In the delivery room of a hospital in Jerusalem, as the crowd grew and the midwife tried to help the woman in labor to get into a better position, her mother heard something strange.
“He told me that something was hurting him,” recalled Erga Froman, a midwife. Then I realized that it was my gun, which was attached to a rotating belt and it went forward, hitting him.” After the baby was born, Froman's colleagues at the hospital take a photo of him standing next to a newborn, holding a gun. “It's a metaphor,” he said.
Before Oct. 7, Froman, a mother of five who now lives in the Golan Heights in northern Israel, had never considered getting a shooting permit. Because he had chosen to do civilian service over military service in the IDF, he had never fired a gun in his life. Change came soon after An unprecedented terrorist attack by Hamas to the people of Israel on Oct. 7, leaving more than 1,200 dead and destroying the sense of security that many Israelis had relied on for so long.
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A local emergency team practices firing in the town of Kiryat Shmona, which is in the vicinity of rockets fired by Hezbollah from Lebanon, March 4, 2024. (Erez Ben Simon/TPS-IL)
“On the evening of Oct. 7, my husband and I realized that because I walk alone at night on dangerous roads to my job – to bring life into the world – I needed protection,” Froman said. told Fox News Digital. “The next morning, I had applied for my gun license. Now I hope I won't need to use it again, but I'm ready if I have to.”
For decades, gun ownership was rare in Israel. Although military service ensured that many Israelis were trained in weapons, personal firearms were considered more of a liability than a necessity. The strict licensing system deterred many, and Israelis relied on the government and its security forces to protect them from terrorist threats, which led to the country's low crime rates. Israel.
Midwife Erga Froman decided to get a gun license after the Oct. 7 Hamas.
But after the killing of Hamas of Oct. 7, many Israelis began to see personal firearms as a necessary protection in a new and innovative way. the truth is more dangerous. “Since there were not enough medical teams on Oct. 7, there was also not enough security,” Froman noted. “Learning from that, today we have a public medical team, and we are also equipped to be able to provide a first response.”
Erga Froman, a midwife from northern Israel, and her husband decided to get gun licenses after the Oct. 7.
Israel's Supreme Court is currently reviewing claims against Defense Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir, which says his office issued firearms licenses without proper authority.
In the months following the Oct. 7, more than 260,000 applications for gun licenses were submitted – almost as many as in the previous two decades combined. More than 100,000 licenses have been approved, which marks a tenfold increase compared to the previous year.
A woman shoots at a rally in the Jordan Valley, Israel, April 10, 2024. (Yoav Dudkevitch/TPS-IL)
Ayala Mirkin, a mother from Shiloh in Judea and Samaria, popularly known as the West Bank, applied for a gun license after her husband, an IDF soldier, was sent to fight in Gaza , leaving him alone with the three of them. small children. “I felt unsafe driving in Arab cities and I knew I had to do something to protect myself,” he said. how will it be before Oct. 7, but it's still taking months because of the flood of requests.”
Mirkin now takes his gun with him whenever he leaves his apartment, even though he always gets into fights. “I don't want to have a gun. The day I get it back will be the best day of my life. But I have no choice. It's a tool for survival.”
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For families like Mirkin's, guns have become part of everyday life. He keeps his gun tightly locked in a safe and has trained his children never to touch it. “It's a defense tool, not a killing tool,” he emphasizes. “I'm focused on saving life, not taking it.”
Oren Gozlan, a paratrooper and a father, is one of those who hesitated before applying for a license. To live on Israel's side of the Green Line border near the Palestinian town of Tulkarem, Gozlan decided that he could no longer evade the armed forces. He says: “The fear of having a gun at home with children is still there, but the need to protect my family is over. “Oct. 7 changed everything. It made us realize that we are vulnerable in ways we never imagined.”
Gozlan is not alarmed by what he sees as inadequate oversight of the licensing process. “When I was in that area, I saw people who had never held a gun in their life, they just hit their victims. It's scary to think that these people are now walking around with guns.”
Saar Zohar, a patron of the elite group, showed a similar change. For many years, Zohar refused to own a gun, believing that it was unnecessary after his service. But the series of terrorist attacks that followed Oct. 7 pushed him to think again. He says: “I couldn't bear the thought of being helpless if something happened.” “Knowing that I have training and can respond, I feel a sense of responsibility.”
After the Oct. 7 massacre, Saar Zohar, a senior IDF military sergeant, decided to get a firearms license. (Fox News)
Unlike the United States, there a wealth of guns often associated with fear of crime or protecting personal property, Israeli guns are seen as tools to fight terrorism. Historically, Israel has avoided the occasional mass shooting attacked the US, but experts warn that the proliferation of guns could change this. With so many untrained people carrying weapons, the fear of rash actions and painful mistakes remains high.
The Zohar is troubled by the possibility of misrepresentation. “The thought that someone armed could make me an attacker scares me,” he says, referring to the tragic incident in November 2023 when an Israeli citizen who had shot terrorists in Jerusalem was accidentally killed by a small soldier.
The psychological problems of this transition are evident among the newly armed. Eyal Haskel, a father of three from Tel Aviv, describes the social pressures he faced after the Oct. job.”
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Israelis practice at a shooting range, February 12, 2023. (Gil Cohen-Magen/AFP via Getty Images)
But Haskel is also troubled by what he saw at the shooting sites. “People take it as a sport, they shoot without any sense of responsibility. It's scary to think that these people now have a license.”
For many Israelis, change represents a necessary response to an existential threat. However, it also exposed serious flaws in the system. Critics argue that the current system sacrifices long-term security for short-term security, warning of potential unintended consequences, from accidental shootings to to the increase in domestic violence.
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“Getting a gun license is easier than getting a driver's license,” says Gozlan. “For a car, you need lessons, tests and strict rules. For a gun, it's just some paperwork and a few hours in the field.”
Froman sees things differently. “If someone threatens you, you only draw your weapon in a situation of national security. You don't draw a gun in a life-threatening situation unless it's a terrorist issue. The rules here are clear – you have to to have something safe for you. I won't rely on my husband's gun for defense against those who want to harm us, not for defense in general.
An Israeli soldier patrols near Kibbutz Beeri in southern Israel on Oct. 12, 2023, near the site where 270 people were killed by terrorists during the Supernova music festival on Oct. 7. (Aris Messinis/AFP via Getty Images)
Mirkin agrees. “We're not like America,” he said. “We don't want guns as entertainment … for us, it's survival, not a choice.”
Another interviewee who asked to remain anonymous described how he trained his wife in handling firearms, even though she did not have a license. “I never wanted to put him in this position, but if I'm not at home during an attack, he should know how to protect our children.”
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As Israel adapts to this new reality, the societal consequences of the proliferation of firearms remain uncertain. For many, the weight of these decisions highlights the delicate balance between safety and responsibility.
“I hope I never have to use it,” Gozlan says. “But I can't ignore the reality we live in. Oct. 7 changed everything.”