Or Shadmi ’15

Posted on May 17, 2024

Or Shadmi, 25, from Tel Aviv, is a student of philosophy, economics and political science, and a combat paramedic. Watch a short video of Or (in Hebrew) here.

Highway to hell. “I got a call from the unit when I was on the beach in a remote town in Albania. ‘Come to the Envelope (referring to the Israeli communities adjacent to the Gaza Strip) as fast as you can,’ he said. In the turmoil of emotions I forgot to say that I was in Albania. I just said I’m on the way. I started hitchhiking and organizing a flight along the way. I got to Israel at night, and from the airport I went to collect a weapon from the base. On the way south, Highway 232 told me the story: burnt cars, bodies everywhere. I feel the car jump when I run over everything along the way, probably bodies. I don’t have my head straight about anything when the war begins. What comes back to me in dreams is the highway to hell, the real thing.”

Sight of the bodies. “In Be’eri we fought for two and a half days. It was there that I understood that the reality of life in Israel will never be the same. We were all wiped out after the fighting in the kibbutz. What we saw there will not leave us. As a paramedic, I’d adopted ways over time to cope with graphic sights, but nothing prepares you for this. I remember guys there from the paratroopers who were totally in shock and never stopped looking at the bodies, so I saw to it that they were covered.”

Fighting demons. “When we entered Gaza, I couldn’t understand what I was supposed to feel. Should I be afraid? Because nothing could be worse than Be’eri. At first, we were mainly in northern Gaza, where the Air Force’s bombing had destroyed everything and we didn’t encounter any civilians. There’s also no visible enemy, like you’re fighting against demons. People who were in clashes said, ‘A building shot at me,’ or ‘The ruins shelled me.’ We didn’t see anybody. It’s the opposite of what there was in the Envelope, where people fought terrorists gun to gun.”

Unrelenting gazes. “In central Gaza, along the humanitarian corridor, I saw families going via the drain, the gate that the army erected for people going south. I ask myself why they deserve this, and then I remember October 7. There’s the story about Winnie the Pooh, when Christopher Robin goes down the stairs with him and he gets a bump on every stair; and then Pooh says that if Christopher Robin would have thought about it for a minute, he would certainly have discovered that there’s another way to do it. I said to myself that for sure there’s another way, but what? One thing is certain: to do it differently, any peace deal will also have to address Gaza’s education system. I remember the tired and apathetic looks of the people who wandered south. Those gazes have stayed with me. The face of one girl who passed by there, who looked a lot more mature than she should have, doesn’t let go of me.”

All the dissonance in the world. “War has a variety of moments. I saw guys from elite units speaking with Palestinian children and calming the women. Those moments are fraught with all the dissonance in the world. I remember especially one night when we came back with Hummers and a large group of Palestinians were still moving southward. The commander stopped the Hummers and said that if soldiers saw shadows in the dark, it would end badly. We tried to figure out what to do, and in the end we radioed other forces to take them out of the line of fire.”

Clash. “We’re driving in three Hummers in central Gaza, and by chance the two others pass mine. The Hummer in front of us suddenly blows up from an explosive device. Sounds of gunfire are heard from every direction. We’ve encountered an ambush. You check that you’re in one piece and you tell yourself that if you’ve got through this moment, from now on it’s up to you. I request a helicopter, because there are at least three wounded, and in the midst of everything we’re engaged in combat. There’s shooting, but I have to get to the wounded. For that, I need someone to run with me to where the firing is. One of the soldiers volunteers to join me. We run to them. I have very little time to make decisions. I examine the first and signal the soldiers behind that he’s dead. I examine the second and signal that he’s dead, too. I examine the third and see a serious head wound, but I can do something about it. I give him preliminary care and transfer him to evacuation and from there to a helicopter. After he’s flown out, I go over to the two dead and perform what had already become my custom when parting – close their eyes and say to each of them, ‘Thank you.'”

Preventing trauma. “I am first a soldier and then a paramedic. In my view, this task isn’t just the physical care. I always look for the soldiers with the glazed eyes, those in shock. I grab them and say, ‘Listen, such and such happened. We got into a clash. Now we have to do such and such.” I give them a big hug, with the same embrace and smile as if it had nothing to do with everything that’s going on all around, and then reconnect them to the situation. It works like magic. I realized long ago that part of my task as a combat paramedic is to allow people many more good years in which they don’t wet the bed at night.”

Prayer. “My grandfather, who was an army man, told me once that anyone who doesn’t dream about peace has no right to make war. In the first days in Be’eri, I wanted to really lay into them, but afterward I took a deep breath and thought that this isn’t the person I want to be. Our people who were killed also weren’t like that. I know goodhearted people who fell, people with grace, people who did good in the world. If only their death will be a prayer for peace.”

Love. “Since I got home, harsh feelings have arisen. For example, that the world went on while my life stopped on October 7. The first time I came back to the apartment, I discovered that one roommate had left and another woman had replaced her. The person who left had taken the television in the living room. The moment I saw that, no matter that it was 9 P.M., I went out and bought the most expensive TV, and installed it that very night where the previous one had been. And I don’t even watch television. It was a fantastically dumb action, which was due only to my desire for things to return to being exactly as they had been. Meeting with my mother was also difficult – I felt I was a tough version of myself. I didn’t want the family to see me like that. But in the end, the war is at a standstill and is making us understand what is truly important. I’m less bothered now about the job I’ll get after I finish school, but it’s important for me to love.”