A personal account of a modern say hero from Rega Shel Chochmah .
By Hezy Laing
I realize I’m buried under the rubble. I try to crawl out but I can’t. I try to remove the weapon strap and lose consciousness. The only thing going through my mind is: “What, is this me? I can’t die. My mother will kill me!”
I’m Matan Misan, a wounded soldier and content creator. I grew up in the settlement of Karnei Shomron, one of five children, the second in line. From a young age I was addicted to sports — skateboards, surfboards, snowboards, anything with a board. It’s almost as if fate wrote that the one who runs barefoot all day, chasing adrenaline, would be the one to lose his legs. But maybe fate also knew I had the strength to cope.
At the beginning of the war we entered deep into Gaza. A full month of fighting in the northern part of the Strip. Then, on Friday evening, December 22, we entered a booby‑trapped house on foot. Dozens of kilograms of explosives. A massive explosion. I immediately understood what happened — I was buried under the rubble. I tried to crawl out, couldn’t, and lost consciousness.
I woke up a few minutes later. A friend from the team, moderately injured, was sitting behind me in the armored vehicle trying to help. He didn’t know what to do, so he just talked to me to keep me alive: “Misan, bro, hold on. You’re alive. I need you. Stay with me.” I remember being neither here nor there, thinking only: “I can’t die. My mother will kill me!”
I remember a flash in the helicopter, waking up in panic, trying to pull things out, and the 669 medics telling me, “Calm down, you’re in good hands. Hamas doesn’t have helicopters.” I relaxed. The next thing I remember is the lights in the hallway at Soroka Hospital. The doctor came up to me and said, “Listen, Matan. Your head is fine. Your upper body is fine. To save you, we had to amputate both your legs. Don’t look down. Give it time. You don’t have legs.”
From there began a journey that never ends — and never will — starting with the smallest things. My brother came to the hospital an hour and a half after the injury. My face was swollen, my eyebrows burned from the explosion, and the first thing I said to him was, “Bezalel… what’s wrong with your face?”
A year later I was already moving from a walker to crutches, from two crutches to one, switching prosthetics, starting from scratch again and again. Then came the running blades — a crazy challenge. My physiotherapist, Rita, told me the things I was doing were insane and that I had to upload them online. The first video blew up — a million views on YouTube — and from there I continued.
I learned that balance isn’t about stability; it’s about being strong when life tries to knock you down. I had fears. Snowboarding is cool, but no one sleeps with your demons at night. It’s you with yourself, and the space you give it. I learned to face it — with yoga, awareness, and not being afraid to talk.
People tell me I’m an inspiration. I see their invisible injuries, and my struggle helps them with theirs. When you find yourself in a situation like this and choose to keep going, you’re choosing the path of faith. And every time things get hard, I remind myself: only with joy.
