Why I Went to the Nova Festival Exhibit

I kept asking myself whether I could handle it. I wasn't sure. But I went anyway.

By way of introduction, I want to say that this isn’t a typical Days of Rest post.

Rather, I thought I’d share my experience at the Nova Music Festival Exhibit in New York because many folks won’t be able to get there — either due to time constraints or distance or because something like this isn’t for everyone and that’s okay.

There’s nothing graphic here. Only what’s in my heart.

*

Many times since October 7 I have asked myself, Should I watch? Should I read? Or should I stop?

In the beginning, I took in everything. But as months passed, I began to question how much more of the savage imagery I could stomach.

In the end, I kept listening, following, watching, and reading whatever I had access to because to know felt like an obligation, a way to bear witness, a means to honor the dead. My own imagination twined with lines from Bialik’s poem In the City of Slaughter (written more than a century ago about the 1903 Kishinev pogrom) to fill in what wasn’t exactly there in the clips or on the page.

Besides, what right did I have to get squeamish? Who told me I could look away?

Which is why I thought I should attend the Nova Exhibit. And yet, I deferred making plans or purchasing tickets. I’d already begun taking short pauses from the news cycle. I was overwhelmed, too emotional, unable to focus on anything else. These little breaks were about breathing.

I carefully considered the possibility that the exhibit was not for me.

Then a friend called to say she wanted to see it, that she would travel in from three states away. Would I meet her there?

*

I waited for Karyn behind a lunch truck just outside the building on Wall Street. It was a Thursday, the day the exhibit was supposed to close, but it had by then been extended. Our bags were checked by security. We passed through metal detectors. The space was fittingly dim. Reverent.

Everyone moved around in a hush, slowly, as if we were traveling through the glycerin of a snow globe. I felt like I was shrinking beneath the weight of the surroundings, disappearing inside the memories they contained. Sound got stuck in my throat. The only voices I heard were those crying out from the videos, taped dialogue between loved ones, interviews with survivors, with rescuers, with helpers in the aftermath. The violent language of the perpetrators was there, too, recorded on their own cameras, but I won’t repeat it here.

The exhibit offers proximity to the before and terrible after all at once. Empty tents, teddy bears tumbled across pillows, phones, other left-behind quotidian human accoutrements, tables of items lost and found. There’s the bar, the lights, the music, and the dancing, the freedom and joy, all draped in the bitter web of what followed. It ends with music and light, with the hope that “We will dance again.”

After passing the faces of the victims, looking them all in the eye, I emerged into the large hall near the exit. There are benches where you can gather your thoughts if you are able, where you can dry your eyes if you are able, and pull yourself together and speak with Nova survivors in from Israel. I spoke with a young woman who has likely told her story hundreds of times, but her words had lost none of their power. When we hugged, I could hardly believe she was real. I thanked G-d she was alive.

*

It took me five days to write this. I should’ve written it sooner. Thank you for reading and understanding.

Love,

Merri

The Nova Festival Exhibit will be in New York until June 16. It will make its way to Miami and Los Angeles, and hopefully, DC, as well, though I don’t have those dates.