Calculation of Your Rights

For the past months and weeks, I’ve been working on my application for the Fulbright Fellowship to study Gender and Social Policy in London next year. Since 40% of people who live in Inner London were born outside of the UK, I want to specifically focus on migrant women and the subsequent discrimination and sexism they face in their new life. It’s been remarkable to work at Kav La’Oved with migrant women in Israel—exactly the reason I wanted to take this year and gain real, practical experience in the field. I’m learning so, so much at such a pace…not only policy and numbers and regulations, but how it emotionally and psychologically affects these women. One woman might be treated like a member of the family, while another paid mere dollars an hour and banned from taking days off. So many work so hard to pay off their debt from coming here, only to be left unemployed and at risk for becoming illegal within weeks. I’m equally inspired and guilt-ridden at times, both in awe of their strength and courage, and ashamed my life is so full of privilege in comparison. But I definitely feel a passion for this cause. If I had to re-do college, I might be an ILRie! (Adrien, relax…I know you’re probably cheering right now…)

Last week I talked to three women from the Philippines. When I asked them why they chose Israel out of all places, one woman said, “You know, we’re Christians—we thought the best place to work in the world would be the Holyland.” Another chimed in, “Yeah, but even if the land is holy…the people aren’t!”, referencing her employer who had been withholding paychecks. Matan and his sister Nitzan and I discussed this the other night—how true that many people must see this country as being one of success and wealth, a country of redemption where you might just finally get what you deserve…and how disappointing it is to realize no place on earth is that perfect, that just. These women I meet are smart, sharp, college-educated. A woman yesterday who was fired with one hour’s notice broke down in tears, saying it wasn’t the money that mattered, but how badly she had been treated by her employer. She has a degree in economics, but is paid more as a caregiver in Israel than in an office in the Philippines. The three women all openly acknowledged the fact that Israel is forward-thinking, modern country in many ways. There is gender equity, and laws to provide for workers, even if they’re illegal. But for Asians, they said, there is not mobility, just open discrimination when it comes to work. Several Israelis in the office agreed. It’s something I still debate in my mind. Israel’s purpose as a country is to be a safe haven for Jews. But where are the lines drawn? Is it racist or discriminatory to deny rights to migrants who have lived here for over 30 years, when Jews can gain citizenship in months or years? My stance changes all the time, depending on the day, the place, the people I’m around. It’s OK for now, but I wonder if I’ll ever have a set perspective on this…

I love being in the Kav La’Oved office—it’s a cacophony (yes! I always enjoy using this word when applicable) of languages, a bit of Romanian and Russian here, Filipino and Nepalese there, with someone on the phone in Arabic, Spanish or French in the next room. The stories are so diverse, so unique to each individual. Rwandan refugees, Sri Lankans seeking work, legal, illegal, single or with families, young and old…I consistently get asked when I’m in the office if I’m a migrant, and if I need help. I guess in some ways I am. I relate to them in some ways—but at the same time, I know our lives are worlds apart. Over the weekend, the door across the courtyard from ours was open, and I could see and hear a Chinese soap opera playing inside. Finally, I ran into the tenants: two Chinese women from Shanghai, who are now caregivers for elderly Israelis. They were surprised to hear why I chose to be here when I’m a “wealthy American” with so many other choices. They said it’s hard to be here, far from home, in a country that is vastly different from China. And for a second, we could relate on that level—the simple feeling of being a foreigner.

The people who work at the office are so passionate, on their toes, fighters for their clients…another volunteer is the wife of a US Embassy guy, from Honduras and full of stories of her own. The secretary is a young guy, G, who is doing a year of service instead of joining the army because of his political views. We talked for a bit, and when I asked him about his hobbies, he said, “Well, protesting. Lots of things.” I’m glad I have a new friend in him! (And an invitation to the next “Israeli Young Left” meeting…) This other Moldovan woman was a blast to work with, so willing to explain things to me and make sure I wasn’t confused. Yesterday, one of the staff members, Y, pelted me with questions about caregiver rights, and then called in a Filipino woman and said to me, “OK, Angie. Now you’re me. Start asking her questions.” And then and there, with my heart going a thousand beats per second, I started helping this woman figure out her rights and compensation deserved. It was a HIGH stress day, plenty of mistakes, plenty of frustration. The language barrier creates huge challenges, since the worker is already anxious and has a specific goal in mind, and the staff member is trying to understand the situation and ask the right questions. So the staff member might say, over and over again, “What is your monthly salary?” And the worker just keeps replying, “No holidays. Work on holidays, no pay…” A few times, I saw staff members remind each other to take a deep breath and stay calm…

On a lighter note, last night I watched the sunset over the water after a swim. I looked to my right, and there were the huge beachside Tel Aviv hotels, shiny and modern in the twilight with restaurants glowing in neon lights, surrounded by palm trees. To my left, there was the beach trailing off into historic Yaffo, a little glittering white fortress. It was comical to me at the moment, the contrast of the two. Then again, I’m starting to get used to that in this country.