On June 12, 400 Israeli and Palestinian civil society leaders landed in Paris for a peace conference, sponsored by ALLMEP and hosted by the Paris Peace Forum, under the patronage of President Macron. I was one of them. That night, Israel launched strikes on Iran – and the entire premise of the conference began to unravel.
The conference was intended to demonstrate support for Macron’s push to recognize a Palestinian state at an upcoming French-Saudi summit in New York. A real step forward toward a two-state solution. The strikes felt like serendipitous sabotage. Sure enough, by the next day, Macron announced the summit’s postponement.
When we arrived at the conference venue on the morning of June 13, security was tight. We were anxious – not just about the looming Iranian counterstrikes and the safety of our families – but about something more immediate: with Israeli airspace closed, how were we going to get home?
This is a story of Israelis and Palestinians brought together by a shared purpose – peace – and then divided again by a tangle of borders, documents, and fault lines in the desperate effort to return home.
As a Jewish Israeli, I had flown from Ben Gurion with most of the Israeli delegation, a mix of Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel and Palestinian residents of East Jerusalem. Most West Bank Palestinians had arrived on a charter from Amman. That charter was scheduled to return to Amman on June 14, and Jewish Israelis were offered a last-minute chance to join it. We had 15 minutes to decide.
Taking it meant landing late at night, staying in an Amman hotel, then crossing the border back into Israel the next morning. I called my husband, home with our daughters, ages three and nine months. “Take it,” he said without hesitation. No risk was too great if it got me home. I agreed, sent my passport info, packed my bag, and headed to the lobby to share a cab to the airport.
But within the hour, I changed my mind. I didn’t feel safe.
Talking with other conference participants swayed me. I called a friend from East Jerusalem – if he was going, I’d feel better. But as a Palestinian resident of East Jerusalem, he needed a visa to enter Jordan. Other Jewish Israelis hesitated too. The idea of arriving at night without guarantees about taxis, hotels, or safety in Amman felt risky. I backed out.
Outside the hotel, chatting with others who’d passed on the flight, I learned something else. Two East Jerusalem Palestinians who had gained Israeli citizenship also couldn’t travel via Jordan. The Israeli passport that opened doors for me didn’t work for them. “You’re not a traitor like me,” one said cynically. He’d tried to cross into Jordan before – only to be turned back.
As the Amman option faded, it became clear: there was no easy way home. Rumors of Israeli evacuation flights turned into official announcements – but it was clear those flights would take weeks, with no promise of a seat.
Land routes remained: via Jordan or Egypt’s Sinai. But the Israeli government quickly issued a Level Four travel warning – stay away from these areas.
After a couple days and much painstaking deliberation, a plan emerged. Six other Jewish Israelis and I booked a convoluted route: Paris to Naples, a sleepless eight-hour layover, then on to Sharm el Sheikh in Egypt. From there, a three-hour drive across the Sinai to the Israeli border, and another three hours through the Negev desert to get home.
At 4am in Naples, three of us – carrying only hand luggage – headed straight to security. The other four, needing to check bags, were stopped. Airline staff insisted they needed Egyptian visas. They didn’t – Israelis can enter Sharm visa-free for up to 14 days. After arguing and demanding they call Egyptian authorities, the airline relented.
Not everyone was so lucky. Another Jewish Israeli from the conference tried the same route later that day – and was denied boarding in Naples. She rerouted via Istanbul, needing to show proof of a return ticket just to board her flight to Sharm. Same passport, same citizenship. Different luck.
From Sharm, a trusted driver – booked in advance – took us three hours through the Sinai to the Taba border crossing. We agreed: no stops. No food, no bathrooms. We shared snacks and water – cheese sandwiches, carrots, nuts, chips, cookies.
At Taba, we walked across the border. The line for those fleeing Israel was long. For those entering? Not so much.
On the Israeli side, our next driver met us. Three hours from Eilat to Be’er Sheva, another hour to Tel Aviv. Some of us wanted to skip stops – missiles were expected by evening. Others lobbied for coffee. We compromised: an online order for pickup at Aroma along the way.
My family lives in Petah Tikvah – a city where, days earlier, a missile struck the reinforced shelter of an apartment building, killing two people inside and two others outside. But my family wasn’t there then, or any of the following nights.
Early on June 13, as I was heading to the Paris conference’s opening plenary, my husband packed up our girls and drove south to his mother’s kibbutz, Mishmar HaNegev. That’s where I finally reunited with them – just in time to kiss my nine-month-old goodnight. Two hours later, my phone blared with an alert: Missiles launched from Iran. Brace for impact.
Welcome home.
Not everyone could take the path I did. Different statuses and travel documents, different levels of comfort around taking routes deemed unsafe by Israeli authorities, different levels of desperation to get home, depending on who was waiting for our return.
After I returned, my WhatsApp was overwhelmed with group chats: people stuck in Paris looking for a place to stay and scrambling for options. Wait for the evacuation flights? Risk Jordan or Sinai? Book round-trip tickets just in case? Which drivers are reliable? Is there public transport from Eilat?
For now, I’m just grateful to be home. Even under these circumstances. Being away from my daughters was unbearable. A thankfully short-lived war with Iran – we can breathe through that. For now. The ceasefire is holding. But the uncertainty, the fragility of it all – that stays.