In June, I was one of 1,500 young Americans evacuated from Israel to Cyprus.
Our ship, the Crown Iris, departed from Ashdod, a port city between Tel Aviv and the Gaza Strip. Thirty-seven miles south, families were starving. Twenty-six miles north, others raced to bomb shelters. Cruising away from war, I was forced to confront the Crown Iris problem: how easily American privilege lets us float above human suffering, shielded by distraction and comfort.
I went to Israel on a Birthright Israel trip, hoping to deepen my understanding of Judaism’s ties to the land and learn firsthand about the Israel-Hamas conflict. Initially, the trip unfolded as expected: panoramic hikes, spirited volunteer work and nightly bonding. Then Israel struck Iran — and everything changed.
Over five days, I sheltered from missile attacks a dozen times — the scariest in broad daylight, sprawled on the grass in Jerusalem’s Sacher Park. As sirens wailed, my friends and I had five minutes to sprint to a bomb shelter, weaving through panicked parents who clutched children in both arms.
When Birthright offered me a seat on an evacuation boat, one escorted by the Israeli navy, I accepted immediately.
What followed wasn’t just an evacuation — it was a stark reminder of my privilege.
On June 17, I expected to board a tense, bare-bones vessel. I couldn’t sleep the night before, anxious about spending 20 hours packed like a sardine. Instead, I boarded the Crown Iris: a 10-deck cruise ship with a casino, water slide, gym and three full-service restaurants.
As we crossed the Mediterranean, I read my Kindle in the sun, played my first game of roulette and drank one too many espresso martinis — trying to drown a gnawing sense of guilt.
Because while I was safe on a floating resort, I couldn’t stop thinking about those left behind.
My friend Amit, a 22-year-old Israeli soldier. The Israeli girls I gossiped with on a kibbutz near the Golan Heights. The Druze families in Haifa who opened their homes to us. Thousands of Iranians fleeing airstrikes in Tehran. And the 2.2 million Palestinians in Gaza, where food and aid have become weapons of war.
Of course, not everyone wants to leave in wartime. For many, staying is a necessity — and a reflection of identity and resilience. This is their home. But that only made me more unsettled. I had the means, the passport and the choice. Most people don’t.
At 5 a.m. the next day, I stood at the edge of the ship deck, journal in hand, trying to make sense of how 1,500 young Americans literally cruised away from a war zone — and why so many of us were OK with it.
Hours after docking, videos from the ship spread like wildfire: passengers dancing around the pool, cocktails sloshing, a playlist that screamed spring break. The backlash was swift and justified. People called the scene tone-deaf, callous and insensitive. It was a painful metaphor for everything that felt wrong about the evacuation, making visible what many of us were already reckoning with internally: We get to forget.
We live in the most connected age in human history — yet we’ve never been more detached from global realities. Young Americans can scroll on their phones for hours without seeing a single post about Israel, Iran, Ukraine, Taiwan or any geopolitical flashpoint. Digital silos have become the everyday Crown Iris, gently steering us away from the world beyond our own feeds.
It’s tempting to blame our detachment on political disillusionment — the feeling that our individual actions don’t matter — or on “America First” ideologies that say we should prioritize our own interest. But the scarier truth is that those who could speak up, who have the safety and platform to do so, are simply too insulated to notice.
If the history of U.S. foreign policy has taught us anything, it’s that ignorance has consequences. It paves the way for unnecessary shows of force and enables leaders to posture rather than lead — to offer just enough aid, weapons or diplomatic lip service to soothe public conscience without actually fixing anything.
To be clear: I don’t believe the solution to the Crown Iris problem is to put everyone on a rusty fishing trawler. I also don’t believe it is the sole responsibility of organizations like Birthright to make us perceptive, empathetic individuals.
As a collective generation, we need to cultivate more spaces where dissonance isn’t avoided but used as a mirror. We need to acknowledge when we’re cruising away, literally and figuratively. That means asking hard questions and searching for real context, without fear of provocation. That means resisting passive consumption and using our digital tools with intention.
American privilege isn’t going anywhere. But to any young person with the freedom to disconnect, you have the responsibility to engage. Identify which lawmakers drive the issues that make you tick, and organize collective outreach. Vote in every election — not just the big ones — because democracy adds up. Volunteer with international nongovernmental organizations, so change doesn’t rest solely in the hands of governments. The first step is naming your privilege. The second is mobilizing it.
So let’s decide to push ourselves and push each other. Because no cruise lasts forever.
Ani Feinberg lives in Washington. She works as a digital copywriter at Precision Strategies.
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