Israel During a Rough Time
I arrived in Israel for work, expecting ordinary days filled with meetings, conversations, shared meals, and a sense of history that always feels close to the surface there. I was traveling with my boss and a coworker, but I arrived before. None of us anticipated that, within hours of landing, the world around us would change so completely.
In a strange twist of timing, my boss and coworker were already in the air when the attack began. Their flight landed only because it was needed to evacuate other passengers. At the time, none of us fully understood the gravity of what was unfolding. It didn’t feel serious yet, confusing, tense, but still distant.
That illusion didn’t last long.
By the morning of October 7th, sirens cut through the air and phones filled with urgent messages. Israel declared a state of war. We could hear missiles in the distance. Reports spread quickly: armed militants had stolen military and police uniforms and were moving through civilian areas, trying to kill as many people as possible. The realization that civilians were being directly targeted changed everything.
We moved between safe rooms and shelters, often with people we had only recently met, bonded suddenly by necessity rather than time. Even short walks felt dangerous. Decisions became smaller and more immediate, when to move, where to stand, how long to stay in one place. Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by alarms and the constant awareness that plans no longer mattered. Only safety did.
We decided to go to the home of a close friend of my boss, a cardiologist, who warned us clearly that the area was being targeted by missiles. From there, he asked if we could help at a local hospital. Despite the fear, we went.
The hospital was overwhelmed, yet remarkably organized. It was run by people who had clearly trained for moments like this but never wanted to see them again. We helped wherever we could, moving patients, assisting staff, helping relocate children into safer areas and temporary shelters. In those moments, identity didn’t matter. We helped both Palestinian and Israeli patients alike. They were children, families, people in pain, and that was all that mattered.
The corridors were filled with a quiet urgency. Doctors, nurses, volunteers, and families moved with purpose, speaking softly but acting quickly. Even surrounded by fear, there was humanity, shared water, reassuring words, small acts of kindness that felt almost defiant in the face of what was happening outside.
We spent the entire night at the hospital. For two nights afterward, I couldn’t truly sleep. The sounds, the tension, the images, they stayed with me long after the immediate danger passed.
Finding a way out of Israel became its own nightmare. I bought multiple flights, sometimes several at the same time, only to have them canceled one after another. Airports were chaotic, screens constantly updating with red “CANCELLED” notices.
It was ultimately through my boss personal contacts that I managed to secure a way out. Even then, nothing was certain. At the airport, the flight I was scheduled to take was canceled again due to incoming missiles. I ended up boarding another flight to Athens, one that took off under military escort, flanked by fighter jets.
When we landed in Greece, the contrast was overwhelming.
Athens was calm. People were walking, talking, living ordinary lives. The silence felt almost unreal. After days of alarms and fear, the peace was shocking.
This experience reshaped how I think about travel, about adventure, and about what it means to show up when circumstances turn terrifying. This story isn’t about taking sides. In the hospital, we helped anyone who needed it, Palestinian and Israeli alike. My hope is simple: that peace comes soon, that innocent lives are protected, and that no one has to experience days like these again.
This post isn’t about answers or conclusions. It’s simply a record of being there, of witnessing fear and courage, violence and humanity, existing side by side during a moment none of us will ever forget.