Sirens, Silence and the Sea: A City Living Between War and Faith

Saturday in Tel Aviv began like any ordinary beach day. The seaside was alive with holidaymakers, some stretched out on the sand soaking up the sun, others playing volleyball or football, and a few simply watching the waves roll in with their children by their side.

At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. If I had not known better, I would have found it hard to believe that this was the same city where sirens regularly break the silence and missile attacks turn life upside down.

Then, suddenly, war made its presence felt. My phone blared with an alert, and within moments the siren followed. The scene changed in an instant. People rushed off the beach, grabbing their children and belongings, sprinting toward shelters. In a matter of seconds, the lively shoreline fell silent.

For any reporter in a conflict zone, the challenge is always the same: to observe, to record, to report, and at the same time, to stay safe. Caught in that rush of panic, I was still trying to find a secure spot when the call to Afternoon prayer reached my ears. I looked up and saw it rising from a small yellow-stone mosque tucked among Tel Aviv’s tall buildings.

That struck me deeply. Here is Israel, a country whose wars have largely been fought with Muslim nations, whose conflict with Iran is ongoing, and which is often accused of military campaigns and human rights abuses in Gaza, Lebanon. Yet here too, in the middle of a Jewish-majority state, stood a place devoted to Muslim prayer and worship. I felt drawn toward it.

I walked to Al-Bahr Mosque, whose name means “by the sea,” and that is exactly what it is, just a few steps from the Mediterranean. It sits right where modern Tel Aviv gives way to historic Jaffa, a city mentioned even in the Bible, where churches, synagogues, and mosques exist side by side. The area still carries the layered identity of centuries, with a mostly Muslim population alongside Jewish and Christian residents.

By the time I reached the mosque, I was standing before a structure said to be around 350 years old, carefully preserved and beautifully maintained. At the main entrance, worshippers asked who I was and, after knowing my nationality and name, they welcomed me in with warmth. An elderly man nearby spoke with pride about the mosque, saying it was built in 1675 during the Ottoman era for fishermen and sailors working at the port of Jaffa. To him, it was not just a mosque, but a marker of the area’s history.

Stone inscriptions near the arches and doorway speak of the wealthy Aza family, who had the mosque built. Its tall minaret is a clear reminder of Ottoman architecture. There are separate washing areas for men and women at the entrance, and inside, the hall is kept spotless, with bright rose plants outside and a fine carpet spread across the prayer space. Everything reflected careful upkeep. A man named Adel Karimi, 34, told me after prayers that the mosque was renovated and rebuilt between 1995 and 1997, and has been maintained ever since.

Al-Bahr Mosque also stands as proof of the strong Muslim presence in this region. Out of Israel’s population of about 10 million, nearly 18 percent are Muslims. According to the country’s Central Bureau of Statistics, the Muslim population was around 1.809 million by the end of 2024. Most are Arabs who have lived here for generations. On the land of Jaffa, a city with thousands of years of settlement, the marks left by history speak of changing religious and political tides.

Sitting on the mosque steps, I kept thinking about how many people in the world view the Iran-Israel conflict mainly through a religious lens, as a struggle between faith and power. But reality is more layered than that. Among those who support Prime Minister Netanyahu’s government are leaders such as Mansour Abbas of the United Arab List. And within the Israeli Defense Forces, there are Muslim women officers like Lieutenant Colonel Ella Waweya, who appears in uniform to explain military operations to the world.

Whether a missile falls in Kfar Qasim or Jaffa, the homes destroyed belong to Muslims and Jews alike. Those running to shelters are not divided by faith at that moment. In the bunkers, you see children, the elderly, and the young, people of every religion, all trying to survive the same fear.

As I sat in the courtyard of Al-Bahr Mosque, looking out over the vast Mediterranean, I started humming Bob Dylan's famous song...

“How many roads must a man walk down?
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail?
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly?
Before they're forever banned?

- Ends