Simchat Torah is a time of celebration, a time to rejoice in the Torah and come together with family and friends. But the morning of Oct. 7 shattered that peaceful joy.
After a festive evening with loved ones, I woke early to go to synagogue. It was around 7:30 a.m. when the sirens blared—the ominous sound signaling the start of what would become one of the darkest days in Israeli history. My first instinct was to check on my pregnant wife, who was understandably anxious. I did my best to calm her, but the growing tension was palpable. Soon after, I heard an urgent call on my radio device: “We are at war. Any volunteer who can come to United Hatzalah headquarters, please do so immediately.”
With my wife’s blessing, I left for headquarters, unsure of the horrors awaiting us. Upon arrival, we were divided into ambulance teams. “You’re going south,” they told me. At first, I mistakenly thought they meant southern Jerusalem. It wasn’t until a colleague informed me that we were heading to southern Israel, near the Gaza border, that the gravity of the situation began to sink in. I rushed home once more to ask for my wife’s permission. She gave me her blessing again, and we set off.
As we neared the Gaza periphery, the scene was surreal. Rockets streaked across the sky; thick smoke billowed from the horizon. We arrived at the Heletz Junction, where United Hatzalah set up a staging area. Our ambulance was soon tasked with treating wounded police officers, many of whom had been shot. Despite the severity of their injuries, one officer’s positivity stood out to me. Even as he endured unimaginable pain, he asked for Jewish prayers to be recited, finding solace in faith.
The situation quickly escalated. After transporting the wounded to Assuta Medical Center in Ashdod, we were asked to go deeper into the chaos. Five ambulance teams volunteered to enter Kfar Aza, and we were among them. What we encountered was beyond anything I could have imagined: destroyed cars, motorcycles and bodies—both of Israelis and Palestinian terrorists—strewn everywhere. One image that will forever stay with me is the sight of a headless body and a mother and daughter, lifeless beside their car.
At an army base, trucks arrived carrying tens of bodies. We treated a girl from the Nova music festival whose arm was badly injured. As we drove her to the hospital, I held her arm, realizing that the pressure relieved some of her pain. Throughout this journey, the fear was constant. Every tree seemed like it could be hiding a terrorist. The sounds of helicopters, gunfire and tanks were relentless. It was terrifying.
One of the most heart-wrenching encounters was with a soldier driving a truck full of the bodies of his comrades. He was crying, and when I offered him psychotrauma help, he refused, saying he needed to focus on his mission for now but would seek help later.
Sometimes, our ambulance carried up to four people at once. I remember transporting a soldier who was having a panic attack. Midway through the ride, he insisted that we stop, saying he had recovered and needed to return to his unit. His determination to rejoin his comrades was inspiring.
When I returned home that night, I was too overwhelmed to speak. But the next day, with my wife’s support, I returned to the front lines. We searched shelters, helping people who had been trapped for hours, ensuring them that the army was regaining control. One elderly man, after spending 12 hours in a shelter, said all he wanted was a pizza. So we got him one—and shared it with him.
Over the next month, we continued helping those affected by the tragedy. I’ll never forget the two soldiers—one of them Arab—who recognized us from a previous mission and embraced us in gratitude. Or the soldier who requested a child-sized body bag—not for a child, but for his fallen K9 partner. The dog had saved 34 lives by absorbing the impact of a grenade.
In the face of such unimaginable horror, I learned the importance of unity. We stood by our country and our people, supporting one another through the darkest of times. A friend from Hatzalah in London called me, asking if I needed to talk. And I realized that I did. In moments like these, talking is crucial. We must open up to our friends and neighbors, share our burdens and help each other heal.
We will get through this … together.
