When we bear witness, we have the honor of standing with those who are suffering and sharing just a fraction of their pain.
‘I want you to remember one name. When you remember that one name you are giving life back to them,” our guide said as I stood in Yad Vashem’s Hall of Names, memorializing those murdered during the Holocaust.
I lifted my eyes to the black-and-white photos hanging above me. A woman with vintage pearls around her neck stared back at me. A young boy with big brown eyes looked down at me.
Each of the people in these photos was one of the six million Jews lost in the Holocaust. Their lives were taken in the darkest of circ*mstances, but for one moment, looking at these photos, I was invited to remember who these people were in life. I was invited to consider who they had been when still untouched by tragedy. The books were filled with names, facts, and historical records, surrounding these photos, of the six million killed. I am reminded that each person murdered had friends, family, hopes, and dreams.
My time at Yad Vashem began with several days of considering what it looks like to bear witness. While in Israel, I was accompanied by 50 other young Christian adults, many who were traveling to Israel for the first time with Passages, an organization that takes Christian youth to Israel. During our 10 days in the land, we learned about recent history from soldiers who had defended Israel’s South on October 7; heard a Supernova survivor describe his experience while we were at Re’im; and visited Kibbutz Kfar Aza, a community to which Passages had previously taken students before October 7, with the goal of learning about life along the Gaza border.
In experiencing all these things, we pondered what it looked like for American Christians to not only have these experiences but also to bear witness and use our voices to advocate for Israel and bring awareness to what occurred on October 7. We considered how the weight of bearing witness compels us to take action.
Just a day after visiting Yad Vashem, I was standing in Re’im with my group, at the site of the Supernova festival. On October 6, 2023, 3,000 people came to the overnight music festival to dance, party, and celebrate love and peace. A festival that was meant to be a fun celebration now stands as a reminder of the horrors of October 7.
Nearly 400 people took their last breaths on that field. Forty were kidnapped by Hamas terrorists into Gaza.
The site of the Nova Music Festival
Today, photos of those murdered on October 7 scatter the site of the festival. Many photos were placed in the very same spot where the dancers took their final breath. Each photo stands at eye level. Candles, stones, and sculpted red poppy flowers symbolizing young lives taken too soon are clustered at the base of the metal poles holding each photo.
Walking through the memorial, I stopped to look at a photo of Katerina Tavgen, a 26-year-old animal lover and seeing-eye dog trainer murdered at the festival. A set of car keys is pinned to the photo memorializing her. A painful reminder of life brutally ended.
Walking a little further, I see the photos of Yehonatan Eliyahu and Alini Plahti, a couple in their early 20s who were murdered at the festival. The poles holding their photos are bound together by an Israeli flag.
Much like my experience at Yad Vashem, staring into their eyes I got a glimpse of who these people were before their lives were tragically stolen. I felt invited to consider not only the horrific circ*mstances of their death but also who they were in life.
I once heard that Israel is the land of a thousand stories. Israel’s history is filled with stories of strength, bravery, joy, and perseverance. Since October 7, there are also a thousand stories of unimaginable pain.
During my time in Israel, I had the privilege of bearing witness to some of these stories; looking into the eyes of Supernova survivors as they shared their pain; hearing from soldiers who laid their lives on the line to rescue hostages; seeing the bullet holes in the living rooms of Kfar Aza; to see hostages’ families holding photos of their kidnapped children and fighting for their return.
The responsibility of bearing witness is not easy.
But as I stood outside the home where Ofir Shoshani was brutally murdered in Kfar Aza, I was reminded that Ofir and 1,199 other people murdered on October 7 will never be able to share their story.
As I stood Re’im, I was reminded that 364 innocent civilians who came to dance for love and peace will never be able to share their dreams for the future again. And as I stood in Hostages Square in front of a mural of Liri Albag, Karina Ariev, Agam Berger, and Daniella Gilboa, the five youngest female hostages, I was reminded that they cannot raise their voices against the unspeakable horrors they are currently experiencing in prolonged captivity.
Ofir will never share her story, but we can. Katerina Tavgen, Yehonatan Eliyahu, Alina Pahlti, and hundreds of other Supernova victims will never share their story, but we can. The 120 hostages held in Gaza cannot raise their voices, but we can be a voice for them until they return home.
When we bear witness, we have the honor of standing with those who are suffering and sharing just a fraction of their pain. Bearing witness comes with the burden of understanding and action; the burden of speaking up and raising awareness, and the burden of, once again, saying “Never Again.”
Visiting Israel during this time and bearing witness has been the greatest honor of my life. It has been a privilege to bear witness to just a few of these stories. I have witnessed unimaginable suffering but also unimaginable strength.
The writer works on staff at Passages. She recently helped lead a delegation of Christian students who traveled to Israel to volunteer and bear witness to the impact of October 7.
