A massive blast threw Mendel into the air. He woke up on the ground, fully conscious. His ears rang. He smelled gunpowder.

By Linda Sadacka

When Mendel lay bleeding on the ground in northern Gaza, bullets cracking above his head, he didn’t know whether he would live or die.

He was fully conscious. Fully aware. And asking himself a single question: Is this it?

That moment under fire, wounded, exposed—has come to define him in the eyes of many. But to understand why Mendel survived, and why his story matters, you have to know who he was before the explosion.

Mendel was born in Chicago. In 2010, his family made Aliyah, moving to Israel not for convenience or comfort, but out of deep ideological commitment to Judaism, faith, and God. They didn’t settle in a city center. They moved to the Judean Hills.

That environment shaped him early. It grounded him in values, purpose, and the understanding that life is about something bigger than oneself.

As a child and teenager, Mendel was relentlessly active. He fished for hours along the Tel Aviv coast. He played basketball, soccer, volleyball. He ran, trained, and pushed his body constantly. He even practiced parkour around the Old City, jumping rooftops and flipping through the air mostly terrifying his parents, but feeling completely free in his body.

Movement, challenge, and energy were central to who he was.

He was also deeply social. Mendel loved people being around friends, talking, laughing, connecting. On weekends, he’d grab a beer, go out, and enjoy life. He listened as much as he spoke. He was curious, relationship-oriented, and genuinely drawn to human connection.

Above all, he was optimistic.

He loved life, smiled easily, and tried to uplift the people around him. He never felt the need to put others down. “If I can make someone feel stronger or more confident,” he says, “why wouldn’t I? It costs nothing.”

Looking back, Mendel considers himself privileged not because life was easy, but because he was surrounded by extraordinary teachers, mentors, and wise people from a young age. He learned early that everyone carries a half-full cup and a half-empty one. Life, he understood, is shaped by where you choose to focus. He chose what was full.

That mindset didn’t begin after his injury. It existed long before everything changed.

By December 12, 2023 nearly two months after the October 7 massacre Mendel was serving as a combat engineer in the IDF, operating on the front lines in Gaza. His unit’s mission was clear and dangerous: dismantling terror tunnels, clearing booby traps, and demolishing buildings used by Hamas.

It was Chanukah. The night before, they had lit candles. That day, the unit waited inside a tank in northern Gaza, in Jabalia, listening to the radio, standing by for orders. Before heading out, one of Mendel’s close friends, Oriya Yakov, was celebrating his birthday.

Their commander gave him the option to stay back. Oriya chose to go, that was who he was.

As the unit patrolled between buildings, they reached an open area they needed to cross. In Gaza, there is no such thing as a safe open space but they advanced carefully.

Then everything exploded.

A massive blast threw Mendel into the air. He woke up on the ground, fully conscious. His ears rang. He smelled gunpowder. When he turned his head, he saw a large piece of his friend lying nearby. Another friend was wounded beside him.

Mendel lifted his arm. It was bleeding heavily. He tried to stand but couldn’t.

Then the gunfire began.

This wasn’t random shooting. They were being ambushed. Mendel was completely exposed, unable to move, unable to fight back. All he could do was call for help.

Lying there, bleeding, bullets flying overhead, one thought repeated in his mind: Is this it? He didn’t know if he would live or die. There was no clarity, only a giant question mark.

His thoughts went straight to his family. He thought about what his death would do to them. That, he says, is what kept him fighting to stay conscious. In that kind of pain and chaos, the body wants to shut down. He refused.

Another thought followed: No way. This can’t be it.

He was only 20 years old. No wife. No children. No legacy yet. There were things he still wanted to do, goals he hadn’t reached. Almost absurdly, he remembers thinking, I haven’t even done an Ironman yet.

This couldn’t be how his story ended.

Later, the unit learned they had been hit by an anti-tank missile fired not at a tank, but directly at Oriya Yakov. The missile struck him in the stomach. He absorbed the blast, the shrapnel, the explosion.

Oriya was killed instantly. He saved the rest of them with his body. May his memory be a blessing, and may his light continue through those he saved. Four soldiers were badly injured.

As Mendel lay bleeding, the man who saved his life arrived – another wounded soldier who didn’t even realize how badly he himself was hurt. He applied tourniquets across Mendel’s body, stopping him from bleeding to death.

More forces arrived. The terrorists were eliminated. Mendel was evacuated.

Less than an hour after the explosion, he was on a helicopter, conscious the entire time, lying on a stretcher, covered with the silver thermal blanket seen in movies. He had lost a significant amount of blood.

His first question to the IDF medic beside him was simple: “What’s the protocol? Should I close my eyes or stay awake?” She looked at him and said, “Stay awake. Stay strong.”

So Mendel started to sing. Am Yisrael Chai (The Jewish Nation Lives Forever), again and again.

The soldiers on the helicopter smiled. That was his way of staying awake. His way of staying alive.

Within the hour, he was at Sheba Medical Center. Surrounded by doctors. Before surgery, he called his father.

“Dad, what’s up,” he said calmly. “I’m injured. I’m hospitalized. But I’m okay.”

Then he went under.

Six hours. Four surgeons. Four specialties.

What was taken

What the injury took from Mendel wasn’t only physical.

It stripped him of his innocence.

Before that day, he was still just a 20-year-old kid—loving people, sports, laughter, weekends, ordinary life. Curious. Open. Alive in the simplest human way.

Seeing real evil up close changes you. It removes a layer of softness, of naïveté, of believing the world is fundamentally safe or predictable.

What was taken from him was the ability to be a “regular” 20-year-old.

He may have been 20 by age, but not inside. Something in him aged instantly. Life stopped being abstract. Death stopped being distant. Responsibility became real.

Friends call him an old soul now. They’re not wrong.

That loss isn’t visible. But it’s something he carries every day.

Accepting the new reality

When Mendel realized he was going to live, accepting what life now looked like was brutal.

At 20, life is usually light. You don’t carry much weight. You haven’t faced death yet. You’re free to be innocent.

That freedom was gone.

Suddenly, he wasn’t just recovering from an injury. He became a symbol—whether he wanted to or not. He represented his fallen friends, his unit, the IDF, the Jewish people, Israel.

That’s a heavy responsibility for anyone—especially someone so young.

The physical reality was just as crushing.

Before the injury, Mendel defined himself through movement and strength. Then he woke up stitched everywhere—shrapnel in his groin, arm, stomach, and leg. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t lift a tissue with his left hand due to nerve damage. He couldn’t eat or drink. He was connected to tubes.

At one point, he was in a diaper, with no control over his body.

He went from being a warrior to needing help just to shower. To being wiped by strangers.

Everything flipped overnight.

And yet, he understood something early on.

God was central to his healing—but so was responsibility.

“My therapist was also me,” he says plainly. “At the end of the day, only one person can quiet the chaos in your head.”

Others can guide. Only you can walk.

Mendel will never say the injury was “good.”

It was tragic. A close friend was lost. Families were shattered. One friend lost a leg. Another still moves between crutches and a wheelchair.

This was devastation.

But on a personal level, the injury transformed him.

Through darkness came clarity. Perspective. Gratitude. Lessons many learn over decades he learned in months. He now understands how fragile everything is, how quickly it can all be taken away.

So he appreciates life. Walking. Breathing. The smallest things.

When life is hard, he reminds himself: It could have been worse. For many, it is.

And when he thinks back to that moment on the ground bleeding, bullets overhead, asking: Is this it? His answer today is clear.

No.

“The only reason I’m alive,” he says, “is because God chose to save me. And if I’m still here, then I still have a purpose.”

So now, he intends to fulfill it.

To live fully. Intentionally. With meaning.

He was given a second chance at life.

And he refuses to waste it.