Over the decades, it has grown into a remarkable event, but this year’s race felt different.
The atmosphere was charged with something much deeper than the usual race-day excitement. Since October 7, the entire country of Israel has been in mourning, grappling with the tragic events of the massacre and the ongoing hostage crisis.
This year, the Dead Sea Marathon wasn’t simply a race about crossing a finish line - it became a symbol of shared grief, hope, and unity.
It felt like a race for those lost on that fateful day and for the hostages still held in Gaza. The runners weren’t just pushing for personal bests—they were running for something much larger than themselves.
As the race began, the atmosphere was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The Israeli flag was held high, and there was an overwhelming sense of Zionism in the air. It wasn’t just about running—it was about standing together in the face of adversity.
Thousands take part in the Dead Sea Marathon on the dikes of the Dead Sea (Image: Oren Salmon)[Missing Credit]
Hundreds of runners wore the faces of the hostages, their images printed on their shirts alongside Israeli flags. The sight of those flags, once a point of division and controversy, now felt like a symbol of pride and resilience.
For me, this was a powerful and emotional sight, especially given how rare it is to see Israeli flags displayed in such a visible and united way without being met with opposition or critique. The flags, intertwined with yellow ribbons symbolising the hostages, stood as a stark reminder of the ongoing crisis.
One of the most profound things I noticed was how connected everyone felt to the war. Everyone I spoke to seemed to know someone directly affected by the violence—their families, their friends, their neighbours.
Whether they had lost loved ones or had someone serving in the military, it was clear that the war had touched everyone in some way. Yet, amidst the pain, there was a sense of solidarity. This was a race about more than just the individual it was a collective expression of support, mourning, and hope.
The pre-race atmosphere was also remarkable. A DJ played energetic EDM music reminiscent of the Nova Festival, which, at first, felt a bit odd considering the sombre context, but it managed to lift everyone’s spirits.
The music seemed to offer a much-needed break from the heavy emotions surrounding the race. And despite the tough situation, there was an undeniable sense of joy.
People smiled at one another, cheered each other on, and celebrated every moment of the race. Even though we were running, it felt like an entire community was moving forward together.
And, of course, no race in Israel is complete without snacks! As I ran (the 10k), I was handed pretzels, crisps, and fruit—simple comforts that felt symbolic of the unique sense of hospitality and warmth that exists in Israeli culture.
The JC's Ellie Grant with her finishers medal[Missing Credit]
Though the course was flat and the elevation wasn’t challenging, the headwinds picked up as we approached the finish line, making the last stretch feel like a true test of endurance. Yet, even in those moments of physical exhaustion, I didn’t feel alone.
Surrounded by 8000 runners, I was reminded that Israel, despite everything, remains a nation united. In a small country where everyone knows someone affected by the ongoing war, the race was a demonstration of the resilience of the people and the strength of the shared experience.
One aspect of the marathon that struck me was how Israel’s diverse society came together for the event.
The marathon had a much smaller number of foreign participants this year—only 200 out of 8,000 runners—but in many ways, this made the race even more meaningful.
The course was populated by a wide spectrum of Israeli society: young Orthodox men and women, fathers running with strollers, new immigrants from the UK and the US, and Arab Israelis. It was a vivid reminder that, despite the turmoil surrounding the country, Israel’s diversity is still alive and well, and that unity transcends even the most difficult of circumstances.
While the media often focus on division and protest, this race showcased the underlying solidarity within the nation.
The message from Race Director Ophir Kindler was clear - next year, more tourists would come and participate. It was an optimistic call to action, a recognition that despite the challenges, Israel remains a place for people of all backgrounds to come together, whether for a race or for something greater.
Safety was also a key concern this year. With tourism dramatically reduced due to the war, I spoke to many runners who expressed how safe they felt in Israel. Many even told me they felt safer here than in their own countries.
As a British Jew, I understood that sentiment deeply. Since October 7, it has been difficult to express my Zionism openly, but here, during the marathon, I felt a powerful sense of connection to my Jewish identity. This race, this gathering of people, allowed me to express my faith and pride without fear.
The story behind the Dead Sea Marathon is one of family, remembrance, and a deep sense of tradition. Eli Ron, who lost both of his sons—Giora, who died during the first Lebanon War in 1982, and Tomer, who tragically passed away in a 1995 accident—has always been a central figure in the marathon.
Each year, he opens the race, a significant moment that reminds us of the personal losses that have shaped the event. His sons' memories live on through the race, and this year, it felt as if the entire community was running in their honour.
While the Dead Sea Marathon may not attract the world-class long-distance runners like the London or New York marathons, it has something those races can’t replicate - a sense of community, national pride, and resilience.
For many, running at the lowest point on Earth is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but for me, this race was so much more than that. It was an opportunity to witness the strength of Israel—an Israel that is still standing strong, united despite its challenges, and determined to persevere.
