I’m writing this from a borrowed sofa in North London, wrapped in somebody else’s spare blanket, whispering good-night to our youngest in Israel over FaceTime while the Iron Dome fires behind her window.

One week ago, my husband and I were enjoying a short getaway in Switzerland, hiking in the mountains surrounding Interlaken, enjoying nature and fresh air.

On Thursday night we went to sleep satisfied, rested and ready to return home the next morning.

But that was not to be.

At 3 am Friday morning, the world shifted.

Israel carried out precision strikes on Iran’s nuclear and missile sites. Within hours, Iran answered with a rain of rockets aimed not at soldiers or silos, but at cities—Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jerusalem. Ben Gurion airport shut down, Israel airspace was sealed and our flight back home was cancelled.

We rerouted to London and here we are—two suitcases, no ticket home, hopping between the couches of London’s angels-in-disguise.

Meanwhile, our youngest daughter is home, alone, and holding the fort. She runs to the safe room every time a siren sounds. She has thirty seconds to reach it. Yesterday, she counted four alerts before breakfast. Broken sleep. Constant worry. Ongoing fear.

And here’s some of the bigger picture you may not be hearing on the evening news:

Since Friday, Iran has launched hundreds of missiles at Israeli population centers. Twenty-four Israelis—every one of them a civilian—have been killed and more than a hundred wounded. The damage to property, including apartment buildings, a medical research centre, a school, a bus, a shopping centre, has been vast. There’s no regard for civilians when Iran aims its missiles at Israel.

Israel’s strikes have zeroed in on nuclear centrifuge halls, ballistic-missile factories and command bunkers—military targets, not marketplaces.

That moral distinction matters.

Almost 2,000 flights worldwide have been canceled or rerouted. More than 100,000 Israelis (including myself) displaced.

What does displacement feel like?

Displacement is It’s like putting on someone else’s glasses—everything’s a little off and you have a headache by lunchtime.
It’s not knowing today what tomorrow brings.
It’s Googling “kosher groceries near me” at midnight.
It’s being grateful for British drizzle because it hides your tears.
And it’s being deeply moved by the kindness of strangers who open their homes without question.

And it’s guilt.
Every latte we sip here is a reminder that we’re not there, hugging our child who is listening for sirens instead of listening to music.

Why this war matters beyond our borders?

Iran’s regime preaches a world without Israel, and it is feverishly building the tools to try.

By taking out missile launchers and centrifuges, Israel is not only defending our children, we are defending every democracy. The Jewish story has always been a warning flare for humanity. When we say Am Yisrael Chai—the Nation of Israel lives—we’re reminding the world that justice, morals and humanity must continue.

How you can help?

Tell the truthful story.
Share this update, post the facts, push back when someone calls it a “cycle of violence.”
Intentions matter.

Support first responders.
Magen David Adom, United Hatzalah, Zaka—pick one and give.

Host and hug.
If you’re in London and have a spare bed, message me. The list of stranded families is long.

We don’t know when the skies will reopen or when this war will end.
But, we do know who we are.
We’re a people with unshakeable courage and a relentless yearning for peace—even as the sirens howl.

On our arrival at Heathrow, the border agent looked up at us and asked, as they always do,
“How long are you staying?”
We answered honestly:
“We don’t have a return ticket. We were supposed to fly home to Israel but that’s not possible for us now.”
She paused, smiled warmly, and said, “I’m sorry you’re going through that, I hope you get home safely soon.”
Then added, “You’ve got a six-month stay allowance.”

We both laughed, and I silently prayed we’d be home way, way before that.

Thank you for loving us through this.

Am Yisrael Chai,

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