Oct. 7, 2023, started out like any other day. Hundreds of people danced outdoors at the Tribe of Nova trance music festival at Re’im in southern Israel. Their innocence was shattered at 6:29 a.m., when a Hamas attack murdered 411 people. Others were taken hostage. The conflict in Gaza persists, and so do the emotions.

But resilience lives on, too, through the international Nova Exhibition, showcased in South Boston’s F.W. Webb Building (307 Dorchester Ave.) through Oct. 21.

The immersive experience places the audience inside the attack and its aftermath—bathroom stalls rife with bullets, scorched cars, personal belongings of festival-goers who fled. But there’s also light in the darkness, with firsthand testimonies from survivors on-site and a healing room for reflection. The message, says co-organizer Ofir Amir, a survivor himself, is simple.

“We will dance again,” he says.

Amir, 42, was one of the co-founders of the original music festival and is now a creator of the exhibit. For Amir, his festival was about more than merely music. It celebrated togetherness and joy, a message that he hopes radiates to guests, despite the horrors.

“We created our [Nova] community to share values that we grew up with, that we cherish so much. One of them is respect and love, and for human beings to be kind to one another. The second value is love for nature and the open air,” Amir explains.

After COVID, Amir had aimed to create one of Israel’s biggest festivals, celebrating the ability to reunite after so long in isolation. To him, music and dance is a great equalizer, and the festival would be the ultimate celebration of community.

“At our festivals, we don’t have backstage or VIP tickets. We listen to the same music. It doesn’t matter what you believe in, where you come from; when we listen to the same music, we are all the same,” he says. “On Oct. 6, we accomplished that dream. We had people come from all over the world—from Germany, South Africa, Sweden. It was like a dream come true.”

Until Oct. 7, when it became a nightmare.

Amir recalls hearing rockets. Police rushed toward the DJs, warning people to evacuate.

“We just had to run for our lives,” he recalls.

Amir piled into a car, pulling others in as bullets flew, spraying the engine. The car couldn’t run. The group then hid in a field of orange trees. Amir, wounded, couldn’t move. His friend, lying next to him, was also paralyzed.

“I saw him take his last breath. The only thing that kept me going and gave me strength was my wife. She was home, nine months pregnant. I was talking to her every five minutes, telling her I didn’t get shot. I didn’t want her to worry, so I had to lie to her,” he recalls.

Four hours later, civilians rescued him; he was transported to a hospital and underwent surgery. Initially, he was afraid he’d lose his leg, but gradually he began to walk again—and to regain strength, and to realize how many friends were lost.

Amir later helped to open a healing center for survivors, which blossomed into The Tribe of Nova Foundation, caring for thousands of survivors and their families. They began to discuss the idea of opening an exhibit to memorialize the tragedy—and to demonstrate hope.

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The exhibit, now with tour dates around the world, is raw in its simplicity, a moment frozen in time before horror unfolded: a soda fridge with bullet holes, camping chairs, canopies. It is deliberately structured as a passage from light into darkness and into light again, a symbolic journey undergone by the survivors.

“The light at the beginning is a short movie, and it tells the story about this community, about their values. You can immediately relate to it, because you see these beautiful young people dancing and smiling,” he explains.

Next, visitors enter the darkness, watching GoPro and body cam footage of the attack. From there, visitors walk toward the abandoned encampment, frozen in time.

“It will look exactly how it was left when people were running away,” he says.

From there, survivors share testimonies on small screens—stories of hiding in bathrooms, behind toilets, clinging to refuge wherever it could be found.

A main stage area displays photos of the victims.

“This is one of the toughest areas, because when you walk through and look at these faces, you will see 23-year-olds; you will see 50-year-olds; so many beautiful young faces who are not here anymore,” he says.

Lastly, there is a bomb shelter. It was important for the organizers to recreate this shelter, to convey its scope and size for those who have never seen one, and hopefully never will.

“It’s very important for us that people will understand what a bomb shelter is, and the size of it. Fifty people were hiding inside of it—and it doesn’t have a door,” he says. There is no true safety.

Lastly, visitors enter the light again.

“This is one of the most important places for me. Everyone who walks through this exhibit will see the light, will see the story about the foundation, the story about this community, the story about this generation and young people stepping up, taking care of each other and creating a foundation to help others, believing in the light,” Amir says.

A delegation of survivors and bereaved family members are on hand every day as part of the programming, sharing personal testimonies.

“My vision was to make people feel, to identify,” says curator Reut Feingold. “When visitors walk among the dust-covered tents from the festival, the burnt cars, the bullet toilets, they can realize that this is not an exhibit … because they are not just watching. They are involved with their heart. They can smell, they can touch and they can immerse themselves. It’s not an exhibition. It’s the real thing.”

Amir expects visitors to spend an hour or two at the installation, which is designed for visitors ages 12 and up. Regardless of time spent, he says, the relics are so ordinary—it could be a music festival anytime, anywhere—that the message is universally clear.

“It’s not about taking sides, it’s not about politics, it’s not about religion. It’s about people who went to a music festival. They went there to celebrate life, to celebrate love and freedom. The dance floor is supposed to be the safest place on earth. You can be whoever you want to be,” he says.

Amir wants visitors to retain one message as they leave: “We will dance again. This is a promise. It is something that we live by,” he says.

Proceeds from the exhibition benefit The Tribe of Nova Foundation, which cares for roughly 3,500 survivors and 2,500 bereaved families. The initiative aims to save lives, help heal and empower the community, prevent suicides and create a community-based outlet for all attendees through financial aid, social integration and mental and occupational therapies for the survivors and their families. In addition, The Tribe of Nova Foundation provides survivors with weekly therapy meetups, healing concerts and memorial events for lives lost.

To help ensure that our Greater Boston community never forgets the atrocities of Oct. 7, CJP brought the Nova Exhibition to Boston. Book your visit at novaexhibition.com.