These Past 7 Days: From Shelters to Skylines, Plenitude and the Invisible Thread of Time By Jessica de Vreeze

June 24.

We woke up at 5 a.m. in Israel, my heart heavy. Even in the middle of war, being there filled me with plenitude — a powerful, grounding sense of meaning, wholeness, and belonging that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Just a few days earlier, the plan had been very different. We were supposed to leave on June 19. The itinerary: fly to Amsterdam, spend the night at the airport, and head to Rome the next morning to meet my parents and nephews for a long-awaited weekend my mother had lovingly prepared. A first for all of us. So yes—there was disappointment. But when war breaks out, plans dissolve.

Even then, I didn’t imagine we would one day need to leave Israel. Fleeing out of Israel was never an option—it’s not how I wanted to approach our departure. We just had to leave. Our heart is also in Israel, but our life is elsewhere. We had responsibilities—work to return to, our eldest daughter’s internship beginning July 1 in NYC, and our parents waiting with open arms. The reality was: we had to go.

Embassy support was limited. With over 150,000 people trying to leave and Israel’s airspace closed, we had no certainty on when or how we could fly. Commercial flights were canceled in Israel and sold out by the minute in the neighboring countries (not to mention the cost). France had arranged some flights and buses for its residents, but we weren’t on the priority list, being French citizens but not residents. The U.S. had no clear plan yet, and while a few associations managed to help some citizens return, the need far outpaced the resources.

We turned to Luxembourg, where we lived for many years and where our children were born. I heard Luxembourgers had to go through the German embassy. It became clear: if we wanted a solution, we had to find it ourselves—or prepare to stay in Israel until at least July 15. At that point, the ceasefire hadn’t been announced yet, and we had no idea what lay ahead. But we did know we had to resume life—whatever that meant now.

We ruled out Egypt. We refused the idea of a boat to Cyprus—18 to 30 hours at sea felt too symbolic of escape. We weren’t fleeing. We were simply trying to leave, responsibly and safely.

We began hearing from friends who had crossed the Jordanian border and were already back in the U.S. They described a difficult but possible path. Most used a VIP service and urged patience. We considered it seriously. Flights from Jordan to Europe were limited or unaffordable, so at first we looked at options via Doha and Manchester. Eventually, we chose a more direct plan: fly to Dubai, then to Paris.

I called a friend in Luxembourg who often travels in the region. I wasn’t especially worried about Dubai—but Jordan was different. Every embassy had warned against wearing or carrying visible Jewish symbols, even if not illegal. We had heard of people being harassed at the border, their prayer items confiscated.

My greatest fear wasn’t for myself—it was the possibility of being separated from one another. Worse, being separated from our children (14, 17, and 20 years old).

I thought about our ancestors—how many times they had to abandon everything, and yet still found ways to preserve what mattered as well: their menorahs, prayer books, Torahs. With a heavy heart, we left a small bag with our tallit, tefillin, and siddurim with family in Israel. We would retrieve it later. It was a painful decision, but necessary to avoid complications and protect our children.

So we packed, we booked, and we braced ourselves.

It was 6 a.m., and we had to leave. While on the road, we learned of more buildings and shelters being pulverized—with people inside. In agreement with our driver, we decided to keep going. We were already in motion, and these were open-air roads. Normally, when sirens sound, you pull over and lie flat. That day, there was no safe place to stop. We couldn’t.

Missiles continued to fall every 10 minutes. The ceasefire that had been announced for 7 a.m. kept shifting—pushed to 7:30 a.m.—but Iran broke it repeatedly.

That morning, my prayers came from a deeper place. I couldn’t stop thinking about the 626 days the hostages have been held. Our fear was temporary. Theirs is constant. This war—launched on October 7, 2023, by a terrorist organization targeting Israeli civilians—goes far beyond the headlines. It lives in the body. It lives in the homes. It lives on every side.

We arrived near the border by 7 a.m., walked the final stretch to the gate, and waited an hour and a half under the heavy sun. I couldn’t help thinking of the countless people around the world—and throughout history—who’ve had to cross borders under far worse conditions.

Our kids had been more anxious than we were while in Israel. I told them again and again: trust that we will be okay. But as we prepared to cross that border, something shifted. They were starting to relax—lightening up. Meanwhile, I wasn’t. I told them we had to stay calm and keep moving. “We were safe here,” I said. “But now… I’m scared. Once we cross, we are no longer fully protected.”

I divided my necklaces and rings and asked my children to wear them, just in case we were separated. I tucked some cash into their pockets. People reassured us that we would be fine. These were allied countries. But I couldn’t shake the worry.

We crossed on foot around 8:30 a.m. Thanks to the VIP service, we were on Jordanian soil by 9:30 and at Amman airport by 11:30. The driver and guide were kind. They told us how tourism had collapsed, how their economy is suffering. People were professional and polite. I am grateful to Jordan for their partnership in the region.

But my only thought was: get out of Jordan.

Even though the people were welcoming, we had been advised to keep our identity quiet. And that’s something I struggle with. I’ve never been afraid to be Jewish. I’ve never hidden who I am. But in that moment, I had to choose safety over visibility, to avoid complications. And I hated that feeling.

It also made me reflect on how many people around the world are forced to make similar choices daily—so many families torn apart, trying to stay safe, trying to survive. We were lucky. But not everyone is. These past days reminded me how fragile safety is—and how much we must protect freedom when we have it.

At Amman airport, I saw a French officer—a gendarme from the embassy. It felt like seeing the Grail. He was the only official I saw from either France or the U.S.—the two countries I call home. It was a quiet moment of reassurance I didn’t know I needed.

And now, as we are at the eve of the 4th of July, may God bless America—and may freedom extend to the whole world, and Am Yisrael Chai.

Back to today, July 3.

I can’t imagine we are no longer in Israel. I miss it. I miss our family. I pray for the hostages to be freed. I pray for the economy to restart. One of my cousins told me that the day after the ceasefire, life picked up again as if nothing had happened: schools reopened, kids who had been disrupted during their finals were able to complete them in person instead of online, shops and restaurants opened back up, and the country began to rebuild. Yet it’s not fully back to normal—the economy is still slow—but it’s moving in the right direction. How inspirational to see so much resilience, generosity and light.

I pray for peace—true, lasting peace—for the region. I pray that they may not only rebuild, but simply build. When I saw Dubai, I couldn’t help but think: what if, instead of constantly rebuilding, Israel and its neighbors could just keep growing? The possibilities would be incredible.

Israel has something truly special. It’s the land of our ancestors, built on layers of resilience, inclusion, and coexistence. The population is richly mixed—with all religions represented and an openness to pride and expression. We were there just before the Gay Pride parade. Caitlyn Jenner had just visited. And let’s not forget: the Nova Festival attacked on October 7 was a dance festival built around love and peace. Many of the kibbutzim attacked that day were communities rooted in inclusivity and cooperation—working hand in hand, when possible, with their neighbors in Gaza.

Nothing is for granted.

On June 24: Israel.
Then Jordan.
Then Dubai.
The night of the 25th: Paris.
June 30: NYC.
July 1: Miami.

Three continents in seven days—grateful.

Half of it wasn’t even planned.

We missed Rome—a trip my mother had prepared for months. Three weeks earlier, we were in Amsterdam, as we care to be there for our friends and family. One of our dearest friends is fighting cancer with unmatched courage—showing up for his family, for life, with grace and strength. My mother-in-law is living with Alzheimer’s, and my father-in-law cares for her with quiet strength. My sister-in-law and her family, based in the Netherlands, are there regularly while we are in the U.S. Even though we speak often, we know we’re not present in the day-to-day—and we deeply appreciate everything they do. We’ve increased our visits and do what we can, grateful for the chance, even if it means adjusting how we live.

I received two awards in just a few weeks. My solo show in Las Vegas was originally scheduled for July. Thankfully, my gallery graciously agreed to postpone it—likely to November 2025.

And now? Now I finally have what people call time.

But during those whirlwind days—surviving, loving, adapting, witnessing—I was whole. Surrounded by my husband, my children, my family.

What is holiday?
What is work?
What is life?

I’ll take a little time now.
Go through my photos, some are here below.
Let’s see how it will all be expressed—
Through color.
Through emotion.
Through art.

Wishing everyone a good 4th of July, Celebrating Freedom, With love and light,
Jessica

P.S. I understand the situation is far beyond what I share in this post—we are at a turning point in history. It feels shaky everywhere in the world. I wanted to relay a piece of my story without diminishing or dismissing anyone else’s. So many other places and people are in danger, so many are forced to summon courage and take action to protect their lives and their children. I do realize how privileged we are, especially living in a country where women’s rights—and everyone’s rights—are respected. And I know we should never take that for granted. Information in the press is often manipulated and varies drastically depending on who’s sharing it and where. I took this opportunity to speak truthfully about what I personally lived—knowing that even within a family, we may all perceive and feel things differently. In the end, human life matters everywhere. And I want to remind you: it’s up to us to make a difference, even through the smallest things in our daily lives. We can improve the world—one smile at a time, one act of kindness at a time.