Will a ceasefire deliver that elusive peace?

Photos: Menachem Kalish

The communities of the northern Galil, devastated by a year of nonstop shelling and missile strikes, is tentatively coming back to life in the wake of a very tenuous ceasefire agreement. There’s no stampede of displaced residents rushing back home, but for those who’ve stayed put, there’s now hope on the horizon instead of a shower of rockets. We visited some of these devastated towns and left with a mix of sadness and promise

Desolation.

That’s the first word that comes to mind as you travel further and further into the northern Galil. The hills, which in better times were lush and green, are now scorched from the numerous fires sparked by rocket strikes from Lebanon — those that didn’t cause injury because they fell in “open areas.” The chilly weather and the fog shrouding Mount Hermon, typically visible from here, add a somber grayness to the already desolate atmosphere.

Breaking the silence is a lone truck heading south, carrying away a tank. The military forces that over the last year filled the staging areas have all but disappeared. Only the roads reveal traces of the war. The tank treads have left deep grooves, turning once orderly streets into muddy, broken tracks.

Driving on this road without having planned an escape route in case of a rocket alert feels utterly foreign. The freedom to travel without fear is a luxury that we’ve forgotten was once normal.

Empty Streets

Entering Kiryat Shmona from the main highway, I half-expected the typical traffic jam at the busy intersection flanked by a shopping center. Yet in Israel’s northernmost city, located less than two kilometers from the Lebanese border, the road is nearly empty.

An injured jackal wanders along the road without disturbance, and further along, foxes can be seen strolling without fear of humans. I can’t help thinking of the verse from Eichah, describing foxes prowling through the Holy City.

At every streetcorner are protest signs with the flags of Israel and the United States side by side. In the current political climate, it’s unclear whether this is a leftist protest calling for heeding Biden’s administration’s calls for a ceasefire, a right-wing critique against concessions in Lebanon, or even a celebration of Trump’s election.

Another fading sign reads: “Kiryat Shmona Supports the Security Forces: Let the IDF Win!” But against the backdrop of these flags, it’s unclear to whom this message is addressed.

As we drive into the city, we’re greeted by the slogan “A Space of Opportunities.” It was a message indicating that this one-time bombarded development town with its government housing was now a thriving place for young people, much like its young, 38-year-old mayor.

Today, though, the slogan seems painfully ironic. Opportunities? That’s debatable. Space? Unfortunately, there’s plenty. Along the roadside, you can see empty casings of shells and missiles neatly stored. Yes, there was a war here, even if it isn’t immediately obvious — and that is the most compelling story.

People talk about an apocalyptic devastation — ruined cities and horrific destruction. Israel’s Dresden, some even said. But it’s important to clarify that it’s simply untrue. Yes, there were indeed too many missile strikes in the city, and some direct hits. In certain areas, you can spot a house here and there that’s been damaged or charred. But if you didn’t know there was a war here, by looking at the buildings alone, you might not have been able to tell.

Because the real story isn’t the physical destruction, but the emotional devastation.

Early Friday morning, the city’s marketplace really should be bustling with customers stopping at stalls brimming with sweets of every kind and fruits and vegetables of Israel’s bounty; but instead, the place is dry and empty, wild weeds coming up through the cracks in the pavement.

“The Galil will be desolate, and the Golan will become a wasteland,” the Sages said about the footsteps of the Messiah. The heart prays that indeed, this is the era.

Just over a year ago, the new neighborhood, once a great hope for the city, was filled with the sounds of toddlers. Kiryat Shmona, a place expected to have been forsaken after the Second Lebanon War in 2006, had risen from the ashes. A new generation, born and raised in the area and fiercely loyal to their home, began to breathe life into its streets.

Now, the silence that envelops the city is unsettling, almost deafening. “I’m looking for anyone on the street, or a family that has returned,” photographer Menachem Kalish says, but his hope is quickly dashed as he turns to photograph the bombed-out building in front of us.

The scene resembles a construction site, but not exactly. Young families had already moved into the new building before the war, but now, after taking a direct hit, the structure shattered, from the roof on top to the stone fence below. Inside, scooters and children’s toys lie broken amid shards of glass and missile fragments. Nearby, a crater mars the road, and nearly everything in the vicinity appears to have melted.

In neighboring homes, secondary damage is evident — balconies riddled with shrapnel from the ball bearings and other lethal elements Hezbollah packs into their rockets to maximize harm. The shattered windows and doors are now sealed with large wooden and cork panels. These stand as haunting symbols of the devastation, much like the charred house nearby, where the exposed wood hints at the life that once thrived within those blackened walls.

We walk up and down the street, searching for a living soul. Yaakov steps out of one of the single-story homes, a broad smile on his face. “Come in,” he invites warmly. “Have you had breakfast? Coffee? Something?”

Even Yaakov doesn’t really live here anymore. He and his family relocated to Teveria but make sure to return every week for Shabbos. Sirens, rockets, fires, explosions — nothing can overshadow the sanctity of a Shabbos at home, especially when the enemy is trying to squeeze you out.

Yaakov’s home is large and airy, with a beautifully landscaped yard. He had barely begun to settle into his new home when he had to leave. The pool is filled with rainwater and, amid debris from months of neglect, remnants of missiles and interceptors, some already rusting, float on top. His new business, launched just before the war, must now wait for better days.

On Shabbos, when he and his family return, Yaakov sometimes walks for half an hour to the other side of the city for a minyan. “And what if there’s a siren in the middle?” I ask him, knowing even from my safer distance from the border (I live in Carmiel) that getting to synagogue under rocket fire can be harrowing.

“Then you duck your head,” he replies. Yaakov grew up here, in the days before Iron Dome, when every Katyusha rocket hit its mark.

“We’re not afraid of sirens or rockets,” he says resolutely. “We grew up with this, and we’ve taught our children, even the young ones, not to fear.” But then he points to the hills on the horizon that is Lebanon. “What truly worries us is the possibility of Hezbollah’s Radwan forces zooming down those hills on motorcycles right into our yards. That’s the primary fear. That’s why families have left.”

On Simchas Torah last year, the terrorist equation shifted. The primary fear was no longer about rockets, but about any disgruntled South Lebanese resident or Hezbollah terrorist descending with weapons, breaking into homes to murder or take hostages, as Hamas did in the south. That’s the nightmare keeping everyone awake.

As for the ceasefire, Yaakov isn’t angry. “Do they have a choice?” he asks, referring to the Israeli side. He echoes what many are murmuring about the outgoing US administration, the need to appease it in order to secure vital military supplies. When the Iron Dome misses too many rockets, there’s also a sense that perhaps the stockpile of interceptors isn’t unlimited, and that munitions economics carry a price.

Back in the house, his wife and children do their best to create a sense of home. They speak of their new life in Teveria, where refugee schools have been set up for families they don’t even know. Yaakov laments that this generation barely knows what a normal education is.

“We barely got out of Covid, and then came the war. What are they learning? Do you think a child can really sit through a math lesson when he’s fled his home, trying to adjust to a room or two shared by everyone?”

The scent of freshly baked challahs greets us at Gadi Biton’s bakery in the new shopping center. Friday, even in Kiryat Shmona, is still Friday. You can take away their security, their peace, their calm — but you can’t take away their fervor for “panim meirot shel Shabbat.”

We Never Left

The Biton family has been in the baking business for decades. A giant photo of his late father, Reb Shalom a”h, hangs on the wall, reminding long-time residents of the original bakery in the old city.

Emerging from behind the ovens, wearing an olive-green cap, Gadi’s response to my observation about the relatively bustling bakery is a reality check. “It feels like people started coming back,” he says, “but no, these are the ones who were always here. Where would we go? Where?”

He believes the ceasefire is a mistake and doesn’t buy the explanations that the military itself needed it. In his view, the army is strong enough, and stopping before the mission is complete was a grave error.

He points to the graffiti someone sprayed on the outside of a nearby bomb shelter that reads, “Only war will bring peace.”

A soldier in uniform leaves the bakery carrying boxes marked with unit names and announces that Gadi deserves recognition for his extensive support of the soldiers throughout the war. As he walks out, the soldier whispers to me, “To be fair, all these packages — someone paid for it.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped the fighting,” says an older man named Chaim, joining our conversation. He looks familiar, and then I remember — that’s Chaim Barvibai, the three-term former mayor who ran the city during the 2006 war, when the city was the target of Hezbollah Katyusha rocket attacks. Most of the city’s residents left the area during the war, and the 5,000 who remained huddled in bomb shelters. “Look, the Americans just signed a massive arms deal — they’re not the problem.” He’s critical of government policies and politicians, having lost trust in them all.

Now, Chaim’s face reflects more pain than frustration. “It’s irreversible, letting everyone leave,” he laments. Today he claims that Hezbollah wouldn’t have dared target the city if they knew it was fully populated. “Eighty percent of the local industry is gone,” he says. “People found jobs and war-free lives in central Israel with good pay. It’ll be hard for them to come back.”

Nearby is iconic Falafel Amar, which has been around for nearly 70 years and is an institution in this town. Shimon, whose father, Eliyahu, once served falafel here, now runs the business with his own children. They’ve weathered every war and military operation, but today, the shop is closed. It’s a jarring sight.

The irony is that this small but generous establishment (with a reliable hechsher) has always been a symbol of the north’s resilience. Every aspiring prime minister has eaten here at least once, making it a required stop on the political campaign trail in the Galil. During every election cycle, journalists would speculate on Shimon’s political leanings. (Once, in confidence, he told me, “Seeing Torah scholars come here to eat is more meaningful to me than any politician.”)

Are You Back to Hike?

Alex, a kibbutznik from nearby Kibbutz Snir on the border of the Golan Heights, has two pairs of glasses: one perched on his nose, the other dangling from a string around his neck. “It’s time to see reality without distortion,” he says, referring to Israel’s internal political strife. “Look, I’m not a Bibi supporter, but after years of voting for the left, I voted for him as a token of appreciation for some of the right things he’s done.”

Kibbutz Snir, named after the biblical term for Mount Hermon, was established by members of the leftist Hashomer Hatzair movement in 1968, back when its location was still beyond the international border. In recent years, Alex admits, he’s shifted his political outlook. Today he believes the current leadership has managed the war with greater thoughtfulness than any other government might have, despite the fact that most of his friends would like to see it replaced.

“You have to understand,” he tells me. “Call it G-d, the Creator, or whatever you like — I get you — but something unnatural happened on Simchat Torah, October 7. Do you realize I wouldn’t be here today if Hezbollah had decided to join the massacre? Yes, things are tough, but we need to be grateful it wasn’t worse. We’ve woken up.”

Alex never left the kibbutz, although many of the 600 residents evacuated. Now, they’ve begun to return.

“From now on, I’m sleeping with one eye open,” he says. “We aren’t going anywhere, but we’re more determined than ever to be prepared for war.”

A large vehicle screeches to a halt, surprised to see us. “You’ve come to hike here?” the driver asks, not waiting for a response. “It’s exciting. Good days are finally coming.”

His name is Mike, and he’s excited to see an unfamiliar face. Until last year, this part of the Upper Galil, filled with hiking trails and waterfalls, was prime tourist area.

Mike grew up here, but during the First Lebanon War in the summer of 1982, his parents left for the center of the country. Mike was in the army then, fighting in Lebanon, but on the day his military service ended, standing at the bus stop with his army duffel bag about to join his family, he made a decision that would define his life.

One by one, people boarded the bus.

“Hey, soldier, you getting on?” the driver asked when Mike was the last one left.

He snapped out of his thoughts and, in a moment of clarity, said, “I’m staying here.” And he still is.

Above us, an Apache helicopter roars through the sky. Explosions rumble in the distance, shaking the ground beneath us.

Is the ceasefire crumbling in front of us as we stand on the border?

Actually, it seems likely that this is artillery fire intended to deter Hezbollah operatives violating the agreement.

And with that, it feels like the right time to move even closer to the border.

Closing the Distance

Another ascent, and we enter the closed-off area, climbing up the mountain to the northernmost settlement in the country, Metula. It’s a stunning place, situated 600 meters above sea level, from where you can see the mountains of the Galil, the Golan, the Hula Valley, and Lebanon, just a few meters away.

On the eve of the war last year, I stood by the fences in Metula, and in front of me were Hezbollah operatives holding flags, recording me. When I climbed to observe from the roof of an old base on the other side of the settlement, a man came out of the balcony in the village of Keila, a neighboring town, shouted at me, and told me to leave. I hope that with the new ceasefire agreement, the distance between sides will be clearer.

This beautiful settlement has probably paid the heaviest price in the war. The first row of houses facing Lebanon is gone. Real destruction and devastation. It’s doubtful if this area — prime vacation real estate — will recover.  Who would be willing to rent a vacation unit just a few meters from the border?

Metula is still officially closed off to the public, and even the local residents, who have now been allowed to reenter, can only do so after coordination and registration with the military police.

“You know there’s a war going on,” says a local resident in uniform, trying to assist with security, both for safety reasons and due to the curiosity and looting that’s going on.

“Isn’t there a ceasefire?” I ask.

“A ceasefire, you say?” he asks, sighing. “Here, look for yourself, this is what a misconception looks like.”

A sense of utter despair seems to permeate the air. We move past the ruined streets and head into the Ayun Nature Reserve, which is connected to Lebanon, to Marj Ayun. Under normal circumstances, the reserve, the Ayun stream (part of which Hezbollah diverted), and the Tannur and Tachanah waterfalls, are amazing places to visit, and you have to pay to enter. Now, the place is open. Various military units are stationed here, and the well-maintained paths are either trampled or overgrown with wild vegetation.

But suddenly, amid all this greenery, is a chassidic family with a few children and a three-year-old with neatly-arranged peyos beneath what looks like a brand-new yarmulke.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised.

“We went to Rabi Shimon for a chalakah,” explains the head of the family, “and we decided to stop by here as well before heading back to Bnei Brak.”

Now, Meron is a good 45-minute drive from Metula, and not in the direction of Bnei Brak. But maybe it’s a sign that the country is calming down. In Meron itself, just two weeks ago, there were days when you had to beg for a minyan. Last Shabbos, after the ceasefire, the place felt like Lag B’Omer.

Shine the Light

At the summit of the Ramim Ridge, the central ridge of the Upper Galilee, you have a panoramic view of the settlements and kibbutzim stretching below. One of them is Moshav Margoliot, where agriculture has been damaged, and where earlier this year, a foreign worker was killed and seven others were wounded by anti-tank fire on the moshav. We managed to walk through Margoliot and other communities, where agriculture and tourism have been ruined, and sources of livelihood have dried up.

Margoliot made headlines last week when moshav head Eitan Davidi blasted the ceasefire agreement, calling it “scandalous,” and saying that “we never imagined we’d see the day when we’d have to return home under these conditions. The government gave Hezbollah a second chance… this is a colossal failure. They’re sending us like sheep to the slaughter. Be careful. If the Radwan Force enters the north, the lucky ones will be killed outright.”

True, on the mountains near us, we could see the severed IDF antennas. One by one, they had fallen, along with the vital intelligence coverage they provided. But across from us, the view was a happy surprise. Where we’d always seen the threatening Lebanese homes, from Marj Ayun to Aita al-Shaab, the threat was no more.

Complete ruins fill the line of sight in the distance from the houses at the edge of the Israeli border. In one Lebanese settlement, the Israeli flag still flutters. In another, all the houses are destroyed. At that moment, looking at the Israeli farmer working below and the complete destruction of the villages opposite us, one could understand the great humiliation the Israelis imposed on our enemies from Lebanon. These homes, which doubled as storage facilities for Hezbollah ammunition, no longer stand.

Perhaps it was a small moment of consolation that something had indeed changed. Today, their leadership is gone, their weapons have been destroyed in massive quantities, and even their homes and villages lie in ruins before our eyes.

As we made our way back southward, we passed through Moshav Dalton and the region’s famed wineries. For the past year, the moshav has been shelled repeatedly, and most of the wineries were still closed. But near the Lueria Winery, we noticed a crowded parking lot. Either it was soldiers serving in the area, or perhaps a miracle was happening.

And there they were — families, tourists, groups, having a special outing as if it were normal peacetime. We met with winemaker Yoni Saida and his son Gidi, who told us that they’d just reopened the visitors’ center, and wine was flowing like water.

“Everyone needs to open,” Yossi says, referring to his friendly competitors. “There were days when we sat here in camouflage nets and watched as they shelled us, and then we looked at the horizon and saw how they were being destroyed, attack after attack. Now it’s time for the light to shine again.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1039)