Home ‘so close but so far’ after ceasefire

Walking into her home on the Israeli border with Lebanon on 2 December, after 14 months of being a refugee in her own country, South African olah Adrienne Chonowitz felt “overwhelmed by emotion.”

With her kibbutz, Ma’ayan Baruch, being just 400m from the border, she was allowed to visit for only a short time ,and says it will be a longer process for residents of the north to return home in full safety and security.

“After the ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon was declared on 27 November, I got so many messages celebrating the fact that we could now go home,” says Chonowitz. “But we’re still feeling insecure, and since there’s a lack of clarity on the security situation, we prefer to remain in our hotel for a while longer and see what happens in coming weeks. So, despite our longing to go home, we aren’t rushing to return.”

She says many other evacuees feel the same way. “We’re not rejoicing about the ceasefire, although we’re grateful that it will mean less loss of life,” she says. “People are dubious. We didn’t sign a peace agreement. It’s a truce for 60 days, and people are doubtful that it will last, although we hope and pray that it will.”

Telfed Chairperson Maish Isaacson says that even with a ceasefire, the situation in northern Israel remains dynamic. “The government is committed to ensuring the safe return of residents, and many have started to return home,” he says. “Restrictions have been lifted by the Home Front Command, but residents will need to pay attention to updates from authorities. Their safety is paramount.

“Telfed staff and volunteers have been in regular contact with South Africans from the north over the past year, providing care packages and financial assistance where necessary,” he says. “They have spoken to us about the immense strain they have been living under, and we pray for them to return home safely without fear of another escalation. We will continue to provide support and assistance to our olim living in the north when they return home.”

Chonowitz and her husband, Hilton, thought that they were leaving their kibbutz for only a few days when they voluntarily chose to go on 8 October 2023, fearing an attack similar to Hamas’s massacre in the south. The rest of their kibbutz was soon evacuated.

Fourteen months later, after moving four times and living in hotel rooms, they went to the kibbutz to change clothes for the winter season and start the long process of reviving their small home and garden. “Every minute felt precious,” says Chonowitz. “When we left on 8 October, I had a spotless Sukkot house. It doesn’t look the same today.”

She says the government has extended their hotel stay until 1 February 2025, which covers the 60-day truce period and gives evacuees time to decide what to do next. “We definitely will return home. We can’t look for a new home at this point in our lives. We just don’t feel ready and secure yet.”

Driving through the gates of their kibbutz, “I felt very emotional. All around, you can see burnt trees and nature, and destroyed homes. It’s bleak, but nature has a way of healing. Our beautiful Galil will turn green again.”

She’s deeply grateful to the soldiers who have “paid a very high price” fighting in Lebanon to defend her home. She says her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren went overseas while the war raged. Now, she cannot wait to see them back in their home on Ma’ayan Baruch that they built just three years ago.

South African oleh Craig Sher, who lives with his family on Moshav Hazorim in the lower Galilee, didn’t evacuate, living through endless sirens and rocket attacks. “For more than a year, we have attached ourselves to the app on our phones, waiting expectantly for the next siren – what area is going to be hit; how large an area will it affect; and will we see the interception from our house?” he says.

“Now that the ceasefire is in effect, the question has shifted to, ‘Will it last; will the same come to the south; and will the hostages be released?’ And then the unspoken question about addressing the real threat – Iran. For now, there’s quiet, but everyone knows that until the root cause is addressed, the conflict cannot end. Will this ceasefire hold? Maybe, but nobody I know is holding their breath.”

South African olah Shelley Liss Barkan decided to remain in the ghost town of Shlomi, voluntarily running a kitchen feeding soldiers hot meals. “People in Shlomi haven’t come back,” she says. “It’s nice to have quiet for a while, but most people are sceptical and are waiting to see what happens.

“No families with children have come back, and there are no buses coming in, so if families do come back, they don’t have a way of getting to school, and nothing in Shlomi has opened up,” she says. The ceasefire hasn’t helped people decide what to do in the long term, Liss Barkan says. She continues to run the kitchen to feed soldiers, as many are still stationed on the northern border.

South African oleh Paul Mirbach lives on the northern Kibbutz Tuval. Though he didn’t evacuate, he says, “Only now I realise that since the last Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah [when war with Hezbollah began], I have been holding my breath for three months, taking in air, but slowly suffocating. I’ve been living in a surreal semblance of routine punctuated by the incessant booms of anti-missile missiles and artillery, always on edge, waiting for the inevitable interruption of a rocket warning. We anxiously listen for a crash, and then, upon news of a hit, I think, ‘Who do I know who could be there?’ Twice, a rocket or shrapnel landed close to where my parents live.”

Now that things are peaceful, he finds it hard to contemplate going back to living like that, and is celebrating the small things, like no longer having to look for the nearest shelter and sleeping through the night. He’s heartbroken for those returning to their homes to find them destroyed.

“At the same time, my thoughts are still dominated by the plight of the 101 hostages,” says Mirbach. “I’m reminded that as I joyfully inhale this fresh, exhilarating air, they are breathing heavy, fetid air, struggling to fill their lungs. When was the last time that they saw sunlight or breathed clear oxygen? And I feel guilty celebrating my freedom.”

Chonowitz says what she has missed most is the feeling of community, as her fellow kibbutz members have dispersed. “I look forward to gathering again with family, friends, and community, and to being in my own kitchen. I haven’t cooked a meal or baked a cake in 14 months! I look forward to Shabbat in my home, surrounded by my children and grandchildren – life’s little luxuries.”