Billions spent, homes repaired, but Gaza border communities still in limbo

At first glance, the figures are reassuring. Billions of shekels allocated, hundreds of homes repaired, roads repaved. Weekly reports from the Tekuma Rehabilitation Authority boast 73% implementation, 920 homes under renovation, 110 under construction and 59,000 of 64,000 residents already returned. On paper, it reads like a success story.

But numbers can be deceiving. They offer a veneer of control and progress, while obscuring the deeper truth: a fractured community, a disjointed geography and lives suspended in uncertainty. These statistics, while not false, are profoundly incomplete.

The sharpest contrast lies between the communities closest to the Gaza border and those further inland. More distant kibbutzim and moshavim have largely resumed life, schools reopened, homes refurbished, civic rhythms restored. But in frontline villages like Kfar Aza, Nir Oz, Be’eri, Nahal Oz, Ein HaShlosha and Netiv HaAsara, the silence lingers. These towns remain nearly empty, not due to a lack of infrastructure, but due to a lack of clarity. Existential questions still hang in the air: Will we return? Should we?

The discrepancy stems not just from the scale of devastation, but from the uneven processes of recognition and recovery. Communities farther from the border were granted quicker approval to return, with simpler procedures and fewer risks. Meanwhile, physical reconstruction in frontline areas is advancing, yet residents remain displaced due to unresolved security concerns, planning hurdles and decisions left unspoken.

Many residents describe feeling abandoned. Funds may have been allocated, but the state itself feels absent. When families live for over a year in temporary caravans far from home, public investment loses its meaning. Rebuilding walls is not the same as rebuilding lives.

This disconnect points to a deeper issue: the tendency of public discourse to retreat behind spreadsheets and budget lines. But communities are not revived through Excel. They are rebuilt through belonging, collective memory and a sense of shared future. When data replaces human narrative, we lose sight of what was truly broken, and what it takes to heal.

Consider Kibbutz Magen. Though it sustained damage, its homes largely survived. Residents returned quickly and resumed daily life. Magen became a symbol, but of what? Successful recovery, or the glaring disparities it highlights? Just a few kilometers away, Nir Yitzhak remains uninhabited, despite the completion of repairs, awaiting approval that never comes.

The government pledged some 19 billion shekels to rehabilitate the Gaza border region, a substantial budget that reflects intent but not execution. Months were lost to bureaucratic gridlock, poor coordination, and institutional inertia. Money was allocated, but not disbursed. Plans were filed, but not approved. Promises were made, but not kept.

Meanwhile, in places where residents have returned, modest investments have had outsized effects. Sometimes, the difference lies not in the amount spent, but in the clarity of decisions, the responsiveness of institutions and the message sent: You matter. You are not forgotten.

In Israel 2025, the rehabilitation of the Gaza border is not just a logistical undertaking; it is a moral reckoning. This is not a roadwork project. These are not kilometres of asphalt. They are kilometres of life. And life, unlike numbers, resists neat alignment.

We may not be able to accelerate recovery. But we can stop truncating the story. This is not just about efficiency. It is about identity.

If we continue to speak only in metrics, we will overlook the heart of rehabilitation: restoring voice, value and hope to communities that endured not only violence, but also silence.

The real question is not “How much has been rebuilt?” but “Who still feels part of tomorrow?” That question defies calculation. It demands to be asked, and truly heard.