Young Trailblazers: Mekere Mberhatum, The Shy Boy Who Became A Fitness Trainer

The first instalment in our new series of web-stories: Tails of Trailblazing refugees and asylum seekers – how they managed to overcome barriers and what they learned along the way. In a conversation with UNHCR, Mekere talks about the challenges he experienced as a young man who came to Israel on his own, and how one family’s faith and confidence, helped him achieve things he never imagined.

 

 

 

This story begins like many other stories of asylum-seekers and refugees living in Israel: fear, violence and fleeing from power, escaping through Sudan, a painful chapter in Sinai that ends with a ransom payment, and continues upon arrival in Israel, finding odd jobs while getting acquainted with the new reality and a never-ending search for identity.

This winding road, which began in Eritrea and continued with the arrival of the unaccompanied 16-year-old in Israel in 2012, culminated on the morning of June 20, 2024, when Mekere reported to the Ministry of Interior and received an ID card after six years of legal proceedings. That evening, he told his story on stage at a special event, marking World Refugee Day.

UNHCR sat down with to Mekere, to hear about the significant events in his journey that empowered a sense of belonging, self-confidence, and the ability to dream.

First Image: 2014, The Public Sphere is an Open Book

Mekere arrived in Israel in 2012 as a minor, without his parents nor any other family members. He was detained at the southern border and taken to “Saharonim” detention facility. From there, he was transferred with other unaccompanied minors to a facility in Hadera, which had been converted from a women’s prison into a kind of custody facility for dozens of children and teenagers who arrived in Israel without their parents from Eritrea and Sudan during those years.

Mekere asked to join his friends at the Nitzana Youth-Village. There, he started working and learning; but this place was much more than just an educational and social envelope for these young asylum-seekers. “I worked in greenhouses, picking cherry tomatoes for 14 shekels an hour, from 5 AM until 1 PM daily. The heat was unbearable, but we were treated very well, they took care of us like parents,” Mekere says. “We had a delicious lunch waiting for us, it was something I’d never experienced in my life until then. The money we earned, was used to pay back the debts (ransom paid by family members to Bedouins in Sinai. D.R) each one, to whomever he owed money to”.

In 2014, Mekere turned 18-years-old and was excited to leave the boarding school and find independence. But living outside the small village presented him with new challenges of life in Israel. He joined his older brother who arrived in Israel before him; the extended family now lived in a caravan in an iron factory in the town of Beit-Shemesh where the two worked.

“When I arrived in the office, the girl in human-resources (of the factory) explained that we are not allowed to climb higher than two meters because asylum-seekers are not insured,” Mekere recalls. ” A short time later, one of the factory workers asked me to climb 10 meters, and I refused. Then, he asked my older brother and the other “older” Eritreans. They brought a forklift and a harness to tie to my brother. I explained to him that he wasn’t allowed to climb up… his Hebrew wasn’t good, and he wasn’t aware of the insurance issue. At that moment I witnessed how those who didn’t know the language were taken advantage of… This pushed me to keep learning.”

And he hasn’t stopped learning for a decade. “I would read everything I came across, on the bus, a bathroom sign, everywhere, I would read ‘Bezeq (telecom) Technician’ on someone’s shirt on the street, an advertisement poster ‘Avi Air Conditioners’, there is no street sign between south Tel Aviv and Be’er Sheva that I haven’t read,” he says. ” Now, I was here, and I needed to be as Israeli as possible.”

The relationship with his brother and the work in the factory did not provide Mekere the stability and security he sought, and after 14 months, he found himself back in the only place he felt at home, in Nitzana.

 

Second Image: 2015, Jewish New Year’s Eve Dinner at The Zemach’s

Upon his return to Nitzana in May 2015, Mekere began working at the local grocery store in the nearby community, Kadesh-Barnea. “It was the only grocery store in the area, and everybody would shop there, it’s a very small community… It was my first time ever touching a screen, using a computer. I was very anxious, but I told myself, this is the reality, so I will manage.”

One reason for Mekere’s nervousness – besides operating the register – was also communicating in Hebrew with customers, and with one client in particular. “Oksana would come there and say hello, ask questions, and it was very stressful for me, so sometimes I would see her approaching, and go hide in the warehouse until she left.”

These days, Oksana Zemach is a prominent activist in the Negev, promoting the rights of asylum seekers and refugees. Back in 2015, she was just settling back in the nearby village Kadesh Barnea after a long, world-wide advocacy mission together with her husband Chemi and their four daughters. A few months before Mekere returned to Nitzana, Oksana and Chemi fostered a 10-month-old baby boy.

On Rosh-Ha-Shana eve, Mekere was invited, to join the holiday dinner at the Zemach family home. “There was a long table full of people, two more Eritreans and a few French volunteers, a lot of food on the table and I couldn’t eat because I was so nervous. The conversation went on and on, and I understood little Hebrew, so I just answered ‘yes’ to everything,” says Mekere. “Chemi drove us back from their house to Nitzana, a 10-minute ride seemed like forever. I got out of the car, I started running and shouted “Good night” from afar, I was too embarrassed to say goodbye properly. All I thought was: “Yay! it’s over!” I hope not to run into them tomorrow.”

But Mekere did see them again, and the embarrassment quickly faded. “After that dinner, our relationship moved from the grocery store into the house.,” Oksana says. “The knot tightened very swiftly and strongly.”

In a way that seemed natural and obvious to all parties, as Oksana began accompanying Mekere to opening a bank account, setting up dentist appointments, and throughout all the bureaucracy she provided her ID card, circumnavigating obstacles and complications that usually face asylum seekers in seeking services. “In every office I said, ‘I’m here with my son for his appointment,’ it was very clear to me that we adopted him, the same way he adopted us.”

Third Image: 2016, Candles on a Watermelon

“In Eritrea, there’s no such thing as a birthday,” says Mekere. He wasn’t used to holidays or birthdays being celebrated, and the thought of it made him uncomfortable, even after a year with the Zemach family. But his shy demeanour and cultural habits began to mix in with Israeli traditions and the ones of his new family. “For us, a birthday is a serious business, it’s impossible not to celebrate it,” Oksana said. “A birthday isn’t just for you, it’s an opportunity to let people around you tell you all kinds of things.” But Mekere didn’t even know what day he was born on, so how could they celebrate?

Together they sat in front of online calendars, cross-referenced memories, and dates, until finally they set a date of his birth. On the morning of July 25th, Mekere received his first birthday party. Now there was a date, blessings and presents, but still one problem. “He wouldn’t eat anything sweet and wouldn’t touch cakes. what kind of birthday cake do you make for a kid who doesn’t like sweets? “Mekere recalled that morning: “The whole family, my sisters bought me presents, and mom took a watermelon, cut it in half, stuck candles, and that was it…. It was deeply moving.”

Christmas and New Year’s Day 2017 was another opportunity for celebration. It was five years since Mekere arrived in Israel. “Mother gave me a pair of “Blundstone boots” that she bought at the local “farmer’s depo” and said: “That’s it, now you’re an Israeli,” he recounts. “At that moment she made me equal like everyone else.”

 

“Any barrier like that, feels like a slap in the face – I succeeded; now, can I do it? No, not yet. After every time something like this happened, many hugs were needed.”

Fourth Image:2019, A DIY Gym

Oksana describes her relationship with Mekere as “walkie-talkie communication”: they talk every day, all day. One of their routines is drinking coffee each Friday at sunrise. Against the backdrop of the still desert, they have a heart-to-heart conversation. “People pay a lot of money for a psychologist, I don’t need to, I have my mother,” Mekere said. Now that he was not in debt, had a supportive family and stable surroundings, new questions emerged.

“One day my mother asks me, ‘What’s your dream?'” says Mekere. “What do you mean by “dream? I’ve never been asked a question like that; I thought a dream was something that happens when you sleep. I had no idea what to answer.” Now, they both had a new mission.

Together, they recognized his interest in sports and in developing his own personal fitness. But when Mekere tried to sign up for a gym in the nearby community of Kmehin, the security coordinator refused to accept him because he didn’t have an ID card, even though he was a known member of the Zemach family. “I don’t want the blacks in my gym,” Oksana recalled his words.

Rather than being discouraged, Mekere looked for a solution, and when he couldn’t find one available, he built it himself. He asked his mother for “huge cans of olives” from the local factory. The cans were actually six-liter metal containers which he transformed into weights. He poured cement and iron rods to build a horizonal bar. Finally, he found large old tractor tires and completed his “CrossFit” training space, an outdoor gym. It was then that Oksana asked: “Do you want to be a fitness trainer? And he replied “Yes! What is a fitness trainer…?” Once again, Oksana stepped up to help – from using her ID card to enable registration for the course, to a private tutor who came from Be’er Sheva, to studying together every night.

“I looked at any website I could find, I bought all the books I could buy. He’s in Tel Aviv and I’m here in the hammock at home, every evening for an hour – an hour and a half – on Zoom,” Oksana said. “She would have passed the test, too,” Mekere says with a smile.

And when he failed his mid-course exam, or didn’t pass a practical test or finals, his mother was there. “Today you didn’t pass, it’s okay, you can be upset today, tomorrow we start all over again. Eventually, he completed all the requirements and received his certificate, and it was a lesson for all of us, for all the children. His success was sweeter because it didn’t come easy, and it was a huge joy for all of us.”

Mekere quickly found a job in a Tel-Aviv gym that has a public pool, but he was required to present a “letter of good standing” from the police, something that asylum-seekers who are not registered in the Israeli system cannot obtain. His mother watched his pain from the sidelines and helped him move forward. “Any barrier like that, feels like a slap in the face – I succeeded; now, can I do it? No, not yet. After every time something like this happened, many hugs were needed.”

But he soon found another gym that offered him a job as well as clients for personal session. He enjoyed the work and connecting with people felt easy. He was very satisfied with his path. “Now I was starting to understand what does a ‘dream’ mean.”

 

“This journey has taught me that everyone needs one person to believe in them, like this family believed in me”

 

Fifth image: 2024, World Refugee Day

The shy boy who picked tomatoes for 14 ILS an hour and taught himself Hebrew by reading street signs, is now standing proud on the stage. His shoulders are wide, his beard is thick and black, necklaces and a ‘Never Give Up’ tattoo, a big smile on his face. He came to share with the festive audience at the ZOA House in Tel Aviv, his journey, from Eritrea, through Sinai, Nitzana, Tel Aviv, until that very morning, when he received a temporary residency card (A/5) after six years of legal proceedings. Almost cosmically, this event converged with the date on which International Refugee Day is celebrated each year.

“I want to start from the end, today I received an Israeli residency certificate after six years… This family gave me everything someone could give, I have four sisters and a brother, I have a father and a mother, on Rosh Hashanah it will be nine years that I have been with them… This journey has taught me that everyone needs one person to believe in them, like this family believed in me.” Mekere was very moved and as he stood there, he also thanked his attorney Nimrod Avigal, from HIAS, who was sitting in the audience. Avigal applied for Mekere’s permanent residency on humanitarian grounds and accompanied the Zemach family over the years.

“From a kid who avoided talking to me in the grocery store to this guy standing on a stage, that’s the two points of the journey he went through,” Oksana says. “Today he knows his ability to magnetize people, he knows what he has been through, and yet he is looking forward to what else is in for him, and where else he wants to go, he always stays in motion.”

 

 

Epilogue: Electricity bill

Our last conversation took place three months after receiving the certificate, but according to him, the feeling in daily life has not changed significantly.

“On the one hand, I don’t feel a big change. Because this type of certificate has to be renewed every year, I still feel that it’s not permanent, that something could happen next year and they won’t renew it, or they will decide to return my B/1.”  he said. On the other hand, he admits, some significant things have changed in his life. For example, he just bought a car, and now his freedom and independence has a physical and daily manifestation. But the most significant changes are in the small, mundane tasks which disappeared overnight.

“Now I can make appointments, I can pay municipal taxes, open a bank account, and I can rent an apartment without hassle.” As he discovered the possibilities now open to him, he couldn’t help but feel the gap between him and his community, which still struggles with these barriers. “For example I can open a business, I have checks, I can make a bank transfer… In the past, I didn’t have a credit card, for every doctor’s appointment I used my mother’s ID, not everyone has that option.”

Lastly, he notes with a spark in his eye, “Now I’m competing with Israelis, no matter what I choose to do, we’re in the same tier”. And it seems that this was all he asked for, to level the playing field, and be treated equally.

 

 

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