On the border with Lebanon, Blue Bus chef operates last remaining restaurant, dodges missiles to feed soldiers
Driving along an empty road, a missile landed near my car. The siren never sounded, and the shock felt immense. Instinctively, I held on tightly to the steering wheel hoping not to die. I could barely move. My whole body went stiff, and my heart pounded non-stop. From the earth where the missile landed, avocado plants flew through the air. They smashed into my windshield and debris hit the roof of the car like meteorites.
- 3 months ago
August 7, 2024
KIRYAT SHEMONA, Israel ꟷ Located on the border of Lebanon in Israel, the place I live now feels eerily like a phantom territory. Shelling and missiles fall daily on Kiryat Shemona, giving us no time at all to react. This nightmare started nine months ago, on October 7, 2023. Standing outside my house, the sounds of alarms shattered the calm atmosphere. I looked up to see rockets crossing the sky meters above my head. Loud explosions erupted as the missiles hit neighboring communities and killed people.
None of us understood what was happening or that this marked the start of a war. It took us by surprise, and we felt utterly helpless. In a matter of days, the majority of people evacuated. We had no idea if we would live or die. What started out as a normal day turned into something like I never saw before. My world transformed into a terrifying scene as the greatest fear of our collective society in Israel came to life. I watched people running in terror as I remained still, watching. The war would stay with us for a very long time.
Read more stories from Orato World Media out of the Israel-Gaza conflict.
Man lives through many wars, but none like the 2023-2024 Israel-Gaza conflict
Before October 7, 2023, my life was very different from today. I lived in Israel for 40 years. A cook by profession, I own a restaurant called Blue Bus, located in the outskirts of the Kiryat Shemona, the capital of the Israeli Galilee. Specializing in hummus for 10 years, the area remained full of shops, with a constant flow of tourists enjoying the tranquility of Kiryat Shemona.
Over the next decade, the area came to life and flourished. It felt like a bright light in Galilee. When war began, that light darkened and today, my home sits empty, like a ghost town. In the shadows of my home amidst ashes, screams, and death, I remain the only food business out of 25. Remaining open feels like a form of resistance, yet the loneliness weighs heavily upon me.
When my family – including my ex-wife and daughters – bid me farewell, I found myself completely isolated and the pain set in. Soon, the stark emptiness of Kiryat Shemona filled with tanks and soldiers. They hovered around every corner and intersection. I never witnessed anything like it before, and soon made the decision to cook for the soldiers stationed near my restaurant.
The first time, I took several servings of hummus and placed them in the car. I drove around the area to deliver the food to the soldiers. When I gave them the food, the look in their eyes made me feel immense pride in my actions. I felt like I was doing my part in the middle of war. During my first outing, a captain in the army asked me to prepare 80 portions to distribute to soldiers in two days time. I said yes and returned to my car, determined to keep my promise.
Kibbutz becomes a place of contrasts where missiles circulate and fear permeates the air
As bombs fell and sirens sounded every day, I fell into a routine, focusing on something tangible. Unwilling to lose heart, on the way home one day I decided that until the war ended, I would take hummus to the soldiers.
Every morning, I awoke, went to the supermarket, and purchased the necessary goods. Returning to my restaurant, I never strayed far from what I set out to do here. For the soldiers, hummus feels like a piece of home, making my task even more special. I feel excited to serve this way.
Everything looks different now. The streets sit empty and army soldiers stand at the closed gate of the kibbutz where I live. Constant plumes of smoke billow from the impact of missiles. Only 25 of us remain in the kibbutz out of the 600 residents. Those 25 include soldiers. Plantations that once burst with colors now appear dry and dead. The roads sit empty. A month ago, we lived through many fires due to the high temperatures. Passing by the flames, I stared at them, hypnotized. I felt unable to move as sadness and fear consumed me. It felt like living through the apocalypse.
Our geographical location on the border of Lebanon places us on high alert since the start of the war. The possibility of a new war front opening featuring another terrorist group like Hezbollah remains an ever-present threat. Moments arise of maximum tension.
Missile strikes right next to man’s car as he returns to the kibbutz
As rockets pass overhead, sometimes I hear explosions very close by. From time to time, the alarms sound and I run to shelter in a safe place. With little time, I do what I need to do. I hear the sirens and I run. At times, unable to find a place to hide, I throw myself on the ground, wrapping my arms and hands around my head.
For several months now, we remain on high alert as intermittent missiles fall up to three times a day. Fears of escalation grow throughout the Middle East. One weekend, while travelling to Tel Aviv to see my older children, everything seemed fine. I felt immensely happy to see them and hold them in my arms after a long time apart. However, on the way back, 100 meters from the entrance to the kibbutz, the worst thing happened.
Driving along an empty road, a missile landed near my car. The siren never sounded, and the shock felt immense. Instinctively, I held on tightly to the steering wheel hoping not to die. I could barely move. My whole body went stiff and my heart pounded non-stop. From the earth where the missile landed, avocado plants flew through the air. They smashed into my windshield and debris hit the roof of the car like meteorites.
A massive chunk of the ground completely broke away. I continued driving, hoping to reach the kibbutz and shelter inside. In the distance, not far away, another missile fell. This time, I saw its trajectory. Hitting further ahead from my location, I slammed on the gas pedal. Only meters from the entrance gate to the kibbutz, I continued to accelerate and the soldiers opened the door for me.
In the face of constant death, man doubles down on commitment to remain in the kibbutz
At the gates, I briefly told the soldiers what happened. I could barely hear the words coming out of my mouth as I spoke. In shock, I left the car at the entrance to my house. Still alert, I remained aware of the sounds around me, hypervigilant to sirens or any sign of danger.
It felt hard to breathe. After a few minutes, I began to calm down and moved into total disbelief. In that moment, I realized how lucky I was to be alive. I should have died from that missile, and I felt terrified.
When the soldiers come to my house or I take them food, the first thing I do is thank them. While they eat, we talk and listen to music. For a few moments, it transports me to another place and time. Distracting myself like this helps me stay positive. All of us feel incredibly tired, hurt, and distressed. We feel like orphans. This makes meeting together with warmth in familiar surroundings a very gratifying experience.
Today, silence fills every inch of our lands, interrupted only by the whistling of birds, the raring sirens, and the whistle of missiles. The traces of the fighting can be seen at every turn, in the empty homes and shops, in the kindergartens transformed into shelters, and in the deserted fields.
Amidst all the destruction, I refuse to leave. I know it is dangerous, but I will not leave for anything in the world. This is my home today, surrounded by sky and scorched mountains. I long to be reunited with my family soon and to be able to see my land the way I knew it.
