I’ll tell you what it’s like to be a resident of Metula, along Israel’s northern border, also known as the ‘Confrontation Line’, in the last three weeks in one word: isolation. The state continues to ignore us. Since 2018, we have been waiting for safe rooms and bomb shelters. But for them it is more important to fund unnecessary government offices, meetings, and all kinds of coalition-related funds.
Some houses don't have a safe room (mamad) in their apartments, some have security rooms—rooms that were built sometime back in the 70s and 80s. The alert time here is, at best, ten seconds. That barely gives you time to get from the living room to the maamad or security room – provided you are lucky enough to even have one.
Most government offices in this area are shut down. The post office is doing its best to provide service and deserves a word of praise; the Israel Electric Corporation is also functioning excellently. On the other hand, if you run out of gas at home, take the canister, put it in your car, and drive to Kiryat Shmona. It's about a ten-minute drive (which feels like forever) driving through a targeted area, with a gas canister in the car. Remember? We have up to ten seconds of warning, and you are in an ‘open area’. The Home Front Command views open areas as unpopulated, and the Iron Dome might not choose to intercept a rocket if it is to land in one. For a person driving, it means being completely exposed and vulnerable.
The local council of Metula has, at its own expense, placed several portable fortified shelters along the road. The State of Israel cares less about this. For 24 hours a day, over the past three weeks, we have been inside a battlefield. Fire from Lebanon, fire from Iran, drone infiltrations, and anti-tank fire. In addition, there is fire from artillery batteries located a few dozen meters from the houses. There is also fire from attack helicopters and active aircraft movement. There is not a moment of quiet. Sleep is a luxury. When there is fire in the north, a small slide appears on the side of the Home Front Command on television—when there is fire in the center, broadcasts are stopped.
Government representatives don’t come here to see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears what is happening. Soldiers walk around the communities protected with helmets and beige vests. Civilians have none. We are isolated—did we already mention that? There are people like me who are considered essential workers, and we go to work. We hope we won't get hurt on the way, we hope we will still have somewhere to return to at the end of the day. Farmers working in open fields without protection and with zero warnings rely on luck.
It is possible to program alerts for open areas into the warning systems. But why bother? People head out to work in the fields and orchards to ensure there is food security here. Ask the Minister of Agriculture, who changed the office's name to the ‘Ministry of Agriculture and Food Security’, when he was last here and spoke with farmers. Only a year and a half ago, they promised us that Hezbollah was deterred and had returned to the Stone Age. Meanwhile, they roam free, and we are hiding in bomb shelters.
The State of Israel either can't do it, or it just doesn't want to
The State has decided to neglect us. After all, the entire conflict zone (confrontation line) is barely worth a single seat in the elections. The Jewish National Fund donated money for 'refreshment days' for the residents, because the State of Israel does not have the ability to do this—or it has no desire. Perhaps both.
Resident of Metula Ofer Moskowitz, 'Poshko' as his friends called him, was killed by a missile from Lebanon. I knew him for many years, and our paths crossed more than once. He was a good man, with his words matching his heart, a bit cynical, a farmer, and salt of the earth. We live here on borrowed time. Maybe one day our luck will run out? On Saturday, a rocket hit the neighbors' house (and my car took some damage)—today it hit a person. Where will it be next time?
People here are being worn down little by little: children are living in survival mode, adults are desperate. We are all tired of the promises of 'this time we will eliminate Hezbollah,' 'it will be over very soon.' But in practice, it doesn’t look like that. The Defence Minister recycles slogans again and again. Maybe they are counting on our memory wearing out as well. But we are living here on borrowed time. Maybe one day our luck will run out? Yesterday a rocket hit a neighbor's house. Where will it be next time?
Even the dogs have learned to recognize the alarms and immediately run to the bomb shelter, sit there for a period of time, and then go out. They, too, are trying to ignore the incessant fire here—whether it's the enemy's fire or our own.
The author is a field crop farmer and the owner of the "Artza" Dog Training Center.