I remember the day before the war with perfect clarity. I had just been offered a permanent position at a new clinic—a moment of pure euphoria. Finally, I had stability. That evening, my cousin joked, “Imagine if we wake up tomorrow and the war has started.” I told her to stop talking nonsense.

At four in the morning, my mother burst into my room in tears. The only thing I could make out was, “Son, the war has started.” I didn’t believe her until I stepped outside and heard a massive explosion—a rocket had hit the nearby airport. At that moment, I understood. It had begun.

By that afternoon, fifty people were crowded into our house—relatives, neighbors, friends. The first night was hell. We spent the next two weeks in the basement. I had at least five moments when I thought I might not survive. I will tell you two of them.

The first was when I was walking home on an empty street. A large convoy of military vehicles approached, with at least forty snipers on them. Every single one of them aimed their rifle at me as they passed. I was sure that a bump in the road would cause one of them to accidentally pull the trigger. I stood frozen in fear for twenty minutes after they were gone.

The second was at work. Four armed soldiers burst into my dental clinic. One of them needed treatment, and another stood behind me with a gun to my back, saying, “Do what you have to. Otherwise, say goodbye.” As I administered the anesthesia, the patient fainted. The others immediately raised their rifles, screaming, “What did you do to him?!” He eventually woke up and explained that he always faints at the dentist. But that didn’t make it any easier. I can still feel those gun barrels behind my back.