This being Israel, everyone has an opinion. And the more personally it applies to someone, the more conviction in the opinions expressed.
So it has been since Oct. 7, 2023, with a continued presence in the Upper Galilee. In 2009, along with our youngest child, my wife and I moved into a small historic house in the heart of Rosh Pina we purchased on a seeming whim in 2007.
We planned to rebuild the barn, which lay in ruins, behind the house (featured on a postage stamp in 1962 commemorating the 80th anniversary of the village’s founding), and then connect it to the house with new, but old-looking, space.
As part of our plan, we were told that we were required to build a mamad, a bomb shelter, in the house. This being 2010, the idea seemed a bit abstract. Standing outside, our architect came by and noted that “the rockets will come from there (the north), and so the window should go here (facing south).”
What was then regarded as bureaucratic overkill became our greatest resource.
Several years later, thanks to a growing network of English-speaking friends, we decided to buy an apartment in Jerusalem to use on an occasional basis.
We were in Jerusalem celebrating Simchat Torah when the sirens went off on Oct. 7. Bnei Akiva kids offered to escort us seniors back to their homes. Of course, we were all dazed and confused, and desperate for clarifying information.
After recognizing that the Israel Defense Forces was finally retaliating (the hours before a response to the massacre seemed like an eternity), I told my wife that we needed to get back up north as quickly as possible to check on things. Not that I had any special intelligence about the situation, but my instincts said there was likely to be activity there as well.
While there had not been much coming from Hezbollah in Lebanon, it was likely that they would follow suit and seek to emulate Hamas’s invasion. Thankfully, the element of surprise had been denied them, and each passing hour brought more awareness, availability and strength to Israeli forces on or near the northern border.
I didn’t see us entering the eye of the storm. Rather, I saw us being part of providing a critical mass that would echo throughout the country and beyond.
The mamad that had been used as a storage room became our essential go to shelter and haven.
While subsequently obtained Hezbollah intelligence revealed a plan to sweep down through the Upper Galilee reaching Rosh Pina and beyond, the thrust of attacks were directed at the closest border communities: Metula and Kiryat Shmona, as well as surrounding kibbutzim and settlements.
It became quickly apparent why the continued presence in Rosh Pina was vital: We became a host location for hundreds of evacuees fleeing the constant assault on their towns.
Rosh Pina took in some 400 evacuees, which might not sound like a lot without knowing that the village only has 3,500 residents. What it does have are tzimmerim, guest houses, which were made available for those seeking shelter.
The war brought out the best in us. One of our initial grassroots initiatives was sandwich-making for soldiers. A young businessman in town came up with the idea and within hours had recruited dozens of volunteers. It looked like a casting call for Israelis.
At its peak, we made about 1,000 sandwiches daily, readily consumed by different units that picked them up. The value to the soldiers was matched by the emotional value to the sandwich-makers, who channeled their fear and uncertainty into something positive and needed.
While initially things were relatively quiet in Rosh Pina, as the intensity of conflict with Iran (and, by extension, Hezbollah) picked up, it brought a significant increase in attacks on Rosh Pina. Friends near us had a cluster bomb explode in front of their house, destroying their car and sending bullets throughout the home. A neighboring house took a direct hit.
The mamad that had been used as a storage room (replete with lots of wine) became our essential go-to shelter and haven.
Many in our village had to rely on public shelters; there were stories of people being injured en route to their closest one.
None of this made most people despair of being where we were. In part, that was because we wanted to deny Hezbollah the satisfaction of causing us to flee. We figured that in their minds, if they couldn’t kill us, they could at least evict us and show that life in the Upper Galilee was untenable.
No thanks. Life could be uncertain, but never untenable. We wanted the world to see an Israel not only heroic on the battlefield, but also determined on the home front.
Our town was full of reservists and units stationed here and there. One Friday afternoon on the eve of Shabbat, sitting in synagogue, one, three, 10 and then 25 soldiers came in to pray. Shortly thereafter, their commander came in, gave a signal, and they all ran out.
The incident was telling. We did our best to simulate normalcy, knowing that things could and did change on a moment’s notice.
I’m not writing this about a chapter closed in our lives. We could be living through an interregnum, waiting for the next act. But we have been strengthened by our own conduct and example, and if and when ensuing chapters come, I am confident that we will manage them with the same aplomb and resolve we have shown throughout these tense years of warfare.
