Time has a way of standing still in moments of deep loss. For me, October 7 was one of those moments, a day so heavy, so devastating, that it divides my life into a “before” and “after.”
It wasn’t just the shock of the atrocities and the trauma of not knowing who was safe. It was the personal shift that happened when I received the message that would change everything.
That Saturday night, a text arrived: “It’s been going around that David Newman was killed.” David, my high school friend, who was larger than life itself, had been at the Supernova music festival that morning.
I could have never imagined how profoundly that moment would alter the trajectory of my experience on that dark day. The ripple effect of knowing someone, of losing someone in such a horrific way, turned a national tragedy into something deeply personal.
Every mention of Nova, and of the victims, was now wrapped in David’s essence. It became impossible not to think of those who were kidnapped and of those who were found weeks later – each of them now a part of my own grief.
At Tel Aviv’s Heart of Nova concert, healing meets remembrance
It’s a trauma so vast that finding the right words to describe it seems almost impossible.
That’s why attending the Heart of Nova concert felt like a full-circle moment for me.
On August 14, I attended the concert at Park Hayarkon, in Tel Aviv, with my colleague, Batsheva Shulman. As we walked through the park, surrounded by hundreds dressed in festival gear, walking or lounging on the grass, the sense of apprehension was palpable.
The air felt heavy, like a thick veil of emotion surrounding us. A slightly eerie feeling settled over us as visions of Nova crept to mind.
It was hard not to draw parallels to that tragic day. The victims and survivors of Nova had once walked across a large field, like this one, almost two years ago, on their way to a festival – ready to dance, have a good time, and celebrate life.
Of course, they had no idea what horror was to come – and why would they? Just like us, walking now toward the festival, they were happy, innocent partygoers.
To our surprise, we saw that the park had been set up to look like the original festival – a remake. In the distance, we could see the shade canopy, the exact same multi-colored structure that had stood at Nova.
AT FIRST, this made me uneasy as the memories flooded back. I felt my heart tightening as we approached the entrance.
But there was also something strangely powerful in walking through that gate, knowing that despite everything, we were still here, choosing to live, and that life was still being celebrated. Gradually, our uneasiness gave way to calm and wonder.
The event had been set up beautifully and respectfully, with art exhibitions from victims and survivors displayed under two of the canopies. In one tent, the artists worked on their pieces in real-time, intertwining their trauma with expressions of survival and resilience within their artwork.
It was impossible not to be in awe of the beauty surrounding us. Among the artworks, one piece struck me deeply – a painting of a young girl holding her mouth shut in fear, a representation of the terror she had endured hiding in a migunit (a shelter).
The rawness of that expression left me breathless. It was a small window into the survivor’s inner world – a glimpse into the pain and resilience that words couldn’t capture.
A screen projected above a stunning flower installation displayed the faces and names of those who had been killed on October 7. Looking at every face, reading each name, we were struck anew with anguish, seeing the images of these lives, these beautiful innocent lives, each with a story, a family, and a future – so brutally taken.
The horror is unfathomable. The pain, unimaginable. I waited, anxiously, for David’s picture to appear. And when it did, the wave of grief that washed over me was all too familiar.
But the act of remembering, of seeing their faces projected against the vibrant colors, gave me a sense of connection amid the overwhelming loss.
On the stage, the first notes of “Hallelujah” filled the air, the haunting yet beautiful rendition like a magnetic pull. It was a reminder of music’s ability to unite, to heal, and to give hope even in the darkest times.
LOOKING AROUND at the crowd, I saw people from all walks of life gathered together, all who had come to honor the lives lost and celebrate the resilience of the human spirit. It was one of those rare moments when you could feel the power of music and the collective will to live, to dance, and to keep going.
On one side of the park, various stands sold merchandise, including jewelry and clothing, made by survivors, often dedicated to the Nova victims, some even made by the victims themselves.
One stand had a sign that read, “Support the stand that survived Nova.” Shay Aviv shared her story with me – how most of her jewelry had been stolen on October 7 but that some pieces had survived. Being at the concert venue was overwhelming for her, but she found comfort in the very walls of her stand, a symbol of survival in the face of unimaginable pain.
Another stand that left a lasting impact on me was run by Paz Goldstein, where she showcased three jewelry collections, each one a tribute to those she had lost. Paz’s best friend, Shahar Gindi, was killed at Nova, while her cousin, Sivan Shaarabany, was killed on October 7.
Gindi’s boyfriend, Almog Sarusi, was killed one year ago in captivity in a Hamas tunnel, along with five other hostages.
Paz’s collection dedicated to Almog stood out to me, particularly a necklace with a tiny diamond in the center. The love in that small diamond was palpable. I bought one – wearing it felt like holding on to a piece of love that transcended tragedy.
The meditation tent, set up in memory of Avidan Tourjman, who was killed at Nova, was part of a mental-health initiative created by his family.
Through their work with Migdalei Or (Towers of Light), Avidan’s family, including his brother Doron (serving in the reserves), provides support for those suffering from anxiety and emotional distress at public events.
Inside the tent it was peaceful. Mattresses lined the floor, and food, water, and respite from the noise outside were provided. Avidan’s essence lived on in this beautiful, healing space.
Opposite the tent stood a ‘musical tree’ – a brilliant fusion of art and innovation created by an Israeli artist. This captivating installation lights up in different colors when you speak into a telephone placed in front of it, symbolizing the eternity of life.
Participants at the festival were invited to send messages to their loved ones by speaking into the receiver. I too whispered a prayer and watched as the tree’s branches lit up in soft shades of pink, blue, and purple: Bring Them Home Now!
IT WAS finally time for the music. As a singer and songwriter myself, I knew that this would be no ordinary performance. The crowd, made up of survivors, families, and strangers, was choosing to celebrate life despite everything that had happened.
Some artists were survivors themselves and dedicated their performances to the victims and other loved ones. The performance began with festive music, in keeping with the upbeat theme of “We will dance again,” transitioning into some slow, more mellow songs to commemorate the victims.
One of the DJs had even performed at the original Nova festival.
As the music pulsed through the air, the energy was palpable. Instead of crying, many people were smiling, laughing, and dancing. But the most powerful moment came after the DJ’s set, when the organizers asked for a moment of silence.
Tens of thousands of people, who had been dancing just moments before, stood still. You could have heard a pin drop. It was a collective moment of respect, of remembrance, and of unity. We stood together in silence, honoring those who had been lost and reaffirming our resilience.
Nova will forever be marked by the tragedy of October 7, but as we stood there taking in the music, surrounded by those who had survived and those who had lost, we saw something incredible – the ability to rise again.
And as we walked around the park admiring each beautiful exhibit, we also felt the presence of every victim and the joy they once embodied in the essence of their memories and the beauty of their creations – now their legacies.
The Nova Tribe and the entire Nova community have shown what it means to stand back up, to rebuild, and to keep moving forward.
The message to our enemies rang loud and clear: Hamas, you tried to destroy us, you tried to bring us down, and you succeeded in hurting us greatly – but you will never ever break our spirits or stop us from dancing!
We are dancing again. We choose to heal, we choose to move forward, and we choose to live.