Narrative Inquiry in Bioethics

Adults should not bury babies. Whenever that happens, you know something in the world has gone awry.

Similarly to most Israeli Jews, I had to enlist in the military when I was 18. As part of my basic military training, I had to guard a certain settlement in the West Bank for two weeks. The drill was what we call “4–8”: four hours of guarding, eight hours of rest. I was supposed to stand on my feet throughout my shift without eating, reading, or doing anything that might distract my attention. The terrorists are coming, we were told, and they are bloodthirsty. You can save lives! Well, not that of the terrorist, obviously.

I did very little guarding during those two weeks. I was too busy coping with depression and loneliness, although I am only now aware of the latter. Desperately struggling to keep my head above water, I did what I could to survive. I read books, lots of books. I remember reading Nietzsche’s Zarathustra’s parable of one’s development in the desert. You start off as a lion, then a camel, and finally a child. If I could bestow only one piece of advice to my younger self, it would be to pack lightly, as even the camel’s back can only take so much. My laziness paid off. Nothing happened during that time. My older brother was kind enough to drive for an hour and bring me and my comrades the best candy Israel has to offer, and Coke. So I snacked, drank, and read.

Two years later, I was called to the very same settlement as an emergency medical technician, just about to commence medical school. I was accompanied by my brother, who was then in paramedic school. We were in the midst of a family dinner in one of the too-many Jewish holidays. A terrorist attack occurred—a terrorist penetrated a house while everyone was asleep and shot everything that moved, including a male baby. Being only a couple of months old, his body occupied less than a quarter of the ambulance gurney. The upper part was bare; the lower part was wrapped in a diaper. There was no blood, no obvious visible signs of trauma on his body, except for a small hole in his right arm, just under the bicipital muscle, right where the brachial artery is.

Talking about the ethics of futile care seems out of sync in such moments, even if I were aware then of the debate. When a baby is dying, you do everything to save him. Two fingers on the chest, 15 chest compressions, 2 breaths. That is what we had to do then, and that is what we did. Needless to say, the pale body did not respond. My brother and I drove the small body to the morgue. I could do nothing but stare at it throughout the 50-minute drive. There is something wrong in a world where this kind of thing happens. I promised the baby that I would fix it.

I have not fixed it. But I have been trying.

I am now an emergency medicine physician and a bioethicist. I have not been involved in other terrorist attacks since then, but I have seen my share. Some deaths feel natural and even due; others feel cruel, untimely, and unjust. The latter takes away a tiny bit of your soul and makes you question your role in the world. By being the best physician I can be, I hope to prevent future cruel, unjust, and untimely deaths, one person at a time. But there is only so much a physician can do.

Similarly to others working in bioethics, my research spans several topics, from clinical to public health ethics. A few topics, however, are particularly close to my heart, and the Israeli occupation is one of them. The untimely death of the baby drives this passion.

I could not save that baby. No one could. But as a physician and a privileged academic I can choose to channel my efforts to make them count towards preventing other cruel, untimely, and unjust deaths. Through...