What Teenagers from the North Need Adults to Understand

I spent the day with 150 teenagers from the North, in a conference organized by Yeadim LaTzafon, the National Council for the Child, Sheatufim, Mashabim and other partners, and I left feeling that we are still not fully grasping what this war has meant for them.

The purpose of the gathering was simple, but in many ways radical: not to speak about youth, not to design another program for them, but to ask them directly what they are living through and what they wish the adults around them understood.

I have been in many rooms over the past two years where adults discuss trauma, resilience, education, informal education, budgets, local authorities, government decisions, and the needs of evacuees. These conversations matter. But there is something very different about hearing teenagers describe, in their own words, the practical and emotional reality of a life that has become unstable.

One teenager shared that he had moved to Jerusalem alone and had not lived with his parents for a year. A girl described moving to Tiberias with her three sisters, while her parents stayed behind in the North to keep working. Another boy spoke about being evacuated to Netanya and being accepted by two professional soccer teams, only to have the offers withdrawn when they understood that he was a displaced child from the North. They did not want to invest in a child who might leave.

That story stayed with me, because it captures something much deeper than one missed opportunity. Every child on that team could move at any time because of a parent’s job, a family decision, or life circumstances. But for this boy, being displaced became a label. It made him seem temporary. It made adults hesitate to invest in him.

That is one of the quieter harms of prolonged displacement. Children lose their homes, routines, schools, youth movements, social circles, and sense of continuity. But they also risk being seen by institutions as children whose lives are “on hold,” as if their development can wait, as if their friendships, ambitions, sports, studies, and adolescence can be paused until there is more certainty.

But childhood cannot wait for certainty. Adolescence cannot be postponed until the security situation is resolved.

What struck me throughout the day was not only how much these teenagers have been through, but how clearly they could explain what adults are missing. One girl said that because they are teenagers, and because sometimes they are with friends and seem to be having fun, adults assume they are fine. She explained that people see them laughing or socializing and think that maybe the situation comes easily to them, or that they do not really care. Then she said: “Maybe it doesn’t look like it, but I’m going through things.”

That sentence stayed with me because it points to one of our adult blind spots. We often confuse coping with being okay. We see teenagers on their phones, making jokes, showing up to class, wearing what teenagers wear, speaking like teenagers speak, and we forget that functioning is not the same as being well. The fact that a young person can laugh does not mean they are not exhausted. The fact that they can adapt does not mean the adaptation has no cost.

And these teenagers have had to adapt again and again.

One of them said very simply that in the North, every day something can happen. An alarm, a security incident, a night without sleep, a change in school plans, a bagrut (matriculation exam) that is canceled and then reinstated, a Zoom class that still starts at 9 a.m. even though everyone knows the students were awake all night because of sirens.

That example may sound small, but it is not. It reflects one of the clearest messages I heard from them: many of the problems they face are not only about trauma. They are about adults and systems not speaking to each other.

Activities are organized outside of school, but they clash with school obligations, so teenagers cannot attend. Teachers know there were sirens all night, but the class schedule continues as usual. Programs are offered, but the transportation schedule does not allow teenagers to reach them. Adults create activities, but not always activities that are relevant for this age group, and then wonder why teenagers do not show up.

From the perspective of a teenager, it does not matter which ministry funds the program, which organization organizes the activity, which department controls transportation, or which school made the schedule. What matters is whether their life actually works. Can they get there? Is the activity at a time they can attend? Is it appropriate for their age? Does anyone understand what happened the night before? Does anyone explain why decisions keep changing? Does anyone ask them before designing solutions for them?

This is a very practical lesson for all of us working around mental health, resilience, education, philanthropy, and government. Support for youth is not only about adding more programs. It is about designing around the teenager’s actual day.

Another thing I found moving was how much they wanted normal life, but not in a superficial way. They were not asking adults to ignore what is happening. They were asking for spaces where they can still be teenagers.

They spoke about needing places to meet, things to do, ways to be with friends, and activities that actually fit their age: sports, music, gaming, ping pong, billiards, yoga, pilates, trips, youth clubs, and opportunities to meet teenagers from other communities.

One of them said, very plainly, that they are “all day at home, all day not meeting friends.”

For adults, this can sound like a request for leisure. But for teenagers, peer life is developmental infrastructure. Adolescence happens through friends, through movement, through informal spaces, through the ability to leave the house and go somewhere that is not school, not home, and not therapy. When those spaces disappear, something important is lost.

That is why fun is not a luxury. Transportation is not just logistics. A youth club is not just a building. Informal education is not just an afternoon activity. These are part of what allows teenagers to keep developing, even in a disrupted reality.

There was also something powerful about the composition of the room. There were boys with kippot and tzitzit, girls in tank tops, Arab Israeli teenagers, teenagers from different communities, backgrounds, and ways of life. And again and again, they were saying versions of the same things.

They want adults to understand that their lives are not normal right now. They would like stability where stability is possible. They want explanations when decisions change. They want school to take into account the reality outside the classroom. They wanted age-appropriate spaces to meet. They want adults to coordinate but they want to be asked what they need before solutions are designed.

That commonality matters. The North is not one story, and these teenagers do not all come from the same place or identity. But the experience of disruption, loneliness, uncertainty, and the need to be taken seriously crossed those lines.

The maturity in the room was striking, but it was also painful. I found myself admiring them and, at the same time, feeling sad that they have had to become so articulate about instability. There was a kind of forced maturity in the way they spoke. They understand systems now. They understand gaps. They understand that adults have budgets, constraints, authorities, and responsibilities. They know that not everything they ask for will happen.

But they also know when they are being consulted without being heard.

One teenager said that if they could see that their input actually affected their life and routine, they would want to participate. That is an important standard. Youth participation cannot be a checkbox. It cannot be a conference, a WhatsApp group, a survey, and then silence. It has to include a feedback loop: we heard you, this is what we understood, this is what we are changing, this is what we cannot change yet, and this is why.

I left with three takeaways.

First, we need to stop mistaking teenage coping for indifference. Teenagers can laugh, scroll, joke, dress normally, and still be carrying something very heavy.

Second, we need to design around their real lives, not around adult assumptions. 

Third, we need much better coordination among adults. Many of the gaps they described are not unsolvable. They are the result of systems working in parallel rather than together. Schools, informal education providers, local authorities, youth movements, transportation planners, mental health professionals, community leaders, philanthropists, and government bodies all see one piece of the picture. The teenagers are the ones living the whole picture.

They are not asking us to save them. They are asking us to listen with more humility, coordinate with more discipline, and take the details of their daily lives seriously.

They are not only the future of this country. They are also the present. They are living this now.