Immigrants' Lives in the United States," American Journal of 3 Sociology, vol. 111, no. 4 (January 2006), pp. 999–1037

טלקמ ישקבמ היה הנדסב יזכרמה

אשונ .ןמסדנל לייאו ילאפר דדלא לש וידוטסב קרמ" תונגראתה לש תוליעפ ןנאש הוונ תנוכשב יקסניול תניגב ברע ידמ המייקתה םימי םתואב ןושארה םוקמה הז .טלקמה ישקבמל לכוא םיקלחמו םשל םיעיגמ ויהש ,םיבדנתמ — "יקסניול בכרומ אשונל םישגינ דציכ רורב היה אל .סוסיהב ,קחרממ הרק לוכה הלחתהב .יתעגה וילאש ישקבמ ינפב הנדסה ירבח תא םיליעפה וגיצה םירוקיב רפסמ רחאל לבא ,םיליחתמ ךיאו הזכ תויומדה ןמ המכ םע רשק יתרצי זא לבא ,םלטצהל וצר אל םה םינושארה םישגפמב .טלקמה אלא ,יתוא קפיס אל הז לבא .תוישפוחב םלצלו "השיג לבקל" יתלחתה טא טאו ,םהב תוטלובה םע המ ?םידלי םהל שי םאה ?םיסנרפתמ םה דציכ ?םיררוגתמ םה ןכיה :תונרקס דוע יב ררוע קר המיקהש ,הרוחב םע רשק יתרצי .אשונה תא קמועל רוקחל ךישמהל בייח ינאש יתשגרה ?תואירב ןמגרותמכ שמישש ימ .םישגפמה דחאל יתוא הנימזה איהו ,תורה טלקמ תושקבמ יווילל טקיורפ היתונומתש ,החפשמה ינב םה םהידליו זהרת ותשא ,םוסגנא .םוסגנא םשב רוחב היה ברע ותואב ,בוש שגפיהל לכונ םא יתלאש .ילש טקיורפה לע ול יתרפיס ברע ותואב .רפסה ךרואל תועיפומ .יתכשמה ינאו ,םידחא םישדוח רחאל המייתסה הנדסה ."החמשב" :רמא אוהו דחא היה הז .המלס בוחרב הייסנכב רקובב תבשב םייקתהש ,עוריאב שגפיהל יתוא ןימזה םוסגנא

ףיקהל שקבמ ינא .תיטילופ הגהנה ,תיטילופ תועדומ םהל שי .ונלשו םהלש רופיסהמ קלח הז ,ןכ ,האחמה תא רפסבש םימולצתב תוארל רשפא .רופיסהמ קלח הז םגו ,םידדצ המכמ אשונה תא .תמייאמ וא תינפקות אל איה לבא ,האחמ וז .הרטמה תורודח םינפה תא הכותבו

רפסב םיניינעמה םירבדה דחא ,תאז םעו בחרמה תא קר גיצהל תרחב אלש אוה תונומת טעמ אל .יתליהקה וא יתיבה .תונגפהמ ,םייטילופ םיבחרממ תוחוקל םג טלקמה ישקבמ תא גיצהל תרחב ,רמולכ .דגנתהל חוכ םדיב שיש ,םיטקייבוסכ

התא םא .העד שבגמ התא םרטב דוע השוחת ךב ררועל ותלוכיב ןומט םוליצה לש וחוכ ,ייניעב ןכיהמ הלגתו ,לארשיב םיאירתירא לע לגוג השעתו התיבה רוזחת ילוא ,ןיינעמ םיירפ האור היצביטומה תא תצמתל רשפא ,רבד לש ופוסב .העד שבגל ליחתת זא קרו ,המלו ךיא ,ועיגה םה לעפש ,תירבה תוצראב םייתרבחה םימלצה ינושארמ ,סנווא רקוו רמאש טפשמ תועצמאב ילש תא ביטיהל ןמאה לש וחוכב שיש רובס יניא" :20־ה האמה לש 30־ה תונשב לודגה לפשה תפוקתב יב הלע טקיורפה לע הדובע ידכ ךות ,ןכאו ."ותוא ףושחל ףאוש אוה ;רישי ןפואב ישונאה בצמה ףשחנש המ ןיב רידאה רעפה לע סעכ יב ררועתה .יתנבהו יתיארש המב םירחא ףתשל קומע ךרוצ טלקמה ישקבמש ,איה תחוורה תירוביצה השיפתה .יתעדוותה הילאש תואיצמה ןיבל תרושקתב ינא .רפס יתבב וילע תוצרהל יתלחתהו ,אשונה תא ץיפהל ףחד יתשח .םיסנא ,םימילא ,םיבנג םה :םילאוש םישנא .הלועפל איבהל היושע העידיש ,הנומא ךותמ םג לבא ,ישיא ךרוצמ לוכ םדוק ענומ יפכ ,אשונל ופשחיי םיפוצ םא ילואש ,ךכב ליחתנ ,רמוא ינאו ,"?םלועה תא תונשל הצור התא" החפשמ וירוחאמ שיש וניבי ,םהלש בוחרב ןויקינה דבוע לע תרחא ולכתסי םה ,וילא יתפשחנ ינאש ."בוט רקוב" :ול ודיגיו ,תד ןהכ ללכב אוה ילואש ,םידליו

.םוליצלו המלצמל שיש חוכה לע ונרביד לע עיפשהל םתלוכיב שיש ,בשוח התא םאה ?תואיצמה

םוסגנאלו זהרתל שדקומ הז רפס

.םישדוח העשתכ ךראש עסמ רחאל 2008 תנשב לארשיל עיגה ,האירתיראמ טלקמ שקבמ ,םוסגנא ןויסינ רחאלו ,םישדוח השולשכ םיטילפ הנחמב םש ההש ,היפויתאל האירתיראמ חרב אוה הנש .לארשיל םשמו ,יניסל עיגה ,ןאדוסל לובגה תא הצח ,רהנב העיבטב םייתסה טעמכש ןושאר הרומשה ,חאה לש ותנומת .ותומ תא אצמו ךרד התוא תא תושעל ויחא םג הסינ רתוי רחואמ .ץעמ יושע בלצ הדילו ,רדחב יזכרמ םוקמב היולת ,תינוליינב .םוסגנא רחאל הנשכ המוד ךרדב לארשיל העיגה ,האירתיראמ טלקמ תשקבמ איה ףא ,זהרת ןויריהב התייה רשאכ .היפויתא םע המחלמה ךלהמב וגרהנ םהמ םיינש ,םיחא הנומשמ תחא איה הפוקת ךלהמב .תיבב הראשנו ןולמ תיבב תינרדחכ דובעל הלדח ,הלש תומואתה םע הובג ןוכיסב ,הריעזה רדחה תרידב תוריקה דחא לע ןתוא הקיבדהו םיניזגממ םינעודי לש תונומת הפסא וז .החפשמה תררוגתמ הבש .תיב קשמב — זהרתו ,הדעסמב םילכ ףטושכ דבוע םוסגנא .םידלי השולש גוזה ינבל

Angesom, an asylum seeker from Eritrea, came to Israel in 2008 after a nine-month journey. He fled Eritrea to Ethiopia, where he stayed in a refugee camp for about three months, and after a first attempt, which nearly ended in his drowning in the river, he managed to cross the border with Sudan, entered the Sinai Peninsula, and from there went to Israel. A year later, his brother tried to flee along the same flight route but was killed in transit. The brother's picture hangs in a central place in the room, inside a sheet protector, with a wooden cross next to it.

Tirhas, also an asylum seeker from Eritrea, came to Israel in a similar way, about a year after Angesom. She is one of eight siblings; two of her brothers were killed in the war with Ethiopia. During her high-risk pregnancy with her twin girls, she stopped working as a chambermaid in a hotel and stayed home. During that time, she collected photos of celebrities from magazines and hung them on one of the walls in the family's tiny one-bedroom apartment.

Angesom works as a dishwasher in a restaurant, and Tirhas cleans houses. They have three children.

This book is dedicated to Tirhas and Angesom

You raise an important issue of asymmetrical power relations between you and the photographed subjects. In this case, the power relations between the photographer and the photographed, between the Israeli, who has status and resources, and the asylum seekers who lack all status here. How was this manifested during the work process?

When I take pictures at the Levinsky Garden, for example, the depicted people don't know what I'm going to do with the photographs. Once I photograph, it is as though I take their control of the situation from them. That's why I always try to put myself in their shoes. There is an academic and theoretical discussion around documentary photography: Is it at all moral? Do we not use people? I think it has value, especially today, in a world of images, where things that have no image, are practically nonexistent.

And yet, one of the interesting things about the book is that you chose to display not only the domestic or communal spheres. Quite a few pictures were taken in the political sphere, in demonstrations. That is, you have chosen to present asylum seekers as subjects, who have the power to resist.

Yes, that's a part of their story and ours. They have political awareness, political leadership. I want to cover the subject from several angles, and that's part of the story, too. In the book's photographs, you can see the protest and the purpose-filled faces. It's a protest, but it's not aggressive or threatening.

How do these dilemmas, touching on power relations, manifest themselves in the work itself, in the choice of images, in the cropping?

First of all, documentary photography is not objective. On the contrary. It involves highly significant decisions from the very cropping of the frame. For example, there is one photograph about which I have deliberated, during and after its taking. I photographed it at the wedding of a couple of asylum seekers, whom I followed for two days, in addition to their own wedding photographer. One of the photographs was taken in their neighbors' apartment against a bare wall. As I knelt to take a picture of the bride and her girlfriends, I noticed that the bed they were sitting on was supported by olive cans rather than legs. It's not a life-and-death dilemma, but I had doubts: should I include the olive cans in the frame? If I do, the wedding would become secondary, while the wretchedness and misery implied by the lack of bed legs would become the main issue. The olive cans are yet another, separate story. So it all depends on what you want to present. At that moment, I chose not to include the cans in the picture, as I wanted to convey their special moment. Although they are asylum seekers without legal status, living in a foreign land, this is their wedding, a moment of celebration, and I wanted to respect that.

In effect, you are speaking about your responsibility, as a photographer, to a community whose public image is negative to begin with, and about the power the camera has in that sense.

Yes, it is definitely a responsibility. I have photographs of drunk or homeless asylum seekers, too, but that's just one aspect, which doesn't represent the whole. The choice, whether and how to portray them, reflects on a broader representation of the community.

We talked about the power of the camera and of photography. Do you think that they have the power to affect reality?

To me, the power of photography lies in its ability to make you feel even before you form an opinion. If you see an interesting frame, you might go home and Google "Eritreans in Israel," and find out where they came from, how and why, and only then will you start to form an opinion. In the end, my motivation can be summed up by a phrase from Walker Evans, one of the first social photographers in the United States, who operated during the Great Depression in the 1930s: "I don't think an artist is directly able to alleviate the human condition. He's very interested in revealing it." Indeed, while working on the project, I felt a deep need to share what I saw and realized with others. I was angered by the huge gap between what is seen in the media and the reality I encountered. The public commonly views asylum seekers as violent thieves and rapists. I felt an urge to shed some light on the subject, and began lecturing on it in schools. I am motivated, first of all, by personal necessity, but also by faith that knowledge can lead to action. People ask, "Do you want to change the world?", and I say, let's start with the hope that if viewers are exposed to the subject, as I was, they will look differently at the person cleaning their street; they will realize that he has a family and children, that he may even be a priest, and simply acknowledge him with a "good morning."

So what do you actually want to represent in the book? What is the message you wish to convey?

I want to present their daily lives. Life is made up of atoms, and we tend to disregard the simple things: the domestic space, the picture on the wall, a birthday celebration.

It is important for me to show that, with all the hardships, asylum seekers have life, a community, social solidarity. They have an internal drive to work, to move forward, to succeed. I met an incredible community of welcoming, kind people. I was exposed to their solidarity. Even in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, people always come in, you never feel that you're in the way. It's crowded, but there is plenty of room. There are always refreshments to give the guests. I wanted my audience to be exposed to their lesser known side.

weeks earlier, among others. In the first few moments I hesitated: take photographs or not? People gave me suspicious looks, but at some point I said to myself "go ahead." I wandered around the hall, and started taking pictures.

You describe a very intimate moment. Before you were well acquainted, Angesom had already invited you to the baptism of his newborns.

For him it was a personal-private event, but the moment itself was communal, public.

I took a photograph of his wife, Tirhas, looking over the plain plastic tub, in which the baby girls were baptized (an image not included in the book). A while later, I showed her the photograph and asked, "What were you looking at here? You seem bothered," and she replied, "Yes, I was really worried. The baptism is of dozens of babies together, and I wanted to make sure I get back the same babies I gave." In many ways, it is a mass event, unlike a single couple's wedding, where all the focus is on them. By the way, regarding the connection between asylum seekers and my personal story, after we immigrated to Israel, my father served as a foreman at a clothing manufacturing company, whose sewing workshops were located in similar halls on the nearby Levanda Street. As a child, I used to help there during the summer vacation. I remember 40 men and women sitting next to the sewing machines, as my father and the company owner laid out the fabrics on a long cutting table. I remember the smell of oil coming from the machines and the noise of the sewing machines, my father sweating, carrying great bolts of fabric, and everyone smoking. As I walked up the stairs, decades later, I felt shivers down my spine. Suddenly I realized that the place had become a church, a very simple one, but nevertheless—a church. I saw the doors, the handles, the faucet with the white ceramic tiles behind it. It was all familiar and took me back decades. So that's where it all began. After the visit to the church, I kept in contact with the couple. I was invited to dinner at their house, I met their friends. I still visit the family once every two or three weeks, and I am invited to their festivities.

You describe a close relationship that formed with the photographed family. Contrary to a possible notion, whereby the relationship between the photographer and his subjects is based on distant observation through the camera lens, we talk about mutual relations, in which the photographer is also a subject, affected by his subjects. How did the encounter and the relationships with the community influence you?

Has the continued engagement with asylum seekers, following and photographing them, changed your position within this dilemma? Brought things into sharper focus or rather caused confusion?

a hard time living among the veteran Israelis. You could say that they never fully assimilated. Their friends were from their original community; their Hebrew was not good. So yes, of course, there is a connection.

Photographer Eldad Rafaeli once told me: "In photography you look inward more than outward," and it is true. You constantly challenge your own boundaries and values. The encounter with asylum seekers presented me with a fundamental dilemma between two basic values: on the one hand, humanism, a human being is a human being regardless; on the other hand—due to my socialization, I perceive Israel as a country with a unique character. These two facets can clash. It's an intricate dilemma, but perhaps that's what makes it interesting.

I want to dwell on your personal story. In fact, you too experienced an immigration: you immigrated to Israel from Turkey with your parents as a child. To what extent, if any, do you see a connection between your biography and your interest in documenting asylum seekers?

My family immigrated from Turkey to Israel when I was 5. My wife also immigrated to Israel at the age of 16, from Colombia. Until now I never gave much thought to the connection between these things, maybe it was subconscious. I have no memory of immigration; I remember everything through photographs: there is a photograph of me on the day we arrived here, wearing shorts and a suit jacket. I never felt like a newcomer, but my parents are a different story: they immigrated after they had already become a well-established family in their country of origin. When they arrived in Israel, they were given a Jewish Agency apartment in a development town in the center of the country, and had to practically rebuild their lives. My father was determined to work hard, so that we, the children, would spend our high school years elsewhere. Indeed, when I was in the sixth grade, we moved to Tel Aviv, where I attended Alliance High School. I assimilated quickly and made friends, but my parents had difficulties adapting. I think of the initial shock and trauma of my mother, who came from central Istanbul, from life along the main boulevard, in a house with a maid, who suddenly found herself in a sequestered town, surrounded by sand and orchards. My father started working straight away and worked hard all the years, sometimes in two jobs simultaneously, to improve our situation. After moving to Tel Aviv, my parents, who had a foreign mentality, had

You talked about a sense of shame. What do you think it looks like from the asylum seekers' point of view? How do they perceive you? Do you feel that they consider you responsible for the situation?

First of all, it created a dilemma, because before being acquainted with the subject in depth, I had no dilemma. I feel that I'm in the middle. I have formulated an opinion which is neither black nor white. On the one hand, we cannot take in everyone who comes here; on the other hand, we ought to examine who has the right to be a refugee in the country—but not even this basic process of examining asylum applications is carried out. In this respect, I feel ashamed, personally and publicly. I feel that way sometimes when I speak with asylum seekers. The state took some of them and dumped them in the Holot detention facility. Why? There are many more foreigners in the country who are not African, and therefore cannot be identified so easily, and they were not sent there. So what is the purpose of incarceration? It's an attempt to break their spirit. In this regard, for example, I have no dilemma. We bring in foreign workers from all over the world. Instead, let the asylum seekers, who are already here, work.

I established a relationship of trust. I don't feel that I'm being blamed as a representative of Israel. I often wonder why they ever agreed to let me into their world in the first place. I think there is a dialogue here. Although I come to "take" something—to take a picture—they feel that someone is interested in them: not the immigration authorities, not the boss in the garage or the restaurant, not a social worker; just an ordinary Israeli who comes in, knocks on the door and asks how they are doing, sits and plays with the children, listens, and also takes out a camera and takes photographs. I think there is a two-way relationship, even if not symmetrical. Beyond that, they acknowledge the power of photography. They may not be full partners, but they understand the power of photography, and sometimes even utilize it.

The book's publication is an opportunity to pause and review your work as a photographer, specifically a photographer who has been focusing on asylum seekers for the past eight years.

How did your connection to the world of photography develop?

It is the time of the COVID-19 pandemic; the streets are deserted and unusually quiet. We plan to meet at a café, which is now closed due to the guidelines. We spot two chairs, left outside in a quiet corner, sit down, remove the protective masks, and talk.

I have always been fascinated by the magic of photography. A decade ago, I decided to deepen my knowledge and broaden my activity in the field. I'm interested in photography which has a story around it or an underlying theme. It thrills me when photography is the last action in a chain, one click that is part of a larger experience; when there is a personal or political dilemma, when things are complex. This is how I came to documentary photography and to the practice, whereby I choose a subject, research and follow it over time, without mediation, without media filters.

How did your initial connection to asylum seekers form?

Until about eight years ago, I wasn't aware of the complexity of the asylum issue, people who live among us, but no one takes notice of them. In 2012, I attended a masterclass in documentary photography at Eldad Rafaeli and Eyal Landsman's studio. The main theme of the workshop was asylum seekers in Israel. In those days, the Marak Levinsky (Levinsky Soup) was active every evening in the Levinsky garden in Neve Sha'anan neighborhood—a group of volunteers who prepared and served hot meals to asylum seekers. This was the first place I went. Initially everything happened from a distance, hesitantly. I was unsure how to approach such a complicated subject and how to begin, but after several visits, the activists presented the workshop members to the asylum seekers. In the first sessions they were reluctant to have their pictures taken, but then I contacted some of the most prominent characters, and slowly I began to "gain access" and shoot freely. It still did not satisfy me, but only aroused my curiosity further: Where do they live? How do they make a living? Do they have children? What about health? I felt that I had to keep investigating the subject in depth. I contacted a woman, who started a project to accompany pregnant asylum seekers, and she invited me to one of their sessions. The interpreter that evening was a guy named Angesom. Angesom, his wife Tirhas, and their children are the family, whose pictures are featured throughout the book. That evening I told him about my project. I asked if we could meet again, and he said: "Happily." The workshop ended a few months later, but I continued.

What did your next meetings look like? Is there one meeting that you remember in particular?

Angesom asked me to meet him at a festive event, which took place on Saturday morning at a church on Salame Street in south Tel Aviv. It was one of the most spectacular sights I've encountered as part of the project. I arrived at 6 AM. The street was empty, and asylum seekers, clad in white, walked toward the church. I called Angesom, and he came to meet me. I was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he was in a suit and a tie. I remember walking up the stairs and his asking me to take my shoes off. I saw the commotion. I was the only white person there. I asked, "Can I take photos here?", and he replied, "Sure." I walked in and found myself in a spacious hall, where women, dressed in white, were sitting, each holding a baby. I then learned that this was a communal baptism ceremony, for Angesom and Tirhas's twin daughters, born only three

"An artist cannot alleviate the human condition; he's interested in revealing it" 1 : Isaac Shaoul in conversation with Lior Birger, migration and refugee scholar

1. Free reference to a quote by Walker Evans; see James R. Mellow, Walker Evans (New York: Basic Books, 1999), p. 308.

3.

and fragility are an inherent part of the lives of those residing in this space, most notably the uncertainty regarding expiration of the protection against deportation and lack of clarity regarding eligibility criteria for protection against deportation and detention.

Only in 2013, after a long struggle by local and international human rights organizations, did the State of Israel begin to consider individual asylum applications. As of this writing, however, the pace of discussions is very slow. Some claim that the procedure is not being conducted in good faith and is a mere façade, as the acceptance of asylum seekers' applications is only about 1%—the lowest percentage in the Western world, in sharp contrast to the high acceptance rates in other countries, which are 87% of Eritrean applications, on average.

Over the years, the excluded foreign population in Israel, including most of the Eritreans, has lived in the backyard of a disempowered local population—namely, the Jewish residents of southern Tel Aviv. The real distress of the latter has intensified due to the presence of asylum seekers in that same impoverished space, which lacks adequate infrastructure. In the absence of a clear policy regarding asylum seekers, the burden of shared life is unbearable for both groups. Nevertheless, moving human encounters also occur daily, and trade relations and friendships are formed. Love blooms, and with it hope for a better future for all concerned.

Prof. Galia Sabar is a leading scholar in Migration and African Studies, President of Ruppin Academic Center, and a faculty member at Tel Aviv University. She is committed to translating academic knowledge into social activism.

vol. 111, no. 4 (January 2006), pp. 999—1037.

See Cecilia Menjívar, "Liminal Legality: Salvadoran and Guatemalan Immigrants' Lives in the United States," American Journal of Sociology,

government and sought a better life, the majority of asylum seekers fled due to famine, violence, opposition to the regime, or the humiliation and exploitation they suffered during military service. They all had a legally valid claim: that Israel, as a signatory to the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, is obliged to review their applications. Based on the experience of other Western countries, as well as many studies prepared over the years, if the asylum applications in Israel had been given serious consideration, some Eritreans may not have been granted protection, but many would have received refugee status.

Asylum Praxis in Israel

Most countries have sets of laws and regulations pertaining to immigration, with the understanding that other nationals will seek to immigrate there, and therefore create mechanisms for screening, control, and supervision of applications. The laws and regulations include definitions of eligibility, conditions for citizenship, and exclusions. Moreover, many countries are legally required to establish systems and procedures for processing asylum applications, regulating the status of immigrants who reside in the state—including those who are in violation of the law—and granting them the rights ensuing from that status. The laws, rules, and rights relating to asylum seekers derive from the UN 1951 Refugee Convention.

While Israel was among the first states to sign this treaty (and the Protocol annexed to it in 1967) and is a member of the Executive Committee of the UNHCR, it did not translate the international obligations derived from the treaty into an appropriate legalconstitutional infrastructure. Moreover, although Israel has been officially committed to implementing the Convention since 1951, for most of its existence this commitment was not put to the test, as up until 2006, fewer than 300 asylum seekers had arrived in the country. Thus, with the exception of a number of individual humanitarian gestures granting asylum, Israel was not required to deal with asylum requests on a large scale until the 2000s.

The State of Israel, defined as the State of the Jewish people, allows Jews and their descendants to immigrate and acquire citizenship without preconditions under two key laws: the Law of Return, 1950, and the Citizenship Law, 1952. Until the early 1990s, immigration to Israel comprised mainly Jews and their descendants. In recent decades, however, two major waves of non-Jewish immigration have arrived in the country: migrant workers and asylum seekers.

Migrant workers have been widely discussed elsewhere; suffice it to say that, from 1990 to the present, millions of migrant workers from all over the world, including Thailand, China, and the Philippines, have entered and exited Israel. In 2000, approximately 300,000 migrant workers lived in Israel—about 10% of the country's workforce— although only half had work permits. By 2020, there were approximately 87,000 visaholding migrant workers and approximately 18,000 migrant workers without permits. In addition, there are about 100,000 tourists whose visas have expired, most of them from the former Soviet Union. There are also approximately 1,500 men, women, and children in Israel who came from various African countries as migrant workers and have earned residency status over the years. All migrant workers came in search of work and a better life. Although most of them came from Third World countries and suffered

tough living conditions, they should not be regarded as asylum seekers eligible for protection.

In contrast, the vast majority of Eritreans and Sudanese who arrived in Israel from the end of 2005—the second wave of non-Jewish immigration—have fled their countries to save their lives, seeking refuge and asylum. They face a very different social, economic, and political reality in Israel than that experienced by the migrant workers 15 years earlier.

For fear of affecting Israel's character as a country of immigration catering exclusively to the Jewish nation, state institutions have treated migrants like temporary residents rather than potential immigrants. Thus, they are referred to as "foreign workers" or "tourists without a visa," even though many remain in Israel for extended periods. Asylum seekers are referred to as "infiltrators" rather than "refugees" to eliminate the connotation of permanency. Similarly, the immigration regime in Israel has not adapted to the changing reality in relation to both migrant workers and asylum seekers. Thus, at the end of 2005, when the first African asylum seekers arrived from Sudan, Israel lacked instruments and institutions to deal with them. They were initially incarcerated for being nationals of an enemy state, but after a short period of time and as the influx increased, this policy was abandoned and they were granted "temporary collective protection visa" which temporarily shields them from deportation, but does not guarantee a right to health care, social services, or a work permit.

The State of Israel has thus created a vague, constantly changing living space for asylum seekers from Eritrea. On the one hand, they hold legal residence permits, but on the other, they live on the margin of the law and lack access to many of the services and rights provided to residents. According to sociologist Cecilia Menjívar, this is a state of "liminal legality"3: a space at once controlled and neglected by the law. Uncertainty

to exacerbate its draconian measures vis-a-vis the civilian population. Even today, in addition to thousands of detained military deserters, approximately ten thousand people are imprisoned without trial, many for doing no more than opposing the government, trading on the black market, or performing prohibited religious practices. Most of the prisoners are held in underground cellars or in closed metal shipping containers in the desert, in deadly heat without a basic supply of water or food. Thus, over the years, thousands of regime opponents, journalists, and religious leaders have been arrested, and many have disappeared.

In the early 2000s, all independent media were shut down, and all remaining media outlets are either government-owned or state-controlled. The only university in the country was closed in 2005, and the academic elite sought and received asylum in the West. Recent reports from Eritrea and Eritreans around the world suggest that all residents of the country (except those close to the ruler) experience daily violations of basic human rights, including severe restrictions on movement, worship, political views, and freedom of expression. Today Eritrea is considered a country where human rights violations are among the most severe in the world, second only to North Korea.

The violent and rapid shattering of the dream of an independent Eritrean state led to a mass escape that has not yet ceased. At the time of independence, about seven million people lived in the country. In the years since, approximately half of its citizens have fled in search of asylum and a better life. Even today, almost 60,000 people escape Eritrea every year. According to the UN, this process empties entire villages of their residents. Most of the fleeing individuals are young people capable of coping with the perilous journey. Those who remain behind are either very old or very young. Despite protests by world leaders, the UN, and international human rights organizations, there

has been no significant change in the conduct of President Afwerki and his men. Even today, Eritrea is a closed dictatorship and one of the most repressive regimes in the world. According to Reporters without Borders (RSF), it is ranked at the very bottom of the Freedom of the Press Index. Human rights organization testify that the entire state has become a "huge prison."

Over the years, millions of Eritreans who fled their country have found asylum in neighboring Ethiopia. Most live in refugee camps scattered throughout the country; others have moved to neighboring countries, including Egypt and Djibouti. Most suffer from harsh living conditions and their future is unknown. Only a minority of Eritreans has managed to reach Europe, some after trekking to the Mediterranean coast and then boarding rickety boats. The vast majority of Eritreans who arrive in Europe and apply for asylum are granted refugee status or complementary protection.

Arrival in Israel

The first Eritreans arrived in Israel in 2007 after living as asylum seekers in Egypt. They joined several thousands of Sudanese who had taken refuge in Israel since 2006. Once they saw it was possible to enter Israel through Egypt, many Eritreans began to flee their country. Risking their lives, thousands embarked on the long, costly, and dangerous journey to Israel via the Sinai Peninsula. Many of those who made it through this route reported being abducted by Bedouin traffickers along the way. The Bedouins regarded them as goods that could be exchanged for a ransom of thousands of dollars from their family members who had already arrived in Israel or elsewhere. Thousands of Eritrean men and women were subjected to severe torture—including rape and amputation— during internment in detention camps in the Sinai. Many did not survive the torture and died in Sinai; others survived—mainly those whose families gave in to ransom demands—but the torture they underwent severely damaged their bodies and souls, and indirectly harmed their families and communities.

Between 2007 and 2012, some 40,000 Eritrean men and women entered Israel, and all of them sought asylum. Since then their number has been reduced by half. It should be noted that, while some of the Eritreans who came to Israel had ties to the Eritrean

Eritrea

Eritrea is located on the northeastern part of the Horn of Africa, on the Red Sea coast. It borders Ethiopia on the south, Djibouti on the east, and Sudan on the west. It is a small and relatively young country in comparison to others on the African continent, gaining independence only in 1991, after 32 years of armed struggle with Ethiopia.

Isaias Afwerki, leader of the Eritrean People's Liberation Front, became president as soon as independence was achieved. In its early years, Eritrea established itself as a one-party democracy whose economy was centered on quarries, agriculture, fishing, and maritime trade, and its professed goals were economic self-sufficiency as well as the promotion of higher education, research, and gender equality. Ironically, President Afwerki adopted a pioneering Zionist discourse, emphasizing the similarities between the two states: the wars of independence and the vision of development, self-reliance, and the flowering of the desert. In his first public appearances, he wore "biblical" sandals, and many government officials wore white shirts and khaki trousers as a sign of pioneering and modesty. Despite this discourse, and despite the attempt to lend a cooperative, egalitarian character to the regime, no democratic elections are held in the country, and only one party—that of the president—is legal.

In 1998, several years after the end of the War of Independence, a border dispute broke out with Ethiopia, developing into a war that claimed tens of thousands of lives and resulted in hundreds of thousands of displaced persons and hundreds of thousands of refugees. Under martial law, the president abolished most civil rights, banned all free organizations and protests, and turned institutionalized violence into a major tool for imposing governmental authority.

Compulsory military service for men and women—introduced as soon as Eritrea gained independence—became the main means of discipline, supervision, and control. High school students were—and still are—conscripted into the army in their final year of studies and sent to work in military camps. Reports from aid organizations around the world reveal that, as the war dragged on, the age of army recruits dropped. At some point, even 12-year-olds were drafted. The general conscription obligation, originally for two years, became indefinite service. Many report that men were released only upon

reaching their forties or even fifties. In fact, from the end of the armed struggle to the present day, military service has become a type of forced labor for the benefit of the regime. Soldiers dig in mines, pave roads, construct bridges and buildings, work in factories and agriculture, and often build private homes and factories for the president and his cronies. For their service, they receive meager wages that are below subsistence level. UN commissions of inquiry and international human rights organizations have stated that this is not a legitimate military or national service, but rather a system of forced labor.

Women, who are also recruited into the army, serve alongside men. Formally, they are prohibited from becoming pregnant during service. Countless reports by women describe how military commanders treat them as sex slaves. Officers are allowed to have nonconsensual sex with them, so that women are, in effect, raped on a daily basis. Soldiers who try to escape—regardless of their gender—are arrested. Many of the detainees are tortured and often murdered. When defectors manage to escape, their family members and even entire villages are brutally punished.

Although the struggle with Ethiopia has ended, and relatively free passage between the two countries has been allowed since 2018, there have been no significant changes in the regime's conduct. On the contrary, Eritrea continues to wage violent disputes with its neighbors, including Sudan, Djibouti, and Yemen, and exploits these conflicts

Milestones

Galia Sabar

Asylum seekers from Africa have been living among us Israelis for almost fifteen years. To many, they seem like a single mass of black made up of dishwashers and house cleaners. This uniform abstract image is detached from historical and political contexts, and we often disregard the difficult circumstances that led these people to flee their homes and seek refuge in a foreign country. Many of us are unfamiliar—or choose to be—with other aspects of their lives: business initiatives, political organizations, leisure activities, gastronomic culture, dreams, religious practices, domestic spaces and family life. This book seeks to help fill this void by allowing us to observe their daily lives. It shines a light on the private living spaces created locally by Eritrean asylum seekers, who have been entering Israel since 2007 and live by our side. Together.

This brief introduction sets out to present the historical, political, and economic contexts that led thousands of Eritrean men and women to flee their homes and seek refuge. It is beyond its scope to outline the entire chain of events, from the reasons for the escape, through the arrival of the first asylum seekers, to their lives in Israel today. Nor can it review the entire history of the legal status of refugees under the 1951 Refugee Convention, and how it has been implemented in Israel. I focus instead on the essentials, in the hope that they will make our gaze at Eritreans in Israel more understanding, accepting, and enabling.1

Definitions

Refugees? Infiltrators? Migrant workers? Asylum seekers? These and other terms are used in the Israeli discourse to refer to tens of thousands of men and women who have crossed the Israel-Egypt border, most of them from Eritrea and Sudan. As of the beginning of 2020, there are some 30,000 men and women in Israel defined as "infiltrators." The total number of people who have entered Israel since 2005 stands at 64,371. The vast majority of them arrived before 2012, the year in which construction of the Israel-Egypt border barrier was completed. Over the years, nearly 30,000 of them have left Israel. As mentioned above, many terms are used to describe this group of people, terms that differ in their essence and in the historical, legal, and ideological baggage they carry. The State of Israel calls them "infiltrators" to establish and maintain the illegitimacy of their presence, whereas the local and international legal discourse refers to them as "asylum seekers" or "refugees." This ambiguity is reinforced by the complex question of Israel's commitment to these people and their legal status. Officially, Israel is torn between international commitments—which oblige the state to assess individual claims for protection and prohibit expulsion—and national and ideological commitment to preserving the state's Jewish character.2

1. For an elaboration, see Galia Sabar and Efrat Shir (eds.), Life Seekers: Eritreans, Sudanese, and Israelis in Shared Spaces (Haifa: Pardes, 2019) [Hebrew].

2. For details of the legal status of asylum seekers, Israel's treaty-based commitment and its implementation, see Tally Kritzman-Amir (ed.), Where Levinsky Meets Asmara: Social and Legal Aspects of Israeli Asylum Policy (Jerusalem: The Van Leer Jerusalem Institute/Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2015) [Hebrew].

held engine oil or some cheap detergent—meager possessions that survived the arduous journey, one that often involved prolonged internment, sometimes on the Egyptian side, in detention and prison camps in Sinai, and sometimes even in Israel, before the Holot facility was erected. Within minutes, they would disappear amid the alleys of the old bus terminal, initially into shelters, which were overcrowded, and later on—into the city's buildings, into tiny living spaces in illegally subdivided apartments.

Caring Israelis, who realized that the state would rather ignore the refugees, would rather mark them as infiltrators, trespassers, as people who must be deported from here, began to operate on site. Levinsky Soup activists, assisted by concerned citizens, would arrive at the Levinsky Garden, serve basic food, soup, and rice to the people staying there, and hand out blankets and clothes that have been collected.

Having documented many of these situations in the field, Isaac's photographs soon stood out. Warm, sensitive, delicate and beautiful color photographs, sometimes distant, touching the heart. Isaac delved into the depth of the problem, devoted a great deal of time to searching, researching, and exploring, to understanding the terrain and its various facets, trying to define this harsh temporary/final station, the beginning of a new life, a new Israeliness. Albeit a tough and stressful district, the streets of Neve Sha'anan and the realms of the bus terminal became his arena. Like street photographers, such as Steve McCurry, Alex Webb, and Karel Cudlín, who masterfully turned the field into their home ground, into a fine street theater, Isaac, too, succeeded in this tangled practice. His compositions are accurate; the coloration is warm, dominated by seemingly optimistic hues of pink-green and a sensitivity to the right light. They portray many ceremonies, meticulous, tailored attire and colorful dresses, unusual to the local eye, and all of these delude us, so that for a moment it seems as though we are witnessing a magnificent, glittering event.

In the course of documentation, while attempting to outline the boundaries of the refugees' story, their private-public-political space, many doubts arise, questions without answers, affecting the photographic aesthetics: issues of ethics and morality, of space, time, and place, alongside questions pertaining to affiliation and identity. In his photographs, Isaac opts for the beautiful, the warm, and the personal, just as well. Under the beauty in each frame lies the difficulty. The questions, which arise during the act of photography, emphasize the complexity of the situation in subtle photographs, which reveal the State's heartlessness, the pain, the poverty, and mainly—the lack of a quiet place and personal-socio-economic security.

It is not easy to look at hurt, exposed, frightened people, but Isaac's choices help one work through this heartrending document. His compassionate gaze delves deeper, refining his photographs and formulating a language all his own. Slowly and thoroughly, he has made a direct, genuine and courageous connection with Tirhas, Angesom, and their twin girls, Moriya and Yusan, who were recently joined by a younger brother, Noam-Armias—a new Israeli.

With deep awareness and a humane, slightly shy attitude, Isaac has created an unusual work space for himself. Through his fascinating photographs, he allows us to hear the sound of photography, which connects to the pace of the asylum seekers' movements, their religious chants and prayer hymns, to the murmur of the ominous streets.

The photographs of the small apartment, the safe haven of the Fisshatsion family,

are some of the best and most powerful in the series. Intimate, direct, and painful, they contain a great truth, revealing details and parts of their private story. Thanks to the warm relationship formed with the family, Isaac gained access to a community living on the edge, in a constant state of survival. Black figures traverse the city's margins, walking by silently, almost without presence, without a voice, lest they be noticed, like

dark shadows of the soul; a community that maintains a rich social life, ceremonies and prayers, meeting places, frameworks for children and various activities. Isaac managed to penetrate, photograph, and document all of these. His personal document reflects an ongoing state of emergency. Amid the helplessness and difficulty, the Fisshatsion family has managed to build a safe haven, and turn small moments into happy moments, transience into permanence, refugeeism into a part of Israeliness. So little for happiness.

Eldad Rafaeli is a photographer, artist, and curator

So Little for Happiness

Eldad Rafaeli

I walk close behind him, following his every movement. It is dark all around. The street lights are dim and deceptive. I review the frames he took in my mind. The streets of south Tel Aviv are bustling and busy; there is a quiet demonstration against the deportation, like most of the demonstrations of Eritrean and Sudanese refugees, which are strikingly quiet. Thousands of people stand or sit in silence, listening to the appointed speaker facing them, virtually disappearing in the darkness. A few noisy Israelis stand on the side holding signs: "This is Israel, not Africa," marking yet another, complex border in Israeli society with penetrating words.

Sad, emotion-filled looks carry the memory of the hard road travelled. Isaac walks on the sidelines, observing; slow, quiet, smart. The delicacy of his thoughts becomes clear as he searches for the right frame in such a charged and painful setting. Many doubts arise. He watches and takes pictures, watches and takes pictures. For eight years, following the documentary tradition of prominent field photographers in the world, Isaac has accumulated an impressive body of work. The duty of documentation and the mission he has taken upon himself—to tell the story of Tirhas and Angesom, to seek the right narrative for two refugees, asylum seekers from Eritrea, as markers of a broader, comprehensive socio-political process—rests on his shoulders.

In 2012, I gave a photography masterclass in my studio at Tel Aviv's New Central Station. The project's theme was "Last Stop," and it addressed refugees, asylum seekers, and migrant workers. Isaac was one of the participants. In those years, many buses from the country's south still came to the station, quietly dropping refugees—tens, hundreds, and even thousands over the years—into the streets of Neve Sha'anan.

Disembarking into the city's south, they joined the tens of thousands who had already arrived here since 2007. Lean, tall, black figures moving in the bright light of August.

Displaced, frightened, destitute people, wearing long buttoned shirts in overly cheerful colors, incongruent with the occasion, like desert people; a bundle of clothes tied in a colored blanket or held in several plastic bags in their hands. They drag behind them a wheel-less suitcase, hanging on to a little bottle of water, usually one that previously

The book's Hebrew title alludes to the 2(a)5 permit, regulating the legality of its holder's stay in Israel, but not constituting a work permit.

Photographs, concept, and editing

Isaac Shaoul

Artistic guidance and editing

Gaston Zvi Ickowicz

Design

Shaked Mizrahi

Roni Shalev

Texts

Prof. Galia Sabar

Eldad Rafaeli

Interview

Lior Birger

Hebrew editing and English translation

Daria Kassovsky

Photo file improvement for printing Mickey Brandt

Printing AR Printing Ltd.

Pagination runs from right to left, following the Hebrew reading direction

Temporary Permit for Permanent Stay

The book's Hebrew title alludes to the 2(a)5 permit, regulating the legality of its holder's stay in Israel, but not constituting a work permit.