We have a saying here in Israel and you’ll hear it often if you come to visit. It’s ‘ha kol b’seder’ which, translated, means ‘everything is ok.’ And, for the most part, we mean it because we Israelis are nothing if not resilient. Even in the midst of the war with Gaza, back in 2014, I remember being amazed at how people in Tel Aviv would sit - as normal - in cafes, eating, drinking, chatting with friends, basically going about their daily routine, between rockets attacks.
Cafe life, Neve Tsedek neighbourhood
Even in the midst of sirens, booms and the occasional piece of shrapnel falling outside my apartment, people lived for each moment.
But now Corona has struck and - 7 months into the pandemic - the sheer anxiety that we’re all experiencing (let alone the medical worries and economic devastation) means it’s a lot harder to tell ourselves it’s all ok.
Entrance to Tel Aviv’s famous Carmel Market (‘Shuk’)
After a tough first lockdown, Israel opened up its bars and cafes in May to great fanfare.
Now, a long summer later, the consequences are becoming clear.
We opened up too fast and - as a result - now have the highest infection rate in the world, per capita.
The virus is rampaging through our country and so, as of last week we returned to lockdown. In Hebrew, we call it ‘seger.’
So, what of our new situation.
How is Tel Aviv? Ha kol b’seder here?
Or rather, ha kol b’seger?
Take me. I live on Dizengoff, Tel Aviv’s most famous and busy street. Running from the far north of the city down to the historic neighbourhoods, it’s full of cafes, restaurants, bars and stores, lined with trees, complete with a newly-renovated square and fountain, at the sides of which are gloriously designed Bauhaus buildings. Dizengoff is - without a doubt - the place to be see and be seen, to grab a coffee or cocktail, cycle in the morning, wander in the afternoon, stroll at night, meet friends and drink in the charm.
Now, it is deserted. Barely recognisable.
Dizengoff, at the corner of Frishman, is deserted.
I chose to live in Tel Aviv all these years because of its ‘non-stop’ vibe. Despite my occasional complaints of the street noise, the packed bars and the perennial problem of traffic and parking, I gladly paid my costly rent…because living on Dizengoff gave me access to everything I wanted and needed.
In just a few minutes - on foot - I could be at the beach, in the city’s famous square, at the port or strolling by the river in park Hayarkon. I had bars, coffee shops and restaurants on my doorstop and even if I didn’t feel like taking advantage of them, they were still there.
From my balcony, I gazed at them and all of those inside, every morning whilst I sipped my coffee and many an evening, whilst pouring myself something a bit stronger.
The silence from Dizengoff now feels overwhelming. When your ears are assaulted by urban noise on a daily basis, you learn to adjust. Anyone who’s ever lived in the centre of Manhattan, London or Berlin will tell you the same. Horns blaring, buses roaring by, pedestrians chatting, neighbours yelling and bikes revving - it’s all par for the course here. But - on the up side - there’s an energy, a buzz, a feeling that you’re in the centre of the action. And that’s what I and my fellow Tel Avivis love the most -the urban chaos.
No more, no more.
As of yesterday, restrictions became even more severe. It’s now impossible to pick up a cup of coffee whilst out exercising, road blocks have been established at key points to ensure people aren’t travelling out of their city and, even though the beach is a stone’s throw from my door, I am now forbidden to walk on it, let alone swim. On what would normally be a busy September weekend (fine weather, and the middle of the holiday season here) Tel Aviv has come to a grinding halt.
A lone cyclist enjoys an empty Dizengoff (captured at the corner Arlozorov street).
I walk up and down Dizengoff each day, taking my daily exercise, and cast my mind back to a time, a few months ago, when life was infinitely more carefree. I wander past a favourite cocktail bar (themed on a chemistry lab, where drinks are served in thermos flasks). I walk past the sabich stall (sabich, a delectable vegetarian dish that comes in a pita, is my ‘go to’ food whenever I don’t feel like cooking). And then I stare at my local coffee shop, established by two Brazilians, who even roast their own beans. They’ve poured their savings into this business and my greatest fear is that they won’t make it, if they are forced to remain closed for another month or so.
Dizengoff is empty - captured between the corners of Arlozorov and Jabotinsky streets
I like to think of myself of someone with a bit of ‘oomph’ - a get-up-and-go kinda gal. But at times like this, it’s hard to remain cheerful because there’s so much on the line now and I’m coming face to face with it on a daily basis.
What I often wished for - calm, peace, birds chirping empty streets - has come to pass.
It reminds me of the old Yiddish saying - ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
Dizengoff, I miss you. There’s no ‘kol b’seder’ with this seger.