OPINION: ‘I had to ignore my fears and go to Israel – it was surreal’

There was a point every day towards the end of last year when I found myself on El Al’s website, my mouse hovering over various dates. 

This went on for weeks as I ummed and ahhed about whether or not to travel to Israel.

My first excuse was cost. Since the horrific events of 7 October and the subsequent war, El Al has been the only carrier from Britain. Fares were at least double what I’d have expected months earlier.

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I’d tweak the dates in search of the best deal, click through to payment… then doubts crept in. Two of my boys had mock exams, my eldest would be back from university – it wouldn’t be fair. Then there was work; and constant updates on my phone about sirens, missiles, casualties, did nothing to reassure me.

“Just book it,” said my husband. I shared my concerns about prices, our boys, my work and he brushed them all aside.

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Finally, I had to admit the truth.

“I’m scared.”

He understood, of course, but his position was clear.

“Your family live through it every day.”

I was born in Tel Aviv to an Israeli father and British mother and although I’ve spent most of my life in London, my dual nationality is a huge part of who I am. We married in Israel, celebrated our sons’ barmitzvahs there and laid my father to rest in the hills overlooking Jerusalem.

“You need to come,” a close friend had said.

They were both right. So, ignoring the butterflies, I clicked to confirm.

The angst continued in the days before takeoff. I plutzed about not being able to get travel insurance until someone introduced me to an Israeli agency. I had no specific plan beyond turning up at people’s houses, so my angst simmered on. But everything changed onboard. In every other seat on the flight was someone making the same journey, without having to justify themselves. The applause on touchdown was more poignant than ever. Thank you, we said in one, silent, unified voice.

Stepping into the terminal at Ben Gurion felt so strange for me, having only recently left, following a brief visit, on 4 October. Posters of the hostages kidnapped just three days after I returned home lined the long walk to baggage reclaim. Here, no one was heartlessly ripping them down. This was just the start.

The roads to my aunt and uncle’s home in Rishon LeZion were plastered with posters and flags. Once at the home they’ve lived in for more than 20 years, I had to ask: “Where’s the shelter? What happens during a siren?”

My uncle smiled kindly, pointing at the alcove I’d only ever known as their storage overflow.

“But it won’t happen,” said my aunt. “It’s too late.

“Hamas tends to fire at certain times,” they said confidently, adding that it had been generally quiet beside a surprise blast everyone mistook for fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

The night passed quietly, seemingly without incident.

Later that morning they drove me to spend a night with their daughter. She was home alone with three children under five – the youngest barely a month old. Her husband was drafted as a reserve on 7 October.

Somehow he made it home for the birth but, three days later, he was dispatched to Gaza.

His wife struggles with the endless demands of a newborn and two preschoolers, while living in fear of a late night knock at the door.

I’d spent weeks wanting to hug her and the rest of my family. Another cousin’s husband has been drafted, leaving her alone with two tiny kids and a full-time job. A third cousin spends every day worrying about his 19-year-old daughter, stationed at an Israel Defence Forces base on the edge of Gaza.

My family were not directly affected by Hamas’ deadly ambush, but they – like all Israelis – feel the ripple effects daily.

I can’t change that, but what I can do is to hold the baby, read a story or take them for coffee.

It was a week of intense emotional conversations at every turn, with everyone from friends and relatives to professional contacts and perfect strangers.

Four days in, I was exhausted and so booked a bargain Tel Aviv hotel room where I had previously stayed in happier times.

Now, however, I was among the few actually paying to stay there. The rooms around mine were occupied by internally displaced people, many trailed by fed-up children and bewildered dogs.

I must have looked equally lost wandering around this twilight zone of a city. Things felt normal, but they were not.

People still frequent cafes, eating, drinking, smoking – this is Tel Aviv after all – but eavesdrop on any conversation and you hear variations on a theme. Life here is tough.

Every shop, restaurant, railway station and building site is adorned with posters, prayers and hastily scrawled messages of hope, anger, despair. In London we have our distractions, but in Israel there’s no escape from reality.

On Saturday night, I joined the weekly demonstration to “bring them home” at Hostage Square. I have attended similar events in London, but this was the mother ship, where nothing else existed beyond the collective embrace of solidarity with the victims’ broken families.

Afterwards, I had a uniquely surreal Tel Aviv experience, as I clung to the back of one of my cousins while zipping along on a rented scooter. My eyes were mostly closed, but it was impossible to look away from Dizengoff Square blanketed with pictures and candles, while blindfolded bloody teddy bears sat strapped to nearby benches.

My family were not directly affected by Hamas’ deadly ambush, but they – like all Israelis – feel the ripple effects daily. I can’t change that, but what I can do is to hold the baby, read a story or take them for coffee.

In some ways the week felt normal, but with an unsettling dreamy quality. The sun still shone, the waves still breathed in and out and I still shared hummus with loved ones.

But nothing felt quite right – from the walls scrawled with graffiti to the destination signs on buses declaring. “Together we will win”.

I was still fearful – and the rockets I saw flying south of Tel Aviv on my last night did nothing to change that. But I knew I was right to visit.

Back home, I told my husband that he should go and see things with his own eyes.

My trip was not about right or wrong, winners or losers or political stances. It was simply a show of heartfelt solidarity.

I just felt that I needed to go in person, if only to say: I feel it, I share it, I’m right here.