'"Peace" is a surreal word'

On the surface, nothing about the Israeli communities surrounding Gaza indicates that less than a year ago a war was raging here. Farmers work in green fields, tractors plow the fertilized soil and students flock en masse to the local Sapir College, just outside the town of Sderot.

But people here say that something about the 2014 war - which Israeli officials call "Operation Protective Edge" - reshuffled all the cards. "The armor I had built myself simply collapsed. For the first time I felt what real fear is," says Yam Braude-Amitai, 29, who lives in Kibbutz Erez, near the Erez crossing north of Gaza.

"I was afraid to be alone, go to the bathroom, take out the garbage - the most banal things. I wouldn't even dare to go jogging anymore," she told DW.

After years of traveling in Europe and Australia and living in New York, Braude eventually decided to return to her home region, where she and her husband are now raising a four-month-old baby. Although her parents' house in Kfar Aza was directly hit by a rocket during "Operation Pillar of Defense" in 2012, she says it was the war last year that changed everything.

"When I get up at night to breastfeed my baby I hear noises. I don't know if it's my imagination, but if I ever mocked my grandmother - who for 10 years has been telling us that she hears noises from underground - today we no longer joke about it."

Sense of despair

Sixty-seven Israeli soldiers and five Israeli civilians were killed in the 50-day war, while over 1,600 of the country's soldiers and 837 of its civilians were wounded. For the Palestinians, it was the deadliest incident in the Gaza Strip since its establishment, and though figures differ, it appears that over 2,100 people were killed there, many of whom were civilians.

"There was a feeling that this is never going to end," says Braude. "Over time we learned to focus on the hope that something would change, but after the last war it's very hard to see how that can happen."

Another breaking point was the election, in March, in which conservative Premier Benjamin Netanyahu was re-elected, "which only increased the sense of despair," Braude says.

"There is a majority who believes [Palestinians and Jews] can live side-by-side here. More than that, there are people who experienced it and grew up here when the situation was like that. Precisely those who live here know that the use of force won't help. But it doesn't seem as if any government wants a change."

A nation divided

Only a 55-minute drive from Tel Aviv, the communities in the immediate vicinity of Gaza are seen by many as a deserted area, light-years away from the lively center. Many Israelis also see opting to live near Gaza as irresponsible.

"It doesn't matter where you live," says Adi Batan-Meiri, a 28-year old from Sderot with a two-year-old son, pointing out that five years ago it seemed unimaginable that rockets would fall in Beersheba, 47 kilometers (26 miles) from Gaza City. "Now it's a reality, and rockets fall even further. What seems fanciful today - will become real in the next war."

Meiri believes that the only solution is a political agreement. "It's pointless to run away from the front line because the front line will chase you. The only way to truly escape fire is to deny its existence - and this means a brave political move."

Throughout the war extremist views from both sides of the political spectrum in Israel were aired, which led to a wave of violence and racism in the country. Facebook groups calling on people to fight leftists flourished, and left- and right-wing demonstrators took to the streets to show their discontent with the war. Each side dug in its heels.

"The operation has brought more extreme expressions than ever before," says Anna Roytman, a former student at Sapir College who lives in Beersheba. "I found myself deleting dozens of Facebook friends, just because I couldn't bear reading or hearing their statements anymore."

'Don't call us idealists'

The communities near Gaza are largely secular, and most of the residents are natives or they came to the area for economic reasons. Twenty-five-year-old student Aran Goren moved with her parents to the settlement of Dugit in the Gaza Strip when she was two. Years later the settlement was evacuated as part of the disengagement plan of 2005, and the family moved to Kibbutz Nahal Oz and later to Sderot.

"We stayed in the area because of my mother's work. We went to school here, and our friends were here," she says. "It was definitely not an ideological move."

"During quiet times this place is paradise, and in times of war it is a living hell," Braude says with a laugh. "A stranger will not understand, but the periods are very brief when we are in actual crisis."

The shadow of trauma

While eight percent of people in Israel suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), in Sderot that rate is 44 percent - five times higher. Even compared to other regions in Israel that have been hit by war, such as Haifa or the northern border to Lebanon, twice as many children from the South suffer from PTSD. Aggression in toddlers in the South is estimated at six percent - three times more than in the general population.

"Once during a school exam, a Qassam rocket fell directly on our classroom; luckily we survived it. These were not easy experiences, but in the end they became routine," says Goren. "To this day I wake up sweating with my heart beating fast, dreaming about terrorists coming to kidnap me and take me into a tunnel."

Braude says she has no doubt that most of the population in the area suffers from PTSD without even realizing it. "Even without a rocket falling on my parents' house, I suffer from post-traumatic stress. Imagining explosions, hearing noises … A person who has been running to a shelter several times a day since childhood is not a normal person."

A 2012 study in the "Journal of Adolescent Health" found that nearly half of the young people in Sderot suffer from PTSD. "It may be too optimistic, but I hope that when my daughter grows up it won't be like that anymore," Braude mumbles with moist eyes.

Goren is less positive. "I don't think anything is going to change in the near future. I'm not judging anyone, but I can't understand people who choose to raise their kids in such danger. My mother did it, I grew up like that, but I don't want my children to experience the same thing. I'm connected to this area, but I don't think I'll stay."

Hopes for the future

Most people in the South are pessimistic about the likelihood of a peace agreement, and even a temporary political agreement seems like a distant dream. "Drippings," as Israelis call the incessant firing of rockets at the country in small quantities, occur frequently, so frequently that residents have become accustomed to a lack of news reports on them - whether in Israeli media or abroad.

"I don't see any hope," Goren says. "It's not going to end, certainly not with our current government. We are tired of violent attempts to solve this; violence doesn't solve anything. Action on the political level must be taken. Some would say 'there's no partner,' but the bottom line is that, in the past 10 years, no political action was taken, so let's try. We must give it a chance."

For Braude, the solution is both negotiations and hope. "Today no one talks about peace anymore. "Peace has become a surreal, utopian word. How could this happen - if everyone wants it so badly?"