This article appeared in The Times of Israel on June 20, 2025.

This is what it felt like to be there — leading a magical LGBTQ+ Birthright Israel group through 10 days of joy, three days of shelter, two days evacuated to safety in the Dead Sea and an emergency sunrise cruise international mission.

The Pride Parade in Tel Aviv is one of the highlights of the LGBTQ+ Birthright Israel programme — a programme I’ve been blessed and honoured to serve on as a bus educator for the past five years. The parade was supposed to return this year, under very complex circumstances.

For me, as a working professional, Pride is joyful, wild, affirming — but also fast-paced and logistically intense. It usually takes place on a Friday, right when I’d ideally begin preparing for Shabbat. It’s hot, crowded, and loud, with limited water refill stations and more than a few distractions. But I always go — because being there, with my participants, is sacred.

We were a small and intimate bus this year. It has become my professional norm to keep one eye on the nearest bomb shelter and to point them out wherever I’m guiding. But Thursday changed everything. The new alert tone — the one that’s become part of daily life — is disturbing for all of us. For people who’ve just arrived in Israel, especially young participants from abroad, it’s something else entirely.

I’m incredibly lucky that our trip had already been running for ten days. In that time, I had laughed, danced, cried, and prayed with my LGBTQ+ siblings from across the United States. We’d experienced Yad Vashem, Mount Herzl, and Hanyon Re’im. We floated in the Dead Sea, held Bar and Bat Mitzvah ceremonies at the Kotel, and climbed Masada at sunrise after a night in the desert with a taste of Bedouin–Israeli culture. We explored holy cities and delved into Jewish history. We played. We learnt. We lived.

I fell in love with the group, like I always do. And while Pride is always a challenge, I am so proud to walk it — especially as a partner of Birthright Israel and an employee of my super-inclusive employer, Israel Outdoors. I always show up as my full self. But on these magical buses — as I’ve written before — there’s something extra. These trips reach my soul.

That Thursday morning, we rose before dawn to climb Masada. We nearly missed the sunrise (a large group of small children slowed us down), but we made it. I shifted between stories of ancient mikva’ot, the Dead Sea’s crystal formations, modern peace agreements, and the power of memory. Hot, tired, and sweaty — we went to breakfast, then floated in the Dead Sea. The day unfolded as it always does — time melted, and my body leaned towards the hope of a nap and a shower…

Then the alert came. It’s a horrible noise we’d never heard before.

The Home Front Command message jolted me fully awake. I immediately messaged the WhatsApp group: get up, move to shelter now.

We spent three days almost entirely inside the hotel. We were allowed out only with staff escorts to a nearby pharmacy and convenience store. We marked Shabbat. We sang. We did Jewish learning. We lit candles to welcome and end the Sabbath — as our ancestors have done for generations. And every few hours, we rushed to the hotel’s protected spaces, while sirens and rockets broke the silence.

I wasn’t stunned by how quickly the systems responded — I was proud. Proud to see how fast the Birthright Israel and Israel Outdoors teams moved into action. And I felt inspired to be working as part of the machine that was supporting our participants in the field with strength, flexibility, and care.

Within hours, we were relocated from the Tel Aviv area to a massive hotel near the Dead Sea — which soon became a Birthright Israel village, full of participants from other trips and affiliated programmes, all from the United States. Some were here on ten-day Birthright Israel trips, others with volunteer missions or the Onward Israel internship programme. All had come to Israel to connect — and were now experiencing a very different kind of journey together.

We made it work.

We turned meeting rooms into co-working hubs.

We ran yoga and Pilates in conference halls.

We sang. We danced. We built a schedule of workshops and lectures.

We prepared to stay — airspace was closed, and we were ready to hold the line.

Then, suddenly, everything changed again.

“We’ve made what would have been a wild and crazy dream only a few days ago… possible.”

“Buses leave at 04:45. Please pass logistics to all groups after they receive the email.”

And so we left.

The sunrise drive from the Dead Sea to the port was otherworldly. The desert terrain glowed with pinks and oranges. I held the microphone and read the Traveller’s Prayer. There is, I’ve come to realise, a lot more G-d in my Zionism than there used to be.

We waited at the port for hours before we could get our group to the terminal. I stood in the same spot where I once received my first-ever group of tourists. And now, I was saying goodbye.

We should have gone to Pride.

Instead, hundreds of people worked around the clock to ensure that these participants got home safely — via an international rescue mission.

Our time together should not have ended this way.

But I’m relieved they’re on their way.

Because the past few days… were nearly impossible.

I pray for the safe return of our hostages.

I pray for the safe arrival of all my participants, and the safety of those still here.

And I pray that one day soon, we’ll gather again — not in shelters, not on rescue ships — but in the streets of Tel Aviv, dancing together in the sun (with a hat and sunscreen!)

Related Posts