The Nova Exhibition: The Toll of the 10.7 Massacre
And the survivors who choose life amidst horror
For the years that I lived in New York City, the site of the World Trade Center was two massive pits surrounded by innocuous blue plywood barriers. Every hundred feet or so was a small diamond cutout where you could peer into the vast worksite. I left NYC before work was complete and first saw the 9-11 memorial in an episode of White Collar. Nonetheless, I knew what it was immediately because it so perfectly captured the loss incurred that day.
The mirror image of both buildings that had towered over the Manhattan skyline now commemorates the 2,977 people that were murdered in that terror attack. A vast expanse of obsidian stretches across the block down which water ethereally cascades into an abyss nested within another abyss and on, seemingly into infinity. Around each pool is a metal ring into which the name of each individual who lost their life that day is inscribed. The simple, serene purpose of the place is to mark the bottomless sadness of what is now absent. Overwhelmingly, that too is imparted upon visiting the Nova Exhibition.
Waiting outside the low-profile site of the exhibition, it is palpable that the October 7th murders of 401 people at the Nova Music Festival in Re’im, as well as 800 others that day still has profound reverberations across the world. Just two days prior to the exhibition’s opening and a mere eight miles north of where we now stand, students at Columbia University cheered a promise to “Remember the 7th of October! That will happen not one more time, not five more times, not ten more times, not a hundred more times, not a thousand times, but ten thousand times!” Accordingly, the location of the exhibition was kept secret, security protocols are plentiful, and armed security abound.
Looking around the lobby, I see people steeling themselves for what they would soon witness. The first room was the hardest, though it spares us the violent footage of the day. We gather underneath a colorful canvas tent from Nova where, 198 days prior, joy turned swiftly to horror. Interviews with survivors played over B-roll footage of the ecstatic, peaceful festival before 6:29am on October 7th, 2023. This festival brought together people who may have shared little else apart from a love for trance music.
“It was the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever seen.”
“After we’d been dancing all night in the dark, the sun rose and we saw each other for the first time.”
For 401 people, it was also the last time they would see anyone.
Perhaps it was the pent up anticipation, not quite knowing what we would see, but all of us cried deeply upon seeing such joy and such love, knowing how soon, and how completely that would be broken.
The next rooms pass in a chaotic, disorienting daze. The sounds of gunfire, rocket launchers, and screams echo faintly from all directions. We wander timidly amongst a recreation of the campground made with artifacts recovered from the festival: tents, games, blankets, phones displaying the last text messages they sent and received. On the walls, and between the tents, screens play footage of the terrorists gleefully hunting amongst those same tents. The campground looks lived in, as if everyone had just wandered away but would be back in a moment.
“Look under the stage, maybe there are some there.”
“No, move on, they’re all dead here.”
Thrown in the back of a pickup truck, a shirtless body lays limply, legs contorted unnaturally backwards. Viewers are spared the most horrific footage, though assuredly everyone in attendance had already seen some of it. The contrast between the joy the revelers shared together in the previous room and that of the terrorists in this one is beyond description.
Blessedly, we are soon granted a reprieve. As we emerge from the claustrophobic warren, the sounds of death fade away. This room is cavernous. The burned out shells of cars destroyed at Nova rest peacefully. These husks, though chilling, do not quite demand the immediacy of attention as the campground.
My gaze, no longer transfixed, shifts upwards, around the room. Every expression is hardened, resolute, and as stoic as I hope mine is. Around this room lie cards expressing love, care, and a determination to find joy again. They lie atop the cars. They rest among the empty bottles that stand sentry on a bar that will never again serve libations. In a trade stall, they provide company to merchandise that will never sell: jewelry, tapestries, festive shirts.
These cards serve as way stations, comforting the spirit as we survey the next tables. On these are arrayed objects that once belonged to revelers but were recovered from the bodies of terrorists. They had looted sunglasses, watches, hats and wallets, cloths, bags, a “LOVE” sculpture, all from the dead bodies of their victims.
In the “Lost and Found” we find an unexpected source of joy. What I see is horrific: stacks of shoes that evoke those in Holocaust remembrance museums, pants, bags, and other items that were recovered from the wreckage of the Nova festival. But what Ravit Naor sees is purpose and healing.
Since the massacre that she narrowly escaped, she has worked tirelessly to reunite these objects with their owners. Though the things themselves are indistinguishable from what you might flip through at a second hand store, these specific objects are a salve for the spirits of survivors and the families of the dead.
Ravit and her fellow volunteers comb through each object in search of any small clue that might help identify the rightful owner. She opens a satchel bag and withdraws a pair of faded denim jeans: exactly the sort you’d expect a raver to wear to a festival. On the inside of the waist is the mark of a kibbutz laundry near where the owner likely lived. She’s now reaching out to that kibbutz to see if anyone recognizes those pants or the bag. In many cases, she successfully identified the owner, only to learn that they had already died or were still held captive by Hamas.
Though most of these objects are quotidian, for the families they are reunited with, surely they are a reminder of the beauty of every single day their loved ones lived, and the abyss their absence leaves.
As for Ravit, she’s still a “sex drugs and rock-and-roll kinda gal”. When I ask if she thinks she will dance again, she grins mischievously: “I already have.”
Since I first left the rooms replaying the violence of that day and emerged into the cavernous space with the burnt-out cars, the bar, the merchandise stand, and the tables of recovered objects, I had tried to put aside the serene installation at the heart of the room. Now, I finally turn my attention towards it.
At its center is a sculpture evocative of a sundial with a steel ball just clockwise of center: resting eternally at 6:29am. Strips of translucent cloth form a perimeter around the dial, upon which the silhouettes of angel wings are projected, floating gently upwards. I do not see a single person brush aside those strips of cloth, trespassing beyond. We all seem to intuit that this veil separates the living from the dead, and beyond it none can pass. Nonetheless, the light that the dead continue to bless us with radiates outwards from beyond the veil.
The penultimate room is a visual oasis. The organic chaos of the previous rooms gives way to a simple, orderly shrine for the 401 people murdered that day. In neat, regular lines are portraits of each person along with a few words to hint at the beauty of the individual life that was lost. At its center is a rectagonal platform upon which people place words that can’t help but fall short of the feelings the writers hope to express.
Though this room is the most visually accessible of the exhibition, it is entirely overwhelming. Within each life commemorated there was a rich and meaningful world cruelly and suddenly snuffed out. The abyss left in their wake draws in uncounted friends, loved ones, and myriad people who may have only met once, danced briefly and never knew their name, or who would smile and nod as they passed on the street.
Another survivor, Ron Segev draws us into the light of the final room. Still quick with a kind smile, one gets the sense that just behind the puckish glimmer of his eyes, deep sadness is only just hidden. Not brave enough to ask him about his escape from the massacre, I inquire instead about the 198 days since. The first thing he tells me about himself is that he had always been good at connecting with people: a claim that I can unreservedly vouch for. For months after October 7th, he shut down. Yet he was one of the first survivors to seek therapy and crawl out of a crippling depression. In the months since, he has been working to make connections again and to restrain a deep and pervasive distrust.
The trauma of the massacre and the aftermath will always be with him, but he is resolute in what matters. His great ability to connect with people comes from his suspension of judgment and embrace of people as individuals. “It doesn’t matter where you come from, your faith, your age, your love preference, it matters who you are.” What he is working to recover in himself is what we should all be fighting for: exchanging dehumanization and judgment for connection and acceptance.
One of my compatriots, Yael, breaks in to proudly tell Ron that my partner and I are not Jewish. She’s done this on numerous occasions and she’s not the only one who has. Each time it takes me aback as that’s not ever how I’ve thought of myself, nor something that I would think is important to anyone. I try to express this to Ron but I only get through the second word before an overwhelming sadness suddenly wells up and I start to sob. A group embrace helps me collect myself and I continue. “It breaks my heart that that matters to you.”
The brutality of the October 7th massacres struck at the heart of Israel, but it should also have struck at the heart of every person who loves life, who values joy, and who believes that it is connection that makes us better, not destruction and not death.
But it didn’t.
Across the world, masses of people excuse and even celebrate the violence of that day. Nearly every single Jewish person I’ve spoken with since October 7th has said the same thing: “I have felt so alone. It’s like no one cares about us.”
Why do Yael and other insist on embarrassing me? “I tell them because I know what it means to them to know that we’re not alone.”
Had I met Ravit or Ron anywhere else, I wouldn’t have guessed at what they had survived. They shared their experiences with us while surrounded by visceral reminders of the extraordinary violence they witnessed that day. How were they more than just shells of their former selves? How did they have the resilience to give yet more of themselves? They both found more of themselves to give. They bear the memories of the murdered and try to provide solace for the survivors. It is through them that their stories are carried on for the world to hear. They choose life.
I hope that we all choose life. It seems to me that the callous dehumanization that we witness on a seemingly daily basis comes in part from a willingness to obfuscate the reality of horror. To some, the butchering of 401 people at Nova, and the eight-hundred others that day are a mere abstraction: something that can be plugged into an equation and manipulated to make justness of depravity and righteousness of barbarism.
Writing of the horrors of Stalinism, Arthur Koestler explores in Darkness at Noon a culture that similarly dehumanizes by abstraction. Shortly before his execution, the protagonist Rubashov hopes:
"Perhaps they will teach that the tenet is wrong which says that a man is the quotient of one million divided by one million, and will introduce a new kind of arithmetic based on multiplication: on the joining of a million individuals to form a new entity which, no longer an amorphous mass, will develop a consciousness and an individuality of its own, with an “oceanic feeling” increased a millionfold, in unlimited yet self-contained space.
In the immediate aftermath of the Pulse Nightclub shooting I attended a vigil to commemorate those felled in that massacre. At the end, they slowly read the names of each of the forty-nine people killed. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity. The weight of the loss built up heavily in my heart with the declaration of each name.
Here follows the names of most of the 401 people killed at the Nova music festival. In addition, 253 people were abducted from there by Hamas. Most remain in captivity.
Gal Danguri, 23
Shmil Abasov, 33
Eden Abdulayev, 23
Alexandre Look, 35
Jake Marlo, 26
Orel Abuhazera, 25
Amar Abu Sebila, 25
Eitan Levy, 53
Shani Nicol Louk, 23
Noy Aviv, 29
Dor Avitan, 26
Lotan Abir, 24
Gil Yosef Avni, 26
Oded Abergil, 27
Ilan Avraham, 57
Lior Abramoz, 20
Assaf Mordechai Edberg, 23
Mapal Adam, 27
Gili Adar, 24
Idan Edri, 36
Eden Liz Ohayon, 24
Daniel Ohana, 24
Ben Uri, 31
Aviel oren, 28
Gabi Azulai, 44
Yochai Azulai, 28
Yonatan Hai Azulai, 28
Omri Ahrak, 26
Ofek Aton, 24
Dorin Atias, 24
Liel Itah, 22
Sigal Itah, 27
Shira Ayalon, 23
Elia Iluz, 27
Adam Iliev, 22
Aviv Eliyahu, 38
Yehonatan Eliyahu, 21
Matan Almalam, 47
Abed AlRahman Alensara, 50
Shlomo Elfasi, 52
Haled AlFahrin, 50
Einav Elkayam Levy, 32
Abed AlKarim AlAnsasra, 53
Suheib Abu Amar ElRazam, 22
Shlomo Eliyahu Elsheikh, 28
Lior Asulin, 44
Liraz Asulin, 37
Noa Englander, 23
Liav Asayag, 25
Yarin Moshe Efraim, 24
Noam Liel Efraim, 24
Matan Eckstein, 23
Uri Arad, 22
Nevo Arad, 25
Dan Ariel, 22
Mordehai Ben Ariel Biton, 22
Ayelet Arnin, 22
Sahar Ashuan, 22
Dror Bahat, 30
Ortal Bobets Ben Ayun, 22
Doron Boldas, 34
Sophia Bongart, 21
Neta Boaziz Morelli, 40
Raz Bukobza, 23
Liam Bor Galon, 26
Bnayahu Biton, 23
Maya Biton, 23
Neomi Baker, 19
Sapir Bilmas, 24
Oron Beilin, 24
Sagiv Beilin Ben Zvi
Yehuda Bachar, 24
Hen Ben Avi, 21
Amit Ben Abeida, 19
Yarden Buskila, 25
Matias Hernen Burstein, 41
Einav Hen Burstein, 39
Itay Banjo, 30
Celine Rahek Ben Daviv Nager, 32
Ido Ben Zino, 26
Gilad Ben Yehuda, 28
Yuval Ben Yehuda, 27
Yohai Ben Zecharia, 23
Oren Haim Ben Hemo, 19
Dan Ben Hemp, 26
Shahar Ben Naim, 43
Daniel Ben Senior, 34
Shani Ben Ami, 26
Eden Ben Rubi, 23
Dean Nehorai Bar, 27
Yuval Bar On, 35
Gabriel Yishai Barel, 22
Eldad Angel Bergman, 26
Liron Barda, 27
Stav Barazani, 23
Tal Bartik (Klein), 48
Nadav Barta, 23
Romi Brandt Eliyahu, 38
Eliyahu Ya’akov Bernstein, 20
Ben Bernstein, 23
Daniel Braslevski, 31
Ilay Bar Am, 27
Shani Gabai, 25
Tamar Guttman, 27
Nitzan Goldenberg, 28
Tamar Goldenberg, 24
Daniel Galtman, 26
Margarita Rita Gussek, 21
Dr. Lilia Gurevitch, 38
Shir Hanna Georgie – 22
Sharon Goradny, 25
Anton Guryanov, 37
Victoria Gorlov, 23
Eden Gez, 31
Stav Coral Gete, 30
Yaroslav Giller, 28
Shahar Gindi, 21
Shalev Gal, 24
Isabella Gandin, 27
Avia Ganot, 32
Shiran Ganon, 38
Sefi Yossef Gennis, 30
Shenhav Ya’akov Gerfi, 26
Shoham Ya’akov Gerfi, 28
Liel Gerfi, 18
Maor Graziani, 22
Rahel Rachel Deb, 25
Avi Dadon, 44
Yitzhak Itzik Dahan, 48
Hodaya David, 27
Tair Davis, 24
Amit Yitzhak David, 24
Barak Davidi, 28
Karina Davidov, 31
Shaun Davitashvili, 25
Idan Dor, 25
Ronen Ditchman, 49
Dan Damari, 21
Kim Damti, 22
Lin Dafni, 22
Awad Darawshe, 25
Amit Yitzhak David, 24
Barak Davidi, 28
Karina Davidov, 31
Shaun Davitashvili, 25
Idan Dor, 25
Ronen Ditchman, 49
Dan Damari, 21
Kim Damti, 22
Lin Dafni, 22
Awad Darawshe, 25
Daniel Dan Darlington, 34
Itai Huston Hadar, 27
Sharon Hirsch Uzan, 46
Aviad Halevy, 29
Idan Herman, 26
Idan Haramati, 22
Oren Aharon Vaknin, 45
Limor Vaknin Permutter, 49
Daniel Vadai, 27
Moshe Wahadi, 37
Danielle Waldman, 24
Simon Vigdergauz (Dubchenko), 21
Ron Weinberg, 24
Bruna Văleanu, 24
Michael Vaknin, 35
Alon Verber, 26
Lori Vardi, 26
Karin Vernikov, 22
Rinat Hodaya Zagdon, 23
Mordechai (Motti) Zoerman, 74
Bar Zohar, 23
Dan Zomer, 27
Karin Journo, 24
Or Ziv, 24
Yonatan Zeidman, 26
Bar Tomer, 26
Avidan Turgeman, 26
Dudi Turgeman, 26
Shoham Lia Turgeman, 24
Niv Tel Tzur, 22
Adir Tamam, 40
Noa Zander, 22
Matan Zenati, 23
Noy Tiferet Za’afrani, 27
Shaked Habani, 20
Ziv Hajbi, 29
Lior Hadad Atias, 36
Ran Shefer, 48
Dudi Sharon, 47
Liam Shrem, 25
Hadar Hushan, 27
Gideon (Gidi) Hiel, 24
Noa Hiel, 27
Shimon (Shimi) Hayat, 29
Maya Haim, 22
Gaya Halifa, 23
Ella Hamoy, 26
Yehezkel Hezi Hanum, 31
Ben Hassid, 23
Mark Shindel, 23
Bar Shechter, 32
Arie Hefetz, 28
Katerina Tavgan Goldman, 26
Yiftach Dan Tweg, 27
Adiel Twito, 30
Avraham Gilad Tiberg, 24
Lior Tkach, 26
Mor Trabelsi, 27
Ori Tchernichovsky, 29
Ron Yehudai, 26
Michael Yoav, 46
Ilan Moshe Ya’akov, 29
Shuval Ya’akov, 27
San Amnon Yaakobov, 22
Mai Yitzhaki, 25
Shir Yaron, 21
Shiraz-Shiran Yashmireni (Tamam), 38
Binyamin Ben Cohen, 27
Danielle Cohen, 25
Daniel Asher Cohen, 32
Libby Cohen Maguri, 24
Mor Cohen, 24
Amit Cohen, 25
Amit Haim Cohen, 25
Tal Katz, 37
Omri Lavi, 25
Amit Lahav, 23
Guy Gabriel Levi, 24
Itzhak Levi, 27
Livnat Levi, 27
Lidor Levi, 28
Naor Levi, 28
Nissim Levi, 30
Sigal Levi, 31
Amit Levi, 22
Rotem Rahel Levi, 23
Alisia Levine, 34
Anita Lisman, 25
Oriya Litman Ricardo, 26
David Lischov, 35
Ilan Lipovsky, 30
Yuliya Didenko Lamai, 29
Tiferet Lapidot, 23
Amit Magnazi, 22
Nir Madmon, 23
Shalev Madmoni, 24
Shahak Yossef Madar of Dimona
Naama Mualem, 28
Shai Shalom Elior Mutzafi, 37
Maayan Mor, 30
Eliran Mizrahi, 24
Ben Menashe Mizrahi, 22
Raz Mizrahi, 22
Adi Rivka Meisel, 21
Lior Maimon, 22
Amitai Malihi, 20
Dor Malka, 29
Shahar Mansour, 28
Norel Mansouri, 25
Revaya Mansouri, 22
Antonio Massias Monteno, 27
Adir Mesika, 23
Noy Maudi, 29
Stephen Makarchenko, 24
Adi Margalit, 24
Matan Lior Mordehai, 35
Eden Moshe, 27
Gal Navon, 30
Ilkin Nazarov, 30
David Yair Shalom Ne’eman, 30
David Nahum, 24
Hanani Glazer, 24
Rotem Neiman, 25
Jenny Nisenboim Carmeli, 32
Liraz Nissan, 20
Mai Naim, 22
Eden Naftali, 23
Bar Lior Nakmoli, 27
Avi Sassi, 64
Shlomo (Shlomi) Sividia, 37
Moriah Or Swissa, 23
Hili Solomon, 27
Karla Stelzer Mendes, 42
Tomer Strosta, 23
Ram Sela, 33
Elazar Samuelov, 21
Alexander Samoilov, 28
Tamar Samet, 20
Tzur Saidi, 29
Moshe (Moshiko) Saidian, 26
Yaniv Sarudi, 26
Gal Abdush, 34
Naji Abdush, 35
Ofer Udi, 42
Guy Azar, 23
Oz Moshe Ezra, 23
Lior Atun, 25
Hanania Hanan Amar, 38
Mercedes Oria Amar, 33
Roni Polvanov, 23
Maya Foder, 25
Yoad Pe’er, 21
Evgeni Postel, 25
Nir Forti, 30
Roni Petrovski, 24
Daniella (Dana) Patrenko, 23
Ben Fishman, 21
Alina Falhati, 23
Orel Pesso, 26
Karina Pritika, 23
Noa Farage, 22
Ziv Frenkel, 22
Hadar Prince, 21
Mark (Mordechai) Peretz, 51
Ido Peretz, 23
Arik (Arie) Peretz, 58
Ruth Hodaya Peretz, 17
Dado Tsafir, 45
Hai Haim Zfati, 27
Shachar Gal Kadman, 34
Irit Konderov, 27
Shani Kupervaser, 28
Zelta Kosovski, 28
Segev Israel Kishner, 22
Hila Klein, 41
Ofek Kimhi, 22
Linor Keinan, 23
Savyon Chen Kipper, 31
Ma’ayan Kalihman, 22
Stav Kimhi, 35
Jonathan Meir Ken-Dror, 28
Keshet Kasruti-Kalfa, 22
Moriah Raviv, 23
Ofek Rabia, 23
Yuval Rabia, 33
Noam Rabia, 30
Shai Regev, 25
Michal Roimi, 23
Yvonne Eden Patricia Rubio Vargas, 27
Yael Rozman, 26
Matan Rosenburg, 17
Yehonatan Rom, 23
Olga Naomi Romashkin, 28
Nitzan Rahum, 28
Aviel Shalom Rahamim, 27
Dvir Rahamim, 23
Gideon Harel Rivlin, 18
Yonatan Richter, 48
Omri Ram, 29
Eli Refai, 42
Sharon Refai, 28
Elia Shametz, 35
Tomer Segev, 30
Sivan Sharhabani, 21
Moshe Shova, 33
Segev Shushan, 28
Roni Shitrit, 24
Noam Shai, 26
Daniel Sheinkerman, 25
Shai Shalev, 50
Noam Shalon, 25
Ram Shalom, 25
Sharona Shmunis Harel, 40
Inbar Shem Tov, 22
Ben Shimoni, 31
Ron Shemer, 23
Eitan Snir, 21
Dor Hanan Shafir, 30
Ziv Pepe Shapira, 26
Just thank you for this! They will never be forgotten. God bless you and may their memories be a blessing.
I don’t think I could bear it. But thanks for going and reporting. Waiting to see the Hamas hordes try to shut it down. The truth won’t set them free.