Noam Yonash, a sixth grader from the community of Ben Ami in the western Galilee, goes to school in Kibbutz Kabri, seven kilometers from the border with Lebanon. Even prior to the current escalation of fighting in the north, sirens were going off around Kabri every week.
The school’s classrooms aren’t reinforced, the protected areas aren’t big enough for all the students, and are a 30-second run away from his classroom anyway, while the advance warning time ahead of rocket fall is zero.
“When sirens go off, they lie on the floor with their hands over their heads and hope for the best,” says Noam’s mother Shiri Yonash. “It’s really scary. How can you concentrate on school that way? How can we sleep at night, knowing that come morning, we’ll send him there? How can the education ministry and home front allow schools to operate under such conditions?”
Many of the homes in the area are likewise not protected and people who live there lie on the floor when sirens go off. Asked how they differ from students in school, Shiri insists, “This is outrageous too. But my home has a reinforced room, and we don’t lie on the floor when sirens go off. Ben Ami is two kilometers south of Kabri. Why should my son go to school someplace more dangerous than his home?”
Ben Ami and Kabri, both adjacent to the city of Nahariya, are among the so-called “second line” communities bordering Lebanon that are now under constant rocket fire from Hezbollah.
They were not evacuated during the war and the continual barrages by the Hezbollah terror group have utterly obstructed their day-to-day lives.
‘My home has a reinforced room, and we don’t lie on the floor when sirens go off. Why should my son go to school some place more dangerous than his home?’
The Kabri elementary school is attended by kibbutz members and residents of Ben Ami and the nearby Netiv HaShayara, as well as students from “first line” communities that have been evacuated but who still live in the area (mostly in Nahariya).
Yonash is heading a group of parents from Ben Ami and Netiv HaShayara who demand that their children be transferred south of Kabri, or to a protected institution. The Mateh Asher Regional Council is building additional shielded areas at the Kabri school and its chair, Moshe Davidovitch, promises these will be ready in about two months.
But in the meantime, he is trying to comply with the parents’ demand that their children be transferred.
After struggling for about six months, parents from Ben Ami and Netiv HaShayara believed that Davidovitch had come up with a solution: The Kabri school would be split, so that students whose parents demanded it could study in a building allocated to them in Kibbutz Shomrat near Acre. Parents who opposed the move, as well as children of Kabri and evacuees, would remain at the Kabri school.
“Shomrat has only had seven siren alarms thus far,” Yonash said earlier in the month. “There’s a 30-second advance warning there, and every classroom has a shielded room next to it that you can run for. We were overjoyed when we visited there and witnessed this solution.”
The council conducted a poll among parents in both communities and found that approximately 80 percent of them wish to transfer their children to Shomrat. Parents who work in Kabri and those who have children with special needs asked that they remain there. The transfer was set to take place soon, and meanwhile, some of the children didn’t start the school year at Kabri but stayed home.
However, on September 12, the education ministry announced that it would not approve the transfer. This was because the 73 students whose parents had asked for the transfer did not meet the ministry’s minimal number of 90 students required to open a new school (15 students per school year class).
“Since Thursday, I’ve been on the phone with broken-hearted parents,” says Yonash.
‘How can you overrule the decision to transfer students under such circumstances, under such pretext? This amounts to extreme negligence’
“I found a memo by the education ministry’s director general by which the minimum stood at 66, namely an average of 11 students per school year class. But even if I’m wrong on this, how can you overrule the decision to transfer students under such circumstances, under such pretext? This amounts to extreme negligence.”
Some parents claim that the education ministry’s director of the northern district, Orna Simhon, ruled out the transfer due to what they described as “unprofessional considerations.” The school principals, they claim, aren’t interested in a move that would necessitate hiring more employees and believe that Simhon is backing them.
In its reaction, the education ministry insists this was a “joint decision made by the local authority and the education ministry, partly because of a poll that had found that such a transfer was unfeasible due to an insufficient number of students who were interested to do so.”
The ministry further emphasizes that attending the school in Kabri is “in full compliance with the home front instructions,” adding that “the local authority is planning to build two additional reinforced areas in the coming weeks for the benefit of the students.”
“Regrettably, there were not enough parents who had asked to transfer their children to Shomrat,” Davidovitch says, but remains ambivalent. “I supported the parents’ demand, but the education ministry’s opposition is not unreasonable.”
‘We’re like a frog that is being cooked and is already used to it’
Yonash, an engineer by training, her spouse, who is self-employed in the field of construction, and their children, all left their community when the war broke out. They spent about a month and a half in Haifa and Kibbutz Beit Oren and then returned.
“A lot of families left the community when the war started [last October], but almost all of them returned. The sense of belonging and the force of habit are stronger, and the situation during the previous school year was reasonable,” she notes.
“During the summer, things deteriorated. We sometimes think about picking up and leaving. When they talked about a major onslaught, we packed our bags and planned to flee to our relatives down south. But our work is here, our older children are in high school, and their friends are here. If things really get worse – we’ll flee. In the meantime, we’re like a frog that is being cooked and is already used to it,” she says.
They saw the fire through the bus window
Many of the “second line” communities are facing the opposite situation than the one the Yonash family is facing. Before the war broke out, some high school students in the area had been attending an unprotected high school in Kibbutz Gesher HaZiv, north of Nahariya, and were transferred during the previous school year to a high school in Kiryat Motzkin.
Some students and their parents – primarily residents of Gesher HaZiv – are frustrated by the current situation and demand to return to the school in the kibbutz.
Inbal Bernstein, the owner of a small business and a single mother from Gesher HaZiv, has two children who attend the high school that was evacuated to Kiryat Motzkin. When the war broke out, she fled with her children to her parents in Acre, where she subsequently rented an apartment. But since Gesher HaZiv had not been evacuated, she was not eligible for assistance. Two weeks ago, they returned to the kibbutz.
“I could not afford to pay the rent anymore,” she says. Bernstein is part of a group of parents who are demanding that their children be brought back to Gesher HaZiv.
‘The ride from Gesher HaZiv to the Krayot takes an hour and a half each way, on a crowded bus, and is a mortal danger’
“The ride from Gesher HaZiv to the Krayot takes an hour and a half each way, on a crowded bus, and is a mortal danger. Sirens have already gone off during the ride and the driver would not pull over, saying it was unsafe. He was probably right. It was scary and unpleasant. More than 100 youths are standing at the bus stop and there are two mobile shelters there, each one able to fit 20 people at a time. The bus is sometimes 30 minutes late and they are waiting there in the meantime.”
An official at the Mateh Asher Regional Council notes that the bus stops have recently been upgraded, mobile shelters have been added, and buses have been arriving more frequently so that students would not have to wait as much.
“Last week, when there was a fire on Route 89, they saw and smelled it from the bus window,” Bernstein recounts. “Sometimes, in between classes or during shorter days, they have to wait two-three hours in Kiryat Motzkin before the bus comes. My children want to do their homework but to no avail. They come back exhausted from school – when the alternative is a five-minute walk with their friends.
“Even the matriculation exams they will have to take in Kiryat Motzkin. At the very least, let them take the bagrut exams nearby! Not to mention extracurricular activities in the afternoon, to which I can’t drive them, so I’ll just have to end them. My son is in the chess league and won’t be able to continue playing.”
It should be noted that her kibbutz is the most northern among the communities that have not been evacuated. The school is only five kilometers away from the border and is not properly protected.
But this does not deter Bernstein, who has a solution.
“Near the school are vacant afternoon childcare facilities which can be repurposed. We live here, the kibbutz hasn’t been evacuated. My home has a reinforced room, but the advance warning time is zero, so we don’t make it in time anyway. Some homes in the kibbutz have no reinforced rooms at all. So, I prefer that the children remain here under the same conditions during school than spend three hours a day on the bus, which is much scarier and more dangerous.”
That the afternoon childcare facilities are too small for all the students to fit in does not deter Bernstein either. “They can split into groups and study on alternate days, to fit in everybody,” she says.
But implementing this would not be easy. It’s unclear whether parents of students living south of Gesher HaZiv would agree to such a thing; whether the schools could in fact be divided without harming the students’ social ties; and whether there would be enough teachers.
“The whole area is under attack,” she insists. “There isn’t much of a difference between Gesher HaZiv and other places – and, yes, you can divide. Social life in school mainly involves being crammed inside a bus. We can do without it in the meantime.”
Concerning the bagrut exams, the education ministry responds, “Given the security situation, the ministry is currently considering further alleviations for students of the north in the upcoming January 2025 bagrut exams.”
‘True, the ride is worrisome, but I’d rather them go to Motzkin and back, and be safe in school, than to spend all day long at Gesher HaZiv’
Yonash’s two older children go to high school in Kiryat Motzkin, but she sees things differently than Bernstein: “True, the ride is worrisome, but I’d rather them go to Motzkin and back, and be safe in school, than to spend all day long at Gesher HaZiv.”
The buses can’t be reinforced but authorities are striving to provide them with optimal aerial protection.
Having learned from the army that buses in the north weren’t being protected from the air, Davidovitch says he “gave them all the student bus routes and they provided maximal aerial protection of the routes during the rides.”
Taking into account buses don’t always go on the scheduled time, he added: “We took a 30-minute margin of error. Is that totally safe? Absolutely not.”
But students wait a long time at the bus stops and the mobile shelters can’t fit everyone. Davidovitch agrees, but says “there are no complete solutions. I reached out to Kiryat Motzkin mayor and made sure that he allocated two buses for the students who go there, for them not to ride together and stand at the bus stops together, but rather in separate groups.”
Some parents in various communities are demanding that their children attend schools closer to their homes, while others prefer someplace farther and safer. Splitting the schools thus seems reasonable, but Davidovitch remains adamant.
“I understand all parents, but some splits are possible while others aren’t. By fragmentizing schools, we will destroy the social fabric that the children need, especially during times like these,” he says.
‘By fragmentizing schools, we will destroy the social fabric that the children need, especially during times like these’
The parents’ conflicting demands lead to harsh arguments between them. Tali Oz Albo is a spokeswoman for the Mateh Asher Regional Council and herself a resident of the community of Shavei Tzion near Nahariya.
“I received phone calls from alarmed parents from communities that had been evacuated, such as the one in Betzet, saying: ‘We heard there is a group of parents who spoke with a correspondent [of Zman Yisrael], telling him they want the children to transfer from Kiryat Motzkin to Gesher HaZiv.’ The idea infuriated the evacuee parents,” she recounts.
“The evacuee parents rented apartments in Kiryat Motzkin for the sole purpose of being near the school. One of them was in tears and asked me: ‘Does someone really think I am going to let my child ride every day now, from here to Gesher HaZiv? Does that sound sane? For the past year, I’ve been moving with him from one hotel to another, and now we finally rented an apartment near the new school to give him a sense of stability!’
“The parents are all right. Each one is experiencing hardship differently. They make conflicting demands because the reality we find ourselves in here — to which we have been abandoned – is simply surreal, unbearable, impossible, incomprehensible. We try to help everyone, but some problems just have no solutions.”
Oz Albo herself has a daughter who goes to high school in Nahariya. Her class is on the third floor, while the shelter is underground and is too small for all the students to fit in anyway.
“My daughter is experiencing the government’s failure to provide protection first-hand,” she says. “When sirens go off, they lie in the corridors with their hands over their heads. Last year, there was firing during the bagrut exam. Every time she goes out in the evening, logistics are required to move her between shielded areas.”
The situation in the upper or eastern Galilee is similar to that in the western Galilee, perhaps more difficult due to more frequent firing from Lebanon. Also students from “second line” communities — in the areas of Mount Meron, Safed, the Naphtali mountains and the Hula Valley – all ride to school for hours, while others attend poorly protected schools.
An unacceptable reality
Some students are unable to adjust to the reality that has been forced upon them. Parents and students we spoke with tell of children and youths who have become recluses in their homes, miss school for long periods of time and don’t engage with friends. Some sleep with their clothes on or shower wearing swimsuits.
Most students adjust, but it isn’t easy on them either. Gilad Yarchi of Kabri attends the kibbutz high school, studying in a classroom with a collapsible gypsum ceiling and large windows. The nearest shielded area is a 30-second run away down the stairs, but no one runs. Additional protected areas are currently under construction at the school, but in the meantime, when sirens go off, the students lie on the floor.
‘There are booming sounds during school, as well as during the bagrut practice exam’
“There are booming sounds during school, as well as during the bagrut practice exam,” he recounts. “We saw fires through the windows. It’s difficult to concentrate this way. Sometimes, the Israel Defense Forces warn us not to leave our homes. Most days we do, but we remain alert. I keep track on my phone of warnings in other communities because let’s say a warning is issued for Kibbutz Matsuva, we then know we have to prepare ourselves. But I prefer going to school here, rather than riding someplace else.”
His father Amir, who is CEO at Israel Friends of Technion, wishes for his children to stay near home, despite all the hardship. “The children are under unbelievable stress, and so are we,” he says.
“Some parents wish that their children went to school elsewhere. I wouldn’t want them to go on long rides, because the bus isn’t reinforced and the roads are targeted, so it’s better for them to stay here, close to home, to their friends and familiar surroundings. The community has already suffered a blow when some evacuees moved far away, and some of them will never return.”
‘We’ve been in this shit for 11 months with no end in sight’
“We’ve been in this shit for 11 months with no end in sight,” he says while acknowledging other communities have it worse, specifically in the upper Galilee. Nor would he switch places with the evacuees. At the same time, he believes “some people stay here simply because they cannot afford, financially, to leave.”
He remains sober and pragmatic, saying that “if we reach a situation of daily shooting, as was the case during the Second Lebanon War, or other extreme circumstances, we will use our savings to leave. We will not remain here at any cost and in every scenario.”
