Healing from the Trauma of October 7th

One Israeli soldier’s legacy — and the lives he saved — offer a powerful glimpse into the quiet, courageous path toward healing.

A man blowing a shofar, a ram’s-horn trumpet used by ancient Jews (photo: Megs Harrison/Unsplash)

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This is a guest essay written by Forest Rain, an American-born Israeli branding expert and storyteller.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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Healing from trauma is complicated.

Any trauma.

Bereavement, injury, sexual assault, survivor’s guilt, the shattering of long-held ideals that shaped our understanding of reality — any of these alone is an extreme challenge to address, much less heal.

The October 7th invasion and the subsequent war formed all of these traumas into complex layers, interwoven, widespread, and piling on top of generational trauma in a way that sucks all the oxygen out of the air, making it feel like we will never be able to breathe again.

And the trauma is not over. How can we even think of healing when simply breathing is difficult?

The family of Major Dor Zimel offers insight into the enormity of this task — and a glimpse of an answer.

Last Friday, a memorial service was held marking one year since Major Dor Zimel was killed by a Hezbollah drone in Arab al-Aramshe, a village in Israel. A year since Dor was torn from his family, fiancée, many friends, soldiers, and colleagues. The circles of his influence rippled far and wide, inspiring people to be their best selves. Dor evoked love and admiration in countless people.

We stood together at Dor’s gravesite and listened to those closest to him speak about enduring a year without him. They expressed their grief and desire to be better, for Dor, like Dor.

Dor’s father Alon thanked everyone for coming. Looking around, he asked if those who received organ donations from Dor were there. In his death, Dor gave new life to seven people.

Alon saw Marcelo, who received Dor’s heart; the father of little Liel, now 2 years old, who received a liver lobe; and IDF combat soldier Kfir Zar, who received Dor’s lungs after being critically wounded in Gaza. Alon opened his arms to embrace them.

Their presence is not like having part of Dor alive, but it does infuse the darkness of this terrible loss with meaning and light.

Sharon, Dor’s mother, spoke of all the people who, in the past year, have applauded the Zimel family for their strength, not knowing how hard it is for each of them to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. Of the fantasy that hiding a little longer under the covers would make the nightmare go away.

Later, I had the opportunity to give her a hug and tell her that they are brave and strong because they do get out of bed in the morning. Moreover, they constantly strive to memorialize Dor in ways that bring joy to others, as Dor did in his life. That was a statement her heart could accept. She nodded and quietly said, “We get out of bed in the morning. And we don’t stop doing. Thank you.”

Dor’s younger brother Tom spoke about his world going dim, the colors and emotions faded and impossible to fully experience. He spoke about having less patience, of becoming angry. He also spoke about knowing that he needs to do better. To be better. Like Dor.

Shir, Dor’s fiancée, put a visible effort into steadying her voice but couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She spoke of sadness and accomplishment. Her dream of building a family with Dor was taken from her, but he always encouraged her to be her best self, and so she completed her degree and reenlisted in the IDF as a Mental Health Officer. Now she is helping others — soldiers defending the State of Israel that Dor loved so much.

Sometimes, simply getting up and facing the world is an act of bravery. Succeeding to do good for others when the burden of grief sucks all oxygen away is astonishing.

I stood and listened. The waves of grief touched everyone in the crowd. I could feel them without drowning, but when Lior, Dor’s twin sister, spoke, I found tears running down my face.

I, who grew up an only child, lack the connection siblings feel. Lior used words to create a vision of what it is like to be a twin, missing her other half:

“We used to laugh that we would grow old together. That we’d live next door to each other, and when I didn’t have the energy to cook, I would come to your house. That when we would be old, you’d go with me to buy my medicines, and we would dress alike because it would be funny and make people ask: ‘Hey! Are you twins?’

At first, she addressed Dor. Then she addressed the crowd:

“When I am old and my memory isn’t what it used to be, and you come to visit me and I ask, ‘Where’s Dor?’ Tell me, he was just here to see you. You simply forgot.”

“When I am old and my vision isn’t what it used to be, and I ask, ‘Where’s Dor?’ Tell me, he sat here with you, on the couch, and then he had to go. You just didn’t see.”

“When I am old and my hearing isn’t what it used to be, and I ask, ‘Where’s Dor?’ Tell me, he came to see you, but you were sleeping. He gave you a kiss on your forehead, and then he had to go.”

Can you learn to live with a hole in your heart?

The muscles around the hole can grow strong, but as Lior described so well, it doesn’t matter how much time passes; the hole will always be there.

At the end of the ceremony, Kfir, the soldier who received a lung transplant from Dor, asked to say a few words. Kfir was critically wounded when an anti-tank missile struck his tank while on a mission in Gaza. He was sedated and on a ventilator for three and a half months. When he woke up, he discovered that his lungs had stopped functioning; it was Dor’s lungs that saved him.

There are no reports in Israel or worldwide of anyone with injuries as severe as his who has survived. In the past year, Kfir has had a long and difficult recovery. Now he can not only walk and talk on his own; he was there with a shofar in his hands.

A shofar is a traditional Jewish instrument made from a ram’s horn, used for religious and ceremonial purposes. It produces a raw, piercing sound and holds deep spiritual significance.

Kfir spoke about when the shofar is used — on Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), for special events (in ancient times, the shofar was used to signal battle, proclaim the coronation of a king, and announce significant communal events) and as a symbol of the Redemption. The shofar’s sound is meant to stir the soul, calling individuals and the community to reflection, action, and connection with God.

Kfir said he could think of no tribute more fitting to Dor than the sound of the shofar.

Remember, Kfir received a lung transplant from Dor. The air he breathes and the sound he produces are thanks to Dor. It is not easy to blow the shofar; producing a clear and steady sound requires strong lung capacity and breath control.

And then Kfir blew the shofar.

The sound, raw and unyielding, piercing and encouraging. Unbearable pain and the triumph of simply being able to breathe. Dor gone and yet still with us.

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