Go Visit the Injured

Omer is lying in bed with an ankle brace when we arrive. Around his neck hangs a silver chain over his black T-shirt. Wow, what a little corner you have here! I exclaim. He laughs. What’s your name?

Omer, he says, with the ice broken. He has the curly hair of a free spirit and a post-puberty stubble around his chin. I ask him about music, which singers he likes, who he recommends.

I just finished traveling for 10 months in Central America, he says. It was there I got into music festivals. The week before, my friends suggested we go. Yalla, I said, let’s go.

We had a great time, he continues with complete sincerity. B’emet neheneti, I really enjoyed.

Omer survived Nova.

He had arrived early, at midnight, eager to dance with friends under the starried desert night. When the sirens sounded in the morning, he was high. With two friends, he sprinted to a bomb shelter. They hid in this safe room until the terrorists came and shot it up. One of his friends was killed immediately. After spraying bullets, the terrorists tossed in a few grenades too. His arms and legs absorbed shards of iron. Then his other friend was killed. Covered in blood, he played dead. For hours he lay beside the bodies of his friends. Then the bloodthirsty murderers returned to double check everyone was dead. Later, he heard Hebrew voices outside searching for signs of life. He called out and exited the shelter into the blinding sunlight. In a miracle which defies all matter of rhyme and reason, Omer survived.

From right to left: Me, Omer, my mom, his mom

Today he sits in the rehabilitation ward at Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv. His brother is fighting in Gaza. His father is at home, working. His mother, most hours of the day, stays with him in his shared room. We speak about Omer’s travels, his love for music and friends.

You may expect the rehab ward to be somber—and I am unable to fathom the pain and trauma Omer will carry forever—but together under fluorescent lights we laugh more belly laughs than I have laughed in a long time.

The truth is, I didn’t feel like visiting injured civilians and soldiers. I thought it would be awkward. Who wants to talk to strangers? Boy was I wrong. Not only did we strengthen them, they strengthened us.

A few minutes later we meet Eti, a youthful-looking woman with brunette hair in her mid-40’s. She is crouched on her bed with a shelf-full of rubber ducks behind her. At first I assume she is the mother of a patient since she doesn’t look injured.

What’s your name? We ask.

Eti, she says with an animated kind of jubilance. You just came to say hi? she asks.

Yes, from Boston! my mom says.

No way, look at this. She flips through her phone until she arrives at a video of Julian Edelman from the Patriots wishing her condolences and a speedy recovery. She adores our ability to appreciate Edelman’s fame. The Israelis don’t get it! she laughs.

During the second week of the war Eti got into a fatal motorcycle accident with her husband. They were going to visit displaced families from the South and bring them homemade cakes and cookies. Eti blacked out and doesn’t remember anything (thank God, she says) until waking up in the hospital three hours later. Waking up, she cried out: where is my husband?! I want to see my husband! The doctor told her the earth-shattering news.

You kept insisting, bring the cakes, the on-scene officer told her afterwards. I had no idea what you were talking about. In the end he understood and brought the cakes to the hotel.

A picture of her daughter in the beige air-force uniform is printed on the wall beside Eti’s bed, a selfie with her lips in duck-face style and an oversized military cap on her head. It’s just us now, she said in a matter-of-fact tone. My life is changed forever.

Eti rolled up her sleeve to show us the scars on her shoulder and triceps, but it seemed like she continued to stay in the hospital ward for the chevre and camaraderie. Seeing these soldiers and party-goers recover gives me strength, she said.

Lastly we visit Itamar from Ofikim, an off-duty soldier who courageously grabbed his gun on the morning of Oct. 7 and fought multiple terrorists. Tragically his two friends were killed. Itamar himself took 4 bullets—two to the abdomen and two in the legs. When his mother, Tali Hadad, who has since become famous, saw him injured laying on the street, she brought him to the hospital, dropped him off, and then returned to the line of fire multiple times to rescue an additional 13 people and bring them to safety.

Itamar was lying in bed watching soccer when we arrive. His mother, Tali, was sitting in the corner encouraging us to eat some of the pizza volunteers had brought. Itamar tells us his story and pulls up his shirt to reveal the red line remaining from the surgeon’s incursion into his stomach to remove the bullets.

Were you scared? I can’t help but ask.

He shakes his head.

Why would I be scared? Worst case scenario, I’ll die. I had a gun. My job was to protect people.

I was dumbstruck. Speechless. In total awe of the courage, commitment and self-sacrifice on full display in this 22-year old guy with brown eyes sitting in front of me.

We visited a few other people but I’ll stop here because what I want to tell you is, if you’re in Israel, go visit them yourselves. No advance planning required. Just go to any hospital and ask for directions to the rehab ward (shikum) and you’ll tragically find plenty of injured people who are eager and grateful for your company.

Yes, you’ll see legs in casts and arms in slings. You’ll see nurses distributing medicine and soldiers with assault rifles slung across their back. You’ll see all that. You’ll see war. And war is not pretty.

But you know what you’ll also see?

Board games and snacks, manicure, pedicure and drawing stations. Friends and family, mostly young people, sitting around tables like campfires regaling stories, taking selfies, laughing and sharing memories. Maybe by surprise you’ll find a bubbly and animated atmosphere, vibrant with life and the living, and leave with a restored hope in the resilience of human spirit and our indomitable pursuit of joy even in the most cruel of circumstances.

Make no mistake: these are heroes. Whether they were injured at the festival or so bravely fought on Oct. 7 or later: these are the kind, young, special souls defending us from evil.

They will be strengthened by you but you will also be strengthened by them.