Accidental Tourists

“Send me photos. It’s beautiful there.” 

Instead of sending my daughter pictures of Rhodes with its azure skies, Grecian ruins, and sparkling Aegean beaches where sunbathers sip cocktails on beach chairs, I sent a photo of three memorial candles. 

The caption on this photo read: We lit these candles to commemorate the lost lives and atrocities of October 7th. 

These candles were lit at a memorial for the 1,604 Greek Jewish lives lost during in the Holocaust. On July 23, 1944, the entire Jewish community of Rhodes, men, women and children, were rounded up and imprisoned by the Nazis, sent on a ship to Piraeus, and then pushed in cattle railroad cars that delivered them straight to the flames of the gas chambers in Auschwitz. 

I was in Rhodes on October  7 - and not by choice like the other Europeans holiday makers here and the thousands from cruise ships. My husband, two daughters and I became marooned Israelis when our flight from Rome to Tel Aviv was suddenly cancelled due to the ‘situation.’

Door knocker at the
synagogue in Rhodes.

Perhaps the talk of an Iranian missile attack spooked the European carriers; this did not scare the Israeli airlines who realized they could charge an exorbitant amount akin to war profiteering in order to deliver thousands of stranded Israelis home for Rosh Hashana.

One daughter was practically hyperventilating upon hearing the news; she had to get back to her husband and two young children, and Rosh Hashana was in three days. 

We took a deep breath as we paid two exorbitant airfares for our daughters to go home on the few airline tickets we could find. The ticket price was equivalent to buying a trans Atlantic fare for a ‘hop’ from Larnaka to Tel Aviv. Thanks Arkia Airlines….

The two then flew from Rome to Athens and on to Cyprus. Arriving at a hotel late at night, they headed straight back to the airport in the early morning to make sure they got on the precious flight to Tel Aviv. 

Just before my daughter boarded her flight, she found out that her husband was called back to do reserve duty on the Lebanese border. He was supposed to be the chazzan for Rosh Hashana services on his kibbutz; instead of wearing a long white kittel and holding a machzor, he was donning his khaki uniform and slinging a gun over his shoulder. He has already served over 200 days this past year, away from his wife, kids, and hospital job. 

As my daughters’ plane landed in Israel, I read of the impending strike from Iran. I grit my teeth and tightened my jaw, imagining one daughter taking a train north then driving home, while the second was driving with her husband and kids. They actually saw the ballistic missiles flying overhead and landing on roadsides while their kids napped in the backseat. 

As for us, we did not go for the exorbitant fare. Instead we decided to head to Zagreb where we have family plus a Chabad for the upcoming three-day holiday. This meant we would be far away from our immediate family at a time when most Jews look forward to celebrating with loved ones. 

We flew from Rome to Zagreb via Split. Zagreb once had a vibrant Jewish community likes Rhodes, but the Ustace and Nazis took care of that, leaving behind a tiny, mostly intermarried and unaffiliated community.

Hospitable and dedicated, the Israeli couple running the Zagreb Chabad were doing their utmost to change this. Unfortunately, as soon as we walked in with our Croatian cousin, one member of the community started screaming at her uncontrollably and threatened her. 

Before prayers began, the last words I heard were from my husband, imploring him to remember the holiness of the day. “Please, it is Rosh Hashana. Not here. Not now.”

And then my tears started. I looked over at Amir and he too was crying. I believe hatred from one Jew to another is one of the factors that sealed our fate last year, resulting in October 7 and this war. 

It has been a tragic and difficult year for Israel and the pain continues. Just before I lit candles, I saw that eight beautiful young soldiers had been killed. Here we were, Erev Rosh Hashana, and many families were mourning. 

I once learned that one’s state of mind on Rosh Hashana reflects and influences the energy of the year to come. But instead of feeling joy and gratitude, I was overcome with sadness. Tears flowed every time I tried to pray. 

I was far away from my family and my homeland. And I continued to cry. In Tzfat, where I was supposed to be praying, sirens were wailing into the air 14 times over these three days, sending adults and children scrambling to a safe space dressed in their holiday’s finest. 

These three days of Rosh Hashana without communication with my children were interminable and surreal. Come motzei chag, we raced to our laptops trying to find a flight home - us and the thousands of other stranded Israelis, including many Hasidim who, unfazed, traveled to Uman in the Ukraine, going from one war zone to another.

Despite the stories of rockets and terror attacks, we had to get home. We would click on a flight, enter our details and then lose the booking. Late at night, after three hours of searching, we finally found a flight that was leaving early the next morning. So much for sleep. 

Memorial to the Rhodian Jews.

The flight took us from rainy Zagreb to cloudy Belgrade where we waited and changed planes, then to sunny Athens, where we waited and changed planes, and then on to Rhodes.

Stressed out, exhausted, and homesick, we landed in picture-perfect Rhodes, a beautiful Greek island of romance and beauty. Except this was not a time to be a carefree tourist. 

And no, we did not capture the place with the standard classic, carefree photos - not this time. We just wanted to be home.