Re’im. The site of the Nova Music Festival on October 7, 2023. The place where Hamas carried out a mass slaughter. The place where Hila Keylin, a member of my family, was brutally murdered. A place where you can physically feel the echo of those events, where your blood runs cold from the horrifying details of the final minutes in the lives of beautiful young people who were full of life and had bright futures ahead of them. In a single moment, all of it was taken from them by terrorist death squads pouring out of Gaza like an unstoppable mass of water bursting through a collapsed dam.
Our road to this place took us past Erez, Sderot, Mefalsim, Kfar Aza, and Be’eri, each of them scarred by the invasion of terrorists who murdered men, women, and children for amusement. We traveled along the “Road of Death,” where on October 7 hundreds of bullet-riddled cars came to a standstill with their passengers inside. Here and there along the roadside, we passed memorials dedicated to those who never managed to escape the deadly trap.
My brother Sergei and I drove along this road in deathly silence. With every kilometer, this journey was searing a permanent, unhealing scar into my soul like a branding iron. I was gripping the door handle so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. Kibbutz Be’eri came into view on our right, and even after all this time, the sight of it could not help but bring back horrifying memories of that place.
If this sight does not make you feel what we felt, then there really is something wrong with you. Still, I am certain that most people would experience similar emotions and involuntarily be taken back to October 7, 2023, when more than 1,200 people were mercilessly slaughtered by Hamas.
The map shows only the places we passed on our way that were badly affected by the Hamas invasion. They are only a small part of the area attacked by the terrorists. Since our destination was Re’im, we could not take in the full picture, and perhaps that would have been too much for a single day.
Our location on the map unmistakably showed that we had reached our destination. The access road led to a spacious parking lot, across from which we could see countless photographs of beautiful young people rising above the dance field.
The sight tore my heart to pieces. What happened on October 7 should never have happened. Never! My brother and I separated and walked among the memorial plaques, reading one heartbreaking story after another, unable to stop.
Look closely at these faces. They simply wanted to live. To live and dance. They threatened no one. They believed in peace, but that belief was taken from them in the cruelest possible way, together with their innocent lives.
My feet led me to a huge poster with a collage of photographs of those who had come to the Nova Music Festival to celebrate music, meet friends, and get to know new people, and who never made it home. Among those beautiful faces, I recognized Hila.
I stood there and simply looked at her. I could not take my eyes off her. I could not think about anything until I forced myself to move on.
At some point, I lost all sense of time, even though the sun was beating down mercilessly and I had taken no precautions to protect myself from being burned. As I walked among them, I kept meeting the gazes of happy people in the photographs and could not shake the feeling that none of this was real.
I found her. I found Hila. Colored circles began swimming before my eyes. I knew it would not be easy, but I had no idea how I would react when the moment came. Hila’s family learned that she had been brutally murdered only after five long days of unbearable uncertainty following October 7. That news tore a piece out of my heart forever.
After that, everything happened as if through a fog. I do not remember how long I stood beside Hila’s memorial plaque. I flinched when my brother’s hand came down on my shoulder, and only then did I come back to myself.
From there, we continued together and behind the main stage discovered a small grove where large memorial boards stood everywhere, with dedications and details from the life of every person murdered at the Nova Music Festival.
Almost immediately, we found a large poster dedicated to Hila. Like the others, it was designed on both sides.
On the back of the poster was a dedication to Hila from her family. I had read it many times before coming to this place, and here I read it again.
In the lower left corner of the poster, I found a screenshot of Hila’s messages with her older daughter in the minutes before the fatal events. Her daughter was only thirteen years old at the time. Hila was also messaging her nine-year-old daughter. I could barely breathe as I read them again. Translation from Hebrew into English, except for the first line, which is difficult to make out:
Hila:
Okay, we’re waiting
Daughter:
Send me a picture of where you are
Who were they shooting at???
Where is Mom???
Are you okay??????????
Where are you???
Hila:
We’re hiding, there’s a lot of shooting here
[Photo sent]
Daughter:
God protect you, Mom... oh my God...
We wandered for a long time before entering a young grove where every tree preserves the memory of someone who was murdered at Nova. Hila’s family planted this tree in January 2024. Back then, it was a young sapling that could barely stand. In a little over two and a half years, it has grown to more than two and a half meters tall.
In addition to the memorial plaque with her photograph, another plaque bearing her name is fixed at the base of the tree.
The dance field is covered with red anemones, and they are everywhere, a reminder of how many innocent souls were taken here by Hamas. In the center, the flowers are scorched, just as our hearts are scorched.
Anemones are everywhere.
I moved from one place to another, and at each one I found more and more chilling stories. In the photo, I am walking away from a dumpster where 17 people hid from the terrorists. They almost held out until help arrived, but a terrorist entered the container and opened fire, killing nine and wounding four. Ahead of me was the bar, where young people were massacred.
We took one last look at the Nova memorial and got into the car. We left this place with heavy hearts, and the “Road of Death” was leading us back to life. That day, our entire family was going to spend time together.
Hila was the sister of Shai, my sister’s husband. We arrived at their home. In the entrance hall, we were greeted by a framed photograph of Hila. Hila is forever in our hearts. Shai and I embraced tightly, and I told him about our trip, which he had known about in advance. I told him how difficult it had been for me. But we had gathered together not to grieve. It was time to be together. The house was full of children: my sister already has five, my brothers’ children were there too, and I had come with my daughter. Being surrounded by all of them was healing.
I wanted to end this story on a positive note and show that we remember, but we continue to live, for the sake of everyone who is no longer with us but continues to live within us.
We Will Dance Again.
Heartbreaking 💔😔 Thank you for sharing your grief and story.
I cannot imagine the enormous grief you are carrying.
My heart breaks for you.