When I arrived in Israel for grad school on October 6, 2023, I had no idea I’d spend my short stay desperately trying to escape.
“You’re never going over there,” my Lebanese mom would constantly remind me when I raised the possibility of moving to the Middle East. “It’s too dangerous.”
So, when I decided to move there, it was only natural for me to regret not listening to Mom.
By mid 2023, I had officially accepted an offer to study at the University of Haifa in Israel for my postgraduate degree. My mom and I reached a tense compromise: My parents would tag along, make a vacation out of it, and, most important, see how safe it was with their own eyes before leaving with some measure of solace.
I touched down in Tel Aviv on October 6, 2023.
Exhausted from travel, I went to bed unaware that I would spend the entirety of my short time in Israel desperately trying to get home.
When I woke up around 11:00 a.m. the following day, it was immediately clear that Israel was under attack. In a country roughly the size of New Jersey, I knew the violence I saw unfolding on my screen couldn’t be far away.
But it wasn’t the shocking violence unfolding on Israel’s border with Gaza that struck me most. It was the stoic demeanor on the faces of Israelis adjusting to their new reality. People didn’t try to downplay the gravity of what was happening, but nor did they panic. Israelis were devastated, but this was not a nation in shambles.
Airliners refused to service Ben Gurion Airport for a short time as a full-blown war had just begun. All land borders were locked down, and the constant hum of fighter jets overhead became a nightly fixture. With southern Lebanon in sight, rumors circulated of an imminent Hezbollah offensive. It was then that I realized that, for all intents and purposes, my parents and I were trapped.
The State Department had begun issuing vague security memos urging caution, but there was nothing we could do except await further instructions. In the meantime, we were free to roam the eerily quiet city.
On October 8, we found our way to the Haifa Azrieli Mall looking to stock up on food and other essentials. The large shopping center had transformed overnight into a barren wasteland. Long stretches of shops and kiosks were abandoned, including a jewelry pop-up showcasing expensive gold, which was left completely unattended. The solidarity between citizens in a nation at war made theft unthinkable.
On October 9, we made a visit to the historic Stella Maris Monastery nestled on the slopes of Mount Carmel. There, we met an American Carmelite friar, Father Michael Berry. We introduced ourselves as he expressed his growing unease regarding the security situation.
“The biggest concern was Hezbollah in the north,” he later recalled. “From my house, you could stand on the roof, and you saw Lebanon.”
Another day went by with few updates. Without a clear understanding of the “situation” — as the locals called it — we found it nearly impossible to chart a plan. Do we dash south towards the airport? Stay put in the north? We settled on the latter, as Haifa still seemed strangely quiet.
That silence was rudely interrupted by wailing rocket sirens that swept the city. Scrambling, we managed to take cues from the Russian-speakers sharing our Airbnb complex. They guided us down to the bomb shelter, which turned out to simply be a dark basement sitting below a layer of reinforced concrete. At least one thing now seemed abundantly clear: We needed to find a way out before things got any worse. We had been in touch with our home congressman Mike Kelly’s (R., Penn.) office, which connected us with Representative Cory Mills (R., Fla.). Aware that the Biden State Department wasn’t moving fast enough to get Americans out of harm’s way, Mills, an Army veteran, took it upon himself to travel to Israel and engineer the evacuation of American citizens.
Earlier that day, Father Berry said that one of his Italian colleagues already had a plane waiting for him in Tel Aviv.
“That’s when I got nervous, because I realized the Italians already arranged something to bring their people back, and my parents from home were telling me that they’d heard the Canadians [too] already arranged something,” Father Michael lamented.
“All these countries had initiatives to get their people home. And I’d never heard anything from my own. Gosh, you know.” It was then that the mild-mannered priest decided to call the American embassy himself. He was initially met with an automated counterpart before being told there were no plans yet to help Americans out.
That same night, I received an email from the State Department claiming that the government was planning to arrange evacuations for Americans — for a price. “Departure assistance is provided via a loan from the U.S. government which requires travelers to sign a promissory note (an agreement to repay) prior to departure,” the email read. U.S. law demands that private citizens compensate the government in the event of an evacuation. The four-part, 94-step form was the last thing on my mind.
Shaken by the lack of detail in the State Department email, not to mention the looming unspecified charge, we decided to put our faith in Mills and his team, who provided around-the-clock guidance and support. We were given the address of a hotel in Jerusalem to rendezvous the following day, where Mills would ferry us and several other Americans into Jordan before mapping out a way home from there.
Early the following morning, October 12, we collected Father Michael and got on the road. As we traveled south, on our sixth and final day in wartime Israel, tanks passed us by in the opposite lane of traffic, northbound.
When we arrived at the hotel, we were greeted by dozens of fellow Americans anxiously awaiting the congressman’s arrival. Caleb and Joshua Colson, hosts of the popular Bible program Our Jewish Roots, were among those hoping to be evacuated. The physically imposing brothers were grateful for Mills’s help but didn’t think it should have been necessary.
“All these other nations are just worried about the lives of their citizens,” Caleb said in a video describing the evacuation experience. “Fifty-plus countries have been extracting their people out, and yet we . . . are playing games with our citizens. It’s not right.”
The visions I had of an armored convoy with security personnel flanking the congressman were dashed when a huge hockey bus pulled up in front of us — the kind that was provided for my elementary-school field trips. Cory and two of his team members jumped out and greeted us as our motley crew climbed onboard. We weaved through the dry landscape of the West Bank on our way to Amman.
Step by step, Mills escorted us through each checkpoint and personally expedited all our passports through Israeli and Jordanian customs. Upon walking through what resembled a makeshift TSA line, we were awaited by a string of unmarked vans on the Jordanian side of the border. Men in plain clothing wasted no time in launching our bags into the back of each vehicle, bickering at each other in Arabic as they attempted to cram all our luggage into the vans, stopping periodically to smile at us reassuringly. The interior of the vans featured tan curtains draped over each window. I felt that we were seen as contraband being smuggled across the border. Looking back, I’m not certain that was so far-fetched.
I remember traveling at what seemed like a snail’s pace, constantly stopping to allow the fleet of overcrowded vans behind us to struggle up the Jordanian hillsides. As regional tensions heated up, I knew the backroads were our best option. Around 3.5 hours into the trip, we were jolted awake and welcomed to Amman by the blaring call to prayer.
As we emerged from the dark vans, we stood in awe of the glistening, idyllic five-star hotel Cory had delivered us to. He urged us to stay for as long as we needed, free of charge, even sending one of his staff to pick up cold medicine for Father Michael.
“Seriously, I couldn’t get over it, ” the friar said. “I mean, just the personal attention . . . it was incredible. I was so impressed with it.”
Back at the hotel, we knew time was of the essence. Massive demonstrations were beginning to erupt in Amman in solidarity with the Palestinians. Yet we were also fast approaching Hamas’s “Global Day of Jihad.” I, for one, preferred not to experience that one in an airplane taking off from the Middle East.
I also received a new email from the State Department that day, October 13, saying that a flight to Athens was available for me. A courteous reminder followed regarding that required promissory note for an undisclosed amount of money. In what I’m sure was another innocuous and legally mandated line, the email read: “Travel within Israel is conducted at your own risk. The security situation may change. The U.S. government is unable to guarantee your safety.”
Luckily, I had Congressman Mills for that.
I had to be careful in booking my flight, as my Israeli visa could be found inside my passport. Doha was quickly crossed off my list as a connecting airport. In conjunction with Mike Kelly’s office, I settled on Dubai. The next day, we shuttled to the Queen Alia International Airport in Amman to depart for the United Arab Emirates. At the airport, I was stopped, pulled aside, and questioned about all the Israeli symbols revealed within my passport. I assured them I was American. I waited with bated breath as a supervisor looked over my documents before sending me on my way.
About halfway through our drive home, my mom received a phone call from an unrecognized number. It happened to be the State Department, following up to confirm that we had made it out. That was very much appreciated. A boat was set to transport Americans from the Haifa port to Cyprus on October 16. But thanks to Congressman Mills and some good luck, we were already home.
I guess Mom was right after all.