A Foodie Perspective – and Gaza

Childhood memory. I was 10. My grandfather said I shouldn’t leave food on my plate: children were starving in China, or India. My mother said my grandfather was right, yet there was no way to deliver food left on my plate to them. She tolerated not finishing everything served. Food preoccupied.

On Tuesday, we attended a book launch hosted by Haim’s daughter’s friend, at the Tel Aviv Google Startup Campus. Haim’s daughter, her first grader, and I took the train from Kfar Saba. We walked around the mall at the station, where Haim met us. A McDonalds stop for the younger generation before the event.

At the campus entrance, there was a bowl with yellow ribbon pins. Our granddaughter wanted one. The pin is familiar. She hasn’t seen me without one since the beginning of the war. I checked if she knew its significance. She wasn’t sure. I explained – a symbol demanding the hostages’ return. Israeli American hostage Edan Alexander was released the day before, which presumably she had heard. She asked, perplexed, if there are still hostages. “Fifty-eight,” I said. “That’s a lot,” she responded. I nodded, sparing her the distinction between 20, known to be alive, and the others.

A vibe of people connecting filled the book launch space. The small lecture hall and overhead balcony were packed.

Our granddaughter sat next to me, quietly watching reels on my phone while we listened to speakers. The phone vibrated. A new app tells you a missile was identified in the air. It warns you can soon expect the old app to complement air raid sirens at your location. The lecture hall emptied into the adjacent safe space and shelter. We waited the prescribed 10 minutes, following newsfeeds for details when and where the missile was intercepted.

Everyone returned to the room for the remaining part of the program. As we sat down, our granddaughter commented on the poor timing for this siren, interrupting Liron’s event. Preoccupied throughout the week with how Trump could impose an end to the war on Bibi and Hamas, I said maybe the war would end in a few days and there wouldn’t be any more sirens. She looked skeptical.

I rephrased, saying it might take more than a few days but could end soon. This first grader, thought, and concluded, “Maybe it will end when I get married.”

Returning to the train station, we saw an adjacent tower lit with a yellow ribbon, the daily count of days of war – over 580 – and text, “We’re waiting for you.”

Two days later, Erev Lag B’Omer – 33 days after the Passover seder – when children have bonfires (with some environmentalist alternatives in recent years). The first grader took her little sister to her class bonfire. They returned home. Haim and I arrived to babysit. The 5^th-grader was still at her class bonfire. The app vibrated, signaling an imminent air raid siren. Haim’s daughter called to say we should already move the girls to the safe room, which is what I was doing.

We closed the safe room door when the alarm sounded. The first grader insisted we stay there for the required 10 minutes that grandfathers take less seriously. She told us about the woman soldier who came to school that week and explained the importance of following instructions during sirens and waiting 10 minutes in shelters.

We forgot the dog. We let him in, closed the door again, and waited the remaining few minutes. The 3-1/2 -year-old explained that the dog is afraid (too) when there is a siren.

They went back to bed. The first grader fell asleep. The toddler walked into the living room crying, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.” This was the second time in two weeks with her after a siren, second time it was followed by this behavior. The connection obvious. The 5^th grader returned smelling like a bonfire, plopping herself on the sofa. We had instructions that she should put her clothes directly in the washing machine and take a shower, but she insisted on a moment to relax, and told us about hiding under a trashcan during the siren.

The following evening, we had our Friday night family dinner. Before cooking, we read headlines on our newsfeeds. Maybe Trump will impose peace. Hopefully. This war must end. It doesn’t mean I’m not deeply disturbed by the macro – methods and implications, but dynamics evolve. New issues to resolve will emerge from every scenario. Let’s end the war.

Let’s end starvation in Gaza. Let’s provide food for starving, innocent Gazans, while preventing Hamas access to it.

Labels, commentaries, interpretations, euphemisms, truth avoidance, disseminating fabrications serving political interests, convincing your followers you comply with holier values. Politics.

People starving in Gaza. Other side of the fence, the other side of a wall, because there is no border. Gaza. Starvation.

We calculate how many potatoes to peel, how much rice to make. Meat on the stovetop. The first grader came to help. She insists we go to the grocery store for missing ingredients to make Oreo ice-cream balls.

Late afternoon, tense, anxious, table not yet set for 10, tears in my eyes. Depression symptoms? Haim whispers, “What happened?”

Starvation in Gaza. Gaza. Not China. Not India. We could get food to Gaza.

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Harriet Gimpel, May 17, 2025