“Hezbollah Used to Launch Rockets From Those Hills. Not Anymore”

Idit Ohel is a mother of three. Her son Alon is being held captive by Hamas in a room 40 meters underground. She assesses the wider situation with composure:

I think Netanyahu is doing what’s best for…the hostages, but it’s also true that the renewal of hostilities is not good for my son … I know they will be mistreating him more than usual, or making him pay for the new attacks.

Alon’s plight, of which more below, shows just what is at stake in Israel’s existential war with Hamas and other Iranian proxies.

The same is true of what I saw earlier that day, when I headed to Arab al-Aramsche, an Israeli village near the Lebanese border. It is about a two-hour drive from Tel Aviv. The landscape quickly changes from a rocky region to green fields, rolling hills and winding roads. 

At the village school, I meet Moshe Davidovich and Ishay Efroni. Davidovich, Head of the Regional Council and a Lieutenant Colonel in the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) reserves, greets me with a smile and a firm handshake. Efroni, the council’s head of security has an M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder with a strap wrapped around the barrel. Judging from its condition, it has been used many times. He greets us with one hand while pushing the barrel down with the other. They are the kind of people you want by your side if bullets start flying.

I can see Lebanon just a few hundred meters away. I’m in an area closed to the public since the beginning of the war. It is a hot zone, and the devastation of the conflict is visible all around. An unfinished building stands abandoned, riddled with shrapnel marks. A loose sheet of metal creaks, shifting with the wind. There is no sound except for that sheet, almost as if it were marking the rhythm of invisible war drums.

Two days before I arrived, Hezbollah attacked again. They no longer have the strength they once did, but you can’t let your guard down in these border zones—both in the north and the south. The price of complacency is blood. In the distance, the concrete wall marking the border with Lebanon stretches out—a seven-meter-high gray expanse winding left and right, like the Great Wall of China. Its purpose is the same: security.

Near the schoolyard, the dome of the building has collapsed due to several drone strikes. As Efroni explained, the drones are extremely hard to detect because they are made from lightweight materials—extremely cheap and extremely effective. What is left behind is broken glass, shrapnel holes in the walls, destroyed furniture, and hanging wires.

On this side of the wall is a rundown cemetery. On the other, ruined houses—remnants of what was once a residential area. “They used to launch rockets from those hills,” Efroni explains. “Not anymore.” The site is perfect for snipers. Everywhere you look, there are massive rocks and varying shades of terrain. The sun is blinding, which doesn’t help either. In the distance, I spot an intense light. I ask my companion if it could be a sniper post. He turns his head, smirks, revealing a grin with missing teeth, and says: “If it were, we’d already be dead. But don’t worry, that won’t happen.” I believe him.

A little to the left of that light, I see a small fortified IDF base with tanks and artillery. “Before October 7, only that one was here,” my companion points out. “Now there’s another one in the opposite direction.”

Hezbollah is no longer the threat it once was. Even though it has been significantly weakened over the past 18 months by an ingenious and determined Israeli campaign, the situation remains delicate, especially for families divided between the two countries. If Hezbollah finds out that people are communicating with their family members inIsrael, even via WhatsApp, their lives could be at risk. Some haven’t seen their relatives in years.

I next arrive at the house of the former Druze leader, Amin Tarif. He led the community for 65 years. The room is large and spacious. The walls are filled from floor to ceiling with framed certificates, medals, and photographs of Druze leaders of Israel alongside various Jewish leaders. Every Israeli president has visited this house since Israel’s independence in 1948. “We have a blood alliance with the Druze in Israel, but it is time for it also to be a life alliance,” says Tal Ribal, Director of Strategy at Europe Israel Press Agency (EIPA).

The Druze are a religious and ethno-cultural community with roots in Islam but a distinct identity differentiating them from Sunni and Shia Muslims. Their faith, known as Druzeism, emerged in 11th-century Egypt within Ismaili Islam, but over time, it significantly diverged from traditional Islam. The community is small: 1.2 million in Syria, 700,000 in Lebanon, and 150,000 in Israel. Though they are divided among three countries, their sense of unity is strong, much like that of Jews. In Israel, the Druze are a crucial pillar of Israeli society despite their small numbers.

Close to me stands Dr. Alaa Abu Rukun, a retired IDF Brigadier General, who was the first presidential advisor in the Israeli government. He is Druze, and although he acknowledges occasional issues, he never questions the alliance between the two peoples, asserting

We give and receive; the Jews give and receive. We are Druze and patriots—our loyalty to the State of Israel is undeniable. We are a lineage of warriors, and believe me when I say that.

I glance at another companion, a former IDF captain. He nods. Later, he explains that they [the Druze] are the ones Palestinians fear the most. Not only are they fierce fighters in combat, but they are also Arabs, which means they understand how Palestinians think and feel. There is no worse enemy than someone just like you.

Shortly after, I have the honor of meeting the current Druze leader in Israel, Sheikh Mowafaq Tarif. His family has led the Druze in the region since 1753. He assumed leadership in 1993 after the death of his grandfather, Sheikh Amin Tarif. After the fall of the Syrian regime of Bashar Al-Assad, he traveled to the United States to explain firsthand the region’s situation and to advocate for the protection of all minorities in the country. “The West cannot believe that someone will change their ideas as easily as changing a suit,” he complains, referring to the whitewashing of the terrorist regime of HTS, which now governs Damascus.

Beside him sits Huda Daxa, widow of Ehsan Daxa, an IDF colonel and commander of the 401st Armored Brigade, who fell in combat. He is one of the 14 Druze who have died in service in Gaza since October 7th. He was gunned down while trying to help a Gazan family trapped in the crossfire. Huda reads a short text in English, but tears interrupt her. Bringing the blood alliance to mind, her husband died just before the January 19th ceasefire. Sheikh Mowafaq Tarif then intervenes, reminding us

Neither America nor Europe is the Middle East, nor is the Middle East America or Europe. What works there does not necessarily work here, and vice versa.

This prompts me to wonder “How many in Europe today would even be capable of thinking this?”

In the afternoon, IDF forces advance in Gaza, blocking key communication routes. 

Later that day, close to Haifa, I meet Idit Ohel. Her son was 22 when he was kidnapped at the Nova music festival. Now he is 24. In the massacre videos that went around the world, he can be recognized. I had seen them dozens of times—now I meet his mother. Alon was one of the 27 young people who crowded into a bomb shelter while rockets fell overhead. They thought it was a regular attack; then they heard shouting in Arabic.

The shelter turned into a meat grinder. Hamas militants threw grenades and fired at point-blank range. Some of those who managed to survive were dragged out and thrown into a truck. Alon was one of them. Others hid for as long as six hours under the corpses of the massacred until an Israeli father searching for his son appeared in the area and rescued them.

In the last batch of 33 hostages released, some of Alon’s friends were among them. His mother knows he is alive but severely wounded. He has an infection in his left eye that could leave him blind. Alon is an outstanding pianist; he may never see a piano key again.

According to three of the four people in the same four-square-meter cell, they spent their days playing memory games, counting prayers to keep track of the days, and practicing a particular exercise by walking around the room. Alon is chained, barely receives food, and time is taking a serious toll on his health.

When asked about the new situation after the change of U.S. government in the United States, Alon’s mother says she has “hope” in Donald Trump and believes things will go better than under Biden. Meanwhile, all she can do is wait. 

The war continues on all fronts. Abu Rukun’s words echo in my mind: “I don’t think there will ever be definitive peace, but that’s precisely why we have to work for it—even if that means fighting and shedding our blood to defend the values that unite us.” It is precisely this fighting spirit that has helped the communities of Israel endure and preserve hope in the face of the terrible blows suffered over the past years. Israel stands strong and we stand with Israel.