Not Without My Brother: How I Escaped War Torn Ukraine

Until the 15th of March, we were okay.

Sure we had no electricity, running water, or connection with the world, but we learned how to cope. We knew when to run into the corridors to hide from incoming fire or rockets, we knew not to wander away from our apartment building, and my neighbors and I had figured out how to find little water sources and clean it enough that it would be drinkable.

That morning, my little brother was nearby at my grandparents, and only my mother and I were home. I went outside with four other men to kindle a fire and cook some shakshuka to eat. It was risky, but we had done this many times before, and, we had to eat.

It happened too suddenly, there was no chance to run. A large mortar exploded right next to us. One man was hit in his stomach, another in his leg, and the other in his arm. I was hit in my back, and fell straight to the floor.

It’s hard to describe. It’s like I was now someone else, standing next to me, looking at myself. I stared at my body, I could see it, but I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t move it.

In fear of the next mortar fire, my neighbors quickly picked my body up, and carried me inside. There my mother saw me, covered in blood, lying still. I looked at myself, and I looked at her. I could see it was too difficult for her to handle.

Slowly, I began to feel my arm and my leg on my left side. I wiggled my toes and fingers, painfully. I took a deep breath and assured my mother I’d be okay. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel or move my right side. I couldn’t sit up.

I needed to go to the hospital, but there was no way to get there, and no phones to call with. There wasn’t even a real hospital in Mariupol anymore. Only a community building filled with volunteers who were trying to help.

My neighbors ran outside and found an ambulance. They told the driver what had happened, and begged him to come get me. The driver apologized and said that he wasn’t allowed to, but my neighbors insisted, and soon enough, he agreed.

The men ran inside and carried me into the vehicle. My mother and a few others came along. After a frightening ride, we arrived at the “hospital.”

The scene was horrifying. After weeks of staying in our building, with no outside communication, this was the first time the reality of the war really hit us. Blood was everywhere. I saw people holding their severed limbs. Children and adults alike were screaming in pain.

It was the day before Purim. Other years I would have been preparing with my community, getting ready for a joyful party. Now I was trapped in a nightmare.

A volunteer medic came to see me. He inspected my wounds, and then wrapped them up.

“There’s nothing we can do for you,” the medic said, with a blank face that seemed to have seen too much to keep going. “Many people have come here who can’t stand, but you need to just do it. We aren’t a real hospital; you and your mother need to take care of you so that you can survive. Just stand up.”

Two medics lifted me and tried to put me on my feet, but I just collapsed onto the floor, repeatedly. Finally they told me to rest. They gave me the only medication they had: antibiotics. There was nothing left for the pain, and the nightmare was only getting worse.

My mother and I stayed in the hospital for ten days. Like in the rest of Mariupol, there was no reception or any type of communication with the outside world available in the hospital. We didn’t have any way to reach my grandparents and my eight-year-old brother who was with them when we left. Rumor in the hospital was that the bombing had gotten much worse, and buildings in our neighborhood were reduced to rubble, or in flames. I was in pain, but I was more worried about my little brother.

After ten days, I still had no improvement. A volunteer came and offered to take me with my mother to a hospital in Donetsk. It would be a grueling ride, and once we left Mariupol we wouldn’t be able to return. But in Donetsk, I could have surgery, and a chance of walking again. We had no choice but to go.

We arrived right before Shabbat. The doctors quickly ran tests on me, and then put me under general anesthesia. When I woke up, they told me that they had done surgery, and removed a three-centimeter piece of shrapnel from my spine. They did an MRI, and agreed that with ongoing treatment and therapy, I would be able to walk again.

Already the next morning I was able to sit up for the first time in weeks. They gave me drugs for the pain and recovery, and vitamins for nutrition. Soon I would be able to leave the hospital, but now I was really worried about my little brother. I couldn’t go any further without him.

In Donetsk, we finally had phone service. We were able to call everyone who was no longer in Mariupol, and tell them we were alive. They kept telling us we had to move on and away from Donetsk before it would be too late, because the war was spreading. I called my rabbi, Mendel Cohen. I told him we didn’t know where my brother and grandparents were, or how they were surviving with no food or water, in the freezing cold, and with all the bombs falling – that we needed to go, but would not leave without them.

Rabbi Cohen immediately jumped into action. Over the past week he had somehow managed to gain communication with a couple community members in Mariupol, and set up an underground rescue network. They were locating community members, and weaving through the military operations to get them out when possible. In an unbelievable maneuver, they managed to find my brother and grandparents, get them into a car, and drive them over to us.

I will never forget this kindness. Our little family reunion in the hospital was extremely emotional, we held each other tight, and also, strong. We had lost so much, and had so much to cry over, but we only cried tears of joy to be together again.

It was a long journey ahead, but we made it to our flight to Israel right before Pesach. We joined 100 members of our community, each who had their own incredulous stories of survival and escape from Mariupol. We’re spending Pesach in a hotel with our Rabbi and old friends, trying to keep positive, and also praying for our friends who are still hoping to get out.

I can walk now, with the help of a cane, a little bit at a time. I’ll be starting physical therapy as soon as I can, along with a whole new life. We lost our home and all of our material possessions, but thank God, at least we have each other.

The rescue of Dovid Betzalel’s family was possible through generous donations from the Syrian Jewish Community in New York.
Click here to help them and thousands like them http://evacuatemariupol.com.