Israeli Border City Residents Shelter Underground as Rockets Continue Overhead

Two weeks into the largest military conflict in the Middle East since the 2003 Iraq invasion, the war's most overlooked front is not in the skies over Tehran or the mined waters of the Strait of Hormuz — it is four stories below a Tel Aviv shopping mall, in the basement of a Kiryat Shmona apartment building, and in the ditches where Bedouin families crouch because their government never built them a shelter.

While Crowdbyte has extensively covered the military dimensions of Operation Epic Fury — the assassination of Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, the Strait of Hormuz blockade, and oil prices surging past $100 a barrel — this report examines the human toll on the Israeli home front, where an estimated 9.3 million civilians are navigating daily life under persistent rocket and missile fire from two directions simultaneously.

The 15-Second City

Kiryat Shmona sits less than two kilometers from the Lebanese border, a city of roughly 25,000 residents that has become the epicenter of Israel's northern front since Hezbollah entered the war on March 2 [1]. Unlike Tel Aviv, where residents may have several minutes between an air raid siren and a missile impact, people in Kiryat Shmona have approximately 15 seconds — and sometimes less.

"Many times there's a boom, and only later is there a siren," residents told NPR's Carrie Kahn, who reported from the city on March 11 [2]. The sound of Israeli military fire into Lebanon is constant, as are the multiple air raid sirens warning of incoming Hezbollah rockets. In this city, residents have learned to distinguish between incoming and outgoing missile sounds to assess their danger level moment by moment.

Ahuva Lipman, 71, has lived in Kiryat Shmona for more than half a century. She and her husband now sleep nightly on metal bunks in their building's shelter. She barely flinches at the booms echoing off the green hills surrounding the city. "I need to decide what to do," she told NPR. "Not Hezbollah and not Iran will tell me where to live" [2].

Her neighbor, Michal Saadia, offered a more personal reason for staying: "Our son is buried here, and we hold commemorations for him. We can't leave" [2].

The defiance is notable because Kiryat Shmona knows evacuation intimately. In October 2023, following the Hamas attack, roughly 10,000 of the city's residents fled before any official order was given. Virtually the entire population — 24,000 people — eventually evacuated and spent more than a year displaced in hotels across the country [3]. The state spent billions on housing them. Education systems were disrupted, businesses collapsed, agriculture stalled, and social cohesion frayed.

When residents finally began returning in early 2025, nearly one-third never came back [2]. Now, those who did are being tested again. On March 7, Hezbollah issued a direct warning ordering Kiryat Shmona residents to evacuate immediately and head south [4]. It was a psychological weapon as much as a military one. Haaretz reported that for many locals, "the specter of an evacuation, not warheads, is what spooks the locals" [5].

Matan Amsalem, a local shop owner, told NPR he manages only about an hour of business per day between rocket barrages [2]. The city's streets are largely empty, its economy essentially frozen. Its soccer club, Ironi Kiryat Shmona, has been scrambling for a stadium to host games — nomads again [6].

Two Fronts, One Home Front

The war Israel is fighting on its territory is unprecedented in scope. Since February 28, Iran has launched retaliatory missile and drone strikes directly at Israeli cities, while Hezbollah opened a northern front on March 2 in what the IRGC described as a "joint and integrated operation" [7].

On March 1, an Iranian ballistic missile struck a synagogue shelter in Beit Shemesh, 18 miles from Jerusalem, killing nine civilians — including three teenage siblings — and injuring more than 20 [8]. At least two interceptors had been fired at the missile, but it was a direct hit. The attack demonstrated the lethal reality that even reinforced shelters can fail in extreme circumstances.

Source: FRED / U.S. Energy Information Administration

Data as of Mar 11, 2026CSV

By March 11, Hezbollah had fired approximately 200 rockets at northern Israel in a single barrage, reaching as far as Yokne'am Illit, some 50 kilometers from the Lebanese border [9]. The IDF acknowledged that the volume of fire overwhelmed the Iron Dome system during certain salvos, with one assessment indicating only half of rockets were intercepted during the most intense attacks [10]. Israel's multi-layered air defense — Iron Dome for short-range threats, David's Sling for medium-range, and Arrow for ballistic missiles — achieved an overall interception rate of roughly 86% during earlier Iranian strikes in 2025, but the simultaneous two-front assault has strained the system [10].

At least 15 Israeli civilians have been killed by Iranian and Hezbollah strikes since February 28, with hundreds injured [11]. Schools across the country have been closed. Tens of thousands of additional reservists have been called up, bringing the total mobilization to over 100,000 [12]. The weekly economic cost has been estimated at $3 billion when accounting for business closures, school shutdowns, and reservist mobilization [13].

Four Stories Below Dizengoff

In Tel Aviv, the war has pushed daily life underground in ways that recall — and exceed — the disruptions of the 2023-2024 Gaza war.

At Dizengoff Center, Tel Aviv's largest mall, a reinforced door four stories below ground opens onto what has become the city's largest communal shelter. PBS reported that 4,000 people rushed to the space in a single night [14]. During Shabbat, prayers gave way to dancing and songs, with residents displaying a fierce solidarity born of shared danger [15].

But the solidarity coexists with exhaustion. Haaretz documented an underground parking lot that had been converted into a tent city populated by Tel Aviv residents who lack adequate overnight protection from missiles — many of them second-time refugees from the Gaza war displacement [16]. Residents brought mattresses, tents, and supplies, creating makeshift communities in concrete garages.

"If this is going to last, then yes, sure, we'll go back to it — bring the tents, the mattresses, bring all the equipment and live here, like last time," one resident told Al-Monitor [17].

At Sheba Medical Center, one of Israel's largest hospitals, almost all activity has moved underground. Staff converted a three-story-deep facility into a functioning hospital with 2,000 beds and three operating rooms, behind reinforced blast doors [14]. The transition required moving patients from upper floors to the basement within hours of the war's onset.

Perhaps most haunting are the children. Shaked Ze'evi, a Tel Aviv mother, described how her toddler daughter learned to mimic the air raid siren. "Every time there is a siren going on, she would start repeating it. Wee, wee, wee..." Ze'evi told PBS [14]. Twelve- and ten-year-old siblings expressed relief at school closures — not because they wanted a break, but because it meant they didn't have to leave the shelter.

Dorica Israeli, 84, spoke through an interpreter with the weary authority of someone who has survived this before: "Here the wars don't end, and this war is a bit harder than the previous ones" [14].

The Shelter Gap

Beneath the narrative of national resilience lies a structural inequality that the war has made impossible to ignore.

A 2025 State Comptroller report found that 33% of Israelis have no access to a protected space or compliant shelter [18]. For non-Jewish Israelis, that figure rises to 50%. In Arab localities in the north, it reaches 70%.

The numbers are even more damning at the granular level. Of Israel's 11,775 public shelters, just 37 — or 0.3% — are located in Arab municipalities, despite Arabs comprising approximately 15% of the population [19]. East Jerusalem has a single public bomb shelter. No additional ones have been built there in the past decade [19].

Along Highway 85 in the north, Arab communities have one bomb shelter per 26,000 residents. The nearby Jewish city of Karmiel has one per 440 [20].

The Home Front Command's official position is that "public shelter construction is the responsibility of local authorities, whereas personal protection is an individual responsibility" [19]. But civil rights advocates point out that this framework systematically disadvantages communities with fewer resources, and that the government has cited high rates of "illegal construction" in Arab municipalities as justification for non-compliance — a circular argument, critics say, given decades of restrictive zoning policies.

For Israel's Bedouin communities, the situation is most dire. Many Bedouin villages are not recognized by the government, which means they cannot legally build shelters even if they had the funds. When missile sirens sound in these communities, residents hide in ditches, crouch under tractors, climb beneath bridges, or shelter inside buried trucks and repurposed construction debris that fall well below Home Front Command standards [20].

A joint Jewish-Arab fundraising effort has attempted to fill the gap, raising money for shelter installations in Bedouin towns in the Negev [21]. But organizers acknowledge the effort significantly underestimates the actual need.

Abed Abu Sharif, a taxi driver from Sheikh Jarrah in East Jerusalem, captured the disparity simply: "Where am I to go? What am I to do? There is no shelter for me near here" [19].

The Psychology of Endurance

Despite the daily danger, polling from the first week of the war showed over 80% of Israelis supporting the military action against Iran [22]. The Tel Aviv Stock Exchange rallied during the opening days of the conflict even as international markets declined. Within days, Tel Aviv cafes were filled again with patrons between sirens [22].

Source: Foreign Policy / Times of Israel / Iran International

Data as of Mar 9, 2026CSV

Foreign Policy reported that the public mood remained "upbeat" compared to sentiment in the United States and the Persian Gulf, reflecting a broad consensus that the war would be "relatively short" with Israel emerging in a strong position [22]. The economic costs — approximately $1.6 billion weekly in lockdown-related business losses, plus $3.2 billion in additional military spending, plus $970 million in estimated war damage — have not yet shifted that calculus [22].

But the endurance has limits. Kiryat Shmona's mayor told the Jerusalem Post that residents "have been living for 11 days underground in shared shelters with children" and pleaded for the war against Hezbollah to end quickly [23]. The city's previous 14-month evacuation left deep scars — on families separated from their communities, on businesses that never reopened, on children who lost a year of normal schooling.

The broader displacement figures are staggering on both sides of the border. Some 700,000 Lebanese have been displaced, mostly fleeing Israeli strikes against Hezbollah [2]. On the Israeli side, the number of internally displaced civilians remains uncertain, but the combination of evacuated border communities, residents sheltering underground for weeks, and the closure of schools and businesses suggests a disruption of daily life affecting millions.

An Unfinished Reckoning

Israel has invested more heavily in civil defense than perhaps any nation on earth. The Mamad — a reinforced security room mandated in all new Israeli residences — features concrete walls 20 to 30 centimeters thick, designed to withstand blast, shrapnel, and even chemical and biological agents [24]. The Home Front Command's warning app can provide several minutes' notice of an incoming strike. The multi-layered missile defense network remains among the most sophisticated in the world.

Yet the Beit Shemesh tragedy showed that no shelter is invulnerable. The 15-second warning window in Kiryat Shmona shows that technology cannot eliminate geography. And the 37 shelters serving all of Israel's Arab communities show that protection has never been distributed equally.

Two weeks into a war with no ceasefire in sight, the question is not just whether Israel's military can prevail against Iran and Hezbollah. It is whether the home front — already strained by years of conflict, displacement, and now a war on two fronts — can hold. For the families sleeping on metal bunks in Kiryat Shmona, the parents normalizing sirens for toddlers in Tel Aviv, and the Bedouin families crouching in ditches in the Negev, the answer depends on how long "relatively short" turns out to be.