Incinerated cars, bathrooms full of bullet holes, blood stained clothing, and grief. These were my immediate observations while ambling through the Nova Exhibition.
After the attacks made by Hamas on Israel on October 7, 2023 during the Nova Music Festival, the producers of the festival took it upon themselves to commemorate the massacre by creating the Tribe of Nova Foundation. The foundation’s purpose is to provide assistance for those who were impacted in any way by October 7, with the intention of saving lives and empowering the Jewish community.
The Nova Exhibition is a temporary installation and has been in New York, Miami, Los Angeles, Washington D.C., Toronto, and Buenos Aires prior to reaching Chicago, where it was open between November 4 and November 30.
On November 18, I was given the opportunity to visit the Nova Exhibition with Parker’s Jewish Student Connection (JSC), accompanied by Upper School math teacher and JSC advisor Wendy Olt, Principal Dr. Dan Frank, Daily Substitute Jeff Hoders, and 36 other Upper School students.
This is my experience taking in the different displays and listening to survivor May Hayat share her story with the group present that afternoon.
When we entered the exhibit, we were immediately followed with security. Like at an airport, sweatshirts, bags, and phones were set aside as we walked through metal detectors and were shown into a dark, box-like room. Projected in front of us was a video playing with descriptions of what we were about to walk into, including a sensitivity warning.
After we were all gathered, one of the Nova Foundation Representatives pulled open a curtain to a room slightly bigger than the last to watch an opening film. This film offered insight into the history and value of the Nova Festival and transitioned into the start of the conflict. As I watched and listened, the mood of the room shifted into something indescribable.
For context, the exhibit was not multiple rooms with doors, but instead one large space somewhat in the shape of an oval. The concept is that whomever is there walks through the experience of the massacre hour by hour, day by day.
I first walked into an area under variant red and orange lighting. Around me there were colorful tents set up with objects like lanterns, iPhones, and water bottles scattered around. The first section of the exhibit, I thought, demonstrated any typical festival set up. But the ordinary atmosphere quickly became frightening. When I turned my head away from the first corner, my eyes landed on a video in the center of the section. I remember shifting in my feet and pinching my arm as I read the subtitles of men talking about committing murder and raping women. What made me cry wasn’t just what they said but how they were smiling and laughing at their crimes as if it were a joke.
After watching that clip I knew it would only get worse. I felt sickened already. However, each presence in the room made me feel slightly better. I think knowing we shared the moment together alleviated a portion of the vicarious guilt we each might have faced.
I continued to walk and found myself at a table and two screens. Each screen present at the exhibit was an interview from a person associated with what happened, whether that be a survivor, family member, and friend, or a member of Hamas. One of the screens showed a man, his eyes clearly distraught, walking through his efforts to save the woman around him. He had been commended for saving many, but he could not let go of not being able to save them all. I remember thinking how he did what he could, and there wasn’t more he could have done. His voice cracked as he remembred that even after their deaths, girls were raped, burned, and stepped over. I still can’t fully process the fear that lingered in his voice.
Most of my experience was spent still. I had many moments where I wasn’t sure what to think, but instead I only felt. I kept meandering, sometimes with a friend beside me in reverence, but ultimately I felt stuck. There was so much story around me, and it was hard to keep reading.
There was one moment that really stuck with me, and it was after returning to the front, at a tent, where a screen was playing a phone call. It was a call between a mother and daughter. The girl was being taken, and her mom’s voice was so unafraid as she kept reminding herself that they were both still there––together. I couldn’t move past the devastation of a singular phone call knowing it was only one of hundreds, if not thousands, made that day to say “I love you” and “goodbye.”
As I moved forward through the space, I walked into totalled cars, ripped apart by guns and flame. The lighting shifted into a cooler tone, and I don’t know what the fume was, but a replication of oil and rubber scent overtook me. As I continued, in front of me were tributes to a few of the many people who made an impact and were killed. Each tribute was specific to them: one was a makeshift bar for bartender Liron Barda who stayed to render aid despite having no medical training. I admired how cohesive everything was. I respected how each detail was very intentional and did not rely on codependence to spark an understanding of its goal, or a feeling to the observer.
Turning the corner, I felt the gravity of destruction intensify, overturned porta potties, scattered clothes, projections, and trash made every step heavier. Sitting on one wall was a map of the festival, each dot on the screen a casualty. I stood in front of it for a while, I’m not sure exactly what I thought, I just remember watching it pan over hundreds of zones of destruction and hearing beside me, from other screens, the sounds of cries, prayer, and death.
For further immersion the texture of the floor also shifted from dirt to sand to concrete. All the other visitors around me stood solemnly. Across the room during my visit there were two Rabbis praying in front of the candle lit wall of hostages, 254 faces lining the space. I observed as the men bent and slowly walked across searching name-by-name for something if not just to commemorate. At that moment, I felt a strange sense of ease. I had a recognition that, even in tragedy, there is a community that cares and people who actively work to make a difference still and persistently.
At the end of the exhibit I walked into a bright room, it was a swift transition. The room was encapsulated by posters of current NGOs and charities assisting to make change and helping to push the Nova cause.
At the end of our visit, we sat once again to listen to Hayat share her story. I won’t lie and say I did not cry—I think everyone around me left with bloodshot eyes or a pounding heartbeat. Her story was immensely honest, chilling, and eye-opening. I didn’t waste a minute looking away. I could only think of how remarkable it is that she was able to sit there with us.
I went to thank her with a friend when she was done, and as we walked over she gave us each a hug, and thanked us for being there to listen.
I am almost 18 years old, and I’ve not only been raised to advocate for myself, but to stand up when it matters. This is something I apply inside and outside of the classroom. The Nova Exhibition was difficult for me to walk through, yet it was incredibly important for me to undergo. Recently, for better or for worse, my attention has been more centered around how my Judaism currently leads me to be perceived in different audiences. For thousands of years the Jewish people have persevered tremendously and for hundreds of years so has my family. I hope there will not be a minute where we don’t keep pushing, and I know for a fact that the whole community will dance again.
