Iran tried to kill us. We survived

When a missile exploded in front of our evacuation boat, I didn’t grasp the full gravity of the moment. I was just an American college student leaving Israel after a month marked by drone and missile attacks.

Iran and the Houthis launched dozens of strikes during my time there. What began as a summer internship turned into a firsthand look at the way much of the world still harbors deep hostility toward Jews.

What stood out even more was how Israelis responded. They persisted through daily life, as if nothing had changed. As someone watching from the outside, I found that spirit both sobering and inspiring.

I came to Israel to work for the fintech company Fibonatix, based in BSR City, Petah Tikvah: A high-end area with shops such as Gucci, Prada, and Burberry. I worked on the 26th floor of a sleek, modern high-rise overlooking the city. My coworkers all spoke English, as our company specialized in European merchants.

I spent a month and a half in Israel, with three weeks at Fibonatix. Despite the attacks, I was surprised by how casually my coworkers brushed them off. As an American, I found it shocking that air raid sirens, intercepted missiles, and shelter-in-place orders – events that would make national headlines at home – were treated as normal.

I lived with other college students from or studying in Miami and Toronto. We did the Onward work program, living in the same apartment building in Florentine, Tel Aviv. Many of us did Taglit Birthright before starting our internships.

We explored Tel Avi’s nightlife, hiked Masada, and visited Miami’s sister city, Yerucham, a quiet desert town where we spent Shabbat with host families. We were already close, but experiencing Iran’s wrath changed our relationships and the way we lived.

One Thursday night, I talked with students considering making aliyah when the sirens went off. It felt like a typical night of sirens: A surreal concept for Americans. Then we heard: Israel attacked Iran’s nuclear facilities, and Homefront Command told us to remain in shelter for two hours. That night marked the start of a war escalation few of us could have imagined.

The next night, on Shabbat, hundreds of Iran’s drone and missile attacks came in. Sirens rang out three times during the night. I moved from my solo room into an apartment packed with six students — originally meant for three — so they could wake me if I missed the alarms. Without them, I might’ve slept through a warning.

It wasn’t a normal night. Students were on the phone reassuring loved ones. One said their job’s building was hit.

The next morning, nearly sleepless, we found out we were being evacuated. Students from Onward and Taglit programs across Israel were evacuated to a resort at the Dead Sea. We had three hours to pack everything.

I helped lead the cleanup of our 80-student building, taking out trash, clearing fridges, and getting everyone ready to go.

At the Dead Sea, I called Israeli friends who were unfazed — they’d been through this before. Despite being surrounded by a thousand college students, most stuck with their own groups. People from the same cities clung to each other.

Even in Israel, I noticed deep divisions — Sephardi vs. Ashkenazi, Haredi vs. non-Haredi, elite vs. non-elite IDF units. That same dynamic existed among us. For me, that meant sticking with the Miami group. What some saw as “trauma” brought us closer than we would’ve been otherwise.

The hotel offered classes: yoga, dance, crafts. I took a wire-sculpting class. I failed several times but kept trying. Eventually, I shaped a wire map of Israel with a heart in the center.

That persistence mirrored the Israeli spirit — pushing through frustration and continuing despite hardship.

Our leaders told us we were going home. Our return date was my mom’s birthday. It was a relief: We’d finally go home. Our group evacuated by boat to Cyprus. It was packed with students, food, and music.

While I wasn’t paying attention, a missile exploded near our boat. Students caught it on video. The Iranians tried, and failed, to hit us again. I kept the wire map with me, determined to give it to my mother as a birthday gift.

When we arrived in Cyprus, I noticed cameras filming us. It was an Iranian livestream accusing “Zionists” of trying to escape. At the airport, our flight was delayed: An Iranian agent leaked our flight info and was arrested.

Even as we boarded, students feared we wouldn’t land safely. Thankfully, we did make it to Rome.

In Rome, students hid their Stars of David. At airport security, a student told me to get rid of my wire map: It made me a target. I refused. It wasn’t just a souvenir. It was a symbol of Israeli resilience.

I made it home. I hugged my parents and handed my mom the wired map. I carried it through four countries, multiple evacuations, and every form of transport — land, water, and air.

It represented everything I saw in Israel: people who keep moving forward, even when their lives are constantly under threat. Most Israelis I met weren’t shaken. For them, nearly dying was just another part of life.

Though I wasn’t born Israeli, I believe the world could learn from that spirit: the determination to keep going no matter the obstacle.

Am Yisrael Chai.