Ceasefire in the Shadow of Conflict: Life in Israel’s Northern Border
Two days after a new ceasefire was announced between Israel and the group Hezbollah, Yulia Bar-Dan stood outside her temporary home in Kibbutz Manara, located in northern Israel. The familiar sound of an interceptor jet flew overhead, prompting her to announce, “There will probably be another siren soon.”
Moments later, an alert buzzed on her phone, warning residents to seek shelter. For Bar-Dan, this reality is all too familiar, nearly two years after Hezbollah joined the war against Israel on October 8, 2023.
In the wake of Hezbollah’s involvement in the conflict, the U.S. has initiated diplomatic efforts to transform the ceasefire into a more permanent resolution for Lebanon. Various discussions have taken place in Washington, with the president making repeated announcements aiming to bring calm along the border. However, for residents of places like Manara, the threat of rockets and drones has not subsided.
Bar-Dan expressed her frustration, saying, “A ceasefire is supposed to be on both sides. Instead, it feels like Hezbollah keeps shooting at us while we just have to endure it.”
In December 2024, during the peak of the conflict, Bar-Dan and her family evacuated Manara and lived in a hotel, uncertain about returning home. Today, about 200 of the 280 residents of the kibbutz have come back, but many, including Bar-Dan’s family, still can’t occupy their homes due to war damage.
Despite repeated calls for ceasefires, residents describe their lives as anything but normal. “There hasn’t really been a routine or quiet day since February,” she shared, explaining why she chose not to send her children back to school.
“It’s risky for them to take the bus. What if there’s a siren on the way?” she added.
This sentiment of worry reflects a broader concern. Community leader Yochai Wolfin pointed out that people now refer to the current situation as the “ceasefire war.” This term aptly describes their experiences of living in fear, interrupted by uncertain lulls and sporadic violence.
Children are now taught inside shelters, and many parts of the community lack safe rooms. Construction work remains stalled as contractors hesitate to operate close to the border. Wolfin expressed dissatisfaction, saying, “The decisions being made don’t reflect our reality. We feel detached from those who are making them.”
Echoing similar frustrations, Naor Shamia, who leads the emergency response team in Manara, noted that community members fear that temporary solutions may become permanent. “The concern isn’t just for today; it’s about what might happen in years to come,” he said, highlighting the ongoing deadlock they face.
In the nearby community of Adamit, resident Yael Cohen-Arazi conveyed the harsh contrast between the idyllic landscape and the constant threat of violence. “Every morning I wake up thinking I live in paradise, then explosions remind me of reality,” she remarked.
Back in Manara, another alert pierced the afternoon calm, and Bar-Dan admitted that she’s not angry anymore. “Mostly, I feel tired and sad,” she said. “I worry for the soldiers every day; casualties continue, yet no solutions seem to be in sight.”
“But we’re staying,” she insisted, reflecting her sense of belonging. “This is our home. Someone needs to live on the borders of this country.”
Just then, another explosion echoed in the distance.
