Three Weeks in Cape Town

This week, Ter and I returned from Cape Town. Three weeks on the far side of the world, where it’s summer and hot, and the sea is the Atlantic—therefore, cold. Not refreshingly cold, but freezing. Cold like a bad decision. Like deep regret.

We landed after fifteen hours of flying, including a connection in Paris, straight into the morning of the funeral. I mentioned the funeral briefly in my previous post, but what I didn’t say was that there was no time to settle in, to rest, to adjust to the new climate—just straight into the shower, get dressed, go out. I don’t possess that enviable gift of being able to sleep on planes. My inflight ability begins and ends with back pain, so I was exhausted—each eyelid a weight—barely able to guide myself from one embrace to the next, not even attempting to remember who was who or match names to the correct faces in my mind. All I wanted was to collapse onto a bed—any bed—and sleep for a week or two straight.

But there were no weeks to sleep—we had only three. In the first week, we stayed in our antisemitic Airbnb. Why antisemitic? Well, as soon as we stepped in, we saw a painting of a man in a keffiyeh—a subtle red flag. But it wasn’t until we switched on the smart TV that we realised exactly where we’d landed. The host’s YouTube account, Fatima’s, was flooded with propaganda videos. According to her algorithm, the world was easy to understand: everything was Israel’s fault. Israel destroys, Israel invades, Israel makes it rain in winter. The algorithm thought Fatima needed to know these things. I disagreed—clearly, she had a lot to learn. A quick search—and voilà! Douglas Murray on mute. I already know the material, the point is to feed the algorithm. A few of his videos later, it moved on to Elika La-Bon. Then another, and another. As far as I was concerned, they could play all night. And lo and behold—her feed no longer looked the same. You’re welcome, Fatima.

The plus side of the antisemitic flat was its location—on the street parallel to my mother-in-law’s. This meant we could spend each day of the shiva with her—supporting, helping, simply being present. She was glad to have us and kept saying how much it meant to her. That alone made it worthwhile.

That week, I learned quite a bit about Ter’s family—who are now also my family—and about the Ashkenazi side of my life, which is now mine, too, but has always felt distant. I’m half Tunisian, half Persian. In my family, a shiva looks very different:

With us, the house would be bursting with people. Voices and shouts clashing, stories spilling out of multiple mouths at once—you’ve no idea who’s talking to whom or who’s interrupting what, or who’s even listening as laughter erupts at all the wrong moments. The plate of bourekas empties and is immediately refilled. A plate of biscuits and wafers passes from hand to hand. Crumbling things are dipped in coffee. Sweet things are forced upon guests just stepping through the door. As the door opens, others leave—and there’s always someone to walk them to the car and someone to shout, “Walk them to the car!” Women talk, men pray. Women recite Psalms, men doze off. Young people take selfies. Children fight and make up. The chaos rises and falls like a full-moon tide.

In Ter’s family, it’s another world entirely:

My mother-in-law sat in her late husband’s armchair, without a cushion. Every now and then, she’d receive a condolence call and speak for ten, twenty minutes. Ter and I sat opposite, trying to fill the silence with chatter, jokes, any noise to keep the quiet at bay. Stories would occasionally surface, and gradually, I came to know the deceased a little more deeply. That’s how it goes during a shiva, doesn’t it? These retroactive introductions. Every so often, a visitor would arrive. They’d sit with their handbag still on their shoulder, politely decline any drink or refreshments, fiddle with their car keys while speaking of how sorry they were, how much he suffered, how strong she was. Somehow, their eyes would find their way to the clock—so carefully, so subtly, it was almost admirable. Then, after ten minutes, they’d announce they’d only stopped by briefly to see how she was—but sadly, they must dash. We’ll come again, if we can. They usually can’t. Then it’s back to just the three of us. We’d eat lunch together at the table and return to the lounge. I’d do the dishes, she’d tell me it wasn’t necessary, I’d insist. We’d make tea and chat.

Let me be clear: my mother-in-law is not a lonely woman. She has a community, and Cape Town’s Jewish community is perhaps one of the most remarkable in the world. But her family is scattered. Her sister is in Canada, the rest are in Israel. And so, alongside the shiva, a long-awaited conversation began—one I’d patiently hoped for for years: aliyah.

Since becoming religious, my mother-in-law has longed to move to Israel. But her husband, fifteen years her senior, felt it was too late in life to make such a move. And so, they stayed in Cape Town. It’s no surprise then, that sitting in his chair, on the back of his death, she was already searching for the documents to begin the immigration process.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled—finally, she’ll be in the place she belongs.

In the evenings, she went to synagogue—there was no minyan at home. She asked her son to accompany her, and Ter did just that—every single day. It’s not something he’s used to and not something that came easily, but my husband is as easy-flowing as the Jordan and honours his mother deeply.

When they returned from synagogue, we’d have dinner together—and that was that. By then, she was completely drained and off to bed, and we would head out to the pub or back to our antisemitic flat.

That was our routine that week. Every morning, we went to her house and stayed until evening. Ter, ever the devoted son, handled the bureaucracy—transferred accounts to her name, updated insurance companies, disposed of leftover medication, and in general, mapped out a plan for the life ahead. We helped her buy a new bed for the guest room and painted the walls—our future bedroom for the following week, and so it was.

The moment the shiva ended, the room was ready and we moved into her home. She returned to work, and so did we. She was delighted the house was filled with what she called a youthful spirit. The conversations between us, our playful teasing, our light-heartedness—none of this was part of her quiet daily life, and she loved it.

We also needed to give time to Ter’s father, who was feeling left out, and to his old friends. After all, Ter grew up in Cape Town and lived there until he was twenty-nine. It’s far away, and we don’t visit often. There’s only one Jewish school in Cape Town, which means every Jewish child went to it—so they all know each other!

We spent most of our time divided between his mother and his old friends. And I, still hoping to find some quiet corner of peace, invented one sacred routine: every evening at dusk, we’d walk down to the promenade. The sun would slowly disappear into the ocean, and with it, the tension of the day—giving us a breath of calm before tomorrow’s errands, tomorrow’s visits, and somehow, still keeping up with work as if nothing had changed.

Cape Town is stunning, and this visit was very different from my previous one. I hope the next visit is a joyful one, not steeped in grief—that we’ll come to rest, not arrive with all our problems and work carried on our backs.

For now, we’re back in Lisbon. It’s cold again, we have privacy again—but I didn’t linger. I’ve already booked another flight. This time one way, for 2 March. I’m coming home. And I hope to stay for as long as I can. I’ve got that itch again. I want to come home.