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Yovel Sharvit-Trabelsi and Mor Trabelsi were married on September 7—exactly one month before the Nova music festival. They drove there with another couple and arrived at 6:13 a.m., just minutes before the party turned into a nightmare.
“I was in line for the bathroom when I suddenly saw flashes in the sky,” Yovel recalls. “I ran back to Mor, the music stopped—and then the chaos began.”
Mor tried to get them out of the area quickly. They drove along Route 232, past Kibbutz Kfar Aza—when terrorists ambushed them. Their car flipped. “He looked me in the eyes one last time, said ‘Shema Yisrael,’ and stepped on the gas,” Yovel recounts the moment she realized the worst had happened. “He was on top of me, and at first I didn’t understand. I tried to move him, thought maybe he had just passed out. Only when my hand was covered in blood did I realize—he was gone. I held his hands, kissed him, and asked for forgiveness.”
Yovel remained in the overturned car with their friends, Shir and Shahar. For four hours, they hid there. Terrorists passed nearby, and they played dead, smearing Mor’s blood on themselves. “We saw rape. We heard screams. I was paralyzed, inside and out. I lost my soul there,” she says.
After being rescued, Yovel didn’t eat for two weeks. She was hospitalized with stomach bleeding and suffered anxiety attacks. “I didn’t want to live anymore. He died, so as far as I was concerned, I didn’t deserve to live either.”
“Every day I cry. Every day I talk to him. He hears me. Even now, during this conversation, a white butterfly just passed by. He heard I was talking about him, so he came,” says Yovel, who is trying to stand back up after the devastation. “I’m alive, so I’ll keep going. I’ll become a fashion designer, just like I planned. For him. He registered me for school himself—I won’t miss it.”
“We were together for five and a half years. He was the love of my life. Mor was the kind of person everyone says was born in the wrong era—he had old-school values. He had the utmost respect for his parents, was humble, generous, full of compassion. He had a nurturing nature, a perfect smile, and an energy everyone wanted around them. As a partner, he was supportive, attentive, and always pushing me to follow my dreams. He gave his life so I could be here. I want everyone to know that, to remember him.”
"She ran, and didn’t come back"
Yovel came back alone—and she’s not the only one. Nati Ganon also went to the Nova festival with his wife Shiran, and lost her there, in what was supposed to be a celebration of music and love.
They arrived around 3:00 a.m. with another couple. Nati hadn’t planned to go, but Shiran wanted to. They left the kids at home. “There were announcements over the loudspeakers telling people to clear the dance floor,” Nati recalls. “We tried to leave, but there was a huge traffic jam, so we turned back into the festival grounds and got stuck in the sand. Completely stuck.”
In a panic, they left the car and started running on foot, holding hands.
At one point, they got into a van with strangers who had opened the door for them—but while driving, terrorists opened fire. Shiran was shot in the leg. Nati tried to stop the bleeding with his hoodie, and they left the van and kept running.
“After a few steps, I was shot in the leg, then in the back. I played dead. I shouted to Shiran to run—and she ran. But she didn’t come back.”
Shiran, his wife of 18 years, was murdered. Her body was recovered only days later. Nati miraculously survived.
“The kids ask questions. They miss her. There’s no substitute for a mother. But I have to be strong for them,” Nati says, speaking about a daily routine that has changed completely—and about his fears for the future. “Meals, sandwiches, emotional support—kids need stability first and foremost. I go to say goodnight to my youngest daughter, and suddenly she’s quiet and sad, clearly deep in thought. At her bat mitzvah, her mom wasn’t there. When my son enlists in the army, his mother won’t be there either.”
Today, Nati is remarried. “It’s not a competition in love. The heart has room for both,” he says. “Shiran was an amazing friend, a wonderful mother, the perfect woman. She ran our home like a pro. She helped me with everything. What happened on October 7 will never end. She will forever be in our hearts. Every step I take is for our kids—and every battle is with her in mind.”
"I couldn’t say the words: ‘She’s dead’"
Izabella and Nadav Yehuda had just returned from the Maldives. After five years together, they had a civil wedding abroad and were preparing for a celebration back home with friends and family. The dress, invitations, rings—everything was ready. The wedding was set for October 26.
They arrived at Nova with another couple. When the rocket sirens started, they fled and took shelter in a roadside bomb shelter near Kibbutz Alumim. Izabella stepped out to call for Nadav, who was outside—and then the terrorists arrived.
“Within seconds, there was gunfire, grenades, terrorists everywhere,” Nadav recalls. “Izabella came out to call me and was hit—grenade injuries to her leg and arm, then a bullet to the stomach.”
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“They murdered two women—later I saw it on video. One of the terrorists stood right in front of me. I tried to run and was shot at. I ran into the bushes. I heard a couple begging for their lives, and then they were shot. I heard the terrorists talking about me—looking for me.”
Nadav tried to return to the shelter, but every time he was stopped. He was told he would be killed if he went back. So he hid for hours—until the army arrived.
Izabella’s body was found two days later.
“I went to every hospital, every ER—just to see her. I couldn’t say the words: ‘She’s dead,’” he says. “I couldn’t even cancel the wedding myself. My brothers did it for me.”
He still lives in the home they shared. “Her things are all still there—her clothes, shoes, perfumes, her bag. I don’t touch anything. I can’t move anything. I miss her everywhere—every holiday, every Friday, every morning, every breath.”
Today, Nadav is studying engineering and trying to maintain a routine. “I don’t want people to pity me. Sometimes in the middle of class, I cry—and then a minute later I’m back like nothing happened. I try to act normal around others, but fall apart when I’m alone,” he says.
He still carries the trauma with him every day. “I just want to go back to the day before. Take everything from me—just let me go back and change the ending.”
“Izabella was the kind of person you could feel the moment she walked into a room,” he adds. “Smiling, laughing, always bringing good energy. Her phone’s lock screen said, ‘Good vibes only.’ She was responsible, organized—I saw her in my life forever. Everyone loved her. She always wanted people to feel good. She wasn’t an ordinary person. I just want people to remember her.”