The streets of south Tel Aviv still carry the visible scars of war. Shattered glass litters sidewalks, broken shutters hang from aging buildings, and entire sections of neighborhoods remain damaged after a recent Iranian missile strike. Yet even as the آثار of destruction remain fresh, many residents are making a choice that appears almost paradoxical: they are staying.
Reporting from Haaretz reveals how repeated Iranian missile attacks have laid bare a critical vulnerability in Tel Aviv’s housing reality. Despite some of the highest rental prices in Israel, many apartments—particularly in older parts of the city—lack safe rooms or even basic building shelters. For countless residents, survival during an air raid depends on rushing through the streets, often for several minutes, to reach the nearest protected space.
For Shulamit Farber, a 36-year-old programmer, the experience has been deeply traumatic. She and her partner were evacuated after their building on Kiryat Sefer Street was damaged in a strike near Yehuda Halevi Street. During the early days of the war, they repeatedly ran to a nearby office building shelter, sometimes as many as ten times in one night. Eventually, exhaustion set in. One night, when the sirens sounded again, they remained in their apartment. A missile struck nearby.
The explosion felt like an earthquake. The floor shook violently, windows shattered, and burning debris caused secondary blasts. In the aftermath, Farber learned that asbestos from a nearby structure may have been released into the air, raising concerns about long-term health risks. Despite the fear and uncertainty, she has no plans to leave. Her work and daily life are rooted in Tel Aviv, and the idea of relocating for what she describes as a war that occurs “once every five years” feels like too great a sacrifice.
Not everyone shares that resolve. Maayan Nahum, who lived near the impact zone, has decided she will not return to her small rented apartment, which lacked any form of shelter. For her, the خطر is no longer theoretical—it is immediate and unacceptable.
For many families, however, leaving is not simply a matter of choice but of financial reality. Alon Nachshon and his partner Nava Ginzach, raising two young children, face a daily struggle. Their apartment offers no proper protection, forcing them to descend multiple floors and run several minutes to reach safety during alerts. Nights are often spent elsewhere, in relatives’ homes equipped with safe rooms. Yet moving permanently is financially out of reach. Apartments with built-in shelters command dramatically higher rents, often far beyond what middle-class families can afford.
This has created a distorted housing market. Demand for apartments with safe rooms has surged, driving prices to extreme levels, while older, unprotected apartments remain occupied largely because tenants cannot break leases or afford alternatives. Some residents accuse landlords of exploiting the crisis by inflating rents on safer properties rather than offering relief during wartime.
The situation is even more severe for elderly residents. For 93-year-old Tziona Simhi, reaching a shelter in time is physically impossible. Living on the top floor of a building without an elevator, she takes refuge in a stairwell during daytime alarms and often remains in bed at night, accepting the risks. Her family urges her to relocate, but she refuses. Tel Aviv is her home, and leaving it is not something she is willing to consider.
City officials acknowledge the gaps in protection but point to ongoing efforts to improve the situation. Tel Aviv has hundreds of public protected spaces, including shelters in schools and underground parking facilities adapted for emergency use. Urban renewal projects aim to gradually replace older buildings with safer structures, though progress is slow and uneven.
Yet infrastructure alone does not explain why so many residents remain. The answer lies as much in psychology as in policy or economics. Clinical psychologist Idit Gutman, cited by Haaretz, describes the phenomenon as cognitive dissonance. Faced with danger, residents justify their decision to stay, reinforcing their emotional attachment to the city despite the risks. Over time, what might seem intolerable becomes normalized.
Tel Aviv holds a powerful cultural and emotional appeal. Widely regarded as Israel’s most vibrant and liberal city, it offers a lifestyle that many residents feel cannot be replicated elsewhere in the country. Its nightlife, creative industries, and relative openness create a sense of identity that goes beyond geography.
This attachment is so strong that, as Gutman suggests, some residents might find it easier to consider emigrating abroad than relocating to another Israeli city. The bond with Tel Aviv is not merely practical—it is deeply personal.
Meanwhile, daily life continues under the constant shadow of uncertainty. Parents navigate the challenge of protecting young children during sudden alarms. Pet owners struggle to find shelters that will accept animals. Families crowd into public spaces, managing not only fear but also tension with others in confined environments.
Despite the danger, the rising costs, and the lack of adequate protection, a clear sentiment emerges: there is nowhere else they would rather be. For many, Tel Aviv is not just a place to live—it is a way of life.
In a city where missiles can strike without warning and safety is often minutes away, that belief may be the strongest protection its residents have.
