“Yes, I do,” he said, forcing down the lump forming in his throat. “It took me a while to get over that lingering dread, the certainty that I shouldn’t have been the one who survived. But then I understood: God gave me a purpose.” He took a deep breath in before continuing. “He saw something in me I hadn’t seen yet. Not just the strength to keep going, but to bring awareness, to remember the ones who can’t tell their story.”

Applause erupted in the room, but Yonathan didn’t feel pride. It all felt distant, muffled, like it was happening behind a thick wall. He nodded politely, his hands resting on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously. Inside, he was still there in the dust, the screaming, and the silence that followed. This wasn’t about recognition. It was about honoring a promise. He caught his breath. In that applause, he didn’t hear praise. He heard voices, the ones he lost, saying, “Keep going.”

The sun was rising. The early light was soft, casting long shadows over tents and dancing figures. Yonathan stood in the sand. He was laughing, beer in hand, the glass going warm. He checked the time on his phone: 6:15 a.m..

He felt floaty, music thumping in the background, light-headed from the alcohol and euphoria of the night.

At 6:25 a.m. the music shifted, psychedelic now, almost dreamlike.

At 6:30, a siren rose sharply and unnaturally, breaking the subtle morning. It froze the air in Yonathan’s chest. This wasn’t just noise; it was a presence that crawled through his bones and made the unpaved ground feel unstable. Then came the rumble, distant at first, then louder.

Explosions tore through the air. He ran. Fire streaked across the sky as missiles split the dawn. Hundreds. The air shook. Gunfire followed, weaving into the chaos like a deadly storm. The air was filled with sand kicked up by frenzied feet. Yonathan’s lungs burned. Keep going.

At first, it could’ve been fireworks, but the pattern gave it away. His body knew before his brain did. This wasn’t their Defence Force fire, it was too wild. They were AK-47s, long, merciless bursts. That sound, the metallic crack-crack-crack lodges in your head and stays there. Keep going. Then came the screaming. Not just panic, the sound of people realizing there’s no way out. Lives unraveling in real time.

The night before the festival, Ben, Yonathan’s younger brother, was stealing bites before kiddush, the Friday night blessing to mark the entering of Shabbat. Their mom yelled at him playfully, while their father was already halfway into the wine. They were all crammed around the table. The food was good, warm, and familiar, the smell of roasted chicken and challah filled the house, it was like every other Shabbat dinner they’d ever had.

“I’m heading out early tomorrow,” said Yonathan, “going down to the desert, there’s a festival near Re’im.” His mother paused for a second. She didn’t say much, she just glanced at him with furrowed brows, she had a “worried but trying not to ruin the vibe” look on her face. “Just… be careful, okay?” Yonathan laughed it off, “It’s Nova, Ima, it’s chill. Music, dancing, nothing to worry about.”

“I should’ve listened,” he mumbled to himself. His voice barely made a sound, just a whisper carried by the dry, desert wind. Around him, other survivors walked in silence, the kind that felt like the aftermath of something unspeakable. Their feet dragged slowly through the sand, kicking up tiny puffs of dust. Every so often, someone would stumble or sit for a moment, too drained to keep going. Some cried openly, others dissociated, staring into nothingness. The sand felt different now. It wasn’t just dirt. It had seen too much. It was soaked in blood, in fear, in final moments, and now it clung to their skin like guilt.

Yonathan’s lips were cracked, his skin burned from the sun, but his mind was somewhere far from the heat. It was somewhere between the sound of gunfire and the shrill ringing that still echoed in his ears. His shoes were half-filled with grit, but he barely noticed. One girl nearby was clutching a cracked phone like it was a lifeline, her thumb swiping aimlessly over a shattered screen. A guy next to her kept muttering something about his friend, “He was right behind me, he was right there,” over and over like a broken record. Yonathan looked up. Nothing but desert ahead. They’d been walking for hours, hoping to reach the nearest city.

His mind flicked back to the dinner table, the clinking of wine glasses, the hum of old Shabbat songs his dad sang out of tune. His mother’s voice and the way he had laughed. He could still hear the echo of his own voice. “It’s Nova, Ima, it’s chill. Music, dancing, nothing to worry about.” The irony cut deeper than any bullet ever could.

Alone in his room days after the attack, Yonathan scrolled aimlessly, trying to feel something that didn’t hurt. Then he saw it. Almog’s name, still pinned on WhatsApp, unread. One voice message. His thumb hovered. Just one. He hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe he had, but blocked it out. His chest tightened. He couldn’t press play. Just seeing Almog’s name felt like a punch. They had been laughing a few nights ago, arguing about music. He didn’t even realize he was crying until tears blurred the screen.

“Why him?” That question looped endlessly. “We were both there. Same sand. Same sky. Same gunfire. Why did I get out and Almog didn’t?” Some nights, the guilt was a scream. Other nights, a whisper curling at the edge of stillness.

At Almog’s funeral, the sun wasn’t burning, it was just that uncomfortable Israeli heat that sticks to your skin. Yonathan wore sunglasses, not for the sun, but to avoid meeting eyes. Everyone was there, old army buddies, high school friends, even people he hadn’t seen in years. A reunion no one wanted.

Almog’s mom stood at the front. She wasn’t crying, she just looked hollow, like part of her had left with him. That silence hit harder than any scream.

Yonathan didn’t cry. Not because he didn’t want to. He just couldn’t. The shovel hit the dirt. Thud. Thud. Again. He felt nothing. Or maybe too much.

A month later, Yonathan went for a run. He put shoes on and stretched. Headphones in. Shuffle on. The first beat hit, electronic, deep bass, slow build. It took him right back to that sunrise. His legs locked, his chest tightening. He looked at his phone, hands shaking: 7:30 a.m..

Suddenly he was back in the desert. He saw the smoke, the trucks, he felt the sand stuck to his face. Screams echoed in his ears. His legs were trying not to collapse. His brain told him it wasn’t real. But his body didn’t care, he thought he was dying. Keep going.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Every time he closed his eyes, his body braced for an impact that wasn’t coming. When he finally drifted off, he woke drenched in sweat, heart racing. Like he was being chased. Like something was still chasing him. His body didn’t trust reality anymore. Even joy felt suspicious. Music became a trigger. He didn’t feel like Yonathan anymore.

It was Shabbat again. Same table, same smell of challah and roasted chicken, same old songs half-sung, half-laughed, but the air felt different, heavier in a way only he could feel. Ben couldn’t be there, he was deployed to fight for his country, since the war started. Roy, Yonathan’s other brother, snuck a bite before kiddush, their dad already sipping the wine, his mom pretending not to notice, but glancing at him now and then like she knew he wasn’t all there.

After dinner, Yonathan stepped out to the balcony, the city humming below, the sky soft with stars, and for the first time in weeks, he let the quiet in. He pulled out his phone and opened WhatsApp. Almog’s name was still pinned, still unread, that same voice message waiting like it always had. He stared at it for a long moment, then pressed play.

Almog’s voice filled the space, casual and alive, talking about nothing and everything: music, plans, laughing at some dumb inside joke; it felt like being punched and hugged at the same time. When the message ended, he didn’t cry, not this time. He stared at the message,, closed his phone, and looked out at the night. He still felt the weight, still heard the echoes, but something shifted, it wasn’t lighter, it was just… bearable.

Maybe survival wasn’t about feeling okay, maybe it was about carrying the memory forward, about choosing to live fully for those who couldn’t.

Keep going.