From the Fire to a Future: Yuval’s Scholarship of Hope

Dear Friends,

At 6:30 a.m. on 7 October, 2023, Yuval Siman Tov looked up from the dancefloor at the Nova festival and saw what he thought were fireworks streaking the sky. The music cut, the DJ’s voice came over the speakers: “Lie down”. For a beat, everyone hoped it was only rockets—that the party would resume, that the morning would return to normal. Then a policeman shouted: “Evacuate—now!”. Chaos swallowed the field. People ran in every direction, tripping over mats and chairs, choking on dust, clutching hands so they wouldn’t be torn apart. Cars jammed the exit like pebbles in a narrow stream, engines screaming, horns blaring, no way out but forward.

Yuval and his friends—Tamir at the wheel, and Ron in the back—tried a side road, a thin ribbon through low hills. A police car edged ahead, then slowed. They went around. The officer pounded on his door, shouting over the wind: “terrorists are coming straight at you”. Yuval yelled, ”Turn around!” and as they swung south, the first convoy of terrorists appeared: motorcycles, ATVs, a truck with a mounted machine gun. The air filled with metal. “We bent our heads,” Yuval said, “and the first bullets hit.” Glass burst like shrapnel glitter; hundreds of rounds stitched the car. In the back seat, Ron groaned, clutching his stomach—“Guys, I’m dying.”

The shooting paused. Tamir tried to restart the car; the engine wouldn’t start. Hearts fell like stones. They had to run. Yuval spilled from the passenger side, felt the blistering quiet of a second, then the crack of more shots. He saw Ron dying and couldn’t speak. Terrorists turned to fire on the next line of cars; others advanced from the south. Yuval grabbed Tamir’s hand. “Run. Run, run, run.”

At last, he dropped into a bush, chest to dirt, face angled toward the asphalt, pretending to be dead. For twenty minutes, he dared not blink. He watched cars crumple and exhale smoke; watched people being dragged from seats and being shot; watched small, final movements stop. One gunman stepped out from the trees and leveled his weapon at Yuval from fifty meters, eyes on Yuval’s stillness—then a voice from the road called him back. The barrel lowered. The footsteps receded.

The pain in Yuval’s back found him then, sharp and blooming. He stripped off his sweatshirt—it was soaked in blood. Two holes pocked his shirt near the spine. Dizzy and alone, he thought: if I’m going to die, let me try first to survive. He crawled, then somehow stood, then somehow ran. On an inner road, a jeep appeared. He raised his hands, half-naked and bleeding, turned to show his back. The driver slowed, then rolled on— thinking Yuval was a threat, Yuval thinking the same of him. “Please save me!” Yuval shouted. The driver stepped out, weapon trained, and demanded a name. “I’m Yuval, from Rehovot. Please—save me.” The man circled, checked for a weapon, then opened a door and let Yuval in his car. Shortly after, he pushed Yuval into a roadside safety shelter. The roar outside faded; the loneliness did not.

Forty minutes later, rescue arrived—a resident from nearby Moshav Yesha who took Yuval to his home and took him to a safe room. Yuval’s phone lit with a miracle: Tamir calling. “I can’t believe it,” Yuval cried. “You’re alive.” “I can’t believe you’re alive,” Tamir answered. Joy lasted a breath, then grief swallowed it: Ron was gone. As the hours unwound, the questions tightened like wire. Should I have dragged him out? Why him and not me? At Ron’s funeral, Yuval took his father’s hand; the father pulled him into an aching embrace. “It wouldn’t have helped anyone,” he whispered, “if instead of two there were zero.”

Guilt tried to take root. Yuval would not let it flower. Even before 7 October, he had started a small nonprofit linking youth with elderly Israelis—especially Holocaust survivors—who had been left behind, shut in through long months of COVID, their eyes carrying the weight of being unseen. After the massacre, he leaned closer to them. He sat and listened to stories no one else could bear, delivering essentials and, more than that, time. “We all experienced murder in front of our eyes,” he said. “Hatred and anger. Neglect. We need to stick together.” Serving them steadied him. Their endurance taught him to breathe again.

Because friends like you refused to look away, Vision for Israel could come alongside Yuval in the months that followed. Your generosity helped us award him a scholarship to continue his university studies—one step toward the future he nearly lost on that road. It didn’t erase the scars or mend every memory. But it did say: your life matters; your calling remains; your hands can still carry hope to the lonely.

If you feel led, please help us lift more survivors and students like Yuval with scholarships, trauma care, and practical support. Give today to Vision for Israel — your gift will help plant new life in scorched places. Thank you for being a refuge for the brokenhearted in Israel.

Am Yisrael Chai!
Barry & Batya