I landed at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion International Airport late on Wednesday, June 10, 2025. I walked slowly down the ramp toward passport control, taking time to reflect on the remaining hostage signs posted along the way. The last time I descended that same route was in October 2023, weeks after the horrific Hamas attacks. The signs hadn’t yet been installed.
Both trips were meant to be joyous occasions. My last visit was for the birth of my niece, and this year I was excited to experience Tel Aviv Pride for the first time.
Thursday morning, my sister (who lives in northern Israel with her family) and I headed south toward the Gaza Envelope. Our goal was to see firsthand the sites connected to the tragedies of October 7. We paid tribute at bomb shelters — like the one where Hersh Goldberg-Polin and others were abducted — and visited the Nova festival site. The visit was filled with emotions I’m still processing, a few weeks (and a whole war) later.
On the drive back up to Tel Aviv that afternoon, we talked about the beauty of the area and the weight of living in such a risk-prone part of the country. As we approached the city, we saw final preparations underway for the Pride Parade scheduled for the following afternoon. You could feel the energy in the air — the kind that fuels my love for the city. It was time to shift our mindset toward the joyful celebration we thought lay ahead.
At approximately 3:15 a.m., sirens started sounding. I headed to my sister’s room, which doubled as the mamad — a reinforced safe room legally required in newer buildings. We were both half-awake and confused. Why now, after weeks of relative calm? I sat there feeling isolated, the thick walls blocking all Wi-Fi and cellular signal. I had never had to take refuge like this before. For Israelis, this wasn’t anything new.
My sister (whose phone still had signal) began updating me as news and WhatsApp chats started circulating.
“Everything is officially closed until Saturday night. Only essential stores are opening tomorrow,” she eventually said. A few minutes later, I read that all Pride festivities were officially canceled again.
That morning, unsure what to do, we ran to the corner market to grab some food. There was an indescribable tension — the store filled with people quietly and urgently restocking essentials. After returning home, we agreed to pack up and head north a day early.
As we drove, I reviewed the collaborative list my sister and I had curated: cafés, museums, family outings. One by one, I found myself mentally crossing them off — our plans had changed. We were now in an active war with the Iranian regime.
That evening, we again found ourselves taking shelter at the neighbors across the street — a routine I hadn’t yet realized would become our new normal. On our third trip that night, as we stumbled over half-awake, we saw a nearby Iron Dome interception. Everything suddenly felt a lot more real. We accepted our neighbors’ gracious invitation to sleep there the rest of the night, easing our repeated trips to the mamad.
The following days were a blur, reminiscent of the pandemic. Restaurants were closed for dining, schools were canceled, and most people were working from home. Our outing to the grocery store became a daily highlight. Nights were restless — averaging multiple trips to the safe room. As we moved into the second week, daytime incidents began too, including one shelter visit with 50 others in the middle of a grocery run.
Eventually, restrictions eased, allowing us to congregate in small groups again. That was until we woke to news of U.S. involvement. Morale took a hit — but we carried on. This was just part of life in Israel.
The hardest part for me was the uncertainty. When would the airspace reopen so I could leave?
A few days later, we awoke — seemingly surprised — by news of an imminent ceasefire. As updates came in throughout the day, it was clear people were eager to return to normal life. The next morning, that’s exactly what it felt like. After dropping my nieces off at school (for the first time in over a week), we grabbed brunch at a café. There was a renewed energy in the air.
So what did I learn from my firsthand experience of the “12-Day War?” Undoubtedly, the people of Israel are resilient. It was also reinvigorating to see how people show up for one another — neighbors ensuring access to safe rooms, volunteers clearing debris and preparing meals for soldiers and rescue workers, and the shared desire to move forward as quickly as possible.
If this were anywhere else, I’d probably hesitate before returning — to see the sights, to finish what I missed. But this is Israel. I know I’ll come back.
For now, as I sit on the patio reflecting on my past 13 days, I hear the nighttime adhan — the Muslim call to prayer — from a neighboring Arab town. I’m reminded that time and time again, no matter the background, religion, or ethnicity, Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live.