About an hour into the journey, the sky in front of us suddenly lit up. First came a flash - then a streak of fire, followed by an explosion. One. Then another. And another.
We all knew what we were witnessing. Our group - nine Israelis on a tugboat that had just left the port of Limassol in Cyprus - was sailing directly into a country at war. Ballistic missiles had been launched by Iran, and they were raining down on our homeland, our destination.
No one spoke of turning back. If anything, the explosions hardened our resolve. We were going home.
My journey had started days earlier, on Thursday night, when I boarded an El Al flight from London to Tel Aviv. The flight was scheduled to land at 3:30 am just as the Iranian attacks began. We were minutes from touchdown when the plane suddenly banked and turned. Twenty minutes later, we were on the ground in Paphos, Cyprus.
The mood on the plane was tense, even chaotic. Israel had struck Iran, and now Iran was striking back. With little information and rising fear, panic spread among some passengers. A few suffered panic attacks, and thanks to a couple of doctors onboard they received the help they needed.
For nearly two days, I was stuck in Cyprus. But wherever I went - on the streets, at the hotel, or at the Chabad House that opened its doors within hours - I encountered something deeply moving. Israelis, dozens of them, men and women, young and old were all singularly focused on one goal: getting back to Israel.
There were options, but few were good. Flying to Jordan or Egypt and then crossing by land into Israel was technically possible, but both countries had been placed under a Level 4 travel warning - the highest - by Israel’s National Security Council. I spoke with some government officials and they strongly urged against doing it. Nevertheless, I booked a ticket for Monday night, saying to myself that if nothing else worked out by then I would try the Amman option.
Then there was another possibility, one that at first felt more rumour than reality: a boat to Israel. No official channels, no formal instructions. Just WhatsApp messages and Facebook groups.
Then, on Sunday evening, a fellow Israeli stranded in Cyprus called me. “There’s a boat leaving Limassol in an hour,” he said. “There are two available spots and if you want them, they are yours.”
I said yes. I spoke to another friend who I had met and offered him to join. He was in and we headed to Limassol. We didn’t know what kind of vessel we were boarding just that it was heading home.
Turns out it was a tugboat. Literally. The kind used to haul other ships. It belonged to an Israeli company that had moved some of its equipment out of Haifa for safekeeping during the war. Now, it was returning to Israel and one of the passengers had convinced the owner to take people along.
There were nine of us on board, all squeezed into the tight quarters of the boat. The captain, Eli, was a veteran Israeli sailor who didn’t say much. He simply took the wheel and set course.
Among the passengers: a brother and sister who grow flowers in the Arava and had been in Holland on a sales trip. The brother insisted on coming back to report for IDF reserves. A CEO from Karmiel whose company employs 100 people and now struggles to fulfill international orders under fire. A woman who works in energy and left the Ivory Coast to come back to her kids. A high-tech investor returning to his children and grandchildren who had moved into his home’s safe room. Two young men, fresh out of the army, who had cut short their post-service backpacking trip after facing antisemitic attacks in Greece for speaking Hebrew. And the man who had pulled the whole thing together - a former Israeli Navy officer now working in maritime safety tech.
None of us asked if it was safe. Not because we were reckless, but because we were Israeli. That’s not how we think. This instinct to return - especially in times of danger - is etched into our national DNA. It’s who we are.
We saw this after the Hamas invasion on October 7, when thousands of Israelis dropped everything and made their way home. From New York, Berlin, Bangkok, Sydney, they came to don their uniforms, to reunite with their units, to defend their country. Even civilians found ways to contribute, flying to Israel to volunteer, bring supplies, or just to stand in solidarity.
It’s what ties us to one another, to our land, and to our shared fate. When the sirens wail and the skies explode, Israelis don’t run away. They run literally into the fire.
In moments like these, you understand what truly defines a nation. It’s not just the borders on a map or the policies debated in the Knesset. It’s the people who, when everything is on fire, still choose to come home.
Even by tugboat.
Yaakov Katz is a co-author of a forthcoming book, “While Israel Slept,” about the October 7 Hamas attacks; a senior fellow at the Jewish People Policy Institute and a former editor-in-chief of The Jerusalem Post.
