Precisely at a time when their country is being bombarded, tens of thousands of Israelis are seeking to return to it. They want to take part in the moments in which their identity is being written.”
I write these words from France.
My sons are on the front lines. My wife, daughters, and grandchildren run to shelters every night – sometimes even during the day. And I? I am far away, too far – here to present my new book, The End of French Jewry.
It’s not just an academic analysis, but an in-depth journalistic and intelligence-based investigation that carefully yet clearly marks the end of an era. And now, just as I came to raise the alarm, to shed light, perhaps even to warn – Israel launched a direct attack on Iran for the first time. The country’s skies were closed, and I was left behind.
In Israeli cities, sirens blare. My children don’t sleep at night. And I’m standing in a Paris synagogue, speaking to an audience of 300. They’re listening, truly listening. Many of them understand that time is running out.
Demographics are shifting. Radical Islam is gaining ground. The authorities remain silent. Their grandchildren – if they stay – may no longer be able to live openly and proudly as Jews. And yet, after the talk, everyone went home. And I – stuck in exile – felt the gap. Can one truly speak of a shared destiny while remaining physically outside of it?
In recent days, I’ve spoken to dozens of Israelis stranded abroad. They’re not looking for “peace and quiet.” They’re not enjoying an extended holiday. They’re desperate to return. Not because they’re helpless, but because they belong. They want to run to the shelters alongside their brothers and sisters. To carry the burden. To share the fear. To stand together.
And against this backdrop came a quote attributed to Israel’s Minister of Transport, Miri Regev: “There’s no need to panic. You’re abroad – enjoy yourselves.”
Cynicism? Detachment? Disregard?
Whatever it was, it misses the point entirely. Because Israelis – thank God – are still made of different stuff. They want to be there, precisely when things get hard.
And thank goodness.
Only a people like that can keep rewriting its story – through empires, enemies, and shifting tides. Only a people that refuses to play the eternal victim can build a country, an army, a language, a future.
And for those still wondering where Jewish history is being written today – It’s not in reports. Not in conferences. Not in international panels.
It’s written in bomb shelters. In reserve duty. On the northern border. In stairwells in Ofakim. In a mother’s eyes. In a soldier’s silence. In sleepless nights. Tens of thousands of Israelis want to be there. With our families. With our people. With our history.
Send planes. Send ships. Let us come home. We’re not looking for refuge. We’re looking to join in – in this fraught moment, in the place where Jewish identity is being written.