31 January 2025
For many, late Friday afternoons herald the coming of the weekend. In Reston Virginia, where I sometimes live, cars race home or to weekend getaways ‒ the pre-break scurry. In Nahariya, where I also live, Friday afternoon is different: Traffic thins out and a hush begins to settle ‒ aromas of fried onion waft out of neighborhood windows, holding promise of better things to come, at least for dinner.
Things were not always this good in these parts. Nahariya is on the border with Lebanon, and had come under frequent shelling from our neighbors, the Hezbollah, just six miles up the road. Dozens of Israelis were killed in the north, including two in my small town, one on the street where we live. In Lebanon, the situation was much worse ‒ several thousand were getting killed. So rather than get in the way of the warring sheriffs, each with a personal agenda to grind, we gathered up our family and fled Dodge.
But now, thankfully and with no thanks to the local leaders, two ceasefires are in place, one in Gaza and the other in the north. So we came back to Israel. And now things look somewhat better. For one, guards no longer grace the entrance to many offices and businesses, glancing cursorily into purses and backpacks, though they maintain a stricter watch at train stations and malls. Also, schoolchildren learning how to sail have resumed racing their petite boats across the Nahariya harbor, though armed naval craft keep a wary watch at a distance. And my granddaughter has returned full-time to her pre-school, though the children still take naps in the protected room, just in case.
Most important, hostages held for more than a year have begun to return to Israel, and some locals are beginning to ask quietly (still just in a whisper), “Is the war over?” And this despite the ongoing battering of Palestinians in the West Bank, frequent IDF strikes in Lebanon as preventive medicine, and a brand-new Israeli occupation of Syria – just beyond the Syrian territory that Israel declared its own in 1981, the area known today as the Golan Heights. Oh, was that Syria?
These exchanges of Israeli hostages for Palestinian prisoners are heart wrenching. I watched yesterday, my heart pounding in fear, as 29-year-old Arbel and 80-year-old Gadi struggled to make their way through a mob scene from Bedlam, aiming for the Red Cross car to take them back to Israel. They were protected by a phalanx of masked Hamas and Jihad guards, armed to the teeth. One of them held onto Arbel’s hand. How ironic.
And tomorrow will be the return of 34-year-old Yarden, whose wife and two small children had also been kidnapped together with him, but they will undoubtedly return to Israel in coffins. The joy of tomorrow’s released hostages is sorely diluted by the memory of the photos of his wife clutching the one- and four-year olds to her breast as they are herded into Gaza.
So, is the war over? Frankly? No. Not so long as battles rage in the West Bank, as Syria gathers the energy to kick Israel out of its territory, as our prime minister seeks to evade corruption charges by prolonging the conflict, as the Palestinians harbor bitterness over ongoing statelessness, as extremist nationalism fuels both sides, as someone’s god gives belligerent orders about someone else’s god, and as the trauma from October 7 and what followed prevails.
It will be a long way to peace. It might even not happen in my lifetime, though many in my generation have planted the seeds and continue to cultivate it. But peace will happen in my granddaughter’s lifetime. For sure. I promised her.