Deserts. Just Desserts.

My friend works with asylum seekers who have relocated to South Tel Aviv. They have fled their burning villages from military regimes whose power stretches its long fingers into the corners of their homes, between partners in a bed, between parents and their wailing children; it forced them out the back door not only of the home to which they can no longer return, but of their countries and across the plains of Africa. What is refuge to a person who can never crawl back under their own sheets to hide from the monsters? Sheets are offered by aid organizations along the way, but the adults already understand that sheets are a child's comfort and no real fortress against the monsters who can crawl in beside them. They are a straw hut trying to stand against a hurricane, a laughable bastion against the evils of the world that can puff and blow their flimsy reality to smithereens on a poisonous whim. The monsters are spiteful, agile, and borderless shape-shifters.

They left the sheets behind and continued to flee north across the border between Egypt and Israel, sometimes making their way on their own and sometimes paying every last coin to traffickers whom they hoped would not take the clothes off their backs, torture or violate them as payment (and they have since learned not to hope). They settle in Tel Aviv; and we use the term “settle” loosely because they were collectively bussed from the outdoor prison at the border and plopped here, as though to pick up professionally and socially where they’d left off back home. But psychologically, they are waiting for someone to come in and blow over their straw hut – this time made of blackened cinder block of South Tel Aviv and held up by families resting (finally) in the corners. They, too, have learned to become agile shape-shifters - from restaurant chef to shoe salesman to the dock workers in the port.

People only seem to get especially nationalistic when they think that someone else is trying to threaten their definition of space. The presence of someone new threatens their “is”ness because the newness redefines their space. Perhaps with the opening of a new businesses, bringing new smells, a different values systems, dragging an untold history into this previously defined arena that had its own economy, its own vibe, its already established priorities. The asylum seekers must also watch out for those who are resisting change and therefore resisting them; they spent years watching over their shoulders for any change in the political winds that would fling them back into the horrors from which they had finally escaped. There is a Korean game show in which contestants compete to climb slime-covered staircases and scale a gooey wall in order to win. The audience cheers and teases the participants as they try to establish a grip through the ooze and bounce tragically, frustrated but laughing, down to the bottom of the pit and start to ascend again. The plight of the asylum seekers is not dissimilar, but in this case it's not for prize money, it's for their whole family's survival; and the slime is a metaphor for fire, rape, forced induction into an extremist military group, the loss of an appendage or a child – you choose.

The aid network knows the game and tries to insert footholds along the way. But they embody a paradox: the desire to help humans in need in balance with an existential threat to racial superiority. This balancing act is conducted by the ugly step-sister of Lady Liberty, who, like her older sister, is splashed more and more by a torrent of dark irony to the point that she can’t possibly balance her scales justly against the caustic waves.

Here is an example of one such balancing act. The dear friend I mentioned above works with the refugee and asylum seeking population. Last week, she attended a thank-you banquet given by the asylum seekers in appreciation for a 2-month cooking class. This was part of a series of vocational trainings that could help acclimate asylum seekers to the new landscape and economy – to use the local veggies here as opposed to the ones they are familiar with back home, and to perhaps gain skills as a chef or baker for employment. Actually, let me clarify here – many of these students already work in restaurants around the city. They also have culinary expertise from back home. But they lack local certification that may help them work their way up the socio-economic ladder. So this course was to provide not only new skills, but also further development for those who already knew how to do their jobs. And a certificate.

The graduation ceremony was well-attended by gracious donors who stood in turn to thank their funding recipients for such a delectable meal. They not only chirped gratitude, but oozed pride and praise for the accomplishments of the asylum seekers. The springiest of Israeli salads (tomatoes, cucumbers, onion). A baba ganoush to die for (cheeky way of putting it). Perfectly cooked pasta – truly al dente, wow. Look how far you're come. We are really proud of the advancements you have made in your short time here.

One might offer similar accolades to a young teenager helping a parent in the kitchen for the first time. These people are traumatized, not daft. Does anyone speak this way to a baking class in Asheville? At the risk of making a very crass comparison, my YouTube fitness instructor sounds very similar - she tells me how proud she is that I didn't give up - every single time I play the video (but how can she really know if I’m pumping out the last set or standing there sucking wind?). How can we claim pride for how far they have come, when we cannot begin to fathom the point at which they started? Not only in terms of dodging or slaying monsters, but some of these people were medical practitioners, educators, community leaders, technicians. How do they feel when we praise them for boiling couscous to perfection? My friend posited, wouldn't it be better to just say the truth? She wondered if they’d have appreciated a more honest speech to close the banquet:

Dearest constituents, we are gathered today to acknowledge that your lives suck right now. But good on you for taking a step towards making it suck a little bit less. Yes, a cooking class might seem trite compared to the skills you obtained and the clearly defined path you were on back home, but we unapologetically offer you this small opportunity to step outside of your work-eat-sleep survival routine for a bit and try to claw your way back to a “normal” experience, however deep the contrast may be. We know full well that this certification is probably meaningless, but it is our aspiration that we give you some sort of token of progress since we certainly cannot offer you equality, at least not until we figure out whether we want to or not.

Why do we pussy-foot around the truth? If we do not speak of the horrors these people endured, and the almost comically wide chasm between their world and that of the donor and support community, then is it simply going unnoticed? Certainly not. It is present and persistently escaping through squinty smiles and thousands of words passed between each person in that room, it is in the air pumped throughout the room by the demure smattering of applause after each speech, the scars hidden under the participants’ chef hats, and in the seams of the designer dresses that contort with their wearers as the patrons stand to acknowledge the job well done. The truth is that the help, this course, the aid provided is a morsel, however delicious that small bite may be. And whether the generosity of each donor is pure or influenced by power, does not really matter because the system of balances itself is flawed. I am not suggesting that we condemn the altruists; I would put myself in their category if I were being completely honest. Rather, I think we need to acknowledge our role in the system.

I asked my friend if we are doing enough as we go about our respective jobs when the real work is to topple the existing scales – to replace {help / racial superiority} with {empathy / collective transformation}. My friend explained to me that this is true, there is the long view and the now, and there is tremendous power in the work of aspiring to make someone's life suck a little bit less than it did the day before. But the critical point is to do so with a sense of humor and humility, and never to assume that your work is taking on more of a monumental role than its face value. Sometimes baking a cake is a milestone towards a brighter future, towards job security, and a foothold strong enough for your children to be able to have the same opportunities in a welcome and secure environment. Sometimes a cake is just a cake, and the day is a little sweeter because you know you helped make it so. And sometimes, it is not so much a cake but a humble pie, and we need to own the fact that we’re dishing out the recipe.