It was our second month of mandatory military service. Fridays were routine days for physical checkups and showers, so the atmosphere was always tense. That morning, our company commander entered the barracks earlier than usual, his stern voice waking us all up. He told us we would be part of a medical research study conducted by the city’s largest medical faculty. The announcement left no room for discussion—it was mandatory. Consent forms were handed out, which we signed without any real understanding of what lay ahead.
The examinations were set up in the courtyard of our barracks, not in a private clinic. Makeshift stations were arranged under the open sky, with tables and equipment spread out in plain view. To make matters worse, the officers’ family housing was visible through the trees. We couldn’t shake the thought that the families living there might see everything.
The first phase of the examination was relatively simple. We were told to strip down to our boxers and line up. Around 30 to 40 medical students, both men and women, were waiting for us. The process began with basic tests—eye exams, blood pressure checks, and general health assessments. It felt awkward standing half-naked in the middle of the courtyard, but we didn’t know yet how much worse things would get.
Then came the urology examinations—the most humiliating experience of my life. Each of us was called forward in turn to remove our boxers. The first step was lying down on a stretcher, surrounded by medical students who observed and took notes. They began by examining circumcision status, a topic that immediately added tension to the air. Some soldiers muttered nervously, but most stood in silence, dreading their turn.
After the circumcision check, we were asked to stand up. The next step involved checking for testicular abnormalities. The students methodically examined for issues like varicoceles, hernias, and other potential conditions. The examinations were thorough—far too thorough, in my opinion. The process felt endless, as they palpated and inspected every inch, taking notes and discussing findings among themselves.
The most difficult part was that we weren’t in a private room or behind a curtain. Everyone else stood in line, watching. When my turn came, I tried to block out the stares of my comrades, but it was impossible. I lay down on the stretcher, exposed and vulnerable, while 30 to 40 strangers—many of them female—took notes about my body. Then, I stood up for the next phase, feeling their gazes and hearing their whispered comments as they examined me. It felt like I was on display, not as a human being but as an object to be studied.
This ordeal continued throughout the day. Our battalion had about 1,000 soldiers, so the process was grueling. By midday, we were still in the courtyard, and lunchtime came and went without any food. Hunger only added to the frustration and discomfort.
Weeks later, we learned that the data collected from those examinations was published in a scientific article by the medical faculty. The report discussed various findings, including circumcision rates, testicular health statistics, and other medical observations. Knowing that my humiliation had become part of a scientific paper made the experience even harder to process.