It started like any ordinary day. I left home for a short drive to the neighborhood supermarket to buy some groceries for breakfast before my afternoon shift as a volunteer at a residential facility for at-risk youth.
I was driving slowly and carefully. As I approached the parking area, I noticed two women coming from the right who wanted to cross the road, away from a pedestrian crossing and not from the sidewalk. I stopped my car at a safe distance to let them cross.
I thought I had done the right thing. I never imagined that within moments, I would find myself being attacked, humiliated, and verbally abused simply because of my ethnic background.
The women approached my car window and began shouting: “How are you driving?” “What do you think you’re doing?” “Who do you think you are?”
I rolled down the window and tried to calm the situation. I explained that I wasn’t looking for an argument or any trouble, and that I had only stopped to let them cross safely. But it didn’t help.
The shouting turned into insults, and the insults escalated into violence. One of the women opened the passenger door, spat into my car, kicked the vehicle, and slammed the door shut.
I tried to remain calm. I tried not to get drawn into the confrontation. All I wanted was to start my car and leave.
Then came the words I will never forget:
“Stinking Ethiopian.”
At that moment, I froze.
This was no longer an argument on the road. It was no longer just a moment of anger. It was direct, deliberate, and deeply humiliating racism.
I sat there in my own car, surrounded by people, feeling small and powerless. It was as though, in a single moment, everything that defined who I was had been erased. All that remained was the color of my skin. My ethnic background. Whatever a complete stranger had decided she was entitled to use to degrade me.
I tried to close the door. I tried to start the engine. I tried to get away. But the women opened the driver’s door, physically attacked me, and prevented me from leaving. One of them even entered my car, took my keys, and declared that the vehicle had been “confiscated.”
In those moments, I felt that I had lost all control. I was sitting inside my own car, desperately trying to escape the situation, yet the confrontation continued to follow me.
I pushed them away solely in an attempt to defend myself. They then pulled at my shirt and jacket, tearing my jacket in the process. Bystanders intervened and tried to separate us.
Then came more hateful words:
“I’m a police officer. You’ll see what I’m going to do to you.”
“No wonder people hate you. You’re Ethiopians.”
These were not merely insults. They were attacks on my dignity, my identity, and my sense of security as a human being and as a citizen.
At some point, I took out my phone and started recording. Not to escalate the confrontation, but because I was afraid that without evidence, no one would believe me.
I was afraid that the story would be told differently. I was afraid that, once again, I would have to prove that I was not the one to blame for the harm inflicted upon me.
That incident has stayed with me.
Not because of the parking lot. Not because of the road. But because of the painful realization that there are still people who believe they have the right to humiliate someone because of their ethnic background, physically attack them, and then simply carry on as though nothing had happened.
I realized that I could not let this incident pass without taking action, so I turned to Tebeka, an organization dedicated to promoting equality and combating discrimination.
There, I discovered that there are people willing to stand up and fight to ensure that such humiliation is neither ignored nor forgotten.
We must not remain silent.
Because silence does not heal the wound. It only allows it to grow deeper.
If you, too, have experienced racism, humiliation, or discrimination, do not hesitate to contact Tebeka.
Phone: +972-72-242-4622
