“Shmuel was a very simple man, famous only among his colleagues and patients,” says David Gillis. “As his brother and a doctor, I can tell you that I heard many times about his brilliant solutions during hematology conferences. Colleagues would often stop me in the hallway to tell me, ‘You really have a special brother.’ The hematologists tell me that Shmuel would reach a certain diagnosis through a Talmudic form of reasoning; they use a term for him that indicates a genius in the Talmud, iluy. Professor Pollack, a well-known hematologist who specializes in the diagnosis and treatment of lymphoma, once said that he felt as though he could consult with Shmuel over a difficult case for help in making a diagnostic decision. Shmuel’s specialty was blood coagulation, and in this field he often came into contact with gynecologists and traumatologists. He helped the gynecologists to realize that in many cases, miscarriage is caused by blood coagulation problems, and Shmuel was close to women with problems in pregnancy. After his death, I came into contact with some women at Hadassah who recognized me because of my resemblance to Shmuel. Without waiting for me to tell them my own stories, these women told me, ‘Look at this child—he is alive thanks to your brother.’ In traumatology, Shmuel was involved in treating patients who had lost a lot of blood. The head of the traumatology ward at Hadassah talks about Shmuel’s contribution to survival rates.”
David describes Shmuel as “an incomparable researcher and teacher. He authored some pioneering works, becoming famous at the international level. Shmuel taught many students, including one Palestinian doctor. One year after his death, this doctor went to a conference in the United States through a fund established in Shmuel’s memory. And this is what my brother would have wanted; he was a great humanist who never nursed any hatred toward the Arabs. He never mixed medicine and politics. He had served in the Israeli army as a doctor in the special forces, taking part in spectacular military operations, but he never lost his humanity or dignity during those actions. He always wanted to be sure that the soldiers were treated with dignity, even the enemy soldiers. Many of the things he did in the army became known only after his death.”
The story of the Gillis brothers begins in Eastern Europe and winds through England. “One of our relatives was a rabbi in Lithuania, the last in a chain of rabbis that had spanned twelve generations,” David tells us. “He was one of the ohave Tzion, the lovers of Zion, predecessors of the Zionist movement. And he wrote a book proposing that the Jews be brought back to their ancient land, in a movement in which the majority of Orthodox rabbis said would have to take place through divine intervention. He titled it Love of Zion and of Jerusalem, and demonstrated that most of the Jewish laws and traditions favored a physical return to Zion by means of human enterprise. Thanks to his fame, he was invited to Manchester, England, to become the rabbi of the main synagogue. Nonetheless, he never gave up on his Zionist ideals, and raised his children in the dream and ideology of returning to Zion. Our father and his brothers and sisters were raised as fervent Zionists, and over the years they all came to Israel. The first was my father’s brother Joseph Gillis, who immigrated in 1948 and became a great mathematician, the designer of Israel’s first computer, and the dean of the mathematics faculty at the Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot. Our father was very active in the Zionist movement in England, and we made the aliyah in 1970. Shmuel was eleven years old, and he quickly became one of the best students. We immediately fell in love with this land and this people.”
David says that “Shmuel believed in the sanctity of the land of Israel, and after he married Ruthie they decided to build their house in the settlements of Judea and Samaria. The historical connection between the Jewish people and these places dates back to the time of the patriarchs. Shmuel was an enthusiast for the history and geography of these places, and he believed in peaceful coexistence with the Arab inhabitants. His view was that there was room for everyone in Israel, and that everyone should be able to live in peace.”
After one year in the farming settlement of Beit Yatir in the Hebron Hills, the Gillises moved to Carmei Tzur. “In the first settlement, Shmuel was always happy to lend a hand with the ‘dirty work,’ like cleaning the chicken coop,” his brother recalls. “Carmei Tzur also has a core of academics, scientists, and teachers, all people who believe in the idea of inhabiting the land while enhancing their Jewish ideals. Shmuel was always sought out by the other inhabitants of the settlement when they needed medical help, even on Shabbat, when they couldn’t take a car to Jerusalem, or the roads were blocked by snow.”
Shmuel was a man of great faith. “When he went to conferences all over the world, my brother always ate kosher, observed Shabbat, and took part in religious services. To those who asked how he was able to be an Orthodox Jew in a secularized world, Shmuel mentioned the extremely difficult dietary laws and the rules of Shabbat. Unlike some religious fanatics, such as the many Muslims who have a fundamentalist view hostile to everyone, Shmuel and Ruthie tolerated other people’s ideas. Their love of neighbor was strong; they considered it their central religious principle. Tolerance was a way of life for Shmuel. His last patient before he died was an Arab woman. She had thanked him, calling him ‘an angel of heaven.’”
Ruthie Gillis is the principal of a religious school in Jerusalem, and her family went through the Holocaust. “Shmuel was a very brilliant man, the first in his class in medicine,” she says. “But at the same time, he was a very humble man; he never said ‘I’m the best.’ He was a man of science, an angel who wanted to take care of every patient. He felt that everyone, Arabs and Jews, had the same dignity.”
In a 1997 interview with the Jerusalem Post, Shmuel said, “We were looking for simplicity, and Carmei Tzur fascinated us.” Ruthie comments, “For us, Israel is everywhere. Shmuel and I thought that as Jews, we had the right to live anywhere, and that if we had left Carmei Tzur, one day they would also have asked us to leave Tel Aviv. We have to protect ourselves. Every morning, I pass the place where my husband was killed. And I know that we will never be able to live completely at ease.” Ruthie has never thought about leaving her village in Gush Etzion, however. “I have to move forward. Every day is a battle, but I could never leave Carmei Tzur. Where would I go? Tel Aviv? Ashkelon? Terror is everywhere here. Shmuel got up every morning to pray; he believed in the Torah and that living in Eretz Yisrael is part of the Jewish faith itself. He was an optimist, and he always said that he had to do everything he could for the good of Israel.”
Ruthie Gillis believes that the conflict with the Palestinians is not a conflict over land. “Anyone who lives here, like me and like many others, sees how many bare hills and valleys there are here. There’s plenty of room for everyone, for us and for them. What is missing is room in their hearts. That’s why the murderers are not fighting to obtain territory. The murderers murder Jews because they are Jews. That is anti-Semitism and racism for its own sake. Their war is against a different identity living alongside them, here in Carmei Tzur, and in Haifa and in Tel Aviv and in Jerusalem and in Tiberias—to them there is no difference. They are fighting against the Jew because he is a Jew. The land is a secondary factor in their struggle.”
68.864 Was My Name
The siren begins on a rising note before settling into a mournful steady tone. For two long minutes, the signs of human movement simply stop. Everyone is overwhelmed by the mysterious solidarity of the moment. It is Yom Hashoah, the solemn commemoration of the Holocaust. Drivers get out of their cars to recall the Nazi extermination of six million European Jews.
The same single-tone siren was used as the all-clear signal in the Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein’s Iraq threatened to “burn half of Israel.” The specter of chemical warfare was a special nightmare, one that recalled memories of the annihilation in Europe and brought forth feelings of helplessness and fear. To its 4.6 million