The day I dodged a ballistic missile

On Sunday morning, I landed in Israel. My journey began the day before, departing from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. First to JFK, then on to Tel Aviv. The flight crew was mostly Israeli, and the passengers were almost entirely Israelis as well.

I had a window seat — row 44J. I remember this because, mid-flight, my sister messaged asking exactly where I was sitting (an odd question). Moments later, a good friend of hers — on the same flight — came over to say hi. Random? Not really. From the minute I boarded, despite flying solo and knowing no one, I felt surrounded by family. And if — God forbid — an emergency arose, I had no doubt there were plenty of people on board who would have my back.

At 9:21 a.m., we touched down at Ben Gurion International Airport, just outside Terminal 3. As we slowed on the runway, I thought I could hear the faint sound of sirens. The normally loud wail was muffled by the triple-paned, insulated windows, and I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. Deja vu? Maybe. It had been a while since I’d been back.

I texted my family that I’d landed, looked out the window, and got a call from my sister in Hod HaSharon. She was sitting in the stairwell of her building — sirens were, in fact, real and had blanketed the entire center of the country. “Welcome to the war zone,” she said, with a sarcastic undertone. As if to say, Isn’t this new routine of ours just lovely?!

Sadly, she’s not wrong. Too often, she checks in on our family group chat from that stairwell. I wish she had a safe room in her apartment. Maybe one day.

While we were still on the plane, the captain came over the loudspeaker. There was indeed a warning siren. All airport aviation crews and personnel had taken shelter, and we would need to wait for support to guide us to the gate.

I stared out the window — and then, I witnessed the unimaginable.

Just 300 yards away, beyond the perimeter fence, something streaked from the sky and slammed into the ground. A giant splash of brownish-red earth exploded upward like a volcanic eruption. Then the smoke rose. My mouth was wide open. “What just happened?!” I said to my sister. “I saw the missile fall.”

“No, Raina, don’t worry,” she said, dialing down her earlier remark. “You didn’t see a missile. There’s been some reporting, but it’s south of you.”

“I need to hang up.”

I quickly snapped a photo, still trying to process what I’d seen. Around me, my fellow passengers and the flight crew seemed unaware. I suddenly felt a deep pang of guilt. I hadn’t been to Israel since October 7th. I tried to stay connected, tried to stay informed — but nothing from afar comes close to what my family and friends have endured these past 500-plus days. It’s been hell.

And here I was — more American than Israeli these days — just showing up and thinking I saw what I saw?

There have been hundreds of Houthi missile strikes from Yemen—about 370, according to the nightly news, including drones and failed attacks. Only two have made impact on Israeli soil, and thankfully, neither caused serious damage. The Arrow and THAAD defense systems — Israel’s and America’s — have been remarkably effective at intercepting these threats over the sea or mid-air.

I questioned whether I had the right to trust my internal “Israeli antenna.” Whether I had any claim to the instincts I once owned. Not living through these horrors daily has left me with a sense of guilt — and the feeling that I’d lost a certain rite of passage.

For context: I made aliyah when I was 10, grew up in Israel, served two years in the IDF, graduated from the Technion. My stepdad was part of the team that developed the Iron Dome. Israel is in my DNA.

Around me, the passengers — including the grumpy old man who sat next to me the whole flight — were gathering their belongings, oblivious. The flight attendant was chatting with a few travelers, when someone pointed out, “The front of the plane is already empty.” She was surprised — and just like that, we all quickly deplaned.

I walked through the terminal, slowing as I passed the now-infamous poster boards of the hostages still being held in Gaza’s gates of hell. I paused at a few, took a picture, let the images soak in — but felt a pull to keep moving.

At one point, I passed a designated “protected area” where about 50 people were jammed in like sardines. A female security guard stood with her arms out, telling us they were at capacity and we had to keep moving. Strangely, none of us had been told to take shelter. So we obeyed, and kept walking.

Once I reached the eerily empty baggage claim, I had a moment to check my phone. Around me, others were doing the same. It quickly became clear: this was serious. The airport had been shut down. Planes behind us were being diverted — some circling above, some turning back to Europe. I was supposed to meet my nephew via train, but the rail lines were shut down too.

So imagine this: You take a 14-hour flight. You’re tired, hungry. You land to the sound of a muffled siren. There are no workers on the tarmac. The area is evacuated. And just a quarter mile from your seat — a missile hits.

The conveyor belts are frozen. The luggage is still on the plane. You slowly realize they rushed us off the aircraft not because things were calm, but because they didn’t want us to be sitting ducks.

And yet, here we all were. Strangers. Family. The same grumpy old man waved me over with a smile, gesturing that he had saved me a seat on the bench. No one was angry. No one panicked. Everyone was calm — oddly relaxed — as we waited.

About 30 minutes later, the airport officially reopened. Our luggage came out. I collected mine and made my way toward the train station. The lines had just resumed, and the train was about to pull out.

I spent the next two hours on the train heading north — Tel Aviv to Haifa to the Krayot. No one around me had the first-hand experience I’d just had. Most weren’t jet-lagged. But all were talking about the incident. Everyone cared.

That’s what binds Israelis together. The topic isn’t fun — but the unity, the passion, the shared urgency — it’s almost beautiful. The way people discuss it. The attention to detail. The facts. The facts. You hear it from everyone—young soldiers, professionals, parents, kids. One topic. One thread. One people.

As I sat back in my seat, I felt comforted. I felt clarity. We will prevail. The moment I’d just lived through was heavy — but not defeating. It was empowering.

Israel is under daily attack. Fifty-nine hostages remain trapped, so close yet just out of reach. They’re living in the dungeons of hell. This is not a joke. Not taken lightly. Israelis are serious. We deal in truth. We stand tall. We don’t cower. We keep moving forward — and upward.

I got off at the final station in Nahariya and hugged my mom.

I dodged a ballistic missile.
Am Yisrael dodged a ballistic missile.

If we had landed 60 seconds later… if the wind had shifted by just one knot… or if any of a million “what ifs” had played out differently, the day could have been a disaster of unthinkable scale.

I don’t know why things unfolded the way they did. I don’t know why Arrow and THAAD failed this one time.

All I know is: everything happens for a reason.
Sunday, I lived out a miracle.
Sunday, I dodged a ballistic missile.