The First Column
Foreigners: meet the Filipinos who work in Israel
(the original column in Hebrew)
Shortly before Covid broke out, I started a research with the aim of getting to know the Filipino caretakers who work in Tel Aviv. This was a fundamental part of building the characters in my book.
For three months I interviewed fifty women - I approached them in parks, gardens and squares, I approached them when they were sitting on benches and asked to hear about their lives.
They hosted me in their apartment on Friday evening, took me with them to church and the Filipino market at the central station, and opened their hearts to me.
Rothschild boulevard, Tel Aviv
But alongside the difficult stories, I heard about their choices and the reasons that justified this whole journey.
I heard about strong friendships and mutual help, about entrepreneurship and creativity and also about some Cinderella stories that spread optimism and hope.
The birth of a book
A decade after my grandfather died, I lived alone in Tel Aviv, a few minutes from his brother, a man in his eighties whom I knew only on surface level.
Without thinking too much I started visiting him from time to time.
I would just show up at his house, after university classes or just on a free afternoon.
I kept coming because he was a funny man.
The house smelled of old men, his wife and I didn't speak much, and probably Holocaust stories were hiding around, but they did not threaten me.
He protected me with his humor.
At one point he had an accident and was hospitalized in Ichilov and I rushed to visit him.
The smell of a hospital enveloped everything, he had an embarrassing gown and the old age around stressed me out, but when I approached him and the smell of medicine and weakness wafted from him, he uttered a funny sarcastic remark and I couldn't hold myself and burst out laughing.
He confirmed to me that although old age is scary and intimidating, the person is the same person.
And if you knew him before, he's probably pretty similar only wrinkled and fragile. And if his foundations are strong and optimistic, staying with him will continue to be empowering and positive. That's what uncle Israel was for me.
A few years later I walked down Rothschild Boulevard decorated with wheelchairs and tennis ball brakes, and Filipina women carried blanket-covered old men from the shade to the sun and back.
At that moment a disturbing thought crossed my mind, 'what would happen if one old man disappeared. Who will notice? And who, if anyone, will look for him?'
I was so obsessed with this idea that I wrote the first chapter in what I hoped would be a book, but I closed the computer and that chapter was forgotten.
Time passed and I didn't touch the text, but every so often I wondered what happened to him; what happened to that grandfather who disappeared and what happened to his family, and what happened to the Filipina woman who lived with him.
It still felt right and important to me until I decided to sit down and write.
It's a tough decision. Whoever starts writing a story commits himself only to himself and this is the most challenging part. There is no indication and no hard and real deadline, and you can always give up. Even the characters in the head can be weakened a little and turned off and be ignored.
So I committed out loud and for two years I wrote.
Write an invisible character
I wrote about an Israeli family that cannot find their 90-year-old grandfather and his Filipino caretaker and the search for them.
Rosa Arkano
But when I sat down to write the Filipino character I realized that I was facing a pretentious challenge. I did not have a close or in-depth acquaintance with a Filipina caretaker and certainly not an extensive view of several different women.
This understanding led me to go out and look for answers without which the character will not be convincing, neither to me nor to the readers.
And I went out to meet them.
Since the cultural gap is large and choices that seem natural to them as a wife or mother are not clear to me, I chose to talk to fifty women.
I thought that dozens of different women but with similar life circumstances and a common culture could somehow mediate this gap for me.
I learned that reality consists of many shades: I started with a thesis that Filipino caretakers are weak and weakened women because I did not know them personally, and I discovered great strengths in them.
I learned about community, social organizations, financial literacy and financial independence.
Throughout the research I went through ups and downs, there were heartbreaking stories and there were optimistic and magical stories.
Getting to know and meeting the women helped me form a main character and imaginary supporting characters, but the real stories of the caregivers deserve to be published and in the following columns I will present them as they are, as they were given to me without unnecessary metaphors.
I thank each of them who shared their personal story and I hope that with the help of the columns and the book, they will be less transparent and more fascinating, as they are, like any unknown character in fact.
Now you understand how they leave their children?
My eldest daughter was interested in the research I conducted, and asked me why I needed to talk to these women. I explained to her that I do not know a Filipino caretaker very well and that thanks to the conversations with dozens I hope to understand them better.
Myra Domal
I told Naomi, then seven years old, that these women were traveling far from their homes and leaving their children with their grandmother just to work.
I told her that I couldn't understand how a mother could do this and that I wanted to hear from them about these choices.
When I finished the research and came back with the story of the 50th interviewee, Naomi came up to me and asked me if I understood.
I wasn't sure what she was talking about.
"Mom, now do you understand how they leave their children?" she asked again.
In that second, I shuddered.
The question was worded matter-of-factly, but it had a frightening implication. I wondered if Naomi was worried that I had set out on this extensive research to learn something for myself, as a mother of small children, and that I might leave her.
"I now understand what led them to do that," I hastened to reply, "but I'll never be able to truly understand," I said, hoping that this reassured her somewhat.
Forgetting themselves
I meet Anna (32) at a day care center for the elderly in East Tel Aviv.
She speaks excellent Hebrew, whereas almost two years ago she didn't know the language.
"The employer, who speaks English, said to me, 'Why do you need to learn Hebrew?' I told her that we won't always be together. And then, it happened to me, she suddenly ended up in a nursing home.
"I've been here in Israel for two and a half years and I have one daughter, she's almost seven. Once she called me at night crying, saying she wanted a drink. I told her to knock on the nanny's door, but she didn't answer, the nanny was outside. I immediately told my husband to stop working nights. His salary isn't high anyway and I pay for everything, there's nothing I can do."
Rein Erispe Francisco
On her phone's lock screen is a sentence in English: "She tried to make everyone happy and along the way forgot someone. Herself," which seems to be the gist of the story.
The Filipino caregivers who come to Israel to care for the elderly in their twilight years leave their families and children far behind, carrying their longing on their shoulders the whole time.
"When I left (the Philippines) my daughter was four. We're on the phone every day, even when I'm so tired from work. I get up three or four times a night. I take care of a 94-year-old woman, she has Alzheimer's, and she keeps asking what time it is. Every two hours she gets up, but there's no choice, it's what you have, if you want something in your hand," she says, cupping her palm in front of her face. "All the caregivers here work because they want money in the bank for the children."
Lourdes (42), is a mother of three children and right from the start of the conversation she announces that her story is very sad. Her eldest son died at the age of 21 in a motorcycle accident three years ago. She flew back home while he was in intensive care, "I thought I would make it, but he was already dead. My employer gave me 45 days of leave, which is good. I'm lucky, every time I want time off they approve it," she laughs and cries at the same time. The last plane ticket was urgent given the circumstances, so its price was more expensive than usual. "My second daughter is a student and she's due to give birth soon, but I won't be traveling. I don't have any money anymore, so I'll stay here. A vacation is a very expensive thing."
Before Lourdes came to Israel, she worked as a social worker in the Philippines, but the government salary was very small. Later, she worked in cosmetics sales until she heard that Israel was a "big salary." Her two sisters-in-law work in Israel, and she said she had to try.
"The salary here is high, but to get here there are a lot of costs - paperwork, visa, training in the Philippines, every visit to the agency cost money."
Within a year, she says, the costs of getting to Israel can be repaid. "I finished everything in a year. But after my son's tragedy, I got into debt again. He was in intensive care for three days. My son is tall and big, it was impossible to use a regular coffin, so they made one specially for him, and that cost more money. I also bought land to bury him, which is a lot of money.
My story is very difficult, but they tell me not to cry because someone died and someone came, and now my daughter is pregnant. I have many tragedies in my life, but thank God I have a good employer and her daughter is also good to me."
Every parent's dream
Lodi (44), who has been in Israel for 17 years, talks about the phone calls home that keep her going. "I lost a lot because I didn't see my daughters. They're growing up with my parents and husband. I didn't see them go to school, I didn't make them food, I suffer because I have to support what they need. There's not enough money in the Philippines, so I decided to come.
In the first few years, we just talked and sent text messages. In 2004, it was very expensive, I sent one message a day and that was it. I sent them pictures by mail and they sent pictures back. Now I'm with them every day on Skype, Messenger, Viber, Facebook, as if I were in the Philippines, only I'm here and they're there. I don't touch, I just call. At the time it was very difficult, just voice without video and just pictures. Now every minute I take a selfie and send it to them."
Susanna Byena
For Myra (45), who has been in Israel for 14 years, the lack of visual communication also added to the difficulty. "I left just when my son was one year old. It was very difficult. After two years, I went on vacation and he didn't recognize me. He didn't want me to touch him. He said to me, 'Who are you? I don't see you, I don't know you.' At the time, we only talked on the phone and there was no internet."
Rosa (46), arrived in Israel at the age of 29 when her little daughter was two years old. "The first month I couldn't work, it was the first time I was away from my child, the first time I flew and realized I wouldn't be able to go back because the flight was so long. There was so much longing. There was someone from the National Insurance Institute with me who came to my employer for a few hours a day, I cried and couldn't concentrate and he said, 'I can't see you crying all day.' I changed employers from time to time, I couldn't concentrate, all I wanted was to go home. All my salary went to the phone, the calling card, or a public phone."
In Rabin Square I meet Virginia (55), who has been in Israel for 13 years. "I sacrificed for my children, I want to give them a good future. Every parent's dream is a good future for their children. I also have a two-year-old granddaughter and my children say, 'Come home, Mom, we're finishing university and helping you,' but I can't. Not because of the money, but because of my 'Aba' (father in Hebrew; the elderly employer for whom she is a nanny). I can't leave him, and his family is good to me."
In addition to supporting her family financially, during one of her visits to the Philippines, Virginia took two girls who lived in the mountains into her home, and she supports them financially and finances their education. "They are poor, they don't have a father and mother, so they came to live with my husband. I want to help people, it makes me happy."
Rein (49), has worked in Israel for 21 years for the same employers. Her eldest daughter is 26 and is an architect in California. She also has two sons, 24 and 22, who are studying accounting and IT in the Philippines. "My achievement from living here is that I sent my children to study at one of the best universities in Manila, an expensive university. My daughter is a US citizen and she can bring me and her father there."
Today her children appreciate her help, but in the past, she says, they fought. Her daughter didn't want to listen to her and was angry that she didn't understand her because she was never around. "She mostly wanted to share things related to love with me, but I'm far away and it was hard for her to tell everything. She didn't want to share things like that with her father or her siblings because she thought they wouldn't understand." The help came from Rein's mother and mother-in-law. "Every time we fought, they would tell the children, 'Do you know why mom is there? She has to work far away from you because she wants to give you a good life.' But when they were young, we really fought, and I cried and prayed because it was really hard. My employer salutes me," she laughs.
Julie (38), has been working in Israel for almost 12 years and has children aged 20 and 18. She tells me about the cultural differences between Israel and the Philippines from her perspective. "We really help here as caregivers, but we also think about our parents at home. When they need help, we can't help them physically. It hurts us terribly, instead of helping them, we're here helping other people."
I ask her what she would tell her daughter if she wanted to work in Israel and she replies that she would refuse. "It's better to work in the Philippines. If there's a job there, it's a job for life. There's more money abroad, but when you return home you have to start a business again or find a job, and in the meantime you don't stay young. It's better to establish a job there. There's a difference in money, you'll earn more abroad. But the problem is that you're far from your family."
"Do you regret coming here?" I ask, and she replies: "I just regret missing a lot of family events, the holiday seasons, Christmas, and that we're not together."