I saw a video the other day taken at Sharm el-Sheikh, an Egyptian resort town on the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula. The small airport there was packed with Jews, mostly students from yeshiva and seminary programs in Israel, waiting for flights home.
Their parents, thousands of miles away, had spent days scrambling to extract their children from Israel, routing them through Jordan or Egypt, through airports and border crossings in countries hardly known for their love of Jews. Within hours, these students and tourists would be on flights back to the safety of American, Canadian, and British suburbs, far from the sirens, shelters, and missiles threatening the lives of their fellow Jews in the Jewish homeland.
Having been born and raised in America, and as a parent, I understand the instinct. Every parent wants their child safe, and people, young and old, who have never heard the chilling wail of an air raid siren overhead would naturally want to return to what feels like security.
But watching these hurried exits raises an uncomfortable question for those of us who live here: what does it really mean to “stand with Israel” if the moment standing becomes difficult, people sprint for the border?
This phenomenon is not new. Practically every time Israel enters a period of danger, the same evacuation pipelines begin to form. Parents call embassies. Tourists post about being “stranded” in Israel. WhatsApp groups fill with frantic discussions about which border crossings are open and which neighboring country they might be able to fly out from.
Within days, thousands of Jews who came to the Jewish homeland to visit, study, volunteer, or simply connect with their heritage find themselves racing to leave it. To the Israelis watching this, the reaction is complicated. No one begrudges a parent for wanting their child safe or a tourist who suddenly yearns for home when they feel their life is threatened. Yet there is also an unavoidable sense of distance revealed in these moments.
Israelis do not have evacuation plans when war starts. There is no house in a second country waiting on the other end of a flight. Israel is not a place we can leave when things get frightening.
It is simply home.
And for many Israelis, it is so much more than that:
Israel is, unequivocally, the front line of the Jewish people’s fight to survive and live freely in a world that has too often tried to erase them.
That difference in both perspective and attitude exposes a painful contradiction.
When solidarity meets reality
Diaspora Jews have always spoken passionately about Israel’s battles as if they were their own. As if they are in this fight with us. But when the fight actually begins, when sirens sound and missiles fall, Israelis watch their most enthusiastic supporters retreat. Flee.
Often loudly narrating their attempts to “escape” the country they claim to love and support, leaving behind the uneasy realization that the struggle they claimed they were a part of… is really just ours alone.
Suddenly, the words “We stand with Israel” have become just that. Words.
And the children, the Jewish leaders of tomorrow, are paying attention.
They hear their parents and mentors call Israel “their homeland.” They hear speeches about Jewish unity and about the importance of “standing with Israel.” And then they watch what is done when standing with Israel becomes challenging.
Now let’s be honest. No one is asking Jews who don’t live in Israel to symbolically seek out danger or ignore the instinct to protect their families.
But we should be mindful about what solidarity really means and about what we are teaching the next generation.
For Israelis, Israel is not a cause or a political statement. It is the place where we live, where we raise our children, and where we actively defend the future of the Jewish people.
Diaspora Jews may not share that burden in the same way. But if Israel truly is the homeland of the Jewish people, then the relationship between Israelis and Diaspora Jews must mean more than proclaiming solidarity from afar and fleeing when that solidarity becomes inconvenient. It must be rooted in a genuine sense of shared fate – one that demands humility, honesty, and moral consistency in how we speak about and stand with Israel.
That does not mean seeking danger for its own sake. But it does mean approaching moments like these with humility about who bears the risks and with care not to center our own inconveniences when Israelis are confronting a far more serious reality. And above all, keep in mind that the next generation is watching. They are learning from our words and from our actions about what support of Israel truly means.
Jews of the Diaspora do not need to prove their love for Israel with acts of performative bravery. But they should ask themselves, and teach their children to ask, whether Israel is truly their homeland or simply someone else’s.
The writer is an IDF reserve paratrooper and former lone soldier. He has fought on multiple fronts in the current war, including Kfar Aza on October 7, southern Gaza, and Lebanon. He is a proud husband and father.