The Language of Healing: A Combat Medic’s Vow to Preserve Life
Channeling Care Through Empathy
There are moments in life that don’t fade with time, but instead grow more vivid in memory. They remind you of what you survived and who you became.
For me, one of those defining moments happened in June 1982, under the sun-scorched sky of Lebanon’s Beka’a Valley amid a brutal engagement etched in history as the Battle of Sultan Yaacob. This is not a story about politics or borders. It is a story about humanity revealed in the most inhumane of moments.
I was a young paratrooper combat medic, fresh from training and recognized as the outstanding graduate in my class. The army had instilled discipline, skill, and resolve in me. But no amount of preparation could brace the human spirit for what lay ahead that day.
War reveals what’s hidden in us. It strips away pretense and shows who we really are. When shells explode around you and the wounded cry out, you learn quickly what you truly believe and how you respond under pressure.
Our unit had been dispatched urgently to extract an Israeli tank battalion encircled by Syrian forces. The Syrian Army had dug in deep. They were prepared; we were not.
Within moments of entering the battlefield, we were in the midst of chaos. Tanks burned. Shrapnel whizzed through the air. Radio signals crackled with panic and conflicting orders. The landscape had been transformed into a warzone drawn from a nightmare, which no movie could capture accurately. The relentless sound of shelling and the smell of the battlefield drowned out all thought.
I made a silent prayer — not in the formal way of religious ritual, but a desperate whisper to whatever force might listen: If I make it through this day, I will do everything I can to preserve life. That was my bargain. My pledge. Not for glory, not out of heroism, but from a base desire to survive and, in exchange, to give meaning to the act of surviving and saving others’ lives for the sake of my own.
That vow became my guiding principle.
As I moved from one wounded soldier to another, I knew that speed and skill were crucial. There was no room for hesitation; breathing had to be restored, bleeding had to be stopped, and circulation sustained. Yet, amid this all-consuming work, a moment changed everything.
A Syrian soldier, younger than I was, lay injured under fire. He had been among the opposing forces in the battle. In that instant, he was no longer an enemy, but a broken body. He was a young man in quiet agony, clutching at life. Under the principle of “Purity of Arms,” a plan quickly came together to rescue him from fire directed by his forces.
Now able to access his multiple wounds, his eyes locked with mine, not in hatred, but in fear. He was dying, and he didn’t want to. I will never forget that face.
I treated him as I would any other combatant patient. I applied a tourniquet to his nearly severed arm and leg, started an infusion, and then bandaged his wounds. I looked into his eyes and saw not a threat, but a terrified life worth saving. At that moment, I understood something no medical instructor had taught me. Healing is a unique language that transcends borders, beliefs and background. Without sharing a common verbal language, he understood that I intended to help — not harm.
That moment redefined my understanding of medicine and communication. It wasn’t about who the patient was but what they needed. And it wasn’t courage that compelled me; it was empathy. I saw in him the same fear I felt. That recognition didn’t require words. Healing never does.
The Battle of Sultan Yaacob raged for hours. Scores were killed and wounded. Four were captured [including one whose body was recovered decades later and brought home, and a second, whose remains were returned from Syria after 43 years in a daring recovery operation on May 11, ‘25]. The roads were littered with wreckage, and an incredible silence followed. Even those who walked away would carry the scars, most invisible, buried within their souls.
We lost friends. Where you expected anger and revenge, there was care and concern. Comrades stepped forward to help the wounded, regardless of their uniform. The question was never whether to help — it was how: how to reach them under fire, how to preserve life amid terror.
When I left the battlefield, I was not the same person who had entered it. The vow I made — to preserve life — didn’t end with that battle. It became the cornerstone of my life’s work. From battlefield triage to the boardrooms of global health organizations, that moment of empathy has guided most decisions I’ve made going forward. As a communicator, policy influencer, and patient advocate, I return again and again to that same truth: “Healing begins not with knowledge, but with connection.”
In medicine today, we often celebrate technological marvels — AI diagnostics, robotic surgeries, and breakthrough therapies — as triumphs of innovation. Yet we must remember that it is not only innovation that saves lives. It is also intention, presence, and the unshakable belief that every person is worth our time, effort, and compassion. Health is for all.
That belief is not passive. It demands action. It demands that we see the world not in categories of “us” and “them,” but by realizing that we are on a shared journey.
The language of healing I learned on that battlefield has no vocabulary. It is spoken through listening, through tone, and sometimes through the courage to say, “I don’t know, but I will find out.” It is what healers and families do when they sit with a dying person. It’s what physicians do when they look into the eyes of someone newly diagnosed with cancer and say, “You are not alone.”
Empathy too often becomes a buzzword in modern healthcare, touted in branding, posted on hospital walls, and then forgotten in practice. Yet, it is the single most transformative force we have.
Think about the communities ravaged by health inequity. Think about the patients who don’t look like the majority, don’t speak the language, or don’t feel safe in the system. They don’t need sympathy. They need empathy: a signal that they are seen, heard, and valued. That’s where trust begins. Without trust, no treatment plan — no matter how sophisticated — can succeed.
The physician and humanitarian Albert Schweitzer once said, “We must all die. But if I can save a life, ease pain, and help someone, I am glad to have lived.” I reflect on those words often. On the battlefield, I didn’t save everyone. There are faces I still see, cemented in my memory. But I like to believe I honored my promise for the lives I touched.
Today, decades removed from that terrifying valley, I see that same spirit in health professionals who rush to help in nations with viral outbreaks, medical volunteers in refugee camps, and community health leaders fighting for better outcomes in underserved neighborhoods. These are not acts of compliance; they are acts of courage. They are modern expressions of the same empathic language.
And that language of healing, empathy, and unwavering presence will carry us forward in a world of rising need and shrinking time.
The battlefield taught me that war tries to erase humanity, but the act of healing, at its best, restores it. As a combat medic, I carried bullets, bandages, morphine, Ringer’s solution and tourniquets. In today’s divided world, where identity too often becomes the basis of a battleground, I mindfully carry empathic decision-making, based on the axiom to work hard and play nice with me to counterbalance conflict.
Healing, ultimately, is not about perfect outcomes. It is about ideal effort. It’s about showing up in the moment with empathy, even when the world is falling apart around you.
That is the language I speak. I will never stop speaking it.
Five Guiding Considerations for Communicators and Healers
1. Healing Knows No Borders
Whether in a hospital, walk-in clinic, refugee camp, or war zone, medicine is not an act of allegiance — it is an act of humanity. Healing transcends nationality, race, language, and history. The moment we choose to treat only those we deem “ours,” we abandon the mission of care. Care should be accessible to all.
2. Empathy Is a Lifesaving Skill
Clinical knowledge may save lives, but empathy sustains them. It’s not “soft” — it’s strategic. Patients and audiences who feel seen and valued are more likely to trust, engage, and heal. Empathy isn’t a tagline; it’s the foundation of meaningful connection and effective care.
3. Presence Is Power
Sometimes, the most powerful act isn’t in what we say, it’s simply being there: not necessarily offering more answers or adding to the noise, but standing beside someone in pain. In caregiving, as in crisis communication, stillness can be strength, and presence can be a form of healing.
4. Your Oath Is Not Conditional
The promise to preserve life, truth, or trust doesn’t come with caveats. Our duty is universal, whether in a medical or public health emergency. Let your commitment to healing and truth-telling guide you, even when it’s unpopular or difficult.
5. Moments Define Missions
A single moment — choosing to care and communicate with integrity — can define a lifetime. Every encounter matters. Ask yourself: What values am I carrying into this moment? Will my actions reflect who I am, and who I hope to be? Remember: communication is part of the care.
In a world divided by conflict and marked by complexity, healing offers common ground. Kindness is not weakness; it is the greatest act of courage. Our superpower lies in seeing one another and channeling empathy, especially in moments of fear. In doing so, we don’t just treat conditions or crises, we change lives.
[This story is drawn from my time as a paratrooper and combat medic during the First Lebanon War of 1982 and my professional journey as a health communicator. It reflects the enduring importance of empathy and the sanctity of human life, even in the most unlikely places — the battlefield, the hospital, and the human heart. I share these words following the dramatic return of Sergeant First Class Tzvika Feldman z”l to Israel, 43 years after he was missing during the Battle of Sultan Yaacob, and the upcoming June 10th anniversary of this historic battle.]
