Europe is not safe – and Israel is a place of permanent alert. But where should we Jews go?

Around 100,000 Israelis are stranded abroad and won't be able to return. At the same time, thousands of Israelis are trying to leave the country by sea, Jordan, or Egypt, or have already done so. Like me. On June 18, I grabbed my nine-year-old daughter, got into the car of a Palestinian taxi driver, a friend of friends, and drove toward Eilat, the southern tip of Israel. From there, I crossed the border into Egypt, landed in Taba, got back into a taxi, and drove to Sinai to spend the night.

Despite travel warnings. Despite numerous voices advising me against this trip. Sinai has been considered a dangerous place by Israelis for decades. That's not entirely wrong, but it's not entirely correct either. The route I chose – in fact, I had to choose because the Foreign Office in Berlin hadn't organized an evacuation up to that point – is currently being chosen by many. Not only did I pass dozens of Israelis on the way, but they also met me at Sharm al-Sheikh airport in Egypt, who were about to fly out into the world like me: Jews like us. Praying Orthodox Christians. Parents with their children. From there we flew the next day via Italy to Berlin. There were at least 30 Israelis on our plane.

The war between Iran and Israel is intensifying a new mass migration that began on October 7, 2023. Some Israeli friends have now been scattered across the globe for 18 months: Athens, Bali, Koh Phangan, London, Berlin, Mexico City. They are persevering in their exiles, unable to move forward or backward. At the same time, since October 7, around 35,000 Jews, a historic number, have decided to immigrate to Israel and make aliyah. My daughter and I have also done so.

I decided to make aliyah, not because it's safe in Israel. But because it's unbearable anywhere else. Because Jewish students are shunned in Berlin schoolyards. Because universities celebrate Hamas propaganda as resistance. Because "Kill all Zionists" is spray-painted on the streets. And because even in most German-language feature pages, the perspective is anti-Jewish. Those who make aliyah today don't do so out of Zionist motives. But with a clear view.

Parallel to this, there is a countermovement. Never since the founding of the state have so many Israelis left the country. According to media reports, more than 82,000 people have already left in 2024. Only just under 24,000 have returned. This results in a negative balance of almost 60,000 people – and that's this year alone. In addition, according to unofficial estimates, up to 500,000 people left in the immediate vicinity of the terrorist attacks in October 2023.

It's an exodus motivated not by ideology, but by existence. Those who leave usually have children. And no longer have the strength to commute between bunker and bed every night. Throughout the first week of the war, Iranian airstrikes concentrated daily on the night: midnight, 3 a.m., and then 5 a.m. After just three days, you're no longer human, but a zombie.

This simultaneity—the return of the Diaspora and the abandonment of the country—tells of a global Jewish ordeal. The struggle for identity, security, and belonging has never been more complex. While Europe increasingly poses a threat and anti-Semitism is once again manifesting itself openly, Israel is becoming not a safe haven for many, but a place of constant alert. The fault line no longer runs between there and here—but rather across the Jewish world.

Less than twelve hours after landing in Berlin with my daughter, we wanted to get things done in the Mitte district. A huge Palestinian flag had been spray-painted on a wooden barrier right in front of my apartment building. On our barely two-hour trip, we encountered four Germans wearing keffiyeh, the Palestinian scarf and symbol of the fight against Israel. On traffic light poles, power lines, and building walls – pro-Palestinian stickers and graffiti everywhere you look. "Hamas," "Globalize the Intifada," and other slogans have become part of the cityscape. I send my Jewish friends in Berlin photos of my first impressions, and the response is: "Yes, that's how it is now." The madness has become normal, something we accept because we have to accept it. A normality that I left a year ago because of.

Now I'm back here, without wanting to be here. I spent the first few days on my cell phone. I watched my friends who had stayed behind in Tel Aviv jump out of bed at the sound of the nightly alarm and run to the nearest bunkers, just like I had. I felt guilty for leaving, for leaving them behind while I finally had some peace from the damned rocket alert. It took three nights before I stopped automatically waking up three or four times for fear of missing the alarm. My nervous system is still in survival mode. Any sound similar to a siren triggers stress. My body immediately wants to run.

At the car wash, I meet a guy with a Palestinian flag embroidered on his baseball cap. All I want is to go back to Tel Aviv.

"What are you going to do now?" I'm asked, and I ask back: "What are you going to do now?" No one has an adequate answer. This confusion among most Jews and Israelis around the world has become part of everyday life. We no longer know where to go. Except for the die-hards, the patriots, who plant Israeli flags in the ruins left behind by Iranian ballistic missiles. They throw apartment parties. They sit in the few open cafes. They carry on with their lives. "Am Israel Chai," in other words.

The Jewish people are alive. I envy these people for their strength, which I was unable to muster. Or perhaps they have a Mamad, a bunker, in their apartment, and didn't have to run to an underground parking garage two minutes away three times a night like I did, barely having time before the relentless shower pours over them and the explosions begin around them. As I write this text in a Berlin café, a baby squeals. The sound is reminiscent of the first sound of the rocket alarm. My heart immediately starts racing. What a nightmare.

Just one day later, Trump announced a ceasefire. A friend posted a story on Instagram: The streets of Tel Aviv were immediately filled again, as if nothing had happened. He himself was playing soccer on the beach, sunbathing. I want to sunbathe too. I want to go back to my apartment in Tel Aviv. I've booked a flight.