An Israeli cafe chain launched by and for Oct. 7 survivors is expanding to more cities

A woman with a gaunt face and ripped pajama pants ambles into Cafe Otef, nestled in an up-and-coming yet still gritty corner of Tel Aviv’s Florentin neighborhood. She gestures to the water dispenser, and Ziv Hai, a worker at the cafe, obliges with a glass while owner Reut Karp offers her a cigarette.

“We don’t have them in our region,” Hai said about apparently unhoused people. “Learning how to navigate that has also been part of the journey.”

Hai was far from home because the cafe is no ordinary establishment. Founded by Tamir Barelko, a serial entrepreneur in the culinary world, it is the second in the Cafe Otef chain — “Otef” referring to the “envelope” region of Israel bordering Gaza that Hamas terrorists invaded on Oct. 7, 2023.

The first branch opened as a pop-up in Tel Aviv’s glitzy Sarona complex, staffed by residents of Netiv Haasara, one of the communities targeted in the massacre. This branch, named Cafe Otef-Re’im, honors the kibbutz of the same name, where 80 terrorists invaded, killing seven residents and kidnapping four. The kibbutz was also next to where the Nova music festival massacre took place.

Staffed by displaced residents 

Staffed entirely by displaced residents from the battered communities in the south, the cafe offers a wide range of goods from that region: cheeses from Be’eri, honey from Kibbutz Erez, jams, spreads, granola and specialty cakes, alongside branded items such T-shirts, water bottles, and aprons — all sourced from small producers affected by the massacre.

But the piece de resistance is the chocolate, crafted from recipes by Dvir Karp, the owner’s late ex-husband, who was murdered on Oct. 7 in front of their children, then ages 10 and 8.

Reut Karp said that during the pandemic, “when we all thought we were going to die,” she had urged her ex-husband to write down his chocolate recipes. Despite his initial resistance — insisting he had them all in his head — he eventually complied. After his murder, Karp felt a profound responsibility to preserve his legacy. She believes Dvir would have been proud of her posthumous rebranding of his chocolates, including a new logo inspired by the luxury brand Cartier, though she joked he would “probably say I went overboard.”

Most of Re’im’s residents were evacuated to nearby apartment buildings in Florentin, while Hai, who is from a different kibbutz close to Egypt, was initially relocated with his family to Ofakim, a small city near Beersheba. In April, he moved to Tel Aviv, where he said he experienced an intense culture shock.

“At first, I was like, what the hell am I doing here, and I just wanted to move back,” he said. Over time, however, he adjusted to city life, finding a sense of belonging through his work at the cafe, which opened in the summer.

“I feel like I left a piece of myself behind in Sufa, and here in Tel Aviv, I’m trying to rebuild myself anew. The cafe gives me a place where I can feel comfortable,” he said. “I can tell a dark joke, and everyone here — because they’re also from the south — gets it.”

Karp, who co-owns another cafe featuring Dvir’s chocolates in Israel’s south, was approached by Barelko to manage the Re’im branch. She declined, citing her responsibilities to her three children who are still coping with the trauma of the attack (Karp herself was away for the weekend of Oct. 7). Determined to involve her, Barelko appointed managers to handle daily operations, allowing Karp to serve as the owner and hostess.

The role proved a perfect fit for Karp, who expressed gratitude for having a reason to get up each day.

“So many times over the past six months, I’ve said, thank God I have this place that forces me out of bed. And all the workers say the same thing,” she shared, highlighting one employee who had lost his entire family in the attack.

The cafe has become a gathering place for those directly impacted by the events of Oct. 7 — survivors of the Nova music festival, bereaved parents and others — while also offering a space for those not directly affected to engage with their stories and find meaning. “They want to feel a sense of connection and to know it’s not just a gimmick,” Karp said.

“People always say Tel Avivians are living in a bubble — sitting in coffee shops while soldiers are fighting and hostages are trapped in Hamas tunnels,” she added. “But here, people let themselves enjoy coffee without the guilt.”

Meeting point for evacuees

The cafe’s location in the center of the country has also made it a natural meeting point for evacuees from both Israel’s north and south who have been relocated to the city. Karp noted the unique camaraderie that has formed between the two groups, describing it as a shared understanding of what it means to be displaced within their own country.

As if on cue, an older woman from Kibbutz Manara in the north approached and chatted with Karp about her recent visit to her kibbutz — the first since the ceasefire agreement with Hezbollah in late November. Their laughter seemed out of place given the context of the conversation, with the older woman remarking that it would take “at least a decade” to rebuild the kibbutz. Over 70% of the homes in Manara have been damaged, with rocket fragments still scattered across the area, prompting some residents to compare it to Chernobyl.

The two hug before the older woman walks away — a scene that plays out repeatedly throughout the afternoon.

“Some people recognize me from TV but hesitate to ask questions or offer a hug,” Karp said. “But that contact is like a human charger for me.”

Around 100 of Re’im’s 450 residents have returned home. Yet, according to Karp, many of their temporary neighbors in Tel Aviv feel conflicted about their departure. “On the one hand, they’re happy for us to go back home, but on the other, they want us to stay because our presence here has put a face to Oct. 7,” she said.

The red anemone, or kalanit – Israel’s national flower, ubiquitous in the region of Re’im — is equally ubiquitous at the cafe, embroidered on staff uniforms, printed on takeaway cups, and displayed on ceramic items for sale. But otherwise, there are few overt signs of the cafe’s deeper purpose. One less obvious sign comes in an innocuous poster on the wall, its tiny spiral text easy to miss.

Created by Adi Drimer, an art teacher from Re’im, the artwork contains the haunting text messages sent in the kibbutz WhatsApp group on Oct. 7. Karp points out her own chilling plea from that day, begging other kibbutz members to rescue her children: “Urgent! Urgent! Daria and Lavi are alone,” read her text. “Dvir was murdered.”

Karp said the decision to avoid making the cafe overtly about the massacre was deliberate, respecting those who prefer to keep their coffee and grief separate.

“We also don’t want to sink into the sadness of it all,” she said. “This is a place for renewal, and when people see us moving forward, it inspires them.”

Barelko has big plans for the chain. Two new branches are set to open in the coming weeks: one in Rehovot, called Cafe Otef–Sderot, for residents of the southern town, and a misnomered Cafe Otef–Kiryat Shmona, paying tribute to those evacuated from the northern town for 14 months.

He also plans to introduce food trucks at various locations across the country and expand the initiative to include employment for soldiers disabled in the war, whose numbers are estimated in the thousands.

“In the end, we realized this is the best approach to rehabilitation. It builds both hope and resilience,” he said.