There are many ways to see the strength and strength of the people of Israel in the last two-plus months. Anyone who travels around the country sees that perhaps in the past two years we have forgotten what it means to be one people, but the moment of the greatest crisis that Israeli society has known in its 75 years of existence reminds us that we once knew how to live with each other in a way that served as a model. A light unto the nations, in our darkest time.
In the rehabilitation wards of Sheba Tel Hashomer Hospital, dubbed "Back to Life," this Israeliness is distilled to precision. One that if they have to define what keeps us together in the midst of the great darkness, it will drain into a place where all kinds of Israeliness meet.
Each room is a whole world. The Department at Sheba, Photo: Avishag Shar-Yashuv
The dry numbers tell us that the war has so far turned at least 2,000 civilians, soldiers and police officers with limb injuries or disabilities of varying degrees. In comparison, in the Yom Kippur War this number was 7,200.
These are numbers that are about to radically change Israeli society, and as with many other issues, they caught it off guard and raised many questions about the current treatment and, of course, about the future. Regarding the first part, it is safe to say that our wounded soldiers receive the best possible care, and that at Tel Hashomer they have increased their therapeutic capacity.
From Black Saturday until this week, some 900 people with varying degrees of disability arrived in Sheba. This week we got a rare glimpse into the rehabilitation process of some of them, the personal stories that take place in the rooms, each of which is a whole world, and also the general one, told in the corridors - a story of a new Israeliness growing here.
"It's our turn to fight for home"
In the physiotherapy room, 26-year-old Naor works with his physiotherapist on a large cylinder ball in order to restore the damaged leg to function. Slowly, the movement takes place and the signs of effort are evident. Everything was done just before the surgery he was expected to undergo on Thursday.
"I got one bundle to my stomach and chest and one to my legs," he says. "I was pulled into the warehouse of the wounded and I felt what I was going through at any given moment, so I could tell my friends exactly what I was feeling and describe the situation. They talked to me all the time, and I talked all the time, too, but slowly it was hard for me to speak. At that point, I looked at my leg and saw it completely open, just like in the pictures and movies, with the blood inside. My consciousness fogged up, but I remember every moment."
Naor speaks in a calm tone. The staff wishes him good luck in the surgery and he admits with a shy smile. He is from Ibn Shmuel, a religious settlement near Kiryat Gat. He was 26 years old, but "only" a corporal because his life path was different, unconventional, one that led him to fight in the Gaza Strip and get wounded.
"I think it's a privilege," he says. "We went out to defend the people of Israel, and I know it sounds strange when you see me wounded like that, but first of all I wasn't killed, and another thing - I know that my injury is not for nothing. After all, we didn't want this war. We were called to defend our country. Before us, too, many soldiers were wounded in battle, now it's our turn to fight for home."
"I will come back to fulfill my dream." Naor in rehabilitation, photo: Avishag Shar-Yashuv
Before everything that happened, Naor was supposed to start his third year at the Technion, on the way to fulfilling a dream that has accompanied him since childhood. "I dream of establishing a space industry in the Negev," he says. "Now I have to see how I'll come out of surgery and how I'll cope with my studies. It's not that they'll wait for me, but I need to find a solution. I can't sit on Zoom all day. It would be impossible because I have rehabilitation.
"Despite everything, I think that our capabilities in the army showed me that this dream is possible, certainly in the Negev. I'll recover and come back to fulfill it, our industry will still do it, I'm sure."
Naor, a reservist who was wounded: "We went out to defend the people of Israel and I know it sounds strange when you see me wounded like that, but first of all I wasn't killed, and another thing - I know that my injury is not for nothing. We were called to defend
our country."
"From Mea Shearim to Reserve"
Some of the wounded are forbidden to be photographed and some are forbidden to talk to, given their classified roles. They smile at us when we enter their rooms and agree to say one thing: "Relative to the price we pay, we... Them. It is very important that this message gets through. We burn into their brains the consciousness of a Nakba. They'll talk about what we're doing there for another 50 or 100 years." In the conversations, they describe the battles against terrorists who come out of the shafts and disappear. A fight reminiscent of the quote from "Good Morning, Vietnam," that iconic movie starring Robin Williams, "Fighting here is like going hunting with Ray Charles."
Again, as in so many articles during this war, the interviewees who went through the inferno feel a strong need to say words of encouragement to you, the guest for a moment. Even though they are the ones who sit in wheelchairs and are forced to adapt to the new reality. From the physiotherapy and occupational therapy rooms, sounds of nerves and exertion can sometimes be heard. The weights are too heavy, the body is not functioning as it was two months ago.
Some of the wounded are forbidden to be photographed and some are forbidden to talk to, given their classified roles. They smile at us and agree to say one thing: "We burn into their brains the consciousness of the Nakba. They'll talk about what we're doing there for another 50 or 100 years."
Suddenly, from one of the rooms, the melody of a cello and violin was heard. As you get closer, you can see that this is "Kol Nidre" by the German composer Max Baruch. On the bed sits the armored personnel Sergeant Mordechai Shenwald, who has already been nicknamed "The Wounded Fiddler." Schoenwald was hit by a missile that shattered 11 of his 12 ribs. His lungs were quickly damaged and his life was miraculously saved, after everyone was already sure that the injury was fatal. "I live in a truck, driving around Israel," says Schoenwald as the music subsides for a moment. "On the eve of the war, I came to Jerusalem. Karlin Hasidism hosted me and from Mea Shearim I went on reserve duty."
In front of him sits a young reserve who asks "not to take pictures and not to write my name, they told me I wasn't allowed to be photographed." So we will write only that she is 19 years old from Kfar Saba, and that her cello playing brought into the small room dozens of people, in uniform and not, who come closer to hear some classical sounds through the never-ending bustle of the day, the one that produces an illogical but apparently so Israeli noise.
The joint playing is suddenly interrupted by shouting. It takes a few seconds to realize that these are screams of joy. One of the friends in the next room got out of bed and left after a tremendous effort, and Schoenwald, who was injured along with him, feels compelled to share the experience. "We have a mighty people with wonderful support," he says as he returns to the room.
There is not a moment of silence in the department, and MK Matan Kahane enters the room. "Do you know I used to play the trumpet?" he asks, and Schoenwald doesn't wait and pulls out an old, certainly unoiled, trumpet from his bedside. Kahane quickly starts cleaning the trumpet, telling about his son fighting in Gaza. The two play together and again the hallway fills with people coming into the room to watch the situation. A fighter and a Knesset member who is a former fighter play together on the bed in the ward.
"We have a mighty people." Mordechai Shenwald (right) playing with MK Matan Kahane, photo: Avishag Shar-Yashuv
The music lasts only a few minutes, and soldiers laden with bags burst into the room with a smile. "Yesterday you said you don't have iPhones and tablets, so the Committee for the Soldier took care of you," they smile. The soldiers respond with cries of joy. Schnewald, who is already experienced in such events, tells Kahane, "Wait a second, I'll shoot them a video thank you from us in English and Hebrew." He looks into the camera and begins to recite.
"You know that the average time to watch movies like this is three seconds, so be concise, otherwise they won't watch," advises Kahane, who discovers that his lungs are indeed strong as he exhales on the unoiled trumpet. "In recent years I've been playing the flute more, but you brought me a trumpet and now I want to go back to playing it. Well, it's good that I came to visit you."
"Hello, you have two legs"
On the other side of the rehabilitation wing is the orthopedic department. Limb injuries come here to adjust to their new lives. Some from the beginning of the war, others continue to come. The families wrap everyone in love, but there is a lot of work to be done and the road to rehabilitation is still long. For every small success there is great rage that comes from frustration, but it's hard not to be impressed by the collective feeling that in the end, cliché as it may sound, at least in the hospital they go through it together. The masses of the House of Israel also come here, for example a group of pensioners who knitted wool hats and covers for the wounded soldiers "so that you will not be cold in winter."
If you have to choose one star in the physiotherapy room, it is Jonathan Ben Hamo (22). The young officer, who was on the first D9 to enter Gaza, filmed himself hitting a missile in his direction in a video that went viral.
The fact that Jonathan is proud to tell his story has made him a familiar figure for Israelis, who of course ask for selfies. "Until now I was just a soldier, but look what has happened to me since the injury. Everyone wants to be photographed, I've become someone special," he says as he is led in his wheelchair by his smiling parents.
In the physiotherapy room, a little history takes place, when Jonathan manages to stand on one leg. The excitement and worry mingle in his mother's face, the physiotherapist smiles from ear to ear and the rest of the room swallows their saliva and hopes that the tears will stop and not give away emotions. If you search for a picture of victory by force, perhaps it is expressed in this small-big moment of Jonathan Ben Hamo, a young officer who mobilizes enormous forces – who knows where and how – to stand on one leg, which carries his muscular body.
"It's a right to fight." Yehonatan Ben Hamo, Photo: Avishag Shar-Yashuv
"What happened? What are you nervous about? You got a tablet, relax," he tells his wounded friends who are looking at him. His physiotherapist supports him and asks to raise the level of exercise. "Hello, you have two legs, you forget," he winks and decides to do the exercise. One leg has been amputated, the other is loaded with shrapnel and the toes are still broken, but the wind is strong and the effort is not evident on his face, even though it is clear that these are difficult exercises.
Meanwhile, new wounded people enter the room. They still do not understand everything that is happening and gather within themselves. Ben-Hamo is not a representative example, as he does not betray his frustration even for a moment. Strength throughout, in the face of others who do not hide their rage at the momentary failure of the exercises given to them.
Then we meet outside the room, on the spacious balcony. "It's much nicer here than anywhere else, spacious," says Jonathan, asking the family for another pack of cigarettes. "Inside Gaza, I smoked three cans a day without feeling. You run over everything that moves, hundreds of houses. You don't see the terrorists at all. They come out of a shaft for a moment and disappear, so you sit and smoke all the time."
The missile he hit set the vehicle he was driving on fire. Resourceful, and "even though I could already feel the hot currents in my feet," he jumped out of the narrow window to the ground, an action that probably saved his life. At this point, of all the things he could do, he pulled out his cell phone again and began to immortalize himself with the morphine syringe in his mouth. "Leave you alone, it doesn't help, it's nothing," he said in the video.
"I felt serious heat in my legs, but I was conscious and filmed everything. I understood what was happening around me," he recalls, surrounded by friends and family, as well as people who approached him here in the hospital. Something about his behavior just magnetized them. "You know, officers spend an entire career trying to get into Gaza and fight like we do. Even though I was injured, it's a privilege. I know it seems strange to you that I've lost a leg and I'm all smiling, but it's a feeling shared by everyone here. Maybe it's because we're young and optimistic by nature. After all, there is no explanation as to why I am here and others are not. These are decisions of that moment that could have been completely different."
If you search for a picture of victory by force, perhaps it is expressed in this small-big moment of Jonathan Ben Hamo, a young officer who mobilizes enormous forces – who knows where and how – to stand on his one leg that carries his body
Ben Hamo was born in the Afridar neighborhood of Ashkelon, which has been shelled for years and is largely unprotected. His older friends were also wounded, "because that's how it is in wars." A year ago, on the eve of Yom Kippur, he became a hero of the city.
"I got to the beach at 2:30 p.m. and saw crowds of people," he says. "I thought it was a tashlich or something, but as I approached the shoreline, I saw people waving their hands in the sea, in the distance. One of them I only saw the head - and then a big wave came and turned it over on my stomach and I saw it just floating.
"People tried to break the lifeguard's tent, because the rescue services ended in two. In the end, we burst in. Since I was once in a seafaring class at school, I took a surfboard and started paddling in. I fought the waves, got to the two waving and had to choose who I was saving. Intuitionally, I chose one and told the other to wait for the rescue I had already seen coming from far away.
"The guy I put on the surfboard was holding me by the legs, and on the way to the beach we ran into another person floating on his stomach. I held him under his armpit and started paddling with one hand. At some point I got tired, and the person who held my legs told me that he had recovered and could hold the other one. We reached the beach exhausted. After that Yom Kippur, I read in the newspaper that one of the drowning people who was there couldn't survive, but the feeling was that I had saved people's lives. That's how I was taught at home."
"Fantastic support." Letters to the wounded in the rehabilitation department, photo: Avishag Shar-Yashuv
"Didn't we pay enough?"
Before we part, Jonathan has only one request. "My building and apartment aren't accessible," he says, "so I have to stay here on Fridays and Saturdays because I can't enter the building and my house. You know, in the army, when you do something wrong, you stay Shabbat. This is where I stay because I did something good. I lost my leg for the country and fought for it, I think the least we have to do is help us with the apartment."
His father tells him not to worry, that they will move into a rental. "Why, Daddy?" asks Jonathan. "Why do we have to pay more, we didn't pay enough?" On this question, the company sergeant from the 603rd Engineer Battalion accurately defined another problem that Israel will face in the coming years. As a country that is largely inaccessible, Israel is also the only country in the Western world that had to fund a campaign to prevent people from parking in handicapped parking lots.
While the stumps of hundreds of wounded and wounded are slowly healing, to fit the prosthesis they are about to install for them and for them, the state must do quickly what is possible so that Jonathan, his brothers and sisters in battle can return to an accessible home, and to the public that understands that they paid with their bodies. We were privileged to accompany them this week in their first steps, but we must make sure that we will be by their side in the coming years, in the long struggle that awaits them. This is the minimum that can and should be demanded for them.
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