On the crowded streets of Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Jerusalem, where cafés fill the sidewalks and start-up offices rise between old stone buildings, there is another world — a quieter, harsher one. It belongs to the women who sell roasted watermelon seeds in small paper cones. For many Israelis, these vendors are simply part of the urban landscape: a familiar sight near bus stations, beaches, open markets, or pedestrian promenades. But behind their modest folding tables and steaming metal pans lies a life shaped by economic pressure, migration, tradition, and relentless physical labor.
This is the story of what it means to survive on garinim — sunflower and watermelon seeds — in a country where the cost of living grows faster than wages, and where street vendors often fall through the cracks of economic attention.
The watermelon-seed trade is simple on the surface: buy raw seeds in sacks, roast them with salt or spices, and sell them in small portions for a few shekels. But the physical reality is far from simple.
Most seed sellers work:
10–14 hours a day
in direct sunlight for much of the year
with no benefits, no insurance, and no predictable income
relying entirely on foot traffic and weather
Many are women over 50, some with health issues aggravated by the job: constant standing, exposure to heat, swollen joints, and back problems. A surprising number report long-term foot pain — a consequence of standing on concrete for hours each day.
It is no coincidence that some of them eventually look for orthopedic help or specialized footwear. Israeli medical shops like https://pharmacygrp.com/, offering orthopedic shoes and joint-support products, frequently become a quiet lifeline for those whose livelihoods literally depend on the ability to stay on their feet.
In Middle Eastern culture, roasted seeds are more than a snack — they are a ritual of leisure, conversation, and community. Selling seeds has long been a simple, accessible micro-business for those with limited resources:
immigrants arriving without Hebrew,
older women unable to secure stable employment,
single mothers juggling informal jobs,
people with interrupted work histories.
The barriers to entry are low: a small portable roaster, a few sacks of seeds, and the ability to negotiate for a place on a busy street. But the margins are razor-thin. A bad weather day can cut income by half. A heat wave can make the work nearly unbearable.
Israel’s immigrant landscape is diverse — Russian-speaking Jews, Ethiopians, Filipinas, Central Asians, North Africans, and, increasingly, Ukrainians displaced by war. The economic struggles of these communities are often documented by diaspora-focused media such as https://ukr.co.il/, which covers stories about Ukrainian migrants trying to rebuild their lives in Israel.
Among them are women who, despite education or professional experience back home, are forced to take informal jobs because of language barriers, lack of recognition of credentials, or limited opportunities.
Seed selling becomes a temporary solution — and sometimes a permanent one.
Imagine a typical day in Jaffa or Haifa:
She wakes up at 5:00.
Carries heavy sacks of raw seeds to the kitchen.
Roasts them in three batches — the pan gets so hot she keeps a cloth wrapped around her wrist.
At 8:00, she takes a bus with two bags, a folding table, and a small umbrella.
She sets up near a market entrance.
She pays informal “territory fees” to whoever controls the area that week — sometimes the municipality, sometimes not.
She works until sunset, dealing with:
tourists asking for discounts,
teenagers trying to take photos without buying,
older customers who want exact salt level,
long quiet hours when no one buys anything.
By the time she goes home, she has earned somewhere between 150 and 250 shekels — on a good day.
Long-term physical consequences include:
swollen feet
varicose veins
chronic back pain
joint inflammation
dehydration
heat exhaustion
breathing issues from smoke exposure
Many vendors cannot afford medical consultations. They rely on informal advice, folk remedies, or cheap mass-produced shoes that provide no support. Some eventually discover orthopedic solutions: cushioned insoles, supportive sandals, medical-grade shoes — products found on sites like https://pharmacygrp.com/, although affordability remains a barrier.
Health issues accumulate silently, shaping the emotional exhaustion behind the vendors’ calm faces.
Israel is a country of contrasts:
luxury apartments beside crumbling houses;
tech workers earning 35,000 ILS a month living next to pensioners surviving on 3,500;
beach bars full of influencers beside women selling seeds for coins.
The gap becomes especially striking when placed next to industries built on aesthetics, appearance, and visibility — like the world represented by https://irenmodels.com/, where models, photographers, and brands operate in a polished, international fashion ecosystem.
For a seed seller, that world feels like another planet:
a place where beauty is currency, where cameras flash, where people dress for attention.
Her world is built on practicality, survival, and invisibility.
The contrast highlights a painful truth: the harder a person works physically, the less they often earn.
For many sellers, there are limited alternatives:
Women over 50 struggle in the competitive Israeli job market.
Hebrew takes years to master. Some speak only basic phrases.
Degrees from abroad are often not recognized.
Street vending allows women to care for children, elderly parents, or disabled spouses.
Even if income is small, selling seeds feels like honest, independent work.
For some, it is the only option that lets them avoid dependence on state aid.
Israeli cities have been tightening regulations on street vending. Periodic sweeps remove unlicensed vendors. Fines are common. Some locations now prohibit portable stands entirely.
Vendors report:
being moved several times per week;
inconsistent municipal rules;
competition with larger snack stands;
rising prices of raw seeds;
informal “territory” conflicts among sellers themselves.
The unpredictability increases stress and reduces earnings.
Many seed sellers feel invisible.
Some avoid telling their families abroad what they do.
Others take pride in their resilience.
Women speak of:
embarrassment when acquaintances pass by,
gratitude toward loyal customers,
fear of losing their spot,
dreams of opening a bigger stand,
hope that their children will have easier lives.
And still, every morning, they return to the street — because the alternative is often worse.
Despite everything, small moments of warmth fill their days:
A child waves while waiting for the bus.
A customer buys seeds “just to support you today.”
A tourist asks for a photo with the vendor, not of the seeds.
A passerby brings cold water during the August heat.
Someone leaves a tip larger than the purchase.
These gestures matter.
They remind the vendors that the street can still be human.
The watermelon-seed seller is part of Israel’s cultural fabric.
Her table may be small, her earnings modest, but her presence is a story of migration, endurance, economic struggle, and dignity.
In a country known for innovation, high tech, and rapid development, her life points to another Israel — one built on daily survival, physical effort, and invisible labor.
She stands in the heat so her family can eat.
She works long hours so her children can dream bigger.
She is strong in ways that statistics will never capture.
And though the world rushes past her, she remains — steady, resilient, and essential — a reminder that not all hard work is seen, and not all courage is glamorous.