(This post was originally published in the Tel Aviv Review of Books in late May, after Israel all but declared victory over the coronavirus outbreak. By mid-July, Israel was up to around 1,500 new infections per day, amid talk of a new closure to stop the second wave.)
I knew that victory was near when my elderly neighbor sent a different kind of message to the building WhatsApp group. A former chef, for the duration of the lockdown he had been baking pizzas and offering them at an affordable price to the many families and singles in our residential high-rise. Then, on day 39, he sent out a cry for help:
“It’s not clear to me why I wear a mask, which is supposed to protect those same people who walk right past me without one.”
During the lockdown, life in our building felt stifling and claustrophobic, but a sense of solidarity prevailed. The WhatsApp group was full of posts about bakers, flower shops, restaurateurs, and caterers who were suddenly out of work and needed help. There was even a daily menu of sorts: order malabi from a young guy in Kfar Saba, get artichokes (by the case) from a nearby moshav, homemade masks from an unemployed seamstress, cupcakes and a decorating kit from a caterer, gourmet cheeses from a restaurant supplier suddenly without clients.
But this solidarity had a shelf life. For well over a week now, the WhatsApp group has reverted to its pre-pandemic self: the same three or four people complaining about noise or trash left outside the garbage room, people giving away furniture, people looking for a recommendation for a plumber, people accidentally butt-dialing a 10 second recording of pocket static to all 102 units in the tower.
The camaraderie was a silver lining of sorts to the stress and isolation of the lockdown. But when we started baking less and returned to our normal Israeli way of shaming and yelling at each other, it was a sign that we had the virus beat.
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