Bearing Witness to the NOVA Festival Pogrom…One Year Later…In New York City

Several months ago, I took the opportunity to visit the traveling Nova Music Festival Exhibition in New York City.  It was not something I looked forward to; it was something I felt I had to do.

According to the organizers, “The Nova Exhibition is an in-depth remembrance of the brutal massacre at the Nova Music Festival on October 7^th.  The installment sets out to recreate a festival dedicated to peace and love that was savagely cut short by a terrorist attack on that fateful day.”

“This groundbreaking installation is presented as a way to empower visitors to responsibly explore & bear witness to the tragic events of October 7^th and its aftermath.”

Previously, I had written in “The Blogs” of Elie Weisel’s admonition that we Jews MUST bear witness to tragedies.  According to Weisel, “The Jewish witness speaks of his people’s suffering as a warning.  He sounds the alarm so as to prevent these things being done.  He knows that for the dead it is too late; for them, abandoned by God and betrayed by humanity, victory came much too late.”

I felt I needed to visit and “bear witness” to the atrocities committed against these innocent people, Israel itself and, I would argue, any thinking and feeling Diaspora Jew.

With that in mind, I entered the “lobby” of the exhibition and joined a rather quiet group of visitors waiting to enter.  There were about 30 people in a small lobby and a somber mood permeated the visitors.  It was like when you are in line to enter a funeral.  No laughing, some quiet whispering here and there.  And the serious faces of those who know a tragedy has occurred.  It took about 10 minutes until it was our turn, and I had no idea what the experience would be like.  I had no idea what I would be thinking about.

Together with my fellow pilgrims, I jostle to read the “warning” on the wall that tells us there are disturbing sounds, pictures, photos and images throughout the exhibit.  Of course, there are, I think to myself, but my anxiety is increased as I have no idea what’s behind the next door.

It’s crowded as we enter but I appreciate my discomfort with too many people is nothing to complain about.  I see images of so many young people almost euphoric as they dance with the night into the morning.  I can’t help but smile as they are experiencing a simple joy; yet it seems such a deep joy. Then I hear the phrase “red alert, red alert” as the joy quickly fades.

I pick up a cell phone next to a tent – the instructions on the wall encouraged us to handle the phones and watch what was on them.  I feel awkward as it’s not polite to just pick up someone else’s phone.  Sadly, I realize that whomever owned this phone is not ever coming back to claim it.  I can’t turn away as, on the screen, the cell phone owner – one of the Festival attendees – is huddled with a friend, barely whispering lest they alert the terrorists.  I am with them, in that moment, seeing what they are seeing, hearing the anguish in their voices and the terrible, awful fear no human being should ever experience.

I drop the phone as I can’t watch it for more than a minute and stumble to another area where a video is shown of Hamas terrorists celebrating their atrocities.  The subtitles read “God is greatest.” and I think to myself, “If you believe in God, how can you commit such acts of evil?”  The video switches to terrorists shooting people in their stopped cars.  Then I see a terrorist smiling and telling the camera, “The poor guy is trembling with fear.”

I walk across blankets – ground coverings that were used by victims and, like with the cell phone of the Festival attendee, I feel I am doing something wrong.  I quickly move across to see a video of the gleeful terrorists, one of whom looks straight into his camera and says “Soon, soon, you will see things you never dreamed of.”  Scenes switch to a female soldier, lying dead in a truck, blood on her buttocks.  She must have been assaulted and I wonder how.   But then catch myself.  Do I really want to know and does it really matter?  This whole thing is an assault on my senses.  I don’t feel sorry for myself, how could I?  But this is not a pleasant experience.  Nor should it be.

I hesitate to walk into the room that has a sign warning entrants they will hear stories of sexual assault and abuse.  I force myself to walk in and I experience some relief as it’s obvious there are no horrific images in this room.  There really is no need for them as the words are as bad as one can imagine.  A man from ZAKA, the Israeli search and rescue NGO which has the unenviable task of collecting body parts and blood for proper Jewish burial, is being interviewed and one thing he says stands out: “Not a day goes by that I don’t cry.”

I can’t remember why but I see a bag carrying multiple heads.  It’s just the view of the bag – not the contents – but the narrator tells me what I already guessed.  I walk to another tent where a cell phone shows a young man hiding with a guttural, instinctual look of fear on his face.  Another phone features a young man asking to whomever might be watching “How could this happen?”  I am asking myself the same thing but, of course, his question has an urgency that is heart-wrenching.  I eavesdrop – that’s how it feels anyway – on a mother talking to her daughter who will ultimately be kidnapped by Hamas.  I have no idea what happened to her.  I pray she has been released and is safe, at home in Israel, with her mother.

I walk past burned out and bullet-hole ridden cars.  I see empty water bottles and outdoor chairs arranged in front of tents.  I see a photo of happy, smiling festival-goers taken at 6:29 a.m. on October 7^th.  The attack was starting and they had no idea.  I see the infamous video of tattoo artist, Shani Louk, her body being paraded around the streets of Gaza, while children spit on her and the crowds shout at her lifeless body.  I have no idea what these kids are being taught…but I know it is wrong.

As I get toward the end, behind the bar which is set up exactly the way it was on October 7, I see the Lost & Found tables.  There lie hundreds of pairs of shoes.  Their owners, all victims of this pogrom.  Some alive, many dead…but all victims.  I am immediately brought back to twenty years earlier when I saw almost the exact same thing at Auschwitz in Poland.  Piles upon piles of shoes.  An arresting image then and now.

The last part of the Nova Exhibition features a gallery of those killed by Hamas.  Each person had a plaque with his/her photo (when available) and words used to describe them by family and/or friends.  I feel like I should read every plaque.  But I know I cannot give emotional effort to know them all.  A few stick out that I take note of.

Sapir, 24, “A sunshine girl, full of generosity, a wonderful daughter and friend.”

Ilai, 27, “Our sun, a child of light and love, made entirely of giving and goodness.”

Dado, 45, “My life, my love, I love you so – I miss you so terribly.  My longing for you burns in my heart! You will…”.

I couldn’t read any more.  It was too painful.

I went to the Nova Exhibition not because I wanted to, but I felt I had to.  I felt scared, awkward, horrified and so terribly sad.  But I was glad I went.

I had to “bear witness.”