Evacuating a wounded soldier during Operation Protective Edge
‘I sent a healthy child to the army, and now he’s scarred and damaged’
A unique support group, the first of its kind, helps the parents of soldiers wounded in Protective Edge deal with the new reality they and their sons find themselves in; 'I got a new child,' one of the father says. 'Less happy, more introverted. This is a child I don't know. I want to learn how to bring back the child I had.'
"The time to be brave is over, and now all that's left is the time to deal," says Kobi Magmi, Yoav's father. "The question of bravery to me is a bit painful."
Staff Sergeant Yoav Magmi, a fighter in the Golani Brigade's Orev Company, was light-to-moderately wounded in Saja'iyya in a difficult battle during Operation Protective Edge. Later, his condition deteriorated and his life was in danger. His force came under rocket fire while it was inside a house in the neighborhood with the deputy battalion commander, Major Tzafrir Bar-Or, and the Operations Branch Officer, Captain Tzvika Kaplan, who were both killed in the attack.
Several days later, Kobi calls and asks to tone down what he said, worried he was being too blunt. "Obviously there's a feeling of pride that your son is a hero. He sacrificed, he contributed, he went, he risked, and he also paid the price. Unlike others. Our boys are warriors, they went through serious training, they volunteered and were wounded in the war.
Parents of the wounded. Top row, right to left: Itzik and Edna Ozari, A.G., Lisa Kaplan, and Lisa. Seated, right to left: Yisrael and Ariela Ronen, and Kobi and Michal Magni (Photo: Dana Kopel)
"After he was wounded, during the operation, there was a lot of help coming from all over. People we didn't even know came to the hospital, from all over the world. We were very warmly embraced. Later, as time went on, this support faded. It ended and you learn that you are left with a child who came back different. With a kind of disability and injury.
"As far as those around us are concerned, everything is back to normal. The war is over, you can check that off the list. We're the ones left now with a wounded child and everything that comes with that. I sent a child that is whole to the army. A combat soldier with a combat profile. And he came back damaged. This is what it's like for every wounded soldier. Even damages that are not visible. Each of our children, on top of being physically wounded, were also mentally wounded - some more than others.
"There are those who rank families in Israel. The happy families are the ones whose sons fought in Protective Edge and got the same child back. Then there's the most difficult level, of those whose children will never come back. They have nothing to hope for, they don’t have rehabilitation. We're somewhere in the middle."
They meet every week, every Monday evening, at a small room in the Defense Ministry's building in Tel HaShomer. A support group for parents of soldiers wounded during Operation Protective Edge, guided by a psychologist and a group therapist.
Sixteen people whose sons' injuries brought them together. Some met even before, at the hospital. Others met during the group's meetings. Now they say they feel like a family. They have a WhatsApp group with the symbolic name "Stronger Together." Their sons also know each other, from rehab, and they have their own WhatsApp group.
They have made an exception in allowing us to attend one of their meetings. Got their boys' permission to expose themselves. The meeting was attended by Ariela and Yisrael Ronen, the parents of Sergeant Oz, a fighter in Golani's reconnaissance platoon, from Moshav Rinatya; Lisa Kaplan, the mother of Corporal Adar Kaplan, an Armored Corps fighter from Ein Sarid; Edna and Itzik Ozeri, the parents of Corporal Ido, an Armored Corps fighter from Petah Tikva; Lisa, the mother of Sergeant Reuven Magen, an Armored Corps fighter from Elkana; A.G. from Raanana (his son, a Nahal fighter, asked that his father is not identified by name); and Kobi and Michal Magmi, Yoav's parents. All of the soldiers are still at one point or another of their recovery. They have all been released from the hospital and sent home.
We experienced a miracle
They are sitting in a circle, speaking with surprising openness, without any filters. Perhaps they feel the need, despite the difficulties of exposure, for someone to finally ask what happened to them as well. It's important to them, they say, that parents of other wounded soldiers hear about the group and know they have a place to go for support, a place where everyone "speaks the same language."
"Rationally, we know we're lucky, but emotionally, it's hard for me to say that I feel lucky," Michal Magmi admits. "I don't feel it."
"I think each of us in the group feels this duality," Kobi, her husband, adds. "On the one hand, 'why did this happen to me of all people?' And on the other hand, 'I experienced a miracle.' It's constantly in our heads. On the one hand we're lucky, that a meter from my son his friends were killed and he survived. It's of course coincidental. It could have been the other way around. And that is a terrible thought. On the other hand, it shook us quite a bit as well. There is no school to teach you how to prepare for something like this."
"We each have our own story," says Ariela Ronen, whose son Oz was wounded from gunfire and shrapnel and suffered a multisystem injury. "We feel, and Oz is aware of it, that he's not the same Oz he was before he was wounded."
"We gave the army a son who was highly motivated to serve in an elite unit in the IDF," says father Yisrael. "He made great efforts. Failed one round of tests, went to another, until he ended up at the Golani reconnaissance platoon. And he really was overjoyed, happy. We were less happy. We gave the army a physically fit guy, with motivation, his feet on the ground, and plans for the future, and the moment he was wounded everything was interrupted, came to a halt, certainly for the long term.
"Not too long ago he went to India on a trip as part of a delegation of wounded and disabled IDF soldiers and he couldn't do the trek. Eventually they put him on a donkey. A guy who was in the Golani reconnaissance platoon, who could've easily done this trek in the past. We don't have any complaints - not to the IDF, nor the Defense Ministry. We accept everything. Not with love, but with understanding. Today we have a son that suffers from physical and mental disabilities. He's a lot less happy, a lot less independent than he used to be. And he's our main priority."
"A new child was born to me, my son," A.G. says. "Less happy, more introverted, angrier. This is a child I don't recognize. And I want the child I had back. I want to learn how to bring him back."
The support group for the parents of the wounded soldiers is unique and first of its kind. All of the boys are young fighters who were doing their mandatory service. Some were at the beginning of their military service, others shortly before their release from the IDF. The focus in the group's conversations is on the trauma the family experienced from the son's injury. The meetings started in December. After the first group, others much like it were formed.
"We felt that after the wounded were given treatment, it was time to treat their parents as well," says Shlomo Zulti, a social worker and the head of the Dan District in the Defense Ministry's Rehabilitation Department, who created the group. "The wounded son experiences a change in his life and the entire family experiences that change along with him. Life is almost always split to before and after the injury. In the group, they can see there are other parents dealing with the same problem. That they are not alone."
"The parents actually experienced the crisis in parallel to their wounded sons," adds Elisheva Fikovski, a social worker and the head of rehabilitation services in the Defense Ministry's Dan District. "They also experienced a kind of injury and trauma. All of the parents in the group say 'this isn't the son I know.'
"All of the soldiers were in life-endangering situations. The reaction to such an event is not a normal one. For example, there's the issue of 'closed doors.' The son spends more and more time in his room, alone, refuses to come out. It scares the parents, but when it's given a name, legitimacy and presented as normal, it's very reassuring. You have to remember that when a son is wounded in a war, the first feeling is that a miracle has happened, there’s a relief. He stayed alive. But later, dealing with the injury is not easy."
Waiting for the officers at the door
They can all remember the moment they received the news. A mix of horror and relief. The exact time, where they were standing and what they were told on the phone. Some got the news from the wounded son himself, a moment before he lost consciousness, put under or went into the operation room.
Lisa Kaplan received a phone call from Adar's commander. He told her Adar was wounded from a mortar shell that hit near Kibbutz Be'eri and he was being airlifted to the Sheba Medical Center in Tel HaShomer. "I get flashbacks of the moment I heard the news," she says. "I live this moment every time anew."
The parents at a session with a psychologist (Photo: Tal Shachar)
She's a widow, a mother to two additional sons. One of them was recently released from the IDF after fighting in Operation Protective Edge as part of an elite unit. The other just graduated from high school.
"I think all of us here, the parents, have been in a state of post-trauma since the son was wounded. I'm ashamed to say it, but throughout the entire war I was hoping something small would happen to Adar, for him to get out of there. And now that it has happened, I feel guilty. Adar is the only one from his platoon who was wounded. It happened two days before they left Gaza. I don't have anything bad to say about anyone - not his commanders, nor the army or the Defense Ministry - but it's eating me up. Heavens forbid when it happens to someone else, but why did it happen to him of all people?"
"I was waiting for the knock on the door the entire operation, even before Oz was wounded," Ariela admits. "I would sit in the office and every time the elevator door opened, I'd imagine the City Officers come for me. Until Oz called and I heard him calling out 'Mom, mom,' a moment before he lost consciousness."
Ido Ozeri was wounded at one of the IDF's gathering areas. "Throughout the entire operation we didn’t hear from him," his father Itzik says. "We'd stand on the balcony, Edna and I, watching with fear for soldiers or officers coming for us, to tell us something has happened to him. The day he was wounded, I asked his friend to tell Ido to try and call us. When the phone rang and it was Ido, I was sure he was calling to ask how we were. And then he said a sentence I will never forget: 'Dad, don't worry. Everything is okay. I'm in Soroka.' He let me talk to the doctor in the ER and I'm talking to him and trying to understand what is the nature of the injury. Light, moderate, serious. And I can't. We left home in Petah Tikva and drove to Soroka. It was the longest drive in the world."
A.G. comes to the meetings alone. His wife is not a member of the group. "She wants to forget," he explains. "I understand her, but I want to deal."
"For almost three years, we were stressed. Throughout our son's entire service," he says. "I think he, our son, went to Gaza with some kind of notion that he's going in and not coming out. I thought so too. And I already planned what I would do, where I would bury him. My wife would lie next to me at night, reading Psalms. I asked her, 'What are you doing?' and she answered, 'I'm praying for our son to break a leg or an arm and get out.'"
And you?
"Do you know the song 'Men Cry at Night'? That's how I was. Exactly.
"After that, when the boy was wounded, I was at the synagogue. There is see-through glass there and I saw my daughter running towards me. I looked out and I'm sure she's coming to tell me 'Dad, they came for us, it's over.' So I snapped. Because I was sure. But then she told me he was only wounded."
The boys are suffering from complex injuries. Oz Ronen is suffering from a multisystem injury. His lung was drained in the field and he still has shrapnel in his lung and spine, and is suffering from a serious injury in his hand. He has limited use of his hand and he's still receiving treatment.
The doctors had to remove Ido Ozeri's spleen after he was hurt by a mortar shell. He also suffers an injury to his chest and has nightmares of the horrors he saw on the battle field. He's still in a rehabilitative, physical and mental, treatment, and he's due to undergo another operation in his abdomen.
Reuven Magen was seriously wounded in his leg from a mortar shell. He's still using crutches. Adar Kaplan was also wounded by a mortar shell, in his leg, shoulder and hand. He is now an emissary for the Jewish Agency in Canada, and in the future would have to undergo additional operations. The two Lisas, Reuven and Adar's mothers, met when their sons were hospitalized in the same ward.
Yoav Magmi, Kobi and Michal's son, was considered light-to-moderately wounded when he arrived at the hospital. Later, his situation worsened because of an infection and his life was in danger. His hand was wounded and he lost an eye.
A.G.'s son was wounded in his hand when an RPG missile hit a Nahal force staying inside a house in Beit Hanoun. His hearing was also damaged and he's suffering from post-traumatic stress. They have all suffered and still do from shrapnel all over their bodies.
"The definition of light, moderate and serious, don't mean anything," Kobi Magmi says. "If you look at a picture of Yoav after he was wounded, you can't recognize him because of all of the hemorrhages and injuries all over his body. From the back and on the front, half of his face was covered by shrapnel. Internal injuries, fractures to his vertebra, shrapnel, scars from shrapnel in his arms and legs, all of this is stuff that doesn't even count for anyone.
"His hand was shattered and he suffered an injury to his eye, which was supposed to go away with time. He was already out of the hospital and went home, went for a checkup and then it turned out he got an infection, a rare fungus. In medical literature, this is only the second time it was recorded in the world. The doctors said they needed to remove the eye, that they couldn't take the risk. One shock after another. And then they removed his eye, and it was a blow."
"I remember the first time I saw Yoav take out the eye prosthesis," his mother Michal says. "To see your child, that you sent healthy and whole, a fighter, standing in front of you and nonchalantly pulling out his eye, without making a big deal out of it, and then making fun of me because I'm being emotional, playing the hero. And he is a hero. It was very difficult for me."
"Can you imagine a situation when a child you bring into the world, who is perfect and a total hottie, and all of a sudden he is hurt and scarred, damaged. It's not nice to say, but this is how you feel. Even if it's just on the outside. The doctor that was with us called me over and said, 'you either get out of the room, don't let him see you, or pull yourself together."
"When Ido takes a shower, or walks around at home without his shirt on, and I see the scar, it's hard for me," Itzik Ozeri admits. "It's not that he went to play hide and seek with his friends and fell, or go hurt at school. This is from the war. My son was wounded in a war. It's very hard not to think about it."
Now he's a disabled IDF veteran
Over and over, Itzik mentions how the "boy" was saved. Even Edna, his wife, who spends most of the meeting in silence - with her bag on her knees, as if she's about to just get up and leave - talks about the miracle that happened to their son.
"It destroys me. They were sitting in a circle, five guys, and he needed to go to the bathroom. He debated whether or not to get up, and got up. I don't know how many steps he took when the rocket fell on his chair, where he was sitting just a moment before. In fact, he's the last remaining guy from that group. He didn't even feel that he was wounded. He wanted to get a cigarette out and saw that everything was covered in blood."
Staff Sergeant Eliav Kahlon, Corporal Niran Cohen, Corporal Meidan Biton and Staff Sergeant Adi Briga were killed in that incident. Two and a half weeks ago, on the one year anniversary, Ido wrote a post on Facebook about his fallen comrades. Afterwards, he sent it to his father on WhatsApp, so he could read it. As Itzik reads what his son wrote, his voice breaks.
"My heroes, it's been a year since that day when we were sitting and laughing about life... and then, within a second, without any warning, a rocket fell right near you. I stood ten meters away and was wounded, but because of the shock and adrenaline, I paid it no mind. All I wanted was to help you. I miss you more and more."
Itzik saw Ido for the first time after his injury when he came out of surgery, in the recovery room. "He was still asleep, he was connected to tubes, bandaged around his abdomen, bandages on his hand. I fell apart. I told him, 'Ido, Ido, can you hear me? Ido, it's dad.' I stayed with him all night. It felt like a dream. I mean, I couldn't comprehend it. And only then did I start to think about 'what would've happened if...' It's pain mixed with joy.
"It's not a temporary thing. Not like in a wedding when you break the glass and move on. Ido is now a lot more dependent on us. There are basic things he was supposed to do on his own and he tells me, 'Dad, come with me.' Like going to the bank. I tell him, 'For God's sake, go on your own.' It's like the boy is back to being a boy. He still needs us to come with him, to support him. We go everywhere with him. It's also hard for him to be in crowded places."
"He has gotten closer to us, you could even say he's clinging onto us," Edna says. "He hugs me so tight I can't breathe anymore. And it's not once a day. It's all the time. Like he knows we are lions protecting him. A zoo, even, not just lions. And he tells me, 'Mom, there are no parents like you.' So I think it's out of his appreciation. I don't know. Maybe."
Ariela Ronen: "Oz asks us a lot of questions, how and what to do. Things he used to do on his own before, wouldn't even update us. At first, after his injury, there was a period he was more introverted. I'd go up to his room just to make sure that everything was okay. Since then it has improved, but even now everything is centered on him. Because of me, not because of him. I don't want our house to run like that. I'm ashamed to say it, but sometimes I need to go out and I know he's home, and I think twice about leaving. First and foremost, I need to know what Oz is doing, whether he has plans. Because I don't like it when he's home alone."
They hardly ever talk to their children about how they were wounded. "Even when you just go near the topic of the injury, there's an instant disconnect," Kobi Magmi says. "We don't start this conversation with Yoav. Both because it's hard on us and because when we do make all sorts of attempts, he cuts it off. It is still very difficult - both for us and for him - to talk about it."
"Oz was never one of the extroverts," his mother Ariela says. "But he would still share and talk to us about things every now and again, but not anymore. Everything he says is very curt, he talks in monosyllables. And it's difficult. He doesn't want to hurt me, so he's trying. But it's not the same.”
A month ago, Reuven Magen got a car tax-free. "I was depressed all week," his mother Lisa admits. "I realized that this is it, he was officially considered a disabled IDF veteran."
Itzik Ozeri: "Ido is having a hard time with that definition, 'disabled veteran'. I want to take him to Beit Halochem (a sports, rehabilitation and recreation center serving disabled veterans and their families), and it's still very difficult for him."
His old life is over
For a long time, their son's injury defined them in the eyes of their surroundings, and sometimes even in their own eyes.
"Being a parent of a wounded soldier is primarily a full-time job," Michal Magmi says. "You leave work, you leave home and your other children. You're next to him, cut off from everything. You're a 'parent of a wounded child.' Your old life is halted at once. You're at the hospital and the nation of Israel comes visiting, but at night they all go. It's then that you realize that this entire thing is all on you. All of a sudden you realize that you too might have heard about someone who was wounded and you felt sadness for it, but with the blink of an eye you went back to your life. And that's okay, really. I don't have any complaints to anyone. Maybe it's for the best.
"Slowly, you try to get back to normal, but it's a different kind of normal. It was actually in recent months, as Yoav's situation got better - he moved to Tel Aviv, he's working, he's planning a 'post army trip' – that I realized I may not go back to what I used to be. I'm more vulnerable, more hurt, more sensitive, more anxious. I'm always worried. Yoav is determined to live his life. He loves life, wants to take over the world. He's a lot like the Yoav he used to be, even though now there's a sort of tenderness to him, which is new to us. I won't be as I was.
"I can't look at bereaved families in the eye. I don't know if 'guilt' is the right word to what I feel. A month after Yoav was wounded he wanted to go to a memorial for his commander. I told myself 'oh no, if I have to go with him, I won't be able to look at this officer's wife. What can I tell her?’"
"I served in the IDF for 12 years," says Yisrael Ronen, Oz's father. "I encountered enough cases of injuries and casualties. I can't say it just passed me by, but this time it's another story. I think the last Remembrance Day was the first time I really felt unease. Many times during those 24 hours I found myself thinking what would have happened to me if I had to stand in front of a tombstone, like bereaved parents are doomed to do. It's absurd that what encourages us is that 'it could've been worse.'"
A year after the operation, Itzik Ozeri went with his son to visit some of the bereaved families of soldiers killed in the gathering areas. He apologizes for not being able to visit everyone and attend all of the memorials.
"It was very hard for me to be there. When the parents came out to meet us, I burst out crying. You see a bereaved family whose son was killed a pace away from your son and know you could've been in their place."
A.G. is in contact with bereaved families whose sons are not necessarily connected with the incident in which his son was wounded. "I became more Zionist," he says without a trace of cynicism. "I love our country. Why? I almost made a sacrifice for this country. I call the bereaved families, and try to help with whatever I can. I feel like I owe them something."
The group's official meetings will continue for a year. Later, the parents could keep meeting as part of an independent support group.
"We have an expression here in the group," Kobi Magmi says before we each go our separate ways, and everyone agrees with him. "The train is gone and our children were left on the platform. We're waiting to see if another train comes, when, and what kind of train it would be.
"The lives of those wounded were frozen, so did the lives of us parents. It's not the same. It is a life-changing event. Life can't be the same because we were 'there' and this is where we'll always be. Yoav will never be 100 percent what he used to be."
What is your dream?
"For Yoav to do what he wants with his life and for us to stop worrying about him. I think this is a dream shared by all of us."
