Israeli Identity

August 4, 2019: I was about to turn 22 at midnight — on the 5th. I was busy, trying to stay buckled in during a bumpy ride in my military ambulance in the Jordan Valley. I can’t remember if I was sweating, but somehow even in the desert winter I’d end up sweating under my army green uniform. So, a summer night was no different, I suppose.

I moved to Israel to reinforce my Zionist, Israeli identity. After joining the IDF, I chose the path of becoming a combat medic because I wanted to do something with meaning and purpose. I wanted to work hard. If basic training, a combat medic course, or just living in a new country wasn’t enough, the night of my 22nd birthday made my work hard wish come true.

The medical team in my brigade was spread thin because we needed one team near the coordinated ops exercise as they continued into the night until sunrise. But we also needed to provide what we always provided — emergency medical support to local Israelis and Palestinians. Palestinians, in particular, because the hospital in Jericho was too far and understaffed for all Jordan Valley Palestinians to receive emergency treatment. Not to mention the PLO Ambulances, which were under-equipped. So, they would come to our base for free treatment — both emergency and quotidian.

On this unfortunate night, we only had one operating team in one ambulance.

The clock struck midnight — happy birthday!

And here came a dehydrated soldier. Connect the IV, and onto the next. Three a.m., then 4 a.m. We were so close to being done and I was so tired. Between guard duties and logistical and bureaucratic frustrations and the hurry-up-and-wait tempo on my base, I was feeling what we call “military fatigue.” And I still had a few months left of my service.

But it’s my birthday, I thought. Let me just enjoy this and look forward to eating a watermelon wrapped in a garbage bag.

Then, we got the phone call.

There had been a terrible crash on Highway 90, the sworn nemesis of any medic in the Jordan Valley with its lack of stop lights or any regulation, really. A Palestinian family rode on a platform hitched to the back of a tractor with barely any daylight had overturned. This one was bad.

We got to the scene. It was bad. There were not a lot of military personnel and there were a lot of people. It was hard to know if any of them were carrying a weapon, but this was one of those times when you see blood and you have to just charge through. There was an overturned vehicle and the tractor and platform were on their side. The crowd was surrounding the tractor. And there was the Brigadier General.

My paramedic was doubling as head of inter-departmental coordination and head of triage. He needed to not only direct us, but also coordinate with local police, firefighters, civilian ambulance, and most likely, helicopter evacuation. God bless him.

They ran off to check the entire site and make sure there weren’t any bodies thrown to the side of the highway and to start checking in with various teams. I ran to the tractor where the noisy crowd and the General were. We didn’t stop and salute. This was life or death.

Once I pushed through, I saw something I would never be able to unsee. A young woman was trapped between the tractor wheel and the tractor itself. Happy birthday. Her legs were sticking out, abdomen caught and head hanging down dripping blood. Was she even alive? Happy birthday. Finally, I heard her moaning.

Quickly, I told the crowd to do their best (hoping someone spoke English or Hebrew — I mimed just in case) to unscrew the bolts in the tractor tire so we could squeeze out the air and create space to pull her out. Success. We carried her to a stretcher beside the ambulance and my paramedic, like a superhero, showed up just in time. But I knew he was overwhelmed and stretched more thin than the rest of us.

Okay Avigayil, remember your training, I thought. S, safety, any weapons on the person? Nearby? No. Make sure your rifle is firmly on you. A, airway, not clear. B, breathing, barely. C, circulation.

I checked for any major injuries other than the head trauma and abdominal injuries. We quickly started ventilating and she came to life. She was flailing her arms and we needed to keep her steady so she wouldn’t hurt us or herself. Paramedics and other medics were on top of it. I ran to the ambulance door and saw a line of women with children. I didn’t understand how they could all fit on the back of that tractor.

Checking them one by one, nothing I saw was life-threatening. Some gashes, some wounds, but nothing major, thank God. 

There was a baby in the ambulance. No more than a few months old. Whose baby is this?

I looked outside quickly and back to the baby.

The baby wasn’t crying.

Why isn’t she crying?

I noticed she wasn’t breathing. I noticed I wasn’t breathing.

This can’t be real. She’s dead.

I knew the protocol. We had to have proof of death before transferring a body to the Palestinian authorities. I had been through this before …

A few months earlier, the grandson of a Sheikh from a local village was hit by a car while riding his bicycle in the middle of the night. We knew he wouldn’t make it, but we did our best. They brought him to us — a fleet of cars and flailing women.

I don’t remember how long we did chest compressions and tried to find a vein for an IV, but it felt like forever. When we called time of death, I saw before me a body — a body that was no longer a boy.

His father sobbing outside the ambulance — he was absolutely still a father.

On August 5, I remembered back to what it was like cleaning a soiled little lifeless body, my arms tired from pressing on his chest, waiting to catch my own breath before opening the ambulance door.

Please, please, this can’t be happening again. Not today.

I covered her body and put my hand on her head. Her sweet, sweet face. I didn’t want her to be alone. I don’t know how long I stayed there. But eventually I got out of the ambulance long enough to find out the young woman we treated (who was now being helicoptered to an Israeli hospital for treatment) was her mother. That’s why she was relentless. It wasn’t just the shock of the accident. She was a lioness calling out for her baby as best she could. With all her might.

Now I knew I couldn’t leave the baby alone. Palestinian authorities arrived and as I swaddled her to pass the body to them, but I forgot about proof of death. Back to the ambulance. I connected all the parts of our monitor to her chest, skin still soft, until the printout was complete. Disconnected the device and covered her again.

I didn’t want to let her go, on the day I was supposed to be celebrating my life, I watched one leave far too soon. Happy birthday.

I found out her name and took a picture of her identification with the printout — protocol. Covered her again and prayed before passing her to the Palestinian authorities.

Please be gentle with her. Not just for her sake — for her mother’s sake.

I still can’t fathom these kinds of tragedies.

As we worked, the crowd had been building. More police, Israeli Military, ambulances, etc. I was distracted. Treatment was coming to a close and our head medical officer called us to a circle. He told us this was a rough one. He was proud of us. He said we shouldn’t be ashamed of seeking help after an event like this, but in our field sometimes dark humor is the best way out.

“Oh,,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette “and, uh, happy birthday, Avigayil.”

Some days or weeks later, on my way to guard duty, I saw a message on our medic group chat. There was an article in the newspaper about the accident.

I was confused. They were saying Israeli forces evicted them in the middle of the night and that’s why they got into an accident.

I’m not saying these things are simple. In fact, I’m saying the opposite. But that’s the job of the reporter. Tell the whole story.”I knew how things worked, I basically lived there. Before any eviction, the military would give  the family notice of the date they had to be off Israeli land, or be evicted.” They had Palestinian villages — with signs, in fact, warning danger to any Israeli who entered. And we knew the horrid things that had happened to Israelis who accidentally entered said territories.

I felt this reporter completely misreported the story because I was never contacted. I was there, I held the baby in my arms for God knows how long. They never asked me any questions. There was no mention of the American who volunteered two years to serve in the Israeli military and give free medical treatment to local Palestinians. There was no mention of mending relationships in the Middle East, starting with how an American/ Israeli Jewish combat medic held and prayed for an Palestinian Arab baby girl, immediately after treating her mother, who had been evacuated to an Israeli facility for further treatment.

Why?

I got my answer after speaking with our base PR rep: It doesn’t fit their narrative.

Well. Happy. F’ing. Birthday.

I decided I wanted to give myself what I wasn’t given on my birthday — the opportunity to tell my story. We all have one. Several, even. And we should always be questioning them, thoughtfully.

Honestly, I can’t think of anything that has affected me more. People decide the narrative and then they decide the facts they want to focus on. I believe in radical self-responsibility. I decide to be happy and I let that dictate the minutia. After seeing how politics and articles and journalists choose their words, I decided I’m going to choose my own.

At first, I was outraged by the article. But, throughout the years, I’ve learned to overcome the feeling of being overrun by my emotions. I’ve finally struck a balance between dreamland and real land. The ethereal and the mundane. There’s a real beauty in that balance. In that balance is humanity, and in that humanity — camaraderie.

After finishing my military service, I moved to LA and learned about myself through many mediums but mostly how I present myself in the dating world. I had some pictures of myself in uniform posted on dating apps and I received several hate messages. That hurt. A lot.

Then, one day, a message from someone with a Middle Eastern name.

“Are you Israeli?” I asked. “The opposite,” he responded. I understood what he meant but asked him to specify, anyway.

We spoke a bit. I told him about my time living in Israel and serving in the Israeli army. He told me about his family in Ramallah and their struggles.

We didn’t argue. We didn’t debate. We didn’t ask for proof. We listened to each other with the understanding that we both had happiness and struggles and very different experiences of the same geographic region.

We didn’t argue. We didn’t debate. We didn’t ask for proof. We listened to each other with the understanding that we both had happiness and struggles and very different experiences of the same geographic region.

Our goal wasn’t to convince the other of something. It was to find that humanity. That camaraderie. I’ll always be grateful for that conversation. It showed me that my service and my experience provided me not just with the opportunity to challenge myself for a couple of years, but to take that experience and use it for good.

My hope is that we all learn to challenge our narratives. For the sake of finding the good and leading with love.