Posted on June 27, 2025
Yair Agmon (Amitei Bronfman ’04) lives in Tel Aviv and is originally from Jerusalem. He is a filmmaker, author, and newspaper columnist, and is married with three children.
It was supposed to be a quick trip—a half-hour lecture at the ambassador’s residence, and a couple of days for fun. Three nights total. But then the war broke out. Again. Flights were canceled instantly. The country became a war zone. Millions ran to shelters. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis were stranded abroad—including us: Dana, Yadin, and me. Three stunned Israelis in London.
At first, we joked. It’ll pass. The skies will reopen. Someone will sort it out and tell us when we can go home to our kids. But we quickly realized: there is no someone. This government is a hollow shell. Sure, Israel has military jets that refuel midair, but for us citizens? There’s no one there.
We have no connections, no strings to pull. Just uncertainty and helplessness. So we sit in London, glued to the news, following every siren. We FaceTime our kids, who don’t understand why we’re not coming back. From our frightened, Jewish perspective, London feels hostile. Our hotel sits next to the city’s big mosque. Walking past it, we swallow hard, say nothing. The grocery beside us is run by three Iranians. They have gentle eyes and kind hearts.
People are generally nice—until, inevitably, they ask where we’re from. “We’re from Israel,” we say. Then comes the silence. The flicker in the eyes. The awkward smile. The stuttering goodbye.
The days go by. Eventually we debate flying back through Egypt: Land in Sharm el-Sheikh, then taxi across Sinai to the Taba crossing. We trust the Bedouins. A friend there, Makboul, has hosted us for years. I call him. It’s safe, he says. He’ll pick us up. We can’t bear the distance anymore. So we buy tickets—London to Sharm—and hope for the best.
On our last night in London, we go to a pub. We drink, laugh, cry. We go outside to smoke. I’m happy—we’re finally going home—and I sing a little. Two women nearby hear me and laugh. We start chatting. They’re nice, but we know what’s coming. A few seconds later, one of them asks: “Where are you from?” We pause. “Israel.” And brace for the bitter look. But instead—they smile. “We’re from Ukraine!” they laugh. We all start laughing, but it’s a sad laugh.
“You’re the only ones who get us!” we say. “You’re doing great!” they reply. “Our families don’t even have bomb shelters. In Kyiv, there’s a curfew every night. What are you whining about?”
Their names are Marta and Lizzy. Before we go our separate ways, they bless us: May you return safely to your kids. May you find peace and calm.
The flight to Egypt is smooth. On board, we meet young Arab Israelis who’d been stuck in Greece, also heading home via Egypt. They’re funny, warm. One sees we’re anxious and grins: “Don’t worry. We’ll protect you.” He’s joking, but it reassures me.
We land at night. Mohammad, the kind Bedouin driver who works with Makboul, waits outside. The drive is scary but passes quickly. At the Taba border, a weight lifts. Soon we’ll cross into Eilat, then head north. To my children. At 1 am, we step across—relieved, elated—onto the Israeli side. The air is hot, dry, exhilarating. I drop to my knees, kiss the filthy pavement, and say shehecheyanu [שהחיינו]: Blessed are You… who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this moment.
