Real Talk

From Sirens to Safe Passage: A Filipino’s Journey Home from War-Torn Israel

by Bianca Juliano
June 30, 2025

A mom shares her experience of making it home to her 10-year-old son amid the 12-day war between Israel and Iran

June 16, 2025. Day four of the war between Israel and Iran. Ben Gurion International Airport was closed, and the country was under lockdown. With air-raid sirens blaring and an unspoken sense of dread hanging in the air, I sent a message via Facebook Messenger to the Philippine Embassy in Israel:

“Hello good afternoon, I’m a Filipino citizen in Jerusalem right now. I want to explore the possibility of flying out of Israel through Jordan. Can you pls walk me through the details.”

As someone who is no stranger to risk, I welcome adventure – but war is a different story. I could not afford to gamble, especially as a single mother with a 10-year-old boy waiting for me back home. Leaving blindly was out of the question.

The Embassy replied almost immediately.

“Where are you exactly in Jerusalem right now?”

“Mamilla Hotel,” I answered.

“Ano po Whatsapp number niyo?”

I provided my number, and the rest was history.

Patiently Waiting

Crossing into Jordan with a Philippine passport would require a transit visa. Under normal circumstances, it might have been routine — but during wartime, nothing is routine isn’t it? Would it be as simple as filling out a form and paying a fee? What if I was denied on the spot? Would I have to return to the city under fire? These questions ran through my mind, echoing between the sirens.

The Embassy asked for a copy of my passport and explained they would coordinate with their counterpart in Jordan. They would group Filipinos together for the crossing and let us know when everything was confirmed.

As someone who works in operations, I understood there were many moving parts and people working tirelessly behind the scenes. Patience, in that moment, became my best companion.

Soon after, I moved from the Mamilla Hotel to Sta. Martha Monastery, a Passionist Monastery on the Mount of Olives led by a Filipino priest with a community of Filipino volunteers. Stepping inside, I felt immediately at home.

It was the quintessential Filipino community, where I was welcomed with warm smiles and a bowl of freshly cooked ginataang bilo-bilo. It may sound trivial, but after a week of Mediterranean food, I longed for something familiar. In times of hardship, nothing speaks of care more than the comfort of our own food.

The Bethany on The Mount of Olives

Sta. Martha Monastery is built on sacred ground — Bethany on the Mount of Olives — where Jesus is said to have ascended to heaven, where Lazarus was raised from the dead, and where Jesus prayed before being taken by Roman soldiers. Walking its pristine white halls surrounded by ancient olive trees, I felt the living history all around me. Whether you believe in a higher source or not, in that moment, I felt a divine presence.

The days leading up to the crossing were filled with stories from Fr. Mark Tobias, who heads the Monastery. Before the war, the Passionists of Sta. Martha hosted countless pilgrimages. Fr. Mark and Fr. Ruel recounted how transformational those journeys where for their guests. I shared my own reason for coming to Israel — a spiritual tour with the Kabbalah Centre, an ancient spiritual wisdom that explores the secrets of the universe and is dedicated to helping people improve their lives. We found common ground in our stories and beliefs, experiencing monotheism at its finest in the heart of Jerusalem.

Yet war was never far away. Every so often, the sirens would blare, and we would rush to the bomb shelter just below the monastery. Even there, surrounded by a small chapel and a library of books on Judeo-Christianity and theology, we felt the trembling of the earth as missiles struck. It was a paradox of fear and faith.

When the day of our crossing finally came, I felt an unexpected sadness. Sta. Martha Monastery had become a sanctuary. It reminded me of my Jesuit school days, of my love for Filipino food, of the genuine care offered by Fr. Mark and his community — perhaps all of those things combined. I began to understand what the guests of Fr. Mark felt by their time there – transformed.

Finally Making The Trip Home

At the Jordanian border, we were met by the Philippine Embassy team led by Consul Patricia Narajos. On the other side, the Philippine Embassy in Jordan, with their Administrative Officer & Attaché John Jiao, welcomed us seamlessly. From the first checkpoint to the airport, they guided us with unwavering dedication.

If I observed correctly, we were the only nationals that day visibly supported by their embassy. I was overwhelmed with pride. I told them again and again how proud I was to be Filipino, though I had always been. I simply couldn’t let the moment pass without acknowledging their dedication and service. Gratitude poured out of me in a thousand thank-yous, and still, it felt inadequate.

Today, I write these words from the safety of my home, surrounded by the people I love. I will never be the same. Not because of the tremors of war, but because of the love and human connection I experienced during it. In Kabbalah, we say everything happens for a reason. Perhaps this was mine — to share a story of unsung heroes, and to remind all of us that the smallest acts of kindness can change the world.

And to think, it all began with a single message on Facebook.

Through A Mother’s Eyes

In all of this, I choose to see the world at present in its beauty. Jerusalem unfolded herself with her Jerusalem stone walls, clothed in lavender and bougainvillea creeping through its cracks — a living piece of art against a backdrop of tension. Though the wind carried the weight of war, there was a tenderness in its breath that felt familiar to me, a softness only another mother could sense. I could not deny the reality of the conflict, nor the dread that gripped people’s hearts, but through it I saw a deeper truth: a shared humanity that no mother could ignore.

In the midst of it all, no matter how divided or different we might seem, I understood that no mother wants to see her child suffer, and no one truly wants war to endure.

This is what I held on to as sirens wailed and prayers rose — the certainty that love, however fragile, still found a way through the cracks.