During the stormy nights of winter 2024, when wind howled outside and lightning lit up the skies, Maayan Rabinovitch would wake up startled, get up, peek through the door's peephole, and return to her bed. "For three months, I laid in bed with my ears straining for any sound at the door" she described. "I would get up five times a night because I heard the wind and thunder and thought they were knocks. And then I'd feel stupid because everything was fine, so why am I being hysterical?"

In a pleasant apartment in central Tel Aviv, I meet the Rabinovitch family: Maayan (38), Elishav (37), and their five cheerful daughters – Ori (17), Hallel (15), Raz (12), Shiri (9.5), and Tenne (6). Maayan is a social activist and manages a fellowship program for new immigrants at the Nevo organization, while Elishav works in financial consulting, though in the past year, he has primarily served as a medic in the evacuation and supply platoon of Battalion 460. He has completed two rotations in Gaza, and the third has already begun.

I asked the girls how they experienced their father's prolonged absence from home. "For me, it was actually difficult when dad came back," Hallel confessed. "We got used to a certain system at home, specific duties, and dad wasn't necessarily aware of the patterns. It was also hard to adjust to a routine with him when we knew he'd be leaving again soon."

Ori said: "We've always known our parents to have such a warm and beautiful relationship, and when dad wasn't here, we saw how much it affected mom. It was hard and sad for me to see her missing him, dealing with all the fears while worrying about us all."

Q: And were you afraid or worried about dad?

"Yes, very," Tenne said. 

Hallel added:  "At first, he didn't tell us much about what was happening. We were sure he was taking ice baths at some base."

Raz: "Only later did we find out he was entering Gaza. I wanted to know everything on the one hand, but on the other hand, just knowing about it weighed heavily on my mind and that was hard too. People around us didn't really understand the confusion we were experiencing. Sometimes I felt they saw us as pitiful, and that was burdensome too."

Elishav admitted that military service has less glamorous sides, accompanied by psychological difficulties. "To be honest, there's dead time when we're just a bunch of guys playing backgammon and waiting for a call. We're on standby for that one-in-a-hundred case when someone is wounded and needs evacuation, and when it happens, we really enter the eye of the storm. But there are hours when we're just waiting, and I know that meanwhile, Maayan is working very hard at home. Questions arise – does what I'm doing now justify Maayan working so hard and me not being there for my daughters? Sometimes I work much less hard than she does, and I'm also in a safer place. Tel Aviv is more dangerous today."

Q: Is that difficult for you?

"Sometimes. You know, soldiers in regular service don't ask themselves "is what I'm doing worth the time." But when you have a family and know they need you at home, and you understand what your time is worth in the job market, it raises questions. The IDF might be the most inefficient organization out there, but with hundreds of thousands of people involved, you can't really point fingers." 

While Elishav serves in the south and Gaza, Maayan is left to run the household under challenging conditions. "For three months, we lived with constant rocket sirens," she described. "Each time I had to pull someone out of the bath with a towel and run to a shelter because we don't have a safe room. I had to plan every shower around the possibility of a siren. Suddenly I realized that I'm going through the most challenging period of my life without the person I've lived alongside for 18 years."

Q: How did you handle the burden of responsibilities?

"We found suitable mechanisms. For example, we used taxis because I realized I couldn't juggle all the girls' rides to activities. We started ordering from Wolt [food delivery app] occasionally. There are also many things I never thought I'd do that I've now learned to do. I bought a car by myself after ours broke down. I learned to set the Shabbat timer. And suddenly Elishav came back and discovered a home with different habits. And he was like 'Wait, what happened here while I was gone?' And I was in such a survival mindset that every question felt like criticism of my management. It triggered me, even though it wasn't criticism."

When I asked if they had help, the girls described a train of cakes and treats that flowed into the house. "It was fun when dad was in reserves because we got ice cream," Tenne smiled.

Hallel: "At first, when we thought dad wasn't in a dangerous place, we didn't understand why people were pampering us so much. Only later did it sink in."

"We're very embraced," Maayan confirmed. "My parents helped a lot, and friends brought meals for a long time. But I see a big difference between the reserve rotations. In the first rotation, there was high awareness and we received a lot of help; in the second rotation, fewer offers came, and it flew more under the radar; and now in the third rotation, there's again a general war atmosphere, so there's more support. I remind myself that it's okay to accept help and that being in reserves affects many, not just us. I don't want to feel dependent, but on the other hand, there's a need for help, and it's a bit of a tangle. It's a very vulnerable time, and even small things can throw you off balance. Some people ignored us, and there were good intentions that actually made things harder, like when a friend offered to bring dinner and forgot. I'm sitting at home with the girls, waiting for food to come – I won't start cooking and then have her come in with a pot and feel redundant – but she doesn't arrive.

"Beyond that, there are tasks that are just ours as parents, with no room for outside help. Like listening to the girls, being there for them, hearing about their day and about their friends. And it's really draining to handle that alone. It was very hard to contain my daughters' war upheavals by myself. What they've been through this year is too much for even two parents to handle, let alone for a mother who's barely coping herself. I went through a crazy period of raising five daughters alone, during times of constant rocket sirens, without a safe room, when each of them was experiencing the war in her own way. The reality of reserve service infiltrates every corner of our home life – bedtime stories, making lunch for school, everything. Having their father away serving is a constant reminder that there are still enemies we need to fight."

She drew strength and encouragement from helping others. "There were days when I didn't get out of bed. I wasn't really functioning at work. What helped me was, for example, going to visit Noa Argamani's [former Gaza hostage] family. I managed to peel myself out of bed for them. Or for organizing a bar mitzvah for an evacuated family from Sderot who was here. Or starting a project to help families from Kiryat Shmona [an evacuated northern city]. In general, I try not to complain. Instead, I focus on how I can help others."

According to Maayan, people's responses weren't always as understanding or supportive as you'd expect. "There are frustrating moments. When I told a friend that Elishav was about to return for yet another rotation in Gaza, she asked: 'What, there are still soldiers there?' I was shocked. I realized she was completely oblivious to what families of reservists go through. What really gets to me is when people say things like, 'Oh, you poor thing. I would never let my husband go. He has five children, how can they keep calling him up?' They think they're being sympathetic, but comments like these just tear you down. If you want to show real empathy, say something like 'We really appreciate what your family is sacrificing.' We're facing a brutal enemy, and someone has to step up. I feel both a duty and an honor to be part of this fight, to be part of making history. I wouldn't have it any other way – I couldn't live with myself if we weren't doing our part.

Q: What about WhatsApp groups for wives of reservists? 

"The WhatsApp groups have plenty of supportive women sharing their struggles, including stories about marriages falling apart. I try to stay away from these groups though – they're meant to be supportive, but I find them draining. I understand the hardships, but I don't see myself as a victim. Knowing that what Elishav does is crucial keeps me going. Some women say things like 'I can't handle this anymore, I'm going to tell him to come home.' That thought never even crossed my mind."

She finds her outlet on Facebook, which has become her wartime journal this past year. She shares deeply personal reflections, sometimes in poetry. In one post she wrote: "I write these words with trepidation. We all have these gut feelings, but they're not prophecies. Hundreds of thousands of women, mothers, and fathers are dreading that knock on the door. After a tragedy, families often say they knew – they felt it was the last conversation, sensed what was coming. Many of us carry that feeling now. But having these fears doesn't mean they'll come true. These awful premonitions are part of war – they're normal, expected, but they're not prophecies."

In another piece she wrote: "What becomes of our 'almosts'? Those moments that almost were. Each close call leaves its mark – another wrinkle, another pound gained, as we slowly build up our armor. These 'almosts' circle like vultures, taunting us, playing their cruel games, spreading fear before they vanish."

"You learn to protect your heart," she explained. "You build up these defenses. But then when he visits or after he leaves, it's so hard because you have to break through all those walls you've built – walls between yourself and the world, between yourself and Elishav. I retreated into my shell because I was just so scared."

Elishav spoke about his struggles returning home. "The first time, it took me about 10 days to recover. I just couldn't function mentally."

"People would ask us 'So, does he have PTSD?'" Maayan added. "It became gossip. I think it's like postpartum depression – you have a small number of mothers with clinical depression, and many more with the baby blues. It's similar here. These feelings are real, even if they don't meet the clinical definition of trauma. They still disrupt your daily life."

Q: How did it affect your relationship?

"Ironically, the actual reserve duty was easier on our relationship than the week or two after he came home. The second time was even harder. It's like having a second baby – with your first, everything's new and overwhelming. You're learning about parenthood, dealing with sleep deprivation, everything's chaos. But then with the second baby, you think 'I've been through this before, so why am I still so overwhelmed? Haven't I learned anything?'"

Q: When was it hardest?

"When I realized I'd lost control of my life and couldn't plan anything. Elishav might suddenly get 24 hours of leave, and I wanted to be free to spend that time with him. When he does come home, I don't want to be stuck in meetings, so I cancel everything and rearrange my schedule. Thank God my work is flexible enough for that. But it means I can never plan anything because he might come home at any time. And it gets even more complicated because Elishav tells me not to change my plans, he says 'Just go about your day as usual, if we don't get to spend time together, that's fine.' It leaves me constantly uncertain. And I haven't even mentioned how the military keeps changing the times he can come home. Even when one rotation ends, you know there'll be another and another. You can't plan anything. This shadow hangs over everything. 

"Before our wedding, Rabbi Dov Singer told us: 'Whenever you come home, assume your spouse had a harder day than you did.' I tried to follow this during the war too, but after 100 days, 150, then almost 200 – it became impossible. I needed support too. We were both going through incredibly difficult times in very different ways and sometimes we just couldn't be there for each other the way we wanted."

Elishav mentioned, "I know three guys who got divorced during this period, but they all had relationship problems before."

"Even strong relationships can be damaged by war," Maayan added. "There are couples who could have had a good life together if not for all this."

Q: Do you feel you get enough support from the military?

"There's more awareness now, and they do offer mental health support sessions," Elishav saןג, "but they're not always appropriate. My brother's unit cleared Nir Oz [a Kibbutz attacked on Oct. 7, 2023], and they treated their session like it was after a routine West Bank duty. These soldiers had to deal with horrific scenes, but didn't get the serious support they needed afterward."

Maayan responded: "There's so much room for improvement. I wish someone from the military would keep in touch with families, and keep us updated regularly. But with everything the country is dealing with right now, I don't think our needs should be the top priority. There are more urgent issues.

"I'm grateful for those who helped us. But the state? That's complicated. Government systems usually don't work well, but I realized that focusing my energy on complaints wouldn't help me get through this. Besides, others have paid much higher prices than us and that keeps me humble. We have friends who were wounded, disabled, or lost loved ones. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a lot."

Elishav concluded: "War comes with extraordinary costs. People die, and people are wounded and disabled for life. People's savings get depleted, relationships are strained, and children miss school, and develop anxiety. These are the costs of war, but they shouldn't be headline news.

"Everyone talks about how we were abandoned on Oct. 7 –  but who did the abandoning? Who is this military that didn't show up? It's us – you, me, all of us. We let ourselves down. So now we have to see this through to the end and make it right, no matter how difficult it is."

The post 'I'm going through the most challenging period of my life without the person I've lived with for 18 years' appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

The exact distance between the Lebanese border and the Druze village of Hurfeish is a matter of dispute, and its approximately 7,000 residents find themselves directly in the line of fire – refusing to evacuate, yet wishing for some form of compensation for their lost livelihoods and their role in safeguarding the Galilee region in the face of the enemy forces.

At first glance, it seems implausible that the village is situated less than three kilometers from the Lebanese border. The streets are teeming with activity, cars emit their honking calls, and life appears to be proceeding as usual. The majority of nearby settlements have been evacuated, yet the residents of Hurfeish have remained in their homes. From an elevated vantage, the village bears the semblance of a tortoise: to the south of the carapace is the busy Highway 89, with homes built on either side of this protective carapace. Many residences are oriented northward, facing Lebanon.

Along the main street, I try to attain a sense of the locals. At the establishment Al-Walid, a restaurant whose signage promises authentic Druze cuisine, it is disheartening to witness the tables standing nearly bereft of visitors. Every once in a while, someone might enter to order the signature Druze pita or stuffed grape leaves. "It's not usually like this," the owner of the restaurant, Kaukab, says as she chops a fine salad. "On Shabbat and Friday, the place is full of customers. We arrange tables outdoors to accommodate them."

As I await my order, I engage in conversation with her nephews, Wasim and Waleed Fares, both aged 23. They tell me about their former classmate, Sgt. 1st Class Jawad Amer, who was killed in an encounter with Hezbollah terrorists who had infiltrated Israel from Lebanon. The squares of the village are adorned with his images and those of other fallen soldiers from the neighboring villages. Israeli flags, along with those of the Druze community, can be seen everywhere, underscoring the narrative of this village: a 400-year-old Druze settlement that has never been evacuated, and it appears as though no force can subdue its resilience.

"The entire regional economy is predicated upon the structural configuration of the village," Waleed says. "A major highway goes through here, with a constant flow of traffic. Muslims, Christians, Jews – all travel through this route. Businesses here are based on the travelers who pause during their journey to make purchases, and now, that stream of traffic has, quite evidently, been disrupted. As such, we have grown accustomed to seeing [IDF] tanks everywhere, hearing gunfire at night, and the sounds of interceptions [of missiles]."

Q: And you haven't thought to evacuate?

"Our village has a quasi-religious committee," Wasim explained. "They, together with the [local] council, prefer that any individual capable of defending the village remain. Should an evacuation happen, it would just be the elderly, women, and children. During the 2006 Lebanon War, the situation was even more dire here. Missiles were raining upon us, yet still, no one left."

The family's business is but one of many that has been struggling due to the war. Yet, numerous businesses have continued functioning, hoping someone would stop by. "We are doing relatively well," Waleed says. "We own the land here, and are not burdened with rental fees, so we somehow survive."

Despite the proximity to the border, an aura of security pervades the village. Every few minutes, a jeep with the civilian security team passes by. The Druze constitute approximately 1.5% of Israel's total population, around 150,000 residents. According to data, about 83% of their sons enlist in the IDF, accounting for roughly 5% of soldiers. Their involvement in the security forces remains high even after completing their service: 20% of Israel Prison Service officers hail from this community, as do approximately 6.5% of Israel Police officers.

"We are a military people," Wasim says. "We do the compulsory service, yet with a genuine desire for enlistment. Nevertheless, we sometimes perceive ourselves as second-class citizens. We still serve in the army and do reserve duty willingly, and we serve the state when needed, without even being asked. At the same time, we anticipate a degree of recognition from the state, even after the war."

The community will soon commemorate the Druze holiday of Ziyarat al-Nabi Shu'ayb: The Druze regard themselves as descendants of Moses' father-in-law, Jethro, and throughout history, they have endured difficulties stemming from their faith. "There are Druze communities even in South America," Waleed says, "and everywhere, they have consistently been persecuted for adhering to a distinct religion."

Their worldview, Wasima and Waleed explain, is that the Druze will never possess an independent state: they have perpetually advocated for integration. Everywhere, they've toed the line with the regime to allow them to practice their customs. However, at times, it appears that this perspective has proved counterproductive, rendering them a population susceptible to exploitation or disregard.

Protective layer

In the vicinity of the local council building, I meet Abdullah Khairaldin, the outgoing council head. Seventy-three years old and a father of six, he agrees to give me a brief tour of the area. "We are on the front line," he says as we walk to a vantage point on Mount Adir. "This front is subjected to shelling day and night, yet somehow, we have not evacuated. We have had numerous contentious discussions about this with the Home Front Command. In short, each side perceives the border differently. They determined that residents of villages within two kilometers [1.2 miles] of the border should be evacuated, so we conducted an aerial measurement from the outermost line of houses in the village, which yielded a distance of 2.3 kilometers. However, state measures are according to the international border, and by that reckoning, they say that we are four kilometers from the border. As such, we find ourselves outside the evacuation area."

Most denizens of Hurfeish, Khairaldin explained, lack the financial means to independently finance an evacuation. Approximately 7,000 residents remain in danger. The majority rely on an economy centered around bed-and-breakfasts, small businesses, and a little bit of agriculture. Most have almost stopped working.

Even our photographer wondered whether it would be safe to go to the lookout point, and when we arrived I understood why he was hesitant. The path to our destination is laid with rocket debris. Some of the traffic signs on the way have been destroyed. This location is under fire from all directions. From the lookout, one can discern Lebanese villages including Maroun El Ras, Bint Jbeil, and Ayta ash Shab. "Observe the distance from here," Khairaldin tells us, "and you will see how much we are in the line of fire. Down there is the Biranit camp, and the soldiers stationed there are under constant bombardment. There is also a base on Mount Meron, and they too are being targeted. Just a few days ago, there was a siren here. Since the outbreak of the war, there have been no direct hits in Hurfeish, but that is solely due to our luck and the topographic structure – this mountain serves as a protective layer between Lebanon and our village. However, it's not like it's an impregnable defense that cannot be circumvented."

Not all the homes in the village have bomb shelters, Khairaldin remarked with concern. "We've opened a few public shelters, but not everyone can reach them in time. People stay in their unprotected homes even when sirens blare. Whenever I hear explosions, I go up to the third floor of my home and check where the missile landed."

According to Khairaldin, there's also concern about a ground invasion. Hurfeish stretches over a wide area without a fence, and defending it requires the residents to have quite a few patrol forces.

When asked whether he felt his village was abandoned, Khairaldin admitted he did.

"I feel it. Not just because of the [authorities'] decision not to evacuate, but a general feeling that accompanies us regarding the lack of budgets and project funding. Our situation is difficult. To operate a soccer field, I have to deal with so many difficulties, and it's frustrating to think that's how it is. Our enlistment rates are among the highest in the country. There's an active or reserve soldier in almost every household. If a full-scale war breaks out here, we'll be in the line of fire. And if my residents despair from living here, we'll lose the north. A lot of people who come here call us brothers in arms, but in the end, I feel like we've been left to our own devices."

On the winding road down, I noticed abandoned agricultural plots. The produce has long dried up. The farmers from the village are simply afraid to come and tend to it. Here is the rest of the translation:

In the center of the village, I met Amir Sharaf, the commander of the civilian security team, and tried to clarify with him how to defend such a wide village. "Hurfeish is not a regular village in terms of defense," he confirmed. "We're not fenced in, and the houses of the village are spread out. This creates a rather difficult challenge. It obviously requires a larger force here, obviously more vehicles. We get some things from the council, and some at our own private expense. Our cars, for example, are donated by civilians. This is their 'reserve service.'"

Sharaf shared the frustration that the heavy responsibility falls solely on their shoulders. "No one helps us with defense or otherwise. In my opinion, the state should thank us for not evacuating. We're kind of a border guard, and that also saved them millions. The village opened its gates to all the units. Business owners who relied on catering and food have gone bankrupt, but they still insisted on feeding the soldiers here."

According to Sharaf, the Druze culture is about not leaving. "If something exceptional happens, maybe the women and children will evacuate, but the men will stay. Even in terms of preparedness for difficult times, a Druze home is different from a Jewish home. Every Druze home has a pantry and survival equipment and food for long periods. We didn't need to wait for instructions, it's in our culture."

"What resilience?"

In my conversations with the people of the village, I mostly encountered cautious optimism until I met the incoming council chairman, Anwar Amr. In Hurfeish, there are several clans and each time a different one manages to have a council head elected. Anwar is relatively young compared to his predecessors, and it's hard to find him with free time. He's energetic, moving from meeting to meeting almost non-stop, but I managed to chat with him after a long tour of the schools.

"I heard from the teachers about the situation," he told me. "I don't have any non-formal education, no sports activities, no courts, no halls. I don't have anything I can do with the population. They've neglected the north for decades, didn't pay attention to us, and now we don't even know what to do anymore. If terrorists infiltrate the country, in three minutes they're at my place."

Q: So why exactly don't they evacuate you?

"There's a government decision on evacuation, but no actual order to evacuate. That means for now we're staying. All night we hear interceptions and air activity. The mental state of the people is very difficult, in terms of personal resilience. There's a lot of mental pressure on the children, families, adults. If we leave our home, no one will be left on the northern border."

According to Sharaf, his constituents take pride in their resilience, but he fears they might not be seeig reality clearly.

"What resilience?" he fumed. "There are people suffering, children under tremendous mental pressure in schools, they can't concentrate and learn. There are elderly people living in the old part of the village, they don't have shelters. There are houses here that aren't fortified at all. We've asked the Home Front Command to budget us money to build shelters, for everyone to do independent construction, and we haven't seen anything so far."

"Some 1,300 soldiers have been staying here in the last two months. Day after day they sat here. They entered the schools, took all our public buildings, we embraced them with food, drinks, lodging, everything. They know that's how we are, and today we're in a very difficult situation, the government needs to take care of us in the north. Take care of those who haven't been evacuated."

Q: Do the residents want to evacuate at all?

"There are people who want to evacuate and there are people who will never evacuate. But the prevailing opinion is that we need routine. The businesses here aren't operating, there's no tourism, people are under financial pressure and they're coming to me. There are people who were left with debts from this war."

Amr was careful not to play the discrimination card. "The treatment of Jewish villages is similar," he said. "but in my estimation, it's worse with us. There, maybe they pay them some attention, but to me, they're not paying any attention at all. They don't care."

The unknown

Sheikh Kasem Bader is a sophisticated and pleasant Druze leader. He welcomed me into a room with a table laden with local Druze sweets. Since 2016, he has been the president of the Universal Peace Council – an organization he had founded nine years earlier in Canada, with the aim of "bridging religions and people," he explained in a slow, confident voice. "This organization is waging an ideological battle against those who spread hatred. I think most wars in the world are the product of hate-mongers who come in the name of religion and misinterpret it. Our organization focuses on youth because I believe the only way to change reality is to raise a new generation."

One can learn a lot about the Druze community from Bader's interpretation of reality.

"This land is sacred," he said. "It was meant to be the safest place for us. How did it become the most cruel place in the world? These are questions I ask myself, and they've become more acute since Oct. 7. A month and a half ago, I met with the Pope. I was impressed by how honest he is. We must not forget that there are nearly a thousand Christians in the Gaza Strip, and he is concerned about their fate. We both oppose innocent people paying the price."

Q: How do you continue to promote peace when you're under attack?

"The Druze do not have an independent state. The Druze in Syria are paying the price of Syrian politics, the Druze in Lebanon are the same. The fate of the Druze is that they will always have to contend with the reality they find themselves in. Even on the ideological level, we are not afraid of death. I will leave this temporary mission at the time and place that depend on the Creator of the Universe. Death is a station in life that we all must reach, and therefore people here will never leave. This connects to our culture and belief that death is out of our control and is predetermined in any case."

How do you help people here who don't have money to live?

"There are welfare mechanisms here. The villages in the area also support each other. The situation is not simple. The people of Hurfeish have not received compensation from the state, and some of them have fallen into economic distress. But this place has existed for 400 years, we've been through everything here. The village consists of several clans that know how to support themselves."

Q: How do you try to influence the situation since the outbreak of the war?

"I've met with the families of the hostages. I also have connections in Gaza with some of the leaders. They too are suffering. They're not happy with everything that happened. From their perspective, Hamas is a group of people who simply came and ruined the area."

Said Sharaf, his son-in-law who serves in the civilian security team, joined the conversation toward the end. "On Oct. 7, we were called up for reserve duty," he recounted. "I only got a weapon. There were no uniforms, no ammunition, nothing. I had to scrounge for shoes. But we're people who make do – everyone brought something for the other. People in the village who had served in elite units came to train us on their own time. That's how it is with us. The Druze are not afraid. A Jewish friend told me that if terrorists were to enter a Druze village, they wouldn't have come out alive. There's no such thing as kidnapping and escaping, they would have died on the spot. In Syria, there was a case where ISIS entered Druze villages, they managed to murder two hundred people unfortunately, but one of them said he didn't know how people gathered within an hour and drove them crazy, killed them one by one."

I slept in one of the empty guest units in the village. I didn't know what to expect, but the night was surprisingly quieter than expected. No interceptions, no sirens.

In the morning, I woke up to a breathtaking view in deep shades of green. I spent a full day within spitting distance of the border and didn't feel scared for even a moment. Perhaps because the IDF had recently withdrawn from Khan Younis and an unofficial ceasefire of several days had emerged in the north, but perhaps it's the atmosphere that the residents of the village impart on any visitor. It seems the Druze simply know how to better cope with the unknown, and something about that optimistic feeling rubs off on their guests as well.

The post 'If terrorists enter our village, they will not come out alive' appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.