In the middle of a war, friends from the United States—hoping to spend Passover with their daughter in Israel—run the gauntlet of flight cancellations and schedule changes to find a seat. Israelis abroad navigate the same obstacles. Airlines, of course, do not relish flying into war zones. After October 7, Israelis abroad clamored to return to their homeland; stories abound of El Al flights packed beyond normal capacity, as few other airlines were willing to take the risk.
Why the passion to come into a war zone? What is the draw of spending the day listening for the squawk of the Homefront Command app warning of incoming missiles—often followed by a 90-second (or less) sprint to safe rooms, basements, or stairwells as rockets, drones, and missiles fill the skies, amid the unrelenting wail of sirens?
The counterintuitive pull that has drawn Jews to Israel over the past two and a half years is a curious phenomenon. It is qualitatively different from the pull of early Zionists, who were fleeing persecution in Eastern Europe and Arab countries beginning in the late 1800s. There is no linear logic that fully explains why people willingly place themselves in danger to visit—and even to immigrate in the midst of war. They understand the risks. They are not naïve.
Much of the answer lies deep in Jewish history. The old joke about Jewish holidays—“they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat”—is a caricature, but like most caricatures, it contains an element of truth. The ancient hatred of Jews is something most Jews learn about early. Despite its irrationality, we are often its target. And yet we persist; we thrive. So why come to what has become a global focal point of that hostility?
Of course, many do not sustain the connection. Assimilation and intermarriage—particularly in the West—have depleted Jewish affiliation and concerned Jewish leaders for generations. But for those who remain connected, an attachment endures. When a Jewish child asks, “What do Jews believe?” the answer inevitably draws on religious tradition, history, and culture. That saga spans from the Exodus to the Crusades and from the Holocaust to the livestreamed brutality of October 7. The thread of vulnerability is not theoretical—it demands a response.
Recent years have seen a marked rise in antisemitism across the West: Jews attacked or killed, property vandalized, and even students discouraged from openly identifying as Jewish. In a cultural moment that prizes identity, Jewish identity is increasingly treated as an exception. The lesson, once again, is difficult to evade.
For many, the answer to “What do we believe?” includes the necessity of a homeland capable of, finally, defending Jewish lives. Those who come—whether to live or visit—understand the risks. They are aware of the persistent absurdity of antisemitism, which assigns Jews blame across eras and geographies. In that context, Israel represents something singular: a place where Jewish vulnerability is not passively endured but actively confronted.
And that is the answer to those who continue to board planes bound for Israel, even now. Israel is the place where Jewish history long predates Christianity and Islam, and it is the home of an imperfect democracy whose primary mission is the protection of Jewish life. That is Zionism—and that is why they come home. Even for a visit. Even during a war.
Moshe R. Manheim is a retired clinical social worker and psychotherapist. He writes on antisemitism, Jewish identity, and social issues.
