‘October 7 changed me as a doctor and also as a person’

The journey to the kibbutz felt like a descent into hell. Dead, mutilated bodies lined the roadsides. I saw cars with their doors open and corpses hanging out of them, their seatbelts still on. I was at Be’eri for four days but on the second day, October 8, we were sent to the Re’im parking lot where the Nova festival had taken place. It was difficult to take in the number of dead young people, to see the violated bodies draped over refrigerators emblazoned with Coca-Cola signs. It quickly became apparent that there was nobody left to treat, to help. The victims were either dead or had already been evacuated. So we returned to Be’eri.

At the kibbutz, I tried to gently move some of the dead bodies out of my sight line. It is very difficult to do the work of a doctor when you can see dead human beings out of the corner of your eye. You could say I needed to do whatever I could to reduce my and my fellow doctors’ trauma.

I’m a 52-year-old orthopaedic surgeon, and I’ve been working as a foot-and-ankle specialist for the past 15 years. I am more than used to seeing blood; I see difficult things every day. But seeing all those murdered people at the kibbutz, the scores of violated women and children, at the same time and in a place where they were supposed to be protected, this was of a different order. October 7 has changed me, as a doctor and as a person.

And while we were treating and trying to save people at Be’eri on October 7, the terrorists were still there. There was constant gunfire, bullets were flying past us, and people were screaming, “On the floor, somebody is coming!” On the second day, the cars were still on fire and bodies were still on the ground.

I have been trained to administer and remove tourniquets in a medical setting, but I quickly realised that we couldn’t get all the soldiers and civilians to hospital in time to save their limbs, and that we had to start operating there and then. I took on that responsibility myself, and there were moments of disagreement with my colleagues.

For example, there was a wounded American soldier. He was 20 years old, and I knew that if we waited until he was at hospital to treat him, both his legs and hands would have to be amputated. So I treated him on the ground, and I saved all four of his limbs. Since the massacre and during Israel’s war on Hamas in Gaza, I have saved the limbs of around 70 people.

There was another moment at Be’eri that will stay with me for ever. A soldier came to me, his hand on his neck, and said, “I was shot.” When he took his hand away, I saw a hole in his throat. Then, he lost consciousness. I understood that cutting his throat to try and open his airway was the only medical option, so that’s what we did – and we saved his life. It’s the kind of thing that only doctors can appreciate from a medical point of view. I didn’t, and still don’t, know that soldier’s name. In fact, I tried to treat people without connecting with them or asking for details of any kind. I was working like a robot, doing what I needed to do. I flicked a switch, if you like.

During the first weeks of the war, my colleagues and I were mostly working in the north of the Gaza Strip, including in Gaza City, trying to rescue our hostages. After several months, I realised I had to maintain my skills as a foot-and-ankle surgeon, and my line manager and I reached an agreement. For the past year and a half I’ve been spending two mornings a week at the Rabin Medical Centre, and after that I’m on army duty. I feel that I am living in two different worlds. In the morning at the hospital everything is normal, regular life. I see my patients and I perform surgeries. In the afternoon I’m in Gaza and inside a war zone, witnessing the disaster and trying to save people’s lives.

My wife is a nurse, which means she understands my strange new life. She told me, “Do what you have to do, and I will take care of the rest.” As a family, it’s very hard. We have four kids, and the eldest is a paramedic in the army. My clinic feels neglected. It will take time to recover everything. I hope it will happen soon.

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The surgeon ftold his story to Elisa Bray. The IDF requested he remained anonymous. The Rabin Medical Center is in Petak Tikvah, in Israel