The North Under Siege

NAHARIYA – The sun shone from a cloudless sky as crystal blue water lapped against the shore—a perfect day on the beach. Except that not one person was to be found on this stretch of Israeli coast less than 6 miles (10 kilometers) from the Lebanese border.

“It has never happened before,” said lifelong Nahariya resident David Ron. “In the past, if rockets fell here, maybe a few tourists wouldn’t come out for one day, maybe 10 days. But residents would be out. Never have we had a situation in Israel where residents lived in shelters for weeks on end.”

Unlike towns further south, Nahariya did not have sirens to warn of incoming rockets until nearly a month into the attacks. Ron drove around the city with one window open to keep the glass from shattering in case of a blast. 

With more than 900 houses in the coastal town damaged by Hizbollah’s Katyusha rockets, residents—who are no strangers to terrorism—disappeared along with the tourists. It was impossible to tell whether people were in their homes or shelters or had skipped town altogether. Almost every shop was locked shut.

In the first month of fighting, 3,600 rockets forced the 1.5 million residents of northern Israel to live in shelters or head south for refuge. Israeli officials estimated the number of displaced Israelis at 300,000, some driving for days until they found a place to stay. With at least 150 rockets raining down on Israel on an average day, Hizbollah changed the frontline of the Arab-Israeli conflict, hitting areas as far south as Afula, 30 miles (50 kilometers) from the border. 

An Eerie Routine

Israeli army Major Elliot Chodoff, responsible for the home-front in the north, said the situation is full of psychological challenges because rockets can hit any time, anywhere. “There are no easy answers,” Chodoff told Israel Today, adding that the aim is to find a workable routine in a crisis situation. “What we’re trying to do is help people cope at the highest possible level.”

To enable residents to shop for food and other necessities, stores adopted a wartime schedule, opening each day for specified hours. Residents described an eerie pattern of life under siege: Rocket attacks begin in the late morning and then subside, allowing people to scamper out from their shelters, shop, walk and have a drink in the humid sea air. Then residents head back into the shelters, ready for the next round of attacks that inevitably occur in the late afternoon.

At one convenience store, which stayed open throughout the conflict providing refuge for war-hardened Israelis, older men and their sons yawned at the predictability of the Hizbollah war schedule while maintaining their favorite pastime—drinking coffee, smoking and now, talking about the war.

“I’ve never gone into a shelter in my life. This is not the first war I’ve been through,” said Haim Dentess, 68, explaining why he sat outside on a deceptively peaceful day. “People here are strong. We know why we’re at war—we want peace. They want to kill us and we know the reason: We are strong.”

Though Dentess and his cadre of tough men defied the government recommendation to stay in shelters at all times, they were also disheartened by the situation. It was summertime, the height of the tourist season that props up the city’s economy, and yet stores were barred shut and the promenade deserted.

The Silver Lining in Adversity

The rockets that hit homes wrought devastating damage. A side hit to the exterior of one house shifted everything inside. Drawers spilled out of the cabinets, plates and glasses smashed onto the floor and meat rotted in the open freezer. An uneaten baguette remained on the table. The residents left in a hurry and did not return. 

Another pockmarked apartment building was guarded since all of its windows and doors shattered in a rocket hit. Residents have long been in shelters, but insurance requires that the building be secured 24 hours a day to prevent looting.

Despite the damage, danger and disruption, the war in this city testifies of two miracles: most rockets landed in streets, yards and fields, and with most residents in shelters, the death toll was relatively low considering the number of attacks. 

The View from Arab Towns

The mood in Israeli Arab towns in the north was much different and, in fact, belied war at all. Not one store was closed and life didn’t skip a beat despite daily sirens warning residents of incoming rockets. 

“When a rocket falls on an Arab village, it’s the opposite [of Jewish towns]. Everyone goes to the rocket, not from it,” said Alhan Awad, a resident of Kfar Yasif. “People sit on the roof of their house and watch.”

While many Arabs maintain anti-Israel views, Lebanese Israelis, who fled Lebanon in 2000 when Israel pulled out, are pulling for the Jewish state to eradicate Hizbollah (see page 6).

“They are terrorists, killers,” said Johnny Aboud, who now owns a shwarma (meat sliced off a spit) shop in Kfar Yasif. “Nobody wants Israel to lose.” 

Aboud lived in a Christian section of Beirut. He still has family there, but hadn’t been able to contact them since Israel began bombing the city. Aboud said Lebanon will be much better off without Hizbollah.

“All of the government is afraid of Hizbollah,” he said. “Who has the weapons now? Only the Hizbollah.”

Harried in Haifa

At Haifa University, overseas students cleared out of town after the first rocket landed. Final exams were postponed and only a few Israeli students were left in the dorms.

“One student, a South American girl, left immediately after the first Katyusha fell,” said Moti, a student at the school. “I said to her, ‘You’re obviously not from here. We are used to this—this is our reality.’”

During the height of the rocket attacks in Israel’s third-largest city, restaurants and coffee shops were closed, or if open, were nearly empty.

“All during the month of the World Cup, it was busy. We even took reservations,” said Moshe Taylor, a restaurant owner who was determined to maintain a semblance of normalcy. “We were full, extra full, even two to three hours before the game.” “Now,” he gestured at the trendy but empty sushi bar, “we have a lot of place.”

Taylor said that his bar-restaurant depends on the three summer months to make money for the whole year. But in one month, business dropped 50 percent, his Asian workers left the country or headed south and his barmen and waitresses went to Tel Aviv.

“If I had kids I’d take them away from here,” he said. “But for me the show must go on.”