Tears in Transit: From Tel Aviv to Uncertainty

As soon as I buckled my seatbelt, the tears flooded out of my eyes. I looked around and no one had the same response to the horrors of the past few days as I did. Were they living in an alternate universe, or was I?

The flight attendant approached me, knelt down, and asked if I was okay. “No,” I managed to get out between sobs. “Let me get you some tissues,” she said as I wiped my snotty nose on the sleeve of my black sweatshirt.

“You’re safe, we’re going to get out of here soon,” she reassured me. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, a gin and tonic, double,” I replied, pulling tissues from the El Al box in threes.

I hadn’t had a drink on a plane in years, refusing to use the claustrophobic bathrooms, but this was different. I wasn’t sure when I’d started drinking gin and tonics—considering I used to hate both ingredients—but everything felt different now. This year has taught me how much people can change, how we adapt in the face of unimaginable circumstances.

As I chugged the drink like a kid with a Slurpee, the sounds from outside the plane echoed in my ears. Booms, rumbles—were those bombs? Thunder? The Iron Dome? Questions clawed at my chest, tightening it with uncertainty. Had I made the wrong decision by leaving? Should I have stayed with my friends in Tel Aviv? The pilot’s announcement—just thunder—allowed me and the other passengers to collectively exhale, but my tears continued. I was stuck between relief and guilt.

I  buried myself in tissues and WhatsApp, while the rest of the plane remained chatty, as if they were waiting for a concert to begin. Those tissues became my only comfort in a space where everything—my friends, my family and my home—felt too far to reach.

October 7th was the day it all began. That morning, one of my closest Israeli friends came over to my Tel Aviv apartment, insisting neither of us should be alone. Over the next few days, members of her family joined us—my apartment becoming a makeshift refuge because none of them had bomb shelters like I did. They brought food, emptying their fridges and pantries as if preparing for an unknown stretch of isolation. Eyes spoke what words couldn’t –  each new look conveyed the unbearable news that someone they knew had been murdered or taken hostage.

Within hours of the attacks, I made the decision to leave. I thought London would be a safe place to wait for things to calm down. My friends didn’t share my instinct to flee; they wanted to stay. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t join me, why they didn’t want to escape. I booked a ticket with the assumption of being away for two weeks, thinking everything would resolve itself by then. I was wrong.

The night before my flight, we sat on my balcony, drinking wine, eating peanuts and chocolate, trying to pretend things were okay. But they were so far from okay. Every motorcycle sounded like a siren; every phone notification felt like another loss being announced. I didn’t know at the time that it would be my last night on that balcony with friends, let alone my last night in that apartment.

The tears kept coming on the plane as I thought about how it could have been us. It could have been us. We were supposed to be at the InDnegev music festival miles from where the Nova Festival was on October 12th. I pictured the festival site from our experience in 2022, all open land—sand, stages, food booths, port-o-potties and tents. No structures. Miles away from cars. Nowhere to find safety. I kept thinking about how hard it would be to run in the sand. How did we get so lucky to be the ones who didn’t have to witness our friends being raped and murdered in front of our eyes during what should have been a peaceful celebration.

Festivals were my joy, my release, but since October, the thought of attending one feels wrong. Exposed. Risky. A celebration of life feels hollow when others lost their lives doing the same. And yet, I wrestle with guilt for not living fully—for not going to see live music or celebrating life with my loved ones—because some families will never get that chance again.

When I arrived in London, I was met with a warm embrace from a dear friend who welcomed me into her home with love and compassion. She made it clear I could stay as long as I needed, but after a few days, it became apparent that there was no end in sight. I flew to New York to be with my family three days later, longing for the community I had left behind in Tel Aviv. There was no replicating that life—the spontaneity of seeing friends daily, the comfort of a city I loved.

In Tel Aviv, being Jewish wasn’t something I had to actively practice—it was woven into the city itself, in every meal, every conversation. It was just life.

Since the start of the war, I’ve lost countless friends for being a proud, outspoken Jewish-American Israeli. I’ve lost clients. Colleagues. People in the invisible illness community. The diversity of my friendships shrank, replaced by Jewish friends and American-Israelis who shared my pain. Together, we attended Jewish events and protests, bonded by a common belief and a desire to stand up for our people.

“I’m nervous to go,” a friend confessed before attending a protest.

“What’s the worst that could happen? Someone pro-Hamas screams at us?” I joked.

“No,” she replied, “I was thinking more like…a bomb.”

The reality of safety here in New York felt fragile, a far cry from my friends in Israel, who protested with the actual threat of bombs overhead.

I returned to Tel Aviv in June for a few weeks, needing closure—or so I told myself. In truth, I was searching for the sense of belonging I had lost when I left. The spontaneity, my apartment walking distance to the beach, the comfort of daily life with friends—it had slipped away, and I hoped Tel Aviv could remind me why it had once felt like home. I would always feel at home in Tel Aviv.

The moment I landed, I was met by my friend, her mom, and her kids with a huge sign, flowers and hugs. I finally felt like I could finally exhale, like I was wrapped in a weighted blanket—overwhelmed by its heaviness, yet embracing the warmth it provided.

Now, 332 days later, there’s still a half-empty box of tissues next to my bed. They traveled with me from Tel Aviv to London to New York, fragile and rough, like the paper towel in a doctor’s office. I haven’t been able to throw them away. They’re more than just tissues—they’ve become a symbol of endurance.

I hadn’t used them in months until I received the news that Hersh Goldberg-Polin had been murdered by Hamas. I didn’t want to believe it. The tears returned. The next morning, I watched Rachel Goldberg, Hersh’s mother, speak at his funeral. Her strength was unfathomable as she addressed the world. “Please, don’t leave us now,” she said.

As she finished, telling Hersh he was finally, finally, finally, finally free, I picked up more tissues, wondering how they hadn’t run out yet. It felt like pulling a rainbow scarf out from a magician’s hat.

Maybe these tissues are more than a reminder of that flight. They’re a symbol of survival, proof that we keep going, even when everything feels broken.