A Jewish Beggar in Buenos Aires

On the south side of Buenos Aires there is a tourist spot called La Boca, the Mouth. It is an old port, so small that the Conquistadors called it the Riachuelo, the Rivulet, that meets the mighty River Plate.

La Boca is picturesque. On weekends, tango dancers crowd the Caminito Street, dancing between the easels of painters exhibiting their work. Old cafés receive visitors; minibuses drive along the cobbled streets with tour guides pointing out some of the oldest houses in the city.

Along the river an old half-blind man looks after the cars in the parking areas. He wears the badge of his profession, a yellow flannel rag in his right hand. The rag is like a flag, something to wave at the passing cars to offer a parking spot. He stands at this spot twelve hours a day. The going rate for his services is fifty cents.

The old man is Mordechai. He is 82 years old, Jewish and a beggar. His life smells of the debris of the river, of the soggy packed dirt on the floor of his shack.

Mordechai was born in La Boca in 1921. His parents immigrated to Argentina from the Middle East to look for a better life. They found it among the Italians that concentrated in what was then a working class neighborhood full of mid-size industries, mechanical workshops and docks.

A first generation Argentine, Mordechai had a happy childhood. He fondly remembers his early life: the afternoon classes at the rabbi's house, the soccer games played with his brothers and neighbors. "We were never rich, but we never went to bed hungry," he recalls. "It was a good life." Mordechai first worked at factories and then moved up to a clerkship at a shop. "I was white-collar, for a while," he says with a smile.

He never married and is estranged from his family. After retiring, he enjoyed an easy life. "I only worked part time," he says, flatly. Then the December 2001 crisis ignited inflation in Argentina and wiped out his retirement. Mordechai couldn't afford rent anymore. He lived in one room in a building with no hot water, so derelict that one day the wiring collapsed. "Then I couldn't afford even that. A friend saved me; he gave me my room for free."

The room where Mordechai lives now is tucked away behind the tourist district, safely out of sight. It is in an area with dirt streets and derelict warehouses, dotted with overgrown vacant lots full of smoldering trash. On the shore are rusting abandoned ships; mangy dogs bark and fight over trash pickings.

To reach Mordechai's room one has to cross two of these urban jungles, picking their way through an open sewer and between pools of oily water and mud. The place stands alone, close to the water, well below the warehouses and the main house. "Sometimes it rains a lot, the river rises and lose access to the room," says Mordechai matter-of-factly. "Then I sleep on a bench at the park. The caretaker is a friend and he lets me."

The room is tiny, five feet by three and was built out of trash: pieces of corrugated iron, odd pieces of wood and hardboard. Long lines of rusting wire keep the whole thing together and the sun shines through the cracks. The floor could be called packed-dirt, if it wasn't so wet. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling.

The smell is overwhelming and there are no windows.

There are three big nails pegged to a wall that support Mordechai's wardrobe: two old shirts, an even older jacket, and some underwear. He sleeps on an iron cot covered with a piece of plastic. There is no mattress, no sheets, only an old rag doubling as a blanket.

Mordechai cooks on a small electrical stove. There is no furniture in the room. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a seat," he says apologetically.

Winter is cruel to the old man. The wind whistles through the cracks in the walls and there is no heating whatsoever. Nor is there running water in his home. To wash he has to walk across the vacant lot, climb a rickety staircase and enter the shambles of what was once a bathroom. "It only has cold water, but I got used to that. Unfortunately though the shower broke years ago and all I have is a faucet. I have to bend…"

Despite all this, Mordechai looks clean and groomed. His old clothes are clean and mended. He is a careful man and one that doesn't complain. Actually, he is thankful: "I am lucky that this neighbor gave me a place to live free of rent. Also, people at my synagogue, Or Torah, always give me some food when I show up for the High Holidays."

"I don't go to synagogue that often, though. It is twenty blocks from here and I can't walk that well anymore."

Mordechai is currently receiving food assistance from a JDC-sponsored Social Assistance Center and is being reunited with his relatives with the help of a social worker. He has refused housing assistance.