The Electronic Intifada 11 January 2025
The Relax Café opened in November 2024 in Gaza City.
FacebookThis past December, I saw an advertisement for a new café in Gaza City, in the al-Sahaba area, called the Relax Café.
At first, I thought it was an old post reminiscing about life before the war. But to my surprise, it was a recent post and the café had just opened in November. I couldn’t believe that someone had opened a new restaurant, especially in northern Gaza.
Immediately I thought I could take my children Yumna, 5, and Abdul Karim, 3, to this café, to give them a glimpse of what life was like before the war. They are too young to remember much besides our current reality, and I fear that they are on the brink of forgetting everything about our past life.
So, the next day, we went there. Most of the tables were occupied, and rightfully so. Everyone needs a place to find some relief, a space to escape the shadow of war, even if just for a few moments. Luckily, we found a free table in a quiet corner.
We sat down and I cast my eyes around the place in disbelief. The décor was simple, but it felt like we were in old Gaza.
Yumna and Abdul Karim looked around the place with wide eyes: to see something new in our destroyed world was overwhelming to them.
The waiter came, handed us the menu, and I felt a strange curiosity about what could possibly be on it. In Gaza, where there’s hardly anything left, how could there be anything to serve?
But then, I quickly reminded myself that Gaza knows exactly how to make the most of whatever is available.
The offerings were simple and inventive, incorporating the ingredients that are still available to us: canned tuna and meat and a few simple pastries. All basic foods that now seem like luxuries.
The prices, of course, were higher than before the war, but in the grand scheme of daily life here, they were moderate.
When the food arrived, I felt something strange. Though I had cooked these same dishes for my children many times at home, recently we only cook over an open-air fire, and this fire always leaves char marks like black streaks on all the food we eat.
The absence of such char marks was a welcome change.
The plates were white and pristine. The presentation was beautiful. It was such a difference from the soot and smoke that accompany every meal at home.
“We deserve moments of joy, no matter how small”
As we ate, the waiter approached Yumna and patted her head. He asked her name and when she replied, I noticed a change in his voice.
He told us that was his sister’s name and that she had been martyred.
His words hit me like a slap, reminding me – though I never truly forgot – of the depth of loss we live with every day, even as we try to find routine and small pleasures.
I looked around the small restaurant and knew that each table had its own story and immeasurable grief. Even though this place felt like an oasis in the pain of daily life, we still carried our losses with us.
I spoke to the owner Ibrahim and asked him about the restaurant: What had made him open this place in the middle of a war, when everything in Gaza is a target?
He was young and full of energy and enthusiasm.
“This was a project my brother and I had been planning for three years,” he said. “We were ready to open it when the war started, but everything was delayed, and our plans were shattered.”
He said he kept postponing month after month, hoping that the war would end.
“But after a while I realized that if there was ever a time people needed a place like this, it would be now. When the war destroys every trace of the life we knew, we have to act, not wait for it to end.”
He is still afraid of the risks that come with opening a place like this, of losing everything and having to start all over again.
“The danger is with us wherever we go,” he said. “But that shouldn’t stop us from living. If we wait for the war to end, we might never get a chance to live again. This café is not just about food; it’s about reminding people that life continues, even in the darkest times.”
This café was exactly what I needed. It was a reminder that life, no matter how difficult, must go on.
“We’ve lost so much,” he said. “This café is our way of saying that we are still here, still alive, and we deserve moments of joy, no matter how small.”
Nour Abu Dan is a writer in Gaza.
