‘The house fell down on their heads’: Gazan falafel seller in southwest London with a tale to tell

Sandwiched between the vast green swathes of Wandsworth Common and Clapham Common, there is little else that is common about Northcote Road, one of southwest London’s most conspicuously middle-class half-miles. It is an affluent strip of designer charity shops, antique bazaars, wine and cheese sellers and modish hangouts. Some days on the street, it seems as if 90 per cent of the people are aged in their late 30s to mid 40s and are either city workers or married to one.

As in most middle class-London enclaves, weekends on Northcote bring a conga line of trendy food stalls. Think vans selling artisan biga dough pizza with artichokes, washed down with pressed pear and elderflower juice from the organic drinks counter next door.

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A new stall arrived in recent weeks on Northcote Road selling simple falafel wraps. No bells or whistles, no bewildering array of pointlessly-flavoured hummus options. Just plain old sandwiches of falafel, fried on the spot and served on fresh bread with basic accompaniments. I ambled up to the new arrival last Saturday when I had 15 minutes to kill while waiting on a tardy companion. Its falafel wraps came in four sizes: small, medium, large or “the whole shebang”. The latter creation sounded like the perfect one for me, thank you very much.

There were two men working the stall, but one of them was clearly running the show. As I went to order, he immediately produced for me a free falafel ball. I was going to order a big sandwich anyway. Why the freebie? I realised he didn’t have enough falafels to make the wrap. It would take time to produce more. As his colleague furiously fried up a new batch, the free falafel was meant to keep me waiting there instead of walking away. Clever tactic.

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The wait gave us time to chat. We exchanged pleasantries. The man’s appearance suggested he was from the Middle East. Are you Irish, he asked, clocking the accent. Yes and how about you? He was from Gaza. His name was Yousuf. He owned three London falafel stalls, at Northcote Road, Westminster and Portobello. He had been in the UK for 22 years. Given his homeland, our chat slid inexorably towards politics and war.

Yousuf said the people of Gaza perceived the people of Ireland to be on their side in their struggles against Israel. I suggested that was certainly true for the majority, but that everybody right now really just wanted peace. He said Gazans were grateful for whatever support they could get.

The falafels were ready. As Yousuf smashed up the half dozen for my sandwich, he mentioned that the word shebang was of Irish origin. I didn’t know this, but a Google search later suggested he was probably right. Then Yousuf told me about his 11 family members who had been killed in the war.

His family had originally come from the town in Israel that is now known as Ashkelon, just north of Gaza. They were driven from the area during the creation of the state of Israel in 1948 – its anniversary was celebrated this week as Independence Day by Israelis and lamented as Nakba (the Catastrophe) by Palestinians. Yousuf said his extended family ended up scattered across refugee camps in Gaza. He said he came from Khan Younis in the south, while other family members lived in Jabalya to the north. Both areas were devastated during Israel’s military action, which followed Hamas’s October 7th attack.

Yousuf said several of his nieces and nephews had been killed. So had some of his cousins, while other elderly relatives had died “when the house fell down on their heads”. He said that although he lived in the UK, his wife and their children lived in Gaza. He showed me a picture on his mobile phone of a young girl, aged about 10, standing in the middle of a rubble-strewn neighbourhood. “That is my daughter,” he said.

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Yousuf complained that UK authorities would not let him bring his family to Britain, because he had become a full UK citizen only after his children were born. So he lived a long-range marriage. He said he would go back to Gaza to see his kids once the war ended.

He showed me another picture: this time of a young plant growing incongruously out of rubble. “It’s a fig tree. It will grow back anywhere, even in a place like that.”

Yousuf proudly presented the whole shebang, a fine falafel sandwich bulging with fried chickpea (falafel), hummus, aubergine, chillies and pickles. In Gaza, they call falafels the “poor man’s kebab” because they are so cheap and ubiquitous. In Israel, they claim falafel as one of their national dishes, much to the chagrin of Palestinians. In London, both communities can be found living their lives quietly, waiting for news from home.