Nova in London; reminder of a nightmare
Last week I visited the Nova Exhibition in Old St, London. It’s been almost three years since that dark day when Hamas terrorists rampaged through army bases, kibbutzim, and a music festival, but this exhibition feels like a fresh wound from a sharp blade. As this is a traumatic event, even as a spectator, I’ll be careful how I describe my observations.
I knew what I was letting myself in for – I lived in Israel on October 7th, 2023. I watched the news in the ensuing days, as the death count grew and the extent of the horror unfolded. I worked with people in high-tech who had close family members kidnapped, starved, and killed. I listened to podcasts featuring hostage families such as Jon and Rachel Goldberg-Polin, whose son Hersh, aged 23, was injured, taken hostage, then eventually murdered in a tunnel, along with five others.
I had watched the harrowing film, We Will Dance Again, featuring footage of the beautiful dancers at a party that so quickly turned into a pogrom.
In October 2024, one year after the attacks, my wife and I visited the Nova festival site. Back then, the site was a mix of makeshift memorials, with pictures of the victims taped to poles, and the Nova festival signs still in place.
I recall the silence of driving down Route 232 as we passed the roadside shelters, where people were trapped and killed. I remember the ground-shaking booms from the IDF just a few kilometres away in Gaza as we walked around the site. I remember standing in the dumpster, where festival-goers hid and were ultimately gunned down. I remember reading their last WhatsApp messages, such as, “Tell my parents I love them.” I remember reading about the ambulance, where some twenty people hid, until it was ripped apart by an RPG missile.
I remember feeling overwhelmed by what I was witnessing and ‘turning off’ my emotions, wandering around like a robot, while others cried.
Visiting the exhibition in London brought it all home again. I had the same reaction. In the face of unrelenting violence and evil to people I could so easily identify with, I switched into ‘robot-mode’ again.
The exhibition starts with the light of the Nova festival, testimonies from survivors explaining how trance music has roots in ancient art forms, connected to the earth. But then we entered the room of the atrocities, and the sound of “Allah Akhbar” was heard from the videos shown on phones scattered between the exhibits of camping gear and burnt-out cars.
One such video, which I hadn’t previously seen, stuck in my mind. It was a video of a dreadlocked man or woman (it’s hard to tell the gender) lying out on the back of a Toyota truck. The body and legs are twisted unnaturally, and the dreadlocks are drenched in blood. A crowd of young men runs after the truck, cheering as it pulls away.
It was at this moment that my ‘robot-mode’ turned into red anger. While others were crying, I didn’t feel sad; instead, I felt a real, visceral burning anger rising within.
Who was I angry at? At first, I was angry at the Hamas terrorists for committing these atrocities. Then, the crowds of people celebrating, running after the truck.
But then, on reflection later on, some of my anger was at Netanyahu, whose policy of funding Hamas via Qatar failed, and who never once accepted responsibility for being in power on the day of the worst attack on Jews since the Holocaust.
My anger was also directed at Ben-Gvir and the illegal settlers, who continually provoke and stoke the fires of the conflict. It’s well known that defense forces were deployed to the West Bank just a few days before October 7th.
Zooming out wider, I was angry at the right-wing government that delayed deals to free the hostages and responded by killing some 60,000 Palestinians over two years, many of them women and children.
Then, angry with Qatar, Turkey, Iran, Russia, and whoever else funded Hamas with billions of dollars to buy RPGs, grenades, bikes, and dig a vast tunnel network.
Then, angry at the world for forgetting this tragic music festival so soon.
And lastly, angry with God. How could a loving God let something so evil take place? It’s very clear that God doesn’t or can’t always intervene. This very harsh lesson was learnt in Auschwitz too, as Jews prayed for a miracle that never came.
As Eli Weisel wrote in Night, “I was no longer able to lament. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused.”
So ultimately, I was angry at myself for being so naive.
There can be no justice when a festival for peace and love becomes a gleeful bloodbath for evil perpetrators. There can be no justice when peace activists, some of whom even volunteered to drive Gazans to Israeli hospitals for treatment, are brutally murdered. At least, no justice in this life.
There are a myriad of villains in this tragedy of tragedies, too many to mention.
Yet, there are also heroic stories. Stories that are not told in the media. We heard the testimony of Avivit, a sister of Hanan Yablonka, aged 41, who was murdered while fleeing the Nova festival. Avivit and her family didn’t know what had happened to Hanan for ten months, until the IDF found his body in Gaza in May 2024. That’s ten months of every day reliving a nightmare. Yet, Avivit smiled as she spoke so bravely about her beloved brother, as she said her smile reminded people of Hanan.
In the audience were some Nova survivors, young people, who had witnessed unspeakable atrocities and were now making it their life’s work to make sure the world doesn’t forget.
After the atrocities room, there is a corridor with images of all the victims, candles, and a pile of shoes. Then, there is the Nova stage and a Healing room with calming music, where I probably should have spent more time.
Near the stage, lit up with psychedelic lights, I read about Matan Lior, a 35-year-old soundman, owner of the festival sound system, Funktlon-On. Matan was killed while saving hundreds of others at Nova by using his sound system to tell people to flee. When he wasn’t being a soundman, he helped children with special needs. In his photo, I saw he had dreadlocks and wondered if this was the body from the video in the back of the truck?
Looking closer, there was a poem next to Matan’s picture, written by Gilad Kahana, lead singer of Girafot, that contained these words:
“Two weeks before that Saturday
In a random conversation
He said
If I should die
Never mind the reason
Throw a party for me
Don’t fret
Just celebrate
Sanctify life.”
Matan’s selfless message from the other side helped to cool my anger and confusion. And that’s the strange thing about Nova. Despite the intense horrors and hatred witnessed, there is a tangible feeling of hope at the end. Nova means renewal, and the darkness of that day is nothing compared to the light of those beautiful people who perished.
The Nova Exhibition in London has been extended to July 15.
For more info, see https://novaexhibition.com/
