Eddy 'Azran, age 36

On Wednesday, 29 September 2004, I was working in my garden just before the Sukkoth holiday. I went inside to take a shower. It was two weeks after my daughter was born. While I was in the shower, I heard a huge explosion that sounded as if it came from inside my house. I grabbed my towel and got out of the shower. Just as I left the bathroom, I saw my wife, who came over to me. We were terribly frightened, but as soon as I saw that she and the baby were all right, I calmed down a bit.

I heard screaming and knew that people had been injured. I threw on my clothes while I was still wet, and rushed outside, where I saw lots of smoke and people running. The first injured person I saw was Yuval, a boy about five years old. Only later did I learn that it was Yuval. At first, I didn't even recognize him, even though I knew him. I just didn't focus on his face. The explosion occurred at the bottom end of the street and people brought Yuval to the top end of the street. Both his legs had been severed, and one was still dangling from his body. He also had stomach and head wounds. He suffered multiple trauma but was still breathing. We took some rags and shirts to stop the bleeding, and I motioned for the first ambulance that arrived to come over and treat him. I helped the paramedic hold his head to insert an inhalation tube. His breathing stabilized a bit.

Immediately after that I ran to bring Yuval's leg. I remembered what I'd learned in the army – that you have to send the body parts with the wounded person. As I was running, cameras were being shoved at me from every direction – it was like a movie.

I kept on treating the wounded. There was an Ethiopian boy who had a hole in his chest. He was on his feet, wandering about. He was in shock. I stopped him for a second. He looked lost. I took him aside to stop the bleeding. I asked him how his breathing was and took him to an ambulance. It was what we call "scoop and run." There wasn't anything else to do on the scene.

The moment that the ambulances arrived, all the wounded ran toward them. The street was closed to keep away the curiosity-seekers. I was standing near the back of the ambulance. Another person, whose hand was bleeding, came over. The medic bandaged it, and we helped him into the ambulance. We seemed to have finished handling all the wounded – the Magen David Adom crews and others treated everybody. Then, while barricades were being set up to enable the rescue forces to do their work, a wave of hysteria broke out. People were screaming and fainting. I went up the street and saw some young guys I work with. They told me that a woman fainted and had already been evacuated.

The whole thing lasted about fifteen minutes, after which I went home. I took a shower to wash off the blood. My wife was really shaken by what happened. She had developed a bad case of diarrhea. Immediately she said to me, "I am not staying here any longer.” As we were talking, we packed some things. We went to stay with my sister up north. I took everyone to a safe place. It was very hard for my wife physically because she had just given birth. It was also an emotional shock for her, what with the explosion being so close to our house and her feeling that she was unable to protect our daughter.

When I heard that the boy I had treated was Yuval, I couldn't figure out why I didn't recognize him right away. He was in a group I ran for the parent-child center for families being cared for by the welfare office. In the project, I integrated youth I worked with, to reinforce them. When I went to pay my condolences to the family, Yuval's mother recognized me. She told me that every time Yuval saw my car, he would cry out excitedly, "There's Eddy."

Later I understood that I didn’t recognize him because I acted like a good soldier, trained, technical. Like a machine, without emotion. I didn’t try to identify the people I treated or comforted. Now, though, I experience it differently.

Before this happened, I was indifferent [to the rockets]. Many people were, because a lot of Qassams had fallen. Until you see what they could actually do, you say to yourself, there are Qassams, but it is possible to live with them. As soon as you see the destruction, how it tore that kid apart, you understand that it’s deadly. You can’t stay indifferent. If you used to run out to see where it fell, now you immediately look for a safe place, and only go out after it’s over. Nobody who saw it relates to it as some kind of faraway explosion anymore.

And you deal with the helplessness, and the tears. Everyone says we’re brave because we live here, but we have no option. You can say we’re heroes, but that’s nonsense. We are hostages, because even those who want to leave cannot, mostly for economic reasons. No one will buy a house in Sderot now, despite the low prices.

Eddy 'Azran, age 36, is married with one child and a resident of Sderot, in southrn Israel who works as a youth counselor in the Gvanim Education and Community Involvement Association. His testimony was taken by Jessica Bonn in Sderot, on 4 May 2005