David Harris was a photojournalist born in 1929. He studied photography
in the U.S. and graduated in 1947. He then fought in Israel’s
War of Independence and afterwards became a photojournalist, with his
business based in Jerusalem. Sadly, Harris died in 2008 when he was hit
by a car. This information, together with the picture itself, led me to
deduce that it was taken around the early 1950s.
I scoured the internet but unfortunately could not find any more
details about this photo, even after reaching out to galleries and museums
in Israel that had a few of Harris’ works. I couldn’t find any matching
photos online; I even researched boxes of color film that were in the
lower left-hand corner of the photo, in an attempt to date the photo, but
I didn’t find out any new information; my initial hypothesis about the
photo being from the 1950s seemed to be a good estimate. The curator of
the photography department at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem told me
they had one photograph by David Harris in their collection: the picture
is from 1951 and shows immigrants arriving in Israel. Beyond that, the
curator could not provide any new information.
Although Harris is apparently well known in Israel, there does not seem
to be much information about him or his work available to the public.
From what I understand, most of his work has not been scanned electronically
and a large amount of his photos are in out-of-print photography
books. The ZOA is so fortunate to have this photo in our archives, among
thousands of others, most of which were graciously donated.
Photo by David Harris, 1951, part of the collection of the Israel
Museum in Jerusalem
Driven to Identify the Little Girl in the Photo
I didn’t want to give up on this picture. The subject appears so sweet and innocent, naturally drawing the viewer in and eliciting compassion
and curiosity. I wanted to know her story — what she went through and how she got to Israel. This picture could easily be telling the
story of a little girl today. People easily forget the trials and tribulations of the Jewish people, not just during Nazi Germany, but throughout
history.
There is a perception nowadays that Jewish people are not disenfranchised or victimized; that we do not need or deserve a homeland. I
say, tell that to this little girl. She and her family were forced to flee from wherever they came from. She could have been from Europe and a
refugee in the aftermath of the Shoah; or a victim of the Polish pogroms that occurred in 1946, killing the remaining Jews who tried to return
home after WW II; or, she could have been a Jewish girl from an Arab country like Iraq, Egypt, or Yemen, who was forced out of her country
by their government once Israel was declared a state.
In 2019, it is still just as apparent, if not more, that a Jewish homeland is necessary. There are increasing threats of anti-Semitism all over
the world, even in places like New York, Paris, and Los Angeles, which were thought to be welcoming and safe communities for Jews.
After not being able to find any more information on the photo, I decided I wanted to launch a social media campaign to try and find out
who this little girl is, and to spread awareness of the Jewish refugee story.
This was so meaningful to me because, like many American Jewish families, there is a lot that I do not know about my history. I got
involved with Israel activism because I understand the need to always have a safe place to turn to; because in 2019, there are still Jews like
the little girl in this photo. The ZOA’s commitment to a Jewish homeland motivated my work through the internship program, and as a
young American Jew, I feel fortunate knowing that the ZOA fights every day to secure my future. I am forever grateful for the opportunity
to contribute to this fight.
Nava Crispe
Growing Up in Israel
Childhood memories are typically idyllic and sweet. Reminiscing about that period of blissful innocence and naivety, however, is not
everyone’s reality. I was four-and-a-half years old when a bus full of innocent men, women, and children who were returning from a visit to
the Kotel (the Western Wall) was blown to pieces by a ruthless Palestinian terrorist. My best friend at the time, Orly, had been on that bus
with her family. When I think back through my vague memories of living in Israel when I was younger, I can starkly recount visiting Orly
and her mother at the hospital after that attack.
It was only recently that my own mother described and reminded me of the “game” that Orly and I would play in the following months.
We called it piguah, “terror attack” in Hebrew, and it consisted of one of us yelling “boom!” followed by that chilling word. We would then
run around frantically and mimic the sound of ambulances. We were not deriving entertainment and joy from this self-created game, but
merely using it as a means to process and cope with the traumatizing event that had unfolded in front of our kindergarten-aged selves not
long before.
Whether it is the incessant rockets and mortar shells raining down on Israel every year from Gaza, suicide bombings aimed to inflict the
52 most casualties possible, unprovoked shooting and stabbing attacks in civilian Section communities Title
and neighborhoods, car rammings in urban