Of all the cities in Israel, Petah Tikva is probably the last place anyone expected to see on a war map.
I’ve been to the city, walked through the Ganim Mall, and sat in the shade while a fellow journalist bought a Nike t-shirt with Hebrew lettering. There, I enjoyed McDonald’s soft serve (you can only get it outside the main restaurant, which is kosher), waiting out the sticky summer afternoon with the city’s residents who never take themselves too seriously.
Petah Tikva is a punchline, even to its own residents—”the city you pass on the way to somewhere else,” they’ll say, grinning. It reminds me of an ad for a car dealer in a Kansas City suburb from the mid-80s when I moved here. “Where the heck is Raytown?” the announcer asked.
No, Petah Tikva doesn’t have beaches, no glitzy nightlife like Tel Aviv, no military bases or secret installations. Just endless apartment high-rises, malls, a corny zoo, pretty good falafel, tons of “kafeh” shops with the aroma of dark roast pouring out the doors, and the feeling that absolutely nothing out of the ordinary ever happens there.
That was true—until this week. When the air raid sirens screamed and the sky, always in a state of dusk because of light pollution, opened up with the brightly lit contrails of Iranian missiles punching through the night haze seeking whomever they could devour.
In that moment, Petah Tikva’s quarter million residents became the unlikeliest target in a conflict that has always seemed to dance around the sleepy city. An Iranian missile leveled an entire neighborhood, killing four people huddled in their bomb shelter.
Lives upended
For a city whose biggest scandal last year would likely have been a botched roundabout renovation, the devastation felt surreal and cruel. The news showed people stumbling from shelters, still blinking from disbelief, their ordinary lives upended in seconds.
I remember the dry humor of Petah Tikva’s people—how they’d welcome you with a joke about the city’s reputation, as if to say, “See? If you can love it here, you can love anywhere.” That spirit hasn’t changed, even now. There’s grit beneath the self-mockery.
Residents will sweep glass from living room floors, pick up the building masonry (called Jerusalem stone for its color), check on neighbors, and find ways to laugh—because what else can you do when the world’s eyes land, by some cosmic irony, on the place nobody ever expected to matter?
And they’ll survive. Israel is, after all, a lot older than the current regime in Iran.
Still, there’s shock. Petah Tikva, the city they love and love to joke about, suddenly at the heart of world history.
–Dwight Widaman | Metro Voice
