January 25, 1999

JERUSALEM (AP) -- Batya Tadela, a 16-year-old Ethiopian immigrant to Israel, used to be hurt

and insulted when people called her ``kushi,'' a Hebrew word commonly used to refer to blacks.

But now, like many young Ethiopian immigrants weathering tough times, Tadela has found an unlikely

source of solace, pride and identity -- America's black culture.

The fact that most of these Ethiopian teens have never visited the United States or even met a black

American doesn't prevent them from embracing rap music and hip-hop fashion, along with

sometimes misguided stereotypes gleaned from MTV, movies and news reports.

``All the Ethiopians try to imitate the (American) blacks,'' said Tadela, who emigrated from the

Gondar region of Ethiopia seven years ago and lives near Tel Aviv.

For centuries, Ethiopian Jews dreamed of reaching Israel. Much of the 65,000-member community

here arrived in 1985 and 1991 through a series of dramatic airlifts. Thousands of others perished

trekking through brutal conditions in the Sudan desert on the way to airlift departure points.

But for many Ethiopians, Israel has proven something less than a promised land. As a group, they

remain at the bottommost rung of the country's economic and educational ladder, still struggling to

find social, religious and cultural acceptance.

Out of a sense of disaffection has sprung a new defiance, especially among the young.

Ethiopian traditions of indirect communication and quiet respect are often drowned in the din of

Israel's competitive, in-your-face mainstream culture. Frustrated, many Ethiopian teens are turning to

pride-and-protest themes drawn from the cultures of American and Caribbean blacks.

Nineteen-year-old Or Masrak uses a good chunk of her pay as a drugstore clerk to dance at a

rap-and-reggae nightclub in Tel Aviv.

``When we listen to black music, we don't have to feel rejected,'' she shouted over the pounding

beat. ``Here, we come together and learn to stand up for our rights.''

The Ethiopian saga in Israel has been fraught with hardships. On arrival, most became wards of an

overworked immigration bureaucracy that housed them in isolated trailer parks or urban absorption

centers where traditional farming skills proved useless in finding work.

While overt racial discrimination is relatively rare, many Ethiopians feel the sting of what they see as

Israeli disdain for them as newcomers from a primitive country.

The Ethiopians also have had to battle an Orthodox religious establishment that has questioned the

authenticity of their Jewish roots, requiring them to undergo symbolic conversion to Judaism before

marrying.

The burdens of immigrant life have fallen particularly hard on the young.

Because many parents can't provide their children with school supplies or a quiet place to study,

some teens attend state-run boarding schools attended by Israeli youngsters from troubled homes. In

some neighborhood grade schools, there is de facto segregation that Ethiopians feel has meant a

lower standard of education.

The Ethiopians' high school dropout rate exceeds 17 percent, or more than double the national

average, the Education Ministry says.

Young Ethiopians have excelled in their mandatory military service, but once demobilized, most can

get only low-paying jobs. Unemployment among older Ethiopians is high, with more than half the

families with teen-agers having no employed head of household.

Young Ethiopians' attraction to black American culture worries Ethiopian community elders, who

fear teens are distancing themselves from their own traditions.

``To be Ethiopian is not `in,''' said Shula Mula, an activist at the Israel Association for Ethiopian

Jews. ``But to be Michael Jackson is to be admired by Israelis.''

Most Ethiopian teen-agers are familiar only with stereotypical depictions of black life in the United

States: either the despair of drugs and crime or the glamour of sports and music stardom.

For most, this infatuation manifests itself in ardently following black American music and fashion. For

a few, it takes the form of hard-edged racial rhetoric.

``I don't talk to whites,'' said a 16-year-old in baggy jeans and sneakers who calls himself Tupac

after the slain American rapper Tupac Shakur. With a group of other Ethiopian teens, he was

listening to rap music and smoking cigarettes outside a dorm at a state boarding school in Jerusalem.

``It's a form of protest,'' Ethiopian lawmaker Addisu Masala said of teens who identify with

American blacks. ``When a child feels that he's not wanted here, he looks for an alternative identity.''

Younger Ethiopians see in black American culture a vibrant energy and a chance for success against

the odds.

``When I see American movies that show a lot of blacks succeeding, it makes me feel good,'' said