Decades ago, their grandparents looked death in the eye, survived, and built families. Today, these women are doing all they can to help Ukrainian refugees

Royal Welcome

Elisheva Luger

W

alking into Keter, a new “shop” in central Jerusalem, I see it’s buzzing. Women are inspecting the wares and selecting items from well-stocked racks and bins, while polite and helpful saleswomen hover nearby. There’s no cash register, because everything in the store is free, and the saleswomen are all volunteers, eager to help the “shoppers”— all refugees who have recently escaped war-torn Ukraine — get whatever they need to rebuild their lives and start anew.

This one-of-a-kind pop-up shop is stocked with anything the recent refugees might need: clothing, shoes, toiletries, medication, toys. Over 400 people have volunteered so far, helping  to locate items for donations, transporting them to the pop-up shop or directly to hotels, where the refugees are staying. Keter has also received numerous humanitarian requests for dental emergencies, medical care, and even bashful requests to help throw a birthday party for a small child.

In the shop, I see men and women enter hesitantly, and leave with full arms and visibly lighter emotional loads; I see children’s faces light up, delighted to receive new toys of their own.

The refugees can come to the pop-up store and “shop” in a dignified manner, or even have a volunteer act as a personal shopper for them and then bring the items to their hotel room.

“We’re very determined that the help is given in a dignified way, which is why we called our initiative Keter — crown. We want the refugees to receive what they need with their dignity intact,” says Kelly Brin, the organization’s founder. “Local store owners have approached me and said they can’t believe the difference on the faces of the refugees when they first walk in and when they see them on the way out. They come full of despair and broken-hearted, but they leave with a lighter step, some hope, and a smile.”

The initiative, staffed entirely by volunteers, does its best to maintain normalcy for its “customers.” The pop-up shop even stocks makeup for the new refugees. “We’ve had several women ask if we by any chance had any mascara —after their intense and grueling journey, they feel inhumane,” Kelly shares. “They just want to feel like women.”

Melissa Sussman, an olah from Efrat who helped Kelly launch the shop, recalls seeing a woman browsing the shop, tears in her eyes. Melissa tried helping her find what she needed, and then, as the two women communicated with broken English and some hand gestures, Melissa asked the woman if she could hug her. The two women embraced, and Melissa — herself the descendant of Holocaust survivors — felt the powerful connection of a shared history of persecution and refuge.