After weeks of isolation, glued to screens and sheltering in the compact strength of new homes in Ashkelon, Shimon Pur finally returned to work. Yet the relief felt at his fingertips was tempered by lingering fear from above. Nearby, within walking distance of the clinic where he serves as a security guard, a building showed a gaping hole in its facade, a burned-out car rested in the street, and a storefront bore the scars of shattered glass. Small businesses that provide basic services kept their doors open, even as thousands of residents were evacuated. The city—a cradle of ancient history—remains half-empty, its skyline haunted by concrete blocks that punctuate the horizon. “I’m used to the thud of missiles, to the Iron Dome, but we’ve never heard explosions this intense since I was a child”, admits a young Jewish man, the fear in his tone unmistakable. “It’s terrifying.”
The Iron Dome remains a shield for southern Israel, yet it is not invincible. The latest conflict, sparked by militant actions in the Gaza region, has drawn hundreds of civilians into harm’s way. In Ashkelon, a city long marked by conflict, the bombardment has been severe, with thousands of rockets striking the area and hundreds of injuries reported. Municipal sources indicate that dozens of people were hit directly, while others faced the lingering danger of the blasts. Although rockets carry a smaller explosive payload than missiles, their crude technology makes them indiscriminate—ending many lives and leaving communities in shock. Four people died and dozens were injured in this surge of violence.
Many residents feel abandoned. The government pledged hundreds of millions of shekels to strengthen towns and houses with reinforced safe rooms, but these measures have been slow to appear. Nearly 40,000 people—almost a third of the population—still lack secure rooms, inflaming anger toward public officials. The mayor of Ashkelon has spoken plainly about the fear and frustration, invoking a need for real security rather than empty promises. Statements from city leaders reflect a community clamoring for calm and safety amid ongoing threats. Tomer Glam, a local voice with connections to national leadership, highlighted the urgent demand for protection and stability in daily life.
The New Holocaust
In a stark voice, a local truck driver named Hanan, 42, describes life on a Sunday morning with no warning and growing crowds spilling into the streets. Explosions echo in the distance, and the sense of crisis intensifies as Israeli actions in Gaza continue to unfold nearby. Some residents frame the events as a new era of collective trauma, with an unrelenting cycle of violence that hardens communities and widens the divide between civilians and combatants. For many, the longing for safety deepens into a harsher sentiment: a belief that Gaza must be subdued, a conviction that revenge will be visited upon the area regardless of the human cost. The mood is a troubling mix of grief, anger, and a hardened resolve—an atmosphere that colors everyday interactions and shapes public discourse.
Departures from Ashkelon toward towns along the northwestern edge of Gaza reveal a landscape marked by military activity and restricted access. Army vehicles, armored jeeps, and soldiers in battle dress traverse the roads, while a group of Talmudic students pauses on the roadside to listen to distant blasts. Smoke columns darken the horizon, and the tempo of operations suggests a persistent military presence. Entry routes become blocked, forcing soldiers to navigate around checkpoints as the region remains tense and unsettled. Drones, helicopters, and fighter jets intermittently punctuate the soundscape, underscoring the ongoing mobilization and the challenges of movement in a war zone.
Despair in Gaza
In Gaza, despair has climbed to new heights as aid remains insufficient to meet the daily needs of a population under siege. UNRWA depots, essential for basic supplies like food and sanitation, are repeatedly targeted by the logistics of war, and calm moments are fleeting. Refugees, including residents from Ashkelon, gather what they can—wheat, flour, and cleaning supplies—amid reports of hunger and shortages. Humanitarian workers describe a fragile sense of order amid chaos, as relief efforts struggle to keep pace with the scale of the crisis. In Sderot and other southern towns, the impact is visible in half-ruined streets and shuttered businesses. Some residents call for a harder line toward Gaza, arguing that decisive action is necessary, while others urge a path toward peace and humanitarian corridors that could spare civilian lives. The moral and emotional tension of the moment runs deep, with people on all sides wrestling with fear, loss, and the question of future security.
Among those trying to respond are civilians who seek to help others while grappling with the threat of renewed violence. Some, like a physiotherapist named Vlad Rzheutski, emphasize the importance of solidarity and resilience. He notes that the war has brought a feeling of unity to a society previously divided, with neighbors helping neighbors and communities rallying to support vulnerable families. The broader picture remains uneasy: the region is navigating a dangerous balance between necessary security measures and the protection of innocent lives. As the conflict continues, residents and volunteers strive to maintain humanity in the face of fear, hoping for a day when children can play outside again and everyday routines can resume without the shadow of war overhead. [citation needed]