Finding comfort in shawarma amid chaos in Tel Aviv - opinion
The "all clear" sounds, and I wait a few minutes before getting up from the blue plastic crate that I'm sitting on. I realize I'm surrounded by trash in the makeshift bomb shelter of a one-star hotel near the Tel Aviv beach, the closest thing to where I happened to be when the shooting started.
I need to get to my toddlers, who are with their father, who says there's no food in his fridge, and obviously, there are no cabs. Deep breath. It's a 25-minute walk inland. I shudder thinking about how, in addition to the ballistic missiles , there was a deadly terror attack on the streets tonight. Everything is closed; there is nowhere else to go and no other way — I have to get to my babies.
I speed walk, heart on fire, hugging the wall of Trumpeldor cemetery, looking over my shoulder at the dark corners that seem to surround me. It's eerily quiet after an hour of booms.
On Bograshov, I see a familiar flash of blue. "What is this Wolt guy doing out here?" I think.
Approaching Dizengoff, I replay every terror attack on that street in my mind. I have to cross Dizengoff to get there. I chastise myself for these thoughts, deciding that I will not be afraid.
Weirdly, the corner of Bograshov and King George is brightly lit up. I squint. It smells like fresh felafel. What in God's name is going on here? There is a man in a striped apron talking on his black wired headset, and the shawarma thing is going around itself nonchalantly. In a perfect orbit, as if that chopped-up spiced chicken hasn't just witnessed a massive act of terror from the skies.
Resilience amid chaos
I stop in my tracks. I find myself stumbling to the counter, like a winded zombie, saying to the guy, "Are you... open?" It's 8:45 PM. "Yes. Of course. I don't have a pita, but what do you want in a Laffa? [also bread. Larger than a pita, thicker than a tortilla]" Iran just tried to wipe us out again with 180 missiles, and this guy is open, apologizing to me for not having pita in stock.
The smell of thshawarmama makes my brain start to wake up from the stupor of the last hour, that terrible chemical cocktail of fear, faith, anger, longing, loss, justice, and surrender to the unknown. I order everything. The shop starts to fill up. I ask the guy why, in God's name, he is working minutes after the "all clear." Stay updated with the latest news!
Subscribe to The Jerusalem Post NewsletterHe says, "Huh?" He tells me, "I went to the shelter. Then I came back. When there's a balagan, [chaos], you need to hold your position. Doctors are working. The guy sweeping the street is working. People need to eat. So I'm working. Understand?" He looks at me like it should be obvious to me.
The shop starts to fill up with Israelis who look at my amazement with pity, and I realize that it's obvious to them too:
A lot of Israelis are working the night shift tonight. Our men and women on the front lines, of course. And the mothers and fathers are raising the next generation of Israelis. Our schoolteachers. Our street-sweepers. Our spokespeople. Our guy staying open at Felafel Shula declined to be named for my and said he wasn't the owner of the place.
This is what we mean when we say Israel delivers, no matter what. This attitude cannot be broken. This is how we will finish surgically excising the cancer that has choked the Middle East for too long.
I start back out up the hill to Habima, towards my children, past more open businesses on Dizengoff, with hot fries. shawarmama and fFelafelare snug in those Laffas. This time, I'm walking at a normal speed, even with a tiny bounce in my step. And that shawarma was the best thing I've eaten in my life.
Sophia Tupolev-Luz is an activist and a writer who lived in Boston and Moscow and resided in Tel Aviv during the time of writing during Operation Swords of Iron.
