By Andrew Adler
Community Editor
March 13, 2026: A rocket heavily damaged this house in Kibbutz Kabri, located in the Western Galilee approximately two miles east of Nahariya. (Photo by Amir Yarchi)
To appreciate what Israelis living in our Partnership2Gether region are facing these days, consider the following WhatsApp text sent to me on Wednesday, March 11 at 8:44 p.m. Israel time:
We are currently in the safe room due to a massive Hezbollah attack on the northern area. Reports say around 100 rockets have been launched toward the region.
Its sender was Yael Haimovitz, whose home lies just a few miles from the Lebanese border. Ever since Israel and the U.S. launched their war against Iran on Feb. 28, she and her neighbors have been contending with a two-pronged threat – ballistic missiles fired from Iranian installations, and rockets lobbed into Israel by Hezbollah.
The resulting anxiety, uncertainty and pervasive war-weariness is a sober variation on what Israeli citizens have endured in the aftermath of Oct. 7, 2023. Since that terrible day, much of the nation’s collective consciousness has been defined by the ravages of conflict. Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis – Iran last June, and now yet again – with even more ferociousness. If shortly after the shock of October 7 there was a surge of resolute energy, now it’s often a matter of sheer exhaustion.
“Your energy storage and your patience storage and your optimism storage are not as full as they were on the seventh of October,” Dana Bachar Grossman, co-chair of P2G’s Young Adult Committee, said during a recent Zoom interview from her home in the town of Shavei Zion. “People’s faith is damaged, because we were hoping for a better future.”
Never have the stakes been so high, the potential scale of destruction so vast. It is one thing to contend with the relatively small rockets launched from Gaza by Hamas and from Lebanon by Hezbollah. Yes, those munitions can maim and kill, but shelters and safe rooms typically offer sufficient protection.
Not so with Iran’s ballistic missiles, which carry substantially more powerful warheads. Witness the results of a March 1 missile strike on a bomb shelter and synagogue in Beit Shemesh, extinguishing the lives of nine people and injuring 28. The shelter was reduced to a pile of jagged rubble, a refuge turned into a killing ground.
Much of Iran’s ballistic stock has subsequently been depleted, or destroyed by relentless American and Israeli air strikes. Still, enough of those missiles remain to threaten every part of a country roughly the size of New Jersey.
And as Israel has intensified its military action in southern Lebanon, Hezbollah – the most formidable of Iran’s proxies – has in turn accelerated the pace of its rocket and drone attacks on Israel’s Western Galilee. On March 8, one of those drones crashed into the parking lot of the Galilee Medical Center in Nahariya – seven miles from the Lebanese border – which once again had moved its operations to its extensive underground facility.
A little more than a week later, a residential building located in Nahariya suffered a direct hit during a rocket barrage from Lebanon. Emergency workers rescued five people from the burning structure, one of whom was moderately wounded.
Meanwhile, a week after her initial text, Haimovitz found herself apologizing for having to cancel a planned Zoom session:
Unfortunately, we will have to postpone our meeting. We are under attack again, with ongoing sirens, and have had to enter the shelter. There is currently a very heavy barrage with strong explosions.
And then, in characteristic Israeli understatement, she added:
It’s not easy to live like this.
“Every day brings surprises,” said P2G director Ory Rosin, speaking via Zoom from Kibbutz Pelekh in the Lower Galilee. “Before the hit in Nahariya we had two days of almost zero alarms.”
From Rosin’s perspective, it’s the people living in central Israel who are especially vulnerable to Iran’s ballistic missiles. Living in what he calls “the periphery,” the existential threat seems relatively distant.
He compares the current situation to circumstances following October 7.
“In the beginning of the war with Hamas and Hezbollah, it took Hezbollah three or four days before they got all in and started shooting at the North,” Rosin said. “And after a few months it became like a real war, and they started throwing everything they have. That was a big issue for us in the Western Galilee, because we couldn’t do anything like a daily routine.”
Schools were closed and commerce slowed to a trickle, as residents in places like Nahariya and Akko confronted their newly minted reality. It is much the same today – no school, reduced work, wondering when the sirens will next wail.
“In the last year or so, I think everything went much better,” Rosin said, mentioning how his children have become accustomed to their altered routine. “Now, in this war it’s like, ‘Okay, we get in the safe room.’”
Increasingly, the periphery is becoming less peripheral.
“Two nights ago, over 200 rockets were launched toward the Galilee from Lebanon,” Grossman said on March 13. “It was super intense – everybody was sleeping in the shelter the whole night.”
Taking refuge from rocket attacks isn’t easy. While modern homes like Rosin’s typically include reinforced safe rooms, most older structures – including many in Arab villages – do not. That means residents must dash to communal shelters, which have become inadvertent exemplars of multicultural, multiethnic cooperation.
“Our house is new compared to the others, so we are very lucky,” Grossman acknowledged. “We don’t have to run anywhere – we can just walk to one of the rooms, and we are protected. In our community there are shelters where some people sleep during the night with their kids. We have a special volunteer unit to make them feel at home, to help with mattresses and cleaning, and to bring activities like arts and crafts and games. The solidarity is very high.”
Still, there is no denying the toll on residents, especially children. Grossman, who has four sons, knows this all too well. Take, for instance, her youngest son, who is 11.
“You can see that he’s anxious,” she said. “He’s biting his nails; you can see the tension in his body. We talk about things. We talk about fear. We talk about our emotions. And I have a friend who’s a therapist who is helping, so they can talk about their feelings with someone professional, not just with us.”
Soon after October 7 many parents forbade their children to go outside and play, which caused its own brand of mental strain. Grossman, a therapist herself, is determined not to encore those restrictions.
“We saw what happened the last time when people didn’t allow their kids to go out,” she recalled. So “we said, ‘Look, what’s most important being a teenager is to have your circle of friends and to feel they belong, regardless of their circumstances.’”
Recently “they were out on the soccer field the whole day because there was a shelter nearby,” Grossman said. “So, we know that if something happens, they go straight in.”
No matter where or when, Israelis in the Western Galilee have no choice but to adapt, cope, and hope.
Haimovitz – who describes herself as “a resident of a kibbutz on the Lebanon border, a mother of soldiers, a proud Israeli, and a senior figure in the defense sector” – understands the imperative of situational awareness, and of translating that into action.
“Daily life here is far from normal,” she said. “Sirens can go off at any moment — on the way to work, in the supermarket, or in the middle of the night. You learn to adapt quickly, to always be aware of where the nearest safe place is, and to live with a constant sense of uncertainty.
“At the same time, there is a strong effort to maintain routine and purpose. I continue to go to work every day – I work in a defense company – and there is a real sense of mission in what we do. As a mother of children serving in the army, that feeling is even more personal. There is concern, of course, but also pride and a deep belief in what we are protecting.”
That belief extends to many in the U.S. who – even if they argue against the current military action against Iran – want Israel to endure and prosper.
Asked what’s most important for American Jews to know, and what they can do help, Rosin answered this way:
“The empathy that you show on social networks, and in Partnership meetings, means a lot. It really counts for people in Israel knowing there are people thinking of them.”
Indeed, “the community of Louisville is one of the most active in our Partnership,” Rosin emphasized. “You’d be surprised how many people in the Western Galilee know someone from Louisville.”
How can we help? Start with the little things, he suggests.
“I think personal connections, getting texts asking, ‘How are you? Are you fine? I’ve seen this news today and it sounds like it’s around Akko – are you okay?’” Rosin answered. “That’s the message I’d like to have go forward.”