Once again, radical Islam has disrupted my life’s celebration plans. This time, it meant being stuck in Dubai during the current war with Iran’s IRGC.

Unfortunately, enduring terror is not new to me. On September 11th, 2001, I was living in New York City. Upon arriving at my work at 58th and 3rd, I learned of the first plane that hit the World Trade Center. I evacuated the city the next day by car, back to my hometown outside of Chicago.

After making aliyah to Tel Aviv in 2011, I chose to move to the southern city of Ashkelon with my then-fiancé in 2013. While 8 months pregnant with our first daughter, I spent most of the summer of 2014 in our maamad during the Protective Edge war with Hamas. Living about 7 miles from the border, we had about 30 seconds to get to our shelter, which doubled as our new baby’s bedroom.

In 2015, my husband proposed that we build a house in Kibbutz Zikim, explaining that living in the Gaza envelope, we’d receive the government benefit of not paying property taxes, and we could afford to build our custom dream home. But we would only have 15 seconds to reach a shelter when rockets came.

At first, I was of course hesitant to move to the Gaza border, where we would be even closer to Hamas, but I decided that the pros were worth the cons, and I thought that losing the additional 15 seconds we had in Ashkelon was not a big deal. I was very wrong.

We suffered from rockets almost regularly, and I quickly learned firsthand that the Ministry of Defense’s guidelines stating that we get 15 seconds to reach a shelter were never the case. The reality was that we had 5–10 seconds.

Growing up in Chicago, I remember loving snow days as a child. But for us on the Gaza border, we had rocket days. Over the 8 years that we lived there, we were even evacuated a few times, for several weeks, due to “minor” wars.

In addition, in the summer of 2018, Hamas created another form of terror: incendiary balloons. Sending over bouquets of balloons with explosive devices attached, the south was constantly on fire, our scenery becoming blazing fields and clouds of smoke.

Around 2021, Hamas started burning large piles of tires along the border fence, causing massive, toxic, filthy clouds of thick black smoke, forcing us to close our windows and limit our time outside. (Only after 10/7 did we learn the real reason for those weekly riots: Gazans used the black smoke to hide what they were really doing from IDF border troops—burying explosives along the fence in preparation for 10/7/23.)

Unaware of the crescendo of terror that was soon to come, my husband and I booked a short trip to Italy to celebrate our 10-year anniversary. We were supposed to fly out on October 23rd, 2023. Needless to say, that didn’t happen.

After surviving Hamas’s massacre, our community was evacuated on October 8th to a hotel in Jerusalem. Instead of going to Italy, on that exact date, we were entering a literal war zone—our kibbutz and home—to hastily pack and fly my girls and me back to the Chicago area to wait out the war.

We never would have imagined that we would remain displaced for 22 months, but we did. (Those stories are for another blog entry—or two. Or twenty.)

My girls and I finally returned to Israel in August of 2025. Although it was bittersweet, we rented out our dream home in Zikim and moved to Moshav Bitzaron.

Taking advantage of a visit from my Chicago-based parents, assigning them as live-in sitters for our girls, my husband and I planned our long-overdue anniversary trip. Instead of Italy, we chose Dubai. Mainly, I wanted warm weather, a short flight, and to just relax.

Once again, radical Islam had other plans for us.

We left knowing that there was an imminent war with Iran coming. We knew—as did my parents—that we might get stuck, but we never imagined it would be because of attacks in Dubai. We assumed that if Israel needed to close Ben Gurion Airport or its airspace, it would just be for a few days.

We never imagined that Dubai would become a target, endure rocket explosions and damage, and cause the UAE to close its airports.

We were there for just one day before the war started.

On the evening of February 28th, while strolling in the mall across from our hotel, we heard a huge boom. My husband and I exchanged shocked glances—we knew what it was: a missile impact, and very close by.

While many mall employees, mainly expats, ran out in fear, some even crying, my husband and I finished our shopping. We knew the panic was pointless, and it was too late to take cover.

As we left the mall, ambulance and police sirens wailing, we saw they were clustered at a hotel just a few buildings from ours. Seeing them, along with the cloud of smoke, we understood what was later confirmed: an Iranian drone had hit. Luckily, there were no casualties.

I made a brief reel for my Instagram documenting the attack and adding my thoughts, but it was the last post I put up from Dubai, because I began to fear for my life.

The morning after the missile attack, at breakfast, we saw the outdoor patio was closed “for safety.” But inside meant being surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass windows and massive chandeliers. We asked to speak to security and explained that under rocket fire, this was the opposite of safe—especially with no warnings or shelters.

He admitted no one really knew what to do, as missile attacks were new to the UAE.

From there, the days blurred together—sirens without clear instructions, explosions without warning, canceled flights, and growing fear. The airport shut down, and we were stranded.

Guests scrambled to leave, but there were no flights to Israel or even nearby countries. Meanwhile, Israel’s airport was also closed, with only some rescue flights operating.

After days of uncertainty, cancellations, and failed attempts to rebook, we learned that Israel had begun sending rescue flights to Dubai. We applied and waited.

Each day felt like Groundhog Day—checking phones, scanning for updates, hoping for news, calling our daughters, and trying to stay calm while sporadic missiles continued.

By day 10, our Israeli friends got a rescue flight. We still had nothing.

By day 11, the hotel was nearly empty. Services were reduced, the main dining hall closed, and the main a/c was practically shut offl. I missed my daughters desperately. Not being able to comfort them during yet another war broke me.

After pleading our case—explaining we were Gaza border residents with young children in Israel—we finally got the call: standby for a flight that night.

At the airport, we were told not to post anything. Iran was targeting Israelis in Dubai.

We weren’t even on the stand by list at first—but after more pleading, we got on.

The flight, which should have taken three hours, lasted over five, flying an indirect route for safety.

But when we landed, and the applause of hundreds of Israelis filled the plane, I finally released the breath I had been holding.

I always tear up when the wheels touch down at Ben Gurion. This time was no different.

It didn’t matter that we were landing during a war.

My anger dissolved into pride and gratitude—that my country brought us home. That it understands the need for Israelis to be together during war.

While other countries send flights to take their citizens away from war, ours brings us back to it.

And while that may be hard for others to understand, it is exactly where we wanted to be.

And now, as we fight what feels like the world’s war against radical Islam, I hope it will finally bring an end to our ongoing wars with terror—and lead to a more peaceful future for Israel, the Middle East, and beyond.

Am Yisrael Chai V’Kayam!

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)