I arrived in Jaffa to the kind of morning that makes you believe in the sea again - flat water, soft light, boats rocking lazily in their slips. The harbor looked wide awake: engines humming, ropes creaking, a white seagull posing proudly on a metal frame as if it owned the place.

Fisherman standing on his small boat in Jaffa harbor, morning light on the water and sheds behind — *A captain on his quiet deck, eyes on the water, holding decades of tides in his gaze*

Following the smell of salt and diesel, I wandered toward the fish market, expecting the usual chaos - calls over the noise, knives flashing, slippery floors. Instead, I was met by silence.

Close-up of a rusty padlock and handle on a weathered turquoise metal door — *Locked doors and rusted handles hint at busier mornings and stories that once flowed through here*

The stalls were shuttered. Rusted locks clung to peeling blue doors, like they’d been there longer than the fishermen themselves. Abandoned nets sat quietly in large bowls, little silver fish caught in a tangle of plastic threads, waiting for a market that never opened.

Tangle of blue fishing nets with small fish caught and a green float on the deck — *Fish, ice, and nylon threads - today’s catch resting in a web of lines that never sleeps*

Only three cats sat on the steps, perfectly spaced, as if someone had posed them for me. They watched me with the calm impatience of regulars whose favorite café is late. A religious couple walked down the stone stairs under the “Welcome to Old Jaffa” sign, dressed for somewhere else entirely, passing through a market that existed mostly in memory.

Three cats lounging on the steps outside the fish market doors — black, black-and-white, and tabby — *Three cats on the steps, the unofficial keepers of the market, patiently waiting for scraps and stories*

Stone facade in Old Jaffa with a bright blue door and a “Welcome to Old Jaffa” sign as two people step out onto the street — *At the edge of Old Jaffa, people come and go - but the sea, and those who work it, remain*

Just as I was about to give up, I heard voices from the shadows of one open stall. A few fishermen were working in the half-light - hands deep in nets, knives sliding along scales. One young man grinned and held a fish out to the camera, proud of a trade that might be fading but is still very much alive for him. Another stretched out a handful of enormous shrimp, proof that the sea still gives.

Fishmonger in Jaffa holding a fan of jumbo prawns toward the camera — *“We’re still here,” he says, offering prawns like a bouquet from the deep*

Young fishmonger in Jaffa holding a fresh fish toward the camera at a cutting table — *In the empty market, one young seller proudly holds out proof that the sea is still generous*

We talked about early mornings, storms, and how hard it is to keep a small boat going these days. They were happy to talk for a few minutes, then shrugged, smiled, and went back to work.

Silhouetted vendor lifting fish in a narrow market alley, ice crates on the wet floor with the harbor glowing beyond — *Silhouettes move in the shadows, lining up fish on ice as the harbor glows just beyond*

Walking away, I realized the market isn’t really closed. It’s just quieter now, held together by a few stubborn boats, some hopeful cats, and the people who still get up before sunrise to meet the sea.

The Morning the Market Fell Silent

The Tortoise That Chased Me

A City of Zombies and Zero Fear