by Nadav Peretz
Today, for the first time, I visited the communities surrounding Gaza.
Nearly three years have passed since October 7, 2023—the day that changed all of our lives. The day Israel woke up to a different reality, a reality we are still living in today.
The fields are still green, the skies are still blue, and life continues around them. Yet this land is forever marked by pain, memories, and the blood of hundreds of innocent people.
Since October 7, we have all lived with these stories. We have heard the testimonies, seen the images, cried with the families, and followed the news day after day for months. I thought I understood the magnitude of what happened. But only when you stand there, in the very places where it all unfolded, do you realize that no article, video, or photograph can truly convey the scale of the horror.
I stood at the site of the Nova Music Festival—a place that was meant to celebrate life, music, freedom, and love. Thousands of young people came there to dance, celebrate, and enjoy life. Within a matter of hours, it became a killing field. Hundreds were murdered, kidnapped, or wounded. Young men and women hid among trees and bushes, ran for their lives, and made final phone calls to their parents, partners, and friends. Many never made it home.
I also visited the intersections and roads that became death traps that morning. Places that look completely ordinary today, yet on October 7 they became scenes of unimaginable brutality. Families trying to escape. Young people returning from the festival. Parents and children fleeing in their cars—only to be murdered in an act of cruelty that is difficult to comprehend.
One of the most powerful moments of the visit was entering the infamous roadside shelter near Re’im, known today as the “Shelter of Death.”
Standing inside that small concrete shelter, where dozens of young people sought refuge on that cursed morning, and trying to grasp what happened there, is an experience that is impossible to put into words. A place that was meant to provide protection became the scene of a massacre. Hamas terrorists repeatedly threw grenades into the shelter and fired at the young people crowded inside, desperately trying to survive.
Yet it was there, in the middle of that nightmare, that one of the greatest stories of heroism from October 7 took place.
Aner Shapira, a 22-year-old from Jerusalem, stood at the entrance and threw grenade after grenade back out after terrorists hurled them inside. Again and again, he risked his own life to save those around him. He managed to repel multiple grenades and saved many lives. Eventually, another grenade exploded and killed him.
Standing there today, it is impossible not to think about the unimaginable courage of a young man who, in a single moment, chose to protect others instead of saving himself.
I also read the story of Ido Peretz, a 22-year-old whose entire future lay ahead of him. Like so many others, he had dreams, plans, friends, and a family who loved him. In an instant, everything was taken away. And then you realize that the numbers we hear in the news are not statistics. Every victim was an entire world. Every name is a story. Every photograph represents a life cut short far too soon.
This visit was not only a lesson in tragedy. It was also a lesson in courage. Police officers who fought until their last bullets. Soldiers who ran into hell to save lives. Civilians who chose to return to danger in order to rescue others. In humanity’s darkest moments, there were people who revealed its brightest light.
And perhaps what struck me most was the distance.
Or rather, the lack of distance.
Just one hour south of Tel Aviv. Just one hour from my home. One hour from the places where we drink coffee, go to work, meet friends, and live our daily lives.
Just one hour from where one of the worst massacres in Israel’s history took place.
It is difficult to comprehend.
It is difficult to believe that all of these horrors, all of the stories we have heard, all of the images burned into our souls, happened so close to us. Not in some distant country. Not in a dark chapter of a history book. Here. In our home.
It was the day that changed my life. The day that changed the life of every Israeli. The day that changed the lives of Jews around the world.
Even today, nearly three years later, Israel is still living with the scars of that day. There are wounds that have not healed, families whose lives were changed forever, and entire communities still rebuilding from devastation. October 7 is not merely a memory. It remains part of our reality.
Standing there today, where it all happened, makes one thing painfully clear:
October 7 is not just a date.
It is the moment that divided our lives into “before” and “after.”
October 7 was not just another terrorist attack. It was not just another round of conflict. It was one of the darkest days in modern Jewish history. A day when babies, children, women, elderly people, and young adults were murdered simply because they were Jews and Israelis. A day that reminded us how cruel hatred can become and how precious our existence here truly is.
I left the Gaza border region with a heavy heart, but also with a sense of responsibility. These places are not merely memorial sites. They are witnesses. Witnesses to what happened. Witnesses to a truth that must never be denied, distorted, or forgotten.
I encourage every Israeli, every Jew, and every person who wants to understand what truly happened here to visit these places at least once. See it with your own eyes. Read the stories. Hear the testimonies. Learn. Remember. Bear witness.
Because there are things that must never be forgotten.
And there are dates that remain engraved in the heart of a nation forever.
May the memory of those who were murdered be a blessing. 
We will never forget.
7.10.2023
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