Welcome to the new security zone. Congratulations, it is celebrating its 100th anniversary soon. A lost cow on a road in the center of the settlement, shuttered windows, empty streets. Civilians Out, Soldiers In.
On Tuesday this week, I toured along the western sector of the northern border, from Zarit to Rosh HaNikra. Military checkpoints at almost every intersection, abandoned settlements, soldiers dug into trenches, outposts where anyone who raises their heads absorbs anti-tank missiles, and fall zones that left burnt spots in the green woods. We used to have a security strip deep in enemy territory to protect the northern settlements. For the past three months, a 4-kilometer-wide strip along the border in our territory has looked, sounded and smelled like that security zone.
We wrote in the field. The Waze went crazy on the way, Photo: Eyal Margolin, Genie
"The security zone in Lebanon was a regular occurrence. What is happening now in the north is a temporary reality that will change," says Dan Soriano, commander of the 9308th reserve battalion in the northern Nahal Brigade. "The situation in the north will return to being better than it was. The reality of October 6, not October 7, will not return. This situation in which the residents of the north live here under threat is something we cannot afford. At the moment we are on defense, but if necessary there will also be an attack. In the defensive battle, the result at the moment is 1:10 in our favor, in terms of our achievements against the achievements of the enemy. In the end, we are tactical and we will do as we are told, but on the outcome we agree – the residents of the north will live here in peace and tranquility and the enemy will not be where it was. I have no doubt about that."
Aside from determination, nothing about Dan, known as Dan or Rasta, conveys militarism, especially the endearing sight of the rasta mane that has become an essential part of his identity over the past five years. He is 36 years old. A resident of Tal Shahar, owner of a tourism company, married to Hadas and father of Ayala (11) and Uriel (8). He grew up in the north in the Misgav Regional Council, and after a year of service in the Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel, served in the Nahal Platoon, married during service, and was discharged in 2014, "when the eldest daughter was born.
"My wife, who didn't serve in the army, said: 'Enough, I'm not willing to raise children alone.' So I was released. Hadas didn't really know that there was this matter called reserves. When I finished seven years of reserve duty as a company commander, she thought that was it, over. But no. About a year ago, I went on to serve as battalion commander, which in normal times is 100 reserve days a year. As far as Hadas is concerned, it is possible to end the war now, the main thing is to return the hostages. She insists on finding a babysitter and attending demonstrations for the release of the hostages. Although she is not connected to the event and finds it difficult, surprisingly she manages to hold and manage the house alone."
Choice partnership
On 7 October, the sirens caught him on a trail run, which he continued until the end, "because the most important thing to me is that they don't disrupt our routine." When he returned to Tal Shahar, his wife and children were in the neighbor's safe room, because they don't have one. On the same day, the battalion enlisted in Order 8. "After a white night of equipment organizations, we went north on the armored personnel carriers. There were 100 percent recruitment, including people we didn't want to come because they were bad soldiers, but they insisted on coming."
Two years ago, a friend asked him what would happen if a war started and there were missiles, if he didn't want to take his wife and children and flee immediately. "I told him, just the opposite. At the most difficult point, I will tell my wife and children that I love them, and I will go to the front. The fact that we all did it and showed up, it excites me as a commander at levels that are hard for me to explain. It really makes me cry with appreciation," he says, his eyes whispering. "It's not a partnership of destiny, it's a partnership of choice. We chose to be here in the most complex reality, where not a day goes by without being shot at. So far we haven't had any casualties, but to our right and left there were."
, Photo: Eyal Margolin, Ginny
In a conversation he gave to all the companies in the battalion about a month ago, he told the fighters what everyone knows, but doesn't really talk about – the state can't really indemnify reservists for the damage they suffer.
"A student can still be given concessions and grants, but a father who loses three months with the children, and the child who doesn't see his father, is not equivalent to money, and there is no way to indemnify for it. That's why I'm proud of the choice to be here. Sometimes it is said about reservists that this is not self-evident. I like to look soldiers in the eye, 50-year-olds and 22-year-olds, and tell them that they are obviously here. Because those who are here are people who have responsibility, Zionism, values and courage, and therefore they take for granted that they are here. That's why I love my people so much."
When asked in civilian life what his hobby is, Dan-Dan answers without hesitation: reserves. "I don't know why, but I really love the profession, and I love the personal connection with the fighters even more. I'm the battalion commander and he's the soldier, but we're really, really equal."
The unmediated, unmannerly high-ranking connection between Dan-Dan and the fighters can be seen with one's eyes. We go out into the field together to a front post inside an abandoned factory. Reach out and touch it, the wall of the perimeter fence. The commander of the post is 35-year-old Uri from Samaria. He left a wife and five children at home, and reported to the house. Voluntarily. Three years ago, he donated a kidney and received an exemption from reserve duty. Still, he's here, commanding a platoon without being an officer.
"Today is the 95th and a half day of the reserves. There is a board on the wall. It's checked," says Uri. "Time takes its course and there is burnout. It's hard. And especially it's not easy to be on defense rather than offense. But people understand the importance and it makes it easier to go home once a week and a half."
Dan-Dan: "At first we were a month without seeing the house. But then we realized that we needed breathing time. We're here for a marathon, not a sprint."
And if it takes a year?
"A year in a row?" stunned Dan-Dan at the question. "No way," he replies with a pull out, but after some thought corrects. "It's not really true that there's no chance. If they allow us the right breaks, then anything is possible."
Uri is actually not surprised by the question. "I think about it a lot. If it takes a long time, we will have to think about how to do it right. We are here until the happy ending. There are people here from all walks of life: religious, secular, right-wing, leftist, kibbutznik, settlers, and they talk about everything."
"There are no Haredim here," remarks one of the fighters.
"There are domestic Haredim here, but they're in the closet," Uri replies, but he can't quite silence his resentment.
An evening of appreciation for the couple
With an armored jeep, helmets and bulletproof vest advancing to a large fence-mounted outpost. The trip, which includes areas exposed to the enemy, is dangerous. It's hard to believe, but last August they walked here with the children, in a civilian vehicle, in a pastoral atmosphere and in a dizzying mountain landscape. We looked out at the Lebanese neighbors and almost waved goodbye to them. We never imagined that within two months the route would be blocked to civilians, and soldiers wouldn't be able to raise their heads on it.
You enter the belly of the fortified earth, to a large and orderly outpost that is beautifully built and clean. There's a toilet and shower, a kitchen, three washing machines, a guitar and a lot of soldiers. Some are glued to screens broadcasting camera images in space, others sleep in the hallway after a night shift, wrapping their faces in warm-neck for a moment of false privacy. There are beds and rooms for sleeping, but because of the high crack there is no room for everyone, so they sleep in the aisle. In another part of the hallway, a soldier sits at a desk solving complicated exercises in front of the computer. He was happy that the school year had started, because otherwise he would have lost it completely, but it is not at all easy to be a student under these conditions.
, Photo: Eyal Margolin, Ginny
It's not easy for women at home either, and Dan-Dan is well aware of that, too. "I try to strengthen the home front. Even before the war, I set up a WhatsApp group for my spouses, but there were only 30 women. Now it's up to 170. I connected them to each other, and it suddenly gives them space. And now we are organizing an elaborate evening of appreciation for them. It's not easy to be a reservist, but veterans are always better. A reserve battalion is better fit for war than a regular battalion. In the end, what wins is not the weapon but the head and experience, judgment and not vigor."
Nir Shamri, Battalion Commander 7056 of the Northern Paratroopers Brigade, is also horrified when I ask him if we are in the new security zone. "God forbid. To say that there is a security zone in Israeli territory is, in my view, unacceptable."
Unacceptable to ask?
"Asking is possible for anything, but it is unacceptable to perceive it as a safety zone. The fact that residents have just been evacuated for an interim period is a decision that as a civilian and commander I understand, but to think of it this way is very problematic."
The interim period has been going on for three months.
"We are with evacuated communities so that civilians will not be harmed. These are the facts, there is no dispute about that. But woe betide us if our defense concept is based on regression. There will be no security zone in our territory. Whether there will be a security zone in Lebanese territory is a political and General Staff question. On a personal level, it's heartbreaking to be in a space where the communities are empty."
"We have to bring the residents back," Eyal Margolin, the photographer, joins the conversation. As a refugee from an evacuated kingdom, temporarily living in Rosh Pina, he knows very well what he is talking about.
"That's where we have to strive," Shamri replies. "In the military cap it's easier to have no civilians, but at the national level it's a disaster, it's an anomaly that needs to be changed as soon as possible."
There are buds in the south and north of civil disobedience. Residents say they won't return until the situation fundamentally changes, because they no longer believe it will change after years of being abandoned.
"I have faith in the army. Everyone I know in the ranks above me strives for contact. There are various constraints, and the one who has to make the decision is the political echelon. People here are dying to go on the offensive, and it's not easy to hold that spring."
Late wedding
Shimri, 49, a resident of Herzliya, is a partner in a large law firm in Tel Aviv. "The office is very accommodating. Every week they send a treat to my wife and about 40 other families of recruited workers." He is married to Adina, whom he defines as a strong woman, and has five sons. The eldest serves in the Navy. He was at home last week. "From the moment we realized it wasn't going to be short, we made sure – for the sake of the soldiers' mental health – to go home. When I get home, I feel like a stranger. You're not in a loop. Your bag is in the middle of the house, you're neither here nor there, and you're already gone. I'm from '98 in the reserves, I was in the second Lebanon, but we didn't experience anything like that."
And we haven't really started yet.
"That's right. There are achievements here, but not achievements that we would have expected in the end. We were here in June on operational employment, it doesn't look the same. Back then, the Radwan force was 10 meters away from us, today we don't see them, because they have retreated or are hiding. There is a daily battle here. We hurt them and they try to hurt us. It's not easy to have a defensive line, it's much more natural for us to go on the offensive. But we understand the logic of this, and we are doing everything so as not to entangle the country with something that at the moment is not the main thing."
Is there a sense of missing out on the fact that you are not part of the war in Gaza?
"On the professional level there is, but as people who are familiar with the northern sector, we are better suited for the task here and it makes no sense to send us to Gaza. Yesterday, by the way, I visited the Gaza envelope and saw fields plowed. It was exciting and powerful. We must also know that in a minute there may suddenly be a major event here, forcing us to cross the fence and rush to Lebanon. We are prepared for this with clear attack plans."
In the meantime, we are patrolling the defensive position of a strategic ridge. Tarpaulins waving in the wind, and wooden pallets on muddy ground, became the home of the warriors. Black coffee is brewed on the fire and every now and then there are those who send an arrow in a large picture of Haniyeh, which has become a target board in the center of the complex. The commander of the post is Evyatar Cohen Gevora, from Moshav Beit Ezra, to whom the guys still sing wedding songs. "We were supposed to get married on October 15 and we postponed. We finally got married on January 2. There was a battalion effort so that all the guys would come and celebrate and it was amazing," says Gevora, who was married on Tuesday and returned to reserve duty the following Sunday.
The semi-open tarpaulins here hold the rain.
"Yes. Thanks to the heroic soldiers. And we have equipment for the cold. There's nothing missing."
How often do you go home?
"Every week," one of the soldiers replies.
"All of a sudden. Make us visceral. I haven't seen my wife in a month," says poor Heltz.
"He's not married at all," clarifies the first.
Apart from the jokes there is an electrifying atmosphere between the guys. They sing songs of soul and the Land of Israel together, and have in-depth conversations about life, in what seems like ongoing camping. Enviable. On the back much more sucks.
Groom Eviatar Cohen Heroism, Photo: Eyal Margolin, Ginny
The "baby" of the gang is Maybe. "I'm 12 years old," he says, and the truth is he doesn't look far away. Shauli spoils the guys with cooked food, and the trays they received for lunch are left orphaned. The "grandfather" of the group is 37-year-old Uriah from Nob, whose wife is at the end of his ninth month and is constantly waiting for an alarm call from the home front. "We talk about everything here, including politics, and I have an important message," Uriah says. "The message to Israeli society will come from the guys here. There are guys here who were on the big trip to South America and left everything. There are students and there are business owners. These young people, who look like children, they will be the changemakers."
The conversation is interrupted when the radio announces a hot intelligence alert. Defend yourself with a bulletproof vest and helmet, and approach the protective structure adjacent to the post, which is too narrow to accommodate everyone. Next to us is a charred area in the heart of the green woods, evidence of a precision missile that landed too close. The guys are talking about a drone that has been spotted above us, and it's not clear to us whether it is our troubles.
Apart from the enemy on the other side of the fence, the fighters faced a tiny and particularly disturbing enemy. The walking caterpillar shed its poisonous hairs here, and every contact with the soil created a strong burning and irritation. The rain, not easy on its own, washed everything away, saving the day.
Among the fighters one can find those who defend his very home. "My parents were evacuated from Shlomi to the center," Yiftach says. "Out of 7,000 residents in Shlomi, there are currently 500 people who chose to stay. Recently there are those who return, because they are no longer able to be far from home. We always knew that the area was adjacent to a fence, but we never imagined something of this magnitude, of three months to be evacuated. No choice. We'll get through this."
Navigation errors
Get out of the post and get back into the jeep. I ask the battalion commander's oils what is most difficult for him, and he replies, "Juggling work, home and the army for such a long time. Even in normal times, being a battalion commander is demanding and challenging, and I've been on the job for five years. In 2017, I did 137 days of reserve duty, but until this year I didn't go back to that. In previous years I did 60 days of reserve duty. I could also be in reserve 200 days a year." There is always something to do,
But I learned to choose and organize my schedule so I could have a career and a family. I tell my commanders that being the record holder of reserve duty is great, but that's not the goal. This year, my soldiers did a month of work in the summer, and now another three months, so we reached imaginary numbers of reserve days. It's a crazy load. There are many good words in the discourse about reservists, but it is not enough. We need to create a situation in which our people are not harmed, not even indirectly.
"We have soldiers whose employer called them back to work. They worked 30 days and then were fired. There are high-tech companies in which the employee must 'transfer knowledge' to someone else in the organization. This means that the reservist will return to a disadvantageous position, even if he is not fired. An employee who was in the top ten of the organization will lose his status."
Is the state able to compensate for this?
"For years we carried the world of reserve duty without asking for too many privileges. We knew that we were a minority that bears the burden without equality. We lived in peace with everyone doing what he is good at, and helping the country as he understands. Today we are in a different situation. On a personal level, even though I haven't visited the office in a quarter or taken any new cases, I'm not bothered. I'll go back to the office, take two weeks to stare at the screen, reset and restart. But there are people here who will return to another world, which advanced without them. We need to create a situation in which the reservist is a kind of 'preferred job,' someone who is financially worthwhile to employ, because there are benefits for employers."
In the meantime, he set up classes on various fields via Zoom for his subordinates in order to teach young people how to conduct themselves in civics. The integrity of the family unit of his soldiers also concerns him.
"Getting back to normal is an event. There is a difficulty. People will come back from here after an emotional load and a feeling that they did their thing, to a couple who carried everything alone on their backs, who will say - now it's your turn. There is also a gap between what the home front is going through, which is exposed to the media, and what we are going through. When I'm at home, I can't watch TV. I don't grieve like the state. One day I'll deal with it, but right now I have a mission."
On the way back to the home front, I lose the north again, like on the way back. So the Waze insisted that I was in Beirut, so I went to Zarit via Adamit and Arab Al Aramsha. After the road turned into a dirt path too close to the perimeter fence, I called a well-known military official. "Turn around now and immediately. We are only missing a civilian kidnapped by Hezbollah," a personal scolded over the phone.
Even on the way back, I proved that without Waze, I suffer from a severe orientation disability. After a five-hour drive, which should take three hours, I got home safely from Beirut. At least I have a house. For my brothers in the north and south, it's still a long way off.
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