“Maybe One Day I Will also be Almito”: Ethiopian Israelis,Naming,and the Politics of Immigrant Identity

Abstract

The issue of name change, and in particular name reclaiming (i.e., taking back a heritage name), among immigrants has been rarely studied academically, despite its centrality to immigrant identity and immigration experiences. Immigrants, in many countries, are often encouraged or pressured to change their names, but in recent years, some have chosen to reclaim their heritage or original names. This article analyzes the practice of name reclaiming among young Israelis of Ethiopian heritage, a community that has experienced racial discrimination. Data were gathered through a qualitative phenomenological study of 19 young adults who immigrated to Israel from Ethiopia as minors. The analysis yielded two simultaneous dialogues: an internal dialogue in which individuals described their personal experience of name reclaiming and an external dialogue in which name reclaiming reflected a political and social process through which a discriminated minority could express increased feelings of power and agency. The results enrich the study of migration by showing the ways in which personal and social-political processes experienced by a discriminated minority intertwine, as vividly illustrated by the specific case of name reclaiming.

Keywords

immigration name change identity racial discrimination Ethiopian immigrants Israel

Each of us has a name given by God and given by our parents

Each of us has a name given by our stature and our smile and given by what we wear

Each of us has a name given by the mountains and given by our walls

Each of us has a name given by the stars and given by our neighbors

Each of us has a name given by our sins and given by our longing

Each of us has a name given by our enemies and given by our love

Each of us has a name given by our celebrations and given by our work

Each of us has a name given by the seasons and given by our blindness

Each of us has a name given by the sea and given by our death. (Zelda, Israeli poet)

Introduction

Naming and re-naming practices among immigrants, on first glance, may be viewed as personal and familial processes, but they can also reflect the wider social and political context in which immigrants exist (Bodenhorn and Vom Bruck 2006; Girma 2020). For example, how people name their children can tell us about their personal and their community’s integration in a given society (Sue and Telles 2007); pressures on immigrants to change names can reflect their social positions, including power relationships, minority status, and levels of discrimination (Kim 2007; Pennesi 2016); and immigrants adopting new names can represent their efforts to assimilate and avoid discrimination (Norquay 1998; Kim 2007).

Today, many ethnic groups around the world strive to bolster their ethnic identities (Fermaglich 2018), which may lead members to return to, or “reclaim,” their heritage names (i.e., those names given in the origin language and/or country by families, parents, or communities) in a search for lost identities. Despite the central role a person’s name can play in their sense of identity, especially following immigration (Tummala-Narra 2016), almost no academic studies have examined the experience of immigrants reclaiming heritage names (Reynolds et al. 2017). This article begins from the premise that reclaiming a name given to an individual by their parents, family, or community but changed during the immigration process is a unique experience, different from name changing or renaming (i.e., taking on a new socially or politically meaningful name; Girma 2020). We believe reclaiming a name to be a special, barely studied, case that allows us to examine the interplay between personal, communal, and socio-political processes following immigration.

This article examines name reclaiming among young Israelis of Ethiopian background, a community that has faced racial discrimination and holds low social status (Walsh and Tuval-Mashiach 2012) and that, in recent years, has undergone a process of strengthening their heritage identity, including social protests and rejection of discrimination (Wahle et al. 2017). While this group’s immigration experience may have much in common with other discriminated immigrant and minority populations, they are Jewish diaspora immigrants in a country that encourages Jewish migration. As such, in line with Flyvberg’s¹ (2006) concept of a “critical case,” we suggest that the combination of their formally desired immigration, the discrimination they face, and the recent waves of social protest allows a deeper understanding of how personal and social processes following immigration intertwine in the process of name reclaiming.

In the following theoretical background section, we present the extant literature on names, name giving, and name changing following immigration and the specific case of Ethiopian immigrants in Israel. We then present the current study and discuss its results in light of the existing literature around naming, acculturation processes, and discrimination. The analysis develops the argument that name reclaiming reflects not only a very deep personal experience around issues of identity and heritage but also (changing) power relations between the immigrant group and receiving society. We suggest that while name changing following immigration may result from immigrants’ low social status and ensuing sense of personal and communal weakness, name reclaiming reflects individual desires to connect to a more authentic identity linked to their heritage, a profound change in a discriminated immigrant group’s relations with the host society, and a rising sense of personal and communal confidence. As such, we suggest the importance of examining how personal and socio-political processes intertwine in the immigration experience of discriminated groups. Understanding this interplay can contribute to more complete theoretical conceptualization of immigration processes and provide a more thorough representation of the experiences and characteristic of individuals and groups involved in this process.

Theoretical Background

What Is in a Name?

The academic study of names crosses multiple disciplines. Philosophical inquiry has investigated the intrinsic meaning in a name ( Searle 1958; Schwartz 2013) and whether a name imparts any information a priori (Van Langendonck 2008; Russell 2013). Historical study has shown that throughout history, names have been given to children purposefully for many reasons — to influence their fate, to honor a known figure, and to represent family relations, geographical locations, or characteristics that individual possess or that their parents wish them to possess (Khotskina 2000). Historical analysis of naming and renaming (Girma 2020) among Black Americans shows how patterns of naming reflect changing relationships of power and perceptions of a minority group’s identity (Neal 2001; Brown and Lively 2012). Anthropological research has studied name choices as reflecting cultural practices, as well as societal and kinship systems, and as related to both personal and societal identity (Alford 1987; Bodenhorn and Vom Bruck 2006; Yangwen and MacDonald 2009). Such perspectives suggest that understanding processes of name giving, changing, and reclaiming can tell us much about societal, cultural, and political dynamics beyond the individual.

A name can identify and distinguish an individual from other individuals (Watzlawik et al. 2016); thus, it is often closely linked to an individual’s identity (Seeman 1980; Dion 1983; Twenge 1997; Aksholakova 2014) and can have great personal importance and significance (Mason 1990). In fact, the extent to which we perceive our names as appropriate and suitable can impact the degree that we feel that they are “our own” (Quaglia et al. 2016). As Allport (1961) said, “The most important anchorage to our self-identity throughout life remains our own name” (117). Names have also been considered part of how we build our life narratives (McAdams 2003; Jagieła and Gębuś 2015). A child may feel responsibility to live out the expectations, fantasies, and hopes that their parents imbued in the name that they chose (Edwards and Caballero 2008), potentially placing a burden on a child and impacting their identity throughout the life course (James, Jongeward, and Karpman 1971).

Names can also tell us about social position, cultural and social identity, and kinship (Bodenhorn and Vom Bruck 2006; Girma 2020) and can reflect social class, education, and race (Lieberson and Bell 1992). As Girma (2020) writes, “the process of naming has been a battleground of sociocultural and political consciousness” (18). Alia (1994, 2007), in her work on political onomastics (the study of the origin and forms of proper names), highlights the power relations involved in changing names, whether among women following marriage or immigrants being pressured to change their names. However, while prior research has shown that name giving and name changing reflect social processes, to the best of our knowledge, no research has examined how reclaiming a name (after it was changed) may highlight personal and social processes for a member of a minority group.

Naming Following Immigration

When looking at name accommodation following immigration, we can examine three phenomena: names given to children in a new country, name changing (both by the host society and by a choice of “renaming” by the immigrant or minority group), and name reclaiming (taking back the name given at birth by parents). Name giving to children following immigration has been examined by several authors within the framework of an assimilationist paradigm in which ethnic minorities are presumed to become part of mainstream society (Alba and Nee 1997; Portes and Rumbaut 2006). In their study of naming among Hispanic families in the United States, for example, Sue and Telles (2007) show that assimilation across immigrant generations is reflected in a move from traditional Spanish names to more secular American names. However, their research (Sue and Telles 2007), as well as research on children of parents from different cultural backgrounds (Edwards and Caballero 2008), suggests that naming a child can also be a way of bridging cultural realities and maintaining contact with a heritage culture (Girma 2020). As such, the names immigrant parents give to their children often reflect the degree of socio-cultural integration they feel in the host society (Gerhards and Hans 2009).

Name changing following immigration can also reflect attempts by the receiving country, or by immigrants themselves, to speed up assimilation and/or integration in the new society (Norquay 1998) and to make the immigrant (not the host society) responsible for their successful integration (Pennesi 2016). Ethnic names often have a “signaling effect” (Goldstein and Stecklov 2016) to the receiving society, which can impact occupational achievement. The desire to succeed in a new country (Kim 2007) and the wish to avoid discrimination, as in the case of Muslim immigrants to the United States following 9/11 (Cainkar 2009), can lead to acquiescence or desire on the part of immigrants to change their names. However, the phenomenon of changing one’s name to gain status and social mobility opens the questions of how immigrants relate to their old and new names and to what extent each name is experienced by the individual as real or true (De Pina-Cabral 2010).

Another phenomenon related to, but distinct from, name reclaiming is renaming or taking a new name that has social, political, or cultural meaning (Girma 2020). In a body of literature mainly focused on renaming among Black Americans, the process of renaming is seen as a powerful mechanism by which individuals can communicate issues of identity, ethnicity, and race ( Martin 1991; Lieberson and Mikelson 1995). The relationship to identity is evident in the literature on name changing following slavery in the United States, in which adopting a new name, in particular taking on a surname, was often an integral act of freedom and identity for African Americans (Inscoe 1983; Eyerman 2001). Yet renaming generally involves a new name, decided upon by the individual with personal or social significance.

Name reclaiming, in contrast, is the taking back of a birth name that was changed upon immigration but that retains unique personal, familial, and communal meaning. In this article, we examine how name reclaiming can reflect both personal and socio-political processes. We examine how a very personal process, as experienced by an individual in search of reclaiming a true sense of self that was taken away upon immigration (Tummala-Narra 2016), is intertwined with the social-political processes of the immigrant community to which they belong. Scarce research has examined the concept of “reclaiming” original birth names. The only study we found suggests that among Korean-American adoptees, reclaiming a birth name was often therapeutic, enabling adoptees to feel a greater sense of authenticity (Reynolds et al. 2017). However, no studies to date have examined how the personal process of name reclaiming intertwines with the socio-political relationships between an immigrant group and host society.

Ethiopian Immigrants in Israel

Immigrants from Ethiopia have been the second largest immigrant group in Israel in recent years, just behind immigrants from the Former Soviet Union (Semyonov and Gorodzeisky 2012). In 1984 and 1991, through “Operation Moses” and “Operation Solomon,” 22,500 Ethiopian Jews were covertly evacuated from Ethiopia to Israel (Schwarz 2016). Between 2000 and 2007, another 25,000 immigrated to Israel.² In 2020, 152,000 Ethiopian Jews lived in Israel, 87,000 of whom immigrated from Ethiopia and 65,000 of whom were born in Israel.³ Ethiopian Jews immigrated to Israel under the Israeli “law of return,” which allows automatic Israeli citizenship to Jews and to those of proven Jewish descent (Smooha 2002). While Israel formally welcomes diaspora immigrants, the receiving population in Israel is often ambivalent toward immigrants, perceiving them as both benefitting the society, by strengthening the state’s Jewish character and, in some cases, bringing social and economic capital and representing a threat through their use of resources and their questioned Jewish status and connection to Jewish heritage (Tartakovsky and Walsh 2019).

The integration of immigrants from Ethiopia into Israeli society involved significant difficulties, due to deep cultural differences, significant illiteracy among the older immigrant generation, changes in family structure (i.e., more equal relationships between husbands and wives, and smaller family units), and discrimination (Tannenbaum 2008; Walsh, Fogel-Grinvald, and Shneider 2015). As a black minority in a largely white population, Ethiopian Jews in Israel have experienced racial discrimination and prejudice in multiple domains, including housing, employment, and education, and faced negative attitudes and stereotypes (Offer 2007; Walsh and Tuval-Mashiach 2012). An additional major challenge arose from the culture gap, as Ethiopian immigrants came from a traditional, mainly rural, patriarchal society. In Ethiopia, the family served as a main religious, economic, and social unit characterized by strict gender divisions (Kacen 2006). In contrast, Israeli society can be considered a Western, largely urban, and democratic society (Smooha 2002) in which, at least on a formal, legislative level, gender equality is guarded (Halperin-Kaddari and Yadgar 2010). Immigration to Israel forced Ethiopian immigrants to redefine their familial roles and redistribute familial authority (Edelstein 2016). As a result, the communal, traditional, and religious way of life and support system fell apart (Doron and Markovitzky 2007).

Ethiopian immigrants faced both assimilationist pressures and encouragement to live separately from Israeli authorities (Bourhis and Dayan 2004). Assimilation attempts were reflected in formal (e.g., government representatives) and informal (e.g., local teachers and workers) pressures on immigrants to change their names and in government policies encouraging families to send their children to boarding schools. At the same time, the Israeli government’s policy of settling Ethiopian immigrants, like other immigrant groups, in peripheral regions encouraged separatist tendencies (Ben-Eliezer 2008).

In recent years, however, significant changes have taken place within Israel’s Ethiopian community, with greater numbers of Ethiopian immigrants and their children taking more prominent positions in Israeli society (e.g., parliament members, professionals, news presenters, and television stars), completing higher education degrees, serving in the army, and integrating in the job market (Dayan 2014). Higher awareness of, and resentment toward, discrimination in Israeli society (Walsh and Tuval-Mashiach 2012) has led to more vociferous opposition to discrimination from the Ethiopian community, culminating in a social protest movement (Wahle et al. 2017) and increased ethnic pride (Yerday 2019). These dynamics raise an interesting question as to whether increasing feelings of power and agency, on both an individual and community level among Ethiopian immigrants in Israel, are associated with processes of name reclaiming.

Naming Practices in the Ethiopian Jewish Community and in Israel

The names of most Ethiopian immigrants were changed to Hebrew names by immigration authorities upon immigration to Israel (FIDEL 2020). As participants in our study shared, the change was official, and the new names appeared on their identity cards and other legal documents. Due to a lack of academic sources examining name giving among Ethiopian Jews, we explored non-academic sources, such as cultural heritage websites and internal community papers, in which we found information related to naming practices among Ethiopian Jews. These sources indicated that, traditionally, in the Ethiopian Jewish community, a newborn’s name was chosen during or immediately after birth, generally by the parents (Bodovsky 2020; Little Ethiopia 2020). Additional names were given to the child by other relatives (Israeli Ministry of Education 2020). Among Ethiopian Jews, the names given to their children belonged to a number of categories related to the meaning behind the names and/or their origins, such as Biblical names, names related to nature, names of grandparents or deceased family members, and names that reflected the well-being that the parents wished for their children (Museum 2020). Since names had personal, familial, and community meaning (Bodovsky 2020), we suggest that name change upon immigration may challenge the individual’s relationship to their self and to their history (Tummala-Narra 2016). In recent years, increasing numbers of Ethiopian youth have chosen to return to their Amharic⁴ names (Alef 2012).⁵

Naming traditions in Israel (among the majority Jewish population) are varied. They often involve the use of Biblical names (e.g., Yoav), or new Hebrew names that express admiration of power (Peled – steel; Barak – lightening) and nature (Oren pine), or qualities that parents wish to bestow to their children (e.g., Hen – beauty; Roni – happiness; Krausz and Tulea 1998). In addition, since the 1970s, bilingual Hebrew/English names (e.g., Guy) have become more common in Israel (Krausz and Tulea 1998). Today, over 90 percent of Israeli men’s and women’s names derive from Hebrew, with the Bible accounting for over 70 percent of male names and about 40 percent of female names (Demsky 2018). As such, Ethiopian immigrants’ names were often changed to Biblical names, which also had meaning for them in their Jewish heritage but were not the names given to them at birth.

Methods

By examining the experience of name change and then name reclaiming among young Israelis born in Ethiopia, we sought to understand how these young people, who belonged to a community that experienced discrimination and had been undergoing a process of protest and identity affirmation (Wahle et al. 2017; Walsh and Tuval-Mashiach 2012), described their relationship with their names and their feelings about name change and name reclaiming. As such, we examined how very personal processes experienced in the immigration and acculturation process around name changing intertwined with the social-political processes of an immigrant group increasingly affirming its ethnic and heritage identity.

This article applied a phenomenological approach that aims to develop rich descriptions of the meaning of human experience (Creswell and Poth 2017). We explored the experience and meaning of name changes for participants, accessing this meaning through an interactive researcher–participant dialogue consistent with a constructivist-interpretivist paradigm (Ponterotto 2005).

Typically, in phenomenological research, data are collected through in-depth interviews with 5–25 individuals (Creswell and Clark 2007). Nineteen participants were interviewed for this study: fourteen women and five men, aged 25–40 years (M=34). They immigrated to Israel from Ethiopia between 1983 and 1998, with the majority immigrating in 1991 during “Operation Solomon.” Their age at immigration ranged from 2 years to 17 years (M=8.5), and most immigrated between the ages of 5 years and 12 years. Twelve participants were married (11 with children), one was divorced (with a child), and six were single. All but two married participants’ spouses also immigrated from Ethiopia. The majority (16) had academic degrees, mostly in helping professions and education. During immigration, 18 participants’ names were changed by the authorities (e.g., officials in the Israeli Ministry of Interior and Ministry of Immigration and Integration, schoolteachers, and principals) to Israeli names. At the time of the study, eight participants had returned to their Amharic names, and four had considered doing so. Table 1 presents participants’ names: present name (Israeli or Amharic for those who returned to their names), original Amharic name (some participants had two names), and previous Israeli name for participants who returned to their original Amharic names. Only one participant, Chorit, adopted an Amharic name different from the original one. All Hebrew and two Amharic names are pseudonyms, in line with participants’ request.

Table 1.

Participants’ Names.

Present name (I) - Israeli (A) - Amharic	Original Amharic name	Previous Israeli name(s)	Gender	Age	Marital status
Iris (I)	Ingesu		Female	32	Married + 2
Shoshana (I)	Nachet		Female	29	Single
Shahar (I)	Menisan		Male	40	Single
Almaz (A)	Almaz	Galit, Rivka	Female	28	Single
Moshe (I)	Rada		Male	39	Married + 3
Chorit (A)	Anguach	Aviva, Ortal	Female	37	Married + 3
Dani (I)	Pakado		Male	40	Married + 2
Tahun (A)	Tahun	Ronit	Female	31	Married + 1
Lital (I)	Almito		Female	34	Married + 1
Zierda (A)	Zierda	Varda	Female	33	Married + 2
Nechama (I)	Debro		Female	34	Single
Ofer (I)	Itayo	Itai	Male	39	Married + 4
Yeshito (A) Babich (A)	Yeshito Babich	Aviva	Female	40	Divorced + 1
Abevech (A)	Abevech	Dina	Female	38	Married + 3
Itzhak (I)	Malo		Male	40	Married + 4
Adi (I)	Amarech	Aviva, Adi	Female	25	Single
Amarech (A) Ladina (A)	Amarech Ladina	Tova	Female	25	Single
Bayosh (A)	Bayosh	Miriam	Female	31	Married
Worke (A)	Worke		Female	38	Single

Procedure and interview

Snowball sampling was used to identify participants, working from initial respondents recruited through personal contacts. These initial interviewees referred us to their friends and relatives who, in turn, referred us to other participants. The second author (Yakhnich) contacted potential participants (only two refused due to difficulties in scheduling) and presented the study’s aims to them. Interviews took place between May and September 2018 at participants’ workplaces and homes, and in the second author’s office (according to participants’ request) in several cities in central Israel (Tel-Aviv, Petah-Tikva, Netanya, Hadera, and Kfar Sava). All interviews were conducted in Hebrew, recorded, and transcribed. Field notes were taken during interviews.

The study employed an in-depth, semi-structured interview technique (Kvale 1996). After collecting demographic data, participants were asked to discuss their names, their history and meaning, and the issues of name change and name reclaiming. Follow-up questions asked participants to discuss experiences associated with changing their names, identifying with Israeli versus Amharic names, and reconnecting to their original names. Interviews were notable for their positive atmosphere, openness, and cooperation. Most interviewees appreciated the fact that name changing and reclaiming were being explored, were glad to contribute to the study, and stressed its significance. At the end of interviews, we asked participants if they would like us to share with them the summary of the results and receive their feedback. Eleven participants agreed, and others said they could not commit, mainly due to a lack of time. Interviews lasted for 60–90 minutes. The number of participants was based on data saturation. After performing 15 interviews, we felt that no new data were being shared but conducted four more interviews to ensure no new information was obtained (Creswell and Clark 2007). Bracketing, probing questions, joint reading of interviews, and initial coding (Ness 2015) were used to determine the saturation point as well.

We informed participants that participation in the study was voluntary and that they could stop the interview whenever they wanted. We kept their personal information confidential by giving each interview a serial number, removing participants’ names from the transcripts, and keeping the names and numbers separately. All but two participants preferred their actual Amharic names to be used in the published analysis. Pseudonyms were used for the remaining two Amharic names, as well as for all Israeli names, to prevent participants’ identification. The study received ethical approval from the first author’s (Walsh) academic institution.

Data Analysis and Trustworthiness

Data analysis was performed, using an inductive approach (Braun and Clarke 2006) and in accordance with Moustakas’s (1994) principles of phenomenological reduction. First, we read and re-read the transcripts to become familiar with the data. Then, we identified “significant statements” regarding participants’ perceptions about changing and reclaiming one’s name in the context of immigration and collated these statements into clusters of meaning. We organized these clusters into potential themes and checked their relation to the entire data set, thus developing a hierarchical thematic map of the analysis. For example, the theme of “name and identity” was composed of the subthemes “changing one’s name is connected to one’s identity,” “returning to Amharic names reflects larger dynamics of reconnecting to Ethiopian identity,” “returning to original name contributes to participants’ sense of wholeness,” and so on. After completing the list of themes, we re-read interviews to rule out the possibility of misunderstanding or missing significant statements. Finally, we selected vivid examples and wrote up the results.

The data were analyzed in collaboration between the authors, a practice that contributed to reaching deeper interpretation, reducing possible biases, and considering alternative perspectives regarding the findings (Karnieli-Miller, Frankel, and Inui 2013). After completing the data analysis, we conducted “member checks” — presenting our interpretations and/or data report to all or some participants to allow them to comment on the findings (Lincoln and Guba 1985; Goldblatt, Karnieli-Miller, and Neumann 2011). We contacted the 11 participants who agreed to take part in member-checking, located eight of them, and e-mailed them the summary of the results and emerging conclusions. All eight responded to our request. They confirmed the data, as well as our interpretations and conclusions. Some further explained, broadened, or refined central issues and ideas. Their observations were incorporated in the analysis, when necessary.

Reflexivity

Our personal background in relation to issues relevant to the study should be addressed. Both authors are clinicians (Walsh is a clinical psychologist, and Yakhnich is a social worker). Both are immigrants — Walsh immigrated to Israel in young adulthood from the United Kingdom. Her non-Jewish first name and Jewish second (middle) name, given to her by her parents, reflected their wish for her to avoid anti-Semitism but also to be connected to their heritage. She resisted attempts by authorities to remove her first name upon immigration. Yakhnich immigrated to Israel in adolescence from the former Soviet Union and voluntarily changed her name. The Israeli name is her official name, but in non-official settings, she uses both her Hebrew and Russian names, according to social and linguistic context. As such, we experienced the challenges of immigration and changes in cultural identity and we have personal connections to some of the issues discussed by participants. However, we do not share participants’ cultural background or skin color. Thus, our immigration and integration experiences were, no doubt, different.

Although completely setting aside researchers’ perceptions is impossible (Moustakas 1994), throughout the work, we strove to reduce the impact of our own experiences on the interpretation of findings. We discussed our shared and unshared experiences related to immigration and cultural identity and we worked to reduce possible bias by using an inductive approach to data analysis and by presenting its results to nearly half the participants, prior to writing (Levitt et al. 2018). Incorporating participants’ quotations in the results section allows the reader to follow the thematic construction of the findings and to judge the arguments and interpretations independently (Shkedi 2003).

Results

Data analysis revealed two simultaneous dialogues that existed in participants’ narratives. One was an internal dialogue in which participants described the personal processes they had experienced, including how they understood having their names changed and then changing them back. The second was a more external dialogue related to dynamics between participants, the Jewish Ethiopian community, and Israeli society at large.

We present these two dialogues through the following themes that emerged from the analysis: (a) Amharic names — naming traditions in Ethiopian Jewish community and the unique meaning of Amharic names; (b) Hebrew names — participants receiving Hebrew names upon immigration and personal, as well as social, circumstances that accompanied this change; (c) reclaiming Amharic names — the process of reclaiming original Amharic names and personal and social factors involved in this process; (d) name and identity — the link between name and the dynamics of searching and connecting to Ethiopian identity; and (e) children’s names — names and identity reflected in participants’ naming of their own children.

Amharic Names: “My Family Underwent Something with this Name”

In Ethiopia, first names had special meaning in the Jewish community. The name was given in the context of the child’s birth circumstances, significant events that preceded his/her birth, his/her place in the family, and expectations attached to his/her arrival: “A young couple can call their first son Arande — ‘I’m not alone in the world anymore, someone came to help me.’ What a beautiful name!” (Shahar, male, 40 years old). Often, the name carried the hopes and fears of the person who gave it: “My grandfather’s mother died when he was a baby. His father called him Baikade — ‘don’t go like your mother, stay with me’” (Ofer, male, 39 years old). The child got his/her name not only from the parents but also from other family members.

Most participants appreciated and loved their names, and were deeply connected to them, even if they did not use them in everyday life: “I really love to say: ‘My name is Zierda’ because I know the reaction will be, ‘Wow!’ And it is not just beautiful, it has its meaning, my family underwent something with this name” (Zierda, female, 33 years old). Two participants were ambivalent about their Amharic names precisely because of their loaded meaning: “Tahun is ‘she will be.’ She came after a son, so just let her be. Ethiopians always reacted to my name: ‘Ahhh…you were born after a son.’ It annoyed me” (Tahun, female, 31 years). We can see that participants’ emotional connection to their names is closely associated with the meaning and idea conveyed by those names, as well as with cultural and familial traditions interwoven into naming practices. We can also note the significance that participants attached to the emotional connection and meaning of their birth names prior to discussing the name change.

Hebrew Names: “Ok, if it is Easier for You”

After immigration, all but one participants’ names were officially changed to Israeli names by officials (mainly teachers) who worked with immigrants. Sometimes, the name was changed several times (often unofficially), as in Almaz’s case:

At the absorption center I was called Rivka. I don’t know who decided that. When I visited a doctor for the first time (her name was Galit), she told me: “What is this name? It doesn’t suit such a beautiful girl!” She said that from that day on, my name was Galit, like her. From that moment, I called myself Galit. My mother didn’t understand much. A white lady, a doctor, said, “Galit is beautiful.” It meant a lot for her. (Almaz, female, 28)

All participants reported that they changed their names mainly because Israeli residents had difficulty pronouncing their names and because the change eased their contact with others. However, another frequently reported reason for the change was participants’ attempt to please another person: “I really loved my teacher, Iris. She said, ‘Let’s call you Iris.’ Today, I think it was somewhat patronizing of her, but I really liked her and took her name” (Iris, female, 32 years old). Some, like Ofer (male, 39 years old), changed their names because they wanted to belong to Israeli society: “We dreamed to come to Israel. And we came, after all the suffering in Sudan. Do you know how much it meant for me to receive an Israeli name?”

Most participants (11) did not fully adapt and identify with their Israeli names: “I felt I was not connected to it, it had no meaning for me because it was not given by my parents” (Abevech, female, 38 years old). Four participants, however, did adjust to their new names: “I like my name, because of its meaning (Biblical Moses). I’m rich with names. I know who I am, where I came from, what is my real name. I use each name when it is convenient for me” (Moshe, male, 39 years old). Another four participants reported a neutral perception of their Israeli names: “This name came from the outside. I adopted it because I understood it was part of being here. I didn’t really think about it” (Dani, male, 40 years old). It should be noted, though, that all participants’ parents continued to use their Amharic names.

When asked what they thought about the practice of changing Ethiopian immigrants’ names, all participants disagreed with it, feeling that the change was imposed on them without their consent: “It was a kind of coercion, like someone took their identities” (Zierda, female, 33 years old). They believe this practice resulted from Israeli society’s sense of superiority over Ethiopian immigrants and desire to take advantage of their naivety: “They could do anything, and we would accept it. We were naive” (Moshe, male, 39 years old). Ofer believed that Ethiopian immigrants’ adaptation policy was characterized by arrogance and dullness: “The establishment didn’t count us, didn’t respect the elders, decided for us.” Some believed that this attitude was not specific to the Ethiopian community and that all immigrants were treated this way as part of a “melting pot” ideology: “Changing the names is awful, but all immigrants went through this. Russians, Mizrachim (immigrants from Arab and Asian countries), everyone who is weak” (Adi, female, 25 years old).

Others believed that Israeli authorities’ patronizing attitude toward Ethiopian community stemmed from racial discrimination: “The discrimination is not about a specific person; it’s about color and culture” (Nechama, female, 34 years old). These participants reported being black in a predominantly white society as a central factor shaping the Ethiopian community-Israeli society’s relationships: “I have a transparent identity. People don’t ask me where I came from, it’s obvious. This is the first thing they see” (Yeshito, female, 40 years old). Through participants’ narratives, we can see the process of name changing as an alienating and impersonal procedure driven by convenience considerations, lack of sensitivity, arrogance, and even racial discrimination on the part of the host society. As a result, in most cases, participants did not identify with their new names and did not feel emotionally connected to them.

Re-owning Amharic names: “I had to bring Yeshito here”

Out of 18 participants whose names were changed, seven had returned to their original Amharic names (all female), one took an Amharic name different from the original one, and four were considering changing their names back to their original Ethiopian names. Interestingly, some of those who had reclaimed their Ethiopian name also liked their Israeli one. Similarly, there were those who did not feel connected to their Israeli name but had not reclaimed the Ethiopian one. Notably, for those who had reclaimed their original names, these names replaced the Hebrew names and were used in both public and private contexts. When asked about the reasons for the change, four of the eight reported that it resulted from a personal crisis and the ensuing process of self-realization. In Yeshito’s case, the catalyst was a highly traumatic and life-threatening event:

I was involved in an accident. I call it a gift from heaven; it made me what I am today. It connected me to my name as well. I understood that Aviva had completed her part in my life and that I had to bring Yeshito here because she was left in my village in Ethiopia. (Yeshito, female, 40 years old)

In Almaz’s case, taking back her Amharic name resulted from a prolonged experience of bewilderment and dissatisfaction:

I had a sort of identity crisis. It was a very difficult period, a lot of questions…I came to college after the summer break and announced my name was Almaz. I think this was partially the reason for my lack of confidence at that time: I was Almaz, Rivka, Galit, and I came back to Almaz. I’m not all of these names, I’m Almaz. (Almaz, female, 28 years old)

Others, like Bayosh (female, 31), reported less stirring, but still personally meaningful, events (often in educational settings) that raised the issues of name and identity:

I had a course about identity, and I said to myself, “I have an identity, I have roots.” I understood Miriam was not part of my tradition, and the name my mother gave me was meaningful. It was part of me; I couldn’t deny it. It was a moment of enlightenment: ‘I have to change my name.’

As mentioned earlier, four participants had not returned to their names but were considering it. They postponed this decision, however, because of the difficulties they believed would come with the change: “I hesitate; it comes and goes. Lital has been my name for many years. Who will recognize me as Almito? So, I go on with it. But I don’t feel complete. I admire people who return to their names. Who knows? Maybe one day I will also be Almito” (Lital, female, 34 years old).

Some participants that did not return to their original names had begun to use them as second names in social networks, when signing documents, and when renewing their passports. All reported that their family members (especially the older ones) called them by their Amharic names, and that outside the family, they were known by their Hebrew names: “At home my cousins call me Nachet, and when we go out together, they call me Shoshana” (Shoshana, female, 29 years old).

Notably, going back to one’s Amharic name brought with it a variety of reactions from other people. Some people, especially family and close friends, accepted the change and stuck with the old-new name. However, outside this close circle, the name was often used incorrectly, as in Nechama’s (female, 34 years old) case: “I tried to return to my name, but people distorted it, couldn’t say it right. I felt my name was ruined, so I gave up and went back to Nechama. Maybe it was a mistake.” Some participants, like Shahar, felt that Israeli society did not make enough effort to say the names correctly: “Is it so hard to read what is written? Don’t call me at all, but if you do – at least say it right.”

In many cases, participants faced implicit or direct suggestions to change their names (after they reclaimed their original names): “What does it mean? Blossom? Let’s call you Perach” (flower in Hebrew; Abevech, female, 38 years old). Some, like Shahar, reacted to these suggestions with anger, while others, like Zierda (female, 33 years old), explained patiently but with determination: “I say, ‘Zierda is a rose, but my name is Zierda, not Rose. This name was given to me by my parents, like your name was given to you by yours. And like you, I love and respect my parents, love my name, and don’t want to change it’.”

Interestingly, none of the male participants took back their original Amharic name. Although only five men participated in this study, which is not a sufficient basis for drawing firm conclusions; we tentatively suggest a possible gendered difference in the process of name reclaiming. All male participants used their Hebrew names, and none considered taking their Amharic name back: “I know that many Ethiopians take back their names. I have no energy for this. I won’t change the world. It’s needless” (Dani, male, 4 years old 0).

Participants reflected on the evolving dynamics of returning to Amharic names that takes place in Israel’s Ethiopian community and on their personal journey within this communal process. Some took back their original names (mainly due to personal struggles and meaningful events), some considered it, while others did not. On any point on this continuum, participants had to cope with personal challenges, as well as with the reactions of the people around them. In some cases, this process sharpened the connection between naming, renaming, reclaiming one’s name, and issues of identity.

Name and Identity: “Nachet is the Real me”

All participants stressed the strong connection between a person’s name and his/her identity: “A name has a power, an aura. It’s connected to who you are. You just feel it” (Zierda, female, 33 years old). Amharic names, because of their symbolism, were particularly embedded in participants’ sense of self. When talking about the deep relationship between names and the person, Yeshito shared: “There is an element of uniqueness. For me, you are not just a child, not just another Shimon. Inside Shimon, I find Asmara — someone who makes peace. For me you’re Asmara, and for everybody else – Shimon. The names are components of your personality” (Yeshito, female, 40 years old).

Participants believed that the process of returning to Amharic names reflected larger dynamics of searching and reconnecting to Ethiopian identity after a long period of trying to downplay it. This process included not just name reclaiming but also increased interest in Ethiopia’s heritage, customs, and language: “Names are only a symptom. Youngsters go to Ethiopia to see where they were born, to recognize their parents’ history. In the beginning, it paid off to be OK, to integrate, to emulate the language, the culture” (Worke, female, 38 years old).

Paradoxically, a sense of confidence and belonging to Israeli society, regardless of one’s name, made it possible for some participants to reconnect to their original names: “As Miriam I felt belonging here. But with time, I felt strong enough not to feel an outsider. My sense of belonging is reflected in me being Bayosh and being accepted as Bayosh. I don’t have to change to belong” (Bayosh, female, 31 years old). Bayosh, describing herself as strong, raised the issue of power that accompanied her return to her original name. Other participants stated clearly that reclaiming their Amharic names involved taking back their agency, autonomy, and right to self-determination: “I insisted the certificate had to be registered on my name: ‘No way can you write Ortal on it. I won’t leave till I see my real name!’” (Chorit, female, 37 years old). Tahun (female, 31 years old) argued with her own siblings (who continued calling her by her Hebrew name) in order to have her name back: “This was the only thing I’ve ever insisted on with my family. A rebellion.”

For most participants, returning to their Amharic names contributed to their sense of integrity:

It was like a puzzle with a missing part, and now the puzzle is complete. It brought focus and clarity as to who I am. I had so many questions, and they led to me being Yeshito. Being Shoshana is being somebody else. It took time, it was like divorcing one wife to bring the other in. (Yeshito, female, 40 years old)

Yeshito depicted a process that she had already completed, but other participants were in the midst of it: “It bothers me. Maybe I’m even depressed. Part of me is Amarech, another part is Ladina, Tova, I don’t know…. I’m not balanced” (Amarech, female, 25 years old).

For some participants, especially those who immigrated at a very young age, the strong name-identity connection actually led them to stick to their Israeli names: “Iris is my identity. Ingesu doesn’t define me anymore, it doesn’t say that I’m a mother, I was in the army, went to college. All this happened to Iris. Ingesu is irrelevant” (Iris, female, 32 years old). However, others, like Shoshana (female, 29 years old), who immigrated at the age of 6 years, felt closely connected to their Amharic names: “Nachet is the real me, naked, and Shoshana is to dress up, being someone else.”

Interestingly, some participants referred to a sense of “dual identity,” with each name representing a different person characterized by differential thinking and behavior: “Almaz is more confident, powerful, knows what she wants. She doesn’t get confused; she knows to look for the answers. Galit is totally different, she lives the moment. She is still stuck in high school” (Almaz, female, 28 years old). In similar fashion, two participants (Yeshito, female, 40 years old; Abevech, female, 38 years old) recollected a time when they were conducting an internal dialogue between their two identities. They were corresponding (writing letters) with the “other person” as part of coping with an internal crisis that eventually led to reclaiming their original names. Here is how Abevech presented this dialogue:

I said to myself, ‘I have Dina, and I have Abevech. Abevech is me, the new immigrant, and Dina is an old-timer, she will help me.’ I started writing to her. I was complaining, crying, sharing my happiness and anger, and she answered: ‘Don’t worry, it’s a matter of time, you will be OK.’ It was incredible, it gave me strength. It was a kind of therapy. I don’t know if I could do it without her. As I graduated, I wrote her a letter: ‘Thank you for helping me, I appreciate it. Now we part ways, I go with Abevech, and you stay here, I don’t need your help anymore.’

Participants’ narratives reflect reconnecting to their roots through reclaiming their original names and searching for a balance between their Israeli and Ethiopian identities. This process involved reaching a sense of confidence, agency, and wholeness, and it gave rise to a meaningful bond — and sometimes break — between different parts of their selves. Although they described this process as deeply personal, we suggest that it is also situated within the communal acculturation process of a community feeling increased confidence and pride in their identity.

Children’s Names: “He Has One More Name, that It Is Part of his Identity”

The process of seeking and connecting to an Ethiopian identity through an Amharic name, described earlier, was ongoing for participants: it was often initiated at a specific point triggered by internal or external factors, intensifying or weakening at different times, but always present in their lives. Moreover, the role of Amharic names in participants’ identities continued into the next generation, as is reflected in participants’ naming of their children. Eleven participants had children, and 10 had given their children Amharic names as well as Israeli names. Half of participants said that Amharic names were given to their children by grandparents, who only used these names, while the parents themselves used only the Israeli name. Others chose Amharic names for their children, attaching great significance to these names, even if in everyday life, they used the children’s Israeli names. For Tahun (female, 31 years old), giving her son an Amharic name meant bequeathing an Ethiopian identity to the next generation:

His name is Kfir (baby lion in Hebrew); in Amharic, it is Waili. My husband proposed the name Kfir, and I agreed, but at some point, I wanted to call him Waili. Now I call him Kfir, but when he grows up a little, I’ll tell him he has one more name, that it is part of his identity.

For Moshe (male, 39 years old), his children having two names solidified their connection to him, based on their common cultural and historical origins:

My children have two names; both are registered in their passports. The first name is Hebrew, but the Amharic one is always next to it. They are like me; why shouldn’t they have two names? They are Israelis, and they are Ethiopian; they have roots.

Interestingly, the majority of participants that did not have children planned to give their future children Amharic names: “They will have also Israeli names, but I’ve already decided the Amharic ones. Of course, it depends on the birth circumstances, but for my firstborn son, I have a name” (Shahar, male, 40 years old).

We can see that for participants, giving Amharic names to their children born in Israel represented a continuity and ongoing connection between generations. Ethiopian Jewish traditions, culture, and heritage continued their existence in the young generation of Ethiopian Israelis, thus bridging life before and after immigration. Giving Amharic names to their children suggests the importance of maintaining their heritage identities and may also reflect a sense of pride or affirmation in their cultural background.

Discussion

This article examined the phenomenon of name reclaiming among Ethiopian immigrants in Israel. It sought to widen academic discourse by understanding the way in which a very personal process of name reclaiming intertwined with the socio-political context for young adult immigrants from a racially discriminated minority group. From participants’ willingness to take part in this study and from the content of interviews, it was clear that names and naming were very important to participants and that all of them saw an intimate link between their names and identities (Dion 1983; Aksholakova 2014; Tummala-Narra 2016).

Through the analysis, we identified two simultaneous dialogues that existed in participants’ narratives: an internal dialogue in which participants described the personal processes they had experienced and a more external dialogue related to the dynamics between participants, the Ethiopian community, and Israeli society at large. The first, inner, dialogue was related to the relationship between names and a sense of self and identity (Dion 1983; Aksholakova 2014). All but two participants loved their Amharic names (Ceynar and Stewart 2014), while the majority did not like their Hebrew names. All disagreed with the process of name changing that had taken place upon immigration, and most felt that their “true” (De Pina-Cabral 2010) identity lay with their Amharic name. This name was given to them by their parents, with meaning and emotion, as opposed to the Israeli name given to them, often arbitrarily, by an official and often incorporating personal references of the person giving the name.

Participants described a process in regard to their names that developed over time, alongside their immigration experience. At first, nearly all took on the names they were given by Israeli authorities, and few discussed a sense of agency or choice. They (and their parents) accepted this change because it was requested by the host society (Li 1997; Norquay 1998; Kim 2007). Some participants’ names were changed several times, and they experienced their new names as extraneous and strange. It is important to note that some, such as Iris, felt a connection to their Israeli names, since many pivotal and important experiences took place within that identity and that name. Yet, overall, participants described feeling split between different selves existing under different names. Each name related to a different set of experiences, with no way to bridge between the names. At some stage, some participants experienced a crisis, a turning point (Rutter 1996), after which they reclaimed their Amharic names.

The emergence of a split in self-identity following immigration has been discussed in the psychological literature (Akhtar 1999; Walsh and Shulman 2007). According to Akhtar (1999), immigration-related stress can lead to a split in self and object representations, separating valued and devalued aspects of the self. Within this state, immigrants can find it difficult to integrate a positive and coherent sense of themselves. In a positive situation of adaptation, with enough fulfillment of growth needs and efficacy experiences, a synthesis of two self-representations can gradually set in (Akhtar 1999), leading to the capacity for more complex representations of the self. Participants in this study described a sense of split or elements of their selves that could not be integrated. Each name had its own set of experiences, and it was difficult to connect them. This lack of integration led to a sense of dissatisfaction and lack of authenticity.

What, then, enabled participants to reclaim their names? Nearly all described feelings of agency, power, strength, and autonomy (Bandura 1982; Ryan 1993) that accompanied the process of reclaiming their names, together with a rejection of the racial discrimination and low social position they experienced in Israel. We, thus, suggest that reclaiming their names occurred at a time when participants no longer felt passive or powerless, as they had at the start of the immigration process. For some, reclaiming their Amharic names paralleled a growing sense of confidence and integration in Israeli society, whereby their sense of belonging was no longer under threat. Since participants immigrated with their families as children and had little choice over their names, reclaiming their Amharic name as adults may also reflect greater feelings of confidence and independence as adults who had grown up in Israel. For many, reclaiming the name led to a sense of wholeness, a reintegration of the different parts of the self (Akhtar 1999).

This idea that reclaiming names is related to growing feelings of power and agency may also relate to our study’s gender dynamics. In contrast to the majority of women who had reclaimed their names, no men had done so. While the number of men was small (five) and any interpretation can be only speculative, we can suggest, in line with theories of intersectionality (Crenshaw 1990; Cho, Crenshaw, and McCall 2013), that for black women who experienced discrimination due to both their skin color and gender, the need for rebalancing power and for a sense of agency may be more crucial and may be expressed through name reclaiming.

It is notable that most participants had given their children two names, Israeli and Amharic, and felt that they and their children could hold together multiple identities or selves (Rosenberg 1997) harmoniously and coherently. These findings back up research suggesting that name taking can be a bridge between cultures and identities (Sue and Telles 2007; Edwards and Caballero 2008) and that through naming, immigrants can express their connections to both their heritage and host cultures (Gerhards and Hans 2009).

However, within the naming practices analyzed here, there was also an external dialogue with a society that forced adoption of Israeli names, which was arrogant and not prepared to cope with difficult names, and which, from a paternalistic perspective, wanted the newcomers to change. Name changing can be a way the host society places responsibility on immigrants for their successful integration (Pennesi 2016), and it can reflect social processes and relationships of power (Alia 1994; Bodenhorn and Vom Bruck 2006). In this study, name change was seen as making the lives of the host population easier, as pleasing them, and as reinforcing their authority. Thus, participants experienced anger toward Israeli society for mispronouncing their Amharic names and not making the effort to pronounce them correctly, and for wanting immigrants to keep Hebrew names.

This external dialogue with society also reflects the process of acculturation and integration of Israel’s Ethiopian community. Initially, the community was accepting of policies and decisions made by the Israeli government toward them (Kaplan and Salamon 1998), but, in recent years, it has started protesting and speaking out against racism and the lack of opportunities (Wahle et al. 2017). One can hear the dialogue of the young people in the study within the framework of a community that has transitioned from a lack of a confidence toward feelings of ethnic pride, together with feelings of anger and determination. We suggest that what was experienced by individuals in the study as a very personal process of identity also reflects the social process of a discriminated group rejecting passive acceptance of the host society’s dictates and starting to express ethnic pride (Girma 2020). However, it is important to stress that some participants had not and did not intend to reclaim their Amharic names. The story of Israel’s Ethiopian community is diverse, and, we suggest, these different perspectives reflect different voices within the community related to their ethnic identity and pride, levels of integration, and feelings of confidence and agency. It may be that some community members did not yet feel a sense of agency or empowerment, or that, for some, as suggested earlier in relation to gender differences, their feelings of belonging and confidence did not necessitate reclaiming Amharic names.

On a broader level, we suggest that the dialogue that individuals had with their names may also reflect their community’s immigration process or story, echoing the literature identifying similar processes among oppressed minorities, such as Black Americans, in the case of renaming (Neal 2001; Brown and Lively 2012). Processes surrounding naming, name change, and name reclaiming may inform us about the immigration experience (and the changing power relations within it), as well as the unfolding of a particular community’s immigration story over time in a particular context. Specifically, in the case of racially discriminated minority groups, a process of reclaiming heritage names may signify increased feelings of power, agency, autonomy, and confidence among group members and their rejection of the host society’s paternalism.

Conclusions

This article shows the intricate intertwining of personal and socio-political processes among immigrants and minority groups who are discriminated against, through an examination of name reclaiming. However, there are some limitations that should be noted. First, most participants had academic degrees and felt comfortable to take part in the study. The themes of agency, confidence, and autonomy may be less present among Ethiopian immigrants with lower levels of social capital, such as education, and among those who would not feel comfortable being interviewed. More educated members of the Ethiopian community may also have had greater awareness of the issues around name change, as they may have been more exposed to issues of name change, ethnicity, and the politics of naming in study and workplaces through, for example, college courses and student discourse on campus. Second, interviews took place in Hebrew, meaning that only those people who could communicate in Hebrew could take part. Speaking Hebrew is likely to characterize immigrants more integrated in Israeli society, and that integration may enable a sense of power and agency necessary to facilitate a process of name reclaiming. However, studies with immigrants who do not speak fluent Hebrew would be needed to further explore the meaning behind name reclaiming. Third, while both researchers are immigrants with good knowledge of the Ethiopian community, they are not Ethiopian. Participants may have opened up differently to Ethiopian researchers. Finally, most participants were female. Their narratives were generally richer in details and introspection than those of male interviewees. Moreover, no male participants took back their Amharic names. While qualitative findings do not allow generalization about major differences in the way male and female immigrants experience name change and name reclaiming, gender is an important direction for future research.

The results presented here have significant implications for the wider study of international migration. Studies to date have focused on the individual, psychological aspects of naming and name changing following immigration (Sue and Telles 2007; Tummala-Narra 2016) or on the ways that (re-)naming reflects social and political processes (Bodenhorn and Vom Bruck 2006; Girma 2020) but less on the interplay between these levels. In this article, we have suggested that understanding how personal (psychological) and social-political processes intertwine can give richness and depth to immigration research (see also Schwartz et al. 2020). Flyvbjerg (2006), in an examination of misunderstandings around case studies, focuses on the “critical case,” which can advance theoretical understandings due to its unique position. Israel’s Ethiopian immigrant community, discriminated against for their skin color yet formally welcomed due to their Jewish status, is such a group. We suggest that if the subject of name reclaiming may be a means of expressing the rejection of discrimination and asserting ethnic pride, it is likely to be (even more) so for less welcomed groups.

Equally important, the findings presented here point to policy recommendations, including ending official (and, if possible, unofficial) forced name changes among immigrants. We also suggest that those working clinically with immigrants should be encouraged to discuss the issue of name change, as it may enable deep therapeutic work facilitating the integration of a more coherent sense of self and the exploration of issues of discrimination, agency, and self-determination. In addition, we suggest that the school framework is important for encouraging cultural sensitivity and identity processes. Teacher training can involve awareness of and sensitivity around name changing and can give teachers the tools to encourage immigrant children to share, discuss, and explore their own connections to their heritage and new names. In today’s reality of mass immigration, where many immigrant groups face racial or ethnic discrimination and low minority status, understanding the connection between an individual’s ability to choose or self-determine their name and feelings of autonomy, agency, and power seems pivotal in helping create truly multicultural societies that value and accept diversity and that endeavor to fight against unequal power relations.

Footnotes

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

ORCID iD

Liat Yaknich

Notes

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