This past week I did something I had been putting off for far too long. For months, I had buried the thought, telling myself I wasn’t ready, that it would be too much, that somehow I could mourn and remember from afar. But there comes a moment when hesitation itself feels like a kind of betrayal.
And so, at the request of some of my congregants, I organized a coach, filled with over fifty souls, and together we set out on a journey none of us wanted to take – into the heart of the Gaza border region, to the very scenes where humanity bled, where lives were extinguished in ways too cruel to grasp.
In the early months after October 7, 2023, the idea of going felt almost ghoulish – voyeuristic even. Who was I to tread on such sacred ground, soil soaked with blood and tears?
But slowly, the ambivalence gave way to a need. A need to grieve not from a distance but on the very earth that bore witness to the carnage. A need to pay respects, to stand among the echoes of the fallen, and maybe – if I could bear it – to understand just a little more deeply what happened there.
Our guide was extraordinary, gently preparing us for the emotional storm we were about to face. Yet nothing – no warning, no words – can truly prepare you for the reality of what you see.
We began at the site of the Nova Sukkot Musical Festival at Re’im. How quickly those words, “musical festival,” twist the knife in your heart when you remember what followed. I walked through the fields and tried to imagine the music, the laughter, the dancing feet. But all I could hear in my mind were the gunshots. All I could see were images I wish I had never seen, yet now will never forget.
THREE HUNDRED and eighty-seven young souls – cut down, blown up, hunted. Many in their twenties and thirties, full of life and hope. They had come to celebrate, to feel free, to taste the sweetness of a holiday night. They harmed no one. They dreamed of music, of friendship, of love. And in minutes they were thrust into a nightmare from which they would never awaken.
Along the paths stood placards with photographs and words about each victim. I read name after name, story after story, and felt myself moving in a haze – zombie-like, numb yet burning inside. Here was a young woman who loved children and wanted to teach. Here was a young man who played guitar after work, who wrote poetry no one will ever read. So much beauty, so much potential, all turned to ash and returned to dust.
As I walked, words from the Yom Kippur liturgy rose unbidden in my mind:
“Man’s origin is dust and his end is unto dust. He is likened to a broken potsherd, to withering grass, to a fading flower, to a passing shadow, to a vanishing cloud, to a blowing wind, to dust that scatters and to a fleeting dream.”
That day, in that field, they were all of those things. Fading flowers, vanishing clouds, fleeting dreams. And yet, they were also eternal in their innocence, immortal now in our memory.
From there we drove a short distance to a place near Tekuma. At first, it looks like a junkyard. Then you realize what you are seeing. Piles and piles of cars, some burned to skeletal frames, others riddled with bullet holes. Cars dragged from the festival grounds, from the roads, from scenes of ambush. It is said that ZAKA volunteers found bodies of babies in some of those cars, cradled by parents who hoped in vain to shield them.
Standing there, looking down on this twisted metal graveyard, an image flashed in my mind – another site of another horror, the piles of shoes and suitcases and spectacles I once saw at Auschwitz-Birkenau. The analogy felt searingly apt: objects that speak for those who can no longer speak, remnants of lives torn from the world by a hatred too deep to fathom.
WE CONTINUED to Kibbutz Alumim. There we met heroes. Ordinary people who, on that dark day, rose to do extraordinary things. They fought off terrorists with little more than courage and grit, saving countless lives. As I listened to their stories, I could not help but think: could I have done that? Could I have faced such horror with such bravery? I don’t know. Quietly, I thanked God that I had not been tested in such a way. And I silently prayed that if ever I am, I might find a fraction of their strength.
Our final stop was Sderot, at the site of the police station, where one of the fiercest battles took place and where 53 people lost their lives. By then, we were emotionally exhausted, raw from all we had seen. But Sderot gave us something else – something vital: Hope.
Monument of 18 pillars, representing Chai (life) pointing toward the sky
On that site now stands a monument of eighteen pillars reaching toward the sky, and a mural of a Torah scroll with letters flying heavenward. There, amidst the pain, I felt the pulse of something indestructible. I learned that over a thousand new residents have moved to Sderot since the massacre. Yes, you read that right – moved there. To this place in the lion’s den. To rebuild. To say, without words, that we are not leaving, we are not running, we are not defeated.
“Am k’lavie yakum” – the people, like a lioness, shall rise (Numbers 23:24).
As I stood there, tears streaming down my face, I felt so many things at once – anger, pride, grief, love, helplessness, inspiration. It is a potent mix, a storm in the soul, and sooner or later, I believe every Jew must stand in that storm.
We owe it to the fallen. We owe it to the survivors. We owe it to ourselves.
I went reluctantly, after months of hesitation. I left broken, humbled, shaken – and somehow, strengthened. Because standing in those places, among those ashes, I felt the enormity of our loss – but also the unbreakable heartbeat of our people.
We will weep, yes. We will rage, yes. But we will also rebuild. We will plant, we will dance, we will sing again. And the memory of those we lost will forever guide us like a torch through the darkness.
Am Yisrael Chai.
The writer is a rabbi and physician who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.