On the second anniversary of the October 7 massacre, a senior neurosurgeon at Sheba Medical Center and a veteran clinical social worker at Soroka University Medical Center described the chaos that engulfed their hospitals in the first hours of the attack, and the sense of mission that has driven their work ever since.
'Every minute decided life or death'
Dr. Lior Ungar, a neurosurgeon at Sheba Medical Center–Tel Hashomer, said the morning sirens made clear that an unprecedented mass-casualty event was unfolding. “Dozens of bleeding casualties, radio calls, a never-ending flow of stretchers,” he recalled. “My resident and I had to triage rapidly under intense pressure, identify those needing immediate intervention, and move each one to the right place, whether the operating room or other departments.”
Ungar did not sleep for an entire day as surgical teams from neurosurgery, general surgery, orthopedics, imaging, and nursing coordinated continuous operations. “It felt like a war. Every minute decided life or death, every decision was critical. We did not give up on a single patient. Everyone received personal attention, and every name stayed with us. From the most senior physicians to the newest residents, we all fought for life as one team,” he said.
One moment remained etched in his mind. After a difficult surgery, Ungar asked his resident, Jose, a trainee from Panama, whether the horrors he had seen would send him home. “Israel took me in and helped me,” Jose answered. “Now it is my turn to help in return.”
For Ungar, October 7 never really ended. He continues to operate on war casualties, meets them in the pain clinic, and follows them through lengthy rehabilitation. “That day became a personal and professional turning point, when responsibility, commitment, and the calling of medicine took on a more tangible meaning than ever.”
'It looked like a scene from World War II'
Andi Ifergane, a senior clinical social worker who heads a social-work team in Soroka’s mental health division, spent the first hours with her family in a shelter at home in Omer. Her daughter, a Nahal Oz soldier home on weekend leave, sheltered with them as the sirens continued. Realizing the scope of the disaster, Ifergane raced to Soroka University Medical Center in Beersheba.
“We understood immediately that this was a mass-casualty event on a scale we had never seen,” she said. “At first the ER was quiet, then it filled up and kept filling. It looked like a scene from World War II. You could hardly move in the chaos, and inside it we tried to provide care.”
The personal and professional blurred. Her daughter arrived at the ER looking for basemates. Many staffers from the South were themselves missing loved ones or wounded. “It was a very hard day. We still did not grasp what was happening. Twelve hours later, close to midnight, I realized I was on the verge of collapse and agreed to go home for a few hours of rest.”
Since that “black Shabbat,” Ifergane has worked continuously with trauma survivors. “We learned new things about those affected. If before we thought a patient carries one trauma, now we see many are living with trauma layered upon trauma. Each course of treatment becomes more complex because you need to process multiple strata of pain, loss, and anxiety.”
To cope, she leans on institutional support and writing. “Since October 7, I write on social media. It helps me process what happened, together with the tremendous mutual support within our team, where we strengthen one another.” There are moments of light. “When a patient calls to say he moved in with his girlfriend and is starting school, or when I see a patient on TV a year later after a long rehabilitation, the satisfaction is immense. Knowing I had a small part in their path fills me with pride.”
Ifergane, a former IDF mental-health officer with the rank of major in the reserves, continues to lead Soroka’s psychosocial response. “It is a joy to see them stand up again, despite everything,” she said, her voice catching. “That gives us the strength to keep going, even when it is hard.”