ActiveVision: Identity Document - A project by ActiveVision with Children of Immigrant Workers in Israel.
Photographers: José Luis Escobar, Richard Suare, Ana Maria Cantillo, María Castillo, Cristhian Lazcano, Carlos Zuniga, Willy Marcillo, Fernanda Jimenez, Lina Aristizabal, Juan Suare... back to gallery

Secrets: I imagine that you’ve already heard these stories, and there’s always one which touches you more, another less... But there’s something particular to every one of them, “everyone has a story.” And my story is that I actually live in two different worlds.
No one knows about our situation in this country. When I was smaller, I didn’t mind saying that we had immigrated. But my mother taught me not to tell, “so they won’t send the police” (who had already managed to catch her and release her a couple of times). And that’s why I didn’t tell anyone, and it turned into a huge secret. Immense.

Adolescens: On the one hand, I’m like every other Israeli youth, the friends that I go out with, the schoolwork, classes, work...I’m now going through the period that I believe to be the best part of life, adolescence. This is the period that you start to understand things, to discover new things that you didn’t know about before, to build your life little by little, and you develop dreams about a family, about work, etc.

On the other hand...I’m the daughter of foreign workers in Israel, constantly reminded of what this means -- that I don’t have rights, that maybe tomorrow I’ll have to leave everything that I have, to leave my dreams. That’s the painful side of reality Although I wasn’t born here, this is where I want my children to be born, I don’t have another country. Maybe at some point, I had another one, but now I don’t know any other place.

My little brother...doesn’t really understand what’s going on. He was born in Israel. Children can’t understand. I’m no longer a child.

My parents’ education didn’t help them. Education is supposed to open doors and nonetheless these doors were shut for them. Only one path was left. I’m studying for the state exams, I’m the head of a grade in the Scouts, I’m trying to be deserving of a single drop of my mother’s sweat, a better future for me - That’s the only wage that can really make her work worth it.

I asked my mom, why did we ever come here. She said that when she was young, she sometimes used to escape to the Bogota airport, sit there for hours and stare at airplanes. She always dreamt about getting on an airplane, that she’d have the freedom to fly wherever you feel like. Today I’m afraid of airplanes.

I prefer speaking Hebrew, my Spanish isn’t very good, and I like it that way. My friends? Israelis or not quite Israelis, they’re all human beings to me.

My state is the street. That’s what I know, and that’s why I want to stay here. In the streets of this country, despite the police, I feel safe. At five in the morning, I can fall asleep on a bench in the street, and feel at home.

Police:I’m also insulted when I run into policemen in the street. My mother tells me to stay by her side so the policemen will see right away that she has a daughter and so they won’t take her to the police station, making her lose a day of work. My Father:I don’t see my father a lot. There’s only a couple of days a week that I see him in the evening, because he sometimes works until night.

Deportations came in waves. When there were periods of many arrests, it was very scary -- but my dad stayed at home more often. But he was sad, because he couldn’t go to the Salsa Club.

My Mother: I see my mother working 15 hours a day, 6 days a week, 12 months a year, all without national insurance, or any kind of support from the state. She has no opportunity to find other work or hope that tomorrow she will find something that won’t sap her energies as much or where she will earn more, rest a bit... She rises every morning for this, and her work is forgotten with the setting of the sun. The only thing I can think about in this context is a machine... Drop by drop of sweat...she is building me a future.

To the Ministry of Interior we all went, the whole family. I was very nervous. All your life is squished into a pile of forms. You’re responsible for an entire family, which is in the hands of strangers. Mom doesn’t really understand what they say, and my brother sits to one side and draws the bureaucrat a picture to hang on the wall. I really have to watch out what I say. Maybe I’ll say something that isn’t very Israeli.

Overall, I’d say that all this really makes you grow up. Suddenly you understand even as a child that you can’t get everything. That you have to fight for things. Children today are very spoiled.

This isn’t some story. I live this story. All these things don’t prevent me from loving our life here. Cause I don’t want a lot. Only that we’ll have a nice house, and no economic problems. That we’ll be able to get by, and that we’ll have a bunch of friends. I really don’t need something fancy. Just a house, some food, school, and a good job for my mother, because I don’t want my mother to clean houses her whole life. It’s hard on her, and she’s already sick because it’s so tiring.

back to gallery