Shopkeeper Ellen Barhat hides behind the closed iron louver of her shop. Only a narrow crack separates her from the street. Only a few customers enter the shop, which in any case has hardly anything left to sell. The refrigerator door has been ripped from its hinges, and Barhat has already cleared away the fragments of the many broken bottles. Only the red bricks resting on the floor - which had been hurled into the shop during last week's anti-migrant demonstration - and the gaping hole in the plasterboard wall remain as evidence of what had happened in the Hatikva neighborhood of Tel Aviv.

When we slipped through the narrow crack into the shop this week, Barhat hastened to ask us: "Is there a balagan [mess] in the street?" This is one of the few words she knows in Hebrew. This week she opened the shop only when she was in the company of relatives. When they left, she shut the iron louver and huddled into the small sleeping quarters at the back of the shop. There, in the toilet, is where she hid when the neighborhood residents rampaged through her shop. Only a few bottles of wine remain; all the bottles of beer were smashed. The bottles of the Egyptian Island brand of guava juice were untouched.

Barhat crossed the Sinai Desert on her way here. She says she paid her smugglers $7,000. She is not prepared to talk about the horrors she experienced en route. She is an Eritrean whose 8-year-old son has remained there. She last spoke to him three weeks ago. She does not say much. She is 23 years old and has been living in Israel for about a year and a half. Two months ago she rented this space from a neighborhood resident for NIS 3,500 a month.

The Israelis buy African spices and lentils from her, the Africans buy basic goods. She says the rioters stole NIS 9,000 from her cash register, her weekly take. She says tens of locals stormed the shop on the eve of the Shavuot holiday. She hastened to call a relative for help. He came in a shared taxi, but by the time he arrived the damage was already done. She estimates the damage to her shop at about NIS 12,000, including the looting. No one has offered to compensate her.

At noontime one day this week, the famous Hatikva market was almost empty of shoppers. "Here comes the Ashkenazi media," one hawker called after us. In our childhood, Hatikva was said to be dangerous to roam. Later, during Menachem Begin's time as premier, the urban renewal project that began here gave the neighborhood a pleasant and neat appearance. Now, neglect reigns once again. The restaurants, which had a fashionable spell for a few years, are no longer what they once were. Some of them have closed, others cater to an ultra-Orthodox clientele. The makeup of the population has also changed: As in every distressed quarter, the African migrants have also come to this flagship neighborhood of poverty in Tel Aviv.

A few months ago I visited here in the company of Munir Dwek - our taxi driver when we are in Gaza - who, amazingly, had received a one-time entry visa into Israel. Dwek grew up here and to this day can recite one of the Yom Kippur prayers by heart. Quite a lot of the market stallholders recognized and greeted him with excitement and open joy.

"You come here because of the scent and you stay for the taste," promises a sign in the market. A Sudanese worker breaks bread in the shade of a restaurant that greets you with a sign saying, "Welcome to the land of Iraqi food."

Not many Africans can be seen here today, nor anyone from the company of Border Police fighters that was sent here this week. Municipal inspectors and people from the Immigration Authority's Oz unit patrolled the streets, checking the Africans' papers and possessions. The street adjacent to the market is called Rehov Hamevasser (Herald Street ): "A person who is first to announce that salvation, rescue, is near, to an individual or to groups in distress," according to the explanation engraved on the street sign.

In the middle of Hatikva stands Chabad House - "Messiah House, a Center for the Propagation of Judaism and Hasidism to Greet Our Lord, Our Teacher, Our Rabbi, May He Live a Long Life, Amen, the King Messiah."

A dangerous color

Eritrean shopkeeper Bahbolom Ukbzeki's grocery store is grander than Ellen Barhat's, with orthodontic silicon pacifiers hanging at the entrance. It has been in existence for four months now, though he himself has been living here for four years. A truck unloads merchandise for the grocery; the driver is Israeli and his worker is Eritrean.

Salim Armalat is shopping in the store. He looks African but is actually a Bedouin from the Negev. The former Israel Defense Forces tracker is a disabled veteran who lives in Lod and renovates houses in the Hatikva neighborhood. In recent months there have been many cases in which he too has been jeered at with the demand: "Nigger, get out of here." The Immigration Police have stopped him on several occasions to inspect his papers. They ask for a visa. He pulls out an Israeli identity card and they say to him: "You're kidding."

He is amused by the whole thing: "My color has become dangerous," he says with a smile. Sometimes people think he is from India. During the demonstrations last week he hid, just to be on the safe side.

"The Africans are good people," he says, "but there are also problematic individuals among them. There are also Arabs who make trouble and also Jews. Do you know how many Arabs commit rapes? And Jews? But you don't hear about them."

In the meantime, Ukbzeki has closed the shop to take us to another site, where he had planned to open an Internet cafe for his sister, Bahari Yordanos. He asks Meir from the shoe store next door to keep an eye on the grocery and the empty bottles outside. "Everyone is entitled to live," observes Meir.

Ukbzeki already has communications services in his grocery store for Africans - several telephones and a computer - but he wants to expand. Here is the rental contract for the new store, between Shabo Naomi and Bahari Yordanos: "Country of origin, Eritrea," says the contract; NIS 1,500 a month, payable two months in advance. The day after the demonstration last week, the locks on the new shop, where computer tables had already been installed, were broken. The computers are still on the way. Ukbzeki bought new locks but they were broken again, that same Saturday night. The police did not agree to come; he has to file a complaint at the station.

The owner of the property says it is not her problem. In the meantime, the Internet cafe is locked and yet to open for business. Ukbzeki is afraid someone will also smash the next locks he buys. Above all this dangle a few small Israeli flags, perhaps left over from the last Independence Day. They are already shabby. Maybe also a little ashamed.