# The Unsung Heroes of Israel's Darkest Day: ZAKA Volunteers Face an Unseen Enemy
In the soft light of dawn, David Weissenstern should be enjoying his golden years. Instead, the 76-year-old finds himself battling an invisible foe – the lingering trauma of October 7, 2023. As the aroma of grilled meat wafts through his neighborhood, Weissenstern doesn't smell a summer barbecue. He smells death.
Weissenstern is one of thousands of ZAKA volunteers, Israel's front-line responders in the grimmest of circumstances. Their black-and-yellow vests are a familiar sight at disaster scenes, where they perform the sacred task of collecting human remains for proper burial. But nothing could have prepared them for the horrors that unfolded on that fateful October day.
"You can't erase what we saw there," whispers Elchanan Shachaf, his eyes distant, haunted by memories no human should bear. "It's something a normal person's mind can't handle."
In the days following Hamas' brutal attack, some 200 ZAKA volunteers converged on the IDF's Shura base. There, amidst the acrid stench of death, they faced an overwhelming task: identifying and preparing for burial nearly 1,200 victims of unimaginable violence.
Ariel Chazkiev, his voice barely above a whisper, recalls, "I lifted their son, a beautiful child," he says, "It hurt me so much. I have children too, and I looked at this situation from a father's perspective. That child still doesn't leave my mind."
For Yossi Landau, the 55-year-old head of ZAKA's southern division, the memories are a constant companion. He walks through the bullet-riddled ruins of Kibbutz Be'eri, less than five miles from Gaza, the "sticky-sweet smell of death" still clinging to the air.
His team worked tirelessly, often under fire, racing against time to recover bodies before nightfall – and before Hamas could potentially abduct the remains.
The Weissenstern family embodies the collective trauma of ZAKA's volunteers. David seeks solace in prayer at the Western Wall, his sobs muffled by his prayer shawl. His son Duby, 48, lives in a world where time is measured only in relation to October 7. Another son, Menachem, bottles his pain, confiding only in his wife.
As weeks turn to months, the toll on these unsung heroes becomes increasingly apparent. Ariel Yazdi, a 13-year veteran of ZAKA, finds himself withdrawing from the world he once knew. "I distance myself from my close surroundings because my mind isn't functioning," he confesses. "I have no patience, and it's getting worse with time."
The tragedy extends beyond the individual volunteers to their families, who watch helplessly as their loved ones struggle with an invisible burden. ZAKA CEO Zvi Hassid's frustration is palpable as he speaks of the lack of long-term support for his team. "These are people with families, parents with children," he emphasizes. "It's our responsibility as an organization and as a society to take care of them."
As Israel continues to grapple with the aftermath of October 7, the plight of ZAKA's volunteers serves as a stark reminder of the hidden costs of conflict. Their story is one of unwavering dedication in the face of unspeakable horror, and of the long shadow cast by a single day of violence.
For now, David Weissenstern and his fellow ZAKA volunteers continue their sacred work, carrying not only the weight of their duty but also the memories of those they've laid to rest.
* New York Times and Ynet contributed to this article.
