Elifelet’s Story
The Founder’s Story — by Yael Gvirtz
The story of the founder - Yael Gvirtz
Elifelet rose from the ashes, from a hate crime, and the first decision we made was to build it as an organization rooted in love and dedicated to helping children grow.
One night in April 2012, fires were set at five locations where asylum seekers were living in Tel Aviv’s southern Shapira neighborhood. The attacks followed inflammatory speeches by politicians, the targets were carefully chosen, and a group of young local residents set out in the middle of the night armed with Molotov cocktails. One of the places they targeted was a home where 21 babies and toddlers were sleeping. It was only by sheer luck that they survived as the courtyard burned.
When I arrived that afternoon, the smell of smoke in the courtyard was still suffocating. I could hear the distressed cries of small children through the door, but it was a long time before anyone opened it. Blessing and Austin, the young Nigerian couple who lived there, were deeply apprehensive. They later explained that in their five years there, no Israeli had ever come to their door with good intentions. Nor had anyone from the authorities come to offer help after the fire. What I saw inside the small apartment was almost unbearable: dozens of toddlers crowded into a tiny space, stifling with smoke and heat. There was a single bare mattress, an open sack of rice contaminated with cockroach droppings, and all the toys and equipment had been destroyed in the fire.
This was during the period when asylum seekers were prohibited from working “between Hadera and Gedera,” forcing mothers to leave their children behind and travel to the far reaches of the country in search of work. The Nigerian couple, themselves refugees who had fled their country and endured an arduous journey through the Sinai Desert, chose to continue caring for these children even when they were not being paid, sharing what little food they had with them and with their own two toddlers. That was the day I left my career as a journalist behind and devoted myself to helping the children of asylum seekers. It was also the day I discovered the extraordinary willingness of Israelis to step forward and volunteer. A single Facebook post was enough to set in motion a chain of donations, supplies, and assistance for the children.
The name Elifelet was suggested by Rachel Yagil, one of our first volunteers. It comes from Nathan Alterman’s well-known poem about a young anti-hero whose unique courage emerges in battle. The children of asylum seekers — some of whom had endured the journey through Sinai and suffered terrible abuse and trauma, while others had already been born in Israel — were our heroes. They were babies and toddlers growing up here amid severe deprivation, danger, and persecution. Since 2010, twenty of them had died in the makeshift daycare centers that became known in the media as “children’s warehouses.” For them, with the help of the many volunteers who joined Elifelet over the years, we built a comprehensive network of nutritional, healthcare, and educational support. We began by helping rebuild the daycare center that had burned down. Within just a few years, we were already supporting a thousand young children and running after-school clubs that provided enriching activities and kept children safe from the dangers of spending their afternoons on the streets.
Within five years of its founding, Elifelet had become the largest volunteer organization in Israel dedicated to supporting the children of asylum seekers. It remained firmly non-political and opened its doors to anyone moved by the need to protect the lives and childhoods of these children — our young heroes who had already experienced so much deprivation and hardship. In those early days, we worked like people building a raft, tying one twig to another. And like the hummingbird in the familiar fable, we fought fires with every drop we could gather. Together, we discovered the power of collective action and watched children begin to flourish, regaining their ability to believe in and trust other people.
In 2020, I entrusted the leadership of Elifelet to Sharon Tal. Even as the organization rose admirably to the immense challenges of the COVID-19 pandemic, what remains most remarkable and moving to me is that, as Elifelet has grown, it has managed to preserve its unique character: a human family for children, a place for everyone who has an open heart, and a warm and loving home for the children it has embraced.
Elifelet rose from the ashes, from a hate crime, and the first decision we made was to build it as an organization rooted in love and dedicated to helping children grow.
One night in April 2012, fires were set at five locations where asylum seekers were living in Tel Aviv’s southern Shapira neighborhood. The attacks followed inflammatory speeches by politicians, the targets were carefully chosen, and a group of young local residents set out in the middle of the night armed with Molotov cocktails. One of the places they targeted was a home where 21 babies and toddlers were sleeping. It was only by sheer luck that they survived as the courtyard burned.
When I arrived that afternoon, the smell of smoke in the courtyard was still suffocating. I could hear the distressed cries of small children through the door, but it was a long time before anyone opened it. Blessing and Austin, the young Nigerian couple who lived there, were deeply apprehensive. They later explained that in their five years there, no Israeli had ever come to their door with good intentions. Nor had anyone from the authorities come to offer help after the fire. What I saw inside the small apartment was almost unbearable: dozens of toddlers crowded into a tiny space, stifling with smoke and heat. There was a single bare mattress, an open sack of rice contaminated with cockroach droppings, and all the toys and equipment had been destroyed in the fire.
This was during the period when asylum seekers were prohibited from working “between Hadera and Gedera,” forcing mothers to leave their children behind and travel to the far reaches of the country in search of work. The Nigerian couple, themselves refugees who had fled their country and endured an arduous journey through the Sinai Desert, chose to continue caring for these children even when they were not being paid, sharing what little food they had with them and with their own two toddlers. That was the day I left my career as a journalist behind and devoted myself to helping the children of asylum seekers. It was also the day I discovered the extraordinary willingness of Israelis to step forward and volunteer. A single Facebook post was enough to set in motion a chain of donations, supplies, and assistance for the children.
The name Elifelet was suggested by Rachel Yagil, one of our first volunteers. It comes from Nathan Alterman’s well-known poem about a young anti-hero whose unique courage emerges in battle. The children of asylum seekers — some of whom had endured the journey through Sinai and suffered terrible abuse and trauma, while others had already been born in Israel — were our heroes. They were babies and toddlers growing up here amid severe deprivation, danger, and persecution. Since 2010, twenty of them had died in the makeshift daycare centers that became known in the media as “children’s warehouses.” For them, with the help of the many volunteers who joined Elifelet over the years, we built a comprehensive network of nutritional, healthcare, and educational support. We began by helping rebuild the daycare center that had burned down. Within just a few years, we were already supporting a thousand young children and running after-school clubs that provided enriching activities and kept children safe from the dangers of spending their afternoons on the streets.
Within five years of its founding, Elifelet had become the largest volunteer organization in Israel dedicated to supporting the children of asylum seekers. It remained firmly non-political and opened its doors to anyone moved by the need to protect the lives and childhoods of these children — our young heroes who had already experienced so much deprivation and hardship. In those early days, we worked like people building a raft, tying one twig to another. And like the hummingbird in the familiar fable, we fought fires with every drop we could gather. Together, we discovered the power of collective action and watched children begin to flourish, regaining their ability to believe in and trust other people.
In 2020, I entrusted the leadership of Elifelet to Sharon Tal. Even as the organization rose admirably to the immense challenges of the COVID-19 pandemic, what remains most remarkable and moving to me is that, as Elifelet has grown, it has managed to preserve its unique character: a human family for children, a place for everyone who has an open heart, and a warm and loving home for the children it has embraced.
The name Elifelet was suggested by Rachel Yagil, one of our first volunteers. It comes from Nathan Alterman’s well-known poem about a young anti-hero whose unique courage emerges in battle. The children of asylum seekers — some of whom had endured the journey through Sinai and suffered terrible abuse and trauma, while others had already been born in Israel — were our heroes. They were babies and toddlers growing up here amid severe deprivation, danger, and persecution. Since 2010, twenty of them had died in the makeshift daycare centers that became known in the media as “children’s warehouses.” For them, with the help of the many volunteers who joined Elifelet over the years, we built a comprehensive network of nutritional, healthcare, and educational support. We began by helping rebuild the daycare center that had burned down. Within just a few years, we were already supporting a thousand young children and running after-school clubs that provided enriching activities and kept children safe from the dangers of spending their afternoons on the streets.
Within five years of its founding, Elifelet had become the largest volunteer organization in Israel dedicated to supporting the children of asylum seekers. It remained firmly non-political and opened its doors to anyone moved by the need to protect the lives and childhoods of these children — our young heroes who had already experienced so much deprivation and hardship. In those early days, we worked like people building a raft, tying one twig to another. And like the hummingbird in the familiar fable, we fought fires with every drop we could gather. Together, we discovered the power of collective action and watched children begin to flourish, regaining their ability to believe in and trust other people.
In 2020, I entrusted the leadership of Elifelet to Sharon Tal. Even as the organization rose admirably to the immense challenges of the COVID-19 pandemic, what remains most remarkable and moving to me is that, as Elifelet has grown, it has managed to preserve its unique character: a human family for children, a place for everyone who has an open heart, and a warm and loving home for the children it has embraced.
