My childhood was spent in an ultra-Orthodox world, right in the heart of Jerusalem's most observant neighborhood. Sure, I was a mischievous child with a healthy sense of curiosity, but overall I was a good girl, not causing too much trouble.
But there were demons, the first one when I was in the first grade. A teacher from the Haredi school sexually assaulted me. He used the timing of me waiting for my older sister to finish school. I was alone and unprotected.
The fear I experienced changed me. My cry for help was me becoming more violent toward other girls. I just didn't care anymore. I hoped to be expelled because that would have saved me from him.
But it didn't end there. At 11, I came back to live at home after three years in a boarding school. We had an old, pedophile neighbor. I thought that this time I was tough and ready for it. In hindsight, I know that my thought process at the time was that if I do it anyway, I might as well get paid for it.
Every time he cleared his throat standing in the building's staircase, I knew it was my cue. At some point, my parents began thinking he had a respiratory disease or something.
My dad died when he was 29, drowning in the Sea of Galilee. I was at my grandparents when they got the news. I remember my grandmother answering the phone, her face turning as pale as snow, before leaving the house in a hurry. Later on, they told me my dad swallowed a lot of water and is in the hospital.
When two of my sisters came by, we surrounded my grandmother, demanding to know what was going on. She confirmed to us that he died. The first phase of grief is always denial, and it was the same for me.
He used to hit me, and I remember that I used to shout to his face that I hope he dies. When he actually did, I thought I was the reason.
Afterward, I went back to the boarding school, where they were also abusive to me. At that point, I had plenty of experience with abuse, so I lashed out to the extent that my mother had to bring me back home.
At 14, I began giving massages and leaving the world of observant Judaism behind me. I moved to Tel Aviv at 18, with the aim of becoming a holistic healer. I enrolled to Reidman College that had a small school for holistic massage. To support myself I worked at a spa.
But the demons wouldn't leave. They kept gnawing at my soul. I even called my mother and told her that I'm thinking of killing myself. It took her hours on the phone to bring me back from the edge.
Afterward, I got on the bus to go to work and had a massive panic attack. I looked around and didn't even know where I was. I got off the bus and and sat on the sidewalk, holding my head. I called my boss in tears and he told me to stay home. An hour later, I was fired.
I scrambled to post an ad offering massages at my apartment, including relaxation. That year I was already partying a lot, having tons of sex, different guy each time. It's as if I was reliving the sexual trauma that was deep within me every time.
The first week was the worst. I went from giving massages to performing sexual favors. The fear was excruciating. You never know what man will stand there when you open the door.
I don't remember any of them. Their faces are a blur to me now. If one of them had told we had sex just last week, I honestly would not have remembered. That's how bad it got. I hated myself. I felt my soul leaving my body.
I started drinking at 14. When guys would come over, I just poured us drinks all the time: wine, whiskey, vodka. But, things escalated.
At 31, to appease the clients, I started doing cocaine and meth, looking for some sort of an edge. I felt I was hopeless without it, because it helped mask the foul odor of those men hurling over me, some of them old enough to be my grandfather.
I was submissive and paralyzed. I didn't know that being treated as anything other than a piece of trash was even an option. I served up to eight guys a day. I took a shower after the last one, scrubbing myself from head to toe, but the smell never went away.
Depending on the client, we would sometimes sit in the living room and laugh. I would even pay for them in restaurants here and there, happy to get rid of this dirty money, but at some point I realized I was actually losing money.
That's when I switched my perspective. These people aren't friends of mine and don't care about me. I thought prostitution would kill me. It killed my friends. Was I any different?
My family suspected something. They knew I was giving massages. My phone would blow up when we were together.
Five years later, an old abusive friend I used to have wanted to punish me, so he wrote I was a prostitute in the group chat. One of my sisters cut off all communication with me. Another one told me she doesn't want her kids around me. The rest were supportive and said they'd stand by me until I got out of it.
At some point I was offered a home-styling class at HerAcademy, a school for women who were involved in prostitution. They wanted me to document my life with a camera. A teacher named Louis Green noticed me and told me I should be featured in photography exhibitions. I thought she was crazy, considering I was a drugged out prostitute. She brought me a DSLR camera and said: "Wait and see."
One day, with client after client wanting to know what I'm willing to do in bed, I just took the camera and got out into the street, starting snapping pictures: a girl on a swing, people walking by, a lively street. I began calming down.
With the power that photography gave me, I suddenly understood there is a direction for me. Something to live for.
Clients knew I had a camera. One wanted me to capture snaps of him as a slave. I refused. Didn't want to sully my camera with anything prostitution related.
I told my social worker I wanted to study photography and be sober. But shortly after friend offered to go to a rave, so I did. I went and ended up taking drugs that made half my face as swell as a balloon. I had to go to a hospital.
Finally, I began studying one day a week, a day dedicated solely to my studies. No clients. No nothing. I learned about photography techniques and was enthralled, so thinking about going back to prostitution broke my heart.
When the pandemic hit, I welcomed the lockdowns. A chance to not have to please men. I called Louis in tears and told her I feel stuck. On one hand no work means I'm broke. On the other, going back to prostitution would have ended me. I couldn't do it anymore.
HerAcademy CEO, Iris Stern-Levi, called me and asked: "Do you want out?" I said yes, and she said she'd help.
I got financial assistance from a foundation called "Lo Omdot Me'Negged".
I gave my word I wouldn't relapse, but I wanted to a thousand times. The thought of being poor was almost too much to bear.
But I stuck to it, and even called the cellphone company to have my work phone disconnected. When I called myself to check and heard the disconnected message, I screamed with excitement.
Right now, there's an international photography exhibit, organized by the PHOTO IS:RAEL foundation. My pictures, all 60, are at a section called "Standing Before You."
I'm very excited about people looking at my pictures. It's fine if they know my background, but don't call me a "prostitution survivor." It's degrading. I'm someone who made it out of prostitution.
Today I'm 44, living in Ramat Gan. I'm on disability because of the emotional scars prostitution left within me, courtesy of Bituach Leumi (National Insurance).
I freelance for PHOTO IS:RAEL by helping with administration and promotion. I want to work as a photographer full time. The only thing I don't want to take pictures of is men.