Emergency personnel work at the site of an Iranian strike, after Iran launched missile barrages following attacks by the US and Israel on Saturday, in Beit Shemesh, Israel, March 1, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Ammar Awad

When my flight to Tel Aviv was canceled in Warsaw, the war had not yet officially begun. Airlines, however, often sense what governments have not yet declared. Within hours, Israel’s airspace closed. Soon after that, the Iranian missile barrage began.

I was en route to join 22 prominent social media voices from the United States and Europe at the Tel Aviv Institute, where I serve as president. We had convened them for four days of intensive work combating antisemitism — a phenomenon that does not subside during war, but metastasizes. Instead, I found myself watching from afar as our participants sheltered in place.

This is not about my disrupted travel plans. It is about what courage looks like when missiles are falling and what responsibility looks like when you are not physically present to hear the sirens.

Among those social media advocates on the ground was Hen Mazzig. His voice has reached millions with moral clarity and unapologetic conviction. When the missiles began, he did not retreat into silence. He did what he has always done: he spoke.

We were able to evacuate a small group of participants by chartered boat after 26 hours at sea. Among them were Karoline Preisler, a non-Jewish German politician and influencer, and Bernice Cohen, a dermatologist whose platform reaches well beyond the Jewish and Israeli ecosystem. Others remain in Israel, including Boston chef Ruhama Shitrit, who, between sleepless nights and repeated dashes to bomb shelters, continues to imagine new ways to present Jewish and Israeli life as vibrant, humane, and dignified — even under fire.

These are not soldiers. They are civilians — influencers, professionals, parents — demonstrating moral steadiness under extraordinary pressure.

If anything is deeply embedded in Jewish consciousness, it is guilt. Even as I insist this is not about me, I would be dishonest not to admit that guilt arrives in waves. I am the kind of person who shows up. I have spent nights in bomb shelters before; I have volunteered in past crises. When a nation you love is under attack, distance can feel like dereliction.

No rational explanation fully quiets that voice.

My flight was canceled. I would have added strain. My team is capable. Strategically, I may be more useful abroad.

The arguments are sound. The emotions persist.

But war clarifies something uncomfortable: showing up is not synonymous with boarding a plane. In modern conflict, the battlefield is not confined to geography. It is informational, diplomatic, and psychological. While missiles fall on Israeli cities, narratives are created abroad. While Israeli families race to shelters, antisemitic incidents spike in Diaspora communities. While soldiers defend borders, others must defend legitimacy.

That work does not happen automatically. It requires voices willing to withstand backlash. It requires influencers who refuse to equivocate when moral clarity is demanded. It requires institutions that remain operational rather than reactive. It requires people positioned outside the blast radius who understand that proximity to danger is not the only measure of courage.

The harder truth is this: guilt often signals an identity conflict. “I am the one who goes.” But leadership sometimes demands a different posture: remaining where you are most effective, even when every instinct pulls you toward physical solidarity.

The participants of our Institute — Hen and those sheltering in place — embody one form of courage: presence under fire. Those of us abroad are called to embody another: disciplined advocacy, amplification without distortion, and solidarity without self-centeredness.

Shock is inevitable in moments like these. But awe should not be reserved for weaponry or even endurance alone. It should be reserved for the character revealed under pressure—in Israeli civilians who continue building and speaking between sirens; in Iranian civilians whose longing for dignity and safety mirrors our own; and in diaspora communities that refuse to retreat when hostility surges.

Shock may be unavoidable. Passivity is not. If we cannot all stand beneath the same sky, we can at least stand within the same resolve.

That is what responsibility from afar demands.

Dr. Ron Katz is President of the Tel Aviv Institute and leads international efforts to combat antisemitism. He received his PhD from the University of California, Berkeley.