Shura military base, Israel. Sunday morning, October 8th.

We arrive at the base to the stench of death. It’s the smell of a concentration camp. We are briefed and given protective clothing to get to work.

I’ve trained for years to process conditions of all kinds of victims’ remains. Nothing prepares me for this horror that will be etched in my memory forever. This is not a baptism of fire; this is a head-long dive into the inferno.

A huge, refrigerated truck arrives with a chocolate milk ad on the side. The kind we drank when we were kids. A tsunami stench of death hits us.

We don’t think; we just act. The guy closest to the door numbly picks up body bag after body bag shouting to his friends from below, “Careful, this is the head...here are the legs…“

Body after body. It’s never ending. 40 bodies in the first truck, and then truck after truck…

One truck I will never forget. The truck from Kibbutz Nir Oz.

A long truck full of people whose bodies were gathered by our people while terrorists were still out there—while rockets were still being fired overhead. Whole families in sheets and carpets from their own homes.

I get into the truck and see a little foot of a four-year-old girl. It’s so sweet. I can’t digest what I’m seeing. I picked her up slowly, being careful with her head. Being careful as I pick up her lifeless little body.

The blanket slips off and the peaceful face of an angel emerges from the inside. A toddler still in her Mickey Mouse nightgown.

I take her down slowly and shout, “Four-year-old girl. Be careful, be careful of her head!” Everyone is careful. Everyone does everything with the fear of God. This is a nightmare. A horror movie.

Then comes her brother—a two-year-old boy with beautiful blond hair. Then her sister … Then, we pull out their father, a handsome and big man. We probably also pulled out the mother, but I couldn’t tell.

We pulled out the bodies of foreigners and locals who still had weapons and ammunition strapped to them…

Our hearts are broken, crushed. Any second the heart could crumble, but we must continue.

It doesn’t end...ten trucks like this.

We go to sleep at 5:00 am in the morning. We just collapse on the sidewalk outside because who cares where we lie. Our bodies are shaking and our eyes won’t close. They are so swollen from tears. That was just the first day.

At 7:00 am we get up—and go again Horror follows horror.

Penetrating injuries of hatchet knives, smashed and mangled heads from hammers, faces and bodies with gashes burned into them.

Girls with nail polish that matches their clothes with a stench that overwhelms the senses. We try everything to block the smell, but nothing helps. We feel the Angel of Death hovering in the air…

Each day, the condition of the next truckload of corpses gets worse. They turn blue or white and their skin begins to peel.

It’s hard to comprehend who and what we are seeing.

Some people are completely blackened. It is impossible to distinguish whether it’s a man or a woman. Tissue and skin flake off and they stick to our gloves.

How do we handle the remains so we can bring back as much of them to their families who are crying out from the core of their being...waiting for that identifiable piece that will confirm to them that this body was their loved one?

Professionals among us who would have said they’d seen everything before—they fall apart...wailing from the depths of their soul...running outside to vomit…

Our nation is witnessing horrors we only saw in dark and evil days of old. We didn’t think we’d come to this again…

And yet, here we are. But I will say something in the midst of this horror.

The people of Israel live!!!! We will get through this and raise our heads high again.