"For the first time in my life, I am all on my own. No framework, no one telling me what to do. The brain almost has a chance to relax and then – boom. Everything I've been through in life starts to come up, and I understand that my real struggle is only beginning now."

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These are the words of 22-year-old Aviad Bartov Ambash, one of the 18 children of Jerusalem cult leader, convicted sexual abuser and polygamist Daniel Ambash, whose life, in a way, has just begun. 

At the beginning of August, Aviad finished his military service. As is customary among discharged soldiers, he should be planning his trip abroad, but instead, precisely now, after surviving 11 years in the sadistic cult where he was subjected to physical and mental abuse daily, the trauma has begun surfacing, and he knows he's got a long way to go to heal but is more determined than ever. 

"If in the past I lived to survive, today I understand that I work to live. This is what keeps me going. This is my personal victory, and no one can take that away from me."

Aviad and I meet at a private villa used as a lone soldiers' home in Herzliya, where he's lived for the past three years while serving in the IDF. "Now that I'm no longer a lone soldier, I have to find another place to stay," he says, visibly nervous. 

It was not easy to gain Aviad's trust and persuade him to an interview. After everything he's been through, he is cautious and vigilant. He only agreed to be interviewed in a place and at a time that suited him, without compromise.

The home is shared by 18 soldiers, all of whom have complex life stories, although all agree that Aviad's is the most unthinkable of all.

When he opens the entrance gate, I meet a smiling blonde, blue-eyed young man, with a physique befitting of a fighter, and nothing in his appearance would ever give away what he's been through in life.

We sit down and Aviad begins to share his life story, and the mind boggles at the horrors but marvels at the perseverance and victory that manifested at the funeral of his father, who served nine out of his 26-year prison sentence, before dying in June of an apparent heart attack.

"I remember I heard about his death on social media. I came across a post about it and for a moment I was shocked. I didn't know how to react. At first, I didn't think of going to the funeral, but someone, who I turn to for advice occasionally, told me to go see him get buried. She said I should get closure. Although, I did not agree to say Kaddish [mourner's prayer] over him, nor to tear the shirt as a sign of mourning.

"For me, I proved my victory over him when I stood over his grave with my arms folded and my head held high. That's when I felt the victory. He couldn't break me or subdue me. I think I even had a smile on my face when I saw his wives, who in my opinion are still his captives, crying."

Aviad was born in 2000 right into the Ambash sect's horrors. His mother, Esther, came to Israel from the US at the age of 19, and was in a particularly vulnerable state. She joined the sect after several divorces, with four children, three of them from different fathers, and had cancer.

Daniel Ambash came from a secular family. He was born in France as Daniel Mamboush and was a ballet dancer. He married, became a father, and divorced, which is when he changed his last name to Ambash, which in Hebrew is an acronym for "I believe in complete faith." After meeting his second wife, the family immigrated to Israel, and Ambash began to study the teachings of Rabbi Nachman of Breslav. When Esther, Aviad's mother, joined, Ambash and his second wife already had 10 children.

"Of course, I don't remember my first years in the sect, but my brothers tell me that a few months before I was born, my mother was moved to another place so that they wouldn't know that she was pregnant with his child. One day she came back with a bag in her hand, and I was in it. Every time I cried, they told my brothers I was a cat. So that they wouldn't associate Ambash with me, they listed me on the birth certificate as Aviad Bartov, which is my brother's last name, who was born before my mother joined the cult."

Aviad's brothers remember the time he was born as one of the worst periods. They kept moving from accommodation to accommodation, having first lived in Romema, Jerusalem, then the Givat Shaul neighborhood, and later Lifta and Tiberias. Soon, Ambash married four more women, all of whom obeyed him completely. On several occasions, he punished those with impure thoughts – of which he was the judge – with whipping.

Electrocuting private parts as well as hands and feet was a regular practice, as well as punishment by starvation, confinement while naked, indecent acts, dunking in the toilet or Ambash's private jacuzzi, as well as severe beatings.

The first time Aviad was starved he was not even two years old. His sister recalled that one day, Ambash asked him to kiss a note with Rabbi Nachman's words on it, and when Aviad didn't, he removed his bed from the room, locked him in, and forbade anyone from entering to feed him.

"Based on what they told me, I didn't even understand what giving a kiss meant, and I didn't understand what he was asking from me. He tried to kill me and starve me to death already then. After a few days during which I cried non-stop, so I was told, my sister took the opportunity when he left the house for a moment to sneak in a bottle of milk for me. Because of the pressure, she forgot the bottle next to me. When he came back and found the bottle, he beat my mother and my sister. I do not doubt that if it wasn't for my sister, I wouldn't be alive today."

The older Aviad got, the more severe the punishments became, and no one in the family was immune to the abuse.

"As long as father was calm, everything was fine. Father would play his instrument, and we would dance next to him, but every day or two or so he would get angry."

Q: What made him angry?

"Almost anything. We were punished daily, so much that half of the instances I don't even remember anymore. Only now, years later, some of them are starting to resurface in my dreams. If we laid on our stomachs, we would be punished to eat bread and water until further notice. He claimed that lying on the stomach was causing sperm emission. Once, when I was six years old, while we were praying, he slapped me on the face so hard that I flew backward. He claimed I wasn't really reading, only turning the pages. Who can even read at the age of six? Sometimes he ordered me to massage his legs and back all night. Sometimes I would fall asleep in the process, and he would wake me up with a slap. My brother told me not long ago that Ambash would order me to put my hands out and would tase me.

"Now that I think about it, I've just remembered that he would force me to stand with my arms up and standing on one leg for hours, or an entire day or do push-ups. Can you imagine a seven-year-old doing push-ups for hours on end? I once lit a match and the bench we were sitting on caught fire. He dragged me to the bathroom and waterboarded me. I felt like I was suffocating and drowning. I have no idea how I survived.

"And you know what he enjoyed the most? Because the last name on my birth certificate was Bartov, he would always ask me defiantly, 'So are you Bartov or Ambash?' And like a stupid kid, time and again I would say 'Bartov,' because that's what I knew I was, and I knew I wasn't supposed to lie.
"That would always lead to murderous beatings and whippings. More often than not, if someone 'misbehaved,' he or she would be laid down naked on the ground, and the mothers and siblings would hold the legs and the arms, and the rest would strike. And when one of my siblings 'misbehaved,' we would do the same to him. It was a terrible feeling. We didn't want to do this, but had no choice."

Q: Did you try to run away?

"Daniel had control over us psychologically through fear. The gate of the house was never locked, and in fact, at any given moment we could have left, but dared not. The fear was paralyzing. He would manipulate us with threats about the World to Come [in Hebrew, Olam Haba]. And psychological punishment was more frightening than being whipped. He would come to me while holding a Torah scroll and say, 'Swear to God that you love me,' and I would swear."

Q: Were you never exposed to the outside world?

"Sometimes father would send us to collect donations, and he would always tell us that all people live a lie, and only we live the truth. We believed him, we didn't know any other way."

Q: And were there any moments of happiness in this hell? 

"I remember two instances. Once, when I was seven, I climbed a tree, fell, and broke my arm. I knew that father really didn't like us going to state institutions lest they start asking questions. Fearing his reaction, I kept my fall a secret. Just imagine, I chose the pain over a broken arm rather than face my father's reaction. 

"When my mother found out, she secretly took me to the hospital and got me some sweets. That is the sweetest memory I have from that day. It was fun... until we went home. The second we walked in, my mom was dragged by the hair into the bathroom and beaten, and so was I.

"Another time, my sister and I were both punished and spent time together in a warehouse outside. I remember we played together, but when one of our mothers came in, she was very frightened. These are the two most pleasant memories from my childhood." 

Ambash's sect kept operating undisturbed for 15 years. However, in 2011, the police started to surveil him after a woman whom he recruited to the cult managed to escape. 

On July 4th that year, Ambash was arrested, as were six of his wives and grown children. His underage children, including Aviad, who was not even 11 at the time, were scattered across shelters throughout the country. 

"My father loved to document everything. Every punishment, every ceremony and every abuse was filmed and kept on tapes in a black suitcase, which he would carry everywhere. On that day, he felt that the police were closing in on him. We were then in the north, he took the boys to pray at the graves of the righteous, and he told the women to make a bonfire and burn all the recordings. I remember it was already dark outside, and all of a sudden we were surrounded by police cars. I was blinded by the lights and didn't understand what was going on."

Q: Did you understand at the time that that would be your way out?

"Not really. I fought the police and just wanted them to leave me. Don't forget that I thought the life we lived was a life of truth and that everyone else lived a lie. I didn't know any better. I didn't understand yet that we were living a lie.

"They took us to Jerusalem. All the brothers were dispersed to shelters across the country. I was sent with my older brother to an ultra-Orthodox one. In the first few hours, I still thought we would become a family again. I didn't understand what I was going for."

Q: How was the first night outside the sect?

"Shocking, because I didn't understand what was going on. Nobody explained to me that everything I'd known in my life was not normal. Every night I would wet the bed. I remember that the first thing that amazed me was that I didn't get beaten and that I had my own bed, which was only mine.
"For the first time in my life, I studied in a classroom. My knowledge of reading and writing was extremely basic, and I was unable to break free from the routine of life that I was used to in the cult. The fear of Ambash's punishments was so ingrained in us, that every time I raised my voice a little, I would immediately put my hands on my head and say: 'Sorry, sorry, I will repent.'"

Aviad struggled at the shelter, being alone for the first time in his life and surrounded by other children. When he was interrogated by the police, he did not cooperate and continued to claim that his father was righteous. When his brother Elisha, a year younger than him, arrived at the same shelter and began to be bullied, Aviad came to his aid and got into trouble because of it.

"Elisha was born with one hand shorter than the other, and the kids would make fun of him. I couldn't stand by. As a punishment, they would put me in a break room. After years of being punished in a warehouse or the attic, the break room did not bother me at all."

A year later, Aviad still couldn't acclimatize and was sent to a shelter in Bnei Brak, which did not go well either. 

"At that time, I was angry at the whole world. In fact, it was only there, around the age of 12, that I realized for the first time that I had been living a lie. This realization shook me, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I felt that I had a beast inside that wanted to unleash rage on everyone, but also inside me was the real Aviad, who just wants peace, quiet and calm.

"I remember going up to a high floor and wanting to kill myself. One of the guides talked to me and managed to calm me down. Following the suicide attempt, I was sent to a psychiatric hospital for three weeks. And even there, instead of understanding what I was going through, they would constantly send me to a break room. As if everything I've been through in life wasn't enough."

When Aviad was released from the hospital, he was transferred to a shelter in Jerusalem for four months. 

"That place was for youngsters who had nowhere to be, a kind of transitional place until they found a permanent place. There I got involved with the wrong kids, I started drinking alcohol and smoking hashish. Try to imagine a child, who has not yet turned 13, doing bongs all day long."

Q: Where were your siblings and mom at the time?

"For five years I didn't see my brothers on a regular basis. We were separated, and every time I would escape from one of the facilities I would manage to locate some of them and meet with them. I have no idea how I knew where they were. I prefer not to talk about my mother, but there was a time she visited me."

Until the age of 14, Aviad stayed in Jerusalem, feeling lost and never seeing his family. He was later sent to a shelter in Haifa, and from there to Tel Aviv and later Beersheba. He was rejected from all these places.

"These two and a half years, I wandered from place to place. I learned to get by everywhere. I had a backpack with a pair of socks, a shirt, pants, and a toothbrush. That was all I had in life. When I wanted to get away from the shelters, I would sleep on benches in public gardens or in abandoned buildings. I would steal food to eat because I had no choice. I had to survive."

In 2014, Aviad arrived at Shanti House, an Israeli NGO working with at-risk youth with branches across the country. His time at the organization was not easy either, for although it is said to have helped thousands of youngsters, an investigation in 2022 revealed its educators used unacceptable methods as well as punishments that include isolation, bullying and even covering up a sex scandal.

But for Aviad, Shanti House became a home, and those living there and founder Marioma Klein became family.

"The first time I approached Marioma and asked to be accepted into Shani House, she turned me down. She probably thought that my life story was too difficult and that maybe it would be better for me to be in a foster family, but I persisted.

"After two weeks I asked again, and she agreed on the condition that I speak to her every week and she would decide whether I could continue to stay or not. Another condition she had was that for my first seven months in the house I would not leave it at all. At first, it didn't bother me, because I had nowhere to go anyway, but later it did because it's not like I was on house arrest."

Aviad joined a Shanti House in southern Israel and shared a room with five other youngsters. He had his own bed again and a closet, and took up his studies.

"I studied one day a week, and the rest I worked odd jobs: at a supermarket, at a convenience store, and even at a burekas stand. Suddenly I had money. I bought a cellphone for the first time in my life, and I finally felt that I had a family and that I was loved. Marioma was like a mother to me. She made me feel like I was her favorite. She even wanted to fly me to the US for a fundraising trip for Shanti House. The counselor was like a father to me and the instructors were like my big brothers."

Unfortunately, Aviad's idyll did not last long. He soon discovered that Shanti House was a great place until something did not sit well with Marioma. The disturbing events described by the teenagers in the investigation are also what Aviad experienced firsthand. 

"Shanti House is great until the punishments come. These are excessive punishments, which I don't think are part of a normative education system."

Q: For instance? 

"If we didn't do the dishes, they would take them away. I remember times when we would wash the plastic milk bottles and drink from them. Once Marioma told me to share my life story in front of everyone or I would be expelled, and in the end, I did. And it didn't end there. If, for example, I made a noise in the room, they would take my mattress outside and tell me that that day I had to sleep outside. If I fought with one of the guys, I was forbidden to talk to the other residents, and they were forbidden to talk to me. There was no predetermined time limit, it was up to Marioma to decide. Sometimes it lasted days, and sometimes even a month.

"Once I fought with a friend and Marioma ordered for us to be handcuffed to each other for a few days. Does that sound like an acceptable education method to you, handcuffing two people to each other for a few days?"

Q: And what happened if someone didn't listen? 

"Marioma would expel them. Sometimes even in the middle of the night, when she knew they had nowhere to go. She threw me out many times. But one time I couldn't take it anymore and ran away. 

"One of her favorite punishments was banishing students to the outside studio, where no one was allowed to talk to anyone. After three days like that, I ran away. For two months I lived on the street until I finally returned."

Q: During this time, did you ever see a professional? 

"There was someone I occasionally spoke to, but it wasn't really confidential. He would always tell me that I could tell him everything because the meeting was confidential, but in practice, he would tell Marioma everything. For example, one of the rules was that sexual relations between students were forbidden. Once I told the therapist that I was having a relationship with one of the girls, and this information automatically reached Marioma.

"She got so angry as if we were talking about incest. One day Marioma told one of the girls that she was acting like a slut, and that when she grew up she would become a whore. One of the boys, who was friends with that girl, complained to the instructor. The instructor – of course – told Marioma, and suddenly in the middle of the night we were all woken up, and she called all the instructors to reprimand the guy who dared to speak against her. The next day they kicked him and the girl out."

Q: It's reminiscent of how your father acted, don't you think? 

"I try not to define, but Marioma had control over everyone, and everyone did what she wanted. The feeling is that they want you to always be loyal to Shanti House. If they think that you won't stick with them through fire and ice, they will kick you out or bully you or order the rest of the students not to talk to you, even after you leave. They haven't been allowed to speak to me for three years now. After I turned 18, I began a relationship with one of the counselors, and Marioma kicked me out and told me never to speak to the guys. And that continues until today."

Q: Are you mad at her? 

"There is some anger, but I can't forget all the good things she did for me. She showed me endless love, cared about me, and really wanted me to succeed, only her method was problematic. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and that's how it is with Marioma. She gives love, but also causes so much pain that it's no longer worth it."

Aviad stayed at Shanti House for almost five years, three of them in the branch in the desert and close to two years in Tel Aviv. Despite what he went through there, it gave him the strength to tackle his next goal: to join the IDF. 

"For me, joining the military was another step on the way to becoming a normal guy, and the army is part of the norm. It's something I've always wanted to do, and I knew I wasn't going to give up."

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After countless committees, and conversations with mental health professionals and recruiters, Aviad was finally recruited. 

After completing a seven-month preparatory course he enlisted in July 2019, making his way to combat service in the Golani Brigade's 13th battalion. 

"When I was a child in a shelter, I heard about these elite units and since then have wanted to enlist, to join these units, and in the end, I succeeded. I can't describe to you the feeling of pride when I finally got the brown beret."

Q: How did you manage the military discipline? 

"At training, everyone really helped me and accommodated me. Many of the soldiers who are there come with a difficult life stories, and the staff understood me. When I got to Golani, it was already more difficult. I couldn't always accept the fact that a young commander would come and shout at me, or tell me what to do, certainly not after everything I've been through in life."

Two months after enlisting, Aviad was kicked out of Shanti House and moved to Herzliya to the lone soldier's home. During his military service, he also completed his studies for a high school diploma. 

"Just imagine, I had hardly ever studied a day in my life, and suddenly I had to sit down to study subjects such as mathematics, English, and literature. It was a very challenging time, but I was determined to succeed and got great grades."

Q: You did better than some students who study all 12 years in school.

"I just knew I had to catch up. I know there will always be gaps in terms of personal and cultural knowledge, but I don't let that stop me. In September, I will continue my studies at Levinsky College."

Q: What are your plans for the future? 

"To tell my life story, which I have already begun doing. I want to be independent and maybe work in the financial field. But right now, my dream is to study for a bachelor's degree in business administration and economics."

Q: Are you in touch with your siblings?

"With most of them. Each one is trying to survive and is busy rebuilding his life. Just last week we went together to a music concert and sometimes we eat out together. With everything we've been through in life, I know they'll always be there for me."

Q: Do you see yourself getting married in the future and building a family?

"Absolutely. I am busting my ass off just so that I can buy an apartment. I want to have a wife, who would also be my friend, and four children so that I could give them everything that I was not."

Q: And what would you say to other children whose experience is similar to yours? 

"First of all, to tell as many people as possible about their situation, and that life is stronger than anything else. A friend once told me that in order to make sense of things, they has to be mayhem first. I feel that I am slowly starting to make sense of my life. If after everything I've been through I can stay optimistic, anyone can. It might sound strange to people to be doing this on my own, without family or someone having my back, but if I can succeed, anyone can. I fight every day with a knife between my teeth, and I believe I will succeed."

Chairman and lawyer of Shanti House, former judge Alon Rom, said in a statement, "Aviad arrived at Shanti House in 2014 and stayed there until 2019 – five full years. Shanti House treated very successfully at-risk and youth who chose to receive help. The CEO of the association, Marioma Klein, who was awarded the Israel Prize, has chosen to respect Aviad's privacy and dignity and not to respond to the allegations. This is neither her way nor the way of Shanti House."

The post Having survived his father's Haredi cult, Aviad Ambash looks to the future appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

When the IDF Paratroopers 890th Battalion Aid Station was given orders to move south and join ground maneuvers planned during Operation Guardian of the Walls, Lt. Dr. Nofit Shmuel's heart began to pound.

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She collected her soldiers, asked them to prepare bags with all the medical equipment they'd need, and informed paramedics and reservists to be ready for a call-up should the need arise. "Be ready for war," was the message.

A few hours later, Shmuel, 28, was on her way to a briefing in the western Negev. On route, there were constant rocket alerts, but they didn't bother here. Nor did concerns about entering enemy territory, or the possibility of being taken captive. All she was thinking about was her soldiers' level of training and well-being, and that her battalion aid station perform at its best.

"When I decided I was going to serve as a doctor in the military, I knew I wanted to be in the field and save lives," Shmuel says. "If it's not in the field, it's not being a doctor, as far as I'm concerned."

Six months ago, Shmuel became the first female combat doctor in an IDF Paratroopers division, and only the second to serve in that capacity in the IDF ground forces. By doing so, she is helping pave the way for other women to serve in combat roles that were previously barred to them.

"There's no such thing as 'limits,'" she says. "Limits are only in your head, and if you get rid of them there, you'll continue to move ahead without anything stopping you. My mom always told me I could do whatever I wanted. When I was a kid, I wanted to be able to say, 'You can do it,' because I could."

Q: Still, going into Gaza is scary. Very.

"Fears are natural, especially when the fighting is supposed to be taking place on their turf, but I don't talk about those fears. The various abduction scenarios are there at the subconscious level, but I didn't really have time to sit and think about what would happen if God forbid something went wrong and I was taken. These thoughts only let in fear, and fear detracts from resilience and confidence."

Eventually, Shmuel and her battalion aid station were scrambled to help with the rioting that erupted in northern Israel, near Metulla.

"I don't feel like I missed anything or disappointment about not going into Gaza. At the end of the day, my job is to take care of the soldiers' lives. I'm not looking for adventures that will cost lives, because that's what would have happened if we'd gone in [to Gaza]. I just want my soldiers to come back safe," she says.

Shmuel talks to Israel Hayom at "Little Gaza," a mock-up of an urban warfare scene at Tzeelim Base, considered the biggest of its kind in the world. It was built to mimic the streets and alleys of Gaza – with mosques, burned-out cars, and Arabic graffiti. Shmuel walks toward us, separating from a group of a few dozen equipment-laden troops. Her small figure is jarring, but she smiles.

"I have a lot of different sides. I can be the girliest in the world and wear heels and makeup, and I can be the most extreme combatant," she says.

When she asked the soldiers to circle around for a briefing to lead off a drill of a mass-casualty event, her voice is authoritative, and she speaks clearly and succinctly.

"Today, we'll practice opening veins, treating the wounded, and triage," she tells them, instructing some of them to smear themselves with fake blood. "Be concentrated and thorough. Today, it's just a drill, but tomorrow you could find yourselves doing it for real, with the lives of the soldiers next to you in your hands," she says.

From one of the structures in the training facility, we can already see a few soldiers lying on the ground, their faces, hands, legs, and stomachs liberally marked with fake blood. They yell with pain and plead for aid. Shmuel approaches the first soldier she meets, and instructs the medic about how to deal with a wounded soldier in field conditions – how to place a tourniquet to stop the bleeding and how to check for wounds that might not be immediately visible.

"It's great that there's a doctor in the field in real time, but the first person they encounter there are themselves, so that's why this drill is so important. Every combat soldier carries a tourniquet, and in real time, in a second, he can stop bleeding. The more we drill possible scenarios, the less likely they'll be to freeze in a real mass casualty event. If I have two medics who can't get to a vein, the drill will continue until they succeed," Shmuel explains.

After an hour, Shmuel deems the drill a success. She is visibly proud of how her soldiers conducted themselves, and they love her.

"She's with us through fire and water. I can't imagine the battalion aid station without her," says one of the medics.

"If there's anyone I'd want with me in an emergency or a war, it's her," another one chimes in.

"I'm 28, and they're like my little brothers," Shmuel smiles. "I know all the soldiers from all the companies and they feel very comfortable with me, and often come to me for advice on all sorts of personal issues, so I know I fit in well and they see me as one of their own."

Shmuel was born in Beersheba in April 1993, the oldest daughter of parents who made aliyah from India. Her father, Yitzhak, 59, who works at a fertilizer factory and as a driving teacher, arrived in Israel at age three. Her mother, Nurit, 53, made aliyah when she was 15.

Shmuel has three siblings: Adir, 26, a computer engineering student; Orel, 22, a fashion design student; and Tohar, 14.

She lives in Beersheba with her partner, Levy Brown, 28, an American who arrived in Israel as a lone soldier from North Carolina and served in the 401st Armored Division. They intend to get married next year. They have a Husky, Roy, who has blue eyes.

"I met Levy after he was out of the army and I was on vacation after my sixth year of medical school and my internship," Shmuel says. "That same day, I fought with my sister Tohar, and to work off some energy I went to a climbing wall in Beersheba with her. She's a member of the climbing team.

"At some point she disappeared on me. It turned out she'd gone to pet some dog. It was something we'd always dreamed of, but because my dad's allergic [to dogs] we couldn't have one. Suddenly, Levy arrived as asked me if it was my dog … He smiled and his smile enchanted me. That moment, I knew he'd be my husband, that he was the sunshine of my life."

Q: Love at first sight?

"That's exactly it. We started to talk and I felt like we'd known each other all our lives. We both like extreme sports, we both traveled in Iceland, we've both parachuted. He also felt an insane connection, and when my mom came to pick us up I told her I'd get back on my own.

"A few hours later, when he dropped me off, he said that he was supposed to go back to the US in three weeks to start studying structural engineering. We managed to go on a date, and I asked him to stay, but he said it was impossible. We decided to stay in touch long distance and meet on vacations. After a few weeks, he told me he loved me, and after seven months apart and after he finished his first semester, she came to Israel and just stayed with me. A week later we moved in together, and today he's studying structural engineering at Ben-Gurion University in Beersheba."

Even as a child, Shmuel was an excellent student.

"I learned to read when I was in nursery school, and the teacher told my parents that I was advanced for my age," she says. "I would put together difficult puzzles and wouldn't leave them until I was finished. My parents didn't withhold anything from me. Every time something new came out, they'd rush and buy it for me. Even know, I remember the electronic encyclopedia they bought me. When I got to school and I'd show them a good grade, they always asked why it wasn't higher. Every year, I'd get a certificate of excellence, and my father would frame it. He has a large collection of my certificates."

Q: In your free time, were you a tomboy?

"Not at all. You'd never expect me to wind up in combat. I was a classic 'girl.' I played with Barbies until I was older and kept out of the sandbox. Still, I always felt there were other sides to me. I was great at sports and I really loved paintball. I wasn't in a youth movement, but on school field trips I always walked up front with the guide. I was very opinionated. It's wasn't easy to define me."

In high school, Shmuel was in a gifted class on a science track, and was sent to take part in gifted programs at the Weizmann Institute.

"It was a three-year program in which we met with the greatest researchers in Israel," she says. "I helped with research on AIDS and cancer that that gave me another five points on my matriculation certificate, in addition to the five points [highest-level exams] I did in biology, physics, math, and English."

When she was 12, she decided to become a doctor after first learning about the human body.

"I had an encyclopedia about the human body that there was a picture of a surgeon holding a real heart. From that moment, every time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never said a teacher or a dancer like the other girls, I said I wanted to be a surgeon and hold a heart in my hands."

When Shmuel turned 18, she realized that she was closer than ever to realizing her dream. She was invited to the prestigious medical military deferment track [in which the IDF pays for medical school for selected candidates and they sign on as officers after their studies] and decided that was the direction for her. "At the conference to introduce us to the track five doctors from combat units spoke with us, and I remember sitting there and looking at the entire panel and there wasn't even one female doctor there. I told myself that one day, I'd be there."

Focused on her goal, Shmuel declined invitations to try out for some of the most-desired programs in the IDF, putting all her eggs in the medical school basket.

After earning a high enough grade on her entrance exam and passing the interview stage, she received the notification that she'd been accepted. "It was in September 2012, a day after Yom Kippur. I was so happy, because as far as I was concerned, the track was the way to make it to medicine and save soldiers' lives," she says.

On Oct. 10, 2012, she enlisted in the IDF, receiving both a soldier's ID and proof of deferment, and headed for the medical school at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

"I was in the fourth class of the Tzameret [Peak] program and was studying alongside regular [post-military] medical students," she says. "Those were very tough, very intense years. The difficulty wasn't just because of the studies. Think about it – between my first and second year, instead of resting, I was in basic training, and between the second and third year I did officers training; and between the third and fourth year, the medic's course. In addition, we had special courses and technical lessons about military medicine like naval medicine or air medicine, lectures on new studies about treating battlefield wounds, all on our vacations. There was no time to breathe."

"For seven years of studies, your life is on hold, and in the end, you're facing a long military service."

In her second year of medical school, then-IDF Chief of Staff Benny Gantz came to lecture Shmuel and her comrades. "One of the questions I asked him was why female IDF doctors weren't assigned to combat units. His answer was that physiologically, they weren't equal to the men. I remember that I told myself, 'No way," and decided, again, that I wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than combat medicine."

Q: How did you become such a fighter? Did you always want to break down barriers?

"I come from a home in which Zionism was very strong. It didn't matter how hard it was for my parents. They never said a bad word about the country, and that's something I absorbed from the day I was born."

"What's more, my father fought in the Armored Corps during the first Lebanon War, and every time he'd meet with his friend, I'd listen to his army stories. It always thrilled me. My mother grew up in a religious home, so she didn't go into the army. My brother Adir served in a technical role in the IAF and my sister Orel was at a religious high school, so she did national service. So you could say I'm the 'most combat' at our house."

In her sixth year of medical school, Shmuel was part of a medical student exchange at a trauma center in Baltimore, where she fulfilled her dream of holding a human heart. "I was there for about a month with three other students from my class. It was a very advanced trauma center, and every hour someone would come in with a gunshot wound.

"One day, when I was on the cardiovascular surgery unit, there was a heart transplant. When I realized I was about to hold a heart, I was so excited. It was beyond my every expectation, and I even had a picture taken that was just like the picture in the book I saw when I was 12."

Upon returning to Israel from Baltimore, Shmuel began a surgical residency at Sheba Medical Center at Tel Hashomer, but eventually opted to specialize in plastic surgery.

"I transferred to the plastic surgery department at Hadassh Ein Karem. The first surgery [I did] was on a hand and the second one was a corrective surgery for a cleft palate on a little girl. I fell in love with it immediately and decided I wanted to fix birth defects in children. In that department I was also exposed to doctors who had served as combat doctors in the army. The department head had been a doctor with the Shayetet 13 Unit and his deputy was with the Sayeret Matkal. They were more commanding that more daring than the doctors who weren't from that background," she recalls.

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On April 4, 2020, in the middle of the COVID pandemic, Shmuel started her military service. "Suddenly, at age 27, I was going home on weekend leave and wearing a uniform all the time. It was tough. Also, there was a lot of competition for the assignments I wanted and that brought with it a lot of tension."

At the end of her training, assignments opened up, including on with the 890th Paratroops Battalion.

Shmuel, who realized that was her chance to become a combat doctor, reached out to the battalion commander and told him she wasn't willing to compromise on anything less than serving there. "I knew that as far as the exams had gone, I'd passed with flying colors, but even at that stage, there was only one female combat doctor, who was in Givati. I didn't mean to miss my chance."

Q: Did you feel they would have preferred to choose a male doctor?

"I felt that because the job had always gone to men, the natural choice would be a man. I knew that a brave step needed to be taken to break through that barrier, and I knew I was no less good than any male doctor who was there and there was no reason for them not to take me. When I was summoned for an interview with the deputy chief medical officer, I told him that it was my mission. He asked if it would be too hard for me to be far from home and dragging weight around, and I told him no, that I could do anything I would need to."

Q: Did that question make you mad?

"Questions like that always come up. Frequently, they made it a point to stress that the paratroopers go deep into enemy territory when they need to, and wanted to know if I would. I always said that if I'm the battalion's doctor in ordinary times, I'm their doctor in war, too. After the interview with the battalion commander, who is a big supporter of integrating women into combat roles, I got my answer, and couldn't stop crying from joy."

In October 2020, Shmuel reported for service with the 890th Battalion, just in time for a drill in the north of Israel.

For three days, she marched alongside the soldiers, day and night, climbed Mount Hermon with equipment on her back, wore blister on her feet that caused all the skin to peel off, and also treated all the soldiers who were injured, became dehydrated, or passed out. For her, it was baptism by fire in which she proved to everyone that she was worthy of the job, and most importantly – that they could depend on her.

"Those were three really intensive days. I was short of sleep, I lived on battle rations, I didn't shower, and I slept in the field with the soldiers," she says. "The battalion chief medical officer was always referring injured soldiers to me, while I was injured myself, and still, I didn't break and I never took a ride, not once."

Q: Did you feel that you needed to prove yourself?

"Yes, but not because I'm a woman, but because I was new. I always feel like the burden of proof is one me, with everything."

Q: How did the soldiers accept you?

"At first, they were skeptical. On the second day, they explained how to treat feet that wouldn't stop bleeding because of the peeling skin. They told me that the most helpful thing was to stick on medical gauze and ignore the pain, and that's what I did. It takes mental strength to ignore pain, and when the drill ended, all their doubts disappeared, and they told me I was awesome and went the entire way with them, without hopping on the Hummer even once, or fainting. It was the moment they saw me as a combat soldier, one of their own."

When the drill was over, Shmuel and the rest of the battalion took up positions near Mount Dov on the northern border, and she became the first woman to serve in the area, which has been a bone of contention since the IDF withdrew from southern Lebanon in 2000. The question of who controls it has frequently prompted Hezbollah to attack IDF outposts in the area, as well as border communities, and carry out a number of attempted breaches of the border fence as well as attempted abductions.

Q: What was the day like at the outpost?

"In the day, I'd give any medical treatment that was required, and at 2:30 a.m. I'd get up and go out for a quiet patrol with the soldiers to prevent incursions. One time, we caught a shepherd who had crossed the border into Israel."

Q: Were you in life-threatening situations?

"Every action there is life-threatening. The territorial outcroppings are right up against the border, which is hilly territory with thick fog, so the security cameras don't always pick up on everything that's happening. Almost every time I walked in the wadi, I'd see Hezbollah soldiers watching us from across the border. There used to be plenty of border breaches by terrorists, and more than once they'd put bombs on the road. But not while I was there, fortunately.

"Recently, we were deployed in Judea and Samaria and there were life-threatening situations like having Molotov cocktails thrown at us, shooting attacks, and rioting. Rioting can go from zero to 100 in seconds.

"The operational incident that most sticks out in my minds took place during Guardian of the Walls, when we were sent to the north after mortars were fired on Israel. It was an operation by combined forces. We wore ceramic vests and carried full equipment through a minefield with our weapons loaded, ready for any scenario. The goal was to stop anyone who tried to cross the border during the riots, and we knew that in the crowd, there were Hezbollah operatives and we were exposed to sniper fire.

"Of course, I was the only female fighter in the field, among dozens of male soldiers, and I won't forget the look of astonishment from the Yahalom soldiers when they realized I'd be alongside them. They asked if it was regulation for me to be there. In situations like that, you're totally focused on the mission, and there's no room for fear."

In March 2021, Shmuel had a chance to complete a jump course. Unfortunately, she was injured hours before her first scheduled jump.

"Apparently, the drill we'd been doing injured one of my vertebrae, but I hadn't managed to check it out. I'd been looking forward to the jump and was awfully disappointed. I cried about missing out, but I have no doubt I'll jump on the next course."

Q: Do you feel that you're breaking down barriers?

"Absolutely. Every woman who does a job like this gives other women strength and courage. I have no doubt that the next time they want to assign a woman to this role, it will be easier, and women will dare more to request combat roles.

"You need to understand that the only limitations are in our heads, not our gender. It all depends on how strong you are mentally to do things that the environment says you aren't capable of doing. I'm waiting for the day when women in combat will be something routine, and there won't be any need to write articles about it. That will be a great feeling of victory."  

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