Inside Lebanon, mere hundreds of meters from Israel’s northernmost border town of Metula, soldiers in the Israel Defense Forces recently discovered a chilling document: detailed plans for an Oct.7-like massacre that never came. Among the intelligence found in the Hezbollah terror group’s warren of underground bunkers was a list of the most important people in Metula. There was the mayor, council members and the head of Metula’s security team. Rabbi Moshe and Bracha Sasonkin’s home was also marked on their maps, including a description of the rabbi’s car.

“We were speaking to a member of the town’s security team who is also an officer in the IDF army reserves,” says Bracha. “My husband and I were telling him that soon, we’ll all go back to Metula, and we’ll have a big party, and recite the gomel blessing—thanking G‑d for protecting us.”

The officer looked at the Sasonkins, who’ve directed Chabad-Lubavitch of Metula since 1990, and broke the news to them: “You have no idea just how much you need to say that blessing.”

‘House After House, Completely Destroyed’

RELATED

As the first flame of Chanukah flickers in Metula, it illuminates a town deeply scarred by war. For the last 14 months, since Oct. 7, the border community has stood largely empty, its streets quiet except for military patrols. Every single one of the 620 homes bear the wounds of Hezbollah’s anti-tank missiles, their walls crumbling, windows shattered and roofs caved in. A third are damaged beyond repair, and the town’s 2,200 residents remain scattered throughout Israel.

“Walking down the street is unbelievable,” says Galit Yosef, who fled her home of 35 years the day after Oct. 7. “It feels like we’re in a movie. House after house, completely destroyed.” Nine missiles struck her house alone with one direct hit starting a fire. “The entire roof collapsed into the house, along with the decades of dirt piled on it. Soot, plaster and glass mix into it.”

After months spent living in a Tiberias hotel with other evacuees from Metula, the Yosefs moved to a rental in nearby Ma’ayan Baruch to be closer to their real home. She returns daily to salvage what she can from the rubble.

“I dig through the ruins and take out what I can. Then I come back to Ma’ayan Baruch and look through what I’ve brought, put dishes that survived in the dishwasher, keep what I can and throw out what I can’t. I do this until I collapse at night and then repeat again the next morning.”

The toll weighs heavily. Her older son and three grandchildren evacuated to another town, and her younger son was injured in combat on reserve duty.

“Bracha told me something that keeps me going,” says Galit, referring to her town’s Chabad emissary. “She says it’s like in a marathon: First, you take one step back before running forward. In life, every time we go a bit backward, it’s because we’re about to leap very far forward.”

Like the Yosefs, the Sasonkins have also been displaced since the start of the war, staying in the small town of Avital, near Afula. Now they spend their days driving from town to town visiting their displaced community members, doing whatever they can to lift their spirits. Galit says Bracha always has the right words to calm her fears.

“I was very anxious about my art,” says Galit, who paints idyllic scenes of life in small-town northern Israel. “I left decades of my work in my home—I had nowhere else to keep it. Bracha taught me not to worry about something that didn’t happen because it might not happen at all, and then I’d have wasted all those worries. In the end, the only thing that wasn’t damaged at all was my art. It was unbelievable, like a hug from G‑d!”

On the Road

While their son jokes that his parents now live in their car, the Sasonkins are happy to spend their time visiting their community members wherever they are. They make every effort to come with positivity and words of encouragement; but they aren’t blind to the struggles either. Those living in hotels are frustrated by the lack of privacy; the ones who moved to cities feel lonely; and all of them are anxious about their homes. To add to their worries, most have been out of work since Oct. 7, 2023.

“If they are teachers from the local schools or worked in the local industries, they have nowhere to work now. Everything is closed, everything is destroyed,” Bracha explains. “And if they are farmers, it’s too dangerous for them to tend to their fields.”

The danger is real. Two months ago, fourth-generation resident Omer Weinstein, a father of four, was killed in a rocket attack while working his farm just outside town. “Since his passing, we visit his family two or three times a week,” says Bracha. “His son is turning bar mitzvah soon, so we’re preparing for that.”

Through the hardship, Bracha says that international Jewish communities have been showing support in ways that matter. “Communities donate, and we’re able to give monetary gift cards to people who are struggling. Aside from the help with expenses, it really lifts people up to feel the love from brethren across the ocean.”

Two weeks ago, the Sasonkins returned to Metula for the first time in a year to begin preparations for Chanukah. Yet here, too, small miracles emerged: a piece of shrapnel that had flown in through a window but stopped just short of destroying numerous valuable Jewish books; an exploded gas tank that didn’t ignite surrounding brush; and remarkably, the mikvah completely intact.

The Sasonkins have a small women’s mikvah connected to their home, which Bracha has operated with love for many years. “There’s a little dust but no damage; the water is perfectly clean under the cover, and everything still works.”

It was only on their return to Metula, however, that the Sasonkins learned the full extent of the miracles they’d experienced when they learned of the murderous Hezbollah plans found in the tunnels just beyond the border.

“We just thank Hashem [G‑d],” says Bracha. “We thank Him again and again. So what if we don’t have a house? We are living! Baruch Hashem.”

The Eternal Chanukah Flames

The first night of Chanukah was marked with a party in the Tiberias hotel where a sizable number of Metula residents have been staying. They gathered around the flames while Rabbi Sasonkin spoke about the miracles that shone extra bright because of the darkness that came before. And in between bites of sufganiyot (jelly doughnuts), they discussed the miracles that happened without them even realizing.

“We are always trying to find the good,” said Bracha.

Last year, Rabbi Sasonkin entered Metula with an IDF commander, in an armored vehicle. Together, they took the giant menorah out of storage and lit it in the center of the emptied town. This year, they plan to light a medium-sized menorah at the home where soldiers are staying in Metula and a larger one in the center of town. And after 30 years of lighting the same giant menorah, they decided it was time to buy a new one.

“We were setting it up when a soldier approached my husband. He said, ‘Rabbi, maybe you can help us. My friends are in Lebanon, and they want to light a big menorah.’ We instinctively looked at each other and said, ‘Oh, the old menorah!’”

The Sasonkins got out the menorah that lit up the center of Metula for 30 Chanukahs and taught the soldier how to light it. “It had to continue the flame, now for soldiers away from home in Lebanon.”

The residents of Metula still have a long road ahead, full of uncertainties. “Now it’s officially a ceasefire,” says Bracha. “The situation is very fragile because it’s not clear what’s going to be after the 60 days.”

Still, the menorah stands tall with its bright flames flickering over the town’s center.

“Yes, things are hard,” Bracha admits. “But we hold onto the miracles. We thank G‑d for all the good. There are little lights to be found everywhere, and that’s the one thing we can always rely on.”