In the weeks leading up to Pesach of course everyone abandoned their Israel plans. Flights were axed, hotel bookings sharply dropped, and the daily debate about whether to rebook or just make completely new Yomtov plans became a ritual. In the end, most people didn’t get a choice, with flights to Israel cancelled. By some miracle, this didn’t happen to us.
There was a constant back and forth in the days leading up to it: emotionally draining, in the end we settled on denial, not checking the flights and tentatively making UK Passover plans. Not-so-blissful ignorance. We had started by checking updates, watching other flights drop off and trying not to read too much into every headline and every anecdote where someone told us their flights were cancelled. Not to mention the fear of missiles, escalation and shelters if we did actually make it.
In the week before we came, it became clear our night flight was leaving every night. So we packed. And two nights before Seder night, we flew to Israel, on the El Al flight we had booked 10 months ago.
We flew from Heathrow but in the end we were just lucky: timing, route, and circumstance. One thing we did do deliberately was stick with El Al. While my mum was determined to travel via all sorts of European hubs and taxis from Egypt, my dad was quite clear that El Al was our best shot at actually touching down at Ben Gurion.
My brother is here on his gap year and even a war couldn’t stop his Jewish mother trying to see him. My Safta is also here – she’s 88, and Pesach with her is our family tradition. That really was the deciding factor. Even while we were weighing up the risks, we always had the option to pull the plug ourselves. We chose not to. The compulsion was too great.
It isn’t ordinary, and we knew it wouldn’t be. We didn’t come here for a sunny holiday on the tayelet like normal. Waking up at 2:30 in the morning to a siren and heading for a shelter is unsettling every time. To be honest, it’s also unsettling in the day. On our first day, shrapnel landed on our hotel shattering a window in the lounge. But Israelis just carry on, so did we. I am writing this article from that lounge. And we don’t have to work, look after young kids or make a living; in the day we can afford to feel tired and we know this is temporary for us.
I’ve been coming here for Pesach for years now, minus a couple during the pandemic. So we do know what a typical Pesach in Tel Aviv looks like. And this isn’t it. Usually, there are loads of Americans, lots of Brits, and rows of families like ours. The hotel we stay in is a lovely messy vibrant balagan but this year, they just aren't here. Having said this, it’s also not what people seem to think it is from the outside.
You walk along the beach and there are people playing volleyball, sitting in the sun, or going for a swim. The beach is crowded on chag and Shabbat. Cafés are busy, people are grabbing coffee and chatting. The ice cream parlours are packed. There’s traffic, music, and everything else that belongs in a city. What you notice more is who is missing. And then there are these small moments where you realise you stand out. Someone hears an English accent in the shuk and turns around, a bit surprised. Not in a bad way, just not what they’re expecting right now.
You can be sitting by the sea and it all feels pretty regular, and then the pre-warning alert siren comes. The evacuation of the beach is a silent, practised choreography. Thousands of people – families with sandy towels, kids, locals clutching their dogs – simply move. We retreated from the sun to the reinforced walls in under a minute. It shifts quickly, and then it settles again. Once the phones ping with the all-clear, the "shelter social club" breaks up instantly. We filter back out, blinking in the glare, and within moments the volleyball has started up again and the kids are back in the surf.
Even our Seder was like this. We were right in the middle of it – somewhere between the eating and had gadya – when the alert went off. We had to pause everything and head for safety. It’s a strange feeling, sitting in a shelter knowing your dinner is waiting on the table upstairs. But we went back and finished. Despite the war, we were still able to celebrate freedom in our own country together with so many other Jews. And we appreciate how special that is.
Before coming, most of what you see online makes it feel like everything is happening all the time. If you were only watching the news or following influencers, you could quite easily think that Tel Aviv isn’t functioning at all. Being here, you see that while sirens happen often and everything pauses for a bit, people just get on with it. There’s trauma and sadness and tragedy which is sadly pervasive here after October 7; but there’s also business and happiness and laughter. I think that’s quite hard to understand unless you’re actually standing in it.
So, are we crazy? Probably. But being here has made it very clear that sometimes the place that looks most uncertain from the outside can still feel like the place you’d rather be. In Tel Aviv, five minutes after the siren, the beach is full again.
Lottie Cannon is 22 years old and a student at the University of Amsterdam
To get more from opinion, click here to sign up for our free Editor's Picks newsletter.