The Jerusalem Post, October 24, 2008
It’s almost Shabbat and Tel Aviv’s Carmel Market is slowly closing up. Stalls are clapped shut, the walkways are sprayed with water, and the last of the customers are clearing out, passing by mounds of unsold lettuce that have been dumped on the ground.
Behind the shuk, a motley crew of volunteers – some Israeli, but most American – is assembling on the sidewalk adjacent to the Carmelit bus terminal. A guy in a bright blue tank top and navy sweatpants pulls up on a bicycle. He has close-cropped dark hair and an easy smile. He looks relaxed, but the work he’s doing here is serious.
His name is Jesse Fox. He chats with some of the volunteers for a few minutes and then debriefs the group. Speaking of the vendors inside the shuk, he says, “These guys know us already. Just tell them we’re collecting food for the refugees from Darfur. They’ll give you a little food. It’s very simple.”
He’s right. It is simple. And the beauty of the project lies in its grassroots simplicity.
Fugee Fridays, as they refer to it, was founded by Fox (who also freelances frequently for Metro) and his brother Steven, who hail from Raleigh, North Carolina, and two friends of theirs – Daniel and Gilli Cherrin, brothers from Philadelphia. “We heard from a friend of ours that there was this park [in South Tel Aviv] full of people [refugees],” Fox recalls. The Fox brothers and Gilli Cherrin went to Lewinsky Park to see what the situation was. “We looked around and we said, ‘Damn, no one is taking care of these guys. These guys are hungry.’ So we connected all the dots,” he says.
One Friday in February, the Foxes, Gilli Cherrin, and one other friend did a “dry run” – they went to the market as it was closing, gathered whatever the vendors were willing to donate, loaded the food into a car and drove to Lewinsky Park. When they unloaded the food, Fox says, the refugees “rushed the car.”
So they kept doing it, every Friday. Daniel Cherrin (who is also a Metro freelance photographer) arrived from the United States soon thereafter and plunged headlong into the project, becoming “deeply involved,” Fox says. And the project evolved a bit – they began to take the food directly to refugee shelters. Through word-of-mouth, the number of volunteers grew. But at its core, the project remains the same – it’s about a group of concerned people who want to help refugees in need.
There’s tension in the air this week. Rumors are abuzz that one of the shelters was cleared out the night before and that the Sudanese men who lived there were arrested. They’re not sure what they’ll find there when they deliver the food. In the meantime, the volunteers get to work. They enter the shuk empty-handed and return with boxes overflowing with carrots, eggplants, pomegranates, bananas, and other produce. They set it down and head back for more, streaming back and forth until they have amassed a large amount of food, including bread and some Tupperware containers full of ready-to-eat dishes. They pack everything into cars and head to the refugee shelters in South Tel Aviv.
The first of the three shelters they visit is the one rumored to have been the target of the previous night’s police visit. On the way there Fox speaks about the refugees: “From what they tell us, this is their first step [out of] prison. They’re all arrested when they cross the border.”
After they are released, the shelters in Tel Aviv serve as a sort of halfway house for them – some of them are in the process of getting UN refugee status; they’re on their way to getting jobs and apartments, but “they’re shell-shocked and they need to recover,” he says, noting that the shelters have a high turnover rate.
The volunteers park and load their arms with boxes of fruit and vegetables. As they approach the entrance to the shelter, which is located close to the central bus station, Fox notes that it’s oddly quiet. They enter, passing through a long hallway into a large room that’s empty, save for a few Israeli flags hanging from the ceiling. Fox is shocked, saying that usually the room is full of mattresses. They walk into a hallway that leads to the kitchen and see only a few men. They look lethargic, sitting and standing around with blank faces. “There are usually about 80 men here,” Fox says. “There are only like 10 now.”
The volunteers speak with a couple of men that are still about. They’re boys, really, refugees at the ages of 15 and 17. In a mix of heavily accented broken English and scant Hebrew they confirm that the immigration police did indeed come through the previous night. The police told everyone to leave and the majority of the men did, heading south to Eilat in search of hotel work.
The second shelter is on a quiet residential street in the Shapira neighborhood. At the top of rough-hewn wooden stairs, behind a blue door, a small apartment serves as refuge for several families from Eritrea. A woman with a toddler peeking out from behind her greets the volunteers and lets them in. They put the boxes on the kitchen floor and she smiles appreciatively, her child emerging from her post behind her legs to fish a banana out from one of the boxes.
Our group leaves for the last stop, a shelter for more Eritrean families. In the car, Fox speaks of his hopes for the future of this grassroots project: “The next step we’re thinking about is a community garden.”
There is an empty lot next to the last shelter and Fox thinks that the piece of land could serve as more than just a gathering place for the refugees. Many of the local neighbors, however, are less than enthusiastic about the refugee shelter, he explains. He hopes a community garden might get people – Israeli and refugees alike – working together, serving as a common ground that could mend rifts.
When we arrive at the narrow lane that dozens of Eritreans call home, we are greeted by a scene that resembles a street party. Volunteers are playing soccer with some of the children, giving piggyback rides to others and the sound of the children shouting and squealing with laughter fills the air.
Others have already unloaded most of the donated food from the other cars. Our group adds its contribution, placing the boxes on the sidewalk next to a toddler who stands watching the scene. He holds half of a peeled grapefruit in one of his hands, the fingers of the other picking at the deep pink wedges. A woman sorts through the mounds of fruits and vegetables, a sleeping baby cradled on her back by a swath of bright blue cloth that matches the scarf covering her head.
Amid the bustle of the volunteers playing with children and women carrying boxes of food into the shelter stands a beautiful Eritrean girl named Rim. She has a heart-shaped face and soft smile. Her hair is pulled back. Though Rim is talkative and friendly, there is a quiet air about her and she keeps her arms folded in front of her as she speaks. She says she learned English in Sudan, where she lived with her family after fleeing from Eritrea. She is 16. She and her family have been in Israel for seven months, the first five of which were spent in the prison referred to earlier – a tent camp for new refugees. They have been living in the shelter in Tel Aviv for two months.
Rim invites me inside. She leads me through the labyrinth of interconnected apartments, showing me room after room – some painted a sunny yellow – where families are packed in: the small bunk bed-lined room she shares with her parents and her three siblings, a similar sized room occupied by two families. In another room, a woman is making dinner, bending over an electric cooking pot that stands on a carpeted floor. We enter another room. A thin, delicate-featured woman, wearing a black skirt with red flowers and a scarf covering her hair sits on a bed eating scraps of flatbread while giving her baby a bottle.
“I want you to meet someone,” Rim says. She leads me to the kitchen where I am introduced to Argaalem, who offers me a broad smile and a greeting in Arabic. Argaalem’s hair is hidden underneath her colorful scarf. She is cooking fish on the stove. As she works, she tells her story, Rim serving as an interpreter.
Argaalem is from Eritrea. She and her family fled first to Sudan, where her husband remains. Argaalem, along with her two-year-old daughter and 22-year-old son, then made her way north to Israel, passing through Egypt on the way. Her son was carrying his baby sister on his back when he was shot on the border by Egyptian police. The bullet passed through his body and grazed the little girl’s hand. “Even now, her hand is not so well,” Rim translates.
Argaalem’s son died and she and her daughter spent three months in the tent camp before moving to the shelter in Tel Aviv.
Rim and I walk back outside. The sky is growing darker. Shabbat is here. The sidewalk is empty – the much-needed food has been taken inside and the smells and sounds of dinner drift out onto the street where the volunteers and the Eritreans say goodbye to one another.
“See you next week,” Fox says with a wave as he leaves.
Want to get involved? Fugee Fridays is happy to accept new volunteers, as well as donations. Please contact Jesse Fox for more information: jessefox82@gmail.com