Mariam, Rahel and two bags

Mariam, Palestinian

"Please, can you do that?" Mariam* looked at me with a pleading look. "Please." Her request was big. "Please light a candle for us in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and pray that our fate will change!" Our fate. In 1948, several Arab states attacked the newly founded state of Israel and, to everyone's astonishment, lost the war. Israel gained further territories. Some of the Arabs who lived in these areas had left voluntarily - in the expectation of being able to return after the war. Some were expelled.

They found refuge in countries such as Lebanon, Iraq and Jordan, but not a home. To this day, Palestinians who came from what is now Israeli territory are considered refugees there. Many still live in large refugee camps, which now consist of simple concrete buildings and - for 75 years now - have had no civil rights there. This is partly to avoid jeopardising the political balance in their own country and partly to exert pressure on Israel.

It is grotesque: the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren of the refugees of 1948 still have refugee status and no civil rights in the countries where they were born, live and work.

For me as a German, this is hard to understand. Every comparison limps, but the only one I can think of is as if we in Germany were to continue to put the East Prussians and Sudeten Germans and their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren in refugee camps and deny them passports, access to good education and much more. To put pressure on Poland, Russia and the Czech Republic to get "our" territories in Sudetenland and East Prussia back.

The people who suffer are always the individuals. Like Mariam's family. They had a doubly difficult time because, as orthodox Christian Palestinian refugees in Iraq, they were regarded even less favourably than the Muslim Palestinians. They fled again. In the hope of a slightly better life. To Jordan.

There they jumped from the frying pan into the fire. As refugees, they had no work permit and could only keep their heads above water by working illegally. Susanna and Chris, the friends I visited there, helped her as best they could.

When Mariam heard that I was travelling to Israel, she got two candles and put them in my hand. "Please light them in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and pray that our fate will change!" "Please!" Her eyes were full of hope that a prayer spoken by me in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was particularly significant in her religious tradition, would change her fate. Of course, as a refugee without a passport, she couldn't go there herself.

As a stateless person, she couldn't go anywhere. I could, of course, with a German passport. "Yes, I'll do it!" Rarely in my life have I felt so powerless. The fate of a family as a burden on my heart.

"Yes," I said inwardly as I joined the long queue of pilgrims waiting to pray and light candles at the supposed tomb of Jesus. "Lord, help Mariam!" I could only whisper. When I returned to Jordan, her eyes were full of gratitude and she pressed a small bag into my hand, which she had embroidered with traditional Palestinian cross-stitch patterns. "Thank you for making it for me." I lost contact and to this day I don't know if her fate has changed. I used the little bag a lot. The embroidered decorative beads have now come away from the embroidery, but it is still beautiful. And sometimes, when I use the bag, I pray for Mariam and the other women, men and children who are trapped in similar situations.

Rachel, Jewess

Twenty years later. Back at the border from Jordan to Israel, which has almost become a fortress. The border guard asks me where I'm going. I'm on my way to Kite Pridea social enterprise in Tel Aviv, founded and managed by the Swiss Tabea and Matthias Opplinger.

People, especially women, who were forced into prostitution due to poverty or violence find work there. They often receive their first training, social support and an introduction to regular employment without exploitation. They learn to sew and make cool bags from old surf sails.

Just like Rahel* . The introverted woman with the well-groomed appearance doesn't speak much. She is bent over the sewing machine, skilfully guiding her carefully tended hands with their delicate rings over the fabric. I know little of her story. Only that she had to work for years to keep herself and her child afloat. Sleeping with many men every day. Every day anew.

Now she is happy to be safe. To come to rest. To build a new life. She proudly shows me one of the bags she has sewn. Blue and yellow. Cheerful. Full of hope.

I buy them and use them often. It's a bit tatty now, but it's the perfect size if I want to go for a walk and only want to take a small amount with me. Rahel is happy to be safe is no longer true. She was happy. Now in autumn 2023, Rahel can't work. She is no longer threatened by pimps, men and poverty, but by bombs. Tel Aviv is being bombarded with rockets from the Gaza Strip by Hamas. There is no shelter near the premises of Kite Pride where the employees - Jews, Christians and Muslims - would be safe from bombs. The sheer hatred, the threat to their existence and their lives affects them all. So they stay at home. Business comes to a standstill. At least they continue to receive their wages through donations, because there is no income.

But the hope, the future, the prospect of learning something, of being on the way to a better life together with others and being able to build a new existence - hope rests - at least as long as the bombs are falling. No one knows how long this will last and whether and how it will continue. "Shalom, Rahel," I pray quietly. "Salam, Mariam", "Peace to you both and to everyone else."

* Names changed. Kitepride uncommissioned advertising.
Picture bags: Kerstin Hack, picture Church of the Holy Sepulchre: Rimarkable Pictures with kind permission.