The acrid smoke still lingers over Poleg Beach, a thin veil clinging to the dunes like a shroud that refuses to lift. On the evening of October 10, 2025—just three days after the second anniversary of the bloodiest day in Israel’s modern history—firefighters extinguished a blaze that revealed a horror no one saw coming. Inside the charred husk of a white Hyundai sat the remains of Roei Shalev, 29, a man whose survival of the October 7, 2023, Nova music festival massacre had become a testament to human endurance. But endurance, it turned out, had limits. Roei, who shielded his girlfriend Mapal Adam from Hamas gunfire only to watch her die in his arms, had scrawled his final words hours earlier on Instagram: “I can’t bear this pain anymore. Everything inside me is dead. Please don’t be angry with me.” Those words, a raw plea for forgiveness amid unimaginable grief, have ignited a national reckoning. As Israel teeters on the edge of fragile ceasefires and hostage releases, Roei’s death underscores a quieter war: the invisible battle for souls scarred by terror.

This is not just one man’s tragedy; it’s the fracture line of a nation. Roei wasn’t a soldier on the front lines but a baker, a dancer, a lover—ordinary threads in the vibrant tapestry of Israeli youth, unraveled by rocket fire and automatic weapons at a festival meant for unity and release. His story, pieced together from family interviews, survivor testimonies, and haunting social media posts, reveals the depths of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) ravaging Nova’s survivors. Over 360 were slaughtered that dawn near Kibbutz Re’im, in the Negev desert—a site of sunflowers and psychedelics turned slaughterhouse. Dozens more, like Roei, carried on, only to succumb to the ghosts within. As the Nova Tribe community mourns, “Roei was our pillar,” they posted on Instagram. “His light, though dimmed, will guide us toward healing.” But healing feels distant when the pain echoes like bass from a forgotten sound system.

Roei Shalev and Mapal Adam, captured in a moment of joy just months before the Nova massacre that would tear them apart forever.

Dawn of Dreams: A Festival Born in Peace

October 6, 2023, shimmered with promise under the desert sun. The Supernova Sukkot Gathering—affectionately called Nova—was no ordinary rave. Organized by the Psytrance Tribe, it sprawled across 1,000 acres near the Gaza border, a psychedelic oasis celebrating the Jewish holiday of Sukkot with thumping electronic beats, art installations, and free-spirited souls from across Israel. Sunflowers bobbed in the breeze, tents dotted the sands like colorful mushrooms, and attendees—over 3,500 strong—danced in flowing whites, feathers, and face paint, chasing transcendence amid the Negev’s ancient whispers.

Roei Shalev, a lanky 27-year-old with a shaved head, mischievous grin, and tattooed arms, embodied the festival’s ethos. Born and raised in Netanya, a coastal city north of Tel Aviv, Roei grew up kneading dough in his family’s modest bakery, “Shalev’s Sweets,” where the air always smelled of fresh challah and cinnamon rugelach. He wasn’t one for the spotlight—preferring the quiet rhythm of ovens and early mornings—but music pulled him like a tide. Psytrance, with its hypnotic loops and euphoric drops, became his escape. “Dancing was Roei’s therapy,” his sister, Liora Shalev, told me over coffee in a Netanya cafe last week, her voice catching. “He’d lose himself in the crowd, come back glowing.”

That glow intensified when he met Mapal Adam six months earlier. At 25, Mapal was a force: olive-skinned, with cascading brown waves, piercing green eyes, and a laugh that turned heads. A graphic designer from Ra’anana, she shared Roei’s love for art and adventure—her Instagram a mosaic of sketches, beach sunsets, and spontaneous road trips. They bonded over falafel runs and late-night talks about building a life together: a home with a garden studio, trips to Goa for real psytrance roots, maybe kids someday. “She was his anchor,” Liora said. “Roei called her ‘Motek’—sweetheart—in that teasing way, but he meant it deeper than anyone knew.”

On October 5, they packed a tent, glow sticks, and a cooler of beer, driving south with their close friend Hili Solomon, 28, a bubbly yoga instructor who’d known Roei since childhood. Hili, with her wild curls and infectious energy, rounded out their trio—the unbreakable knot. “We were celebrating life,” Roei later recounted in a 2024 YouTube interview, his voice steady but eyes distant. They arrived as dusk fell, the air electric with bass and the scent of patchouli. Under a canopy of stars, they danced till midnight, bodies swaying to sets by DJs like Astral Projection. Mapal texted her sister Maayan, a popular TV presenter: “This is magic. Love you.” Roei pulled her close during a slow build, whispering dreams into her ear. It was the last unshadowed moment.

Inferno at Sunrise: The Massacre Unfolds

At 6:30 a.m. on October 7, as the first light kissed the horizon, hell descended. Hamas militants, over 1,000 strong, breached the Gaza border in paragliders, trucks, and on foot, their rockets arcing like fiery comets. Sirens wailed, but at Nova—five kilometers from the fence—confusion reigned. “We thought it was part of the show,” survivor Natalie Sanandaji recalled in an SBS interview, her voice hollow. Gunfire crackled like fireworks gone wrong. Festivalgoers scattered: some toward the road, others into bomb shelters that became traps.

Roei, Mapal, and Hili bolted for Roei’s car, but militants swarmed the lot, spraying bullets. They dove under a nearby truck, hearts pounding against the chassis. “Hold on to me,” Roei urged, wrapping Mapal in his arms, Hili pressed beside them. The air filled with screams—loved ones calling names, tires screeching, AK-47 bursts. Mapal’s phone buzzed frantically; she texted Maayan: “Rockets. Gunmen everywhere. We’re hiding. I love you. Send help.” Maayan, miles away in Tel Aviv, replied desperately: “Stay down. IDF is coming. You’re strong, baby sister.”

They weren’t alone under that truck. Bodies piled atop them—shot, bleeding, dying. Hours blurred into a crimson haze. Roei felt a bullet graze his back, another nick his knee; warm blood—his, Mapal’s, strangers’—soaked his shirt. “I told her to breathe slow, that we’d make it,” he shared in that 2024 video, fists clenched. “She whispered she was scared, but she smiled—for me.” Hili prayed softly, clutching a necklace. By 9 a.m., militants prowled, kicking corpses, laughing in Arabic. One paused, rifle raised. Roei froze, breath shallow, as the barrel hovered inches from Mapal’s head.

The shot rang out at 10:15 a.m. Mapal slumped, lifeless, her blood flooding Roei’s lap. Hili next—point-blank, gone in a gasp. Roei bit his tongue to silence a scream, playing dead amid the carnage. For seven agonizing hours, he lay there, the sun baking the sand, vultures circling overhead. Flies buzzed over open wounds; distant explosions shook the earth. “I smelled death—metallic, like burnt copper,” he told therapists later, per family accounts. “Her hand was still warm when they dragged the bodies away.”

Rescue came at 1:30 p.m., when IDF forces finally arrived. Roei staggered out, a ghost covered in gore, collapsing into a soldier’s arms. “Mapal… Hili…” he rasped, before blacking out. He woke in Soroka Medical Center, bandaged and broken, as news helicopters buzzed outside. Mapal’s body was recovered that evening; Hili’s the next day. The festival site? A charnel house: 378 dead, including children as young as 16, bodies mutilated, cars torched. Roei, one of 44 survivors from under that truck alone, had lived—while the loves of his life had not.

A haunting collage: Roei Shalev bloodied after the attack (left), with Mapal at their renamed Mapal Cafe (right), and a joyful embrace that now aches with loss.

Shattered Foundations: Grief’s Relentless Tide

The weeks that followed were a descent into abyss. Roei returned to Netanya a hollow shell, his family’s bakery a mocking reminder of normalcy. He couldn’t knead dough without flashbacks—flour turning to sand, ovens to gunfire. Nightmares replayed the shots: Mapal’s final breath, Hili’s limp hand. PTSD gripped him like barbed wire: hypervigilance that made doorbells sound like rockets, insomnia that left him pacing till dawn. “He’d stare at her photos for hours,” Liora recalled, tears welling. “Whispering apologies, like he could’ve shielded her better.”

Compounding the agony: his mother, Miriam Shalev, 58, a widow who’d baked alongside Roei since his teens. The news of Mapal and Hili shattered her. “She blamed herself—for not warning him, for letting him go,” Liora said. On October 21, 2023—just two weeks after—Miriam ingested pills in the bakery’s back room, leaving a note: “I can’t live without my boy whole.” Roei found her, the double blow fracturing what remained of his world. “He buried his mother beside the girl he planned to marry,” his father, Eli, told Haaretz. At her funeral, Roei stood mute, rain mingling with tears on his face.

Therapy began sporadically—state-funded sessions overwhelmed by demand. Nova survivors, dubbed “the tribe,” formed support circles: bonfires where stories spilled like libations. Roei joined reluctantly, his first share a whisper: “I hear her laugh in the wind.” The Tribe of Nova Foundation, born from the ashes, became his lifeline—offering counseling, art therapy, even “dance rituals” to reclaim joy. “We dance for those who can’t,” Roei posted in June 2024, a video of him twirling under stars, Mapal’s scarf tied to his wrist.

Yet resolve flickered. In early 2024, Roei rebranded the bakery “Mapal Cafe,” its walls adorned with her sketches—lilies, lovers’ silhouettes, festival flyers. Pastries bore her name: “Mapal’s Magic Rugelach,” flaky twists of cinnamon and almond. It became a hub: survivors sipping coffee, sharing scars. “Every customer was a hug,” Eli said. Roei organized memorials—sunflower plantings at Re’im, psytrance nights with proceeds to PTSD funds. At the first anniversary, October 7, 2024, he spoke at the site: “We came for peace. They brought war. But we’ll rise—with her spirit in our steps.” Crowds cheered; Roei smiled, but his eyes—haunted hollows—betrayed the toll.

The second year cracked deeper. Ceasefire talks dragged, hostages languished, protests raged. Roei’s feeds filled with survivor suicides: Shirel Golan, 22, on her birthday in October 2024; estimates of 50 Nova lives lost to despair. “The state forgot us,” he vented in a July 2025 podcast. Waitlists for therapy stretched months; subsidies dried up. Roei self-medicated—nights lost to whiskey, days to isolation. Friends urged Burning Man 2025; he went, posting euphoric clips: “Dancing for you, Motek.” But the high crashed. “The desert reminded me too much,” he confessed privately.

The Breaking Point: Anniversary’s Cruel Echo

October 7, 2025, dawned gray. Israel paused: sirens at 10 a.m., vigils nationwide. At Re’im, thousands gathered amid sunflowers now wild and thorny. Roei arrived alone, Mapal’s photo in hand, joining the Tribe’s circle. Candles flickered; guitars strummed dirges. “Two years,” he murmured to a friend, voice cracking. “Feels like yesterday’s blood.” He danced—a slow, solitary sway—to a haunting remix of “No Longer Slaves.” Attendees hugged him: “You’re our warrior.” But inside, the dam breached.

Back in Netanya, Roei isolated. Texts went unanswered; the cafe closed early. On October 9, he filled his car at a local station—CCTV capturing a man adrift, eyes vacant. That evening, the post: a selfie, shadowed and somber, overlaid with text. “Never in my life have I felt such pain… deep, burning, eating me from within,” he wrote. “I’m alive, but all is dead inside. Forgive me. Dance for us.” Friends mobilized—a frantic search, calls to police. Too late.

He drove to Poleg Beach, a secluded stretch where he’d once picnicked with Mapal. Doused the car in fuel, struck a match. Flames roared, a pyre for the unhealed. By 10 p.m., hikers spotted the inferno; rescuers pulled what remained. “It’s Roei,” one whispered, recognizing the Hyundai from Tribe photos. Dawn broke on confirmation: suicide, the second anniversary’s shadow claiming another light.

News rippled like aftershocks. Maayan Adam, Mapal’s sister, posted: “Roei, you shielded her to the end. Now rest together.” The Tribe: “Shattered. He held our pain so we wouldn’t.” Opposition leaders decried systemic failures: “Mental health is national security,” tweeted Yair Lapid. President Isaac Herzog vowed funds; the Welfare Ministry promised expanded care—but survivors scoffed. “Promises are echoes,” one told Ynet.

The Nova memorial site at Re-im, where sunflowers stand sentinel over photos of the lost, a fragile field of remembrance amid the scars of October 7.

A Nation’s Silent Epidemic: When Survival Kills

Roei’s death isn’t anomaly; it’s symptom. Nova survivors face PTSD rates triple the national average—80% report symptoms, per a 2024 Tel Aviv University study. Flashbacks, dissociation, suicidal ideation: the festival’s joy inverted into torment. “It’s like a second Holocaust,” survivor Yuval Raphael told CBN, echoing Roei’s unspoken dread. Families blame bureaucracy: wait times for therapy hit 16 weeks; rural Negev lacks specialists. “We fled bombs for this?” asked Ofri Reiner, another survivor, in a Reform Judaism profile.

Globally, echoes resound. In California, a Nova memorial—photos pinned to a eucalyptus grove—drew 5,000 in August 2024, organizers warning of “imported trauma.” X (formerly Twitter) overflowed with tributes: @montanatucker, “Beyond heartbroken… You’re not alone.” @Dr_logicaI, Nova’s Gal Shalev: “His battle was ours. Share his story.” Politicians pledged: Netanyahu’s office announced 100 million shekels for survivor aid. But skeptics abound—Shirel Golan’s family sued the state last year, alleging neglect.

Legacy in the Light: Dancing Through the Dark

Mapal Cafe reopens Monday, run by Eli and Liora, walls now bearing Roei’s photos: baking with flour-dusted grins, dancing at Burning Man. “He’d want coffee flowing, stories shared,” Eli says. The Tribe plans a “Roei Night”—psytrance under stars, sunflowers in every hand. “We’ll dance for the dead inside us all,” promises founder Zohar Raviv.

Roei Shalev survived the unthinkable, only to teach us its cost. His fire wasn’t defeat; it was a flare, illuminating cracks in a system’s soul. As Israel navigates ceasefires—hostages returning amid uneasy peace—Roei’s whisper endures: Pain devours silently. Listen. Reach. Dance before the silence wins.

In Netanya’s dunes, waves crash eternal. Somewhere, a bassline hums—a promise unbroken.