Uri Blau's grandfather once fled from Austria to Israel – now his grandson left from there back to the Alpine republic under rocket fire. A personal account of a special rescue operation that provides deep insights into the current attitude to life in Israel.
Uri Blau is an Investigative Journalist for Shomrim.news
(This is an English translation of an article that was originally published in Profil, Austria, on 6/28/2025)
Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv. I've been here many times, but I never imagined I'd be standing here like this. With a heavy heart and heavy luggage, fleeing the country I grew up in and love. It's around 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning when I board the bus heading toward Israel's border with Egypt as part of Austria's first and, so far, only air rescue mission from Israel. My bus is part of a convoy of four, filled mostly with Austrians stranded in Israel during the war with Iran and wanting to get out. The group is diverse: families with very young children who live in Israel but hold Austrian citizenship; religious Israeli Jews from Vienna who are stranded during a trip to the Holy Land; an elderly Austrian with an Israeli girlfriend who is too old to leave Israel; an Austrian who wanted to visit his girlfriend at an inopportune time; a Hungarian-Israeli couple who have lived in Budapest for more than 30 years; an Israeli woman from Florida with an Austrian passport—and many more.
And I, Uri Blau—47 years old, a journalist who grew up in Israel, lives in the US, and is the proud holder of Austrian citizenship. I spontaneously came home for a very sad occasion—and suddenly I couldn't get out. But more on that later. So, there I was, with all these people. At first glance, one might have thought this was an organized group trip, but the hushed conversations reveal that this trip isn't fun for anyone. People shared stories about how they'd learned about this rescue mission, how they managed to get on board, and how close rockets had come to them in the days before. We also discussed other rescue operations. "The Germans weren't so nice," someone said. "They wouldn't let non-Germans fly." "The US hasn't done anything for its citizens," I countered. "True," said a young ultra-Orthodox man with his heavily pregnant wife and two small children, "but Trump bombed Iran."
I was born in Israel, grew up in Jerusalem, and have lived in Washington, DC, for the past ten years. I work as an investigative journalist for the Israeli media outlet Shomrim—and I'm a neo-Austrian. I only recently acquired Austrian citizenship. As an Israeli, you grow up with wars and conflicts; I've experienced them since early childhood. I was five years old when the first Lebanon War broke out, and military conflicts have never really stopped since. As a journalist, I've covered many of these conflicts: during the second Lebanon War, I took refuge from rockets in northern Israel, sought shelter from bullets in Jerusalem during the second Intifada, and was incapacitated by tear gas in the West Bank. But this time, this war, felt different. The Iranian missiles that flew into Israel caused more damage there than ever before—not just to homes, but also to people's souls. Since October 7, the country has been wounded; there is hardly a family that doesn't know someone who has died there or as a result of the Gaza war. These wounds are gaping, growing wider with every rocket that hits national territory.
I, too, feel this collective sense of vulnerability—but also the desire for solidarity in difficult times. Besides, I'm a journalist; you want to be there when something like this happens. But I'm also a father, and with every alarm, every bang, this one existential desire grew: to see my little boys in the USA again. So, I made the difficult decision to leave. But how? Since Israeli airspace was practically closed for days, I had to find a way out. Many Israelis fled to Cyprus on expensive private yachts – a shaky option for which I wouldn't have the money. Some set out on their own to cross the border into Jordan or Egypt. That seemed too risky to me, not to mention that these days, Jews are probably not welcome there either. The USA, the country in which I live, failed to take any action on behalf of its people.
And then, Friday morning, my phone rang, tearing me awake again, just like the sirens had several times the night before. But my body was on permanent alert anyway. "Mr. Blau?" On the other end of the line is the Austrian embassy in Tel Aviv. There's a rescue mission, they tell me, and ask if I want to come along. The journey would be a long one: departure from Tel Aviv in the morning, a bus ride to the Egyptian border near Eilat, crossing the Taba Pass, continuing to Sharm el-Sheikh, and finally a charter flight to Vienna – landing was scheduled for the next morning, about 24 hours later. It normally takes less than four hours to get from Tel Aviv to Vienna. The Austrian government will cover all costs. I say yes. I'm grateful, I'm exhausted.
The previous week was personally tough. I landed in Israel five days before the war broke out because my mother was seriously ill; I spent days and nights with her in the hospital. When the sirens started wailing over Jerusalem, her bed was pushed away from the windows until the all-clear was given. This happened constantly—I saw rockets being intercepted outside her window. Sleep was almost impossible. And then my mother died. There wasn't really any time to grieve. Hiding, planning the funeral, hiding, planning shiva, the seven-day Jewish week of mourning. The deceased's house is open. Friends and relatives come, stories are told, memories are shared, meals are shared, and people comfort each other.
But it is difficult in these crazy times. Gatherings are generally prohibited, with exceptions made for funerals. The army dictates: a maximum of 22 people can attend. The rules aren't enforced – but we expect many to stay away. My mother's cousin can't make it to the funeral: her house is hit by a rocket that same night. She remains unharmed, but four neighbors died. So, we, the closest family members, stand at the cemetery to say goodbye to my mother. We ask the warden where we should go in case of a rocket alert, what we should do. He answers with one word: "Pray." We bury my dead mother and survive. Then the shiva. Since people in Israel are supposed to stay indoors as much as possible, we are planning the shiva differently than tradition dictates. It will take place partly in Jerusalem at my parents' house and partly in Rosh Ha‑Ayin at my brother's house – this will make it easier for visitors to come. To ensure the safety of our guests, we are organizing shelters and asking neighbors to accommodate visitors if necessary. The emergency plan: My sister would lead mourners to the air-raid shelter, and I would be the last to leave the house to ensure that no one was left behind. Unfortunately, we have to put this plan into action several times. We sit, cry for my mother, the sirens wail. We hide, come back, and when our pulse has slowed from the excitement, we try to find peace to continue mourning.
These days, people are sharing memories of my mother: her childhood, growing up, our grandparents – and all the wars they experienced. My mom was born before 1948. She treated wounded soldiers in Jerusalem during the Six-Day War in 1967, experienced the fear of the October War in 1973, saw both Lebanon Wars, the Gulf War, the respective intifadas, endless Gaza conflicts – and finally, on October 7, the brutal attack that still seems as close as yesterday. Among the mourners are at least two who lost sons in that war, and many young men are still serving in the army. This period has shaped Israel more than any other. To understand Israel today, one must understand October 7th. Until then, many considered external threats that the Jewish people should be murdered to be mere rhetoric. But on that day, Hamas fighters invaded Gaza by force and murdered more than 1200 Israelis. That was the worst day for the Jewish people since the Holocaust – and that changed everything. Since then, Israelis, regardless of their political persuasion, no longer see such calls for annihilation as propaganda. They see a need to take immediate action against them. That is why many currently support the war strategy against Iran – a country that wants to destroy Israel and repeatedly says so out loud. The Israeli attitude towards the suffering in Gaza is correspondingly (un)empathetic: "They brought it on themselves," is often said. Many feel no remorse on Israel's behalf. This creates a deep divide between the inner view of Israelis and the perception in the rest of the world.
In addition to wars, the Holocaust is also a much-discussed topic at Shiva. My maternal grandmother and her brother were the only survivors of my mother's family. My mother's father, Reuven, is the reason for my Austrian citizenship. He was born in Vienna in 1919 and fled to Palestine after the Anschluss. Through the 2020 amendment to Austrian citizenship law, I and other family members have regained our citizenship in recent years. It touches me deeply that the same nation that once expelled my grandfather now wants to stand by his grandson.
Early Sunday morning, I head to the embassy's designated meeting point, a parking lot on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. Staff in red and white vests greet us warmly. As soon as I begin to register, all the phones around me start vibrating: push notifications warning of an impending Iranian attack. The parking lot, full of families, children, and the elderly, erupts in panic. "Where are we going?!" someone shouts. The embassy team quickly leads us to a nearby stadium. We seek cover behind concrete walls, wait for the siren, and hear the explosions. Israelis have become instinctively able to distinguish between sounds: "That's the defense," one said, and everyone nodded. "And that was a hit," we confirm as thunder rumbles from the impact. Some children cry, couples hold on tight, we remain motionless – we all know why we wanted to leave.
The bus ride to the border at Eilat – normally four hours – turns into an endless ordeal. It takes us eight hours, and later at the Egyptian border post, there are further delays. It wasn't until midnight that we reached Sharm el-Sheikh, where the plane was supposed to take off.
Some make it clear that we're not wanted here, and we're made aware of this with humiliations both big and small. A young security guard yells at an elderly ultra-Orthodox Jew, ordering him to remove his kippah and obey. "Is everything okay?" I asked him later. "No, it's not okay," he replied. "But it's over, and we're safe now."
Shortly before 4:30 a.m., our flight to Vienna took off. We later learned that the entire Austrian Airlines crew had volunteered to participate in this mission. All passengers applaud them, time and again. Upon landing in Vienna on Monday morning, we were greeted with applause by employees of the Foreign Ministry and the airline. As a journalist accustomed to exposing dysfunctional systems, I was overwhelmed: Austria is demonstrating what it means to truly protect its citizens. I am deeply impressed and touched by this operation.
On the bus to Egypt, we had to fill out the online exit form for Israel—including our return date. The Austrian escort at my side paused. "Who knows?" she said quietly—in that moment, it felt as if she were speaking to the primal feeling of all Jews: war, persecution, insecurity. A cycle that has accompanied generations, encompassed the Diaspora, and encompassed Israel. But in this episode: yesterday's persecutor was today's savior.