Exploring aliyah under fire: Tel Aviv visitor's journey begins amid a barrage of missiles

This month, she finally moved to the city, working at a local florist and exploring the possibility of making aliyah. She needed to test the waters – unsure of what her life could look like if she made the leap.

She told me she had visited Israel countless times, feeling the magnetic pull of Tel Aviv, and over time had become eager to plant roots in the city that had always felt like home.

Her first days in Tel Aviv seemed idyllic, she said. Arriving on June 5, she spent the weekend settling in, exploring shops, visiting friends, and embracing the rhythm of the city, “ready to dive into life here.” It was everything she had imagined.

However, within hours of her arrival, Israel was thrust into a war with Iran.

By June 12, Kirshenbaum awoke to the jarring sound of a siren that would forever change her perception of normalcy.

“I didn’t know whether it was an attack or just a warning. I just knew I had to get to safety,” she said, adding that “the mental math is exhausting. You’re constantly calculating where you can go, how long you have, and whether you’re putting yourself at risk just to buy tampons.”

Kirshenbaum’s body was in constant tension, but her mind struggled to catch up. Despite feeling relatively safe, the anxiety and sleep deprivation have taken their toll.

“I feel nauseous when I go into the shelter. It’s the weirdest thing – my body is in constant tension, while my mind tries to make sense of it all,” she told me.

Despite the anxiety, she holds on to normalcy with small routines, although she hasn’t even been in her new home for long enough to have established any kind of routine yet.

“I go for coffee, I do Pilates, I even went for a manicure. It sounds silly, but these little actions help me feel a bit normal.”

She noted that the community attitude in Israel is unlike anything else. “The support I’ve received from both Israelis and fellow immigrants has been overwhelming. People here genuinely care, and they go out of their way to help you feel safe.”

Once, during a siren, a local family took her in. “They didn’t hesitate. They made sure I was safe, and even walked me home afterward. These moments of kindness are what keep me going.”

Kirshenbaum’s deep sense of connection to the country has deepened since the war began.

“I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be, even though it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said. “My family back in Chicago asks if I regret coming here, and my answer is always ‘No.’”

She began by quoting a line from a Hebrew song: “You will see, you will see, just how good it will be, next year, next year.”

The rest of the letter read as follows:

This refrain from the beloved Israeli song “BaShana HaBa’ah,” written by Ehud Manor and composed by Nurit Hirsch, was inspired by the loss of Manor’s younger brother, Yehuda Viner, who was killed in battle in 1968. Without knowing the song’s personal backstory for Manor, Hirsch created a lively, hopeful melody – turning a memorial dirge into a lively tune sung by generations of Israelis and Jews worldwide.

At its heart, the song holds both sorrow and optimism: a mourning woven into a wish.

This song from my childhood slipped into my ear unnoticed, then stayed, looping, a quiet mantra, since landing in Israel just 10 days ago. I came to Israel after a week of onboarding with the amazing JUF team in Chicago, hopeful and looking forward to the fulfilling work ahead.

One week to the day after I arrived in Tel Aviv, the attacks from Iran began, and I, along with millions of others, was thrust into a new and terrifying reality.

Since the attacks on Israel began last Friday, Iran has launched around 370 ballistic missiles at Israel. Since the attacks began, I’ve taken shelter in my mamad [shelter] more than 17 times – likely more by the time you hear this.

I’ve had to make everyday decisions based on safety: choosing a grocery store not just for what it stocks but for how quickly I can get home if a siren goes off. I’ve decided that Super Yehuda on Derech Yaffo is the safest option – just far enough for essentials, just close enough to run back in time.

I’ve counted the stairs (48) from the building entrance to my apartment. I know exactly how long it takes to get to the shelter, lock the window, and pull the steel door closed. Every movement is practiced. This is the mental math of daily life now here: measuring risk, distance, and time, hoping I never have to find out what happens if I miscalculate.

And yet, I am blessed beyond any calculable measure. I have a shelter inside my apartment, unlike so many others. I have air conditioning that sends cool, clean air in during the attacks. The mamad is also my bedroom, so in the early morning hours, when the Home Front Command app instructs people to find safety and take shelter, I lie in bed, praying, bargaining with God, hoping to be worthy of His protection even one more time.

I am blessed to have this sanctuary and a home, unlike more than 2,700 people who have been evacuated from their own in this war. I am blessed to see daylight every morning, above ground, unlike the 53 fathers, brothers, sons, grandfathers, friends, and neighbors being held hostage in the throttling jaws of Hamas, experiencing an unrelenting hell for 621 days. A hell that our brother, Eli Sharabi, knows firsthand. We are all blessed to have him here with us tonight.

I am blessed and I am hopeful. I am hopeful that this war we are in is the homestretch of the hard times. I am hopeful that justice will rise to the surface and rip open like an untold truth blaring into a stunningly silent crowd. I am hopeful that just like those who came before us and endured many wars and uncertainty in this land, we, too, will see, we will see, just how good it will be in the days and the years ahead.