Invisible Hands that Feed New York

At 20, Mohamed Hasan of Egypt is already a veteran of the workforce. He currently works 12-hour overnight shifts for someone who rents six halal carts in Times Square, but aims to save up money to rent his own permit and make his own schedule. This includes skipping the winter weekday nights when few customers come by. It's a daunting task, as the city's permit cap has encouraged a black market in which permits are rented for up to $25,000 for two years.
After Yuvaraaj's food-obsessed son unexpectedly died, Yuva honored him by starting an award-winning Indian cart with his daughter Minakshi. Minni previously worked at the post office, but her passion for food made the career switch feel natural.
Agustin from Mexico at Street Vendor Project's April 26th protest against the city's permit cap, restriction on open streets, and police harassment of vendors. Agustin has lived undocumented in the US for 20 years. After 14 years of working for the same restaurant, his boss reneged on his promise to sponsor him for residency. When his wife Claudia got cancer, he switched to joining her full-time on her cart in Corona, selling candied nuts, handmade chips, and fried-to-order churros.
Luis Marin danced ballet in his native Colombia, at the Conservatory of Music in Cali. Still a lover of art and culture, he waxes lyrical about his favorite Latino authors and has documentary films ready to recommend. Sponsored by his brother, he immigrated in his 30s and worked for years on a Salvadoran woman's unauthorized cart in Corona. Due to strict limits set in the early 80s, Luis waited 18 years to legally own an NYC vending permit.
Saad Abdelatif from Algeria makes smoothies as an employee of another vendor who rents a seasonal permit from the original owner—there's a lot of levels in the New York City street food world. After a long day in Astor Place, he waits for the cart to be taken to its garage.
Adel Zo experienced his first US-based Ramadan, with far longer daylight than in his native Algeria, while working exhausting nights on a smoothie cart in Times Square. Trained as a database engineer but unwilling to keep bribing connections in Algeria to maintain his government job, Adel feels a laborious street-vending job for an Egyptian boss offers greater freedom.
The 2016 season was more difficult than usual on Mohamed Attia. With his business partner back home in Egypt to get married, he took over the responsibility of driving their three smoothie carts between the garage and their vending locations rather than pay a driver $50 per trip. This has meant 3AM wakeups, traffic jams six times per day, and very little rest. After eight years in this country, Mohamed claims he has no idea what financial stability feels like.
Mohamed Attia speaks at City Hall on October 13th, 2016 to help introduce the Street Vending Modernization Act, which attempts to change many of the difficult restrictions vendors face. Mohamed serves on Street Vendor Project's leadership board, and as one of the few members fluent in English, frequently speaks on behalf of the organization. Vendors held signs declaring, "I have waited 10 years for a permit" and "street vendors = small business" while city councilmembers spoke in support. If the bill is approved, it won't solve all the vendors' issues, but will go a long way to help.
Originally from Afghanistan, Habib Nazarwal is a genius for languages. He interacts with customers in Spanish and Russian, his English is flawless, and naturally he speaks Pashto; add Dari, Urdu, Farsi, Arabic, Hindi and Polish to the mix. This resourceful vendor turned his breakfast cart into an all-day cart a few years ago when both competition and costs rose. In addition to morning pastries and egg sandwiches, he now sells gyros, chicken on rice, and curries until the drunks go home; meanwhile, he's nearly vegan himself. His work schedule means he only sees his three children on weekends.
Halal carts in Times Square never take breaks. Young and single, Mohamed Hasan from Egypt always takes the overnight shift, hoping tourists will not be deterred by rain or freezing temperatures. During the lucrative summer months, he dutifully sends money home to his parents and fiancée, but in the winter, he's lucky to earn enough for rent and food. Any worker unwilling to suffer the slow winter risks being fired before summer.
When Eliana Oliver immigrated from Bolivia decades ago, obtaining a vending permit at the true price was a little easier, and her longtime relationship with her garage keeps her spot rental low. Her husband also works, and their children are nearly finished with university. So she isn't on her cart much these days, taking most of her time to attend meetings with various immigrant rights groups, protesting loudly, or doing outreach with other vendors like this flirt from Senegal. Most vendors are too busy to meet with City Council and voice their concerns, but Eliana truly fights on their behalf.
Marvin Cervantes, 19, crossed the Mexican border with his parents as a child, and now assists Luis Marin on his arepa cart. He is a voracious reader, an aspiring writer, and a glutton for new knowledge. Fascinated by cultural diversity and the opportunity to hear new ideas, he isn't burdened by the 9PM-5AM shifts—he cheerfully claims it allows him to meet unusual people. He hopes to attend community college soon, but without documents he lives in limbo.
After a 12-hour shift, carts are driven back to their garages.
Agustin of Mexico recently lost his wife Claudia to cancer. He still isn't working a regular schedule; some days he is too sad to leave the apartment. Some days the memories overwhelm him and he has to work for the distraction. His mother-in-law is asking him to visit Puebla, but without residency documents after 20 years in the US, he isn't certain he can get back in. He will make a decision about visiting Mexico after his next cart inspection in July.
Adelina crossed the Mexican border as a teenager, working in a sewing factory for 17 years. After obtaining citizenship, she left to vend for a Dominican ices company. She enjoys selling the sweet treats to children outside their schools, but if she could obtain her own permit she'd rather sell Mexican foods.
Emam Sakr, originally from Egypt, works as part of a crew of connected halal food carts in Times Square. He became a US citizen last year, full of pride to educate his son in America. Soon after, police harassed him at work for unclear reasons. Mere months after naturalization, Emam now hopes his work on a halal food cart will earn enough money to return his little family to Egypt instead.
Smoothie-cart worker Saad Abdelatif wanted to be a journalist, but his baccalaureate scores weren't high enough. Instead, he studied child psychology, a field that should be vital during our worldwide refugee crisis. He holds no illusions of using his degree to move out of selling smoothies, however; in his native Algeria he only interned for a few months before switching to a better salary in mobile phone sales.
Outspoken and fiercely patriotic, Delmy Zelaya visited the US as a fourteen-year-old tourist, and never returned to her native El Salvador. On disability after a lifetime of difficult work, she now sells obleas for extra cash. Corona is dotted with small, unauthorized vendors like Delmy, selling specialty items from makeshift pushcarts. Unable to purchase permits due to NYC's frustratingly-low capacity, unable to pay the black-market rental rate, hoping to break even on a granny cart full of tamales.
Delmy Zelaya and other Street Vendor Project members protested in the Financial District on April 26th, 2016. The campaign concerned the lifting the 30-year-old permit cap, opening more streets for vending, and ending police harassment.
MD Nazim Uddin, a hot dog & pretzels vendor originally from Bangladesh, speaks passionately about strict vending rules, such as the requirement that carts cannot be closer than 20 feet from a doorway or 10 feet from a crosswalk. In dense neighborhoods like SoHo, these restrictions are nearly impossible to follow simultaneously, and can attract a $1000 ticket if violated too many times.
Habib Nazarwal, originally from Afghanistan, advocates for natural foods and homeopathic medicine with gentle, dry humor. When a customer requests a chocolate muffin he jokes, "do you have a note from your doctor?" He started vending in the mid-90s, when it was still possible to own a cart permit, albeit with a long wait. These days, due to the strict capacity set by the city, permits are rented on the black market for up to $25,000 for two years. Spared this massive cost, Habib has the option of changing his cart from standard coffee-cart commissary offerings to ones that reflect his healthier preferences; his concern would be finding enough like-minded customers.
Abdulhamed Kharma, a fruit vendor originally from Syria, had a rollercoaster week in April 2016. One day, the cheerful self-proclaimed "banana man" was featured in a sweet Upworthy video about his love of children, his job and his family; a video which garnered more than a million views. Just a few days later, he received a ticket for vending from two fruit carts side-by-side, and one cart was seized. Due to heavy pressure from the police and the court, he and the permit-owner quickly split the $1000 fine rather than seek help. Later he confirmed with social justice organization Street Vendor Project that he had not actually broken the rules, but it was too late. His entire week's salary had been erased.

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March 2016 - ongoing
Location: Manhattan, Queens

The stories of low-wage labor and immigration work in tandem. Even with university degrees and prior work experience, many of New York City's immigrants end up in the arduous field of street vending. It's a relatively easy entry into the job market without much competition, but a constant struggle to remain in the market due to the low cap on vending permits, restricted streets, and police harassment.

The biggest obstacle these days is obtaining a permit; due to the unnecessarily-low cap set by Mayor Ed Koch in 1981, these are now only available on the black market at up to $25,000 per two-year permit. In addition, they are attacked by business owners who believe street carts steal their customers. Vendors face erroneous criticism for not paying taxes and burdening the city. Even the cleanliness of street carts is questioned, when in truth they are inspected far more frequently than restaurants are. And for vendors toiling late nights in the city that never sleeps, there may be an element of danger.

Can selling $2 packets of nuts provide a better life for the second generation? The stories of these vendors explore the realities of achieving the American Dream in its biggest city.