Graffiti artist ‘Reefa’ did not want to be invisible
The tragic death of George Floyd in Minneapolis made front-page news around the world and has turned police brutality into one of the hottest issues in the country.
But Miami has had its own George Floyd: he was an 18-year-old graffiti artist named Israel “Reefa” Hernandez, and he died after being tased by Miami Beach police in 2013.
I remember the moment I first heard Israel’s story. I was feeding my kids breakfast, sprinkling the powdered sugar carefully over the French toast, as to not offend my son’s delicate palate.
A morning show was playing in the background and it began covering a local Miami story that would imminently become a part of a national conversation. Israel’s sweet, handsome face would stay with me for the rest of the day, but it would not be until a year later when our names would be linked forever.
In the many long years that followed, I often questioned my decision to take seven years out of my life to tell this particular story, Israel’s story.
It’s hard to find a parallel between our lives, yet I found myself needing to make a film about this young artist.
During my research leading up to writing the script, I determined early on that I did not want to make a film about Israel’s death or the case that ensued. Instead, I wanted to focus on his life and his family’s journey. It was their story that kept me from not giving up, while everybody and everything seemed to be telling me I should quit.
As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors and the daughter of immigrants, my childhood was steeped in early lessons about survival and resilience.
I know firsthand the sacrifices immigrants carry on their backs to leave their homes and relocate to a new country
to give their children a chance at a better life. It is only this possibility that their children’s destinies could surpass their own, that make these sacrifices bearable.
In the hundreds of hours of press that have been done on Israel’s story, little focus was given to the Hernandezes’ journey as immigrants.
For me, it was an essential part of the plot.
The Hernandez family came the so-called “right way.” They applied for an asylum visa, were granted one and came to Miami as a means to save their children from an increasingly violent Colombia,
where their lives were incessantly threatened.
They came here to secure their children’s futures, only to have it broken by those sworn to protect and defend.
And if that irony were not cruel enough, the next morning, as they got ready for work, believing Israel had slept at a friend’s house the prior evening, they walked past the crime scene where their son had been killed. Nobody hadthought to inform them yet.
The abuse of power is clearest when it results in death, but it’s the dereliction of duties to immigrants that shows us the direction a country is headed in.
After the Hernandezes were informed of their son’s death, they were given no information other than where and when to collect his body, as if their car had just been towed and needed to be paid for and collected.
Not knowing what else they could do, they relied on the Colombian consulate, which became essential in advocating for their constitutional and human rights.
And while the injustices are infuriating, I cannot say I can relate to them on a personal level.
I had the good fortune of being born here, my inalienable rights were handed to me. And I was born white.
The ironic genetics that made my grandparents lose of all of their families to concentration camps, allow me to walk around free from fear of any discrimination or retribution. Immigrants are made to feel like their lives are optional, and while many are intentionally invisible, many are striving hard to not be.
Israel wanted the world to know his name, he did not want to live afraid of his shadow and often clashed with the story line that his family needs to play by every rule so that their visa would not be jeopardized.
In one anecdote, Israel’s father told me how they would pay strict attention to every speed limit and stop sign, so as to not even have a speeding ticket when they ultimately applied for citizenship.
The anti-immigrant narrative of the past few years has made the immigration debate impersonal, when, in fact, it could not be more personal, for we are a nation of immigrants.
If we look around, there is daily evidence of systemic injustices being done, and those of us who are now natives and not immigrants can choose to ignore them and go ahead with our French toast, or we can choose to do something.