After my third attempt, I was finally able to make it to Israel in July 2025.
It was winter in Melbourne, Australia. Raining, cold. A reflection of the emotional state since October 7, 2023.
The antisemitism exploded and it became unbearable for me.
As someone with a strong Jewish Zionist identity and foundation in life, it was so hard to be away from the country I loved so much.
Half of my family is from Israel. I visited almost every year growing up. I went to a Jewish day school, worked at a Jewish sleepaway camp for three summers, I was part of the Jewish leadership at university. It was the foundation for my Jewish soul.
Sometimes it was weird growing up between two worlds, with half of my family in the Diaspora and the other half in the Holy Land. What was my identity?
In Israel I felt too Aussie. In Australia I felt more Israeli. It was strange trying to figure out what part of me I identify with more.
Fast forward to October 7, 2023.
I had just returned to Melbourne two weeks prior, after having spent the summer working at a sleepaway camp in the midwest USA and then going over to Israel.
I left Israel feeling happy, warm, tanned; not knowing what was to come.
Like most others, it was crazy to see all of the madness unfold. The internet exploded, videos, pictures, news, WhatsApp chats … it felt like my whole bubble popped overnight.
I was 22 and just barely recovering from the pandemic, which had twisted my world into an online-only life during my crucial university years.
It felt like once again, the rug was pulled from right under me. The instability and uncertainty took over and the familiar feeling of panic washed over me.
For weeks, every Jewish person I knew was talking about October 7.
“Oh did you see this video?” or “How did this even happen?” was mainly the commentary.
But it was strange because outside my Jewish world, the Diaspora was starting to circulate phrases about the people over in Gaza. “Did you see what Israel is doing to the poor Palestinians?” or “Ceasefire now!”
But, it was just the tip of the iceberg. Like a storm, a hurricane or a tsunami.
I have friends in Australia, both Jewish and non. What a bizarre experience where October 7 and the events that have followed were a focal point of conversation with my Jewish friends, yet non-existent with my non-Jewish friends.
And then came the protests throughout Melbourne, accompanied by stickers of “ceasefire now”, “BDS” and political figures advocating for Palestine. With everyone under a microscope, pressured to “take a stance” on a situation so nuanced, I felt like I was going insane. I felt suffocated.
How could people with so little involvement be so firm in their opinion on a situation so far away?
I slowly stopped going out.
One night, some Jewish and non-Jewish friends of mine wanted to go out to a pub. Everything felt fine walking in. But then a group entered, some accessorising with keffiyehs and watermelon earrings and phone cases. Parading in with their noses up, as some sort of badge of honour, to show off their “wokeness”.
Although it wasn’t a physical threat, it was emotionally painful.
In November of 2024 I went to a Hozier concert in Melbourne. A singer I appreciated for his music. For so long, Hozier songs were on many of my playlists and enjoyed by friends of mine. I went with non-Jewish friends and sang throughout the night. Until the second to last song, when suddenly the concert became an extremely uncomfortable space. Hozier, an Irish singer spared a few words regarding freedom, women’s rights and that we need to stop the genocide.
I was surrounded by 7000 concertgoers who roared in agreement. I couldn’t understand what the supposed genocide had to do with this moment. I ran out as my non-Jewish friends attempted to sympathise with me.
At the end of January I was at a nice restaurant in Sydney with some Jewish friends. One that we had booked months in advance as it’s hard to get a reservation. We were so excited. But that afternoon as Israel woke up, with the seven-hour time difference, I received news that my relative, a hostage, was going to be released that day as part of the “ceasefire agreement”.
That evening, we were getting ready to go out to a beautiful restaurant, so sought after, but mentally, I was distracted. Nervous.
Was my relative coming back dead? Was she alive? Was she injured? These were the thoughts running through my mind.
We sat down to eat. I couldn’t enjoy it. How could it be? It was such a nice restaurant, but my brain was filled with panic and plagued with concern.
Halfway through eating we got the news and watched the livestream. There I was sitting with a full face of makeup, crying hysterically. She was alive and on her way home.
A breath of relief after calling my family and finally feeling like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. We continued to eat. Now, though, I could actually taste the food.
In February this year, I started a new job. And the only thing I was nervous about was whether it would be a problem that I am proud of my Jewish and Israeli heritage. Is it something I need to hide?
I started the new job checking Ynet everyday, seeing hostages come home and soldiers killed, yet pretending that all was “fine” in my life. Out of fear of disruption for the team environment, I carried on, so as not to cause a stir or bring up personal political opinions.
At the same time, Anthony Albanese was re-elected as Prime Minister, along with Penny Wong, as our Foreign Minister, both so proud to show support for Palestine and Gaza, but silent for anything remotely Jewish. Silence is acceptance.
With synagogues being flamed, restaurants trashed and graffiti on many walls around Melbourne, it felt unsafe, but also just uncomfortable.
Fast forward to June of 2025, I decided to quit my job and go to Israel. I needed to be there. I needed to see my family and be with the people I loved dearly.
But I was nervous. Flights were being cancelled. What if there was a missile while I flew?
Things were delayed due to Iran, but I retained hope. And finally, in July, I reached Israel.
Touching down at Ben Gurion after 17 hours of flying, I was so grateful to be there. But looking around, I was met with all the stickers of soldiers who were killed.
There was a feeling of relief and comfort where I could look around and be surrounded by people who had endured all of it in real life. Seeing the soldiers with their guns. Just kids. I smiled in admiration but my smile dipped knowing all the pain and suffering that had occurred.
I was so grateful to be with my family, finally, for the first time since September 2023, when I had enjoyed Rosh Hashanah just before my world turned upside down.
It took two weeks to “defrost” – not only from the Melbourne winter, but from the mental space of panic.
I was no longer surrounded by keffiyehs, “Free Palestine” stickers and Sunday protests.
I felt calmer, safer.
But, at the same time, I was hearing from family and friends who had endured all of the missiles and sirens. My cousin’s car was crushed only a few weeks earlier.
What a bizarre experience where October 7 and the events that have followed were a focal point of conversation with my Jewish friends, yet non-existent with my non-Jewish friends.
I had to download the missile alert apps to make sure I would be aware and safe – something new to me. However, the people I was surrounded by said, “It’s normal, we are used to it, it doesn’t scare us here.” This was accompanied by them saying, however, that I don’t know how bad things are here in Israel.
They were right, I didn’t know. How could I? But that doesn’t take away from the feeling of helplessness that I experienced in the Diaspora. And the lack of safety.
So still, in a way, I felt safer in Israel than I did in the Diaspora.
Melbourne was a place that my grandparents from my mum’s side had gone to, to escape WWII. It was a safe haven for so many years. Yet now it’s plagued by hatred for the Jews, “Zionists”.
Before I left for Israel, I spoke with some neighbours who had gone to volunteer. “Join the Sword of Iron Facebook group. It’s incredible if you want to help out,” they said.
While in Israel, I was able to coordinate to stay at the Maxim in Tel Aviv for a week to volunteer.
Through being there and connecting with other volunteers, I was able to volunteer at a few places: Citrus and Salt, Shuva Junction, Shlomi’s food truck, Grilling for Israel, Hostages Square … What a week. This coincidentally happened to be the same week that Israel struck Qatar, Charlie Kirk was murdered, France fell apart, civilians in Jerusalem were murdered and Poland got antsy.
My head was spinning.
Volunteering made me feel good. I was proud to help and do a little bit to offset the terrible 23 months of pain I, and the whole of Am Yisrael, had just experienced. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to scream from the rooftop about my experiences. So many people that I had met agreed with the familiar feeling of hopelessness surrounding the global situation.
In Israel, true Sabras just keep going. But for us in the Diaspora, the feeling is consuming.
How do we keep going? Where do we go? What do we do?
Is it Aliyah?
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