A Reflection at the Site of the October 7 Massacre

Teresa Pirola | October 7, 2025

The first detail I notice is the bullet holes. They disfigure everything in sight — walls, ceiling, floor, furniture — telling the story of a murderous frenzy.

It is May 2025, and I am standing among the remains of a home at Kfar Aza, one of the small farming communities (kibbutzim) on Israel’s side of the border with the Gaza strip. It was here, on the morning of October 7, 2023 that hundreds of Hamas terrorists breached the gates to murder, rape and terrorize. Of the 850 members of this kibbutz, 64 residents perished. Whole families were slaughtered, while 19 people were taken hostage.

Eerily, mundane realities still make their presence felt: cups, fridge magnets, laundry basket, garden tools. Trashed, burnt and dirt-laden, the small domestic items that survived the carnage now bear silent witness: this had been somebody’s home.  It is the cruelest of ironies that a person’s life here was destroyed, yet his coffee mug remains intact.

A further incongruous detail catches my eye: the tranquil view framed by the living room window. Moving closer to the windowpane I look out upon green trees swaying lazily in the warmth of the sun beneath a clear blue sky. Stepping back from the window, my view takes in utter destruction and chaos. The contrast could not be starker.

Contradiction and incongruity are constant companions on my visit to Kfar Aza. With its modest village-like simplicity, environmental beauty and close familial ties, life on the kibbutz was readily described by its members as “paradise”. Yet, within a few short hours on October 7, it had become hell on earth. Those living in communities like Kfar Aza have long been known for their advocacy of intercultural coexistence, dubbed the “peaceniks” of Israeli society. Even while enduring 18 years of recurrent rocket fire by Hamas from across the border, they never relinquished their aspirations for peace. They welcomed Gazan workers onto their properties, advocated for Palestinian rights, transported Gazan children to Israeli hospitals, and provided other meaningful expressions of support. Their dreams of harmony were shattered in the horrific assault of October 7.

At the site of the Nova Music Festival massacre, further scenes of incongruity await us. Smiling faces of Israeli youth leap out from photographic memorials at the place of their deaths, where mass murder was accompanied by other unspeakable atrocities. Joining other visitors, I wander among the portraits of the victims. The atmosphere is quiet, the natural surrounds are gentle, and the sense I have is of walking through a labyrinth of prayerful remembrance.

Suddenly, without warning, a deep, resonant “boom” of artillery fire breaks the peace. It seems unnervingly close and even our guide is momentarily startled. We are, after all, just a few kilometers from the Gaza border, beyond which hostages taken by Hamas two years ago are still being held and a war claiming tens of thousands of lives still rages. This, too, is part of the grief being processed in this place.

My gaze turns to the landscape adjacent to the Nova site. I find myself wondering where on earth these young people could have found shelter as they ran to escape white pickup trucks carrying armed terrorists with lethal weapons. I think of the desperate text messages sent home, at first pleading for help, then succumbing to final goodbyes. I ponder, too, the heroism of those who risked - and lost - their own lives to save others.

Standing in these places, a surreal aspect for me is the sense of having already been here. Not physically, but virtually, and perhaps spiritually too. Having followed the unfolding catastrophe since October 7, each scene is strangely familiar. I have seen a great deal of Hamas video footage and read official reports. I have listened to the stories of survivors, first responders, returned hostages, grieving relatives and long since joined my own grief and prayers with theirs. Nothing here is a total surprise. The difference, of course, is the immediacy of presence. I am seeing and hearing not through a computer screen or zoom link up, but in person.

As a rebuttal to those who would deny, downplay or even excuse the crimes of Hamas on October 7, I am an eye-witness to the lives of courageous, albeit traumatised, Israelis: mourning their dead, healing their wounded, rebuilding their lives, advocating for the hostages, worried sick about sons and daughters called up for military service, horrified at the destruction of Gaza, debating fraught political issues, besieged by a global outpouring of antisemitic hate, and, in the case of the residents of Kfar Aza, left in bewildered confusion as to whether their own aspirations for peace were ever those of their neighbours.

We mark anniversary dates for good reasons. Whatever our views on war and geopolitics, may we never forget the victims and survivors of October 7.

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Dr Teresa Pirola is a Sydney-based writer, faith educator and author of October 7: A Response to the 2023 Massacre in Israel and Surging Antisemitism in Australia (The Story Source, 2023) and Catholic-Jewish Relations: Twelve Key Themes for Teaching and Preaching (Paulist Press, 2023).

Photos by T. Pirola, May 2025. Destroyed home on kibbutz Kfar Aza; Window view - serene natural scenery outside, destruction within; Memorials at site of Nova Festival massacre.

Ways you can help: Contribute to the rebuilding of Kfar Aza here. Make a prayer pledge for the remaining hostages here.