This week, I am honored to share the words of Sinai Temple teen Nadav Brandes. Nadav is a Nazarian Teen Fellow and a Sinai Akiba Academy alum. He and his family were in Israel during the 12 Day War. Here are his reflections.

We left for Israel on June 11th. It would be my second time visiting Israel—I had last been there in 8th grade with Sinai Akiba Academy. My brother had never been; this would be his Bar Mitzvah trip. My mom hadn’t been in more than 25 years (but had lived off and on for over two years), and my dad had just gone a couple of months ago. We were all so excited for our trip. We’d visit cities like Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and Haifa, and go north to the Galilee and Golan. We also planned to visit an October 7th memorial, paying our respects to its many victims. Another significant part of the trip was to visit close cousins, but due to all of our sight seeing, time spent with cousins was supposed to be brief.

After a 14-hour flight, stepping out into Ben Gurion Airport felt surreal. It was like waking up inside a story I had only read about, even though it was my second time. The airport had its own October 7th memorial, with flowers and large posters draped over walls and staircases like a quiet echo of mourning.

Tel Aviv was the first stop on our journey. The drive from the airport to Tel Aviv took a couple of hours. When we arrived at our hotel, we dropped our bags and soaked in the view of the Mediterranean. My parents were exhausted, but I dragged them to Shuk Ha’Carmel—an open-air market run by individual sellers offering everything from fresh produce and shawarma to clothes, spices, tech, and toys. It was loud and hectic, the kind of chaos that buzzes in your ears. I loved it. I felt like I was stepping right into the heartbeat of Israeli culture that I had experienced two years prior at the end of 8th grade.

The next day, we walked all over Tel Aviv. We strolled through popular streets, along the beach, and hung out at the hotel’s majestic pool overlooking the sea. We were still jet-lagged, and after getting shawarma from a place nearby, we crashed early, falling asleep softly and soundly—like sinking into warm sand.

At 3 a.m., I woke up to the strong hands of my mom gripping my shoulders and shaking me. Slowly opening my eyes, I heard the loud sirens I had only ever read about on the news. Shouting. Panic. My mom told me that Israel had attacked Iran and that it was very important I listen closely to her. We hurried down flights and flights of stairs until we reached the hotel’s garage, which would become our shelter for the next three days.

The garage was huge and packed with people. Not only was our whole hotel down there, but the hotel shelter was open to the public, too. The air was hot and stuffy, and anxious murmurs spread through the garage like sparks on dry grass. I began recording—myself and everything around me—documenting the feelings and chaos. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and blood rushed to my face. After about an hour, we were released back to our rooms—I calmed down enough to fall back asleep.

The next day, I slept late into the afternoon. I went to the gym and pool and even had a visit to the beach. Iran had yet to retaliate, and friends and family kept messaging to check in. That night, just as I was getting into bed, the sirens blared again—this time, sounding louder to me than before. My phone started wailing, too, through an app I had just downloaded called “Homefront Command.” Immediately, we jumped out of bed and raced back down the stairs into the garage once again. This time, it felt scarier. More people were there. It was more crowded. You could feel the fear.

The garage was full of families, staff, and young adults who had just started their night out. My mom had the news playing, and my dad was pacing in tight circles. I recorded another video, trying to capture the intensity of the moment. Then, suddenly—booms. Loud ones. They shook the garage. Pipes rattled above us like they might snap. The whole place went silent. The news said a building near us had been struck. My heart dropped. I hugged my family tightly.

We stayed in Tel Aviv a couple more days learning each night how to adapt to the night time garage visits—we brought down with us towels to sleep on. Sirens kept going off reliably two times each night like clockwork. Missiles kept coming. Then we were invited to stay with our family in Haifa. They thought it would be easier on us to all go through this together and that there might be a “silver lining.” The drive by our 23-year-old cousin Yoni was about an hour and a half, and along the way, we got a taste of Israel’s beautiful landscape—the sea stretched beside us like a moving painting.

Haifa ended up being the favorite part of my trip. I got close with family and made new friends. At the local neighborhood court, I built friendships with younger kids. We played soccer and basketball and hung out every afternoon. When I left, they even gave me gift baskets. I still keep in touch with them. They showed me what it feels like to be part of a real community—a tight, special kind of bond that doesn’t let go.

In Haifa, I went on hikes, helped cook, and bonded with my older cousin—all in the middle of a warzone. Sirens continued, 2–3 times a day, every night. I didn’t get a full night of sleep for two and a half weeks. I spent so much time in the shelter that it started to feel normal—like brushing your teeth or turning off the lights before bed. Sometimes, missiles struck uncomfortably close. There was no internet in the shelter, so once we came out, we’d check our phones to see the damage. I had heard the sirens and booms so often, I learned how to tell the difference between Iron Dome interceptors and actual missile strikes.

After about a week and a half in Haifa, we did not know how long the war would last or if it would escalate so with no complete safe option, my parents decided it was time for us to leave. We drove to the Jordan border and waited in line for more than seven hours. At one point, a siren went off while we were standing in line, and panic broke out. There was no available shelter. People started running in every direction trying to be the first ones on the bus to cross to the Jordanian side.

After we finally crossed into Jordan, we drove three hours to the capital, Amman. My drive through Jordan was incredibly eye-opening. I had never been to a place like that before. The country was very, very poor, and the contrast was striking. But parts of the drive were also incredibly beautiful—rolling hills, wide open desert, and small villages tucked into the landscape. Our driver told us stories about Jordan’s history and culture as we passed through. I learned about the economy, the daily life of people there, and how different things looked just one border away. It gave me a lot to think about.

From there, we caught a flight to Dubai. And after a 9-hour layover in the Dubai Airport, we finally boarded our 20-hour journey home to Los Angeles.

Looking back on the trip, I realize just how insane it was. I was trapped in a warzone, with bombs falling around me. This is what Israelis have always had to deal with. And surprisingly, it made me feel so much more connected to the people and to the country itself. It wasn’t just about fear or survival—it was about being part of something bigger. The whole experience brought me closer to my Jewish identity in a way I hadn’t expected. I felt it in the shared moments of strength, in the culture, in the history, and in the way people showed up for each other. Somewhere in between the sirens, the soccer games, and the endless drives, I discovered more about who I am and where I come from. In fact—I want to go back. The relationships and memories I made will stay with me forever.