New York City doctor offers free plastic surgery to victims of antisemitism, faces onslaught of hate
One night, a man in his thirties arrived at my office – hair messy, eyes unfocused, and face covered in blood-soaked gauze. He recounted the attack near his building in Manhattan, at a corner he passed every day. The act was swift and violent. A man intercepted him shouting something about his religion. Without warning, the man slid a knife across the victim’s face, drawing a deep wound from temple to jaw.
- 5 days ago
December 7, 2024
Dr. Ira Savetzky offers free plastic surgery to victims of antisemitism in New York City. | Photo courtesy of Ira Savetzky
NEW YORK CITY, United States ꟷ A couple of weeks after fleeing Israel [following the October 7 Hamas attack], I received a call in my New York City office that shook me to the bone. “Doctor, we need your help,” they said, “It’s urgent.” A young Jewish man fell victim to a physical attack in the streets of Brooklyn. In my office, I saw a deep cut from cheek to chin but what struck me most were his eyes. They reflected a terror I could not suture.
I promised to treat him for free, never realizing that decision would ignite a storm of threats. Daniel’s story reflected something much bigger. The son of immigrants, his parents raised him in a community where he learned to be strong. Yet, it never prepared him for the hate he faced that night. Daniel left the synagogue when a stranger accosted him. The swift and brutal assault left no time for Daniel to defend himself.
Read more stories out of the Israel-Palestinian conflict from Orato World Media.
The brutality of the October 7, 2023, attack on Israel bleeds into the streets of NYC
Before October 7, 2023, life felt ordered and balanced. In Israel with my family, we visited relatives for the holiday. We planned the trip for months, looking forward to reconnecting with our roots and showing my children the country that defined us. In the fresh air, the market bustled under a clear sky, but everything changed when we heard the first explosions.
As the phone rang off the hook, fragmented news reports spoke of massive attacks as sirens filled the air. From our place in Tel Aviv, we learned Hamas overran Israel and communities near Gaza suffered unimaginable horrors. With her usual fortitude, my wife took over to get us back to New York City as soon as possible. Two days later, we boarded an emergency flight amidst tense faces, blank stares, and fearful whispers at the airport.
At home, the echoes of Israel reverberated through our own community. Threats and hateful acts spread to the streets of the city. As a plastic surgeon, I soon saw patients with both physical and emotional scars they received in the Middle East and here at home. As I attended to each person, I felt the weight of uncertainty. October 7, 2023, marked a day before and a day after – not only for Israel, but for all of us.
Back home, as I stitched the deep wound on Daniel’s face, he told me about the terror he felt. The streets he once walked with confidence became an emotional minefield. The scar now visible on his cheek hurt him less than the silence following the attack. He recalled the indifference he saw on the faces of those who saw him lying on the ground. I knew after the operation Daniel would not be the last survivor I would treat.
Plastic surgeon helps Jewish victims and faces onslaught of antisemitism
I made an offer to the public. Anyone who fell victim to a hate crime could come to my practice and receive free care. Quickly, letters filled with venom poured into my office. Strangers issued threats against me, my family, and my team. Anonymous callers wished me the worst, but with every stitch and in every patient like Daniel I found a reason to go on, to heal scars one at a time.
At first the messages appeared vague, veiled insinuations I ignored. Soon, they became more explicit and personal. “We know where you are,” one email read. Another chillingly added, “We will take care of you and your family.” Some letters arrived in red ink, as if they needed to emphasize their hate so I wouldn’t miss it.
I found myself checking every corner before entering the office and questioning the presence of every stranger in my path. My wife – a strong activist – tried to remain calm. She spent years standing up against antisemitism on social media, at protests, and in the local community. She shared stories of threats issued against her in the past: derogatory messages and hate-filled comments attempting to silence her.
“This is not new,” she told me. Yet, we both knew this time felt different. This time the hate felt more organized and violent. Suddenly, every corner of the world felt like a battlefield and Jewish people stood in the center. Our children felt the tension, even as we tried to shield them from it. “Why do they want to hurt us,” they asked. Those innocent questions felt like the hardest ones to answer. After putting the children to sleep, we checked the locks and security cameras. Every threat designed to break us gave me more reasons to carry on.
Doctor repairs broken nose, but soldier carries internal wounds surgery cannot not heal
My next patient arrived on a cold December afternoon at my office in New York. David, an Israeli soldier, experienced the devastating attacks on October 7, 2023. His face bore the marks of war. He suffered a broken nose in multiple places, fresh wounds on his cheekbones, and deep scars across his forehead. The conflict etched its history into his skin.
While examining him, I noticed stiffness in his posture and an echo in his eyes of battles he continued to fight internally. Preparing him for surgery, David told me his base was one of the first to be attacked. Overrun by hundreds of Hamas militants with just a handful of comrades, they defended the place for hours. He and his fellow soldiers faced bursts of gunfire and explosions. “I lost almost all my friends,” he told me, his voice cracking.
In attempt to save some of them, David carried the wounded to a makeshift shelter. He broke his nose when an explosion slammed him against a concrete wall. Despite the pain, he kept fighting until help arrived. As I performed surgery, David’s story echoed through my mind. It felt like every movement of my scalpel unraveled a chapter of his tragedy. When he awoke, I assured him I repaired his nose; that he would breathe better, and the scars would fade over time.
In a faint whisper, I heard David say, “Thank you, doctor.” Yet, I knew my scalpel could not heal the deeper wounds, the invisible ones. David left gratefully, but his story remained with me like a reminder that medicine makes up only a small part of the healing process. The body also carries the weight of souls damaged by war. That night, I barely slept.
A man intercepted him, shouted something about his religion and, without warning, slid a knife across his face
One night, a man in his thirties arrived at my office – hair messy, eyes unfocused, and face covered in blood-soaked gauze. He recounted the attack near his building in Manhattan, at a corner he passed every day. The act was swift and violent. A man intercepted him shouting something about his religion. Without warning, the man slid a knife across the victim’s face, drawing a deep wound from temple to jaw.
Carefully removing the gauze, I saw how the line divided his face in two, like a map marked by hate. “I went out to buy bread,” he told me in a whisper. “How am I supposed to live like this? How do you go on when you cannot trust the sidewalk in front of your house?” His questions struck me deeply. I asked myself the same things and I shuddered, having no answer. All I could offer was the cold steel of my tools and my stitches, hoping to heal at least a part of him. When I closed my office that night, the city seemed more hostile than ever, and I felt helpless.
In another heartbreaking moment, one freezing afternoon, Leah arrived at our crowded waiting room in a wheelchair. Her mother accompanied her, barely able to hold back tears. Leah survived the Supernova Music Festival, where Hamas killed hundreds of young people. Her eyes felt like two empty chasms, searching for answers in the void.
Her body bore the marks of shrapnel that pierced her skin. While cleaning one of the deeper wounds, Leah explained she was dancing with friends when they first heard the explosions. They thought it was part of the show, but everything stopped when gunshots flooded the air. “We ran into the fields,” Leah told me, her voice cracking.
Older Jewish man endures brutal assault on the train in Brooklyn
A piece of shrapnel hit Leah’s leg as she attempted to help a fallen friend. From the ground, hidden in the bushes, she watched the attackers fire indiscriminately. “I saw my friends die in front of me,” she whispered, crying silently. Her mother looked on with love and despair as her daughter spoke. After hours of surgery, I managed to remove most of the shrapnel fragments. Leah looked at me and said, “I want to dance again, doctor. Do you think I will be able to some day?”
I paused. How could I promise anything when hope itself felt so complicated. But then, in the firmest voice I could muster, I said, “Yes, Leah, you will dance again.” I imagined Leah turning and jumping in dance. To me, dance represents freedom from oppression. It can be an act of defiance and humanity. Dance can break the chains of fear. Sometimes, resistance comes not from a shout, but from dance. Leah taught me that even in the face of great tragedy, there are those who find strength and dream of life again.
Another difficult night began with an urgent call. An elderly man was brutally attacked on a train in Brooklyn for wearing a kippah. In the emergency room, I saw his face covered in dried blood, a sunken cheekbone, and an so swollen he could barely open it. The marks on his body revealed a relentless attack: repeated blows and a kick nearly shattering his ribs. He wore a look of resignation as if he accepted, at his age, being attacked for his identity was simply part of life.
In the midst of the chaos, surgeon ponders the difficult questions
During the long operation, I reconstructed the fractured cheekbone and sutured wounds. As I worked, I imagined a train full of passengers looking on, fearful or indifferent. I wondered how anyone could justify such violence against an old man who could barely defend himself. When I finished, I left the operating room exhausted. The man’s daughter awaited me in the hallway. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but when I approached, something changed in her expression.
She hugged me as her voice trembled. “Thank you for giving us back a part of him,” she said. I felt a lump in my throat, understanding that my work went beyond medicine. Every stitch became an act of resistance, a way to restore dignity and humanity in the face of hatred. That night, reading reports about the latest attacks, I realized hate never rests. I decided not to remain silent. Picking up the phone, I called local authorities and the FBI.
My voice trembled but soon became steady. The battle I faced was nothing new. That night, I sent evidence of the threats I received to the authorities, as shadows danced on the office walls. The pattern seemed clear: an increasingly sophisticated, visible violence fueled by the ease of spreading hate on the dark corners of the internet. It pained me to think that, in the 21st Century, we continued fighting the battles of the past.
The grateful faces of my patients became my balm. Though each operation left me exhausted and stories of violence haunted my dreams, I refused to stop. The threats never cease, but my role is to not run away. As long as there are scars to heal, I will be here. Each time the scalpel makes its journey, I feel the weight of my patients’ experiences. In the operating room, I often wonder if I can stitch of the chasm of intolerance as well.
