Flavors of Survival
In the cozy warmth of my kitchen in Israel, I find solace amidst turmoil. My fingers brush against a paper bag on the counter, revealing the unmistakable, and familiar aroma of freshly baked Pita bread. I pause, letting the reality of home seep in. Pita, a simple food, yet offers a comforting respite.
With practiced ease, I tear off a piece, its warmth seeping into my fingers. I instinctively reach for the hummus. I sprinkle za'atar—a blend of fragrant herb, sesame, and sumac on Pita. Each sprinkle narrates our land's rich tales. I drizzle golden olive oil over it, symbolizing life’s continuity. The oil trickles down my finger. I lick it. Its earthy flavor grounds me. Each bite of folded Pita, with its intermingled layers of joy and sorrow, hope and fear, mirrors our lives here.
Pita bread, made from whole wheat flour, symbolizes more than nourishment; it's a symbol of our enduring culture. Sometimes, I bake my own Pita bread. The rhythm of kneading dough and the oven's quiet hum provide a sense of peace, a sanctuary from outside chaos. Every bite of Pita is a taste of normalcy, resilience, and the joy in simplicity. Each risen loaf, each golden crust, is a small victory in life's perseverance.
There’s also Laffa in the pantry — a soft, chewy bread made in a clay oven. It represents our region's diverse flavors. Its texture, now yielding to time, recalls succulent chicken shawarma it once wrapped.
From my kitchen, my thoughts drift to that cramped prison with thin walls, where time stretches endlessly. The distant sounds of conflict—shouts, the rumble of tanks, the wail of sirens—invade the space. Children, old men and women are crammed in one room. I see another version of myself, diminished by war's weight, holding the last piece of Pita bread. Hoarded and hidden. Beside me is my younger brother, still untouched by the war's ravages. This bread is now our lifeline. Though once an epicure, my own hunger gnaws at me. In this confinement, I grapple with choices.
Do I share this last Pita with my brother?
Do I eat all to stay strong, to keep protecting him?
When will the Israel-Hammas war end?
Promises of another meal are uncertain. Detained for my beliefs, my silence shields others, but comes at a great cost. They dangle Pita bread before me—warm, evoking sunlit days and family meals. A deceitful test. Thoughts of venturing outside cross my mind, but beyond these walls, war's harsh reality scars the streets, a sign of ongoing strife and danger.
Returning to the reality of my kitchen, a surreal vision unfolds – a piece of Pita hovers above the table. This hallucination, birthed from the depths of confinement, blurs my reality with imagination.
I’m acutely aware of our shared human experience that binds us, and the relentless hope for a peaceful resolution. This Pita bread, whether in my kitchen or in my thoughts, is more than sustenance. It's a reminder of life's fragility.
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