I begin today’s column with three photos of a falafel stand. Kind of innocuous, the sign that says “Falafel Oved” in the middle, the guy making the falafel on the right, and on the left, in the green box, a certification that the place is kosher, and below, in the red box, a note that they have a set of tefillin there for anyone who wants to use them.
That’s the Jerusalem of old, stuck in the middle of a trendy, much modernized neighborhood. Baka, as the neighborhood is known, was originally home to big villas owned by wealthy Arabs in the region … the cool Jerusalem air was a reprieve from the hot environs of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan or elsewhere, so wealthy Arabs in the early part of the century built gorgeous homes all around here. Gorgeous and huge.
So huge, in fact, that when those people fled the fighting in 1948 and never returned (they wouldn’t have been allowed to even if they wanted to, which they likely didn’t), a young Israel that didn’t have what to do with the thousands and thousands of immigrants pouring into the new country stuffed multiple families into these formerly single family homes. Dividers were built, more people than ideal shared cramped spaces. Quickly, a once elegant neighborhood of wealthy Arabs became a bit of a slum for Jews from Arab lands.
When I was a kid and we lived here for a couple of years, we were allowed to ride our bikes anywhere wanted—except Baka. Our parents told us that if we rode there, we’d come home without our bikes. But the time my wife and I moved with our family to Israel (and to that very Baka neighborhood) some thirty years later, Baka was no longer a slum. It was quickly on the rise and much desired.
Places like that falafel just up the block from us, clearly a throwback to Baka’s early days, have seen it all. But you live some place long enough and you stop asking questions about it. Why was Falafel Oved called that? Never once asked myself.
It turns out, the place was owned more than half a century ago by an elderly guy named Ovadiah. He, too, was an immigrant, as was Judy Lev, who lived in this neighborhood and in a charming and compelling book about twelve of the colorful personalities that once made up this neighborhood (including Ovadiah the falafel guy), tells a story not only of stores and streets and a community, but Israel and a way of life.
I saw down to chat with Judy about her book, just released this week, Bethlehem Road: Stories of Immigration and Exile and we’re sharing it with you today as part of an informal series on Israeli authors who’ve written books in English that we think capture something unique and special about Israeli life.
Judy Lev was born in Shaker Heights, Ohio, and made Aliyah in 1967. From 1984 to 2004 she wrote columns for both The Jerusalem Post and The Cleveland Jewish News. She also writes fiction and teaches both creative nonfiction and fiction to adults, and mentors Anglo Israeli writers. Since October 14, 2023, Judy Lev has been writing Epistles from Israel, now on Substack. Our Names Do Not Appear, a memoir about the legacy of silenced childhood grief, was Lev’s first book. Bethlehem Road: stories of immigration and exile is her second book.
The link above will take you to the full conversation; a transcript for those who prefer to read, is being made available to paid subscribers to Israel from the Inside.
