Countries urge their citizens to leave Iran and Israel amid rising war fears.
Several countries, including European and Asian governments, are urging their citizens to leave or avoid travel to Iran and Israel as fears of a broader conflict intensify amid rising tensions in the Middle East.
The warnings arrive as Washington and Tehran quietly pursue indirect talks, hoping diplomacy can prevent tensions from spiralling into conflict.
The departure lounges at Ben Gurion Airport outside Tel Aviv have become a crossroads of anxiety and uncertainty. Families huddle with too many suitcases, children ask why they’re leaving friends behind, and elderly passengers clutch travel documents like lifelines. Across the region, a quiet exodus is underway—not of panicked masses, but of diplomats and citizens heeding warnings that something terrible may be coming.
For Sarah, an American teacher who has lived in Jerusalem for six years, Friday’s State Department notice landed like a thunderclap. “Non-essential personnel may leave voluntarily,” it read. The words were clinical, but their meaning was unmistakable: get out while you can.
Sarah stood in her apartment that evening, staring at bookshelves filled with a decade of memories. “I told them I’d be here for their final exams. Now I’m packing like I’m never coming back.” Her cat rubbed against her leg, oblivious to the geopolitics unraveling around them.
At the Canadian embassy in Tehran, a young consular officer named Michael spent Friday making calls no one wants to make. “You have to leave,” he told each Canadian on the other end of the line. Some thanked him. Others argued. A few simply cried. By evening, his voice was hoarse, and his hands trembled slightly as he reached for his fourth cup of coffee. “We’re telling people to abandon their lives,” he said quietly. “Homes, businesses, friendships—just walk away. And we don’t even know if the war will come.”
In London, the Foreign Office’s decision to withdraw diplomatic staff from Iran sent ripples through the Iranian-British community. Parisa, a dual national visiting family in Tehran, received the alert on her phone while having tea with her elderly mother. She looked at her mother, who was stirring sugar into her glass, and felt sick. “Maman,” she said softly, “I think I have to go home early.”
Her mother set down the spoon, her hand trembling slightly. “You just arrived.”
In Tel Aviv, the British embassy staff received their relocation orders with professional calm that belied personal turmoil. David, a political officer with two young children, broke the news to his six-year-old daughter over dinner. His daughter looked at him with the unsettling perception of children. “Is it because of the bad men, Abba?” she asked. David had no answer.
Across the region, the warnings multiplied. Canada urged its nationals to leave Iran. Germany advised against travel to Israel. France recommended avoiding Jerusalem and the West Bank. Poland didn’t mince words: leave Iran, Israel and Lebanon immediately, before airspace closes. Italy, Belgium, Serbia, Cyprus, India—each added its voice to the chorus.
In a small apartment in Beirut, a Lebanese woman named Rima watched the news with her Palestinian husband, Ahmed. Both held European passports—she through her mother in Brussels, he through years of work in Germany. The Belgian travel advisory pinged on her phone. “Remain vigilant,” it said. “Maintain contact with consular services.”
Rima looked at Ahmed. “We could go,” she said. “My mother’s apartment in Brussels is small, but…”
Ahmed shook his head. “And my father? Your cousins? We just leave them?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
At Ben Gurion Airport, the departures board flickered with flights to London, Frankfurt, New York, Mumbai. An Australian family argued near the check-in counter—the father wanting to stay, the mother insisting they leave, the teenage daughter scrolling through her phone, pretending not to hear. “The embassy said voluntary departure,” the father said. “Voluntary means we have a choice.”
“No,” his wife replied, tears in her eyes. But it’s still the right choice.”
In Tehran, an elderly shopkeeper named Hassan watched the exodus from his fruit stand near the former British embassy. He had lived through the revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, countless crises. “They come and go, the diplomats,” he said, arranging oranges in a neat pyramid. “But we stay. We always stay. Where would we go?”
His grandson, a university student named Kaveh, helped a customer with her bags. “Baba, maybe we should think about it,” he said quietly. “The warnings…”
Hassan waved a weathered hand. This is our home. If war comes, it comes. But I will not spend my last days as a refugee.”
Outside, the Tehran afternoon stretched long and golden. Somewhere over the horizon, aircraft carriers moved into position. In chanceries across the world, officials debated escalation thresholds. And in the departure lounges and fruit stalls, in the apartments and consular offices, ordinary people made impossible choices—to stay or to go, to hope or to flee, to hold on or to let go.
The diplomats would return when tensions eased. But for the millions who call this troubled region home, there is no voluntary departure, no remote work, no safe harbor elsewhere. There is only waiting, and wondering, and the fragile hope that reason will prevail before it’s too late.