The inspiring story of a young American who volunteered to fight in the Israel Defense Forces, lost his arm in combat, and then returned to the battlefield.
Combining refreshing candor with self-deprecating wit, this inspiring memoir will encourage readers to live up to their aspirations despite seemingly impossible odds.
On January 8, 2009, Izzy Ezagui--an American who had enlisted in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) at nineteen--lost his arm in a mortar attack on the border of the Gaza Strip. In this stirring and wryly humorous memoir, Izzy recounts his tortuous trek through rehabilitation to re-enlistment as a squad commander in the IDF. He became the world's only one-armed Special Forces sharpshooter.
This isn't a typical war chronicle, full of macho bluster and the usual hero tropes. Izzy wrote this book with his fellow millennials in mind--not necessarily those with military ambitions, but everyone facing life's daily battles. His message is universal: if a self-described "nerd" and "one-armed basket case" like him can accomplish what he set his mind to, then anyone can become a hero in his or her own life.
Growing up in a religious household in Miami, Izzy's early life was plagued by self-doubt, family drama, and (far too few) girl troubles. His search for direction eventually led him to that explosion on the Gaza border, changing his life forever.
In the midst of disaster, Izzy discovered a deep well at his core, from which he could draw strength. Through his motivational speeches across the world, and now through this book, he encourages people to seek their own power, and to face whatever adversity life throws at them.
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Izzy Ezagui, a decorated squad commander in the Israel Defense Forces, is the only soldier in the world who lost an arm in combat and returned to the battlefield. In 2011, former President Shimon Peres awarded him one of Israel's highest military honors. While he continues to serve in an elite unit in the reserves, Izzy delivers inspirational talks across the United States and internationally. He has appeared on Huffington Post Live, Al Jazeera America, and Fox News. Izzy also raises millions of dollars for hospitals, rehabilitation programs, and other charities, such as the Birthright Israel Foundation. He has worked with amputee organizations, schools, colleges, universities, hedge funds, and corporate events for companies such as Nike and Apple. He lives in Los Angeles, where he acts, writes screenplays, and wanders around with his dog, Punch.
As a kid, I consumed comics like crack. Saw every superhero
movie on opening night. And, like every kid, I aspired to
heroism but found my cape always came up short. I mean, how can
we mere mortals ever reach the same heights as, say, a Kryptonian
with the power of flight? An alien who’d rocket past the stratosphere
if he accidently stretched his arms too high while yawning?
But I, like all of us, have at least one thing in common with
the heroes we revere in our culture. There’s always a villain intent
on mucking up the works—you know, just to keep life interesting,
just to keep my show’s ratings from plummeting. Superman’s got his
Lex Luthor, his Doomsday. Spider-Man’s got Doc Ock, and Green
Goblin. Batman has the Joker—that master of chaos—among his
Rolodex of rogues.
By the time I turned twenty-one, my supervillain—let’s call
him Phantom Fuckface (Phantom, for short)—had come into his
own. Like all villains, pain had nursed him; trauma had trained
and warped him into something ugly. Now he stalked me, obsessed
over me, invented novel ways to inflict all manner of discomforts. It
seemed his only purpose in life was to destroy me. And how could I
stop him? He appeared far more formidable and more enduring. He
was such a fuckface.
He’d first revealed himself to me in the desert, in the form of
a premonition. It was the night before my injury. He was already
stalking his quarry from afar. As soon as he pounced, it seemed like
he’d hound me forever, a twisted twin born of that blast. Unless I
could somehow satisfy his hunger, his thirst. So first I had to figure out exactly what he wanted from me. And what do all supervillains want? They want what you’ve got. To possess your power, your resilience,your spirit.
But I didn’t feel particularly powerful or brimming with spirit. Sure, I’d experienced stuff, put myself in harm’s way at nineteen—and not just for the adrenaline rush. I really believed in something, so much so that I was willing to risk my life for it. Of course, when people say that, they’re not really thinking anything bad could ever happen to them. That’s the sort of tragedy that occurs to other people, and you send a card.
So, sure, I’d survived something at twenty that most people don’t get to experience in a lifetime. I didn’t exactly ask for it, but what are you going to do? I was that guy who lost his arm in a mortar attack. I have no idea who I would have been if that had never happened.
Why was Phantom torturing me?
There were times, whole days, whole weeks, sometimes, when Phantom allowed me to focus on nothing other than his own pressing needs, his own desperate appetite. He was nothing if not a glutton. Of course—without my suffering, the ghost of my past would shrivel and die. That’s how phantom pain works. The second you stop feeling it, it’s gone. Kind of like an orgasm.
So Phantom constantly vied for attention with a persistence I couldn’t help but admire. Over time, I began to feel that if I were to slay him somehow, maybe I’d be lonely. After all, without a thriving criminal syndicate, the need for the superhero vanishes, and he might as well become a used Toyota salesman.
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