Just two days after a ceasefire was announced between Israel and Hezbollah, Yulia Bardan found herself outside her temporary residence in Kibbutz Manara, northern Israel, hearing the unmistakable sound of interceptors overhead. “We’ll probably hear the sirens again soon,” she said, a sense of inevitability in her voice.
Shortly after, an alert on her phone prompted residents in northern Israel to evacuate. For Bardan, this was just another stark reminder of the ongoing tension along Israel’s northern border—almost two years after Hezbollah escalated the conflict on October 8, 2023.
Following Hezbollah’s entry into the fray in support of Iran, the U.S. initiated diplomatic talks aimed at transforming the ceasefire into a wider agreement for Lebanon. Numerous discussions took place between Israeli and Lebanese officials in Washington, while President Trump highlighted a ceasefire agreement designed to stabilize the border. Yet, residents in areas like Manara report that the threats—rockets, drones, and uncertainty—have persisted.
“A ceasefire should be on both sides,” Bardan commented. “Hezbollah doesn’t stop firing at us; we’re just left to absorb it.” Back in December, when she spoke to reporters, Bardan and her family had fled their home for the hotel, uncertain about their future. Now, around 200 of their kibbutz’s 280 residents have returned, but many, including Bardan’s family, cannot return to their original homes due to damage from the conflict.
Despite multiple promises of ceasefire, daily life remains a challenge for the residents. “I haven’t had a really normal or quiet day since February,” she reflected. The local school reopened in June, but Bardan opted not to send her children there; “What would you do if a siren went off on the way?” she asked, illustrating her deep concern.
Bardan has multiple grievances—not just towards Hezbollah but also pointing to a disconnect between the experiences of residents at the border and the realities presented by politicians. “Decisions should be consistent with reality,” she expressed, highlighting a disparity that continues to frustrate those living in these volatile regions.
Yochai Ulfin, a community leader, noted that residents have informally termed their situation “ceasefire war.” He recalls his own experience from living as an evacuee for a year and a half, then returning home only to experience months of bombardments under a ceasefire banner.
Life in Manara has been far from normal. Uncertainty looms large for children and families, with many still lacking adequate protections. Ulfin voiced concerns that decisions affecting their futures are being made miles away from the people who actually live with the consequences.
With echoes of war still ringing in their ears, the sentiment continues to grow: fear isn’t just a concern for today; it’s about what may lie ahead. Community members on both sides of the border are voicing similar apprehensions about the future.
Yael Cohen Arazi, a resident of the Adamit community, illustrates this contrast well. “Every morning feels like paradise,” she said, only to be jolted by the reality of explosions that seem to shake her very being. As she tried to explain to her children that not every child lives under such conditions, there’s a palpable sense of loss for a “normal” childhood.
Ultimately, Bardan, reflecting on her own mixed feelings, insists on staying put, “This is our home. Someone has to live on the borders of this country.” Just at that moment, another explosion echoed from a distance, a stern reminder of the fragility of peace in their world.
