Hummus and Hope: How a Berlin Restaurant’s Dream Confronted the Reality of War 

Kanaan, a Berlin hummus restaurant co-founded by an Israeli Jew, Oz Ben David, and a Palestinian Christian, Jalil Dabit, was initially hailed as a hopeful symbol of coexistence after its 2015 opening.

However, following the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023, and the subsequent war in Gaza, the restaurant became a political lightning rod, subjected to vehement criticism and boycotts from both staunch pro-Israeli and pro-Palestinian factions for not taking an absolutist side.

This backlash escalated into virulent social media attacks, a violent break-in by vandals, and a devastating decline in business, pushing the founders to announce in the summer of 2024 that their once-thriving “apolitical” experiment in unity was in imminent danger of permanent closure.

Hummus and Hope: How a Berlin Restaurant’s Dream Confronted the Reality of War 

In a quiet corner of Berlin’s Prenzlauer Berg, a neighborhood known for its stroller-filled sidewalks and cosmopolitan charm, a restaurant called Kanaan once served more than just food. It served a narrative—one so compelling and heartening that the world eagerly consumed it. For eight years, Kanaan was the physical embodiment of a radical idea: that an Israeli Jew and a Palestinian Christian could not only work together but could create something beautiful, one plate of hummus at a time. 

Then, on October 7, 2023, the war came, and the narrative shattered. The story of Kanaan is no longer just a feel-good tale of coexistence. It is a more complex, more painful, and ultimately more human story about what happens when hope is tested by the unyielding forces of conflict, and a reminder that in a world of absolutes, the gray area is the most dangerous place to be. 

The Unlikely Alchemy of a Shared Plate 

The founders, Oz Ben David and Jalil Dabit, never set out to be symbols. In countless interviews, they insisted they were simply two food lovers, a pair of pragmatists united by a passion for perfect hummus. But their backgrounds made this simple ambition impossible. 

Ben David, an Israeli, came from a “very right-wing” settler family. His father was a special forces general. As a teenager, he protested the Oslo Peace Accords. Dabit, a Palestinian Arab from the mixed city of Ramla, was raised in a family of restaurateurs and attended a predominantly Jewish school. He understood the Israeli narrative and its fears intimately. 

Their meeting in Berlin was serendipitous. Their first culinary exchange was contentious. Ben David tasted Dabit’s Palestinian-style hummus and found it too sour. Dabit challenged him to show his version. What followed was not a debate over politics, but a collaboration over chickpeas, tahini, and lemon. They wrote down their respective recipes and began experimenting, creating a hybrid that, on paper, “looked like something that couldn’t work.” 

But it did. The resulting hummus was a revelation—a creamy, tangy, perfect blend that was neither purely Israeli nor purely Palestinian, but uniquely theirs. This culinary alchemy became the foundation for their restaurant, which they named “Kanaan” (Canaan), a name steeped in the deep, contested history of the land they both called home. The name was a bold, perhaps naive, claim to a shared heritage that politics had rendered divisive. 

The Burden of the “Cinderella Story” 

The world was desperate for their story. In a media landscape hungry for signs of hope, Kanaan was a beacon. It was hailed as a “temple of peace,” a “radical experiment.” Crowds flocked not just for the food, but for the atmosphere of unity. They hosted musical performances, community events, and landed a book deal. The narrative of the “Israeli-Palestinian hummus shop” was a powerful, marketable brand. 

But this branding was a double-edged sword. As Ben David noted, “Everyone had this Cinderella story in his head. And we kept saying, no, it’s only business. It’s just business. We don’t mix politics. It’s not relevant.” They wanted to be judged on the quality of their hummus, not their politics. Yet, by building their identity on the very fault line of one of the world’s most intractable conflicts, they had made their business inherently political. The “apolitical” stance was, in itself, a political position—one that could only hold in times of relative peace. 

The Earthquake of October 7th 

The Hamas attacks and the subsequent war in Gaza were an earthquake that tore open this fragile foundation. The fairytale was over. 

Ben David’s reaction was one of immediate, profound despair. The voices of his past—the ones that warned him his Arab partners would betray him—came rushing back. “That’s it,” he told Dabit. “Project Kanaan needs to disappear.” He retreated to a “very dark place,” consumed by anger and grief, even hurling abuse at his friend over the phone. 

Dabit, meanwhile, was in Ramla, huddling with his family as rockets and alarms filled the air. Yet, it was he who repeatedly called his Israeli partner to check on him. In a stunning moment of grace and confrontation, Dabit put his two-year-old son on the phone and challenged Ben David to repeat his hateful words to the child. It was a human connection that cut through the political fury. 

The turning point came with a hug. When staff from the restaurant, including a Syrian employee, went to check on Ben David, he broke down. “The first hug I got since the 7th of October was from a Syrian,” he recalled, choking up. “I remember how much I cried and cried on the shoulder of a Syrian guy. And that’s the moment I understood the power of what we created here.” 

The Unwinnable War of Perception 

Reopening Kanaan was an act of defiance. “We will not surrender to fear,” Ben David declared. “From now on, Kanaan will be the temple of hope.” But the world outside had changed. The nuanced space they occupied was evaporating, replaced by a demand for ideological purity. 

They were attacked from all sides. Pro-Palestinian activists accused Dabit of “normalizing” occupation and criticized the restaurant for not explicitly condemning Israel’s actions as genocide. Pro-Israel conservatives disparaged the staff and owners, using hateful language against the Palestinians and Arabs involved. The very diversity of their team—once a strength—was now a target. 

The backlash turned violent. In July 2024, vandals broke in, smashing furniture and smearing feces on the walls—a act of symbolic desecration meant to destroy not just a business, but an idea. Social media vitriol intensified. Performing artists found themselves blacklisted by other venues for associating with Kanaan. The dream of a shared table was met with a reality of broken bottles and digital hate. 

Their business fell by more than half. The financial strain of paying staff fair wages and hosting community events became unsustainable. This summer, the founders were forced to make a desperate public plea: “Kanaan is in danger.” They announced that without a dramatic increase in support, they would have to close their doors for good. 

The Deeper Human Insight: Beyond the Fairytale 

The story of Kanaan’s struggle is more insightful than its initial success ever was. It reveals several uncomfortable truths: 

• The Market for Hope is Fickle. The world loves a simple, happy-ending story of peace. But when conflict erupts, that same world often retreats to hardened positions, abandoning the complex, messy work of actual coexistence for the comfort of clear-cut sides. 

• Coexistence is Not an Event, But a Grind. The “Cinderella story” obscured the daily, difficult work of partnership between Ben David and Dabit. Their friendship was tested not in times of peace, but in the crucible of war. Their ability to navigate Ben David’s initial rage and Dabit’s steadfast compassion is a far more powerful lesson in coexistence than any perfectly blended hummus. 

• The Gray Area is a Battlefield. In times of war, neutrality is seen as complicity, and dialogue as betrayal. Kanaan’s attempt to remain a space for all made it a target for those who believe you must pick a side. Their experience shows that the path of dialogue is often lonelier and more perilous than the path of polemics. 

The future of Kanaan remains uncertain. Its potential closure would not be a failure of its founders, but a reflection of a world that has become inhospitable to their kind of hope. Yet, their journey—from a shared kitchen to the brink of collapse—offers a value far beyond a recipe.

It is a testament to the enduring, fragile, and profoundly human effort to connect across a chasm, and a sobering reminder that while it is easier to build walls than bridges, the things we build in the space between us are what truly define our humanity.

The fate of their humble hummus shop is a microcosm of a much larger struggle, and its story is one we desperately need to hear.