An October 7 hero: The story of Nova music festival's Janusz Korczak

Yahoo

2 days ago

From his perch amplifying the trance music on October 7, Matan Lior took charge and saved dozens of lives.
With his lion's mane of hair, engaging personality, and imposing presence, everyone knew Matan Lior at the desert raves and music festivals that have proliferated in Israeli culture over the past two decades.
The 35-year-old former soldier in the Sayeret Golani owned Sound Fanatic, the company he named to describe himself. He was as serious about amplifying the hypnotizing trance music that filled the air like thunder as he was intent on having as much fun as his fellow partyers.
By day, he was a brain research student at Ariel University, studying the effects of psychedelic mushrooms on trauma and PTSD. On weekends, he and his workers would provide the sound for festivals throughout the country. Lior would precariously climb scaffolding to check that each speaker was optimally placed for the most striking sonic effect, and greet the gyrating dancers like they were members of his extended family – which they were.
On October 3, 2023, he arrived at the Kibbutz Re'im campsite near Sderot along with his staff of a dozen workers to set up the sound system for the Supernova festival, set to take place on October 6 and 7 over Simchat Torah.
Following is the chilling story that took place over those next fateful days, told in the words of his parents, Opher and Sara'le, who raised Matan and his sister, Hila, in Sde Hemed, near Kfar Saba.
Since October 7, Opher and Sara'le have told Matan's story to dozens of groups at the site of the festival, in front of a giant display featuring photos of their son and an explanation of the heroics that took place on October 7, which they gathered from piecing together 19 months' worth of eyewitness reports from those who had attended the festival.
Opher called Matan 'Matana,' but I called him 'Tarzan.' His friends called him 'Matan Yanoush Korczak' for always putting others before himself [after the renowned educator who, as a principal of an orphanage in Warsaw, refused to abandon the children to the Nazis].
He had an extraordinary gift to give of himself, and he knew everyone. I didn't realize just how many people knew him until later.
Matan wore two hats. He loved music and loved feeling it physically. But he also did very interesting research at Ariel University on the brain and music. On weekdays, he would put his hair in a bun and work and study with professors. But then he would let his hair down, and his life became music. He loved action
He would place his speakers – special ones he brought in from Sweden and London – up high in trees. He could talk about sound for hours. He told me that the special speakers created other-worldly sounds – like gusts of wind. I never understood what he was talking about, but I could see how passionate he was about it.
The night after Yom Kippur, he visited us in our home [in Sde Hemed] and said, 'You guys are getting old; I'll put up your sukkah.'
I told him that he had to come during Sukkot, but he said he was so busy because he had to get ready for the Nova. But he surprised us and showed up exhausted. He came, and we put on trance music in the sukkah, and he danced with his niece.
I don't know how we got on the subject, but we started talking about the sukkah and the transience of life and death.
Our daughter said that if she died suddenly, she would want us to mourn and cry, cry, cry.
I said that when I die, you can do what you want, just don't put on trance music.
But Matan said, 'I don't want you to mourn my death, I want you to celebrate my life.'
Matan left our sukkah to set up the festival sound at the Nova. After having been at the site for five days, on October 7, at 6:27 a.m., Matan was standing on top of his Range Rover and surveying the scene at the Nova. He had just spent the last hour photographing his speakers, his workers, the sunrise.
At 6:29 a.m., he suddenly saw rockets overhead – not just one or two, but an enormous amount. He understood immediately that something extraordinary was happening – it wasn't a 'normal' terror attack.
Matan stopped the music and ran onto the stage and began to yell into the microphone for everyone to leave immediately.
'Everyone, please leave at the emergency gates,' he kept shouting. He yelled until he lost his voice. At first, not many people understood or took action, but so many people knew Matan from past events because of his hair and personality, they began to understand that something was wrong, and because of him they started to run.
He directed dozens of people to head across Road 232 toward Nahal Grar, which leads to the community of Patish. All of those who got there were saved.
He forced his girlfriend into a car, and she begged him to come with her, but he said, 'No, I have things to do here.'
Then the pickup trucks with the terrorists began to arrive at the entrance.
After the missiles, we were in the area for about an hour. And then the massive gunfire began. Matan yelled my name, and he grabbed me by the hand and started running – and he could run fast. I had no idea where we were going.
We headed toward the road. e pushed me into a car and said, 'Zohar, I love you.' It was like a Hollywood film in which you realize the gates of hell had opened.
We knew that Matan was at Re'im, and when we began hearing about the attack there, we kept calling him and trying to get in touch with him.
He began organizing as many people as he could because so many were freezing from fear due to the bullets and the rockets. It was chaos. He was putting people in cars, and he ran groups of people to Nahal Grar and ran back a number of times.
Then Matan got shot in the back. He was down for a few minutes, then got up and got his bearings. He was a stubborn sort.
Someone put a towel over his wound. He continued what he was doing, herding people into cars, leading people to Nahal Grar, all of this under fire.
Saving, saving , saving – that's what he did. Back and forth. Bringing people to cars, taking people from cars.
Moshe was a social worker who, together with a group of other health professionals, was part of Anashim Tovim. They go to all the festivals and help attendees who have bad trips or need psychological assistance. Matan has known him for 15 years.
Moshe was driving his car, and Matan stopped him and said, 'Moshe, we have to fit 15 people in you car,' and he began loading them in, even as Moshe said it was impossible.
At the last second, Matan squeezed into the trunk, and Moshe took off. The terrorists began to shoot at the car, and Moshe yelled for everyone to get out and run; otherwise, he knew that everyone would be killed. Everyone ran in different directions, and the terrorists were shooting at them like sitting ducks.
On the morning of October 7, as we were home, glued to the news, a group of Matan's friends – all from elite combat units – came to our house. They said, 'We want to go with you to Re'im and bring Matan home.'
I was a career [lieutenant-colonel] officer, responsible for security in all of the communities. I had retired 12 years before, but I knew the area like the back of my hand.
I told them, 'Listen, the whole region is a closed military area; there's no chance we could get in. The area is full of terrorists, and the last thing I want to do is bring one of you home in a casket.'
Then they said two things to me that convinced me. They said, 'Matan would have been the first one to come rescue us if we were there. He would already be there.' Then they said, 'We're going to go, with or without you.'
I asked myself, from a moral point of view, how could I let them risk their lives for my son, and I stay home in safety?
I agreed to go, and we got organized, got out our army uniforms and boots. My one condition was that everyone going with us had to have a handgun in his possession.
I have to admit that I didn't understand the scope of what had happened until we started getting closer to the site. We drove south and we began seeing the shot-up cars, the bodies in the road, and all of us began to understand the magnitude of what had happened and was still taking place.
We passed army checkpoints easily – and when we got to Re'im, the army was in staging areas. My only fear since we were not there officially was that we would be caught in friendly fire or be mistaken for terrorists masquerading in IDF uniforms.
I saw unspeakable sights, with bodies and blood everywhere, but we focused on the task at hand. We huddled and went over general guidelines of why we were there and what our mission was. We tried to put ourselves in Matan's mind, what he would have done, where he might be hiding.
Matan was in Sayeret Golani, he was experienced, and I really believed that he was alive and we were going to find him.
One of the first things I did was to take a photo of Matan and show it to the ZAKA people who were already there and collecting bodies and body parts. 'Is there any chance you collected this person?' They answered no, that they recognized everyone that they had picked up, and he wasn't familiar.
I took that as a positive sign that he must be alive.
I got a message that there were some unidentified bodies at Soroka Hospital, so I left half of our makeshift unit at the site and went with the others to Soroka. There, too, I saw sights nobody should ever see, but no Matan.
We returned to the Nova and continued searching. We were there for five days. We brought in dogs from Oketz that had been retired from the service, along with their handlers. We brought in drones. We were more efficient than the army – bringing both of those in before they did.
Moshe ran to a field and hid behind a tree. After an hour and a half, he decided to try to return to his abandoned car.
On the way, he saw the bodies of three social workers he had been with, naked and hanging from a tree. Then he got to the car and saw Matan – lifeless – in the open trunk. He cried, 'Matan, I love you,' and he started running.
On Thursday afternoon, more than five days after the attack, we received a message from someone who said he had been with Matan in a car.
'Listen, my boss forbade me to say anything because I'm not an official source, but Matan was with me in the car, and I'm sorry but he's not alive.'
I sent two of Matan's friends, whom I trusted, to question him and make sure he was reliable. They returned, and pne said, 'Opher, he knew Matan, and he was telling the truth. I asked him a simple question: 'Did you signs of blood?' He said, 'I don't remember.''
So, from my perspective, if there were no signs of blood, then it left the window open that Matan was still alive. So I kept searching. That night, a representative from the local council told me that the medical staff had found DNA that matched Matan's DNA.
He was gone.
This is what happened that day, and nobody can ever say that this isn't what happened.
Opher and I are still, to this day, fitting the pieces together about what happened, as more survivors come forward to tell us what they saw. It's very difficult for some of them - they're not capable of talking about what happened and what they saw.
But so many survivors have gotten in touch with us and told us similar stories – how Matan saved their lives.
I was here while terrorists were still here…. For five days, looking for Matan. The earth here is sacred.
There's not a centimeter of land that wasn't drenched with blood. Nearly 400 people who came to dance to music were murdered, and Matan was one of them.
We're very proud of Matan's decisions and how he helped people. But I'd be very happy if he was here today with us.
We lost the most precious thing to us, but as a people we can't be broken. We can't let these monsters break us. Our answer is to rebuild. We drove past Kibbutz Be'eri and saw a new section being built. That's our victory. We're staying here, building our country.
Today, a friend of Matan's sent me a photo of him dancing and happy. He was a happy person and lived a good life. What's left is for us to tell his story and the story of what happened at the Nova.
We're telling that story around the world. We're going to Toronto, we've been in New York and Washington talking before audiences who want to know what happened.
It strengthens us to talk about Matan, and it strengthens people to hear his story. Because of what Matan said that night in the sukkah less than a week before his death, Opher and I have chosen life.
Zohar Ma'aravi's and Michal Margolin's testimonies were taken from a film on Matan Lior's life ■