Israel at war: Ashkelon, the seaside city where the world will watch the war

The world’s media descend on a battered Israeli seaside city to watch as tensions mount over a looming ground invasion of Gaza.

People in the southern Israeli city of Ashkelon run for cover as sirens warn of incoming rockets from nearby Gaza on October 11. Picture: AFP

When Israel commences its ground incursion into Gaza, on a mission to rout the terrorist group Hamas, the best view of how the conflict will unfold is likely to be found in Ashkelon.

This coastal city just a few kilometres from the border has absorbed more than its fair share of mortar fire over the years, especially in recent days.

Now it’s being overrun by the world’s media, descending on this beach town with their press trucks and flak jackets and camera tripods for a front-row seat to the war.

A town of ocean breezes and street sculptures, Ashkelon was the scene of intense violence on October 7, when terrorists infiltrated the city and rocket fire rained as Hamas executed its surprise attack.

A member of the Israeli security forces stands next to a blindfolded Palestinian prisoner near Ashkelon on October 8. Picture: AFP

Cars were engulfed in flames and buildings destroyed as the city’s ordinary state of siren-induced tension turned into an active battlezone.

Israeli forces later retook the city, killing militants and capturing others in dramatic scenes that left residents, already hardened to the anxieties of conflict, grieving and shaken.

As a country, Israelis remain in a state of suspense for a formal breakout of fighting and have found themselves in a constant state of alert since a series of Hamas massacres rocked the country two weeks ago.

U.S. President Joe Biden’s visit on Wednesday seemed to grant an unofficial stay to the formal incursion repeatedly foreshadowed by military leaders – for 24 hours, at least – but it didn’t halt the precision air strikes which have flattened Hamas infrastructure and launch sites and taken out high-value targets within its leadership.

People duck for cover upon hearing sirens warning of incoming fire in the southern Israeli city of Ashkelon on October 11. Picture: AFP

From a hill on the southern edge of Ashkelon, it’s possible to witness with the naked eye the homemade missiles being launched without guidance or care for whether they land on civilian targets, which they inevitably do.

Israeli officials say one in five of these rockets misfires and crashes back to earth in Gaza.

A major oil-importing city, Ashkelon is to Israel what Wollongong is to Sydney, in terms of its size and working-class character. Flashes of Terrigal come to mind as one drives the coastal routes.

But Wollongong is 85 kilometres from Sydney and Ashkelon is far closer to the war theatre of Gaza, so for the analogy to work properly, one must imagine a conflict taking place at a distance roughly between Martin Place and Olympic Park, in Homebush.

On the many occasions when rockets do fall into Ashkelon, residents have a maximum of 15 seconds to find cover compared with cities further north, such as Tel Aviv, where it’s a 90 second warning to find shelter.

A house hit by a rocket fired from the Gaza Strip, in Ashkelon on October 13. Picture: AFP

This has become a topic of great sensitivity in Ashkelon in recent days.

Local mayor Tomer Glam went viral on Israeli social media after shouting at Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich over a lack of funding for bomb shelters in the city.

He said residents were being left with “only prayer for protection”.

With such a shortage of time available, many residents are often left to simply lay on the ground and cover their heads, always at a distance from any cars; this is the first instruction one receives in relation to rockets – run from any vehicles nearby because they’re liable to be blown into shrapnel.

For days the streets have cleared out in Ashkelon to the point of desertion, with most residents staying indoors. “Everyone’s at home,” said Oleg, an elderly man whom The Australian encountered after a long drive through empty streets. “We’re at war.”

It was Friday, a slower, half-working day in Israel, when parents would ordinarily flock to playgrounds and shopping malls that appeared totally empty.

Itzick Shemesh, the owner of a cafe, said his business was “limping” due to the paucity of customers. Asked why he still goes to the effort of running the business when there are so few patrons, Mr Shemesh said it was mostly to maintain his sanity. “For the soul,” he replied. “Not for the money, the city’s empty. We get up, we open the shop, we move around. It helps.”