This is my October 7
I am Osher Daniel, 24, a survivor of the Nova music festival. That day, October 7, is etched into me like a scar.
October 7. A convoy of colorful cars on the way to paradise. Costumes, fairies, love on the dance floors. Then, with the sunrise, the dream turned into a nightmare. We left the Nova festival—me, Asaf, Stav and Itay—thinking it was just another morning near the Gaza border. At the Re’im Junction, 10 terrorists on motorcycles, gunfire, soldiers lying bleeding. Somehow we got through, but at the next junction we found dismembered bodies and people crying out for help.
We had no choice but to turn back, through the terrorists. It was a hard decision, but there was no other option. Full throttle. Bullets from every direction, windows shattering, the engine nearly giving out. Stav was injured by glass, but we kept going. We tried to reach Be’eri when Einav called, screaming, “Don’t come, there’s a terrorist infiltration.”
During the traffic jam, I spotted terrorists approaching again. I screamed for everyone to get out of the car. We ran to the festival’s operations room, which looked like a safe place. I didn’t make it inside with Stav and Asaf. I ran toward the festival tents. Someone I knew grabbed my hand, and we ran together until we found shelter under the main stage. Dozens of people were there. Pleading, blood, tears, total silence.
After two hours, we heard a call to run south. It was “the run of death.” People fell one after another. In a wadi, about 50 of us hid. Phone batteries died, hope drained away. One man was shot in the leg, another in the shoulder, two were having panic attacks. One of the police officers told me to dig a hole and hide until rescue came. I called my mother and begged her not to come. I cried quietly.
When we heard terrorists with RPGs, I knew it was time to escape. I left the hiding place with a Muslim man who offered to help me. Ten minutes in the forest felt like an eternity. When we reached police officers, they directed us to a waiting vehicle. At a checkpoint we met soldiers. I called my mother and told her I was in safe hands. She cried with relief.
Giving meaning to the story
On the way back I saw the horrors: burned-out cars, blood, exhausted soldiers. When I reached Orim, I thought the nightmare was over, but it wasn’t. Stav and Asaf were missing. Four days later, I was told that Stav Barazani had been murdered. Twelve days later came the news about Asaf Edberg. May their memory be a blessing.
I am alive, but the wounds remain deep. From all the evil, I realized one thing: I must go on living, to give my story meaning. Today I tell it, share it, speak on stages. I perform in the play “Trigger Warning,” practice breathwork and cold exposure therapy, and find healing through the Nova Tribe community. That is my strength, not just to survive, but to touch the hearts of others, so that we never forget.