Take your next romantic getaway in a war zone

When my wife told me of her burning desire to travel to Israel after the Oct. 7 massacre, I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit.

I’m a Pittsburgh firefighter, so the thought, “Is it safe?” occurs to me more often than it does to most people. Climbing the stairs of a 100-year-old building that you’re not sure is up to code is one thing, but flying into the center of the most contentious conflict on the planet is another. I worried: Will my young children be all right if we leave them behind for a few days? Do Israelis even want American Zionists showing up to offer sympathy?

I explained my reservations to my beautiful wife Casey and, naturally, found myself a few days later being questioned by an IDF soldier after an 11-hour flight about the reasons for my trip. I let Casey do most of the translating. A few minutes later, we were greeted by the Middle Eastern sun.

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I’ve been to Israel before, but that was a few years ago. On this trip, in the wake of the attack, I expected sirens warning of airstrikes and an edgy war-torn feel. But that wasn’t it at all.

The streets of Tel Aviv were alive. Cafes were full of laughter and conversation. Mopeds weaved in and out from every direction. Street vendors sold produce, and the clack-clack of the Kadima paddles volleying a ball on the beach never stopped.

But the war still made itself known. When the conversation turned to those being held for more than nine months in brutal captivity, you could feel the heaviness. Posters with different variations of “Bring them home” were plastered everywhere, the faces of the hostages looking down at us. There was graffiti, billboards, stickers and signs, with words like “I am Israel strong” and “Israel proud.” There were few, if any, tourists.

At a small restaurant off a side street, the waitress serving us hummus laughed at my American accent when I asked for schug, but we bonded over a shared love of spicy condiments. She told me she hadn’t served a single tourist that whole week, usually the shop’s busiest time of the summer.

At a small antique shop in Yaffo, we made friends with a couple, Maayan and Dani, who promised to visit Pittsburgh. We, in turn, told them we have two extra seats for a fall Steelers game. Their appreciation for my questions about the provenance of an antique gold necklace — and subsequent purchase — was apparent from the warm smiles and hug upon exiting the shop.

Of course, being in Israel wasn’t just about patronizing shops and restaurants. In a very real sense, I felt an obligation to be hyperaware, as I am in my line of work. As a first responder, disasters mean protocol. If there’s a fire, I take orders from my line lieutenant and can get into gear in 60 seconds or less. If a fire is on the top of a roof, we use a specific type of chainsaw and climb a tall ladder. We use a special type of pulse-oximeter to gauge pulse rate and oxygen vitals on emergency first-responder incidents.

Everything is spelled out, and we don’t often think about what happens next — we just move on to the next emergency. But after the embers cool, and the hoses are loaded back into the truck, and the ambulance’s engine shuts off, another, quieter stage of disaster response begins.

There’s more work to be done picking up the broken pieces, assessing the damage, and ultimately healing. Part of that healing is showing up to where the bad thing took place, and refusing to surrender to it. With much certainty, I can say I’ve never quite seen an entire country of people so boldly refuse to surrender.

Every person we encountered in Israel was simultaneously living while trying to heal from the horrific atrocities that took place on Oct. 7. Everyone we met knew someone impacted that day and the days after, and nothing at all felt certain. There is an unknown future and yet a burning desire to Bring Them Home.

Over the five days of my trip, I picked peppers on a kibbutz, rode electric scooters down Rothschild, dined with Community Days School’s future shinshinim, ate fresh produce from Shuk HaCarmel, drank ouzo in the jazz clubs and kicked soccer balls on the beach with the locals. It felt meaningful to be there, and there was an enthusiastic energy all around. But it was also just a great vacation — one where, just by being present, we got to commune with other Jews slowly recovering from disaster.

We could have gone to the Dominican Republic or Europe for a quick getaway from work and kids, but instead, we went to Israel. I am so grateful that we did. Everywhere we went we heard, “Todah shebatem” which means “Thank you for coming.” I also learned the response, “Todah shebilitem itanu.” It means thank you for spending your time with us. PJC

Doug Frisbee is a City of Pittsburgh firefighter. He lives in Squirrel Hill.