04/30/2026
I left at dawn, when the sky over Lagos was still undecided—caught between night and morning, like I was between two lives.
My name is Pauline @ Nineteen, with a single worn suitcase and a heart that refused to accept the limits of my circumstances, in Nigeria, I had learned early what it meant to go without, without steady electricity, sometimes without food. But I had never learned how to stop hoping.
The decision to leave didn’t come all at once. It built slowly, like harmattan dust gathering on a windowsill. My aunt who had “made it” abroad. Sent back money. My grandmother tired hands, always working, never resting. One evening, after another day of selling fruit, with barely enough profit. I looked at my grandmothers reflection in a cracked mirror and whispered, “There has to be more.”
By 1996, the plan had taken shape—fragile, risky, but real. Israel 🇮🇱 It was a place I had never seen, couldn’t fully imagine, but had heard about through murmurs of opportunity. Caregiving jobs. Cleaning work. Something—anything—that paid more than survival wages.
The journey was not kind to me.
Airports felt like foreign planets. Languages I didn’t understand wrapped around me like noise. I clutched my documents tightly, afraid that if I loosened my grip even slightly, the dream would dissolve. On the plane, I barely slept, my mind racing between fear and anticipation.
When I arrived, the air felt different—drier, unfamiliar. The streets were cleaner, the buildings taller, but none of it mattered in that first moment. What mattered was that I had made it. I was still standing.
But arrival was only the beginning.
The first weeks were the hardest. I slept on a thin mattress in a cramped apartment , shared with four other people all from different parts of Africa. They spoke different languages but shared the same quiet understanding: they were here to survive, maybe even to build something better.
Work came slowly. Then suddenly, it came all at once.
I found a job caring for an elderly woman who spoke little English. Their communication was a mix of gestures, smiles, and patience. I learned quickly—how to cook unfamiliar meals, how to navigate buses, how to stretch every shekel. I worked long hours, sometimes feeling invisible, but I never complained. Every coin I earned was proof that my risk had meaning.
Loneliness visited me often, especially at night. I missed the sounds of home—my grandmothers voice, even the chaos of Lagos traffic. In Israel, everything felt quieter, more distant. Some nights, I cried softly into my pillow, careful not to wake the others.
But I also began to change.
The shy girl who once hesitated to speak grew steadier. I learned new words, new ways, new strengths I hadn’t known I possessed. I started sending money home—small amounts at first, but enough to make a difference.
