'2 weeks ago, I bought tickets to a Jewish festival. Then my brother said something that stopped me cold.'

It's strange not knowing where to begin. I feel everywhere and nowhere all at once — suspended between shock, fear, grief, and a kind of exhausted clarity I wish I didn't have.

Earlier this year, I wrote anonymously about what it felt like to be a Jewish woman in Australia as antisemitism surged after October 7.

I wrote about my disappointment — in our government, and in people I loved — for their silence, their reluctance to call antisemitism what it was. I wrote about how often Jewish fear is minimised, explained away or reframed as paranoia.

Since then, we've been repeatedly told that antisemitism and anti-Zionism are separate. That people can chant, share, post and protest without it bleeding into hatred of Jews themselves. That there was no warning. That violence like this 'comes out of nowhere'.

But we knew.

We tried to say it was brewing. That it was coming. That words matter. That slogans matter. That history teaches us exactly where this ends.

Our fears were pushed aside.

Two weeks ago, I bought tickets to the Jewish Roots Festival for my husband, my nearly two-year-old daughter, and myself. I'm five months pregnant.

The night before, I was speaking to my brother when he said something that stopped me cold: "I don't understand why you're going — why you're excited to get blown up or shot."

I hadn't even allowed myself to think like that yet. Not consciously. But suddenly the question was there: Is this safe?

When we arrived and I realised the festival was on private property, hidden from street view, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. And then — joy.

We had the most beautiful day. Music, culture, family, life. Light.

We recently moved from Sydney's eastern suburbs — the Jewish community I grew up in — to the Northern Beaches. Let's be honest: there are very few Jews here.

It's not lost on me that Jewish identity and tradition now live almost entirely within our home. That our children will learn what it means to be Jewish, not because the world celebrates it, but because we must protect it.

That morning, my brother's words were still ringing in my ears. I messaged a few friends to tell them where I was going. A non-Jewish friend replied, "That sounds fun." When I explained my fear, she didn't quite understand.

And that's when it really hit me.

We don't live in the same country — not emotionally, not psychologically. We exist in entirely different realities. And that's not her fault. She's never had to think this way.

Growing up Jewish, you learn very early that people don't like your right to exist. You learn it through family stories of the Holocaust. Through Passover, which teaches us about slavery and survival. Through the quiet understanding that history repeats itself — especially when people stop listening.

How sad is that?

We know.

My daughters will know.

Had I still lived in the east, I would have been at that Chanukah celebration. I have tickets sitting in my Apple Wallet for another one this Wednesday night. And now I don't know what to do.

Do I go for those who can't? For those who were killed? Do I go because we shouldn't be afraid? Or do I stay home because the threat is real — and I am responsible not just for myself, but for my husband, my child, and the life growing inside me?

I feel torn clean in two.

Food and belongings left behind at Bondi Beach. Image: AAP.

When the news first broke, it was reported as 'active shooters in Bondi'. No mention of Chanukah. No mention of Jews. No mention of a targeted attack.

I left one comment online — something I almost never do — asking that we call it what it was: a terrorist attack.

This was hours before the media caught up.

The responses to that comment are the reason I didn't sleep last night.

"Let's call it what it is — consequences."

"Probably an inside job."

"If Hitler had finished the job, this wouldn't be happening."

These were written hours after Jews were murdered for being Jewish. This was not a protest. This was not a political statement.

This was a Chanukah celebration — families, children, innocence. As harmless as an Easter egg hunt.

My sister was held in a safe house, holding my 4-year-old nephews, as she was in Dover Heights and there was a secondary threat of attack.

Flowers and police tape at Bondi Beach. Image: Getty.

Seeing the footage has left me hollow. There are no words big enough. My messages were flooded with people checking in — friends, family, colleagues, people from all walks of life. I was overwhelmed by the care of the broader Australian community. And yes — some of those messages came from people who have been very vocal in sharing pro-Palestinian content over the past year. Many of them said, "How could this have happened?"

I wanted to scream.

Because words have consequences. Because videos shared without understanding can incite violence. Because this didn't come out of nowhere.

And yet — they checked in. They cared. They were shaken. And that's a deeply conflicting feeling.

What I keep coming back to is this: I am loved. Jews are loved. Muslims reached out. Christians reached out. Friends from all over the world reached out. People showed up.

Maybe — just maybe — this is a turning point.

So I ask non-Jewish Australians: have you ever been afraid to attend a Christmas tree lighting? Have you ever been told to gas yourself? Have you had chants of "Globalise the Intifada" screamed in your face? Have you watched approved demonstrations wave the symbols of those who murdered six million of your ancestors?

I have.

My daughter has.

We live this reality every day.

I couldn't work today. I couldn't think. I know some of the victims. People I went to school with. Rabbis who married my closest friends. Uncles of people I love.

These are not faceless names. While I remain deeply disappointed in our government, I am profoundly grateful for the non-Jewish friends now standing beside us. We could say 'too little, too late' — but why would we diminish genuine learning and solidarity?

We are human. We can choose to unite.

And as Chanukah teaches us — light can exist even in the deepest darkness.

I hope we are brave enough to let it.

Feature image: Getty.