the story of Bar

On the night of October 6th, I was dancing under the stars at the Nova Festival.
Music, friends, freedom.
It felt like the safest place on earth.

At 6:29 AM, my world flipped.

Missiles.
Screams.
Panic.

We ran. I dropped my phone.
I didn’t know where my friends were.
I didn’t know where I was.

And then —
A stranger pulled me into his car.
He screamed: “Get in! Now!”

I hesitated for half a second.
He didn’t.

He hit the gas.
Bullets hit the road behind us.

We drove for what felt like hours in silence.
Covered in dust. Covered in fear.
Alive.

I found out later that almost everyone I arrived with didn’t make it.

I think about that moment every single day.

Why did I survive?
Why was there room in that car?
Why me?

They say it was luck.
But it feels heavier than that.
It feels like responsibility.

To live better.
To love deeper.
To speak louder.

So I’m telling this story, not because I want sympathy —
But because I owe it to those who didn’t come back.

Their names.
Their laughter.
Their dreams.

They’re with me.

Always.

—David Shlomo
7.10 Survivor

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