NAZARETH, Israel – A joyful clamor echoed in the ballroom of the Golden Crown Hotel. The kindergarten for 30 children from Arab al-Aramshe, a village on Israel’s border with Lebanon, was in full swing. Only that class met 44 miles south in Nazareth, where nearly 800 villagers have lived since mid-October, when they were evacuated because of the threat of attacks from the militant group Hezbollah.
“On an emotional level, it is difficult for the children because their parents are under stress,” said Dalal Badra, an Israeli Education Ministry inspector who helped organize the classes. “You can sense something is wrong.”
These children are part of the largest internal displacement in Israel’s history, a modern-day exodus of more than 125,000 people. They were evacuated from towns in the south near the Gaza Strip, where Hamas extremists massacred Israeli civilians and soldiers a month ago, and from the north, where tensions escalated in recent days as Israel exchanged fire with Hezbollah fighters in Lebanon. That is fueling fears that Hezbollah fighters will pour across the border and do the same to them.
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It is a logistically complex and costly operation for the Israeli state, financing the indefinite accommodation of the evacuees in 280 hotels and guesthouses scattered across the country. As the days turn into weeks, the government sets up makeshift schools and medical clinics. In the south, where many of the evacuees survived the Hamas attacks, it has recruited specialists to offer trauma counseling.
The Golden Crown, usually aimed at tourists visiting biblical sites in Jesus’ hometown, has been converted into a refugee resort of sorts, offering a picture of village life. The gift shop is closed and the swimming pool has been drained, but the dining room serves three meals a day, the lobby is teeming with strollers, and laundry flutters from the balconies of rooms where many families are staying.
Hunched over a laptop at the bar, Adeeb Mazal, Arab al-Aramshe’s community manager, tried to keep track of his vagabond villagers. He said he was worried about whether he would get enough help to pay for their housing. He was worried about how long they would have to stay in Nazareth. (Israeli officials estimate by the end of the year.) And he worried about her mental health, as the idleness fueled her fears of Hezbollah.
“I try to explain to people: ‘We are in an emergency situation; “We are not on vacation,” said Mazal, who is 34 years old and, like virtually all residents of Arab al-Aramshe, belongs to Israel’s Arab minority.
The fact that they are Arabs does little to change their perception of the threat posed by Hezbollah. Several Arab al-Aramshe residents have served in the Israeli military and police. An Israeli flag flies at the village entrance. Some said Hezbollah fighters would not hesitate to attack them. As for the rockets, Ali Mohamid, 68, said: “They make no distinction between the blood of Arabs and the blood of Jews.”
Yet questions of identity in Israel are never far from the surface and are playing out in different ways during this mass displacement.
Twenty miles east of Nazareth, in the resort town of Tiberias, hundreds of Israeli evacuees from towns and kibbutzim along the Lebanese border are camped at the Caesar Premier Tiberias Hotel. They have great views of the Sea of Galilee and the Golan Heights beyond, but no one uses the palm-fringed swimming pool.
Although they are not as traumatized as the survivors of the October 7 attacks in the South, their mood is alert and suspicious. They wonder how long they will be kept from their homes and whether this forced exile will have lasting effects.
“We tried to turn an unusual situation into a normal life,” said Lea Raivitz, 68, who lives in Bar’am, a kibbutz less than 300 meters from the border with Lebanon. “But being a refugee, even a luxury refugee, is still a refugee. We cannot predict the future. We can’t think about the past. We live in the here and now.”
As with Arab al-Aramshe, the 400 Bar’am residents staying at the hotel have tried to recreate their world with courses and cultural programs. One baby was born during the evacuation, while the oldest evacuee is 95 years old.
For Raivitz, the biggest fear is that months away from the kibbutz will erode the community culture — changing the “us to me,” as she put it. Some have already complained about the hotel and the move to nearby family or friends, she said. They take over cars from the fleet of 100 vehicles that belong to the kibbutz and now fill the hotel parking lot.
“People are starting to think about themselves,” said Raivitz, who has worked as a school principal and factory manager. “We always had people who took care of everything. Now they have to get used to taking care of themselves.”
There is no thought of returning home. From the road leading to Bar’am, militants could be seen raising the Hezbollah flag at an outpost, she said. The kibbutz’s fences, gates and surveillance cameras failed to deter marauding fighters, just as they did in the kibbutzim near Gaza attacked by Hamas.
A senior Israeli official said the military is constantly monitoring the situation on the Lebanese border and is ready if Hezbollah changes its strategy. After the harrowing events of October 7, which took the army by surprise, few are reassured.
While things are quieter on the northern front than on the Gaza battlefield, there are signs of escalation. Hezbollah has begun deploying more powerful artillery, putting more Israeli cities at risk. A guided missile injured two Israeli civilians on Sunday, while Israeli counterattacks killed at least 70 Hezbollah fighters.
Asaf Hamawy, 47, who works for an electronics company, recently headed home to pick up clothes and other belongings in Kiryat Shmona, a once bustling border town of 20,000 that is now virtually deserted. A rocket fired by Hezbollah hit the street from his house, burning three cars.
“I wouldn’t take my family back,” said Hamawy, who was a soldier from 1994 to 1997. “I am no longer the hero I was 20 years ago. I have three children now.”
None of the evacuees said they felt reassured by Hezbollah leader Sheikh Hassan Nasrallah’s recent speech, which was full of fiery language but signaled that the group was not close to joining the war against Israel. The steady rain of rockets is a reminder that things can escalate very quickly.
“He’s just testing us,” Hamawy said. “He wants to see how many days it will take the Israeli army to destroy Hamas. He is trying to anger Israel and make us defend the northern border.”
When a reporter visited Kiryat Shmona in late October, Merkava tanks lurked under the trees as Israeli soldiers patrolled, claiming they could repel any Hezbollah attack. Heavy shots crackled in the background, echoing through the valley. The city is a frequent target of attacks. The damage is visible at one home, where a rocket left a gaping hole in the roof and charred walls.
Residents cannot return until Israel ensures that Hezbollah does not carry out a Hamas-like attack, said Avichai Stern, mayor of Kiryat Shmona. A video once released by the militants showed an invasion of northern Israel that was eerily similar to what Hamas was doing across the Gaza border: a rocket barrage followed by a multi-stage ground assault by Hezbollah fighters.
“I see them on the fence,” Stern said, referring to Hezbollah fighters. “Until we eliminate this threat, no one can promise me that I won’t wake up one morning and experience the same thing here.”
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