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David Alush is one of the few shop-owners to open his falafel stand in the middle of the war. He stands behind his fresh salads. The purple olives, spiced eggplant and pickled spicy cabbage for which his stand is known are sitting aside one another in an orderly way uncharacteristic of lunch-hour in the city's falafel district.
Customers are mostly journalists and policemen, but the occasional Jewish family from further north stops in for a bite along the town’s main drag on their way south along highway 90.
"I didn’t open up last Sunday," he said, referring to the day after the first Katyusha rocket struck the city. "But after two days I just couldn't bear sitting home any more. Sitting and waiting, sitting and waiting, it can make you go crazy."
If he hears the siren warning residents of an incoming missile, David says he will run to the nearby shopping center, due to its location beneath a high-rise building. "That's the safest place," he says. "A rocket can't go through all those floors."
He is unimpressed with his own bravery. His son is an infantry soldier, - now in Lebanon, - and his daughter works in the Air Force.
"I did support the Disengagement," he admits. "I wanted peace and quiet. What can we do, it looks like it was not such a good idea. Now I think we have to clean house. We have to be on both sides of all our borders - it's the only way."
Alush Falafel is around the corner from the main tourist center. The city and local merchants invested there heavily the last few years, creating a promenade leading from the residential center to the bank of the Kineret, the Sea of Galilee.
Completely Empty
The usually festive promenade is completely empty except for a father and son, sitting in front of their restaurant, looking morose. "I'm just here mourning," says Shoan Yadin, the father, who owns the Laguna Fish Restaurant. "We come here every morning, my son and I, and just sit here. We have coffee, clean things that don’t need cleaning and make sure the freezer is still working."
The restaurant, Yadin says, caters to religious tourists and tour-groups. These weeks, he says, are the height of the season, but all of the hotels are lying empty. "I write checks all year and date them for this period," he says. "Two months worth of group reservations have already been canceled - I don't even sort through the cancellations anymore - it is too devastating."
In addition to his financial woes, Yadin also has two children serving in the IDF. "And still," he says, "I wouldn't for a second ask the IDF to end this war early. If it takes a month to get rid of all the terrorists - so be it. It needs to be done.
“The government just has to know that although our morale is strong, we are economically vulnerable - and hurting," Yadin adds.
Laguna stayed open throughout the Gulf War, when residents of the Tel Aviv region fled to the north to escape Saddam Hussein's Scud missiles. Tiberias has always been a safe haven during war and conflict in other areas of the country.
"We didn't dream the Katyushas would reach us this time," Yadin says. "We got a call asking us if we could provide food for two large families who left Kiryat Shmona. We agreed and treated them to meals. Then, over the Sabbath, missiles fell here, striking a house. They left, along with many of our neighbors. I just hope the rest of the country will treat the residents of Tiberias as well as Tiberias treated them."
Look What They Have Done!
The center of Tiberias for locals is the shuk. The open-air market is desolate, but bustling relative to the rest of the town. Residents venture out during hours they hope will be quiet to stock up on food. There is a bomb shelter inside the marketplace just in case the sirens sound mid-shopping.
Michael Fahima, one of the butchers at Fahima-Mahlouf Butcher Shop, says he is not afraid of Katyushas and believes the best way he can fight in this war is by providing fresh meat for the residents of Tiberias no matter what falls out of the sky.
A hot-tempered customer, hoping to pass a message to the chief of Hizbullah, boomed: "Who is this piece of dog, Nasrallah, to try to scare us?" The man's name is Moshe Deri. He immigrated from Morocco and has lived in Tiberias for decades. "He talks, Nasrallah, but he doesn't do anything. We are not afraid of him; only of G-d."
Deri is unsympathetic to fellow citizens who supported withdrawals in the past or are calling for diplomacy to end the offensive in Lebanon. "Let these people who supported the withdrawal from Gaza go live with the Arabs across the border for a while and see if they don't change their mind," he says.
"From the moment we left Gush Katif I cursed those who supported it,” Deri says. “Look at what they have done to us!"
Maimonides Under Katyushas
Tiberias also draws tourists and pilgrims visiting the burial sites of some of Judaism’s greatest rabbis. Many chose to be buried in the holy city due to the tradition that Redemption will begin there.
Rabbi Akiva, who lead the revolt against the Romans, is buried alongside Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai and Rabbi Yehoshua. Yet, the most visited tomb belongs to the Rambam, commonly known as Maimonides, who lived his life in Egypt, but insisted on being buried in Tiberias.
Usually filled with a mix of pilgrims and locals, the Rambam's tomb was empty except for two women and a man reading on the approaching steps. "It is my birthday today, my Hebrew birthday," explains a young woman wearing a shawl over a tank top.
"I had a party on my English birthday and promised I would visit the graves of the righteous today, Katyushas be damned.," she says while holding a candle she intends to light “for the Nation of Israel, for our soldiers.”
The man on the steps is named Moshe. He immigrated to Tiberias from Morocco years ago, after studying in a Chabad yeshiva there during his youth. He is studying the Rambam’s central legal treatise, the Mishneh Torah. “You realize how holy our nation is on the inside at a time like this,” he says. “Each Jew in Lebanon right now is like Rabbi Akiva – willing to be killed on behalf of the people and the land of Israel.” He bellows the Shema, the central Jewish declaration of faith, and blows a shofar, a ram's horn, "On behalf of all of Israel and our soldiers."
Came to Help
Rabbi Yamin Levy of New York is also at the Rambam's Tomb. Together with a dozen other American Jews, he is interested in rehabilitating the historic sites of Tiberias and providing financial support for needy local residents as well. On his visit, Levy has heard of many complaints from residents about inadequate bomb shelters.
Municipal inspector David Assoulin asserts, "All of the shelters have the necessary infrastructure and facilities." When Levy then presented the horror stories from locals, Assoulin concedes that he can speak only for the public shelters, not the ones built beneath the high-rises in the city's poorer neighborhoods, such as Shikun Daled, whose generic name simply means Project D.
From Ethiopia to the Tiberias Bomb Shelters
Signs hang from the streetlamps reading “Tiberias is Strong.” They were produced and placed there by the municipality in the past few days. That sentiment is echoed even by the city's newest residents, some who arrived just a month ago and are living in the town’s absorption center for Ethiopian immigrants.
“The situation is stable,” says Batya, a counselor at the center who herself made Aliyah [immigrated to Israel] 17 years ago from Ethiopia. “The young people continue to study for their matriculation exams, though Hebrew classes have been canceled.”
The large bomb-shelter beneath the absorption center is covered with mattresses. “Everyone sleeps down here,” Batya says. “It’s hard at night. The younger kids are really frightened, but we sing and play games.”
Arguments break out in the shelter over whether to watch the news or Ethiopian music videos on the television. A group of young girls are playing a jump-rope game in the middle of the shelter. “Life goes on,” Batya says, pointing to a wall display at the entrance of the building. Entitled “What's Happening This Week?” the display features pictures of residents engaging in various activities. A smaller sheet of paper was added below the heading reading, “in our shelter.”
The Front Lines
Rabbi Avi Weiss of Riverdale, New York heard Israel was at war and called his travel agent immediately. He is now traveling throughout northern Israel, visiting the families of captive and wounded soldiers, bomb shelters, and hospitals in hard-hit cities like Nahariya.
“There are two kinds of love,” Rabbi Weiss tells a group of soldiers in a Tiberias community center. “One level is that I love you. There is even a higher level, though – that I am certain that you love me. I want you all to know that all over the world there are people who truly love you. You are fighting not only for Israelis, but for Jews worldwide. You are also the front line in the War on Terror.”
Those gathered in the community center were receiving training and equipment in order to be deployed throughout the area’s bomb shelters. Equipment includes board games and stuffed animals to make life a bit sweeter for the thousands of children spending their summer vacations in the dark and stuffy cement basements.
“Hizbullah can’t destroy us, but they can instill fear,” says Rabbi Weiss. “If they instill fear, then they are victorious. The work of calming people in the shelters is therefore no less critical than fighting on the front lines.”
In the Shelters
Ronen works as a chef in one of the luxury hotels of Tiberias. He is now cooking for a somewhat smaller group - his family and neighbors who stayed in the city despite the rockets. Ronen and the others who remained have called Shelter #109 home for the past week. A barbecue sits outside the entrance, as does a bumper sticker reading, “Israel will be victorious.”
In his spare time, Ronen reads talkback responses from around the world on the Internet, written by people offering love and support for those under attack. “We feel the support,” he says, “and it gives us strength.”
The kids spend most of the day down in the shelter, playing games, coloring and looking over their parents’ shoulders at the television. They are shooed away when the TV shows pictures of carnage and explosions. A grandmother sits in an easy chair that has been placed right at the entrance to the shelter. She says she refuses to go down inside because she is not afraid.
The siren sounds.
People run toward the shelter. People who were in the shelter run out - to grab grandma, to yell for a husband who went to shower in the house, or catch a glimpse of the impact.
“It’s been a minute, right?” says Delila, a lawyer who grew up in Project D. She frantically dials on her cell phone. The sirens are supposed to give 30-60 seconds' warning to residents that a missile has been fired in their direction.
Delila talks into the phone to her brother's Philipino caretaker in broken English. “Take him down to the shelter quickly," she says. Her brother fought in all the wars, but had a stroke recently and can’t move on his own.
An impact is heard off in the distance and people venture out of the shelters. Some climb up on rooftops to try to see the tell-tale plume of smoke marking a Katyusha missile’s impact.
The siren sounds again.
This time less than 15 seconds pass before a boom is heard – closer this time. People run down the steps, a man runs in holding his dog. An all-encompassing explosion rocks the shelter.
The shelter is filled with screams. Kids go into shock. “Where is Grandma!?” yells a young girl over and over again. Grandma comes down and gives the girl a hug.
Mothers cradle their sons and daughters as the men run out to survey the damage and treat the wounded.
Two plumes of black smoke reach toward the heavens – one a block or so behind the shelter and another at the end of the row of houses. One rocket landed in a field 300 meters away. Around the crater, a fire has broken out and is rapidly spreading, the crackling brush catching quickly as the wind pushes it toward the homes and gardens. In its path is the neighborhood’s synagogue.
Neighbors with hoses begin spraying the synagogue down, hoping that saturating the area with water will buy time until the firefighters arrive. None of the people with keys to the synagogue can be found and those seeking to rescue the Torah Scrolls start considering using crowbars to pry open the metal doors. Men breathe through bandanas and T-shirts to manage the thick smoke as the fire department arrives to control the raging blaze.
On the streets of Tiberias, residents mill about. A home was hit, but nobody was seriously injured by the explosive force or the shrapnel packed inside the warhead. A cameraman mills about, collecting footage for one of the state-run television stations.
“Who are you recording for?” yells Aharon, a cab driver who lives near the home struck by the Katyusha.
“Channel Two, if there were any serious injuries,” the cameraman replies. “But since it looks like there weren’t - nobody.”
“You can report this,” Aharon says. “The media and Olmert sold the nation lies and spent millions on throwing Jews out of Gaza. Now they are reaping what half the nation told them they were sowing and they still look us in the eye and say, ‘We didn’t know this would happen.' It’s sickening!”
The sharp-tongued cabby says the Jews have a problem. “We have become mixed up between soldiers and our families. We have all become mothers. We run away from the front lines in an effort to save our soldiers and pay the cost with our women and children – every time. I would just like to see Hizbullah hit Tel Aviv already so we can get the real war over with. We are sitting here, being eaten alive, but we are willing to sacrifice. We just have to cut to the chase already. A nation that makes its own people refugees in Gaza will become refugees themselves. Enough already.”
(Photos: Josh Shamsi, Arutz-7 Photojournalist)
David Alush is one of the few shop-owners to open his falafel stand in the middle of the war. He stands behind his fresh salads. The purple olives, spiced eggplant and pickled spicy cabbage for which his stand is known are sitting aside one another in an orderly way uncharacteristic of lunch-hour in the city's falafel district.
Customers are mostly journalists and policemen, but the occasional Jewish family from further north stops in for a bite along the town’s main drag on their way south along highway 90.
"I didn’t open up last Sunday," he said, referring to the day after the first Katyusha rocket struck the city. "But after two days I just couldn't bear sitting home any more. Sitting and waiting, sitting and waiting, it can make you go crazy."
The city of Tiberias, on the bank of the Kineret.
If he hears the siren warning residents of an incoming missile, David says he will run to the nearby shopping center, due to its location beneath a high-rise building. "That's the safest place," he says. "A rocket can't go through all those floors."
He is unimpressed with his own bravery. His son is an infantry soldier, - now in Lebanon, - and his daughter works in the Air Force.
"I did support the Disengagement," he admits. "I wanted peace and quiet. What can we do, it looks like it was not such a good idea. Now I think we have to clean house. We have to be on both sides of all our borders - it's the only way."
Alush Falafel is around the corner from the main tourist center. The city and local merchants invested there heavily the last few years, creating a promenade leading from the residential center to the bank of the Kineret, the Sea of Galilee.
Completely Empty
The usually festive promenade is completely empty except for a father and son, sitting in front of their restaurant, looking morose. "I'm just here mourning," says Shoan Yadin, the father, who owns the Laguna Fish Restaurant. "We come here every morning, my son and I, and just sit here. We have coffee, clean things that don’t need cleaning and make sure the freezer is still working."
The restaurant, Yadin says, caters to religious tourists and tour-groups. These weeks, he says, are the height of the season, but all of the hotels are lying empty. "I write checks all year and date them for this period," he says. "Two months worth of group reservations have already been canceled - I don't even sort through the cancellations anymore - it is too devastating."
In addition to his financial woes, Yadin also has two children serving in the IDF. "And still," he says, "I wouldn't for a second ask the IDF to end this war early. If it takes a month to get rid of all the terrorists - so be it. It needs to be done.
“The government just has to know that although our morale is strong, we are economically vulnerable - and hurting," Yadin adds.
Laguna stayed open throughout the Gulf War, when residents of the Tel Aviv region fled to the north to escape Saddam Hussein's Scud missiles. Tiberias has always been a safe haven during war and conflict in other areas of the country.
"We didn't dream the Katyushas would reach us this time," Yadin says. "We got a call asking us if we could provide food for two large families who left Kiryat Shmona. We agreed and treated them to meals. Then, over the Sabbath, missiles fell here, striking a house. They left, along with many of our neighbors. I just hope the rest of the country will treat the residents of Tiberias as well as Tiberias treated them."
Look What They Have Done!
The center of Tiberias for locals is the shuk. The open-air market is desolate, but bustling relative to the rest of the town. Residents venture out during hours they hope will be quiet to stock up on food. There is a bomb shelter inside the marketplace just in case the sirens sound mid-shopping.
The door of the market's bomb shelter remains open in case the siren sounds.
Michael Fahima, one of the butchers at Fahima-Mahlouf Butcher Shop, says he is not afraid of Katyushas and believes the best way he can fight in this war is by providing fresh meat for the residents of Tiberias no matter what falls out of the sky.
A hot-tempered customer, hoping to pass a message to the chief of Hizbullah, boomed: "Who is this piece of dog, Nasrallah, to try to scare us?" The man's name is Moshe Deri. He immigrated from Morocco and has lived in Tiberias for decades. "He talks, Nasrallah, but he doesn't do anything. We are not afraid of him; only of G-d."
Deri is unsympathetic to fellow citizens who supported withdrawals in the past or are calling for diplomacy to end the offensive in Lebanon. "Let these people who supported the withdrawal from Gaza go live with the Arabs across the border for a while and see if they don't change their mind," he says.
"From the moment we left Gush Katif I cursed those who supported it,” Deri says. “Look at what they have done to us!"
Moshe Deri: Look what they have done to us!
Maimonides Under Katyushas
Tiberias also draws tourists and pilgrims visiting the burial sites of some of Judaism’s greatest rabbis. Many chose to be buried in the holy city due to the tradition that Redemption will begin there.
Rabbi Akiva, who lead the revolt against the Romans, is buried alongside Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai and Rabbi Yehoshua. Yet, the most visited tomb belongs to the Rambam, commonly known as Maimonides, who lived his life in Egypt, but insisted on being buried in Tiberias.
Usually filled with a mix of pilgrims and locals, the Rambam's tomb was empty except for two women and a man reading on the approaching steps. "It is my birthday today, my Hebrew birthday," explains a young woman wearing a shawl over a tank top.
"I had a party on my English birthday and promised I would visit the graves of the righteous today, Katyushas be damned.," she says while holding a candle she intends to light “for the Nation of Israel, for our soldiers.”
The man on the steps is named Moshe. He immigrated to Tiberias from Morocco years ago, after studying in a Chabad yeshiva there during his youth. He is studying the Rambam’s central legal treatise, the Mishneh Torah. “You realize how holy our nation is on the inside at a time like this,” he says. “Each Jew in Lebanon right now is like Rabbi Akiva – willing to be killed on behalf of the people and the land of Israel.” He bellows the Shema, the central Jewish declaration of faith, and blows a shofar, a ram's horn, "On behalf of all of Israel and our soldiers."
Moshe bellows prayers on behalf of all of Israel.
Came to Help
Rabbi Yamin Levy of New York is also at the Rambam's Tomb. Together with a dozen other American Jews, he is interested in rehabilitating the historic sites of Tiberias and providing financial support for needy local residents as well. On his visit, Levy has heard of many complaints from residents about inadequate bomb shelters.
Municipal inspector David Assoulin asserts, "All of the shelters have the necessary infrastructure and facilities." When Levy then presented the horror stories from locals, Assoulin concedes that he can speak only for the public shelters, not the ones built beneath the high-rises in the city's poorer neighborhoods, such as Shikun Daled, whose generic name simply means Project D.
A typical bomb-shelter's bathroom.
From Ethiopia to the Tiberias Bomb Shelters
Signs hang from the streetlamps reading “Tiberias is Strong.” They were produced and placed there by the municipality in the past few days. That sentiment is echoed even by the city's newest residents, some who arrived just a month ago and are living in the town’s absorption center for Ethiopian immigrants.
“The situation is stable,” says Batya, a counselor at the center who herself made Aliyah [immigrated to Israel] 17 years ago from Ethiopia. “The young people continue to study for their matriculation exams, though Hebrew classes have been canceled.”
The large bomb-shelter beneath the absorption center is covered with mattresses. “Everyone sleeps down here,” Batya says. “It’s hard at night. The younger kids are really frightened, but we sing and play games.”
Arguments break out in the shelter over whether to watch the news or Ethiopian music videos on the television. A group of young girls are playing a jump-rope game in the middle of the shelter. “Life goes on,” Batya says, pointing to a wall display at the entrance of the building. Entitled “What's Happening This Week?” the display features pictures of residents engaging in various activities. A smaller sheet of paper was added below the heading reading, “in our shelter.”
"What's happening this week in our bomb shelter?"
The Front Lines
Rabbi Avi Weiss of Riverdale, New York heard Israel was at war and called his travel agent immediately. He is now traveling throughout northern Israel, visiting the families of captive and wounded soldiers, bomb shelters, and hospitals in hard-hit cities like Nahariya.
“There are two kinds of love,” Rabbi Weiss tells a group of soldiers in a Tiberias community center. “One level is that I love you. There is even a higher level, though – that I am certain that you love me. I want you all to know that all over the world there are people who truly love you. You are fighting not only for Israelis, but for Jews worldwide. You are also the front line in the War on Terror.”
Those gathered in the community center were receiving training and equipment in order to be deployed throughout the area’s bomb shelters. Equipment includes board games and stuffed animals to make life a bit sweeter for the thousands of children spending their summer vacations in the dark and stuffy cement basements.
“Hizbullah can’t destroy us, but they can instill fear,” says Rabbi Weiss. “If they instill fear, then they are victorious. The work of calming people in the shelters is therefore no less critical than fighting on the front lines.”
In the Shelters
Ronen works as a chef in one of the luxury hotels of Tiberias. He is now cooking for a somewhat smaller group - his family and neighbors who stayed in the city despite the rockets. Ronen and the others who remained have called Shelter #109 home for the past week. A barbecue sits outside the entrance, as does a bumper sticker reading, “Israel will be victorious.”
In his spare time, Ronen reads talkback responses from around the world on the Internet, written by people offering love and support for those under attack. “We feel the support,” he says, “and it gives us strength.”
The kids spend most of the day down in the shelter, playing games, coloring and looking over their parents’ shoulders at the television. They are shooed away when the TV shows pictures of carnage and explosions. A grandmother sits in an easy chair that has been placed right at the entrance to the shelter. She says she refuses to go down inside because she is not afraid.
The siren sounds.
People run toward the shelter. People who were in the shelter run out - to grab grandma, to yell for a husband who went to shower in the house, or catch a glimpse of the impact.
“It’s been a minute, right?” says Delila, a lawyer who grew up in Project D. She frantically dials on her cell phone. The sirens are supposed to give 30-60 seconds' warning to residents that a missile has been fired in their direction.
Delila talks into the phone to her brother's Philipino caretaker in broken English. “Take him down to the shelter quickly," she says. Her brother fought in all the wars, but had a stroke recently and can’t move on his own.
An impact is heard off in the distance and people venture out of the shelters. Some climb up on rooftops to try to see the tell-tale plume of smoke marking a Katyusha missile’s impact.
The siren sounds again.
This time less than 15 seconds pass before a boom is heard – closer this time. People run down the steps, a man runs in holding his dog. An all-encompassing explosion rocks the shelter.
The shelter is filled with screams. Kids go into shock. “Where is Grandma!?” yells a young girl over and over again. Grandma comes down and gives the girl a hug.
Residents scramble down the steps of the bomb shelter, pets in hand.
Mothers cradle their sons and daughters as the men run out to survey the damage and treat the wounded.
Two plumes of black smoke reach toward the heavens – one a block or so behind the shelter and another at the end of the row of houses. One rocket landed in a field 300 meters away. Around the crater, a fire has broken out and is rapidly spreading, the crackling brush catching quickly as the wind pushes it toward the homes and gardens. In its path is the neighborhood’s synagogue.
Neighbors with hoses begin spraying the synagogue down, hoping that saturating the area with water will buy time until the firefighters arrive. None of the people with keys to the synagogue can be found and those seeking to rescue the Torah Scrolls start considering using crowbars to pry open the metal doors. Men breathe through bandanas and T-shirts to manage the thick smoke as the fire department arrives to control the raging blaze.
On the streets of Tiberias, residents mill about. A home was hit, but nobody was seriously injured by the explosive force or the shrapnel packed inside the warhead. A cameraman mills about, collecting footage for one of the state-run television stations.
“Who are you recording for?” yells Aharon, a cab driver who lives near the home struck by the Katyusha.
“Channel Two, if there were any serious injuries,” the cameraman replies. “But since it looks like there weren’t - nobody.”
“You can report this,” Aharon says. “The media and Olmert sold the nation lies and spent millions on throwing Jews out of Gaza. Now they are reaping what half the nation told them they were sowing and they still look us in the eye and say, ‘We didn’t know this would happen.' It’s sickening!”
The sharp-tongued cabby says the Jews have a problem. “We have become mixed up between soldiers and our families. We have all become mothers. We run away from the front lines in an effort to save our soldiers and pay the cost with our women and children – every time. I would just like to see Hizbullah hit Tel Aviv already so we can get the real war over with. We are sitting here, being eaten alive, but we are willing to sacrifice. We just have to cut to the chase already. A nation that makes its own people refugees in Gaza will become refugees themselves. Enough already.”
Aharon the cab driver sits in the back center in a white shirt.
(Photos: Josh Shamsi, Arutz-7 Photojournalist)