From Bomb Shelter to Resolve: Why My Trip to Israel Changed Everything

By: Skylar Ribotsky

Since October 7th, I’ve used this platform at The Ribotsky Institute to speak out against the horrifying rise of antisemitism. That day—the brutal, premeditated massacre of civilians by Hamas—marked a before and after not just in Israel, but for Jews around the world. I always knew antisemitism existed. I knew it was here in America, even before that day. But I hadn’t fully grasped how deep it ran, how comfortable it had become in elite institutions, media organizations, and even our own political system—until the mask fell.

Though I’ve always felt connected to Israel, I had never been. After October 7th, something shifted in me. The horrific violence, the global indifference, and the wave of antisemitism it unleashed made it impossible for me to stay at a distance any longer. I needed to go—not just to witness, but to understand, to stand with my people, and to find clarity in the place I had always spiritually called home. That changed on June 6th, when I boarded a flight out of JFK with my boyfriend and twenty-two other young Jews on a ten-day Birthright trip. At that time, Israel was not at war with Iran. The country was still coping with the aftermath of October 7th, at war with Hamas in Gaza, defending its borders in the North from Hezbollah, and managing an unrelenting state of emergency. But it had not yet entered open conflict with Iran.

That would change while we were there.

Our first week in Israel was packed with meaning. We brought in Shabbat in Tiberias, floated in the Dead Sea, planted trees where Hezbollah had once struck, and toured the beaches and streets of Tel Aviv. We learned the history of the first residents of Tel Aviv, visited the Golan Heights to hear stories of the IDF’s heroism, and walked through the streets of Sderot. We stood solemnly at the site of the Nova Music Festival where Hamas slaughtered, raped, burned, and kidnapped innocent people. That moment made the war heartbreakingly real.

On the morning of June 14th, we were jolted awake at 4:30 a.m. by sirens. Birthright Trip staff pounded on our doors, yelling for us to get to the bomb shelter. We would later learn that Israel had just launched preemptive strikes against Iranian nuclear facilities. Airspace was shut down. Iran had vowed retaliation. The war had expanded.

The rest of our trip shifted instantly. Plans were cancelled. Bomb shelters became our morning routine. We spent time on the hotel rooftop, then back down again. But amid the chaos, something remarkable happened: we lived. We lit candles. We celebrated Shabbat in the shelter. We laughed, prayed, and bonded.

That’s the thing about Israel. They do not pause life because of war. They celebrate it because of war.

Being in Israel during that time taught me something I never could have grasped from afar. You hear and feel the war in your chest when you are there. In the South, you can hear bombs dropping into Gaza. And while it is harrowing, what struck me most was not the sound—it was the purpose. The IDF drops those bombs not out of hate but necessity. Because hostages are still in the tunnels. Because every soldier fighting is someone’s son, daughter, sibling, or friend. Because the survival of Israel isn’t theoretical. It’s existential.

People ask me why I would travel to a place at war. But the truth is, being Jewish in America right now doesn’t feel safe either. When Israel is attacked, Jews don’t run from it. We go toward it. It is the only country in the world where, in times of war, Jews arrive rather than flee. That’s not just solidarity. That’s identity. That’s home.

Being in Israel changed me. It shattered the narratives I’d heard growing up in the West—narratives that paint this conflict in the false binary of oppressed vs. oppressor. That framework doesn’t apply in the Middle East. Not when one side builds bomb shelters to protect civilians, and the other builds tunnels to hide weapons beneath hospitals. Not when one side sends its youth to protect life, and the other sends theirs to destroy it.

Israel is not perfect. No country is. But Israel is not the villain in this story. It is a miracle—a democracy in the heart of a hostile region. A nation surrounded by enemies who have declared their intent to wipe it off the map. And yet it survives. It thrives. And it protects not just its citizens, but Jews around the world.

Returning home was surreal. I came back to a country where people marched in support of the IRGC. Where professors defended Hamas. Where antisemitism is now dressed in activist clothing. And then, days later, the Democratic primary for mayor of New York City was won by Madamni—a pro-jihadist, anti-Israel, antisemitic radical.

The city I call home—the very place where my family came after fleeing oppression and surviving the Holocaust—now risks becoming a place where Jews are not safe. My family members came to New York with nothing but resilience, having lost nearly everything. They built a life from scratch in this city, believing that America—especially New York—would be a place where Jews could live without fear. That belief, that promise of safety, is now under threat in the very city they once saw as sanctuary. And that should scare everyone.

In America, we think war is a policy failure. In Israel, it is about existence. The Jewish people are not colonizers in Israel. We are indigenous. We are home. And when you erase that truth, you don’t just spread misinformation. You endanger lives.

I left for Israel a recent college graduate—idealistic, emotionally raw from what I had seen since October 7th, but unsure of what I was meant to do next. I was searching for grounding, for meaning, for something that would help me make sense of the world that suddenly felt so upside down. I needed to go to the one place where being Jewish didn’t mean explaining yourself, defending your existence, or bracing for backlash. I needed to understand for myself why Israel matters—not in abstract terms, but in lived experience. I came back with a fire in my soul. I have heard missiles overhead. I have sung Shabbat prayers in a bomb shelter. I now understand what it means to say, “Never Again.”

I am not a Jew with trembling knees.

I am a young Jewish woman who carries her people’s history, who knows our present, and who is committed to fighting for our future.

We are not going anywhere—not in Israel, not in New York.

Israel, you are the most special place.

Jews of New York—we have a fight to win this November.

Because if we lose this city, we lose something sacred.

And remember: it never ends with the Jews.