500 days of loss and longing

I never visited the death camps of Europe. When my husband set out to accompany an educational tour to Poland as a doctor one wintry morning years ago, I stayed home. I had seen photographs and videos of the horror and did not want direct confrontation with it.

But on a balmy February morning earlier this week, as we approached Day 500 of the Israel-Hamas war, Leonard and I began a three-day vacation with a pilgrimage to the killing fields near Israel’s Gaza border communities. I initiated the journey because the catastrophic Hamas invasion essentially occurred in my backyard, but in all the years that I’ve lived in Israel, I had never so much as driven through the places invaded on October 7, 2023. Beyond that, I felt I could not take a break, no matter how much it was needed, without first paying tribute to the fallen, acknowledging my dedication to Israel’s hostages, and bearing witness to the greatest national calamity of my lifetime.

The drive took an hour and a half — the same amount of time that I used to spend commuting from Long Island to high school in Manhattan. That’s how close the Hamas massacres were to my home in Jerusalem. Our self-guided tour of the memorials in my backyard proved to be eye-opening. Here’s what we saw:

The Burnt Vehicles Compound

Near Tkuma (literally “revival”), a religious moshav five kilometers from the Gaza border, lies a graveyard for cars destroyed on October 7. The compound holds 1,560 vehicles that were collected from Road 232 near the Nova music festival and from communities in the Western Negev. When you enter, a horrifying wall of mangled, burnt car frames rises on the left, with one rust-colored car piled up on the next. Death came by bullets or incineration to the people in these cars. In our collective Jewish consciousness, the sheer volume of physical evidence recalls the piles of shoes at Auschwitz

Part of the wall of cars—unfathomable testimony to the horrors of October 7 (Courtesy).

In the middle of the compound is a circle of individual cars with shattered windshields and pockmarked chassis. Some of them have makeshift memorials on their hoods. Others are embellished with photos of the people who had been traveling in them: partygoers fleeing the Nova, security forces and first responders attempting rescue, and ordinary people who became heroes as they tried to save friends, family, and strangers. In some cases, signs with QR codes provide links to the stories of those who perished within.

Those of us who have been following the plight of the hostages know some of the stories even without accessing the links. A photo of Ben Shimoni, murdered after making three trips to rescue friends and strangers who were fleeing from the Nova, tells us that this is the car from which terrorists stole Romi Gonen to Gaza, where she spent 471 days in captivity until her release last month.

Photographs on the hood of a blue Ibiza identify it as Ori Danino’s vehicle — the one he drove back into danger to rescue his friends Omer Shem Tov and Maya and Itay Regev. All four of them were taken hostage when the car was attacked: Maya and Itay were released during the November 2023 truce, Ori was murdered in the terror tunnels of Gaza in August 2024 after over 300 days of captivity, and 22-year-old Omer, who suffers from asthma, is slated to be returned to Israel in the coming days, as part of the humanitarian phase of the current truce.

Ori Danino’s car with a memorial sign for him and a hostage photo of Omer Shem Tov (Courtesy)

The display also includes the burnt ambulance from the Nova festival in which 18 people found their death, a menacing white Toyota pickup truck with a weapon mount, a black van used by terrorists, and a pile of burnt Hamas motorcycles. Hundreds of pockmarked Israeli vehicles can also be seen in a makeshift parking lot that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Everywhere you look, memorial stickers paying tribute to the victims of October 7 and to the fallen soldiers of the war cover every surface — bulletin boards, the outside of the information booth, the railings separating visitors from cars, and even the spaces between paragraphs on signs. These grassroots memorials, featuring beautiful faces, biblical verses, pithy slogans, and the values that guided victims’ lives tug at the heartstrings and transmit a legacy of meaning to all who see them.

Tributes to the fallen on a bulletin board near the entrance of the vehicle compound (Courtesy)

The Spotters’ Memorial

Fifteen women serving as IDF field observers or “spotters” died at the Nahal Oz outpost on October 7, either in the command center incinerated by the terrorists or in the bomb shelter from which Liri Albag, Naama Levy, Daniella Gilboa, Karina Ariev, and Agam Berger were abducted. A sixth spotter taken hostage, Noa Marciano, was murdered in Gaza while in captivity. The haunting images of the abduction of the spotters and our concern for their welfare occupied our thoughts and fears for 477 days (and a week more for Agam) until their release in the current round of hostage-prisoner exchanges.

Initiated by the parents of the slain surveillance soldiers, the spotter’s memorial stands atop a hillside between the Nahal Oz military base and the communities of the Western Negev. Climbing the dirt path toward the joint memorial at the summit, visitors pass individual boulders bearing the name and photo of each fallen soldier. The lookout at the top has a view of the surrounding fields that stretch to the Gaza border—the same border these young women had monitored to keep us safe. The memorial challenges us with silent questions: Why didn’t we keep the spotters safe? Why were their warnings of suspicious activity across the border ignored? Why did no one come to their aid on that terrible day?

The memorial for Sergeant Roni Eshel at the memorial for the women surveillance soldiers (Courtesy)

I brought a candle with me to the spotter’s memorial to light at Sergeant Yael Leibushor’s monument, for in Israel there are almost no degrees of separation; I had once helped her mother Gili write her LinkedIn profile. At this site overlooking the lush green fields of the local farming communities, the inscription under Yael’s photo said: “You can be found in every view in nature. Boundless love.” Though sharp winds prevented me from lighting my candle, being at Yael’s memorial touched me deeply.

Kibbutz Be’eri

Kibbutz Be’eri is a community that was devastated on October 7, 2023, when 101 of its members were murdered and 31 were taken hostage. Many of its homes were destroyed and burned, and the community is now laboring to recuperate and rebuild. Because visits to the kibbutz are not possible unless you have personal contacts there, we set out just to see the gate — a gate that I had seen repeatedly in closed-circuit video footage of the October 7 infiltration. As we parked near the dairy shop outside, a sign warned us that there are only 15 seconds in which to take cover if there is a rocket alert, a stark contrast to the minute and a half that we are used to in Jerusalem. The residents of Kibbutz Be’eri and other communities along the Gaza border have been living with such sirens for years.

The gate of Kibbutz Be’eri in mid-February 2025 (Courtesy)

The fence beside the bright yellow gate of the kibbutz bears a montage of photos showing members of all ages holding signs with words such as NOW and ENOUGH calling for the release of Israel’s hostages, or messages such as “We love you,” and “We are worried about you,” addressed to the hostages themselves. Emblazoned across all the images is the cry: THEY ARE PRICELESS. When we were there, the gate itself was covered with a sign celebrating the release of kibbutz members Ohad Ben Ami and Eli Sharabi, two of the three emaciated hostages recently released by Hamas. As we stood at the gate of the kibbutz, we thought of the members of Be’eri who have yet to return and who will not be returning in the foreseeable future.

The Nova

The memorial to the victims of the Nova music festival that has sprung up in the Be’eri Forest is an evolving collection of signs and installations dedicated to the 364 victims of the Hamas attack on the rave. Most were young women and men who had come to dance. Some were murdered while fleeing on foot or in cars, others while seeking protection in roadside shelters, and still others while trying to save those in peril.

A forest of memorials within the forest: The Nova memorial (Courtesy)

Visitors to the Nova come in a steady stream — men and women, old and young, soldiers and civilians. They walk in silence or speak in hushed voices as they walk through the grove of signs that marks where the partygoers had danced, honoring lives lost and voices stilled. What began as simple metal stakes topped with Israeli flags and large portraits or “Bring Them Home” posters has evolved into weatherproof signs describing the victims in Hebrew and English. These memorial “trees” are surrounded by plants, flowers, ceramic red anemones, memorial candles, painted rocks, sports team scarves, and assorted mementos — testimonies of love and loss that bring the victims alive for visitors. Sometimes, memorials for couples or groups of friends are clustered together in joint compounds, reflecting relationships between the festival attendants.

At the place where the stage had stood, a triangular structure displays a collage of photos of the victims. This display has also evolved; scanning the beautiful faces, I noticed that Hersh Goldberg-Polin and Eden Yerushalmi, whose bodies were found together in a terror tunnel, were added together at the top right corner. Ori Danino, executed with them, was added beside Aner Shapiro, who was murdered on October 7, in a roadside shelter after fleeing from the festival.

Detail of the collage of Nova victims, remembered for their ‘light and joy.’ (Courtesy)

Walking among the memorials, I recognized some of the more prominent victims. But it was the stories of the lesser-known victims that touched me most deeply: Nasasra Abed Al-Karim, a van driver and father of six, murdered while helping others escape; Lior Aton, a 26-year-old therapy dog trainer who dreamed of establishing an animal center for children with autism; and Dr. Lilia Gurevich Yasilkovsky, a 38-year-old scientist and startup founder. I realized then how much I know about the hostages taken on October 7 and how little about the massacre victims. Each one is indeed an entire world.

A central installation at the Nova features blood-red ceramic anemones—poppy-like flowers that bloom each winter, carpeting the western Negev where the massacre occurred. Artists throughout Israel created 30,000 clay anemones for the site as a symbol of bloodshed and a sign of commemoration. In one section of the installation, a bright red anemone emerges from a tree stump, embodying life cut short. While strolling through the grounds, we also saw natural anemones glistening in the sunshine. Their presence, like their ceramic counterparts, suggested regrowth and renewal, and offered a glimmer of hope.

Part of the anemone installation at the Nova memorial site. (Courtesy)

The Death Shelter at Re’im

At the Re’im Junction stands the roadside bomb shelter where my neighbor, 22-year-old Aner Shapiro, hurled hand grenades back at Hamas terrorists on October 7, until he was finally killed by an RPG. Twenty-seven young people had sought refuge in this concrete space while fleeing the Nova festival. Locals are said to call the shelter “The Bird,” a reference to the beautiful painting of a kingfisher that can be found on its front and its side. Today, stickers commemorating fallen soldiers, massacre victims, and Israeli hostages completely cover the blue and brown bird on the front façade.

The death shelter at Reim, where Aner Shapiro tried heroically to stave off Hamas terrorists (Courtesy)

As I entered the shelter, its smallness defied belief. An iconic photograph taken from inside the shelter shows Aner standing at the entrance, protecting a sea of more than 25 people crouching behind him to protect themselves. Standing inside, it is hard to imagine how so many found space in the shelter, let alone had room to take cover.

The inside of the shelter of death in Re’im, where I lit a candle for Aner and the other victims (Courtesy)

In the end, 16 young people were murdered in the shelter. Seven survived. Four others — Hersh Goldberg Polin, Or Levy, Alon Ohel, and Eliya Cohen — were stolen to Gaza. Hersh was murdered after more than 300 days in captivity in August 2024. An emaciated Or Levy, whose wife died in the attack on the shelter, returned from captivity last week. Standing in the shelter, I thought of the remaining two hostages, Eliya and Alon, who are said to be alive, wounded, shackled, starving, and in grave danger. Eliya, shot in the leg, is included in the humanitarian phase of the current deal and we now know that he is scheduled to be released on Shabbat. But the fate of 24-year-old Alon, a classical pianist with shrapnel in his eye, still hangs in balance.

Epilogue

My visit to the memorials in my backyard reminded me of my experiences at Yad Vashem. As I walked down paths of memory and mourning, I sensed that I was standing on hallowed ground. I was profoundly moved by the pioneering spirit of Israel’s border communities, the valor and sacrifice of our soldiers, the camaraderie and solidarity among civilians, and the values of the young people expressed on commemorative stickers. Yet these memorials arose amid an ongoing crisis, one that has the potential for more and more loss. They commemorate an unfinished tragedy.

As I write these words, the first phase of the hostage-prisoner deal between Israel and Hamas is drawing to a close, with the terms of the second phase — if there is to be one at all — yet to be determined. When this first phase ends, 59 fathers, sons, and brothers — many alive — will remain in captivity in Gaza. The end of this story remains to be written, and it is impossible to know in which direction it is going. Will the hostages return home — the living for rehabilitation and the deceased for burial? Will the war resume without further exchanges? Will the daily heartbreak of missing civilians and fallen soldiers continue?

Five hundred days of loss and longing . . . and still counting.

The side of Aner’s shelter. Eliya is coming home. But what about Alon?

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The author thanks Peter Abelow, who guides private tours of the sites surveyed in this post, for pointing us in the right direction.