HAIFA — Irit Efrati, a Kibbutz Dan resident since birth, recalls just one other instance in which she had to flee her northern border community: in 1948, as a seven-year-old during the Israeli War of Independence.
“They took all of the kibbutz children and moved them to Haifa,” the 83-year-old said from a hotel in the same city where, decades later, she once again found herself effectively a refugee in her own country after Hezbollah began firing on northern Israel last year on October 8.
Fearing a cross-border raid from Lebanon resembling the Hamas-led attack on southern Israel on October 7, in which terrorists murdered 1,200 people, mostly civilians, and kidnapped 251 into the Gaza Strip, many northern residents immediately voluntarily fled the border region. Others left their homes after the Iranian-backed terrorist group began shelling and launching rockets at Israel’s border regions, in ostensible support of Gaza, just one day later.
The government later ordered the evacuation of more than 30 communities within 3.5 km (2 miles) of the border with Lebanon — a decision many northerners agreed to willingly, believing it to be a temporary measure. But tens of thousands of people remain in government-subsidized hotels and apartments across Israel nearly a year later, with no return date in sight.
“It’s hard not to lose your sanity after living in a small room for 11 months,” Irit Efrati said from Haifa’s Dan Carmel Hotel. “You need to gather the energy to somehow maintain a supportive community, to stay together.”
The prolonged period of displacement has taken a particular toll on elderly evacuees, who lean on one another in the absence of the community and familial support systems they enjoyed back home. But for many of the displaced seniors, who have lived through and fought in various wars throughout the young country’s history, the abandonment of the north is more than just disruptive — it’s also profoundly unsettling to their core beliefs about the Israeli state.
“It hurts the essence of my Zionism. We wanted to live on the border. The founders of the kibbutz struggled to settle there,” said Irit’s husband Amiram Efrati, 87. “There is a difference between having just soldiers on the border and having civilian life. It should be important for the state as well.”
For much of its 84-year history, Kibbutz Dan, located at the foot of Mount Hermon, sat at the intersection of the Lebanese, Syrian, and Israeli borders. When the Israeli army captured the Golan Heights in the 1967 Six-Day War, it gave the small community breathing room from at least one immediate threat. Despite the persistent danger from Lebanon, the kibbutz has survived multiple wars — and thrived between them. In addition to growing avocados, Dan boasts the only trout and caviar farms in Israel.
‘We wanted to live on the border. The founders of the kibbutz struggled to settle there’
Amiram Efrati spoke proudly of these successful ventures from Haifa, parted from the community he helped build throughout his lifetime. Though he said the evacuations were a mistake, he traced the real oversight back years earlier, with the failure to prioritize the construction of shelters in northern Israel.
Now, many displaced residents have taken it upon themselves to add safe rooms to their homes — a costly undertaking at around 100,000 to 150,000 shekels, depending on the quality of construction materials and terrain. “It’s a lot of money, so we have to take it from our savings,” Amiram said. “It’s as if the government says, ‘If you are so eager to live on the border, pay for it.’”
Kibbutz Dan faces a particular threat given its proximity to Lebanon, which at 2 km (1.2 miles) puts the community well within range of anti-tank guided missiles. One such attack seriously injured a reservist and member of the local civil security squad last week, in what the kibbutz’s seniors described as a big blow to morale for the evacuated residents hoping to return home.
‘There’s no sense of security. That’s not a way to live’
“There’s no sense of security,” Irit Efrati said. “Whoever stays there is told not to wander around, not to leave the house. That’s not a way to live.”
Until the government can restore security, the Efratis and their fellow kibbutzniks are trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy in a distinctly abnormal situation.
“Three meals a day. It’s unlike our kibbutz life, but there’s nothing you can do about it. We just try to keep sane,” said Kibbutz Dan resident Raya Ben-Zvi, 79, who teaches a pilates class for seniors at the hotel. “Everyone is trying to pass the time in their own way and, of course, missing home.”
No strangers to conflict
Down the road, at Haifa’s Bayview Hotel, elderly evacuees from the northwest town of Shlomi are also eagerly awaiting the day they can move out of the temporary housing.
“You’re not at home. You’re confined in a small space with your wife and your children,” said Avraham Ginzburg, a 65-year-old who has lived in Shlomi for more than 20 years. Like many other northern residents, he argued that the evacuations have done more harm than good. “We need a government that makes decisions because indecision is what’s happening right now.”
While Ginzburg continues to work as a minibus driver, often starting his day as early as 5:00 am, others struggle to maintain any semblance of their previous lives back home.
Before the war, 77-year-old Shlomi resident Ella Moreno enjoyed cooking, taking care of her pet cats, and looking after her home in the quiet community of 7,000. Now, her entire life is confined to a cramped hotel room, where personal mementos compete with various medication bottles for desk space.
“You’ve left your home to live in one room. You have all of your meals scheduled. Life has changed,” Ella said. “I just want it to be peaceful and quiet,” she added of her hometown.
‘You’ve left your home to live in one room. Life has changed’
Shlomi is no stranger to conflict. The border town came under heavy rocket fire during the Second Lebanon War in 2006, prompting many residents to flee of their own volition during the monthlong conflict. But for many evacuees, the current round of fighting feels wholly different from previous ones — both in duration and intensity. Hezbollah has launched more than 6,700 rockets and drones into northern Israel since October and shows few signs of letting up.
The last year of war has been exceptionally difficult on Ella’s husband, Avraham Moreno, though it’s hard to tell from the former Maccabi Haifa soccer star’s remarkably good spirits as he entertains other evacuees. As his displacement stretches on, the 80-year-old has suffered various physical ailments, including a kidney removal surgery, and now requires a walker to get around.
“My mental and physical health have deteriorated significantly in the last year,” he said. “I had surgery and can’t walk anymore. It’s just hard, but mostly mentally. You’re being told where to stay, when to eat, what to do. It’s not like your home. You’re not in control of your own life.” At least three seniors in the hotel have died recently, he added.
‘My mental and physical health have deteriorated significantly in the last year’
More than anything, seeing his hometown turned into an effective buffer zone between Israel and Lebanon has made Avraham, who fought in the Six-Day and Yom Kippur Wars, profoundly worried for the future of his country.
“It’s unprecedented that civilians are evacuated from their own homes. The wars were always fought on enemy territory,” he said. “Most people here think that we should have stayed. We should not have been evacuated. The government needed to protect us in our own homes. Nowadays, I think a lot of people will never return.”
