Wednesday, July 24, 2024
Elder of Ziyon
By Forest Rain
Beautiful, beloved Amit Man – words are not enough
Words are tools that describe and create reality. Powerful
yet only representations, a reflection, not the experience itself. There is a
gap between the two which usually goes unnoticed. But when the experience is
profound the gap becomes sharp and painful. The words fall broken and twisted
into the chasm that they cannot bridge.
What words could encompass the whirlwind of evil that swept
through this little building, snatching lives away and laughing the whole time?
The dental clinic in Be’eri was designated as a gathering
place in an emergency. It was not equipped for the disaster that hit the
community on October 7th. Who could imagine a full-scale invasion of
monsters armed to the teeth and eager to rape and burn families alive?
It was here that the Children of Light fought the Children
of Darkness.
What words have enough truth in them, enough depth, to
describe what happened in this little clinic? What words have enough light in
them to describe Amit Man, beautiful and beloved, dedicated to life, choosing
others above herself when the missiles began? She could have left the kibbutz.
She could have stayed in the safe room. Instead, she took her paramedic’s bag
and ran to the clinic. What words are enough to describe Dr. Daniel Levi, Amit, and a nurse battling for
seven hours to treat the injured and save lives? What words are powerful enough
to honor the two members of the kibbutz's emergency response team who stood
guard, fighting off the monsters so that the healers could treat the injured?
Seven hours, an
eternity in hell.
Throughout the battle
Amit, just 22 years old, kept her composure and constantly updated the Magen
David Adom (MDA) headquarters about the condition of the wounded, pleading for evacuation.
When the medical supplies ran out, she caressed the heads of the injured, gave
them water, and encouraged them. Two of the survivors recounted that the
assistance she provided saved their lives.
Around 2:00 PM the brave
men battling to protect the clinic ran out of ammunition.
Amit managed to send a
message to her family: "I don't think I will get out of here. Please stay
strong if something happens to me."
“They’re here.”
Three little words. So
much, unspeakable horror.
In her last call to her family Amit can be heard screaming “Shachar” the name
of one of the men trying to protect her. Did she scream because she had already
been shot in the leg or was it because she was watching his life run out of his
body and she couldn’t help?
When Amit was found
they saw she had been shot in the leg, managed to apply a tourniquet to
herself, but was shot again and died.
There are no words profound enough to convey what it is like
to stand in the place where evil swept through, snatching lives away and
laughing.
The walls, riddled with bullet holes, are silent yet
accusatory. Here the Children of Light shone in all their glory. Here their
sacrifice, love, dedication, honor, and dignity were not enough to stop the
evil, ravenous and hellbent on stamping out life.
People whose loved ones were ripped from them here wrote on
the walls, words doomed to fail in conveying the depths of their emotions.
The flatness of the words knocked the breath from my lungs. I
saw words that attempted to infuse dignity and respect in a place where dignity
was stolen. I saw words that attempted to express love and honor. And then one little word jumped out at me:
“Mom”.
Amit Man’s sister Haviva and mother wrote these words on the
wall, in between the bullet holes:
In memory of Amit
Man, our little sister,
the beloved of our hearts who was murdered while saving lives,
together with Dr. Daniel Levi,
Shachar Tzemach,
and Eitan Hadad.
We love you forever and ever.
Mom !
Haviva
As time passes and others forget, we are left to pick up the
debris left by the storm.
October 7th isn’t over.
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