I was in the bar at the Nova Music Festival with my best friend, Liron Barda, on the morning of Oct. 7, 2023. I was 32 years old. The day was about music, celebration and joy. Within minutes, it became the worst of humanity. I survived. Liron did not.
As the terrorists descended, I found shelter in what would later be known as the “death ambulance.” Seconds later, it was struck by an RPG. I escaped, fleeing with another survivor, Avi Dadon. We hid in a pit. There, I witnessed Avi’s murder. And somehow, by strength I hardly recognize in myself, I convinced my captors to release me. I lay silent among bodies, waiting for rescue.
Now I lead a delegation of survivors and bereaved family members in the global tour of the Nova Music Festival Exhibition, and we are in Chicago. This is the first new site since the war in Gaza concluded and all of the 20 living hostages were freed. With this shift, we are no longer just remembering the horror. We are focusing on healing for the living victims, for the families of the dead and for everyone touched by Oct. 7.
In Chicago through the end of November, the exhibition does two things: It bears witness and renews hope. Bullet-riddled bathroom stalls, burned cars, discarded shoes, personal items—these artifacts shock one’s senses. But they also remind us of what was lost and invite you into the story. At the end of that darkness, the “Healing Room” is a place to breathe, reflect and find possibility again.
Music once meant freedom. A music festival was meant for dancing and light. On that morning, peace became carnage. The attack on Nova was the largest massacre in music history. Having seen the worst of humanity, I’m still here to speak, to honor, to remember.
In bearing witness, we resist erasure. We resist forgetting. We tell the stories of the 412 people murdered, those who were abducted, the survivors who live every day with trauma and the families that were shattered. Their memory matters. The exhibition puts us face-to-face with what happened; yet it also declares: We are still here, and we will dance again.
Now, we move toward healing. This is not only about remembering the dead. It is about caring for those who live on, those of us who enter crowded rooms with heavy hearts, who struggle in quiet corners, who ask, “How do I go on?” Healing is for the families, the friends and the wider “tribe” that was built at Nova and continues to survive.
With the living hostages freed, we finally have space to shift from crisis to reflection, from survival to rebuilding. The exhibition begins with horror but ends with hope. It does not demand political agreement; it simply invites empathy and healing.
At the heart of this effort is the Tribe of Nova Foundation, created to support survivors and the bereaved with emotional care, financial assistance and belonging. It is a space where we gather, share grief and help one another move forward, not defined by trauma but by resilience and strength.
I carry the faces of my murdered friends, the memories of horrors witnessed and the stories of dozens who were more than victims: young people, creators, lovers of life. They were part of the light I want to preserve.
When you visit, you will walk through darkness, hear the echoes of music and the silence that followed, and see personal items reclaimed as testimony. Then you will enter the Healing Room and be asked: How will you carry this forward? How will you change the beat and make music again?
We will dance again—not because forgetting heals, but because remembrance and recovery together yield power. We will dance stronger, more aware, more connected.
Walk the path we walk. Bear witness. Leave changed by the light we once had, the broken moment we endured and the road to healing we are traveling.
The journey is not linear; it does not follow a script. But together, with the Tribe of Nova Foundation and this exhibition, we can build a future that honors what was lost and the unbreakable strength that has risen from tragedy.
The Nova Music Festival exhibition is running in Chicago until Nov. 30.
