Why Israel Should Revive Its Iconic Shuks

In the Yemenite Quarter of Tel Aviv, where I live, work, and prepare meals near the famed Carmel Market, mornings are typically filled with a symphony of sounds. By 6 a.m., trash trucks are clearing away the remnants of yesterday while a convoy of vehicles delivers fresh produce, meat, fish, cheese, and other goods to the century-old outdoor food market located just steps from my home in this historic neighborhood.

Currently, the streets and narrow paths of the shuk, a disordered collection of stalls that can be traversed in just six minutes, are unsettlingly quiet — and unnervingly tidy.

There’s no sea of cigarette butts discarded by fish vendors taking a breather from filleting local catches like amberjack and snapper, no vendors tossing falafel batter into hot oil, and no one selling olives or vegetable slicers with their melodic banter, as voices drift along the shuk's corridor, carried by Mediterranean breezes just 200 meters away.

About three weeks ago, after Israel had already been under a near-total lockdown for several weeks due to COVID-19, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu made the unilateral decision to shut down Israel’s iconic open-air food markets — including my cherished Carmel — while allowing regular Israeli supermarkets to remain operational.

The closure of the shuk makes no sense to me. I don’t understand how standing in line outside a massive enclosed grocery store, waiting my turn to enter a breeding ground for germs, is any safer than shopping at an outdoor market. I’m seeing news about supermarkets and their inconsistent enforcement of mask mandates, sanitizing practices, and limited entry — plus the over 40 supermarket workers who have died in the U.S. If many markets in America, like LA’s Santa Monica Farmers Market and the Union Square Greenmarket, can implement new guidelines and stay open, why can’t the Carmel?

In the shuk, at least I could choose my distance from others, deciding which vendors to support based on their commitment to COVID-19 safety, while avoiding other shoppers. I know I could catch the virus anywhere, but I’d prefer the risk of buying chicken wings from Victor, who shares pictures of his grandchildren, rather than from a stranger in a red vest with whom I have no connection.

Since moving to Tel Aviv, I’ve never shopped in supermarkets, and I’m not about to start. Working from home, writing and developing cookbooks for myself and others, I rely on my computer and cutting board. The shuk is more than just a market to me; it’s my daily social hub. I often step out several times a day, taking a quick shortcut through a bougainvillea-lined alley to check in with my favorite vendors — from the butcher where I buy local lamb chops to the loquat seller who sets aside his finest fruits for me, and the cheesemonger where I spend my shekels on local feta crafted by the same family for over 150 years.

But today, the market mostly remains closed, and my heart aches for the vendors and restaurateurs who have seen their livelihoods shattered. Like taxi drivers, market vendors — many of whom have been in this trade for generations — have a keen sense of the local situation. Before the market was forcibly shut down, with police cars silently patrolling, the common feeling among them was that while the coronavirus is serious, it poses no grMytour threat in the market than in Israel’s supermarkets. Yet, one can stay open while the other is currently closed.

I wish someone could provide a clear answer: Why are supermarkets permitted to operate while the shuk is shut? It feels like Goliath overwhelming David without even a slingshot to level the playing field. This sends the message that corporations are more resistant to COVID than small shops — a notion the U.S. restaurant industry is also grappling with in its own context — which is not only unjust but dangerously misguided.

However, the shuk is resilient. This venue has faced numerous challenges over the years, from terror alerts and SCUD missile attacks to inflation and recession, so succumbing to COVID-19 feels out of character, and I believe the market will bounce back.

In the meantime, a whisper network has emerged, a secretive web of WhatsApp groups and emails informing me that parts of the shuk are, in fact, open.

One produce vendor I frequently buy from, who operates on a side street not technically within the market, is quietly selling goods to those willing to line up and comply with his strict social distancing rules. It’s a tight-knit crowd of regulars who nod behind paper masks, our smiles evident to each other by the crinkles at the corners of our eyes.

Once or twice a week, I manage to engage, even if only partially, in the shopping ritual I’ve practiced thousands of times since relocating here. Admittedly, I can’t personally inspect the carrots and turnips for my chicken soup — I must rely on a latex-gloved employee for that. However, these fleeting moments of connection in the market provide a sense of familiarity during these disorienting times, and I cherish whatever I can find.

Adeena Sussman is the author of Sababa: Fresh, Sunny Flavors From My Israeli Kitchen, and has co-authored 11 cookbooks, including Cravings and Cravings: Hungry For More with Chrissy Teigen. She resides near the Carmel market in Tel Aviv.