Since last year’s October 7 attacks, more than 250,000 Israelis have been displaced from their homes around Israel’s borders due to the conflict. Many have returned to their homes after months of displacement, but tens of thousands are still in temporary housing. As fighting between Hezbollah and Israel continues to escalate, displaced residents of northern Israeli communities are still unsure when they will return home.
A recent survey by the Israeli nonprofits 121 Engine for Social Change and 710 West highlights the challenges faced by evacuees from the north after a year away from home. According to the study, which was carried out by the Maagar Mochot research institution, 70% of evacuees from northern Israel are considering not returning home, and 3% have already left their communities permanently.
The study found that employment struggles are a key challenge for Israelis displaced from northern communities. Seven in 10 evacuees are earning less than they were before being displaced, and nearly one in three is out of work.
What employment assistance exists for these displaced Israelis is often not enough. More than 70% of the northern evacuees surveyed said they had received no employment assistance, and most of those who did receive such assistance said it was inadequate. Overall, 58% of the displaced northerners rated government support as “poor.”
Tali Nir, executive director of 121, said the report revealed the need for greater state support in reintegrating evacuees into the workforce. “There is a real threat to both the economy and the mental health of these individuals,” she said.
Hana Rado, founder of the 710 initiative, echoed the call for action, describing the situation of northern evacuees as “not just a personal crisis, but a national economic issue.”
Many in Israel are concerned about how the extended evacuation will affect the economic future of northern Israel. Raz Malka, a resident of the northern city of Kiryat Shmona now living in Herzliya, told The Media Line that he expects economic activity to pick up once residents are able to return.
“I’m confident that once things settle, we’ll come back and rebuild,” he said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
But for many northerners staying in hotels for months on end, it’s hard to maintain hope.
For Rachel Rachamim, 32, who was displaced from Kiryat Shmona with her family more than a year ago, the hardest part of life as an evacuee is not knowing when she’ll be able to return home. “There’s no deadline, and it’s exhausting,” Rachamim told The Media Line.
She and her family have been staying at the Kibbutz Lavi Hotel in the Lower Galilee since last October. They are one of 200 or so families still staying in the hotel, down from 400 when the war first broke out.
Rachamim, whose husband is a lawyer, is studying to become a nurse while managing the daily challenges of life as an internally displaced mother to five children.
“It’s been hard to keep up with my studies in these circumstances,” Rachamim said. “We can’t always attend class, so we study online, and our exams have been delayed. On top of that, our kids’ kindergarten and school were canceled. Their schedule is all over the place—no school, no routine, and the days feel long and strange. The kids fight a lot because of the pressure.”
War present, even in temporary homes
Even in their temporary home, the war is all too present. Rachamim said that her children’s school was shut down because of increased Hezbollah strikes.
“The kids started school for a few weeks, but then there was a break because of bombings. Their school doesn’t have a shelter, and there was a lot of confusion about it,” she said. “The municipality didn’t want to invest in building a shelter because the school is in a permanent building that will be moved in a year. So without a shelter, the kids don’t have school, because there’s no safe place nearby they can reach within a minute if something happens.”
In the meantime, she said, soldiers and national service volunteers come to the hotel to help entertain the children.
The lack of privacy and cramped living quarters have been hard for the whole family, Rachamim said. “Every meal is eaten with others around, and every Shabbat is spent surrounded by people. The only time we have to ourselves as a family is in our room, which has become our bedroom, study room, workroom, and dining room—all in one,” she explained.
Her mother-in-law has been especially affected by the stress of relocation. “She used to cook for everyone, and now she barely eats. She’s lost 20 kilos because she refuses to eat hotel food, even though it’s not bad,” she said.
Rachamim expressed gratitude to the hotel staff for their support. “They do everything they can to give us what we need—whether it’s activities for the kids or help with the preschool we’ve set up here,” she said. “We’ve even received toys and supplies through donations.”
Moshe Gold, who manages the hotel, said that the staff and the evacuees have become like family to each other. “It’s no longer about being a hotel employee and a guest. These people are part of our lives now,” he told The Media Line. “They help around the hotel. For example, they’ll bring the plates to the kitchen. It’s a very different dynamic now.”
Although the evacuees’ stays are funded by the government, the hotel is still facing logistical and financial strain from housing so many people for so long, Gold said.
He said that the displaced people staying at the hotel are struggling, especially after such a long time. “Everyone loves their home, and these rooms are small compared to what they’re used to,” he said. “We give families two rooms, sometimes three if they have more than four kids, but it’s still not the same as having your own space. As a couple, you want privacy, a place to be alone. But here, they’re surrounded by noise and neighbors. It’s not what they’re used to—they come from quiet villages, not crowded buildings.”
Children staying at the hotel also are struggling because of the lack of stability. “They try to make new friends here, but then half of those friends leave. It’s hard for them,” he said.
For many of the evacuees, religious practices have provided a sense of continuity. “Most of them are religious or semi-religious,” Gold explained. “They have their own synagogue here, and they pray together. During Rosh Hashanah and Pesach, we host big dinners for them. We try to make it as close to home as possible.”
Gold said that most of those staying in the hotel think that the return home will not happen anytime soon. “They want to feel safe,” he said. “With the tunnels they’re finding under their villages, they’re scared to return until they’re sure everything is secure.”
The Leonardo Plaza Hotel in Haifa has become another base for displaced residents of northern Israel. Tzipa Ziskind from Shlomi—just 200 yards from the Lebanese border—and Ofra Evron from Kiryat Shmona have both been staying at the hotel since the outbreak of the war. The two women, both 66, told The Media Line that they’re intent on staying positive despite the hardships of evacuee life.
“It’s not easy, but you try to change it,” Ziskind, who is staying in the hotel with her husband and their dog, said. “Every day, you wake up and figure out what to do. Life is tough right now, but you keep going.”
She said that only around 100 evacuees are left in the hotel, down from 900 when the war broke out. “Families with children found it too difficult to stay long-term. Many, like my son with his four kids, had to move out after a year because living in one room became unbearable. Now they’ve rented elsewhere,” she said.
Evron, whose daughter is still living in Kiryat Shmona, said that living in a hotel can be frustrating. “The food is fine, but this isn’t a vacation,” she said. “You come back to your room, sit on your bed, and that’s it. It’s not home.”
She said that evacuees have developed a community, but they still have to deal with the distance from family members who didn’t evacuate. “I’m scared to drive to see mine in the north because it’s not safe,” she explained. “I haven’t seen my grandchild in a month because of that.”
“It’s different when you’re not at home for a year,” Evron said. “You lose your base, your sense of stability. And because we don’t know when we’ll return, it’s even harder. Every few months, we’re told to stay longer, and that uncertainty makes life even tougher.”
Even in Haifa, about 30 miles from the border with Lebanon, the war can be felt.
“Recently, I went jogging on the beach, and suddenly, rockets flew overhead,” Evron said. “My house has been bombed twice. But we believe in our army, and we have hope.”
Nathan Klabin contributed to this report.