byChrisWhite – 2025

It appears I’ve gone and done it again, scribbled down a travelogue that ended up as long as a politician’s promise and about as hard to digest. After taking a good, hard look at the tome I had created, I concluded that expecting the average reader to plow through it was akin to asking a cat to take a bath, unreasonable and likely to end in a hissy fit. So, in the interest of not exhausting your patience or mine, I’ve decided to break this literary leviathan about Israel into four more manageable morsels, each served up by region: Mediterranean Cities, Upper Galilee, the Golan Heights, and Jerusalem and the West Bank. Consider this the first course, where we dip our toes into the azure waters of the Mediterranean cities, a place where ancient history and modern hustle shake hands and share a glass of arak.

But before we embark on that sun-soaked shore, let me indulge in a few musings about why we chose Israel in the first place, and why you, dear reader, ought to consider doing the same.

Now, I realize picking a travel destination is a lot like picking a melon at the market. You can thump and sniff all you like, but you never really know what you’re getting until you cut into it. Israel, however, comes pre-sliced with millennia of history, a buffet of cultures, and a side dish of intrigue that even the pickiest traveler would find palatable. Whether you’re a history buff, a culinary connoisseur, or just someone who enjoys a good, old-fashioned miracle now and then, Israel has something to offer.

So, grab your hat and your sense of adventure, both of which you’ll need in ample supply, and let’s start this journey where ancient seaports meet modern espresso bars, where every street corner has a story, and where even the sand seems to have a secret or two to share. Welcome to the Mediterranean cities of Israel, where our adventure begins!

Being experienced travelers is a double-edged sword. At least for me anyway. Emily usually gets pretty excited about every place we go, but for me, I always love the experiences, but we’ve seen so many incredible places, that I rarely feel the rush of excitement anymore. Maybe that’s just my personality. But, occasionally, we take trips that we know up front will be different than anyplace we’ve been. China, Japan and Turkey would be just such places. But Israel is so steeped in our minds as something more than a physical destination, but a metaphysical place as well, that I did experience a level of excitement that I’d not felt since our first grand adventure over the pond.

Experiencing the words written in the bible should be enough, we’re all taught that faith is the key to salvation. But some of us are flawed, some of us need more. And I guess, I’ve always been that guy who believed in Christ, believed in the God of the bible, but was perhaps a bit of a skeptic when it came to certain stories of the bible (e.g., Jonah, Giants, Raining Frogs and Burning Sulphur Balls, Parting Seas…that kind of stuff). Growing up watching American media, people who generally have an aversion to the religious because of their strong affiliations with conservatism, you learn to be a skeptic. If you don’t have strong religious influences at home to keep you grounded in faith, it is easy to drift toward the other cult members who get indoctrinated by media everyday without realizing it.

So, having an opportunity to witness, firsthand, archeological evidence of the miracles talked about in the bible, is a blessing for sure, but not just a blessing, but reason for a total rebuke of media and the scientific community for their intentional whitewashing of this evidence. And in Israel, its everywhere you look.

A Prelude to the Unexpected

As I stepped onto Israeli soil, I realized the flight had been the perfect prelude to the journey ahead. It was a baptism by fire, or rather, by fervor. The beauty, history, and occasional bouts of disbelief that awaited us would be no less mesmerizing than the rituals in the Toronto airport or the airborne opera of faith.

And as I turned to Emily, watching her shake her head with a bemused grin, I tipped my imaginary hat to the Hasidic passengers. Chaos, it turns out, has a peculiar way of leaving its mark, and as bewildering as it may seem in the moment, it’s the sort of thing that stays with you long after the plane’s wheels have touched down.

Tales of Tel Aviv and Jaffa

If Tel Aviv were a man, he’d be a dashing young dandy with a knack for juggling contradictions. Picture him balancing a stock portfolio in one hand and a surfboard in the other, all while sipping an espresso and tossing off a wry remark about the Nasdaq. He’s a man of modernity and leisure, always rushing toward the future yet somehow finding time to let the Mediterranean sun seep into his very bones.

This city is no ordinary urban sprawl; it’s a living, breathing contradiction, a Silicon Valley by the sea, where startups sprout faster than weeds and beach volleyball feels like an Olympic-level pastime. Tel Aviv’s skyline reaches boldly skyward as if in defiance of gravity itself, yet its beaches sprawl with a laziness that whispers, “Slow down, friend. The waves have no deadlines.”

A Tale of Two Beaches

Emily and I, ever the curious wanderers, stumbled upon a peculiar scene that encapsulates Tel Aviv’s unique charm. There, along the golden shoreline, stood a tall privacy fence dividing one beach into two. One side was strictly for the ladies, the other for the gentlemen. Now, we’ve seen some peculiar beaches in our time, an Italian nude beach where the sunburns were as bold as the bathers, and a Hawaiian dog beach where labradoodles reigned supreme, but a gender-divided beach? This was a novelty.

As I stood marveling at humanity’s audacity to partition the very sea, I couldn’t help but wonder if the waves were informed of their gender-specific duties. Were they expected to lap gently on one side and crash with masculine vigor on the other? Emily, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. “Maybe it’s about modesty. Or maybe it’s just a clever way to avoid sunscreen-related flirtations.” She had a point. A retreat free of catcalls and unsolicited suntan lotion applications does sound oddly refreshing.

I couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the irony of it all. On the men’s side, I imagined a group of fellows awkwardly tossing a Frisbee while sneaking glances at the fence. On the women’s side, tranquil camaraderie likely reigned, punctuated by the occasional conspiratorial whisper about the clumsiness of the opposite sex. It made me wonder what other kinds of beach’s humanity might yet invent, beaches for left-handed folks, for cat lovers, or perhaps even for people who think pineapple belongs on pizza. The possibilities seem as endless as the ocean itself.

Tel Aviv: The Modern Dreamer

Tel Aviv is a city barely out of short pants by the standards of this ancient land. Born in 1909, it’s practically a toddler compared to its wizened elder sibling just down the road: Jaffa. Yet, Tel Aviv strides boldly into the future, its streets alive with energy. Bicycles zip past like caffeinated bees, while food stalls and fine dining alike tempt your palate with everything from falafel to fare that feels almost too good for the likes of us mere mortals.

This is a city where the past is more of a suggestion than a burden, where cosmopolitan dreams unfold against a backdrop of waves and sunshine. If Jaffa is the storyteller, Tel Aviv is the dreamer, sketching its vision of what’s next while lounging with one foot in the sand.

Jaffa: The Ancient Storyteller

And what a storyteller Jaffa is. This ancient port city is the kind of place that looks at Tel Aviv’s youthful exuberance and says, “Settle down, kid. Let me tell you a tale.” Jaffa’s history stretches back so far that even archaeologists have to squint to keep track. Some say the city was named for Japheth, Noah’s son, who built it when the floodwaters receded. Others prefer the cold certainties of archaeology, which place its roots in the Bronze Age, conveniently around the same time Noah might’ve been sailing the high seas.

Walking Jaffa’s crooked streets feels like flipping through a history book that’s been scattered by the wind. Here, an Egyptian gate from the days of Thutmose III, there, stones that may have heard Jonah grumbling as he boarded that ill-fated ship. Even the port, though diminished, whispers of a time when it was the gateway to the world.

A Tapestry of Time and Tide

Together, Tel Aviv and Jaffa weave a tapestry that is both vibrant and irresistible. Between Jaffa’s ancient whispers and Tel Aviv’s electric pulse, the two cities balance each other like the sun and the sea. Tel Aviv dreams of what could be, while Jaffa reminds it of what has been.

As we strolled between their contrasting worlds, I couldn’t help but feel their influence settle into my bones. This corner of the earth, with its golden beaches, bustling streets, and ancient stones, leaves a mark on a man, one that lingers long after the waves have receded, and the skyline has faded from view.

Laundry Above, Bullets Below: The Secrets of the Ayalon Institute

Now let me spin you a tale about the Ayalon Institute, a spot we stumbled upon after meandering southward from Tel Aviv, perched just on the fringes of a city they call Rishon LeTsiyon. At first glance, it might not look like much, a quaint little slice of kibbutz life, all wholesome and idyllic, where the women bake bread, the men puff on pipes, and everyone shares everything in a manner that’d make Karl Marx tear up with pride. But peel back a layer or two, and you’ll uncover a story so sly and audacious it could make a fox blush.

Back in the 1940s, when Israel was still fighting tooth and nail for its very existence, the Ayalon Institute wasn’t just a kibbutz. It was a full-blown, underground ammunition factory humming away right under the British military’s unsuspecting noses. And I mean literally underground. Picture it: a sprawling warren of machinery and workshops tucked beneath the surface, cranking out bullets with a precision that’d make a Swiss watchmaker jealous.

Hiding in Plain Sight

On the surface, the place was as innocent as a Sunday school picnic. To the British, it was just another kibbutz, with women hanging laundry, children playing in the sunshine, and men pretending to enjoy communal living. If the British had poked their heads in, they’d have found bread baking in the ovens, sheets flapping in the breeze, and not a hint of anything untoward. But just below all that wholesome kibbutz life, ingenuity was running riot.

Here’s the genius of it: the factory entrance was hidden inside a laundry building. Workers accessed it through a clever contraption, a giant industrial washing machine rigged to tilt and reveal a ladder. Down they went, into a secret underground lair where cartridge cases, gunpowder, and bullets came together in a symphony of clandestine manufacturing. The exhaust from all this industry was vented through the kitchen chimneys, masking the telltale smells and sounds of war preparations with the reassuring aroma of freshly baked bread.

And here’s the kicker: they weren’t just making a few bullets to stash in a drawer. Between 1945 and 1948, these resourceful rebels churned out a staggering 2.25 million rounds of ammunition. That’s right, million. All while the British authorities, bless their oblivious hearts, went about their business none the wiser.

A Kibbutz with a Twist

Now, if the word “kibbutz” conjures up images of earnest idealists quoting Das Kapital over a potluck dinner, you wouldn’t be far off. But there’s an irony here that tickled me pink. While the kibbutzniks were supposed to be the paragons of communal living, many of them figured out how to turn a tidy profit, because, as it turns out, the only thing more persistent than ideology is the need to make ends meet. The Ayalon Institute itself was a testament to that pragmatism: a shining example of what happens when resourcefulness and necessity meet under the cover of secrecy.

Why You Should Visit

Today, the Ayalon Institute is a museum, though it still feels alive with the spirit of its past. Walking through its halls, you can almost hear the faint hum of machinery and the whispered determination of those who labored here. It’s a monument to ingenuity, resilience, and the fine art of pulling the wool over the eyes of authority, a trait I’ve always admired in moderation.

If you find yourself in the Tel Aviv area, take a detour to Rishon LeTsiyon and pay a visit to the Ayalon Institute. It’ll leave you marveling at what a handful of determined souls can achieve with a bit of grit, a lot of gumption, and just enough mischief to keep things interesting. You’ll come away impressed, inspired, and maybe even a touch jealous that you didn’t think of it first.

Caesarea: Where History Meets the Holy and the Selfie-Worthy

On our northward journey to Haifa, we made a pit stop at Caesarea, a city so rich in history it could make a history professor weep, and leave even the hardiest traveler limping by day’s end. Perched on the glittering edge of the Mediterranean, this ancient Gentile port was the brainchild of none other than Herod the Great. Say what you will about Herod’s methods (and there’s plenty to say), the man knew how to build a city.

In its heyday, Caesarea was the Roman capital of Judaea and the favorite stomping ground of Roman troops. It was a place where politics and power mingled with waves and wine, and the stories stacked up faster than a tower of Babel. This city played host to Cornelius the centurion, who, thanks to Peter, became Christianity’s first Gentile convert. It saw Phillip the evangelist hang his hat here, and it served as the port from which Saul, later Paul, set sail for Tarsus. Later, Paul also found himself cooling his heels in one of its prisons, likely pondering theology and regretting the lack of indoor plumbing.

The Pilate Stone: A Prefect Surprise

The pièce de résistance of Caesarea, though, is something that’ll make even the most casual Christian sit up straighter: the Pilate Stone. Discovered by archaeologists in this very place, the stone bears the name of none other than Pontius Pilate, yes, that Pilate, etched in Latin for posterity. This was the first hard evidence of Pilate’s existence outside the Bible, and if that doesn’t put a shiver in your spine, you might want to check for a pulse.

The inscription, dating back to AD 26–36, even corrects historical records, giving Pilate his proper title: “Prefect of Judea.” Here was proof, carved into limestone, that this much-maligned bureaucrat had once walked the earth, ruled the region, and sealed the fate of Christ. It’s the sort of discovery that turns skeptics into believers, or at least sends them scurrying to Google.

Ruins Worth Roaming

Caesarea isn’t just a tale told in stone tablets, though. The ruins here are a marvel unto themselves. There’s a grand amphitheater where, if you squint and let your imagination run wild, you can almost hear the roars of the ancient crowds, cheering for gladiators or perhaps just for a decent day’s entertainment. The acoustics are so fine that modern concerts are still held here, proof that the Romans knew their way around a sound system, even if their dentistry left something to be desired.

The remains of a Roman aqueduct stretch along the beach, an enduring testament to engineering that’s both practical and picturesque. If you’re of a mind to take a selfie, this is the place to do it, though I’d suggest cropping out the modern bathers frolicking nearby, lest they ruin the illusion of timeless grandeur.

A Legacy That Lingers

Caesarea is the kind of place that stays with you, long after the dust has been brushed from your shoes. Its stones whisper stories of kings and converts, soldiers and saints, and one fateful Roman official who unwittingly cemented his legacy in the annals of history.

As we left, I glanced back at the ruins, gleaming in the Mediterranean sun, and thought to myself: Herod may have built it, Pilate may have governed it, and Paul may have preached here, but today it belongs to all of us who dare to wander through its history. It’s a fine place to lose yourself for a while, and to find a piece of the past that still feels remarkably present.

Atlit Immigration Camp: Bureaucracy, Barracks, and Lessons in Humanity

And next on the list, the most unexpected sight in all of Israel: a British concentration camp for Jews. Oh, pardon me, Immigration Camp, that’s what the Brits prefer to call it. Specifically, we’re talking about the Atlit Immigration Camp. Now, don’t get the wrong idea; there wasn’t any torture going on here, at least not the dramatic, Hollywood kind. No, this was more of a bureaucratic inconvenience camp.

You see, after the Partition Plan handed the reins of supervisor to the British, they decided that Jewish immigration into Israel should be a neat and tidy affair, orderly, peaceful, and absolutely on their schedule. So, Jews arriving in their ancestral homeland were promptly herded into these camps, where they could enjoy the privilege of waiting, sometimes for a year or more, until the British decided it was their turn to join society. Isn’t that thoughtful?

There’s even a nice little movie you can watch while you’re there, very educational, I’m sure, and the guides do a fine job of putting a shine on it. But let’s not forget the barracks. They’re still standing, bearing the scars of their unwilling occupants. Names and messages are scratched into the wooden walls, carved out with whatever sharp object someone desperate enough could get their hands on. It’s all very authentic, very sobering, and a stark reminder that “immigration management” has never been as tidy as the people in charge like to imagine.

It has never escaped me, in all our travels, the ghettos of Poland, the Czech Republic, the concentration and extermination camps we’ve walked through, that there’s been no shortage of human cultures trying their level best to dehumanize the Jew. What makes this place so unique, and so important to visit, is that it wasn’t the work of an Eastern bloc regime or some far-flung despot. No, this was done by Western civilization, by the British, of all people, something I would never have imagined in my wildest dreams.

That said, having endured the flight from Toronto, the idea of a “Reintroduction Camp” run by the airlines, might have its merits. You know, to help the Hasidic Jew help himself. Yes, the flight was fascinating, but also, let’s just say, a bit unruly for an enclosed cabin at 35,000 feet. At one point, one of the men stood up, swaying with such fervor during his prayers that he nearly toppled into the beverage cart. Emily, with her usual knack for understatement, leaned over and whispered, “I don’t think even those seatbelt signs can keep him grounded.” I couldn’t help but laugh, quietly, of course, because I wasn’t about to interrupt the man’s direct line to the Almighty.

The airline camp idea, would not be for punishment, mind you, but as a sort of reintroduction to the expectations of modern society. A place where the particularly devout could be eased into less disruptive ways of practicing their faith while learning about things like personal space and the perils of standing too close to a beverage cart mid-prayer. It’s not that I begrudge their devotion, not at all, but as the saying goes, everything in moderation, including swaying at cruising altitude.

And perhaps there’s a larger lesson in that, one that echoes back to those dark chapters in history we’ve witnessed firsthand. If the world had spent more time helping people understand and respect each other, instead of dividing and dehumanizing, maybe some of those atrocities could have been avoided. If an airline can figure out how to get a man and his prayer box safely across an ocean, surely the rest of us can figure out how to coexist without fences, camps, or worse.

Haifa: Miracles & Modernity

Our final stop of the day was Haifa, a city that sprawls lazily along the edge of the Mediterranean, its toes in the surf and its back propped up against the slopes of Mount Carmel. If the name Mount Carmel rings a bell, it’s probably because of poor Elijah, who, once upon a biblical time, found himself feeling lower than a centipede’s instep. Desperate to get God’s attention, he soaked an offering in water and then prayed for a divine response. Sure enough, God showed up with a fireball that torched the whole thing, water and all. Talk about making a point.

Fast-forward a few millennia, and Mount Carmel is now more famous for its botanical prowess than fiery theatrics. At the heart of Haifa’s charm lies the Bahai Gardens, a veritable staircase to the heavens, where meticulously groomed terraces ascend the mountain in perfect harmony. At its pinnacle sits the gold-domed Shrine of the Bab, gleaming like a celestial beacon and daring the sun to outshine it. Below this grandeur lies the German Colony, a quaint stretch of 19th-century architecture that has been repurposed into shops, galleries, and restaurants, a sort of historical meet-and-greet with capitalism.

Pizza Over Piety

For dinner, we bypassed the traditional German fare the area is known for and opted instead for pizza. Now, I realize that choosing pizza in a place steeped in history and international flavors might seem akin to ordering a hamburger at the Louvre, but a man’s got to answer the call of the crust when it comes. And I must say, Haifa’s pizza held its own, a fine testament to globalization, or perhaps just the city’s good sense.

A Room With a View (and Wi-Fi)

We holed up for the night at the Golden Crown Haifa Hotel, a snug little haven planted so squarely in the middle of things that even a blindfolded mule could find its way to the Bahai Gardens or the German Colony without much effort. The room had wood floors that lent an air of respectability to the place, though I imagine they’re also easier to clean after a particularly uncouth guest.

The free Wi-Fi ensured I could broadcast my continued existence to the digital world, and the television, though modest in size, served as a reminder that Haifa’s sights were far better than anything it could display. A small sitting area allowed for the illusion of civility, while the minibar offered temptations just worldly enough to make you feel sophisticated without requiring you to remortgage your home.

The hotel staff were as attentive as a mother hen, though mercifully less clucking, and the restaurant served food that, while not exactly divine, was certainly edible, a rare and underrated quality in hotel dining. All in all, the Golden Crown proved itself a fine choice, though I admit I kept a hopeful eye out for that blindfolded mule, which, alas, never materialized.

Onward to Acre

The next morning, we packed our bags and set off for a long day of travel, first heading north, then east. Our first stop: Acre, where stones hum with history and the falafel tastes like it’s been kissed by angels. But as I watched Haifa fade in the rearview mirror, its gold dome glinting in the morning sun, I couldn’t help but feel that the city, much like its legendary mountain, has a way of making even the smallest moments feel touched by something larger than life.

Acre: Where History and Chickpeas Collide

Acre is one of those cities where every cobblestone feels as though it might lean over and whisper an ancient secret, though it’s just as likely to complain about the falafel vendors cluttering up the street. Once the crown jewel of the Crusades, Acre was the city everyone wanted but nobody could hold onto for long. Its history reads like a medieval soap opera, complete with sieges, betrayals, and the occasional saintly cameo.

The city saw its first blockbuster siege in 1189, when the Crusaders tried to wrestle it away from Saladin. By 1291, Sultan Al-Ashraf Khalil had had enough of Acre’s revolving door of rulers and decided to raze it to the ground in a finale so dramatic it would’ve made a Hollywood producer blush. The man leveled the place with the determination of someone finally landing Boardwalk after a three-hour Monopoly marathon. You almost admire his flair for finality.

Before its fiery curtain call, Acre was a bustling hub of activity. The Acts of the Apostles mentions Luke the Evangelist and Paul the Apostle making a pit stop here, presumably to preach, teach, or perhaps indulge in a little local hummus. What they’d think of today’s Acre, with its souvenir shops hawking Crusader snow globes and falafel joints on every corner, is anyone’s guess. But I like to imagine Paul, a pragmatic sort, might’ve appreciated a decent chickpea fritter after a long day of evangelizing.

The Crusaders’ Last Stand

Acre was the Crusaders’ final stronghold in the Holy Land, their medieval Alamo. Everyone who was anyone in the Crusades made their way through this city at some point: Richard the Lionheart, Philip II of France, the Teutonic Knights, and the Knights Hospitaller, clanking about in their heavy armor and drinking mead from pewter mugs. It’s not hard to picture them swapping exaggerated tales of valor around a roaring fireplace, each trying to outdo the last with stories of dragons slain or infidels vanquished. Meanwhile, Sultan Khalil and his Mamluk forces were sharpening their swords and plotting Acre’s spectacular downfall. Spoiler alert: they succeeded.

Today, Acre is a ruin, but it’s a ruin with flair. Enough of its Crusader fortifications remain to make your imagination work overtime. Touring the fortress, I could almost hear the echoes of armored footsteps and the low murmur of knights arguing over strategy, or who got the last piece of roasted pheasant. The fireplaces, now cold, seemed ready to roar back to life at the slightest provocation, and the walls seemed to sigh with the weight of history.

A Dance Between Past and Present

After the fortress, we wandered through Acre’s streets, where the ancient and modern coexist with the awkwardness of two mismatched roommates. Centuries-old stone walls flank bustling markets selling everything from spices to plastic trinkets, and somewhere in between, history sneaks up and taps you on the shoulder.

Our day ended with a pilgrimage to a falafel stand proudly proclaiming itself “the best in the land.” Now, I’m not one to make such bold declarations, but this falafel, served unceremoniously on Styrofoam plates with plastic forks, was something special. As I bit into the crispy, golden chickpeas, I couldn’t help but marvel at the irony: Sultan Khalil might’ve conquered Acre, but he missed out on this culinary triumph. Truly, history’s greatest oversight.

Acre, in all its layers of history and humor, is a city that refuses to be forgotten. Its stones may hum with the weight of the past, but its falafel sings with the joy of the present. If you go, and I hope you do, bring your appetite for both. You’ll need it.

Rosh HaNikra: Nature’s Masterpiece on the Borderline

On the northern border of Israel, where the Mediterranean seems to nap lazily against cliffs as white as a swan’s feather, lie the Rosh HaNikra Grottos, a masterpiece of nature’s persistence. These caves, carved into soft chalk by centuries of sea waves that clearly decided mere splashing wasn’t dramatic enough, form a labyrinth of turquoise waters and winding, glistening walls. The whole place looks like Poseidon’s personal gallery, designed on an oceanic whim.

If you’re the sort who enjoys peppering your travels with biblical trivia, and let’s face it, that’s practically mandatory in these parts, you might be intrigued to learn that just south of here lies “Misraphot Mayim,” mentioned in the Book of Joshua as marking the borders of Israelite tribes. Fast-forward a few centuries, and the First Book of Maccabees speaks of the “Ladder of Tyre” as the northern boundary of the land. Clearly, this area has been a border since borders were invented, though the ancients were spared the sight of modern guard towers and fences bristling with enough firepower to make you tread carefully.

We had the privilege of chatting with a soldier stationed in a guardhouse overlooking the border. He was young, barely old enough to rent a car in most countries, and stood with a confidence that hinted at a readiness for anything, even if “anything” was just tourists with too many questions. I joked to Emily that his name was Elvis, but truth be told, he looked more like an Ehud. Polite and surprisingly chatty, he pointed us toward the grottos with a look that suggested he’d much rather be wandering their cool depths than standing watch in the sun.

Grottos Fit for a Sea God

And what grottos they were! Stretching some 200 meters into the cliffs, these caves shimmered with an almost magical light, the sunlight bouncing off the turquoise water as though it had discovered the secret to eternal youth. The waves roared and whispered in turns, filling the air with the sound of a conversation too ancient to decipher. It felt like we had stumbled upon the Mediterranean’s hidden sanctuary, a place where even the sea comes to dream.

But the grottos aren’t the only marvel here. Just a short walk away lies a relic of human ambition, a tunnel carved by the British during their mandate. Once part of a rail line connecting Israel to Istanbul, it’s now a historical oddity, the trains long gone, their place taken by a small theater showing films about the site’s history. There’s a touch of irony in it, really: a tunnel designed to whisk people off to distant lands now hosts visitors who sit still, munch popcorn, and watch a documentary. It’s as if the tunnel has retired, content to play tour guide instead of adventurer.

Layers of History and Waves of Time

As we strolled back along the cliffs, the salty air filling our lungs and the waves singing their timeless song, I couldn’t help but marvel at the layers of history this place holds. From ancient tribal borders to British engineering, from biblical lore to a soldier named Elvis, or Ehud, Rosh HaNikra has seen it all.

And yet, through it all, the sea continues its relentless work, carving and shaping, oblivious to borders and rail lines, indifferent to tourists and soldiers. It’s a humbling reminder that while humanity busies itself with drawing lines, building tunnels, and writing stories, nature simply goes on. The waves that carved these grottos have no agenda but time, and they will still be here long after the last name in history has been forgotten.

If you ever find yourself near the border of Israel and Lebanon, let Rosh HaNikra remind you of one simple truth: while the sea keeps carving and the cliffs keep standing, the rest of us are just passing through.