The fishermen of Jaffa: 'Brothers' now afraid of each other

Jaffa, Israel - Johny Saba, an amiable 58-year-old fisherman, longs for life in the ancient Mediterranean port to return to how it was before the war.

He hoists his young child up into his arms as a colleague repairs a rickety wooden fishing boat in the stillness of the evening.

The shipyard is calm; only a handful of people come and go. Behind Johny, a tattooed, stocky, bald fisherman fixes a tangle of fishing net; he listens to no music, instead, free of distractions, he is lost in his thoughts as he methodically threads the meshed fabric through his hands.

“Before the war, there was no problem here; Jews and [Palestinians] could work together,” Johny says before letting out a sigh.

On the weekends, he says, thousands of people would come to buy fresh fish from local family businesses that had often existed for generations.

He paints a picture of a community of fishermen - Christians, Jews and Muslims co-existing, working along the sun-drenched Mediterranean coast, bound together by the toil and experience of their trade rather than separated from one another by the tensions and divisions that existed between their communities.

“Here we are all like brothers; If everywhere was like Jaffa, it would be paradise,” he reflects.

Jaffa was Palestine’s commercial hub, a prosperous city surrounded by several villages and towns, with a combined population of about 120,000 people.

In 1948, it was invaded by Zionist paramilitaries who drove out the majority of its residents to other cities.

The city of Tel Aviv has since swallowed Jaffa, and many of its street names have been changed to the names of Zionist or Israeli soldiers.

However, the area has retained elements of Palestinian identity, such as the El-Kamal Pharmacy spanning three generations or the 16th-century al-Bahr Mosque overlooking Jaffa’s scenic waterfront.

Nowadays, it’s a melting pot, with both Arabic and Hebrew widely spoken in the area.

Marcel Shibli, 19, a sociable barman who counts many family members working in the fishing industry, says that before the war it was normal for Christians, Jews and Muslims to gather at the trendy bar overlooking the harbour.

As a Christian, he says, he is well-placed to cater for the different groups and their preferred drinks.

He can switch seamlessly between Hebrew and Arabic and speaks near-flawless English, which he used to practise daily when serving the streams of tourists who would fill Jaffa’s narrow limestone alleys.

He says the war has left many in shock, and Jaffa is considerably emptier than usual with tension building in a usually calm neighbourhood.

Nessim, an experienced 70-year-old Israeli fisherman with weather-beaten skin and a light-hearted demeanour, unloads his boat on a private jetty.

He has lived in Jaffa since he was seven years old and says he would never leave the area because "everyone can get along".

The area, he says, is different to the rest of Israel, where Jews and Muslims tend to live in their own neighbourhoods and do not mix.

He is Jewish, he explains, but he went to a school with many Muslims, and he remained lifelong friends with many of them.

In Jaffa, Nessim says he feels safe. “Here, you can fall asleep on the ground,” he says, pointing at the stone jetty where his boat is moored. “And nothing will happen to you.”

Kabub, 62, leans against a moped parked next to the long rows of shipping containers that have been converted into storage units and makeshift offices by local fishermen.

“My father worked in fishing here before Israel existed,” he says, adding that working in the industry has given him a good life and allowed him to provide for six sons.

“Life before (the war) was good,” he says before motioning to rows of plastic trays brimming with fish on a market stall. Beside them, three fishermen joke with each other in Arabic. “Now, very few people come here.”

Before, the market would be frequented by many Israelis, but now, there are only a handful of visitors. As Kabub talks, two men speaking Russian walk past, showing little interest in the display.

He says the fishermen often catch fish off the coast from Ashdod to the south, but it has been more difficult to use the port there due to missile attacks on the city.

The reality, he says, is now, “Jews are afraid ... to buy from us.”

It’s a sentiment shared by many Palestinians with Israeli citizenship in Jaffa.

Ahmad*, who did not want to use his real name due to the current tensions, says since the start of the war, life in Jaffa has become “more stressful”.

He sits on a limestone wall overlooking the Mediterranean Sea as he basks in the afternoon sun.

To one side, a young woman with a tote bag slung over a shoulder reads a large ornate book, its text printed with traditional Arabic calligraphy.

On his other side, two men joke as they practise fly fishing. In the distance, the words "Bring them home", referring to the captives being held in Gaza, have been painted on a jetty alongside the Israeli flag.

Ahmad* says he “feels pain for both sides”; for the civilians captured and killed by Hamas when they launched their surprise attack on southern Israel, as well as for the thousands of civilians who have been killed in Gaza during Israel’s relentless military response.

However, he adds that while he is expected to condemn Hamas’s attack, if he expresses any solidarity with the people of Gaza, he will be accused of “supporting terror”.

His friend, Hasan*, who is also reluctant to reveal his real name, is sitting at a long cafe table by the stone walls overlooking the sea.

Before October 7, he says, it had been possible for Palestinians with Israeli citizenship living in Jaffa to criticise the Israeli government's actions during previous conflicts with Hamas.

Now, he says, so much as liking a pro-Palestinian post on social media could see him thrown in jail.

Hasan is a health professional and says that, before the war, most of his clients were Jewish; now they have all cancelled their bookings.

“It is very hard for Israelis to see there is another side; for them, the only other side is Hamas,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

Ahmad nods his head in agreement. He recalls a recent incident when he sat in one of the area’s many cafes and spotted an older Jewish woman looking at him with a concerned expression; when he asked if he could help her, she asked, “Are you Arab?”

“I want to say this is not the majority of Israelis here, though,” he adds firmly.

In al-Bahr Mosque, a man in his 40s, who wished to remain anonymous, told Al Jazeera that he had never felt unable to express his opinion before October 7.

Now, he says, shaking his head, there simply is no freedom of speech.

As he motions towards the glistening high-rise office towers of the Tel Aviv skyline, he refers to an incident when a BBC Arabic news team was held at gunpoint in October in the centre of the city.

Whether the situation will get any better he cannot say, but his sadness, pessimism and concern for his children’s future are apparent.

Kabub, remains more optimistic, saying he and his friends in the docks believe the current tensions between the communities in Jaffa “must and will pass”.

Saba also believes eventually the communities will begin to mix again, saying life can only continue “when people can live together”.

As he holds his child in his arms, explosions can be heard in the air just south of Jaffa.

Neither of them flinch. The air raid sirens remain silent. Israel’s Iron Dome system has likely intercepted rockets fired from Gaza before they threatened the city.

"What can you do?" he replies when asked if he is scared by the sounds of war in the distance.

“Of course I am, if you're not then you want to die.”