Latinos in Israel
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Latinos in Israel charts the unexpected ways that non-citizen immigrants become potential citizens. In the late 1980s Latin Americans of Christian background started arriving in Israel as labor migrants. Alejandro Paz examines the ways they perceived themselves and were perceived as potential citizens during an unexpected campaign for citizenship in the mid-2000s. This ethnographic account describes the problem of citizenship as it unfolds through language and language use among these Latinos both at home and in public life, and considers the different ways by which Latinos were recognized as having some of the qualities of citizens. Paz explains how unauthorized labor migrants quickly gained certain limited rights, such as the right to attend public schools or the right to work. Ultimately engaging Israelis across many such contexts, Latinos, especially youth, gained recognition as citizens to Israeli public opinion and governing politics. Paz illustrates how language use and mediatized interaction are under-appreciated aspects of the politics of immigration, citizenship, and national belonging.


Note on Transcription

Introduction: Language and the Unexpected Citizen

Chapter 1: Becoming Non-Citizens: Modernizing Agency in Latino Arrivals to Israel

Chapter 2: Strangers in their own Home: Educación, Domesticity and (Trans-)National Intimacy

Chapter 3: Inculcating Citizenship: Language, Performance and Commensurating Cultural Difference

Chapter 4: Chisme as Latino Public Life: La Alcachofa and Marginal Public Voices

Chapter 5: El Sapo Speaks: Police Informers and the Voice of the State

Chapter 6: Becoming Israeli Citizens: Latino Youth, Uncanny Similarity and the Message of Citizenship

Epilogue: The Unexpected Citizen as Voice of Response





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Date de parution 25 octobre 2018
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EAN13 9780253036537
Langue English

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Paul A. Silverstein, Susan Slyomovics, and Ted Swedenburg, editors
Language and Unexpected Citizenship
Alejandro I. Paz
Indiana University Press
This book is a publication of
Indiana University Press
Office of Scholarly Publishing
Herman B Wells Library 350
1320 East 10th Street
Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA
2018 by Alejandro I. Paz
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To the light of my heavens, Tamouz Andrea and Nour Peter
Note on Transcription
Introduction: Language and the Unexpected Citizen
1 Becoming Noncitizens: Modernizing Agency in Latino Arrivals in Israel
2 Strangers in Their Own Home: Educaci n , Domesticity, and Transnational Intimacy
3 Inculcating Citizenship: Language, Performance, and the Commensuration of Cultural Difference
4 Chisme as Latino Public Life: La Alcachofa and Marginal Public Voices
5 El Sapo Speaks: Police Informers and the Voice of the State
6 Becoming Israeli Citizens: Latino Youth, Uncanny Similarity, and the Message of Citizenship
Epilogue: The Unexpected Citizen as Voice of Response
T HIS BOOK CAME to me unexpectedly. I set out to study ethnolinguistic issues among Latinos in Israel, and to especially focus on how Latinos understood themselves as different from Israelis. When I arrived, however, Latinos wanted to talk about their similarities to Israelis. Since I did the majority of my fieldwork (2004-2006) after a period of intensified deportation sweeps, as well as the beginning of a campaign for citizenship, Latinos felt their differences but also realized that similarity could get them closer to the economic stability they needed. The dissertation that I wrote from my fieldwork tended to maintain the resulting tension. It was only in the process of transforming my dissertation into a book that I realized that the Latinos interest in citizenship was also to be found in the way they understood their differences.
Looking back at my fieldwork, I realize that as an ethnographer I ended up playing a role in the complex circuits by which Latinos came to engage in the cultural politics of Israel, and also in forming their claims to citizenship. As for so many before me, the fieldwork sent me in unexpected directions. I initially became interested in Latino unauthorized immigrants as a research assistant for a sociological study in the late 1990s. I worked first with two Latino Evangelical churches, who made-to my eyes-extraordinarily Zionist claims to explain their presence in Israel, which included prayer and ritual that incorporated Hebrew-language formulations. For the most part, these Evangelicals took me-a Hebrew-speaking Jew-for an Israeli native. My fieldwork thus somewhat reversed the classic ethnographic fieldwork encounter. On other occasions, many Latinos assumed that-as a native Spanish speaker with a Spanish name and a Latin American background-I was not very different from them.
All this piqued my curiosity, and I sought to study the linguistic and discursive aspects of how Latinos were being transformed in Israel. But it was some time before I returned to begin ethnographic and linguistic fieldwork, in September 2004, two years after the establishment of the Immigration Authority and the onset of mass deportations. Many Latinos either had been deported or had left out of fear of deportation. Others had dispersed to the suburban areas of Tel Aviv, which made their lives more difficult, but helped them avoid detection. Many of the people whom I had known prior to starting my doctoral studies were no longer there, or they lived with a sense of siege, in much smaller networks of kin and friends.
These changes shaped all my fieldwork, and my position in the field. I began to assume the kinds of intermediary roles that I describe in this book. I helped frame the voice of Latinos to Israeli audiences, and then helped relay information to Latinos. For example, I had planned to work with a Latino organization, La Escuelita , which instructs children in standard Spanish and Latin American public culture. I had hoped to volunteer as an assistant, to see how children were instructed in Spanish and culture, and how Israeli language and culture came to be compared. When I arrived in September 2004, however, two of the teachers had just been arrested and awaited deportation, and a third had decided to stop working with La Escuelita in order to save up money before the police caught him. La Escuelita suddenly needed many teachers, and its charismatic director immediately pressed me into service. While previously many undocumented Latinos had been teachers at La Escuelita, suddenly most were Jewish Spanish-speakers and long-term residents. As a group, we represented the citizens who were helping to provide services to marginalized youth and Latino families.
At the same time I became a teacher, a series of contingencies also led to my becoming an NGO advocate. One of La Escuelita s teachers who had been arrested received a judgment that gave her thirty days to organize her affairs before leaving the country. She only needed someone to help her post bail, which involved a bit of bureaucratic running around. At the first meeting I attended for La Escuelita s teachers, the question of help was discussed, and everyone explained why they could not do it. Even though it was my first meeting, I realized that I was being called upon to help. In some ways, the crisis of deportations seemed to change the time it takes to create trust and reciprocity. To get instructions on how to post bail for the arrested teacher, I was sent to an NGO, at the time known as the Hotline for Migrant Workers. The Hotline was very active on labor migration issues, and as I wondered how I would carry out my fieldwork, I began to volunteer there too. It was there that I became involved in the campaign for citizenship for the children of labor migrants.
This campaign, as I describe throughout the book, was hugely important and formative for the Latinos during the majority of my fieldwork. In fact, the campaign enabled me to see the deep web of relations between language, cultural politics, and citizenship. If I had come to do a study about bilingualism and transnationalism, one that emphasized how Latinos maintained boundaries of difference, I had arrived at exactly the right time to see how Latinos were more interested in emphasizing their similarity to Israelis. Further, La Escuelita and the Hotline, and other organizations with which I worked, were all involved in the campaign. These organizations worked on forging a public message to the Israeli public, and I began to see how important that process was to Latinos.
Eventually, I did manage to do the kind of research I had set out to do. I started to record conversations of Latino families in order to get a sense of how they used Hebrew and Spanish, and more importantly how they managed to inhabit different voices in their discursive interactions. I also interviewed Latinos about their reasons for migration and their routes to Israel. Here, the issue of educaci n , and the voices of the strict Latin American parent ( chap. 2 ), came to the fore, which I quickly realized engulfed the perceived difference between Hebrew and Spanish.
Ultimately, this fieldwork helped me see the deep relations between, on the one hand, the campaign and the various forms of publicness in Latino lives, and on the other hand, Latinos attunement to the politics of language and culture. The study that I had set out to do, and the unexpected one that was forced upon me when the Immigration Authority began its mass deportations, connected. That is the final meaning of the unexpected in this book: that my own fieldwork was shaped by and helped to shape how some Latinos became unexpected citizens in Israel.
Throughout, I use pseudonyms to protect those who shared with me important aspects of their lives and work. Further, in an effort to keep the discussion as accessible as possible, some of the more technical points are fleshed out in footnotes.
A BOOK IS A kind of discursive transformation, rotating on an axis of debt. I must start by acknowledging the excellent education I received as a graduate student. Susan Gal and Michael Silverstein are both inspirational and dedicated mentors, and I cannot find a way to thank them enough. I received a great deal also from Amy Dahlstrom, Victor Friedman, Claudio Lomnitz, Beth Povinelli, and Michel-Rolph Trouillot (who is sorely missed). And of course from Anne Chi en. Thank you all, both for your example and your patience. I am grateful also to my classmates, who always pushed me both by example and critique, especially Chris Ball, Sue Chlebove, Courtney Handman, Shunsuke Nozawa, Ben Smith, and James Slotta.
I am lucky to have added fantastic interlocutors after grad school, whose sage advice I wish I were better able to implement. Big thank yous to Hilary Parsons Dick and Rihan Yeh for reading repeated drafts and their smart critiques. And to Paul Manning and Anne Meneley for speed-reading everything toward the end, for great mentorship, and for never letting me lose hope. Frank Cody, Jessica Greenberg, and Rebecca Stein were able to refocus ideas into a book, and are always in my corner. My SWAGgers, Sarah Hillewaert, Katie Kilroy-Marac, and Krista Maxwell, provided strength when it was lagging. Sarah also helped me get some of these chapters to the finish line. Thanks also to Vinita Joseph for writing advice.
At the University of Toronto, I found a terrific home, and a large group of people to challenge and inspire me. I thank the Department of Anthropology for accepting me with open arms, and in particular Sandra Bamford, Janice Boddy, Girish Daswani, and Michael Lambek. Monica Heller has been a generous critic and mentor, always ready to listen. Including those I have already mentioned, my colleagues have taught and advised me about much through the years. I could not have written this book without you, and many conversations with you stuck with me as I wrote. I wish I could do justice to your contributions individually: Joshua Barker, Dan Bender, Katherine Blouin, Bianca Dahl, Naisargi Dave, Chandler Davis, Natalie Zemon Davis, Maggie Cummings, Drew Gilbert, Atiqa Hachimi, Jens Hanssen, Mark Hunter, Jennifer Jackson (we miss you), Bea Jauregui, Ivan Kalmar, Chris Krupa, Katie Larson, Richard Lee, Tania Li, Hy Van Luong, Ken MacDonald, Bonnie McElhinny, Amira Mittermaier, Lena Mortensen, Andrea Muehlebach, Valentina Napolitano, Kevin O Neill, Ato Quayson, Bhavani Raman, Shiho Satsuka, Larry Sawchuk, Jo Sharma, Gavin Smith, Michael Schillaci, Jack Sidnell, Mary Silcox, Jesook Song, Ed Swenson, Holly Wardlow, and Donna Young. It has truly been an honor to work alongside you all.
My students at the University of Toronto, both undergraduate and graduate, have taught me a great deal, and I m grateful to them for sharing their ideas and experiences. Undergraduate students in particular have shown me how to make highfalutin scholarship work for them (I hope my writing shows this!). Thanks also to Laura Murillo for excellent research assistance. I have also learned much from everything graduate students bring to conversations. In particular, I feel fortunate to be working with Omri Grinberg, Hannah Mayne, Marianna Reis, and Dima Saad. Thank you all for being so smart!
Over the years, I have also been lucky to discuss my work and ideas with numerous other colleagues and friends, who have challenged me. I owe an enormous debt to Dafna Hirsch and Bonnie Urciuoli for pushing this book in all the right directions. So many others have also helped with encouraging critique and stimulating ideas. I m unable to mention everyone, but I d like to thank Rabie Abu-Latifa, Asif Agha, Yehonatan Alsheh, Gadi Algazi, Amahl Bishara, Jillian Cavanaugh, Patrick Eisenlohr, Jasmin Habib, Yaqub Hilal, Barak Kalir, Adriana Kemp, Bruce Mannheim, Rosina M rquez Reiter, Luisa Mart n Rojo, Norma Mendoza Denton, Galey Modan, Dan Monterescu, Rob Moore, Rebeca Raijman, Jonathan Rosa, Shalini Shankar, Smadi Sharon, Housni Shehadeh, Nitzan Shoshan, Sarah Willen, Kristina Wirtz, and Fiona Wright. You all made me think more and differently.
My research was enabled by wonderful people who taught me a lot about citizenship in Israel and what it means not to have it. So many helped me along the way, and I know you will forgive me for not mentioning everyone, but I would like to thank especially Nena Aristiz bal, Jorge Iv n Henao Melo, Oded Feller, Ang lica Garces, Lu s Gonz lez, Shevy Korzen, Romm Lewkowicz, Michal Pinchuk, Sigal Rozen, Emi Saar, and Will n Zhapa. I hope your lessons show through in what follows.
The team at Indiana University Press has been exceptional, proving that publishing can be a good experience. I thank the editors of the series, Paul Silverstein, Susan Slyomovics, and Ted Swedenberg, as well as the Editorial Director at IUP, Dee Mortensen, for your enormous enthusiasm from the beginning. The rest of the staff, including Darja Malcolm-Clarke and Paige Rasmussen, have all been wonderful to work with. Special thanks to Anita Hueftle for the excellent copyediting.
My pre-field studies were funded by a Canadian Scholarship Trust Fund Graduate Award, a Phoenix Fellowship from the University of Chicago, and a Doctoral Fellowship from the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada. My field research was generously supported by the Fulbright-Hays Program (Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad), the Wenner-Gren Foundation (Dissertation Fieldwork Grant), and the National Science Foundation (Doctoral Dissertation Research Improvement Grants). As a graduate student, my writing was moved along with funding from the Schusterman Fund for Israel Studies. At the University of Toronto Scarborough, I was supported by a New Faculty Research Grant. I am very grateful for the enormous financial support provided by all these agencies.
Despite these many debts, responsibility for the text is mine alone. You all tried your best! Parts of chapter 4 appeared in a different form previously in the Journal of Linguistic Anthropology 19(1) 2009.
My family has been unbelievably patient and supportive. My parents, Myriam and Peter Bayerthal, must wonder how their own intergenerational strategy worked out! To my older siblings, thanks for always looking out for me: Fanny Paz-Prizant and Mircea Rotenberg, Benjamin and Sylvia Paz. And of course, the next gen: Tanya, Aaron, Claudia, Colin, Ilan, and Roni. Natalie s family in Israel has also been a constant source of support and strength, with much love; thanks to Hilla Havkin, Zamir Havkin, Rachel Rinat, Rami Rudich, and of course to the elo ima and elosavta, Hannah Rothman. We still miss you, Dod Mike. I love you all very very much.
Tamouz and Nour put up with a lot of absent daddy, even sometimes present in person and not in thought. Thanks for your patience and for never accepting that daddy needs to work instead of playing. But how does one describe the biggest debt of all? To my perfect and beautiful partner in all things, Natalie Rothman: how many times did you have to respond to my I must be stupid and why am I so slow? I may be slow and stupid, but, thanks to you, I have published a book.
Note on Transcription
W HERE POSSIBLE , I have used common spellings for Hebrew words. Otherwise, I use symbols that are easily read in English. One difference is that the [x] represents a sound like the ch sound at the end of the German pronunciation of Bach. -y is used in diphthongs like [ay], pronounced as in I, and [ey], pronounced as in bay. I also use an apostrophe to signal vowel hiatus (e.g., YISRA EL ). I generally transcribe the standard register that is commonly used, rather than the forms that are taken as correct (e.g., where /k/ is supposed to be pronounced [x], but usually isn t). The historical distinction still marked in Hebrew script between the glottal stop ( ALEF ) and the voiced pharyngeal approximant ( AYIN ) is not relevant to most of the Hebrew represented in this book, and therefore I have not distinguished the two.
Where necessary, I differentiate between Spanish and Hebrew utterances or terms through the use of font: Spanish is in italics , while Hebrew is in SMALL CAPS . Where the difference has been neutralized, I use both.
In other places, either the context is clear to distinguish Spanish and Hebrew in quotations, or I specify this explicitly. In those places, no change is made to the font. I sometimes provide the original language transcription in a note using the appropriate font for interested readers.
Language and the Unexpected Citizen
I N N OVEMBER 2005, several dozen teenagers filled a courtroom at the Israeli Supreme Court in Jerusalem, along with supportive school administrators and nongovernmental organization (NGO) advocates, to participate in a hearing on a petition that challenged a government Resolution from the previous June. At stake was the right of most of those teenagers, children of unauthorized immigrants-non-Jewish foreign workers ( OVDIM ZARIM ) as most Israelis call them-to stave off deportation. At stake also was the opportunity to become citizens. The state attorney, Yochi Genessin, was there to argue against the challenge. She put on a dramatic performance, intimating, as she had many times before, that giving citizenship to teenagers like those in the audience would pose a demographic threat. This demographic argument, made by Zionist leaders continuously since the British rule of Mandate Palestine (roughly 1918-1948), has come to index Israeli anxieties about the number of Palestinians that live under Israeli rule, and especially about the number of Palestinian citizens. In this demographic reasoning, the claim that the Israeli state is both Jewish and democratic means the population must be overwhelmingly Jewish.
While Genessin spoke, a sixteen-year-old from Ecuador, Noga, visibly upset, asked me when she would have a chance to explain how she felt. In that Supreme Court setting-one of the paradigmatic places to act as a citizen, to be addressed and to address others as citizens-Noga was moved to respond. I told her that I did not know that she would get that opportunity. I was also a little surprised because I knew that Noga was loathe to appear publicly. She had arrived from Ecuador six years earlier and lived in a suburb, far from the concentration of unauthorized immigrants in south Tel Aviv. None of her school friends knew that she and her family lived without legal residence. Noga guarded this secret carefully, even using an Israeli name that had been bestowed upon her in school shortly after her arrival. But I also knew that she could be a compelling speaker, displaying Israeli national personhood with ease. NGO advocates were always looking for teenagers who could make the case for citizenship in media interviews.
Noga did find her chance to respond. During a break in the proceedings, people clustered outside the courtroom in small groups. I suddenly heard an impassioned voice rise above the others. Turning, I saw Noga had cornered one of Genessin s assistants, and she was giving him a piece of her mind-in fluent Hebrew, of course. She told the assistant attorney that she was finishing grade 11 and had just returned from a two-week preparatory Israeli military camp (called the Youth Battalions, GADNA ), where she had received a prize for excellence. She continued: at the camp, Noga was told she would be able to enter one of the prestigious combat units, if she wanted, upon formal conscription. In Israel, nothing is considered a greater sign of loyalty to the state than the desire to serve in its military forces. Later, Noga repeated most of this speech in an interview with a newspaper (see chap. 6 ). Even as she said all this, Noga knew that as a noncitizen-as una ilegal , as Latinos in Israel often put it-she would not be able to join her friends going to the military after high school. Her secret would be discovered. Genessin s assistant, clearly taken aback, answered simply, congratulations. How else could he answer?
Noga had only been in Israel six years, arriving at the age of ten. Like most Latinos, she lived in precarious circumstances. Deportation always hung over her head and that of her family. A state-sponsored publicity campaign criminalized illegal foreign workers as damaging the Israeli economy (see chap. 5 ). Yet is it not uncanny how quickly she had become fully committed to the Israeli state project? Her declaration to the assistant attorney, measured off in flawless Hebrew, displayed Noga s loyalty to the state.
Genessin herself heard the whole exchange, but, while everyone else within earshot had turned to look, she stiffened and gazed indignantly away. A prominent state attorney, Genessin had not expected such an outburst from a noncitizen sixteen-year-old. Especially not from only a few feet away, and in the language of the state Genessin seeks to keep Jewish. Israelis might, with a bit of embarrassed pride, recognize the chutzpah of Noga s behavior. Genessin s indignant, stiffened posture signaled her refusal to recognize Noga s response, and also gave away that she could not help but hear it. Genessin and her team were unexpectedly confronted by a kind of person who challenged their nationalist assumptions about who should be excluded from citizenship, and who could be included in public deliberations.
This book examines the unexpected ways that noncitizen immigrants respond to their exclusion, and how their responses across a variety of contexts must be taken into account to understand their claims to citizenship. More than that: this book charts how the very words and circuits of communication that mediate and shape those responses-the multiple kinds of semiotic form, including the language they speak-suggest to noncitizens that they have claims to citizenship. I discuss how the ability to respond forms in relation to countless engagements with Israelis, in ordinary and everyday occasions just as much as in the most highly ritualized and public moments, like at the Israeli Supreme Court. As bureaucrats and politicians like Yochi Genessin sought to exclude, criminalize, and racialize them as ilegales ( SHABAXIM in Hebrew), Latinos and other unauthorized immigrants did not simply remain in the shadows. 1 Unauthorized immigrants, marginalized as they are, do not need to directly confront the Yochi Genessins of the world, as Noga did, in order to hear them, and in order to formulate a response. In multiple ways, through multiple settings, they engage Israelis-both those who condemn them as well as those who support them-and they generate responses about cultural similarities and differences, and how they can belong: ultimately, this process needs to be taken into account in order to understand the emergence of claims to citizenship. Most often, Latinos responses adopted something from Israeli voices, something strange that became familiar, and produced various degrees of uncanny similarity to the ways Israelis communicate-uncanny as much to Israelis as to Latinos themselves.
In this book, I show how the voices of Israelis and Latinos reflect and refract throughout the lives of these noncitizens, producing in them the sense that they could make claims to belonging in Israel. In doing so, I am arguing that the politics of immigration, citizenship, and deportation cannot be understood without accounting for the contradictory and conflicted ways that noncitizens come to adopt and adapt interactional practices. To understand their responses, moreover, it is necessary to do away with the assumption that unauthorized immigrants live in the shadows, or come out of the shadows only when they are finally given a chance to address the political public sphere. 2 Such descriptions suggest that marginalized noncitizens are not aware of the public debates over national culture and language engendered by migration.
As I show, from the moment of their arrival, Latinos cannot help but find themselves overwhelmed by the cultural politics of nation and immigration. Even in their own homes, Latinos find the cultural politics of Israel playing out discursively. There are no shadows for them to hide. Rather, there are powerful shapers of public opinion and law, like Genessin, who will not turn to face them and recognize their claims. Latinos find themselves transformed by responding to Israelis: their partial and conflicted adoption of Israeli interactional practices, like speaking Hebrew or speaking with directness (or even with chutzpah), is part and parcel of this response. They start to sound like Israelis as they respond to them and as they acquire de facto substantive rights, and these discursive and interdiscursive practices condition their eventual formal public claims to citizenship.
That is why this book examines interactional practices-linguistically and discursively produced voices-across a variety of settings, from the most intimate and domestic to the most public and mediatized. It is in the discursive and interdiscursive tangles of intimacy and publicness that noncitizen claims to belonging are forged. Marginalized and racialized noncitizens like Noga do have effective responses to the powerful regimes that would exclude and deport them. Sometimes these responses, and the way they are delivered, prove too compelling to ignore. We can learn a great deal by considering how those responses are produced and conditioned by interactions across a variety of obvious and not so obvious settings. We can learn a great deal about citizenship anywhere by looking at the multiple social voices that wend their way through the social worlds of noncitizens and cause them to reflect on their relation to citizens and the state. That is the task of this book.
Approaching Citizenship: The Case of Noncitizen Latinos in Israel
There is a classic contradiction in both the study and the practice of modern citizenship: how can an abstract principle of equality-that all citizens are equal members of a political community-function with the many forms of concrete, lived inequality? 3 There are many kinds of differentiated citizenship around the world, to use James Holston s (2008) term, with substantive differences in the distribution of rights despite formal equality, and these differences generate a gradation of rights among citizens. 4 This contradiction is exacerbated by the fact that regimes of citizenship actually include a variety of categories, which are often tied to migration on the one hand and, on the other, to zones of graduated sovereignty where labor discipline and rights are differentially enforced (Ong 1999, 21-24; 2006, 75-96). From permanent residents to people on student visas, from seasonal workers to guest workers, from recognized status groups to asylum seekers, citizenship processes always generate distinct categories, which become unevenly institutionalized across state apparatuses. That is, the differentiated legal status across populations, including both citizens and noncitizens, is further accentuated by the graduated sovereignty of territories.
These points add up to acknowledging that citizenship is not an either/or classification, where people either are or are not citizens. Although many bureaucrats and politicians treat citizenship in such an abstract way, struggles around citizenship display all kinds of tensions in the attempt to regularize rights given the vast differences across populations. The common phrase second-class citizen, the way marginalized people or categories are excluded from the benefits of full citizenship, and social movements ability to effect changes all underscore the limits of either/or thinking (Rosaldo 1994a, 402-4; 1994b, 57). Thus, it is important to see the constant tension at the dividing line of citizen and noncitizen, and to ask also what kinds of citizen-like claims are made by those who are not formally recognized as citizens (Vora 2013, 4-6). To be sure, formal state recognition of citizenship does make a difference. For this reason, I will continue to speak of citizens and noncitizens, while recognizing that sometimes it is only a convenient shorthand.
An important strand in the study of citizenship has emphasized the historical processes for working out the tensions between equality and difference, and between inclusion and exclusion. T. H. Marshall (1950) made an early and widely cited contribution to this debate when he suggested that citizenship is not a single bundle of rights that are fully granted to every subject, but rather a process where rights are achieved in stages by groups of different standing. Many have critiqued his liberal premises, but his general point that groups struggle for rights, through which different citizenship statuses emerge, continues to be useful. Marshall s insights are generally discussed today in terms of a distinction between formal (recognized) rights and substantive rights (those rights that subjects actually can fulfill). Many scholars conclude that the lived reality of inequality means that nothing inherent in citizenship itself, nor in the lofty statements that often accompany its pronouncement, creates equality, but still the promises held out by its institutions and rhetoric can be mobilized to push against inequality. At the same time, governing large populations, especially to provide labor for capitalist projects, has meant producing exceptional zones or statuses that increase inequalities. 5
Two important questions arise from these considerations. First is whether there is any site where inequalities can be set aside and citizens can interact as equals. One influential answer to this question posits the public sphere as a potential such site, where (ideally) citizens can address each other as citizens, and, by doing so, take part in government (esp. Arendt 1958; Habermas 1989). Here, the argument goes, the citizen becomes recognizable by inhabiting the impersonal voice of the public sphere, and being recognized as such by other citizens. There are many important critiques of the assumptions about the universality of the public sphere. 6 Nonetheless, such work has led to important insights. One important takeaway is that modern citizenship cannot be understood without attending to the interactional practices that constitute publicness, especially how they are mediatized. 7 A growing scholarship emphasizes the relation of language and publicness (e.g., Bauman and Briggs 2003; Gal and Woolard 2001b; Inoue 2005). Further, studying publicness from its margins-analyzing its strange intimacy-offers important insights to its very formation (esp. Manning 2012, 14-15). That is why I began with the example of how Noga, as part of a public campaign for citizenship, addressed the state attorneys, hoping to gain recognition and support for her position. In that moment, Noga surprised her addressees with her compelling and passionate Hebrew-language statements, delivered in a form derived from Israeli public discourses and that easily disseminated through the mass media.
A second question involves the historical contingencies that induce groups of citizens or noncitizens to push back against their exclusion. Differentiated citizenship is an unstable process of creating distinctions in status, geographically and across populations-often due to the fluctuating priorities of state officials and business managers. Yet groups of citizens or noncitizens can intervene in these processes and redefine through their collective actions the terms of inclusion and exclusion. Given the current conjuncture of migrant and capital flows, many have turned to the study of the city to give examples of such insurgent citizenship (to quote again Holston 2008). 8 Here, on the other hand, I emphasize language and interactional practices as producing the conditions for a claim to citizenship among noncitizens. The campaign for citizenship itself is made possible by addressing Israeli publics, as analyzed in chapter 6 . Yet it is not possible to understand the success of the campaign, nor how Latinos came to see their potential to claim citizenship, I argue, without considering other points. First, it is necessary to examine the transformations Latinos underwent, and how they conceived of those transformations, as they arrived in Israel and learned to respond to Israelis in multiple contexts. Such transformations affected even the most intimate, domestic interactions between parents and children. Second, it is necessary to address the multiple other types of publicness Latinos could inhabit, and what kinds of limits or opportunities these afforded for participating publicly like a citizen.
These considerations come up across the book. When thinking about noncitizens, like the Latinos described in this book, we can ask, as I do in chapter 1 , at what point do they begin to accrue substantive rights (see esp. Holston and Appadurai 1999, 4)? Is it at the moment that they first pass through border control and enter the country? When they get their first job in Israel and rent their first apartment? When they enroll their children in an Israeli school, or receive health care? What happens when some turn into police informers ( sapos ), as I discuss in chapter 5 , and thus gain a limited capacity to remain in Israel and continue working? Do sapos , under the limited protection-and limited recognition?-of their police handler, count as a distinct citizenship status? Do families with children like Noga, who between 2003 and 2011 could not be deported, count as a distinct citizen status? Such achievements do not sound anything like citizenship in the abstract, ideal sense of the bureaucrat, and certainly Latinos deportability means that all such achievements remained fundamentally revocable. Yet at the same time, the eventual full recognition of hundreds of Latinos and other unauthorized immigrants as citizens of Israel began with such smaller moments of accruing substantive rights.
And here is the crux of the issue, and the reason to consider carefully how noncitizens like Noga become capable of publicly making claims to citizenship. These moments of accruing substantive rights are accompanied and made possible by a discursive transformation. In each moment, Latinos are being transformed by their engagement with, response to, and partial-and ambivalent-adoption of, Israeli interactional practices. Further, if in many modern polities, claims to citizenship often work through addressing a mass-mediated public, then the ways that Israeli publicness is constituted for Latinos, and the way Israeli publicness is recursively produced in more private spheres (Gal 2002), requires attention. I therefore consider the production of public claims a vital aspect of understanding how modern citizenship works and creates distinct statuses. That means I place a greater emphasis than most on the mediating role of publicness and its repercussions throughout multiple contexts: citizenship today cannot be understood without considering how public opinion is tied interdiscursively to many contexts throughout social life.
Noga, I would argue, understood the contest for citizenship as she listened to Yochi Genessin address the court. Drawing on her schooling and on her time in the military preparation camp, Noga realized that she could challenge Genessin and, to do so, drew from linguistic and discursive practices in those settings. One might even say that her socialization in those settings, and her adoption of Israeli interactional practices from the age of ten on, suggested to her that she was already participating as a citizen, and that she had the capacity to make claims for citizenship, and to be recognized at court.
To begin discussing these issues, we now turn to a brief account of how Latinos fit into and came to see themselves in the Israeli citizenship regime. These historical sketches emphasize a global order of race and political economy, as well as Israel s place in that order as a colonizing state. These sketches, necessarily brief and incomplete, also present a portrait of those Latin Americans who got to Israel. From one perspective, such sketches should show how labor migrants (that is, non-Palestinian foreign workers ) became classified in the 1990s in the graduated sovereignty of the Israeli state-a graduated sovereignty that began in important ways from a colonial distinction of Jews versus Arabs. From another perspective, Latinos are part of a much broader phenomenon: undocumented domestic workers in global cities like Tel Aviv. These histories suggest how distinctions in citizenship status have been created at the juncture of these global, national, and colonial processes. We then turn to sketch another history, of the exemplary Israeli citizen, and the interactional practices associated with this citizen s publicness. At that point, I also describe the approach taken to language and voice in this book.
The History of Foreign Work in Israel
Israeli society and economy were transformed in the 1990s in multiple related ways, leading to the emergence of a new category of noncitizen, so-called foreign workers. 9 The story of how Latinos, among other foreign workers, formed as a distinct population in the 1990s and 2000s, with a noncitizen status, actually begins in 1967-if not earlier. In June of 1967, through war, Israel occupied the West Bank (including East Jerusalem) and the Gaza Strip, among other territories. 10 Palestinians living in those regions did not become citizens, but were partially integrated into the Israeli economy. In the aftermath of the war, the Israeli state attempted to normalize the occupation of these territories, in part by integrating noncitizen Palestinians from those territories into the Israeli labor force, as well as into the commodities market for Israeli goods, while withholding from them most political, civil, or social rights (Gordon 2008; Semyonov and Lewin-Epstein 1987). From 1967 to 1993, and continuing in other forms today, noncitizen Palestinians gained some limited access to Israel-centered social wealth as workers (in particular in the Israeli agricultural and construction sectors). The 1967 war thus produced a new gradation of rights: a new, highly restricted status within Israeli legal classifications for stateless Palestinians in the Occupied Territories. 11 These processes, including the continuing settlement of and privileging of the Jewish population within the pre-1967 borders, have led many to adopt Oren Yiftachel s (2000, 2006) term ethnocracy (rather than democracy) to describe the single state that currently exists in Israel/Palestine. Although I do not adopt this term, I accept Yiftachel s broader point, that a highly differentiated citizenship regime was put in place.
Noncitizen Palestinian workers became crucial to the Israeli economy, and thus when Israeli policy makers sought to institute new forms of control after the First Palestinian Intifada (uprising, ca. 1987-1991), a replacement source of labor was necessary. The solution was foreign workers, producing another legal status with a different political economic function. The widespread expansion of state-sponsored guest worker programs was also due to two processes that began in the 1980s. 12 First was the neoliberalization of the Israeli economy, as part of a global trend, with the concomitant growth in liberal forms of public sphere rhetoric emphasizing markets and individual rights. As with other countries, the period of neoliberal economic reforms has seen increasing wealth inequalities among Israeli citizens, with racialized Jews and Arabs suffering the most (Sa ar 2016, 29-41). Changes to political economic organization also saw the growth of a business elite that was sensitive to foreign investment and, for that reason, saw improving relations with Arab countries as an important policy goal (Shafir and Peled 2002, 213-59). This business elite, working through liberal positions that had first been enunciated publicly in the 1970s, accrued greater political influence by the 1990s. With the signing of the Oslo Declaration of Principles in 1993 (the first of the Oslo Accords), Israeli policy makers began to project a new role for Israel in the Middle East, part of a more general repositioning in the post-Cold War era: the Israeli state began to pursue new diplomatic and economic relations with neighboring Arab states following a template of peacemaking through economic liberalization (Stein 2008, 4). This liberal positioning is important, as we ll see especially in chapter 6 , in how NGOs fostered the public rhetoric that framed Noga and other noncitizen youth like her as Israelis in all but formal citizenship.
The second, related process flowed from the clear failure of normalization, made most apparent by the First Palestinian Intifada. In the wake of this Intifada, Israeli leaders sought to institute a new form of control based on separation. In the new order, signaled by the Oslo Accords, Israeli policy shifted to a goal of permanently separating the noncitizen Palestinian population from the large concentrations of Jewish Israelis. Ostensibly, this separation was part of moving toward recognizing a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza Strip-a recognition that has not come to pass. Expanding guest worker programs, especially in construction, eventually fed into this new politics of separation. 13 Checkpoints between noncitizen Palestinian and Jewish-Israeli population centers were increasingly securitized, and the permit system was expanded, so that the numbers of noncitizen Palestinians working with Israeli permits actually reached their peak in the early 1990s. In 1993, with checkpoint closures against noncitizen Palestinian populations becoming frequent, the Israeli government finally caved in to business interests, expanded guest worker programs, and began to severely limit work permits for noncitizen Palestinians (Kemp and Raijman 2008, 61-93). The Israeli state further militarized the shifting boundary around noncitizen Palestinian population centers, including constructing the first barrier around the Gaza Strip-presaging the wall that was built in the West Bank a decade later. 14 As Adriana Kemp and Rebeca Raijman put it (2008, 15), the turn to foreign workers was a virtual separation wall in the labor market against noncitizen Palestinians, one that preceded the construction of concrete walls.
For Israeli businesses, the guest worker programs were meant to alleviate the employment problems caused by the separation policies. And it was business interests that shaped them. The programs institutionally bound workers to their employers, so that leaving an employer automatically cancels the visa-a system that lends itself to exploitation of worker rights, and that has been condemned by the Israeli Supreme Court as a modern form of slavery. Ironically then, in the post-Cold War period, when Israeli policy making seemed most open to liberal positions, the Oslo period also produced the most dramatic restrictions on noncitizen freedoms, both for Palestinians and for labor migrants. 15
Ultimately, the convergence of these two processes saw, starting in 1993, a dramatic increase in the number of guest worker permits and labor migrants more generally. By the end of the 1990s, noncitizen labor migrants comprised upwards of 10 percent of the Israeli workforce-roughly equivalent to the proportion of noncitizen Palestinian workers prior to 1993. Guest worker programs grew especially for two sectors where noncitizen Palestinians had been employed extensively, agriculture and construction, and for one where noncitizen Palestinians had not been employed, domestic caregiving for the elderly. Further, it is probable that the government s lax effort to arrest and deport undocumented residents in the 1990s helped to provide cheaper labor costs without officially expanding the guest worker programs (Kalir 2010, 44-46; Kemp and Raijman 2008, 104-17).
These changes created the labor market for domestic workers, which is how most Latinos earned their bread. The liberalization program contained new policies for domestic care of the elderly, and permits for care workers grew by 350 percent from 1996 to 2002 (Ajzenstadt and Rosenhek 2000; Bar-Tsuri 2008; Kemp and Raijman 2008, 104-8). These eldercare workers were overwhelmingly from the Philippines, yet their presence probably provoked demand for domestic workers more generally, especially among middle- and upper-class families. One survey in 2002 showed that 55 percent of wealthier households were employing domestic workers (cited in Kalir 2010, 43). Especially in the Tel Aviv metropolitan area, it would seem, there emerged the professional household of the global city, which requires domestic workers for its proper functioning (Hochschild 2003; Parrenas 2000; Sassen 2008, 463-65). That is, the changes to Israel s political economy had significantly increased the number of households in Israel both wealthy enough and sufficiently time-constrained to require domestic workers. These work opportunities helped induce more chain migration, which was vital for the informal paths to Israel taken by Latin Americans, among others.
Latin American Migration Circuits in a Fragmented Globality
Latinos began arriving in Israel in the middle of these historical shifts, which indelibly marked how they came to understand their place within Israel s citizenship regime. But who were the Latinos that ended up in Israel? And why Israel? Certainly no set of long-standing relations of dependency or neo-imperialism existed between Latin America and Israel, unlike the well-documented and long-standing ones between Latin America and the North Atlantic, especially the United States. 16 However, the appearance of a large group of unauthorized Latin American immigrants in Israel is still explained in part by their position in the contemporary fragmented globality (Trouillot 2003, 47-78), where accelerated movement of (especially financial) capital, as well as shifting narratives of national and racial difference, create or reproduce income inequality on a global scale. With highly insecure income prospects, many Latin Americans sought a path to social mobility. Migration was one important path.
Israel was an unexpected destination for this migration circuit. Latin Americans were not systematically recruited as part of guest worker programs. Yet one of the advantages of moving to Israel over other wealthy countries (especially the US) was that Latin Americans did not need a visa prior to boarding a plane. To gain entry, they could arrive in Israel as tourists or pilgrims through the tourist loophole (Willen 2003), seeking to see the Holy Land, and overstay their visas. Most Latinos I talked to reported having prepared significant US dollars in cash to show border officials. Importantly, they entered Israel legally with a tourist visa, even though they lost that legal status when they overstayed. 17 Compare this to the excruciating journey across the desert that thousands attempt in order to gain unauthorized entry to the US (De Le n 2015). Later, during the campaign for citizenship, this legal entry to Israel proved necessary for bureaucratically distinguishing the children of labor migrants from noncitizen Palestinians and, eventually, East African refugees who crossed the Sinai peninsula.
The earliest waves of Latino unauthorized immigrants to Israel came in the late 1980s and early 1990s. By the mid-2000s, their children were teenagers (like Noga), and they came to play a crucial role in the campaign for citizenship. Hailing mostly from Colombia, Ecuador, Venezuela, Chile, Peru, and Bolivia, Latin American labor migrants largely arrived outside of official guest worker programs. 18 Most came through chain migration, where one person helps another to come, building a transnational circuit that wended its way through particular Latin American regions and cities, and even particular neighborhoods. Israeli border and other bureaucratic records were notoriously poorly kept in the 1990s, which makes it difficult to accurately estimate the number of unauthorized immigrant Latinos. Most estimates place it at 10,000 to 20,000, although this number was reduced with the advent of the Immigration Authority-mostly a police force dedicated to deporting-starting in 2002. 19 One estimate suggests that in 2007, Latinos comprised about 15 percent of the total 150,000 undocumented labor migrants in Israel (there were another estimated 100,000 labor migrants with work visas at that date). 20 Despite the heterogeneous ethnic, national, regional, religious, and class backgrounds of the Latin American migrants, their position in Israel, especially after the mass deportations of the Immigration Authority and the subsequent campaign for citizenship, was the overwhelming factor uniting them. Given my specific purposes, I tend to disregard differences between Latinos based on national, regional, or religious background. 21
Latin Americans who came to Israel were not from the most impoverished classes. This is true of most 1990s emigration from Latin American countries in general (Portes and Hoffman 2003). The cost of arriving in Israel was high, estimated at US$4000 or more (Kalir 2010, 61), which generally meant taking a loan from family or friends and working it off. That is, emigrants needed considerable economic resources to start out. This is reflected in their sociological profile. Typically Latin American labor migrants to Israel have a higher than average education compared to their countries of origin, often with postsecondary education, and most were between the ages of 20 and 40 (Schammah Gesser et al. 2000). These migrants, then, are generally of working age, relatively young, and have a desire for upward mobility or at least for economic security, including goals like buying a house in their city of origin.
In their immigration stories, most Latinos explain that they did not arrive in Israel with the intention of staying. Their eventual desire to remain was unexpected. Almost everyone that I interviewed reported that they had come planning to save some money and then return to their country of origin. Yet they kept staying, trying to save a bit more, or just finding themselves comfortable. Most Latinos who had entered were not willing to risk leaving Israel even for a brief time, especially after 2002, when the chances of being denied entry increased. Thus, many Latinos ended up staying in Israel for extended periods of time, sometimes ten to fifteen years, without much hope of gaining legal status.
At the same time, most Latinos ended up feeling very attached to Israel and would sometimes state with no little amount of patriotic emphasis, queremos a este pa s (we love this country). As Barak Kalir (2010, 27-30) points out, Latinos, like other unauthorized immigrants, often had much better living and working conditions than authorized guest workers. Outside of the indenture-like conditions of guest worker programs, Latinos found a degree of economic security in Israel, working mostly as domestic cleaners or caregivers for children. Others worked taking care of their employers businesses, or in light industries. They could make the equivalent of US$800-1500 a month, or about five to ten times their previous wages in Latin America. This income enabled them to pay off debts, help kin, or buy property in Latin America.
It is also important to remember that Latinos in Israel belong to a larger transnational circuit of people-a circuit produced via the practices through which remittances, stories, information, and people travel (Rouse 1991). Most Latinos had family members or friends in the US, Canada, England, France, Spain, and Italy. Several even considered trying to enter the US by foot before leaving for Israel, and one family I knew left Israel to cross por el hueco to the US ( through the crack, as some called these border crossings). Many others, either deported from Israel or fearing deportation, ended up relocating to Spain or other European countries.
Latinos in Israel therefore should not be understood in isolation from these broader transnational circuits and the streams of migration pulled toward informal service work in a global labor market (Sassen 2008) that appears in large metropolitan centers like Tel Aviv. Most Latin American economies, already given to great inequality in the 1980s, were gravely affected by neoliberal structural adjustment policies. The growing inequality and endemic economic insecurity, even for relatively well-educated populations, led to greater emigration starting in the 1980s as one avenue of coping (Durand and Massey 2010; Escobar 2010; Portes and Hoffman 2003).
That is, Latino unauthorized immigration to Israel fit into global phenomena. The political economic shifts and changes in Latin America and in Israel/Palestine are related, as in the advent of neoliberalizing policies. Even as the impact and effects of such changes were different, these contingencies conditioned the arrival of Latinos, although their experiences remain comparable to those of unauthorized immigrants around the world. On a longer time scale, the arrival of Latinos and other foreign workers to Israel was part of the persistence of older racial orders organized through socially entrenched divisions of labor in which a global working class remains segmented along complexly racialized, gendered, ethnicized, and nationalized lines (Thomas and Clarke 2013, 310). This global order of race, gender, and labor, rooted in shifting hierarchies, conditioned how Latinos were to join Israeli labor markets, socio-urban spaces, and also public arenas. These complex orders, that is, conditioned how Latinos were to make citizenship-like claims in Israel.
Finally, this global order also saw new forms of securitization that affected Latinos in Israel. It is probably no accident that the Immigration Authority was established post-9/11, when border security became a renewed global priority, and state authorities cordoned off access to certain geographic locations through what Nathalie Peutz and Nicholas de Genova (2010) term the global deportation regime. Latinos in Israel needed to navigate the relation between the limits to their labor mobility and security apparatuses. They experienced their lack of citizenship in Israel in part through their own deportability (De Genova 2002, 2010)-that is, an awareness that they can be arrested and deported relatively easily. Their deportability predisposed their conduct: especially before the Resolutions that granted a portion of them increased citizenship rights, Latinos avoided certain areas, worked only in certain low-skill jobs, and acutely felt the Israeli state s piercing surveillance. Latinos (lack of) citizenship in Israel is thus tied to global processes which both create and deny human mobility.
Otro rabe m s : The Demographic Demon and Cultural Politics
To understand how Latinos perceived their role in the Israeli economy, and the transformations wrought by their migration, it is necessary to consider the public struggle to define Israeli national culture, and how this struggle informs the historical institutionalization of Israeli citizenship.
Latinos tended to describe their differences and transformations with terms drawn from public debates about the relations between language, race, and nation. 22 Such political struggles position culture as static and homogeneous wholes, and take these wholes to explain racialized hierarchies of nation (S. Wright 1998)-without considering how culture is shaped by the establishment of hegemony (Urciuoli 1996; Williams 1989). Many Latinos considered their migration to be a result of lack of economic opportunities in their countries of origin, and frequently blamed Latin American political and economic elites for corruption and wasting resources, and for leaving the majority with very little. Despite such critiques, Latinos largely maintained a national cultural lens when they reflected on their difficulties in Israel, often attributing them to cultural differences.
Latinos share the lens of cultural politics with Israelis, who also tend to evaluate citizens in terms of national-cultural suitability. This cultural politics was especially important in defining the differences between Jews and Arabs. Throughout these chapters, we will see time and again how Latinos find themselves explicitly or implicitly compared to either Israelis or Palestinians, positioned close to one or the other, in ways that are related to their legal status and demographic logic.
The racialized distinctions between Jew and Arab came up continually for Latinos, especially in matters dealing with citizenship and the demographic logic underlying much state policy. For example, Father Tom s was a Colombian priest studying in Jerusalem on a student visa. He lived in Palestinian East Jerusalem at a Catholic pension run by three nuns, two Italian and one Palestinian, near the enormous Israeli separation wall. He regularly came to Tel Aviv to help the Latino community that attended the Catholic church of Jaffa. No doubt his travel back and forth between Palestinian East Jerusalem and Jewish Tel Aviv made him sensitive to the way many Israelis perceive non-Jews and especially Arabs. One of Tom s s friends was Joaqu n, also from Colombia, who had a work visa but then married an Israeli citizen and received a blue identity card, signifying his permanent residence status in Israel. When he received it, Joaqu n showed off his identity card to everyone. When Tom s saw it, he laughed and said otro rabe m s . Joaqu n laughed and repeated, otro rabe m s . That is, Joaqu n was like one more Arab in the demographic logic that obsesses many Israeli policy makers, by increasing the number of non-Jewish citizens in Israel.
The humor is based on Israeli fears of the demographics of Jewish versus Palestinian citizens, and the balance of the populations more generally. Such fears color how Latinos came to understand themselves in Israel, and how they, like other unauthorized immigrants, came to be seen by bureaucrats and state officials. In 2017, Palestinians made up 20.8 percent of the 8.68 million citizens of the Israeli state (including East Jerusalem permanent residents), while Jewish citizens comprised 74.7 percent, a ratio that has been fairly steady since 2007. 23 Israeli demographers and policy makers fear that if the proportion of Palestinian citizens goes up too much, to say 30 percent, then Israel might demographically-if not juridically-be classified a binational state (Galili 2002; Kanaaneh 2002; Rouhana and Sultany 2003). These demographic fears extend back to the Mandate period, when most Zionist leaders sought to create a Jewish majority on contiguous land as part of establishing an independent state. These fears peaked during the wars of 1947-1949, especially when Zionist militias began to expel Palestinians en masse, and then immediately after the war when the newly formed Israeli state refused to allow 750,000-plus Palestinian exiles to return to their homes (Khalidi 1988; Masalha 1992; Morris 2001, 2004; Papp 2007). The anxieties continued in the 1990s and 2000s, when Israeli governments sought ways to reduce the possibility that noncitizen Palestinians could gain citizenship, and right-wing intellectuals and think tanks in particular sought to discount demographers estimates of the Palestinian population under Israeli rule (Lustick 2013; Rouhana and Sultany 2003; Zureik 2003).
These settler colonial anxieties are called the demographic demon ( HASHED HADEMOGRAFI ) by critics, and they haunt Israeli citizenship (Rouhana and Sabbagh-Khoury 2014). They have a long history in racial logics: the Mandate distinction of Jew and Arab drew on a late nineteenth-century orientalist logic, one which also saw settlement in Palestine as an attempt to regenerate the Jewish race (Hirsch 2009). Although today the existence of Jews as a race has been discounted, a racial logic of descent still hangs over much policy about who can count as a Jew for the purposes of Israeli immigration (Steven Kaplan 2003; see also Abu El-Haj 2012). Racialized notions are ubiquitous in evaluating culture. For example, Israeli politicians, state officials, and senior scholars applied these logics when evaluating the supposedly Oriental culture of thousands of Jewish immigrants from Arab countries who arrived mostly in the 1950s and 1960s, and who are now usually called Mizrahi Jews (Chetrit 2010; Hacohen 2003; Shenhav 2006).
The racialization involved in the politics of citizenship and immigration is by no means unique to Israel/Palestine (e.g., Basch, Schiller, and Szanton Blanc 1994; Coutin 2003; Shankar 2008; P. A. Silverstein 2004, 2005; Woolard 1989b). However, Israeli demographic reasoning rests on a particular split between nation and citizenship. Israeli citizenship is not formally equated with membership in the same nation. Israelis often compare Israel to North Atlantic countries, where formal citizenship is understood to be an official recognition in the nation-even though the realities of race, class, and gender often undermine that recognition. For bureaucratic purposes, Israeli citizens are formally divided into distinct nations in which settler colonial distinctions are reproduced. This is seen, for example, in how Israeli policy makers distinguish Israel from other countries like the US, Canada, or Australia: while these are countries of immigration according to policy makers, Israel is not (Kemp and Raijman 2004, 27; Rosenhek 2000; Willen 2015, 73). As the former Supreme Court Justice Elyakim Rubinstein famously stated in 2005 in an effort to elaborate the legal reasoning of politicians in the early state period: the character of the state was perceived as a state of aliyah [ MEDINAT ALIYA ], that is, a state of return [ MEDINAT SHVUT ], not a state of immigration [ MEDINAT HAGIRA ]. 24 The state of return describes the institutional apparatus by which the Jewish nation is understood to be returning to its homeland (using a descent-based model, or jus sanguinis), rather than going through a process of immigration and naturalization as citizens (using a territorial model, or jus soli). The distinctions of citizenship are maintained bureaucratically by the Ministry of the Interior and (until recently) were even noted explicitly on the Israeli identity card, where LE OM (nation or ethnicity) appears separately from citizenship. 25 Under LE OM , the Ministry of Interior divides citizens into several other groups, but essentially maintains a British Mandate distinction between Jew and Arab (Robinson 2013, 108; also Peteet 2016, 264).
These distinctions, as many have noted, are a result of the historical and institutional subjugation of citizenship to nation (Handelman 2004; Robinson 2013; Rouhana 1997; Shafir and Peled 2002). Shira Robinson in particular describes the complex series of calculations involved in passing a citizenship law in the period immediately after the establishment of the State of Israel. 26 The Law of Return of 1950, granting any Jewish person the right to return to Israel, was passed first, and thus functioned to subordinate Israeli citizenship to national belonging, as well as to ordain Jewish sovereignty over the state.
Here is the crux of the issue for understanding how a group of marginalized and racialized noncitizens could nonetheless come to make claims to citizenship. To describe youth like Noga, the campaign for citizenship used the slogan YISRA ELI LEKOL DAVAR VE INYAN , Israeli for all intents and purposes. This claim appealed to a characterization of Israelis where a Jewish Ashkenazi hegemony generally-never completely-holds. Israeli for all intents and purposes, that is, does not mean culturally similar to (marked) Palestinian citizens, who for example are generally assumed to speak Arabic and attend Arabic-medium schools. In a sense, an analogy based on public culture was made in which youth like Noga were evaluated as sufficiently similar to their Jewish peers that they should be granted citizenship. However, as with Father Tom s s quip about otro rabe m s , a competing logic was at play that uses a racialized logic of descent to do a demographic evaluation of these youth and their families. Under this racialized logic of descent, Latinos and other foreign workers could never count as Jewish, and therefore should not be eligible for citizenship. Noga and her noncitizen peers, as well as their families, were positioned between these different evaluations, between being YISRA ELI LEKOL DAVAR VE INYAN and otro rabe m s . 27 They were positioned between competing evaluations of race, based on either culture or descent (see Hirsch 2009). Eventually, the cultural evaluation gained enough support from public opinion, including that of politicians, that hundreds of Latino families were recognized as citizens. To understand how, it is necessary to consider how Israeli public culture has been mobilized to make citizens recognizable.
Speaking Like a Citizen: National Language and Voice
As in many other wealthy countries, policy makers and employers intended for foreign workers to remain temporarily in Israel. However, as in other countries, unauthorized immigrants have become a permanent fixture in Israel s social and political space. Political inveighing against illegal foreign workers and a desire to move unemployed Israelis to the workforce eventually led to the establishment of the well-resourced Immigration Authority in 2002, substantially increasing the rate of deportation (Kemp 2007). In response, however, a campaign for citizenship took off for the children of labor migrants during the early 2000s. Three government resolutions in 2005, 2006, and 2010 provided most children of unauthorized immigrants present during that period with a pathway to citizenship. As opponents of the resolutions realized, this turn of events contradicted the major ethnonational assumption of the state, namely, that the only legitimate immigration to Israel is one in which Jews return to their ancient homeland. Further, these opponents worried these resolutions could change the demographics of the Israeli state. Bureaucrats like Yochi Genessin and former attorney general Elyakim Rubinstein (later a supreme court justice) penned opinions suggesting that any recognition could lead to a precedent for the recognition of noncitizen Palestinians as citizens (Paz 2016, 21). Despite the opposition, in surprising ways, some noncitizen labor migrants suddenly did not seem sufficiently different to deport. Suddenly, to both Israeli public opinion as well as to themselves, noncitizen labor migrants could potentially become citizens.
The question is, what was it about Noga and her peers that made them too similar to deport? And why was their appearance in public so compelling? Here, I begin to explore these questions by sketching out a second history of Israeli citizenship and its categories. I will review the cultural politics of national language and interactional directness as vital to the ways that Israeli citizens came to be recognized in public.
Hebrew and DUGRI as Israeli Publicness
When Noga spoke in fluent Hebrew-without any discernible foreign-ness in either phonological accent or semantic usage-that in itself played into a long-standing practice for claiming Israeli citizenship. Nationalist and colonial projects have long included efforts to establish a standard language register for public speech and national imaginaries (Blommaert 2009; Errington 2008; Gal and Woolard 2001b; Inoue 2005; Irvine and Gal 2000; M. Silverstein 1998). The ideology that a consolidated, homogeneous language is required for appropriate speech in public arenas-as a means to unite the citizenry of a nation-goes back to debates about the route to Enlightenment by figures like John Locke and Johann Herder (Bauman and Briggs 2003, 189-96). A further inheritance from this line of thought is the ideology that languages themselves bear culture, and thus language is an important testament to the nation s past as well as crucial to its survival. 28
However, it is not only language by itself that produces the effect of cultural unity. When Noga showed chutzpah and challenged the group of state attorneys, she displayed an interactional practice that many Israelis consider a typical if somewhat embarrassing aspect of their national culture-a form of cultural intimacy (Herzfeld 2005; Shryock 2004a) by which Israelis can recognize themselves in public.
The links between language, nation, and public culture are historically tied to Zionist forms of colonization. In Zionist historiography, Hebrew is considered to connect Israelis to the national past of biblical antiquity when the supposed predecessor of Modern Israeli Hebrew was spoken-an ancient language that was, according to this perspective, revived in the modern era. 29 Ron Kuzar (2001, 1; see also Lefkowitz 2004, 82) explains succinctly the nationalist importance: The Hebrew language is a constitutive element of Zionist ideology, which gives its adherents a clear sense that the Jews are a nation with a language. Hebrew language plays several roles in constituting the link between Jewish immigrants and the colonial state. First, the ULPAN , the intensive Hebrew-language course quintessentially given to new immigrants, came to represent not the teaching of a foreign or second language, but rather the moment of reviving the language in each member of the nation as he or she returned to the homeland (Ben-Rafael 1994, 55; Lefkowitz 2004, 135-42; Spolsky and Shohamy 1999, 71-94). Second, like archaeology (Abu El-Haj 2001), Hebrew is seen as the language that substantiates the Jewish nation s continuity from the ancient past. On the other hand, speaking Hebrew could be taken as a sign of loyalty to Israel. When Israel s first government debated whether and how to recognize as citizens Palestinians who remained after 1949, some proposals mentioned three criteria: speaking Hebrew, taking an oath of loyalty, and residing within the 1949 borders for a continuous period (Robinson 2013, 100). That is, speaking Hebrew could be a reason to treat Palestinians as deserving of citizenship. These early proposals for the Palestinian citizenship are uncannily similar to the Resolutions for the children of labor migrants passed more than half a century later (see chapter 6 ).
Even though they are not the expected immigrants, when Latinos, and especially Latino children, began to learn Hebrew, they tapped into a deep vein of displaying rootedness to Israel. However, it is not only Hebrew as a language that produces a sense of rootedness, but also the other kinds of interactional practices associated with mythic settlers of the colonial past. Here is where Noga s chutzpah is so important, since the virtues of the mythic settlers-associated with the SABRA , the paradigmatic prickly Israeli, whose very prickliness is a sign of native roots-were set out by the pioneers of the early colonial period. 30 In their magisterial historical sociology of Israeli citizenship, Shafir and Peled argue that it was the Ashkenazi pioneer of the kibbutz agricultural settlement who, especially in the Mandate period, came to exemplify the colonizing virtues of the redeemed Jew, and thus the exemplary citizen-to-be. As Shafir and Peled explain, the pioneers exemplified the asceticism and selflessness of communal life on the frontier: The redemptive activities of the pioneers consisted of physical labor, agricultural settlement, and military defense, undertaken voluntarily as service for the collective they led by personal example (2002, 43). Such labor was especially meant to show in the muscular and mostly male-gendered body of the pioneer (Hirsch 2015, 304-6). Drawing on ancient ideals of polity, Shafir and Peled (2002, 43) explain how the kibbutz agricultural community centered the formation of citizens who could display their redemption from diaspora: The kibbutz was the polis of the Yishuv: a close-knit, intimate, communitarian body. They continue with a quotation from the anthropologist Alex Weingrod (1965, 8, quoted in Shafir and Peled 2002, 43): Idealistic and deeply dedicated, the pioneers formed an elite group-they were the most esteemed members of the colonist society. Youth movements, which played a vital role in forming settlements and military units until the 1970s, were another site for developing these virtuous characteristics (Ben-Yehuda 1995; Gordon 2008, 123; Katriel 1987; Katz 1985; Zerubavel 1995). The formation of the exemplary citizen thus occurred on the frontier, as part of the Zionist colonization of Palestine.
It was these exemplary figures who first set out how Israeli citizens speak in public. The qualities associated with this colonizing citizen also played out in the interactional practice for which the pioneers-and by extension, Israelis more generally-became famous: directness. Directness in this context, and a more general sense of not standing on ceremony, came to represent how Jewish settlers were negating the ways of the supposedly meek diasporic Jews. This interactional directness is generally, though not exclusively, discussed through the descriptor DUGRI : Over the years, DUGRI developed into the hallmark of the Sabra as the New Jew, whose identity was built on a rejection of the Diaspora Jew as depicted in Zionist ideology (Katriel 2013, 777). As Tamar Katriel (1986, 9-33) discusses, dugri, derived from Arabic, is a word that for Israelis generally has signaled straight talk, and it indexes many characteristics of the redeemed Jew: sincerity, determination, naturalness, solidarity, and an anti-style, a form of plain speech. 31 Whereas in North American colonial contexts public speech was associated with civilization and politeness (Warner 1990), in the Israeli context many political and military leaders were thought to exemplify dugri personhood. Katriel warns that much had changed since the early pioneer days, yet she also notes the importance of the kibbutzim of the Mandate period and early state period for the production of the sabra who speaks dugri. As with Shafir and Peled s analysis of pioneering virtues, Katriel explains that, although it can seem confrontational, the use of dugri talk was mostly associated with creating group solidarity.
Katriel describes the ups and downs of dugri talk since the heyday of the pioneers in the 1930s and 1940s (see also Maschler 2009), and yet her work shows the continuing importance of this form in the publicness of the Israeli citizen. Katriel (2004) provides several examples from public sphere debates, and even panics about the changing practices of interaction in the 1990s, which caused worry among some intellectuals that Israelis were losing their ability to talk with directness. Like received pronunciation in the United Kingdom (Agha 2003) and women s language in Japan (Inoue 2005), perhaps few Israelis actually continue to use dugri in its paradigmatic sense, and then only part of the time. Yet dugri, or more general practices and ideologies of directness in interaction, still provide an orienting point for Israeli debates about national culture and character.
I do not mean to give an impression of a uniform Israeli culture, or an unchanging essence. Nor do I want to suggest that there is something inherent in interactional directness that made it suitable to the settlement enterprise. 32 Rather, it is the importance of interactional directness to a cultural politics of citizenship that I emphasize. Such interactional practices-beyond the named languages of nationalism-need to be included in studying the Israeli process of settlement. It is what makes the discourse of subjects like Noga so unexpectedly appealing to Israeli public opinion, and to the Israeli prime ministers who eventually passed the Resolutions for citizenship. The voice of the paradigmatic Israeli can suddenly emerge from the mouth of a labor migrant s child. Further, as I discuss especially in the first half of this book, Latinos found themselves by turns overwhelmed, repulsed, and yet also compelled by Israeli interactional practice. The strange and repulsive aspects of Israeli interaction could at once become familiar and attractive (see Stasch 2007). For Latinos, Israelis seemed to represent the future by their straight talk demeanor.
The Strangeness of Others Voices and the Reflexivity of Language
One Chilean family that lived in Jerusalem in the late 1990s sent their toddler Daniel to a Palestinian day care near the Old City. 33 The parents laughed that Daniel would sing to his baby sister in Arabic, and say marhaba ( hello in Arabic). At the same time, they worried that he would one day go to a Jewish school and not know how to speak Hebrew. So, in July 2000-only a few months before the Israeli strongman politician Ariel Sharon helped ignite the Second Intifada with a provocative visit to the Noble Sanctuary/Temple Mount in Jerusalem-Daniel s parents transferred him from the Palestinian day care to a Jewish preschool. This episode speaks to the deep racialization of Palestinian voices, and how it registered in Latino parents anxiety about their children s place in Israel. A Palestinian voice made itself present in this household for a brief time, through the son s songs and greetings, and challenged the parents habitual identification with Israeli Hebrew and interactional practices.
When unauthorized Latino immigrants settled in Israel, they ended up identifying with some interactional practices, while holding others at bay. This process of identification is largely unconscious, and it is not frictionless, complete, nor unidirectional. It is, as we will see, full of ambivalence. While Latino adults and children generally picked up, studied, or fluently spoke Hebrew and often some English too, they rarely acquired any Arabic. In a sense, Latinos ended up maintaining Palestinian voices at a distance in their interactions by, for the most part, not learning or speaking Arabic. Latinos thus reproduced a long-standing pattern in which, save for the first immigrants from Middle Eastern countries, Jewish Israelis for the most part do not learn or speak Arabic, except as part of the security apparatus. 34
Another way of putting these issues is that as they settled in Israel Latinos became aware of, and adopted to different degrees, several alien and strange voices. In essence, they underwent processes that are common to all immigrants to Israel, including authorized Jewish immigrants ( OLIM ). 35 The adoption of some practices, like those that sound most Israeli, with the simultaneous avoidance of others, like those that sound Palestinian, transformed Latinos and suggested to them their ability to belong. Latino claims to citizenship cannot be understood without taking this process into account.
For that reason, I want to linger briefly on the concept of voice I use throughout this book. By talking about voices, I am approaching sociolinguistic variation in the tradition of the early twentieth-century Russian scholar of language and literature, Mikhail Bakhtin. What does Bakhtin mean by voice ? Generally, voice is signaled by an utterance, one which is recognized in context as belonging to a certain type of person or character (or at least one). As scholars of language have shown over the years, many devices can be involved in the signaling of a voice: from registers of sound, of lexical items or of syntax that have been studied by quantitative sociolinguistics; to distinctive uses of languages in multilingual settings; to particular styles that help animate characters in artistic genres (like novels or films), and more. Voice in Bakhtin s meaning is dependent on groups of speakers who can recognize the kind of person being indexed by the utterance. 36 Further, the recognition of a voice from an utterance makes available to participants the context in which a person like that typically speaks. 37 That is, for Bakhtin, entire social worlds are at play in the concept of voice. 38
What makes Bakhtin s approach especially useful is his attention to the constant multiplicity of voices, and their multiple relations one to the other. No voice exists in isolation, and usually our utterances are filled with others words, as we quote others, characterize their words, reference them implicitly, argue against them, avoid them, or unconsciously adopt their ways of putting things as our own. We live in a world of others words (Bauman 2004). As Bakhtin never tired of writing, any concrete utterance already is dialogic-a multivocal relation of competing or harmonious voices-directed as it is at an object as well as at speakers and addressees: between the word [or discursive sign] and its object, between the word and the speaking subject, there exists an elastic environment of other, alien words about the same object (Bakhtin 1981a, 276). As we interact across different contexts, we rely on a reflexivity about our relation to the many other voices in our worlds. Some of these others can be immediately before us, as Genessin was present in the courtroom for Noga, while others we recognize as part of a broader imaginary.
Finally, Bakhtin s approach captures how sociolinguistic differentiation produces constant linguistic and discursive change. As groups of speakers differentiate themselves from one another, they produce linguistic and discursive innovation as well as display their reflexivity about these differences. Bakhtin emphasizes that voices lie at the center of relations between different social groups-relations that he considers multiple and cross-cutting. 39 He stresses that people s awareness of one another is marked by their awareness of discursive difference, and coming to reflexive consciousness, he suggests, is the process of sifting through these differences by comprehending one verbal style through another, one voice through another (Bakhtin 1981a, 291-96, 337-42). All interaction involves this kind of responsive understanding. We are, in a sense, always voicing our own social position as we interact, and thus any utterance involves an important aspect of linguistic reflexivity. 40
Latinos often found themselves wondering where exactly they were positioned in Israeli worlds, and how they sounded to others. They wondered about their voice in relation to that of others. For example, Jackie, an Ecuadorian who lived in Tel Aviv for nine years and had two sons, one fifteen and one nine years old, described taking the younger one, Isa as, to her work one day. Isa as met her employer s children, twins who were the same age as Isa as. This meeting set off an awareness of class distinctions, which Isa as interpreted in gendered terms. When Jackie and Isa as returned home, she overheard him talking to his older brother, saying that the employer s children talked like girls. Jackie reported that she started to pay attention, and felt that her employer s twins actually spoke more delicately than her boys. Jackie explained the class dimension in her son s gendered judgment by reference to the voices of her own childhood. She recalled her own mother saying, it doesn t matter that we live in a poor neighborhood ( barrio ), don t talk like those from the neighborhood. Although Jackie could barely follow her sons Hebrew conversations, she could perceive how their behavior was like their neighbors in a less affluent south Tel Aviv neighborhood.
The reflexivity shown by Jackie, or by Daniel s parents, is typical of how people come to understand their own position within shifting multivocal environments. The arrival of Latinos in Israel meant they would sift through the infinite gradations in the degree of foreignness (or assimilation) of words and measure their various distances from the speaker (Bakhtin 1986, 121). They thus both unconsciously and consciously positioned themselves within Jewish hegemonic public culture by adopting Hebrew and Israeli interactional practices, as well as by simultaneously avoiding Arabic and Palestinian practices. The conditions in which Latinos lived, largely at a distance from Palestinians, meant that avoiding Arabic was a default. 41 In Jackie s case, she saw another aspect of the workings of Israeli hegemony, where the interactional practices of the working class or working poor, especially Mizrahi, are stigmatized. When Jackie evaluated her sons Hebrew practices as from the barrio , she took up the perspective of her employers and the mostly Ashkenazi middle class, and merged it with that of Ecuadorian elites, and their view of her childhood barrio . While Daniel s parents could avoid Arabic by transferring their son to a Jewish school, in Jackie s case, she was powerless to do much about the barrio where she was raising her boys. Unlike Daniel s parents, there was little chance she could change her own status to provide her sons with increased exposure to and identification with how middle-class Israelis (especially Ashkenazis) speak. These multiple and cross-cutting relations of voice are a constant focus of this book. Such an approach is especially important to move us beyond the claims about marginalized and unauthorized immigrants living in the shadows.
Latinos were rarely in the limelit gaze of Israeli publics, but they were also not in the shadows, disconnected from the happenings of political and social import. Instead, especially in the first three chapters, I show how forms of publicness reverberate throughout the most intimate spheres of Latino life. Whether it be initial shocks of Israeli directness ( chap. 1 ), or the dealings between Latino parents and children, worried about whether they show the right educaci n (polite conduct) as described in chapter 2 , Latinos comprehend their lives in Israel in terms of cultural politics because they live these politics daily. Chapter 3 describes these politics in the small-scale public cultural displays that were part of welfare interventions for marginalized Latinos. In every site, linguistic and interactional practices are a key to how Latinos are transformed by their engagement with Israeli cultural politics.
The second half of this book in particular explores Latinos engagement with publicness through complex media worlds (Ginsburg, Abu-Lughod, and Larkin 2002b). Media worlds under the anthropological lens emphasize the transnational and translocal circuits that form, as participants engage simultaneously in mass media practices that create the effect of large-scale interactions-enabling imaginations of national publics (B. R. O. Anderson 1991) or diasporas (Appadurai 1996), among other collective forms. These media worlds function around what I will refer to as communicative circuits, which are constituted through moments of both interpersonal and mass-mediated communication. 42
Practices of mass and even small media are essential to how Latinos in Israel engage Israeli publicness and develop claims to citizenship. Chapter 4 examines the way Latinos felt themselves to be full of gossip ( chismosos ), a sentiment that was transformed by a local gossip column. The self-description of being chismosos, I argue, involves their reflexivity about being outside of the authoritative public sphere, which produces paradigmatic citizens.
The communicative circuits of media worlds are also front and center in chapter 5 , which considers a set of phenomena normally left outside the study of citizenship: how the state s voice can produce complicit subjects. In my description, I begin from how the state s voice could be heard by Latinos, partially through a publicity campaign run by the Immigration Authority, and then I also discuss how the shadowy role of the sapo (informer) helps to intensify the presence of the state in the lives of Latinos.
Finally, chapter 6 considers these issues by looking at the campaign for citizenship. I focus on how Latino youth like Noga addressed Israeli audiences by appearing before the news media, and how these appearances enabled the innocent voice of the labor migrant child to address Israeli publics. This innocent voice was cultivated by NGO advocates as media message (Lempert and Silverstein 2012), one framed by the NGO s own more liberal voice. Importantly, the chapter discusses how, in the context of a rightward swing in the Israeli political consensus, the voice of the child did gain significant public acceptance, but the more radical politics implied by the liberal advocate s voice did not.
1 . SHABAX is an acronym from the words SHOHE BILTI XUKI for a concept like the US term illegal alien. It is mostly associated with noncitizen Palestinians but was extended by state authorities to unauthorized immigrants.
2 . The phrase in the shadows and variations on this metaphor are ubiquitous for describing the global phenomenon of foreign-origin residents with no or only limited legal status, who are often obliged to take on low-status occupations (e.g., domestic or agricultural work). The idea behind the phrase in the shadows is that these are people who do not receive any public recognition-meaning no recognition by the mostly elite actors who can command most attention in the public sphere. In the logic of this phrase, it is unexpected when, like Noga, such residents suddenly can be heard. Inadvertently however, the phrase tends to cast such foreign-origin residents as outside of the public sphere, or unable to participate because they are not prominently recognized. However, not receiving uptake is not the same thing as not participating. Noga, and the many other examples in this book, clearly show this is a highly faulty assumption. Beyond those who use the phrase or its variations explicitly are the many scholars who theorize questions of citizenship and migration without taking into consideration how such marginalized residents dialogically orient to the public sphere, and to the voices who exclude them. This tendency to ignore how such residents speak to the public sphere (even if they do not receive meaningful recognition) means this scholarly work ends up being one more public site where the participation of marginalized subjects does not register. To take only one example out of many, in a brilliant essay on deportation, sovereignty, freedom, and mobility, Nicholas De Genova (2010) discusses the case of Elvira Arellano and the new sanctuary movement that she helped start when, facing deportation, she took up refuge in a Chicago church for a year. However, although she became a prominent activist, Arellano s own public discussion of her actions, and her responsive re-articulation of aspects of US nationalism, does not figure empirically or conceptually in De Genova s essay. This omission is important to bring up because theorists of citizenship from the Enlightenment on have always attended to public participation. We must ask ourselves whether we want to approach citizenship now without considering the complexity of such participation.
3 . This contradiction was understood by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who was influential in formulating modern citizenship leading up to the French Revolution. According to Balibar (1989, 1994), this contradiction is also present in the foundational statement of the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. See also Brubaker (1992, 40-43) on how Rousseau theorized from a cit -based exclusivist citizenry against the rising tide of centralizing states and their commitment to general citizenship.
4 . Holston (2008, 7) summarizes his useful points about differentiated citizenship this way: This formulation of citizenship uses social differences that are not the basis of national membership-primarily differences of education, property, race, gender, and occupation-to distribute different treatment to different categories of citizens. It thereby generates a gradation of rights among them, in which most rights are available only to particular kinds of citizens and exercised as the privilege of particular social categories.
5 . On these points, see De Genova (2002), De Genova and Peutz (2010), Holston (2008), Holston and Appadurai (1999), Kanna (2010), Lazar (2008, 2013), Ong (1996, 1999, 2006), Rosaldo (1994a, 1994b), Rosaldo and Flores (1997), and Vora (2013).
6 . In the case of Habermas, there is much debate about the status of his claims (e.g., Calhoun 1992), as well as about their empirical validity (e.g., Eley 1994; Agha 2011a) or their applicability to non-European contexts (e.g., Hirschkind 2006; Manning 2012; Wedeen 2008) and the many gendered, racialized, and class-based exclusions he does not sufficiently address (e.g., Berlant 1997; Fraser 1992; Landes 1988; Negt and Kluge 1993; Warner 1990, 2002a). See also Cody (2011).
7 . Mediatization refers to the process by which large-scale communication is elaborated through the distribution and circulation of commodity forms, like the way that current affairs deliberation occurs through a variety of news sources (from print newspapers, to television and radio programs, to mass texting applications and podcasts) (Agha 2011a, 2011b). In this book I prefer the term publicness over public sphere or publicity. The public sphere is generally associated with impersonality and stranger sociality (what we can call a liberal pragmatics of publicness), whereas most of the public forms of expression described throughout this book do not necessarily turn on such liberal pragmatics (e.g., the performances described in chap. 3 or the chisme publicness in chap. 4). Publicity evokes public relations and marketing to some readers.
8 . On how the urban relations of the city can lead to new claim-making, see Holston (1999, 2008), Lazar (2008), Anand (2011), and Vora (2013).
9 . In general, throughout this book, I seek to minimize the use of the term foreign worker to avoid taking on the hegemonic perspective, present in the public sphere as well as across the state apparatus, that labor migrants are irredeemably foreign. There is no perfect alternative, but I prefer unauthorized immigrant to labor migrant since large numbers of noncitizen Palestinians work within the 1949 Armistice Lines, often as day laborers, making them labor migrants of another kind. (In that sense, foreign worker as a term, with all its problems, does end up having a kind of self-fulfilling accuracy. It denotes an exception to Israeli citizenship regimes that emerged in the 1990s, just as the territorial boundary between Israel and noncitizen Palestinians was being reorganized. The foreign-ness of foreign workers ends up being marked by the fact that they do not count as Palestinians in the bureaucratic and security calculations of the Israeli state apparatus.) Although I use unauthorized immigrant as much as possible, there are contexts where I use one of the others.
10 . The borders of Palestine/Israel have a complex and contested history, but are important to defining citizens from noncitizens, or really the gradations between them. The armistice agreements between Israel and Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria at the end of the wars of 1947-1949 set what were considered provisional territorial borders for Israel. Mandate Palestine was essentially partitioned between Israel, Jordan, and Egypt. These borders were to a degree recognized by world powers when Israel was admitted to the United Nations in May 1949. From then until May 1967, these were the de facto borders of Israel. Many Israeli leaders expressed their regret during this period that they had not conquered, in particular, East Jerusalem and the West Bank during the wars of 1947-1949. With the coerced flight and direct expulsion, to use Robinson s (2013, 70) phrase, of over 750,000 Palestinians, the 160,000 or so Palestinians who remained or managed to return after the civil war eventually received citizenship. Yet until 1966 they were subjected to military rule. In June 1967, Israel captured East Jerusalem, the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, the Golan Heights, and the Sinai peninsula (this last territory was ceded back to Egypt as part of a peace treaty in the late seventies). Almost immediately after the 1967 war, Israeli officials began to produce and enable settlement in these occupied territories, starting with East Jerusalem. This began a new round of conflicts over Israel s borders. For this history see among others Abu El-Haj (1998), Gorenberg (2006), Morris (2001), Robinson (2013), and Zertal and Eldar (2007).
11 . To be perfectly accurate, there was a recursive gradation within this new status, as the Israeli state immediately annexed an enlarged territory around Jerusalem. Those Palestinians resident in this expanded occupied East Jerusalem received permanent residence, and thus also received greater rights of movement.
12 . For this history see Bartram (1998, 2005), Beinin and Stein (2006), Gordon (2008), Kemp and Raijman (2008), and Shafir and Peled (2000, 2002).
13 . The labor-intensive construction industry was in desperate need of workers in part due to the enormous growth in authorized immigration from the former USSR after the end of the Cold War (ca. 1989).
14 . There are several excellent ethnographies of the Palestinian experience of the new colonial arrangement of separation, and the enormous militarized violence that is continually imposed by the Israeli state. Among others, see Allen (2008, 2009, 2013), Bishara (2008, 2013), Bornstein (2002), Kelly (2006), and Meneley (2014).
15 . Or perhaps a better way to say this is that illiberal and liberal forms of political institutions always coexist and shape each other. See De Genova (2010), Vora (2013), and Shoshan (2016).
16 . A large and growing literature considers the century and a half of migration from Latin America to the US and Canada, which took place in a context of international capitalist subordination, and which involved a long history of racialization through the politics of immigration and borders (e.g., Anzald a 1987; D vila 2008; De Genova 2005; De Genova and Ramos-Zayas 2003; De Le n 2015; Dick 2011; Duany 2002; Guti rrez 1995; Halper n Donghi 1993; Lomnitz 2001; Lugo 2008; Ngai 2003; Sanchez 1993).
17 . Three-month tourist visas, sometimes renewable, were usually issued at the border entry. For more on the motivations of Latin Americans who arrived in Israel, see Kalir (2010).
18 . A few did arrive with work permits early in the nineties, but those who did reported that they often found that wages and work conditions were better outside the permit system.
19 . See Schammah Gesser et al. (2000) and Kalir (2010, 46-48) for discussion of these estimates. Kalir breaks down his total estimate of 13,000 as of 2002 and suggests that Colombians (4500) and Ecuadorians (5000) were the largest components. This largely accords with my own observations.
20 . Out of those unauthorized immigrants, the following are estimates of regions of origin, other than the estimate already given for Latin America: Eastern Europe 15 percent, the former Soviet Union 25 percent, South Asia 20 percent, Arab countries 11 percent, and Africa 14 percent (Raijman 2013, 148). See also Kemp and Raijman (2014) for an updated discussion of the forms and numbers of guest worker programs.
21 . I did substantial fieldwork with Colombians, Ecuadorians, Chileans, and Venezuelans, and to a lesser extent Bolivians, Peruvians, and Dominicans. Examples in the book come mostly from Colombians, but the differences from those of other national backgrounds are not crucial to the specific arguments here (although see Kalir 2010 on some of the tensions between people of different backgrounds). Furthermore, national background is only part of the story, since there were also great differences in class and regional background within each national category.
22 . The term cultural politics (or the politics of culture) has a large and long history. I am mostly drawing on its use in the anthropology of nationalism and transnationalism, as well as the politics of recognition. See for example Appadurai (1996), Faudree (2013), Handler (1988), Povinelli (2002), and Rouse (1995).
23 . Numbers taken from Ofer Aderet, Israel s Population Hits 8.7 Million on Eve of 69th Independence Day, , May 1, 2017, . Most Palestinian citizens live within the 1949 Armistice Lines, usually called the Green Line. The ratio of Palestinian and Jewish citizens has been fairly stable since 2007. The small portion of citizens who are classified as neither Arab nor Jewish are generally Christian but not Arab. Noncitizen Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza are not counted in the population statistics of the Israeli state, even though Israeli settlers in the West Bank are.
24 . See decision in the case of George Niculai Frida v. Ministry of Interior (2005), Appeal of Administrative Petition 1644.
25 . Since 2002, the space for LE OM on the identity card has been covered by asterisks, although the entry is still available to bureaucrats at the Ministry of Interior. All of this means the Jewish and non-Jewish divide is still readily legible on the identity card in this and other ways. Further, as Amalia Sa ar (2016, 21) notes, most Israelis and Palestinians can discern something about the ethnic origins of Jews and Arabs by their last names.
26 . Israel s first government wanted to deny the possibility of Palestinian exiles returning and, at the same time, worried about the status of the 160,000 or so Palestinians who remained. The citizenship law could only move forward when the government first passed the Law of Return in 1950, granting to Jews anywhere full national rights (Robinson 2013, 97-111).
27 . The argument I am making here is like that of Aihwa Ong (1996, 741-746), who suggests that in US history, refugees and immigrants are assessed along the white-black racial spectrum.
28 . I am drawing here on scholarly work about language ideologies, which are implicit or explicit reflections, judgments, or beliefs about how language and interactional practices (more broadly) function, and how these practices relate to social categories and behavior. See especially Kroskrity (2000), Schieffelin, Woolard, and Kroskrity (1998), and M. Silverstein (1979, 1985a).
29 . To be sure, many linguists have impugned the assumed structural continuity of Biblical Hebrew and Modern Israeli Hebrew, even as some misrecognize these ideological claims for inaccurate statements. See especially Blanc (1968), as well as Kuzar (2001, 8-9), Wexler (1990), and Zuckermann (2003). The modern standard register of Hebrew is often celebrated as being the result of a revival of a dead language, thus drawing on nineteenth-century functionalist ideas about language as a living organism (Errington 2001a, 30-33; Fortescue 2002, 246-50; Benes 2008, 197-240).
30 . The term SABRA derives from the prickly pear cactus.
31 . A typical (but by no means the only) use of the (metapragmatic) descriptor DUGRI , still widely found in Israeli middle-class interactions, is to frame discourse as particularly frank. To start an utterance with DUGRI is not unlike in parallel English-speaking environments, where one could frame discourse with Well, to be perfectly blunt . . . .
32 . On the contrary, some of the rough personhood displayed through directness may very well come from the disdain for insincerity in the Eastern European revolutionary movements of the late nineteenth century, which absorbed many Jewish intellectuals and activists. For one suggestive example from the life of Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, see Kuzar (2001, 50-60).
33 . At the time, many Latinos used Palestinian services because they were cheaper, and it was not yet overly difficult to cross to and from the Occupied Territories. For example, many Latino children were born in Bethlehem under the care of a Palestinian doctor who spoke Spanish.
34 . This claim must be qualified: many authorized immigrants in the state period came from the Middle East and North Africa, especially Iraq, Yemen, Morocco, and Tunisia. They spoke Arabic, and yet often found their Arabic taken as a sign of being backward. For discussions of the racialization of Arabic spoken by Mizrahi Jews as well as by Palestinians, see Amara (1999), Chetrit (2010), Mendel (2014), Shenhav (2006), and Suleiman (2017).
35 . This strangeness is not limited to unauthorized immigrants. Tamar Katriel, in the introduction to her seminal 1986 book on DUGRI talk, writes of her own sense of discomfort with Israeli interactional directness, as a child of parents who immigrated from Europe. Speaking of the paradigmatic settling citizen, the sabra, with whom DUGRI is most associated, she wrote: As I discovered in the course of this study, my somewhat uneasy response to the Sabra ethos and the dugri way of speaking was echoed in the talk of other virtual Sabras like myself who were raised in immigrant homes of European origin (Katriel 1986, 4). The people Katriel interviewed were brought up in a different period, and under different circumstance, than Latino children. Yet my point is about the encounter with this Israeli practice, and the formation of an uneasy relation to it.
36 . My understanding of Bakhtin is deeply indebted to linguistic anthropological studies since the seventies (for example, Agha 2005; Errington 1998; Hill 1985, 1995; Rampton 1995; M. Silverstein 1999, 2005; Tedlock and Mannheim 1995; Urciuoli 1996; Woolard 1998). In addition, I have benefited greatly from commentary from a variety of disciplinary backgrounds (for example, Cazden 1989; Holquist 2002; Todorov 1984).
37 . For example in discursive transpositions (see Hanks 1990, 192-229; Haviland 1996a, 1996b; Shoaps 1999).
38 . Bakhtin (1984) thought that a gifted novelist, like Dostoevsky, was able to make disparate social worlds engage one another through the artistic creation of the novel.
39 . For Bakhtin, sociolinguistic variation results from constant change, and therefore it is never fully fixed. This variation is always open-ended, in the process of becoming. Bakhtin s term for this underlying process has been translated as heteroglossia, which refers to how multiple registers, dialects, styles, genres, jargons, etc. are constantly emerging as groups use language in different contexts. Against this tendency toward variety and change, Bakhtin noted (although rarely described in detail) the workings of powerful institutions that seek to produce uniformity and authoritative voices, and in so doing, tend to hold sociolinguistic formations together.
40 . The relation between, on the one hand, the reflexivity generated by denotational norms and broader interactional practices and, on the other hand, explicit rationalizations or language ideologies about those norms and practices is complex and has a voluminous literature. For important takes see Agha (2007a), Hanks (1996), Irvine and Gal (2000), Jakobson (1971), Kockelman (2010b), Kroskrity (2000), Schieffelin, Woolard and Kroskrity (1998), and M. Silverstein (1976, 1979, 1985a, 1993).
41 . Latinos living in south Tel Aviv (in neighborhoods such as Shapira and Hatikva) or even in Jaffa, as well as those living in Jerusalem, did interact with Palestinians in their neighborhoods, and some even sent their children to schools with a mostly Palestinian citizen student body (like the Catholic Coll ge des Freres in Jaffa). However, with a few exceptions, they did not generally enter into friendship or kinship circles with Palestinians. I knew of no cases where children grew up speaking stronger Arabic than Hebrew.
42 . I use the term communicative circuits for three related reasons. First, it includes both mass mediated, or broadcast, communication as well as communication that occurs at smaller scales, laterally and interpersonally. Indeed, smaller-scale interpersonal communication can often draw on aspects of mass mediated communication, and vice versa, in ways that make them parts of a single process that underlies the sense of circulation of discourse or text (Agha 2007a, 64-77; Lee and LiPuma 2002; M. Silverstein 2005; Spitulnik 1996; Urban 2001; Warner 2002b, 55-56). Second, I am drawing on the concept of circuit as in Roger Rouse s (1991) transnational circuit -one that does not merely exist, but rather is brought into existence by the practices of groups that form across wide and geographically discontinuous regions (drawing also from Appadurai 1990; Ginsburg, Abu-Lughod, and Larkin 2002a; Gupta and Ferguson 1992). Finally, unlike cases of simultaneity in most theories of publicness (like Anderson s imagined community or Habermas s public sphere), here I am not assuming that a group comes to identify itself as a we -it can, but communicative circuits can also form across perceived group boundaries. This is important for example in chapter 5 where I describe how the state s agents can be suspected in all Latino interaction, even between familiars-even they can be part of our circuits. Certainly, such situations can give way to a more comprehensive we of sorts, when erstwhile antagonists can begin to understand themselves as a single group.

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